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# Table of Contents

Cover

Copyright

Table of Contents

Finnean Nilsen Projects

Pilot Episode

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Episode Two: Out of the Darkness

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Episode Three: The Burning Man

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Episode Four: The Crimson River

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Episode Five: Whispers in the Dark

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Episode Six: With a Vengeance Part One

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Episode Six: With a Vengeance Part Two

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

# Finnean Nilsen Projects

Camp 417: Prequel to the Outpost Series

Outpost Season One

Outpost Season Two

Outpost Season Three

By Bill Pryst

Fist Full of Brunettes: A Multiple-Choice Thriller

By Damien Wright

The Contagion

The Nest

Follow us on  Facebook, our blog, or at finnilpro.com

# PILOT EPISODE

## One

The day started like shit and ended worse.

Sam Watkins washed his hands in the bathroom sink, the water turning pink as he rubbed them together. Behind him, through the doorway, in the kitchen, the small TV blared:

"... _the CDC is recommending all citizens use caution when traveling in commercial aircraft and using public transportation. Surgical masks are encouraged. This is not a drill. Scientists are likening the 417-B outbreak to the Bubonic Plague..."_

Sam turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and left the bathroom. He flicked off the TV as he passed by it, killed his coffee, and looked down the hall to the bedroom. It was quiet now. To the right of his front door was the coat rack. He took his belt off of it, the service pistol cleaned and ready in its holster, and put it on. Went out, closing the door behind him.

The afternoon was crisp and the air smelled of distant snow. A breeze – sharp, even if lazy – burned his face. The long driveway ended in a single oak tree, reaching for the sky with skeleton limbs in the frost. He squinted down the gravel road, trying to make out the form sitting on a branch. A crow, he decided, though he couldn't imagine one out this late in the year.

The car was cold and tired, and it took two tries to wake it. Once it hummed to life, he cranked the heater and got it moving. The crow took flight as the car crept forward. He turned on the radio and looked for a station:

"... _information out of China is slow, but the reports we are getting is that it is of biblical proportions..."_

"... _the Russian Military has been placed on full alert, as a second nuclear submarine is rumored to be missing..."_

"... _speaking from an undisclosed location, the President had this to say_ : My Fellow Americans, in this trying, frightening time, I urge you all to stay in your homes, take proper precautions, and do not hesitate to seek immediate medical attention if you begin to show symptoms..."

Sam killed the radio and pulled on to the main road, thinking. He was sick to death of it all. Every six months to a year he had to deal with another SARS or Swine Flu or Bird Flu or Whatever-the-Hell Flu and he didn't believe a fucking word of it anymore.

He had bigger things to worry about, anyway.

## Two

##

"Request denied," Warden Bowers said, stroking his round belly with his fingertips. On the other end of the phone, a doctor or scientist or something-or-other with a really long title said:

" _Warden, the Federal Government has declared a medical emergency. We must be allowed to inspect your facility and verify the health of the inmates."_

"Oh no," Bowers sneered, "not a _medical_ emergency. Is it almost as bad as the Pig Flu? Because I let you assholes run around my prison, drag my people all over hell, and give these animals all kinds of check-ups – that my state had to pay for – because of that fucking thing, and it ended up all anyone needed was chicken soup and a weekend's rest..."

" _I assure you this is nothing like that. This is serious..."_

"I'm being serious. This is a state run facility. My budget comes from my state. The federal government - and the CDC - have no jurisdiction to do a damn thing in my institution. This is a maximum security prison, and every time I let someone in here that isn't either on my payroll or in chains, I risk my guard's lives. And the citizens of this state, for that matter."

" _But Warden..."_

"But nothing." Bowers sat forward and leaned on his right elbow, pressing the phone hard into his ear. Said: "You want to know the health of my inmates? They're alive. Which is more than I can say for their victims. I have fifteen hundred men and women – all violent criminals – in this prison. I've got a lady in here that cut her husband's head off and left it in his girlfriend's mail box."

" _I read about that."_

"I'm sure it was light reading," Bowers snapped. "Now, here's the deal I'm making: my inmates haven't had a chance to catch your new bug, because we've been locked down three weeks after a near riot. There's no reason to assume they could have come into contact with anyone who might have contracted it..."

" _Your guards could have contracted it, or their wives, and spread it..."_

"I admit it's possible, but highly unlikely. Still, you haven't listened to my deal."

He waited, it sounded like the caller was listening, because for once he wasn't talking.

"My guards and their families, you can examine at their homes or in their personal doctor's offices. Not at my prison. My inmates will remain where they belong: in their cells. If one of them gets the sniffles, my doctors will check them out. If they need outside assistance, we'll talk then. Sound good?"

" _No, it does_ not _sound good! I am trying to protect your guards, your community, and this country. You have no idea the epidemic we're dealing with. It is a perfectly reasonable request to ask us to see your guards and inmates!"_

The Warden smiled. "Request denied," he said, and hung up.

##  Three

Doctor Maximilian Van Pelt the Third, Head of the Center for Disease Control's Command Control and Stability Department for Violent Offenders, sighed and lowered his head.

Why couldn't that man understand the risks? he wondered. Warden Bowers was a bastard, he decided, nothing more. Of the hundreds of prisons he had contacted, everyone had cooperated – well, all but a hand full, and the others would come around – but not Warden Bowers. He was too stubborn, and too inclined to spit in the eye of the federal government.

Max looked around his office at the scrappily stacked papers. Everything was computerized, yet he preferred the feel of the paper in his hand. Every single sheet represented – not just a single life lost to this disease – but dozens, hundreds, as many as they could fit with size 8 font.

Thousands of people. Millions. If the recent shutdown of all communications with Russia and China were any indication: possibly the entire continent of Eurasia. Billions of lives lost.

"More research," he assured himself. "We have time if we can find a cure."

He jumped up from his wobbly chair and darted out of his office. Made it ten feet down the hall and stopped.

He could have sworn he heard something. From behind him.

He turned around, but there was nothing there. He shook it off and continued toward the lab.

The halls were all built in straight lines and ninety degree angles. He made a right and a left. Stopped at a door with a sign that said "DONATIONS" and went in. Closed the door behind him and stopped again, dumbfounded.

Something was wrong. It was all wrong.

Fifty empty beds. Where there should have been fifty bodies donated to science to find the cause of their death. Instead: fifty empty beds.

He backed himself against the door as his gaze flicked from dark corner to dark corner. He could smell something now. Something coppery in the darkness. Blood. A lot of it.

"Hello," he tried to call – it came out a whimper. Louder now: "Hello?"

Shadows on the far wall.

A scream rang out behind him, through door and drywall. From far down the hall. Max turned at the sound, and felt the air shift around him.

Something touched his shoulder. Rough. Something else had his left leg. Then another had the right. He wasn't on the ground anymore. He felt something sharp enter his stomach and screamed as pain surged through him. A florescent flashed behind him as it burst, and he saw a corpse pull out his intestines and shove them into its mouth.

He screamed again, but it was too late. His last thought, he mumbled aloud: "It's too late. Far too late."

##  Four

"What do you mean 'late'?" Chris Reed asked, running a hand through his short, cropped, blond hair. "Like for roll call? Because you know the Warden loves your ass, he wouldn't punish you."

"What are you," Mercedes asked, "in sixth fucking grade? I mean I'm _late_."

She watched that register on his face. It went from total disbelief to confusion and back, and then snarled up in anger.

"Well," he said, "what the fuck do you want me to do about it?"

She stared at him, hating him almost as much as she had the man that had brought her there.

"Well," she mocked him, "I expect you to be a man. You certainly like _fucking_ like one!"

Chris recoiled like he had been slapped by a complete stranger. He looked her up and down, her naked ebony body glistening with sweat in the fluorescents of the ladies shower room. Finally, he laughed and shrugged.

"I don't know what you think's supposed to happen. I mean, I'm a guard and you're a convicted killer."

"And?"

He shook his big, blocky head. "And you stabbed a man to death."

"He was a pimp," she growled, "and he raped me."

"Is it really _rape_ when the girl's a whore?"

Mercedes swallowed that little thing that made her want to tear him limb from limb. It wouldn't be right for her, or her baby. She smiled at him, and hissed: "Yes."

"That's why it was second degree." He laughed again.

It was getting harder to hold it down.

"Don't worry," he told her, "I can get you extra commissary. And when the thing's born we'll all look around and go 'How the fuck did this happen?' and go about our lives."

"And our baby?"

Chris glared at her. " _Your_ baby," he said slowly, "will go to a good home." He finished buttoning his uniform, and left her there.

She took a long, hot shower. The water dancing along her skin with enough pressure to make it tingle. When she was done, she walked, steaming, to the mirror. Her hand made a brush stroke across it.

Standing behind her was her child's father.

##  Five

Sam Watkins turned the radio back on but only got static. He tried every channel, the search program going through every frequency three times before he punched it back off.

"Piece of shit," he swore. Craned his neck to make sure the car's antenna wasn't frozen over. It was fine. He shrugged. Then something else caught his eye: Birds. Up above and far to the right. Medium to large – maybe crows and hawks – circling a specific spot off the highway.

He slowed, studying them.

Assorted birds of prey: hawks, crows, turkey vultures, all dancing in a circle for a few moments before diving down and disappearing into the brush. Did they come back out?

He pulled to the side and put the car in park.

For a feeding frenzy like this, it had to be big game, but it was past hunting season by a month. He checked his watch, looked off to the distance where Brennick was just a long shadow on the horizon. The highway was completely empty. He hadn't seen a single car since he left his house.

He took his shotgun and got out.

##  Six

Erin Gibbs opened his eyes to the jangle of keys.

"Cell one, Gibbs, coming out."

He heard the key go in, the lock retract, and the door swung open. Gibbs got out of bed and went out.

"Gibbs," Officer Rococoa said, his pale, shaved scalp glowing under the fluorescents.

"Roc," Gibbs returned. Tall, lean, clean shaven, his gray skin contrasting the orange of his jumpsuit.

Rococoa nodded to the guard beside him, who kneeled down and started putting the manacles on Gibbs' ankles and wrists, then joining them all in one set.

"Better stay out at least a week this time," Roc told Gibbs. "We're spending so much time together; I'm starting to feel like we're married."

Gibbs smiled at him. "You wish," he said.

The guard, Mark Jenson, finished his work and stood up. "All set," he said.

Roc nodded to him. "Take the man away."

Erin and the guard turned and started down the hall. They went down the right, staying in their clearly marked lane. Arrows instructed the illiterate on which direction they should turn, when they should walk, and when they should stop.

They passed through the first gate, Rococoa calling after them, "And so the lion returns to the jungle: _General Population_!"

##  Seven

"What the fuck's wrong with the TV?"

"Yeah, why's the TV not working?"

"We've got rights, you know."

"Yeah, the fuck?"

"Shut up, all of you," Chris roared. "You don't have any rights! If the Warden wants, he'll lock all your asses back in your cells and keep them there until his Lord and Savior gets back. Is that what you want?"

Two hundred felons growled at him.

He turned back to Smith - Just Smith, as he liked to say – and said, "Come on, man, these guys are gonna fucking eat us if we don't get it running soon. And I left the tear gas in my locker."

"It's not me," Smith told him. "I've done everything. It's the cable company, I guess, we're not getting any signal."

Chris returned his attention to the inmates. "Cable's out, boys," he announced.

A collective groan echoed off the concrete walls.

"I don't see why you're so pissed," Chris said. "There's fifteen hundred people in this here house, and now we're all gonna miss the season finale. We were gonna Tivo for the other shifts."

There was only one Media Room – which held the television and twenty, heavily censored computers – and they couldn't let all the men in at once. They split them into shifts based on racial and criminal affiliation. If they put all of them in one place at one time, they'd never be able to control them. Either whites or blacks or Hispanics would walk out, but only one. The women had their own Media Room, and Chris knew it was the same exact situation on their end, even if there were fewer ladies than men at Brennick.

"We'll call the cable company, try to get it worked out."

Chris pulled out his cell phone. Held it up to prove his point, and then squinted at it.

"What?" Smith asked.

"No service."

"It's the walls," Smith explained.

"No." Chris shook his head. "I always have service," he said. "Look." He pointed to the wi-fi detector on the screen. "No internet, either."

"Cable's down." Smith shrugged.

"Let's check with the Man."

##  Eight

"Just tell me what happened," Marcia Vasquez told Mercedes.

"I got jumped."

"By who?"

"You know the rules," Mercedes told the nurse. "I rat her out, she kills me next time."

Marcia sighed and held a cotton swab to an alcohol bottle, tipped it upside down twice and removed it. Touched it to Mercedes' bruised cheek. "It's just not right," she said.

"She'll get hers'."

"Excuse me?" Marcia asked, a penciled eyebrow rising up into her tan forehead.

"I said: 'It's no big deal.'"

"Of course." Marcia finished cleaning Mercedes' face, and then sighed again. "You'll mend up just fine. I suggest you stay in your cell, get some rest, and think about telling me who did this."

Mercedes looked at her. Marcia huffed a bit and then rambled off in a frustrated, motherly tone: "You all can't just keep beating, raping, and killing each other. She beats you, you kill her, her friends kill you, your friends kill them, and then I have to have a parade of dead women in here, and I know all their names, and they're good girls who got caught in a bad world and made bad mistakes, and they're in here hurting each other for no reason. Just tell me, stop the cycle, and we can go to the Warden and..."

Mercedes touched her hand gingerly, stopping her.

"We're still in a bad world," she said. "And even you can't change that."

##  Nine

Sam got to the edge of the brush and stopped, squinting to see inside. Breath seeped from his lips in ragged clots of steam. His shotgun cradled in his arms. The scavengers above still circling and diving – but individually not coming back up for minutes at a time.

There had to be hundreds of them.

He looked down the road in both directions. Still not a single car had passed.

Took a deep breath, gripped the shotgun tight, and barged into the scrub. It tore at him as he went in, and tried to hold him as he made his way out into the forest beyond. He stopped. Looked around. Trying to get his bearings. He had only gone ten feet, but the forest floor was a different world. Trees stood as dense, monolithic guards in all directions, making his internal compass rotate like an over-wound watch.

"The highway's behind me," he said aloud. It was suddenly nerve-racking not to hear the sound of cars passing on pavement. "The birds were a hundred feet in, and fifty to the left."

He started forward, shotgun held loose, safety off. The forest was awash in sounds. Trees cracking. Needles rustling. And birds – so many birds – screeching and tearing at something. He thought he heard fabric separating, the sound ricocheting off the trees and playing along the forest floor.

He kept on. The sounds getting louder. Now he could see the shadows flickering here and there as the birds flew overhead or swooped down. They were to his left now. He adjusted course and homed in. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

He broke into a clearing and blanched. Shook his head to clear it, and fired a shot into the sky. The birds leapt off the body and took to flight, leaving the hollow carcass in the grass.

Sam fumbled with his left hand, his right holding the scatter gun tightly, and took out his phone.

##  Ten

Chris, Smith, and Dave Sanders stood huddled in the communications office. Chris and Smith had no idea what any of the equipment did, but they were confident Dave knew all.

"I don't know what you guys want me to tell you," Sanders said.

Chris stared at him. "Do you know what will happen if these fuckers don't get to watch Dancing with the Stars?" he asked. "The word 'riot' isn't violent enough. Jesus, what do you expect them to do for entertainment? Read?"

"The thought crossed my mind."

"Well, uncross it. They've been locked down for three weeks, all it'll take is a nudge and we'll have a war zone in here."

Dave shrugged, his glasses slipping down to the point of his nose at the movement. He pressed them back in place.

"It's not me," he said. "Everything's down. I tried to call it in and get someone to take a look at the lines, and the phones aren't working. None of them. Land line or cell. Internet's down. TV. The whole nine. And our phones _don't_ go down. We have a direct line to the governor's office for emergencies."

"Did you try it?"

"Over Dancing with the Stars? No. You'll have to take it up with the Warden. But I already know what he's going to say."

They waited. Dave looked at them, enjoying it.

"Yeah?"

"'I was looking for volunteers anyway.'"

##  Eleven

Erin Gibbs paused at the gate.

"One coming through," Jenson called.

There was a _clack_ as the bolt came free and then an electric hum as the motor slid the gate along its track.

Brody, the gatekeeper, called out from the other side of Plexiglas, his voice projected through a speaker in the wall: _"How ya doin' Gibbs?"_

"How would you be doing if they threw you in with those animals, Brod?"

"Maybe I should close the lock back up, send you back to solitary. Would you like that?"

The "lock" was the gate, there were hundreds of them in Brennick, separating each section of the prison in the very likely case of a riot.

Gibbs shrugged.

_"Tell you what,"_ the voice scratched out, _"I'll let you in if you promise to play nice."_

"Deal. The next time I take a shank off someone in the middle of the night, I'll give it right back."

Brody glared at him.

"And not in his belly this time," Gibbs assured him.

They passed through the lock. Behind them, the motor started back up and the gate closed.

_Clack._

##  Twelve

"This is a prison, not a retirement home. I don't give half a shit if they have TV."

Chris started to say something, but Warden Bowers held up a palm.

"The phones are a different story. We need those phones operational."

Chris nodded.

Bowers keyed up his intercom and said, "Sharon. Get a team out of maintenance down to check the fiber optics line. Every inch. I want those phones back up and running."

"Yes sir, on it."

"Do you feel better?" he asked Chris.

"What about the cell phones? Why aren't our cell phones working?"

Bowers sighed and punched the intercom. "And have them check the power lines to the cell tower. Chris was right in the middle of a hot sexting session and we ruined it."

Sharon giggled back: "Can do, Warden."

"Now," he said, "I don't want this to become a union issue, but how about you two get back to - I don't know - guarding prisoners. Sound good?"

They nodded.

"Dismissed."

##  Thirteen

##

##

Sam Watkins cursed his phone again and held it up. The little signal bars were gone, and in their place it said "SOS."

"I'm calling the fucking SOS," he grumbled. If a cell phone can't find its own network, they're designed to operate on any network if only to make emergency calls. This close to Brennick, he should have been picking up the prison's cell tower. Sam pocketed his phone and looked down at the body.

It had been a woman. At some point. Now it was a hollowed out shell. Blood was haloed around it in a circumference of about fifteen feet. The head had been neatly - and quickly - picked clean of eyes, ears, and lips. She hadn't been dead long by the look of it. The animals had been very efficient with this corpse. Far more efficient than Sam thought possible. It would take a pack of wolves to do this. With the birds finishing it off.

"More like a hundred," he said to no one.

It wasn't just the intestines that had been gnawed at - they were all gone - but the legs, arms, neck - everything was torn and shredded.

He tried his phone again: Nothing.

"Shit."

He looked around him, did three hundred sixty degrees and then made a decision. The birds couldn't do any more damage than they already had. The body would keep until he got to the prison, got on the phone and got the right people to the scene.

Something struck him. He hadn't even thought about it. Amazing how quickly instinct and training took over. He couldn't be here. He couldn't find this. Not now. Not ever.

He looked around again, then backed his way out of the clearing.

##  Fourteen

Jessie looked up from her novel as Mercedes came into their cell.

"How'd it... oh," Jessie said. She came up close and looked at the bruises. "Not well, I guess."

"As well as I could have expected."

Mercedes saw Jessie's jaw working.

"He did this to you?" she asked.

Mercedes shook her head. "No," she said. "Random coincidence."

"Don't be a bitch."

"I'm serious. It wasn't Chris."

"Who then?" Jessie flicked her head and the bit of red hair that always hung in her eyes flipped back and then dropped into its normal place.

Mercedes squirmed. "Just two fucking hos, okay?" she told Jessie. "Don't worry about it."

"So it _was_ that limp dick piece of shit."

"What are you gonna do? Take out a guard? A _male_ guard?"

"Cocksucker isn't even supposed to be in our wing. He comes over for..." Jessie trailed off.

Mercedes looked at her, eyebrows raised.

"Sorry."

"It's fine. He'll get his. They all will. Sooner or later, they're all going to get what's coming to them."

##  Fifteen

"You poor, stupid, unlucky bastard," Mike Sanchez told Tall Bill Mahone.

"What?" Bill asked.

"He's out," Ray Torez explained.

"Who?"

"Your new cell mate." Torez pointed so Bill could see. "Erin Gibbs," he said.

"He doesn't look like much."

"That's what they always say," Mike whispered, "just before he snaps their neck like a pigeon's."

Tall Bill squinted at him. "He white or black?" he asked.

"Neither," Sanchez explained. "Or both. Right down the middle, really. But in here: he's neither."

"What's with the box?" Bill pointed at the box Gibbs carried in his now unchained hands.

"Oh," Mike said, and laughed. "That's his personal effects."

Bill Mahone looked at Mike and then at Ray.

Ray explained: "See, usually when you get sent to solitary, they just leave your shit in your cell. The idea is it'll be sitting there when you get back." He laughed this time. "Unless you've got a hell of a cellie, it's all gone when you get back."

"But," Mike cut in, "in this case, he made such a mess they just went through all his stuff, anything without blood on it they stuck in that box and put it in the basement."

Bill looked sick. He opened his mouth a few times to talk, but couldn't find words.

"Said his cellmate came at him with a shank," Ray said, shrugged.

"You poor, stupid, unlucky bastard," Mike repeated.

##  Sixteen

Sam pulled up to Brennick's front gate and stopped. Twelve feet tall chain link with razor wire spun neatly atop it, it was the last line of offense against escape.

"You're late," all four hundred pounds of Tim Harper said.

"You're an asshole," Sam told him.

"Both good points."

"Open the gate."

"You know," Tim drawled, leaning comfortably against the guard post he had manned for nearly a decade, "Warden's gonna have your ass if you keep this up. He can't have his number two late three days a week. He takes that personally."

"It's fine," Sam growled, "I'll just tell him you wouldn't open the gate."

"You could have just called ahead," Tim continued, seemingly unaware of the threat. "I would have opened it and you wouldn't've even needed to slow down."

"I tried, my cell didn't have a signal."

"Oh, that's right, Wardens got some boys out looking at the cell tower and phone lines."

"Good."

Tim shrugged. "Strange for them all to go out at once."

"Strange."

"And with this new bug going around, gives me the creepers."

"Fascinating. Can I go now?"

Tim shrugged again.

"Went out the gate... maybe twenty minutes ago. Couple of techies. Dumb ass kids, you ask me. I don't know what all the fuss is about, losing your cell signal. But these days, if you can't snap your bean in the bathroom with your crackberry in your hand twice a day, I guess it drives you young'ns nuts."

"I thought it gave you the creepers..."

"No, the _bug_ does. I couldn't give a shit about your iThis-and-That. But the bug, this road's been dead empty all day. I come in and there's not a car on the road. None've gone by, 'til you. And then the phones..." He exaggerated a shiver. "Just feels wrong to my old bones."

Sam sighed. Put his cruiser in park and started to get out.

"If you're not going to throw the fucking lever..." he grumbled.

Tim stopped him with a meaty palm. Reached into the guard shack and hit a key on his keyboard and the gate started sliding left.

"Seem awfully annoyed today," he told Sam. "Am I keeping you from something?"

Sam got back in the car. He dropped it into drive and gunned the engine, flipping Tim off as he sped away.

Tim waved.

##  Seventeen

Chris pulled weight room shift after the catastrophe in the media room. The loss of television and internet had cast a heavy gloom over every inmate: the whites were all certain it was either the Hispanics or blacks that had sabotaged both, the blacks knew outright it was the white inmates, and the Hispanics just assumed everyone hated them because they were Hispanic.

Chris had no idea if any if it was true, but couldn't discount a sound – if racially charged – theory one way or the other. He prowled along the outskirts of the weight room, hugging the wall, holding the prisoners all with a level view. The weight room had exploded with the absence of other forms of entertainment, and there was a thirty minute wait for equipment.

He caught a conversation off to his right and decided to make his presence known.

"What did you say?" he asked a new prisoner. The guy had come in a few weeks back – just before the riot – and he couldn't place him.

"I didn't say anything."

"Yes, you did. You said: 'That can't be true.' What can't be true?"

The guy squirmed a bit. Chris remembered him now: Tall Bill Mahone _._

"These guys told me something that sounded insane. Been trying to convince me my new cellmate is a complete psycho. All day."

Chris laughed. They loved fucking with the new guys.

"Who's your new cellie?" he asked.

"Erin Gibbs," the convict to Bill's right supplied. Chris knew him, too. Mike Sanchez. Killed two in a botched robbery. Botched was the wrong word: a successful robbery that ended two lives. Sanchez killed two old folks in their own home. Walked away with six hundred dollars and some jewelry. Got tracked down and given two life sentences. Had never once said he regretted any of it.

Chris raised his eyebrows at Tall Bill.

"Gibbs?" Chris asked, and laughed at him. "It's true."

"All of it?"

"Well, probably not _all_ of it." Chris sighed and leaned against the wall, scanning the room for trouble as he spoke. "Most of it. I mean, is _all_ of anything true? Shit, man, nobody even knows if all the _Bible's_ true."

He let them digest that for a moment, squinting at two Arian Brotherhood soldiers having harsh words with a Crip, then continued, "But most of it. How many they say he killed?"

"Seven," Bill told him.

"More like six we can prove. Plus three that they sent up and one that's in an asylum because Gibbs gave him a makeshift lobotomy. So ten, give or take."

"How the fuck is he still in GenPop?"

Chris shrugged. "Warden likes the guy," he said. "And you guys hate him. He used to be a cop. All us think he got a bad beef. It's really not his fault: every new fuck thinks he needs to take a run at him. He just hasn't found anybody meaner than him yet.

"But he will." Chris looked at Bill. "That you?" he asked.

##  Eighteen

Sam parked the cruiser, got out, locked it, and walked towards the interior gate. The main gate was just the outer perimeter; the interior gate was what let you into the prison proper. Main gate only allowed you to park, and even interior gate didn't get you much access. You had to pass through about twenty gates and locks to see a single prisoner.

The outer fence was chain link with razor wire. The inner wall was twenty feet high and made of solid, ballistics-grade concrete, razor wire linked atop it like tinsel. It ran the entire perimeter of the prison, like a massive diamond, and shielded Brennick from the outside while closing off the prisoners from the same. The interior gate was made of steel, twenty feet tall and painted white to ward off summer heat – also topped with razor wire and backed with chain link to make it impossible to squeeze through its close-spaced bars.

He walked up to it and waved.

Tripp waved back, and activated the motor which pulled the gate aside. Three more armed guards sat within, drinking coffee and chatting.

Sam crossed through the still opening gate – it was forty feet wide to allow two-way traffic – and entered "the Hallway." Chain link on either side, with sidewalks on both, female yard to the left and male to the right, four guard towers like gargoyles at each point, the Hallway made even the employees feel a bit disconcerted.

That was the point.

Sam pressed on.

After two hundred yards he reached the third gate – the "Garden Gate" as it was called – the final obstacle on his way to the administration building. The gate was identical to the interior gate but without chain link backing, it was steel and painted white, with the ever-present razor wire. Beyond it the Warden's garden was cold and dead, waiting for the end of winter to go into bloom. Above the garden on either side stood towers, springing up from the prison itself for a story, and on either side of the gate stood two more, each with a commanding view of the yards and the garden.

Two guards stood on either side of the gate in opposing buildings, looking at him. He nodded and someone hit the button and the gate started moving.

He passed into the garden – about a thousand square feet of perennials cut in two by the road, in the shape of a triangle cut off at the tip by the walkway – and made his way to the entrance. Typed in his individual code and went inside.

Sarah Graves stopped him with: "You're late."

"If we made it a little easier to get in this fucking place, I wouldn't be," he swore at her.

"If we made it any easier getting in or out, it wouldn't be Brennick," she reminded him.

##  Nineteen

Dave Sanders was listening, because he always was. He was relaying information from the team outside the walls to the Warden and back again. Once Sam Watkins arrived he could cut the Warden out, but he was late and everyone – especially the Warden – seemed pissed about it.

" _We're not seeing a damn thing wrong with this line,"_ one of the maintenance officers reported. _"Nothings been dug up or anything. Should be just fine six feet down."_

"What about the power lines to the cell tower?"

" _Thirty feet up, and no sign of fraying. Think we probably got a problem at headquarters. I don't see a thing that would cut us off."_

"Roger," Dave said into the microphone. "But it's odd we'd lose everything at once."

" _Yup,"_ the electrician agreed. _"I'd say we had vandals or maybe someone trying to cut us off for a full scale break-out, but I can't see anything like that. The ground hasn't been disturbed and the lines up top are all in order. Must be a solar storm or something."_

"Maybe," Sanders said, thinking. It had happened before. Enough radiation in the atmosphere fried things that were supposed to be unfry-able. Like satellites that relayed their camera equipment, or communications between guards. But everything at once? It would take an act of God.

"I don't buy it."

" _Shit, boss, I'm just telling you what I see. I don't see a single thing that would be interfering with our coms. Nothing. We've walked damn near the line, and unless we find a fucking Abdul with a firecracker five feet from the cell tower, there's no reason to assume..."_

The feed crackled and died out.

"Maintenance, report, please."

Silence.

"Maintenance, please repeat your transmission, message was lost."

" _What the fuck...?"_

"Repeat Maintenance..."

" _Stop! Stop where you are! You are approaching a state institution! It is not safe for you to be within a thousand feet of our walls. If you continue..."_

"What the fuck's going on out there?"

" _I said_ stop _! We have the right to shoot anyone within a thousand feet of this prison!_ Stop _!"_

"Maintenance? What the hell is going on?" Sanders asked as gunfire broke across the airwaves. "Report. Is that gunfire? God Damn it, report."

Static took over the speakers.

"Maintenance! What's going on out there? Report!"

Static.

Sanders tried switching frequencies. He tried boosting the signal. He tried smacking the sides of the communications equipment to be safe. Nothing came through.

He picked up the phone, punched in the extension, and said: "Warden Bowers."

##  Twenty

Erin Gibbs sat alone at the table, eating soggy macaroni and cheese. Synthetic cheese and mush was a better way to describe it, he thought.

Around him, grouped into their proper places, every inmate at least glanced at him. He didn't mind: he had put ten percent of them in there.

The guards walked the perimeter with their clubs and mace and tasers – no pistols or shotguns were allowed in the halls. They patrolled from above with crowd control weapons, but on the floor they didn't carry for risk of losing their advantage in case of organized resistance.

It didn't really matter – anybody causing trouble would be dealt with, with a baton, pepper spray, a few jolts, or deadly force – and everyone knew it. He glanced up at the guards walking the catwalk over fifty feet above, and smiled. They weren't worried about _him_.

In a corner, three guards were tossing back and forth a conversation he couldn't distinguish. They were very animated about the whole thing, throwing hand gestures – most indicating something beyond the walls – and pushing up on each other. None of the three were paying much attention to their wards.

That's how easily it happened in Brennick.

The whole place had been heating up. Erin had no idea why, even if he had suspicions it was his release from solitary. Something was buzzing – electric – in the air and it smelled like blood.

He set his spoon down and watched.

An inmate with the darkest skin Erin had ever seen was in a shoving match with a red-headed white boy. He didn't know what the problem was, but Erin watched anyway. Shit was about to start. He glanced over at the guards – still discussing something seemingly more important – before catching sight of the metal tray lashing out and catching the Arian Brotherhood soldier in the temple.

Blood sprayed out in a launch and caught the attacker in the face. Erin marveled as the gang member kept his mouth closed and seemed to not notice.

The place exploded.

The guards finally noticed something was wrong and tried to calm it down – too late.

An Arian Brother came to his man's aid – with a shank of some type – and damn near gutted the dark skinned attacker. The guards swarmed in, spraying everyone with mace, batons ready, knocking back every race in an attempt to quell the violence. A big, monster of a black man took the white supremacist by the throat and shook him until his eyes rolled and his head snapped. The guards pulled the monster off, and he let the body fall to the ground.

Erin watched all of this, took up his spoon and pushed a helping of mush down. They were all there for a reason. And he couldn't give a fuck less who – if any – made it out alive.

##  Twenty-One

Mercedes dabbed her swollen eye with make-up and examined herself in the mirror. He hadn't done much damage. He would never permanently disfigure her – not out of love for her, but selfishness on his part – but the licks still bruised up pretty good.

She never understood why he did it. When she asked, he would just say it was "his way." But she thought it was simply because he could. Maybe with his wife he had to play nice, couldn't really get his rocks off. But with an inmate he could do whatever he wanted. Everyone knew she wouldn't narc on him. And even if she did, how long would she survive?

She set the cosmetics container on the edge of the metal sink and sighed into the mirror. It was also metal – nothing that could be made into a shank was allowed. Not that it stopped anyone from making them. It reflected dull and lifeless images, and Mercedes wondered if she had really become more blurred as the time had gone by.

Behind her, Jessie was painting an Amazonian warrior decapitating a prison guard. She looked over at Mercedes and showcased her work.

Any other artist of her talent would be steadily punching out works that – while not brilliant in that they weren't schizophrenic – would sell for a few hundred to a thousand a piece and keep her fed. In Jessie's case, they got taped up on their cell walls. Only admired by Mercedes and herself.

There was a commotion outside, and Mercedes saw prisoners being shepherded to their cells. The guards were moving fast and not being nice about it. A static broke through the loud speaker and Warden Bowers' voice reverberated against the walls. Just as the voice began, the cell doors started closing.

" _Citizens of Brennick, we have had an unfortunate occurrence in the men's C-Block. Apparently, you all have forgotten the 'Thou Shall Not Kill' portion of your scripture. We are on lock-down until I deem you worthy of privileges. Ladies, you can thank the men. Men, you can go to hell."_

Mercedes took one more look in the mirror, turned around and snarled as the steel door clamped shut. "Bastard," she said.

##  Twenty-Two

Sam Watkins passed through the medium security lock and headed down the hall, a hundred yards, to the first maximum security lock. The Administration Building – though Brennick was a single building, they split Male, Admin, and Female, into separate "buildings" all linked through locks – had a steadily increasing complexity to its locks. Going from password protected doors in the Administrative offices to assault rifle gunned guard stations when you reached the locks to the inmate populated areas.

He looked at Fresh – not his real name – and sighed.

"Of all the people giving me shit today," he said, "can you not?"

Fresh gave him a brilliant smile, and pushed the button to open the lock. " _As sunny as ever_ ," Fresh chided him. " _Fucking shit rolls downhill, and pussies go under assholes_."

"Fuck you, too," Sam spat. "At least I'm not damming the fucking sewage."

##  Twenty-Three

Erin Gibbs took the last item out of his box and set it on the sill next to his bed. He was glad they had saved it. It was one of the few things he had been able to smuggle in. The guards were good to him, but he didn't have much to trade. His wife had filed papers two days after the jury read "Guilty" and the gavel came down. She'd taken their son and disappeared, never sending him so much as a post card. He understood why, and in many ways it had made his time in Brennick easier.

But he still needed little things. Things that reminded him he had been free once and a good man.

It had taken him three years to save up the scratch for it and even then he had to do a favor for Watkins to get it through.

It had been worth it.

"So," his new cell mate said from behind him. "Boys tell me I'm already dead. But I want to let you know: I don't want shit from you and I won't give you any shit, either. Can we be cool?"

"I'll make you a deal," Erin said, not facing him, "you keep away from me and my stuff, you'll be fine. You make a move at me, and I'll snap you in two."

Tall Bill looked at Erin's prize. "That's an odd thing for a killer to have in his cell," he said.

Erin picked it up and shook it, then set it back down. The snow dancing inside the glass globe, swirling around the figure of a father and son ice skating.

"I wasn't always a killer," Erin said.

##  Twenty-Four

"I want actionable intelligence, not half baked conspiracy theories," Warden Bowers told Sam and Dave.

"I'm telling you," Dave said, "I heard gunshots."

"Guard Tower four heard them as well," the guard stationed there reported. His name was Carl Branch. He had made the long trip in for the meeting and was still wheezing from it.

"But you didn't see anything." Bowers snapped. "Why not?"

Branch squirmed. "Well, when's the last time we had to worry about a threat outside the walls?"

"Those towers are there for a reason. Which was it? Patterson? Cussler? Grisham?"

"Stephen Hunter," Branch admitted, his head down.

"The only fucking guy in this prison who doesn't watch TV and when the TV goes out and someone starts shooting, he's the one on post."

"The only logical explanation is a diversion for a break," Sam repeated.

"Well, that won't be a problem because we're back on lock down."

"That could be part of the plan."

"What did you see when you looked at where the shots came from?"

"Nothing. Their truck, possibly some blood, but from up there it's hard to say for sure in the grass."

"No bodies?"

"No bodies."

Warden Bowers grunted and looked from one man to the next. "Well, this is one great big cluster fuck," he said.

"We could call the locals, see if they've heard anything..."

"This is my prison, Watkins, and I plan on keeping it that way. I've been on the phone all morning with the Feds. The last thing I need is the Sheriff butting in." Bowers thought a moment. "Watkins," he said, "I want everyone ready for anything. I want all shifts on high alert, every cell checked every ten minutes. Break out the assault rifles and scatter guns. Arm the fucking secretaries if you have to. I am not losing a single prisoner. Understood?"

"Check."

"Pick your best man and have him organize a team of four. I want them loaded for bear. If there's some fucking Arian Army out there trying to liberate their 'freedom fighters' I want them ready for it."

Sam only nodded this time.

"Sanders, get them the best coms we got. I want every word recorded so if there _is_ someone out there, we have all the evidence we need. And get me any surveillance video you have." Bowers looked at them a moment, then sighed. "And gentlemen," he said, "do it now."

##  Twenty-Five

"Things that make you wanna say: _Damn,"_ Chris said as he walked through the armory.

Warden Bowers liked to joke that his guards were better prepared than the marines on Okinawa – and he could probably make a case for it. Brennick boasted around fifteen hundred prisoners and had about two hundred actual guards on at any given time. Add in a total administrative staff of about two hundred – cooks, janitors, paper pushers, processors, nurses, doctors, and a redundant amount of each to cover each other's asses in case of a screw up – and it made about two thousand all told. Maybe only three hundred that could be trusted with a weapon.

Yet, somehow, Bowers had amassed over five thousand small arms over the years.

Chris's dad had explained how it worked:

Every year Bowers got a budget. It was itemized and prioritized. And every year it was ten percent higher than the last. Arming the guards of a Maximum Security Prison is, of course, the number three item on the list. One is psychological treatment. Two is food. Three is weapons maintenance, small arms and supply. Number four is recreational supplies. Twenty-eighth is prisoner education. If the budget on any line item wasn't spent, it didn't get paid the next year.

But Warden Brooks ran the prison the way a drunk runs a household: if anyone sneezed in a way that offended him, he locked everyone in their rooms and wouldn't let them out until he felt damn good and ready. And it had shown the first year.

No one had fired a shot.

Prisoners had died – less than before – and been released – more than before – and come in – more than before – and eaten food and enjoyed recreation and one or two might have gotten educated.

But no one fired a shot.

So when the new budget arrived, he didn't need any new ammunition or weapons. But why waste the money? He decided to stockpile them. What could it hurt? Every guard expected a truck to show up any day with no tags and the guns to be loaded up and driven away – part of Bowers' personal retirement package – but the truck never came.

The guns did.

And they went to the armory.

"Fucking sexy," Sam said, nodded to him. "But you only need to arm a four man team. I'll handle passing them out to the guards on look-out. Warden wants to know what the fuck is happening, and I'm trusting you to find out. Obviously I have to be here, on point, but I need my best out there, finding out what the hell is going on. You got it?"

Chris picked an AK-47 up and studied it. This was his first time in the armory. He had expected AR-15s, not AK-47s.

"Why AKs?" he asked.

Sam shrugged. "Warden says: 'All rifles are like wives.'" He explained. "'AKs are good wives: they let you handle them rough. ARs are like stuck up bitches: they want you to do everything soft as a kitten and with the lights out.'"

"That doesn't make any sense."

"In other words." Sam paced up to the rifle, snatched it out of its perch, pushed a magazine in and jacked a shell into place. "These put out no matter what you do to them," he said. "Drop them in water, sink them in mud, tell them to fuck off, but when you tell them to go 'boom', they do. That's Warden's kinda lady."

##  Twenty-Six

"What the hell is going on?" Mercedes asked as she watched guards running past her cell with assault rifles. She and Jessie huddled together at the bars and peered out. The guards were assembling in a position to shoot _into_ the cells. Mercedes shuddered.

"Hey," Jessie called out. "Hey, Remirez. What's going on?"

The guard stopped for a second and answered, the words coming out almost as one: "Warden thinks there's gonna be a break. Shots fired outside the walls. Stay away from the bars and keep quiet."

And then she was gone.

"A fucking break?" Jessie marveled. Then to Mercedes: "Has anyone ever broke out before?"

Mercedes shrugged. "Not lately," she said. "Come on, let's do what she said and stay back. I don't want to die today. Not here, not now."

##  Twenty-Seven

"Now they gone and gave a bunch of teenagers machine guns," Tim Harper said as Chris passed through the main gate.

Chris stopped the truck, turned in his seat and spat: "Fuck you" at him, then continued on.

He cut left off the road and the truck and men inside started bobbing up and down as the terrain changed from paved to grassy.

"What are we looking for?" Smith asked from beside him, his AK-47's butt on the floor next to his feet, barrel pointing at the ceiling. "A sign?"

"Kind of." Chris said, nodded. "Watkins thinks someone's trying to take a vaca and has some pals out here being bastards. Warden sent a maintenance team out, didn't come back. Sanders heard shots fired."

"Sanders?"

"Over the coms."

"Got it."

"So, we're gonna retrace their steps and see if we can't find our boys or some bad guys." Chris kept the truck about a hundred feet from the fence, paralleling the chain-link border. "Sanders said they were within a thousand feet of the fence when it happened, but that they'd gone over all the lines, so they must've started at the cell tower and worked their way back. Once we make it around to the back, we should see their truck."

Chris cut the wheel by forty-five degrees and waved to the guard tower as they passed the first point on the diamond. The guard waved back, his rifle held steady in his right hand.

"What happens then?" Smith asked.

"God knows," Chris told him.

##  Twenty-Eight

Erin Gibbs lay back in his bunk and weaved his fingers behind his head.

"Holy fuck," Tall Bill breathed from below him, "they're ready for war. What do you think's happening?"

"None of my business."

"What? Yes it is. You live here too."

"That must have come out wrong. Since you didn't get the hint, I meant: shut the fuck up. I'm relaxing."

"How can you relax when they're pointing assault rifles at you?"

"I'm not worried about them. Assault rifles or otherwise."

"Well, I _am_ worried about them. How often to guards kill prisoners here?"

"Not as often as prisoners do."

"I got no problem with the prisoners. I've been here a few weeks, and I've been in enough of these places to know after the first few days, so long as you don't do anything stupid, you're straight. And I'm not going to do anything stupid. But the guards, they look at us like animals. They'll shoot first and ask questions later. No matter what happens, they go home happy and have a fucking barbeque. While we're stuck here. Or dead."

"Jesus Christ," Erin huffed, and sat up. "You really don't get the meaning of shut up, do you?" He swiveled and hung his legs off the bed. "Listen," he said, "if it'll help take your mind off it, let's talk."

Tall Bill turned, sat, and put his back to the bars. "Okay," he said. "Politics?"

"No, I'm not talking politics with you. Who the fuck even follows politics?"

"I've always followed politics. And when I could, I voted. In fact, when I could, I voted as many times as I could." He laughed. "My old man always used to say 'Stop bitching if you're not going to do anything about it.' Eventually he changed it to 'Just stop bitching,' but that's my old man for you."

Erin smiled. "Go on," he said.

##  Twenty-Nine

Sanders ejected the new DVD, took it out of the tray, pressed it into a case, and handed it to Sam Watkins. "Pleasure doing business with you," he said.

Sam nodded and left.

He was starting to get nervous. He hadn't thought about what it would be like being in this place after what he had seen that morning. The walls seemed higher, the corridors tighter, everything colder and more ominous. And it took for fucking _ever_ to get from point A to point B.

From the com room, he had to pass through two minimum security and one medium security lock to reach Warden Bowers' office on the top floor, overlooking the garden. At each he got more keyed up than he had been at the last. He felt more and more eyes on him. Every time he looked through bulletproof Plexiglas he felt like the guard on the other side was scrutinizing him more.

It was insane. No one other than the Warden thought of him as anything other than the boss, and Bowers loved his ass. Hell, he probably wouldn't even care. That was the kind of guy he was. He was loyal. He had Sam's back.

"It won't matter anyway," he said aloud as he paced down the empty hall. "No one's ever going to find out."

##  Thirty

They saw the truck parked just where he thought it would be. Chris pulled up next to it and the men poured out. They checked a full three hundred and sixty degrees and saw nothing. On one side the fence and prison, on the other an open field for fifteen hundred feet from the fence, and then unbroken woods for miles. The cell tower stood tall just at the wood line.

"So you think they started at the cell tower?" Smith asked.

"That was the theory," Chris told him. "But I don't see why they couldn't have started at the truck and gone to the tower. I forgot how the close the woods are on this side. They could have literally been at the tower and seen somebody, said 'you're not allowed within a thousand feet.'"

Smith looked at the tower. "Well," he said, "I don't see anyone over there."

Chris sighed. "That's the fucking point, Smith," he said, "where the hell are they?"

Chris thought a moment, then said: "They were following the lines, that's what we'll do. See what we find. Odds are we'll catch them playing grab ass in the woods over there. But stay tight, just in case they want us to join in."

"And if they do?" Smith asked, smiled.

"You can have fun. But if anyone tries pulling my pants down, I'll shoot the bastard."

##  Thirty-One

Warden Bowers took the DVD from Sam and dropped it on the desk. "You seem stressed," he said.

"A lot of shit going on," Sam told him. "That's all."

"True." Bowers sighed and got up from his desk, crossed around it to a cabinet, opened it, and took out a snifter of scotch. "Always something, though."

"It's the job. I knew what it was when I applied."

Bowers pointed to the DVD and poured two glasses. "Pop that in the picture machine," he said. "Let's see what happened to those boys."

Sam picked it up from where the Warden had dropped it, brought it over to the massive plasma television that overlooked the coffee table and leather couch. Warden Bowers didn't believe in watching anything on a computer screen. He believed anything worth watching was worth watching right: from a couch, on a big screen, with scotch.

Sam put the disk in, took the remote, flipped the screen on, and settled onto the couch. Bowers sat next to him with a groan and exchanged a scotch for the remote.

"Who'd you pick?" he asked Sam.

"Chris."

"He'll do the job," Bowers agreed. He pointed the remote at the television. "And... Action," he said as he pressed play.

##  Thirty-Two

"It's like a fucking slaughter house," Chris breathed.

There was blood. Everywhere.

"I don't think they were playing grab ass."

They were twenty feet away from the tree line. The grass, burnt from the cold, was matted and scuffed and covered with blood. The frozen ground beneath unable to saturate. The red spanned a twenty foot area, spread out in a smear in the direction of the trees.

"Looks like they got dragged into the woods," Chris said.

"By who?" Smith asked, looking around. The other men did the same, gripping their rifles in white knuckles.

"What the hell could make this mess?" one of them asked. His name was Will Jones, a dark skinned man Chris knew well enough not to trust at cards. "Practically butchered them right here to make all this blood."

Chris bent down and picked up a nine millimeter shell. "Defensive firing," he said. "No gunshots from the trees."

He looked at Rick Statham, a new guard – one month in. "You okay, Statham? You look like you're about to piss yourself."

"I've hunted my whole life," Rick said. "And I've never seen this much blood in one spot."

"Never," Smith echoed.

Chris keyed up his com unit. "Got blood and drag marks by the tree line," he said into it. "Some defensive small arms shells."

" _Roger_ ," Sanders returned. " _No bodies?_ "

"No bodies. But blood like an expressionist painter went crazy with about five gallons of red."

" _Jesus_."

Chris looked into the trees. "Shit," he said, and jumped. "Did you guys see that?"

Smith squinted, and then nodded. "I've got movement," he said.

"We've got movement in the trees," Chris reported into his com unit. "We're going to go check it out. Tell the tower to keep sharp."

" _Roger_."

"Alright boys," Chris told his men, "who's going in first?"

##  Thirty-Three

"I swear, I would have bit his little prick off," Jessie told Mercedes. "The first time."

"Please, Jess, I've had enough. It's bad enough we've got the screws pointing rifles at us, I have to listen to you bitch? Just stop."

"I'm serious," Jessie scolded her. "First you let him fuck you, then you let him knock you up, then you let him beat you. Where's your self respect?"

"I'm a convicted murderer," Mercedes told her, "not a senator."

"That doesn't mean shit. What would you do if one of these bitches made a run at you?"

"Slit her throat."

"But you let Chris shit all over you."

"I already told you, it wasn't Chris."

"Exactly!" Jessie spat, holding her hands up. "That's my point: you lie for him."

"I'm not lying."

"Like a fucking rug."

"It wasn't Chris. Neither of them."

"What do you mean 'neither of them'?"

Mercedes took a deep breath and held it. She needed to get it out anyway, and if Jessie wouldn't stop, she might as well say it. She'd feel better, she told herself. And Jessie was the only person she could tell.

"The baby," Mercedes said. "It's not Chris' baby."

##  Thirty-Four

"This movie is boring as shit," Sam told Warden Bowers. "It's just five guys walking around looking at the dirt. Fast forward to the good part."

Bowers glared at him. "It's my house," he said. "I control the remote. I'll fast forward if I want, or slow the fucking thing down if I want."

"Sorry, sir."

"Damn right you are."

Bowers hit the fast forward and the men on the screen started walking faster. They walked around in a circle by the cell tower, and then stopped and one of them took out a walkie-talkie and started speaking into it. Bowers hit play and everything slowed down to normal speed.

"Okay," he said, leaning forward and sipping his scotch. "Here's the 'good part.'"

Sam leaned forward as well, and they both squinted at the screen.

The man with the walkie-talkie was saying something. He was very expressionistic about it, waving his left arm at the trail the buried lines took to the cell tower. At the distance from the camera the men were small, but the picture was crisp and they could see the exchange pretty well.

"What's that?" Sam asked and pointed at the tree line. Four small forms began staggering out of the woods.

One of the repairmen saw it, too, and said something, pointing. The walkie-talkie man turned and they couldn't see his face. He pointed the walkie-talkie at the forms, who kept approaching. As they did, a dozen more appeared. Then more. The man dropped his walkie-talkie and pulled his pistol. The other guards backed in close to him and did the same.

A gun arm recoiled as a shot was fired.

Then all hell broke loose.

The people from the trees swarmed on the team. In an instant, they were gone. Just one big writhing mess of flesh. Then the mass began to pull apart, and with them the men – torn limb from limb by their attackers. Each piece being dragged back into the trees.

Sam realized he wasn't breathing. He inhaled sharply, and as he did, Warden Bowers rocketed up from the couch and lunged at his phone. Snapped it up, hit the proper extension and roared: "Get that fucking team back! Get Chris back now!"

##  Thirty-Five

Chris took a carefully placed step and then stopped, scanning the trees with a hunter's eye.

Over to the west, ten feet away, a human form sat in the brush. He communicated as much to his men through hand signs, and crept forward, crouching low.

Eight feet.

It was a woman. No, girl – teenager – judging by the size.

Six feet.

She was sitting with her back to them. She was hunched over, making grunting noises.

Four feet.

They arched around her, weapons trained.

She was covered in blood. Chewing on a human leg.

"Jesus Christ," Rick exploded. The girl startled, dropped the limb and lunged at him. Shock slowed his reactions. The girl caught him by the neck, ripping his throat out with her teeth. Blood exploding from the wound, rolling down Rick's chest and frothing around her mouth as she drank.

Smith: "What the fuck!"

Will: "Get her off him!" He ran forward and tried to pull her off, but her jaw was locked on Rick's throat in a death grip. Blood continued to gush out. Soaking Jones. Rick. The girl.

Smith: "What the fuck!"

Will: "Do something!"

Smith: "What the fuck!"

Will: "Someone do something!"

Chris snapped out of his daze. Lowered his rifle. Took two steps, pulling his pistol as he did. Snapped off the safety. Raised it to the girls head.

Fired.

Three bodies slumped to the ground as Will's weight brought the two dead down on top of him.

Smith: "What the fuck!"

Will: "Get them off of me!"

Around them, the woods came to life with staggering, lurching, gray bodies.

Smith: "What do we do?" He dragged the bodies off of Will and the two stood, watching the growing swell around them.

Chris did the same, unsure. He holstered the pistol and took back up his rifle. There were so many of them. What would a jury say? He had witnesses to testify the girl had murdered Statham, but these people? Could they just shoot them?

Smith: "God Damn it, Chris, what do we do?"

Chris' com unit garbled to life, Sander's voice announcing: " _Warden wants you boys back. Stat. Get out of those trees and get back to the gate_."

The creatures were getting closer, twenty feet away max. On all sides. The forest a sea of cracks and snaps as they made their way through the brush.

Chris: "We're surrounded."

Smith: "Can we fire?"

The men huddled closer together as the hoard approached.

Will: "Can we fire?"

Smith: "Jesus, Chris! Give us orders!"

A man, his skin sagging, eyes dull and glazed, lurched forward, crossing five feet in a single movement, reaching for Will.

Will fired.

Smith fired.

Chris joined them. They cut down the man and three people coming behind him with automatic fire. The bodies pulverized by the onslaught. Chris turned to cover their rear. The three man team assembled their backs in a triangle to cover all sides. Chris put a bullet in a woman's face – skull and brain exploding from behind her - tracked right and put two more in a fat man. They weren't enough. Chris held the trigger down until his man turned to pulp and slumped to the ground. Dropped his clip, snapped another in and went back at it.

Will screamed from behind him and then was gone in a rush of bodies. Chris and Smith quickly compensating by holding their backs flat against each other. Chris caught sight of four creatures tearing Will apart and emptied another magazine into the mass. The bodies stopped moving.

Something grabbed his left arm and clamped down. He pulled his pistol and shot the crown of the skull four times, blood spattering over his uniform and face. Kicked the attacker until the mouth came free, and tracked right with the nine millimeter and left with the rifle. Firing into the crowd.

Smith and Chris shot until their guns ran dry, reloaded, and shot more. Until they were surrounded by a pile of lifeless human forms.

Finally, the trees were silent.

"Holy fuck," Smith breathed. "There were hundreds of them."

Their backs slowly separated as they moved out, scanning.

"Warden wants us back to the gate," Chris said absently, nudging a body with his toe. "What the hell are we supposed to tell him about all this?"

Smith turned to him. "It was self-defense," he said. "You saw what they did to Rick and Will."

"I know, but..."

"What's that?" Smith asked, pointed at Chris' arm. "Did one of them bite you?"

"Yeah, I got his ass, though."

Smith started backing away. "I'm going back to the gate," he said, "you stay back."

"Smith..."

"Those were fucking zombies, Chris. No other way to explain it. A thousand zombie movies, and one constant: you get bit, you turn." Smith took three more steps back.

"You can't leave me out here!"

"I'll tell the Warden what happened. See if he wants to get a medic to look at it. Okay? Trust me, I'll send someone back for you."

He turned and started out of the woods. Chris watched his back as he made his way towards the light of the wood's end. Just before Smith crossed into the field, Chris raised his rifle.

He fired until it ran dry.

Thirty-Six

"That's bullshit," Tall Bill said.

Erin only shrugged. "That's life," he said. "Literally."

"So run it down for me again. First degree?"

Erin shrugged again. "The prosecutor threw the book at me. It was a really politically charged case. I couldn't afford a lawyer, and no one wanted it pro-bono because of the death threats. Hell, even if I could have afforded one, I couldn't have gotten one."

"Holy fuck, I remember that," Bill burst. "It was all over the news for like a month and a half. You shot that..."

"Black kid," Erin stopped him.

"Right." Bill nodded. "You shot that black kid that didn't have a gun."

"How they expected me to know that, I'll never understand."

Bill shook his head. "That's the fucking government for you: always out to fuck you over. They said you were white..."

"Halfway there..."

"It suited their purpose."

"Guess so."

"That's why I don't trust these guards. 'The nine most frightening words in the English language are: _I'm from the government and I'm here to help_.'"

Erin laughed. "That's good," he said. "I like that."

"Ah, I can't claim it."

"Who said it then?"

"Reagan, man, Ronaldus Maximus."

Erin looked at him, blinked a few times.

"What? I told you I followed politics."

Erin shrugged and shook his head. "I just..."

"What?"

"I'm just surprised to hear a felon quoting Reagan, that's all."

"Why?"

Erin looked at him again, dumbfounded. "How exactly," he finally asked, "did you get in here?"

Tall Bill Mahone sighed. "Stupid," he said. "I've been a hard drinker most my life. And I know you'd think I'm a nice enough guy with the conversation here, but I'm a _mean_ drunk. That's why I spent so much time in places like this." His finger went in a circle in the air, to indicate the concrete and bars. "But shit happens," he said. "It's usually a bar fight or a DUI or something like that. I've got seven, by the way."

"Seven DUI's?"

"Yeah." He laughed. "I think it's a record or something. Anyway, I should've learned my lesson. And I hadn't driven in a while. My old lady hated me for it, but I wasn't about to get popped again. Go back to the clink. So I had her run me around. Couldn't get a job because I couldn't drive to work. One night, she just starts laying into me about what a 'lazy sack of shit' I am and how I was 'so drunk' I 'couldn't even fuck her half the time.'"

Bill cracked his neck at the insult. "I lost it," he said, shamed. "But not on her. Her car. I left the house and got in her car – a brand-fucking-new Subaru. I used to joke she loved it more than me. Probably true, in the end.

"I took it as fast as it would let me and mowed down every damned sign, brushed every guard rail, and clipped every fender I could on the way. Just fucked that car in every damn way."

He stopped. Grimaced. Continued: "I wasn't even looking. I was so pissed. I didn't even care. The kid shouldn't have fucking been there in the first place. It was ten o'clock at night. Who lets their kids out at that hour?"

Erin felt a sadness settle over him.

"Fucking little bastard," Bill said, wiping his eyes. "He _ruined_ everything."

Bill sat there a moment, looking at the ceiling. Erin just watched him.

"I... I tried to... I don't know..." He was quiet again. Then: "I felt him get cold while I was holding him." Bill looked into Erin's eyes with an intensity he couldn't describe. "I could feel it. It was real. I felt him die. In my arms. I felt it. Like he got lighter. Like..."

"First degree due to extenuating circumstances," Erin quoted from memory. He understood the charge. It fit.

"Yeah," Tall Bill said. He blew air out and rubbed his face. "Sent me away for life. What about you? You said first degree, you didn't say sentence."

"Forty years to life, whichever comes first." Erin sighed. "But that was for my crime. All the people I've had to toss in here, it's longer."

"They hit you for those?"

"The ones they didn't ask for."

Bill nodded. "So," he said, "how long, exactly?"

Erin looked at him with baleful eyes. "Until I die," he said, "or the end of the world. Whichever comes first."

##  Thirty-Seven

Tim Harper said: "Warden wants to see you," when Chris pulled up to the gate. Chris looked around, at the empty truck and his blood soaked appearance.

"That all?" Chris asked.

Tim shrugged at him and triggered the gate.

"Tell him I've got to get cleaned up first," Chris told him. "Change my shirt."

Tim shrugged again and Chris pulled forward. He parked, got out, and started the long journey in. At each gate – save for the main one – he got increasingly speculative looks and comments.

At the first gate: " _Where's everybody else?_ "

At the second: " _What the hell happened to you?"_

He entered the Admin building and each person in attendance pulled in a gasp. He ignored it and kept on. There were two locks separating him from the locker room – with showers and a shirt change.

First, he dealt with Ed: " _Jesus, you look like you just partied with Ozzie Osborn._ "

"Open the lock."

" _What's the other guy look like?"_

"Open the fucking lock! Ed! Now!"

He opened the lock.

Next he had to appease Mystique – not her real name – and try and get her to open the doors without a lick: "Please, Myst..."

" _Mystique_."

"Please. I'm tired and... Look at me. I need a shower."

" _I love a disheveled man. Two minutes. Tops. You'll be in and out – so to speak._ "

"Warden's waiting for me."

The lock opened.

"Thought so."

He entered the locker room and disrobed. Went to his locker and took out a new shirt, left the pants. Went in the washroom, found the iodine, poured it over the wound and bandaged it. Then put on the new shirt. The arms rolled all the way down to his wrist to hide the mark. He made sure it wouldn't bleed through by putting on a jacket.

He left the washroom with blood still on his face. He had forgotten to wash it off.

##  Thirty-Eight

"Well," Warden Bowers said, "what do you think?"

"I think this a completely fucked situation," Sam Watkins reported. "Completely fucked."

"'Completely fucked'? Is that a professional term?"

"In light of recent events – I say we make it one."

There was a knock at the door. A very quiet, respectful, rapping. "Sure," Warden Bowers said.

Chris entered. His shirt was neatly pressed and clean. His pants were soaked to brown with clotting blood. His face a tapestry of drying plasma. He didn't say a word as he sat in one of the Bowers' plush chairs.

"And?" Warden Bowers asked. "I hear just you made it back."

"Sir," Chris said, nodded. "Don't have to say I've never seen anything like it. Not one person on this earth has ever seen something like I saw today."

Bowers sat heavily behind his desk and laced his fingers. "I'm glad you made it back, son. But we need to know exactly what you found in those woods."

"Zombies," Chris said, looking up. "Hundreds of them. I know it sounds insane, but that's what they were. We found a girl – a teenager, maybe – and she was eating a fucking leg. And the leg had a uniform pant on it. It was our maintenance men, sir. She was eating one."

Bowers nodded and looked at Watkins. "We saw the surveillance tape," he said.

"And she attacked Statham," Chris continued. "She went and tore out his throat. Jones and I tried to help, but it was no good. Smith went and shot her in the head."

"The right thing, under the circumstances," Sam assured him.

"Right," Chris said, nodded again. "But we all got separated in the rush. There were hundreds of them," he repeated. "By the time I made it out, it was just me."

Warden Bowers nodded at him and rubbed his belly. Sam Watkins started pacing.

"It doesn't make any sense," he said. "Why would they stay in the woods until we were that close? The boys from maintenance had basically danced all around out there and suddenly when they get to the cell tower those fucking... _things_ come out. It's bullshit – is what it is. A great big distraction."

"Maybe," Bowers said absently. "Maybe they don't love the light."

Sam stopped pacing and looked at the Warden.

Chris said, "It's called 'nocturnal.'"

"What was that?"

"When animals don't hunt well in light. It's called 'nocturnal.' Like an owl: it can survive in light, no big deal, but it likes darkness better. The forest is dark. The field is light."

"During the day," Sam finished.

"Jesus Christ," Warden Bowers said. "It's almost dark."

# EPISODE 2:

# OUT OF THE DARKNESS

##  One

Sam Watkins never realized how many _fucking_ people there were in the world until they all started trying to eat him.

"Fire!" he boomed, and the night lit up with muzzle flashes and the popping of rifles. The twenty guards huddled around him on the tower's ledge pouring down murderous fire. Murderous, if they hadn't already been dead.

Around them, glistening with every explosive burst, snowflakes fell in ever increasing numbers. The small, crystalline discs, fluttered away in a rush at the muzzles as the guns fired like frightened jellyfish and danced their way to the ground. That meant there would be a heavy fall: big flakes = lots at once; small flakes = lots more, over time.

Sam pushed the stock of his rifle – an Aptomov Kalashnikov 1947 – lined up on what had only days ago been a boy no older than eleven, and put two shots into its head. From the height of the tower, he only saw a flash of black and a smear of the same on the snow as the boy fell.

The spot light swept across the mass of bodies. The men continued to fire. Blood soaking through the newly fallen snow, turning it a sickly deep brown with the lack of oxygen in the fluid.

But they kept on coming. Fifty feet down and a hundred ahead, hundreds and hundreds of what the guards had started calling "Creepers" were pressing against the prison's chain link fence. Trying to get in.

"Don't be shy," Sam told the guards. "They want some, they get some."

He let his rifle run dry into the mass. Dropped the clip out and let it fall to the floor. Reloaded and started firing again. A secretary skittered over – sliding in the snow – picked up the spent mag and pressed a fresh one into his belt.

Sam paused his firing, nodded at her, then went back to work.

He tried to pick his targets. Not necessarily pick, but have one before he fired. Chris hadn't been any help in identifying what type of shot ended the bastards. Sam hadn't actually had any experience with one up close, but Chris had. In fact, he was the only one to survive out of nine. He'd come back shaken, ashen, and a bit jumpy.

That's what happened when you watched your friends get torn apart, Sam figured.

Sam had also been a bit jumpy lately, but the distraction of the creepers had given him purpose and cleared his mind.

He had settled in on head shots – just to be safe – and instructed his men to do the same.

He executed an old man, and then an old woman – possibly his late wife – both in their pajamas, and tracked right to keep going down the line. From the forest he could see the tracks. The light rolled across them again and the shadows showed perfect scratches through the snow. They came from the forest spread out, bunching up as they reached the fence. All searching for the only warm bodies they could find: those in the guard towers. Four more dark shapes had just emerged from the tree line.

"We gotta get 'em before they hit the fence," he shouted, "or the weight will bring it down."

He raised his barrel away from the fence below, sighting on the shadowy figures as they lurched and dragged themselves through the newly fallen powder. Slapped the man next to him, pointing at them, instructing him where to fire. Settled back into his stance and started raking them methodically. At that distance, he couldn't tell where he was hitting them, but they were going down just the same.

That was enough in his book.

So long as they didn't start getting back up.

##  Two

Chris Reed stalked behind his select group of guards, watching as they cut down the hoard. Ran a hand through his short, cropped blonde hair, snow clumping on his head as it fell.

"This ain't play day at the rifle range, boys," he said. "As fucked as it sounds to say it: these are real life zombie mother fuckers that want to feast on your insides. Give them one, two – or ten, if that's what it takes – but try to conserve fucking ammunition." He stopped and punched a guard in the shoulder. "You," he said, "aim high. Take out the head and upper body. I don't want wounded, I want dead."

He continued on.

He watched as the lights rolled over the corpses at the fence, their bodies making a hill of shattered flesh. It was starting to get high. Easily seven feet. A few more and they could just walk over, torn from razor wire, and be inside the first line of defense.

He thought about that, rubbing his arm as he did.

"You," he flagged a guard who was reloading. If you got them firing, they couldn't hear a fucking word. "See if we can get a few guys down there to fire from ground level. I know it's fucked up work, but we need to make sure no one makes it over, and we need to keep that pile from getting any bigger."

The guard nodded and disappeared.

"These fuckers killed eight of our brothers today," Chris explained as he started pacing again. "And if you see any of them – and you just might – you put them out so the Lord can help them in. All the others, you put them out to save your own asses. This isn't about prisoners anymore. This is about survival."

He stopped next to a man who had broken down, kneeling, sobbing. His name was Mike Poterus. His right knee was soaked through from the snow, his uniform bruised with condensation. Chris bent down next to him and took him by the shoulder.

"What?" he asked.

"My daughter," Mike explained. "My daughter's out there."

Chris stood up, sighted down his rifle and searched the crowd. He found her quick. Seven years old. Pretty cute kid. He had seen pictures. She was wearing a little girl's night gown. As the light swept across her, he thought it had Strawberry Shortcake on it. She was still carrying her favorite bear. Slowly making her way to the pile by the fence.

He sighed, letting the exhalation steady his arm.

Fired once.

Her head let out a mushroom of brown that covered the snow behind her. Then she collapsed, knees buckling, falling face first into the cold, wispy snow. It puffed around her as she hit, and then settled back down.

"No she's not," he told Mike. "Not anymore."

##  Three

"He was born December twenty-eighth," Erin Gibbs told his cellmate, Tall Bill Mahone. "Two days after Christmas. Nina said 'Santa was late this year.'"

Erin imagined Bill nodding in his bunk beneath. Erin in the top bunk, orange pants, white shirt, gray skin, blanketed in darkness.

"How old is he?"

Erin thought a moment. It was hard to judge time inside. He thought he'd been in five years, which would make Blake... "Ten. He's ten."

"Never visited?"

Erin was silent a moment. "No," he said. "Let's not talk about him."

"Deal. What about your wife? Nina, was it?"

"It was." Erin nodded. "Also no," he said. "Her lawyer brought the papers for me to sign so she wouldn't have to see me."

"Brutal."

Erin shrugged, even if no one could see him. "Not really," he said. "We were just two dumbass kids anyway. We probably wouldn't have stuck it out, even if things had turned out differently."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty-five. Hot shot cop with a hard on. She was twenty-three, worked at her old man's deli. Used to see me come in and her eyes would get all wide." Erin shook his head at the memories. "I knew what I wanted," he said.

"To get married?"

"Hell no. To get laid."

They shared a laugh.

"I never really thought of it as a permanent venture," Erin explained. "You know, they teach you in school it might come to that, but it's always like getting struck by lighting or winning the lotto: it's always going happen to someone else. Then you get a knock at the door and she's there, her mascara tracking down her cheeks, her old man next to her, shotgun in hand, telling you that he doesn't give a shit if you _are_ a cop, he'll shoot you just the same. And before you know it, there you are: a newlywed. They don't call them shotgun weddings because they're quick."

Bill laughed again. "Right," he said.

"About six years later, we're still okay. Argue a bit. Hard to get along, bills wise. But okay. I get a call 'shots fired.' Haul ass to the crime scene. See a kid running away. I chase him a bit. He's going through yards and all that, so the cruiser's out. Finally, after telling him to stop fifty fucking times, I draw, tell him 'stop or I'll shoot.'" Erin was quiet a moment. "He spins - it's dark as hell, can't see shit - maybe he's got something in his hand, maybe not. I fire. Kill him."

Erin shifted in his bunk.

"Turns out he's unarmed," he said. "Honor roll student, all that shit. No one knows why he was in that neighborhood at that time of night, why he was at the crime scene, why he ran. Just he was such a good kid cut down so young. Some asshole says I profiled him - which I did: he was leaving a crime scene so I assumed he was a criminal – and claims racism. I'm white and I shot a black kid, so obviously I'm a registered fucking white supremacist..."

"Even though you're half black..."

"My dad was white, so I must be too. And BAM-O. First degree murder."

Erin paused for a minute, then continued, "The last time I saw her, we fought. They were offering second degree before they gave it to the jury. All I had to do was admit it was racially motivated and apologize. She wanted me to take it. I told her to go to hell."

Erin shifted on his bunk again, said: "The story of my life. Literally."

"Sorry, man."

Erin sighed. "I'd say 'it's not over yet,' but..."

##  Four

"Status report," Warden Bowers said into the microphone. He was in the prison's Communications Room. Behind him, leaning casually against the wall, was Dave Sanders, Brinnick's Com Specialist. He was taking the whole outbreak in stride. Calmly. God Bless Him.

He was also single, and childless.

" _We got the better of them taken down,"_ Watkins reported. _"Other towers reporting about the same. Few stragglers coming out of the woods, but we can handle them."_

"Took you long enough. Damn near sunrise."

" _Think that's the only reason they stopped, sir."_

"Integrity of the fence?" Bowers asked. "I want that standing."

" _There's a pretty big pile."_

Warden Bowers nodded. Then, into the mic: "I want you to organize a team from maintenance, ready to move out at first light, to keep that fence up. If these things really don't like the light, I want to know."

" _Should we take a few alive?"_

Bowers laughed. "I'd rather let Mr. President himself in here than one of those fucking things," he said. "No. They'll go out, toss the bodies, and in range of our towers we'll find out if the uglies'll come out in daylight."

" _Roger,"_ Watkins returned.

"I want a team of you and some good guys – not your best, I need them here – ready to move at first light, too."

" _Roger. Where to?"_

"Wherever I say," Bowers told him, set the microphone down and left the room.

##  Five

Mercedes lay in her dark cell, rubbing her belly. Beneath her, Jessie had been asleep for hours. Her rhythmic breathing helping Mercedes relax. But she didn't sleep, she couldn't, the world was too confusing.

Who did she think she was?

A mother?

That was a tall order by any standard. She had never thought of herself in those terms, and wondered if she could.

God, if she was anything like _her_ mother... she couldn't even think about it. It's every child's worst nightmare. But she wasn't a child anymore. She had to consider that her mother was a _person_ , not some demon. She had had problems. She had tried to deal. She was probably doing her best.

Mercedes rolled to her side, her deep black hair folding over her ebony face until she brushed it off.

It didn't do anyone any good to think about it. There wasn't a fucking thing anyone could do, least of all her. She could bend it and twist it and flip it upside down and inside out, but couldn't change it one way or the other: they were going to take her baby. She would never be a _mother._ Just a woman who gave birth.

And what would that be like? Could she do it? Hell yes, she could. But could she feel it grow inside her? She would. Could she get it out, alive and healthy? She'd have to. And when she did, could she let them take it?

She wondered.

Could she let it go to people she had never met? Taken from her arms only seconds after it took its first breathe? Let them just take away the only good thing she had ever done, the only thing in her entire life that might – someday – _mean_ something?

Could she do it?

Or could she just kill them all before they took her baby away?

## Six

"We'll stay locked up tight as a newlywed and keep it that way until we know what the hell is going on," Warden Bowers told the group. "I couldn't give half a rat's ass what anyone thinks about it, either. We're prepared to deal with a single enemy at any given time. Most times it's from our population. Right now it's not. I'm not spreading us thin dealing with both."

"Warden," Sam said, raising his hand, "I was thinking about what happened last night."

The sun had broken over the horizon a half hour before, and the creepers had all but disappeared. Save for the fallen. They remained where they fell.

"Two things," Sam continued. "One, we've got our boys in those towers using two-twenty-threes now. It's better for ammunition, but I think if we're going to have our boys in harms way, tossing those bodies, we need stopping power."

"You want thirty-aughts in the towers?" Bowers asked, furrowing his brow. "Because we don't have a hell of a lot of them."

"I want an escort for maintenance."

Each member of the group looked at Sam. Eric Dubluis, head of maintenance, seemed to be nodding to himself. Dave Sanders, coms chief, just leaned, pressing his glasses back up his nose with his pointer finger. Chris looked dumbstruck. Warden Bowers glared.  
"If they needed escort, I would have ordered one," he said.

"Warden," Sam pleaded, "I'm not questioning orders. I'm saying this is not something we ever saw coming. Chris," he turned to him, "how fast can they move?"

Chris looked uncomfortable with the question. "Fast," he said. "They smell blood, we'll have hundreds – maybe thousands – on us in minutes. Seconds, maybe."

Sam nodded and turned back to the warden. "Too fast for five men in a tower," he said. "Especially for two. And especially if they're shooting NATO rounds meant more for target practice then putting something down."

Bowers stopped glaring, leaned back and stroked his stomach. Something he was fond of doing. "Four man team," he said. "Led by Chris. And not because you asked for it, Watkins," he told him, leaning forward, in Sam's face. "Because I'm not wasting a single bullet, and shooters on the ground are more accurate than shooters a hundred fifty feet away."

Everyone nodded.

"I want a scout team," Bowers continued, "set and ready to roll. Watkins, you'll be on lead. Pick three others to go. Again, not your best, I need them here, but good men you trust. Chris will be your number two."

"I need more," Sam said. "They've already..." he picked his words a moment, " _overwhelmed_ two teams that size."

"And what – in your vast experience – would be a better number?"

"Double. Four trucks, in case we bring back survivors. That would be two men a truck plus one in the bed of front and back trucks with AK's to lay down fire."

The Warden studied him carefully. Leaned his head back. Sighed. Said, "Done. Sound good to everyone?"

They all nodded again.

"How long to clear the fence and check integrity?"

"Three hours," Eric answered. "If you give me some prisoners, one. I could use twenty. We'll have them clear off the weight while my men check the foundations."

"Explain."

"Each post has an eight foot foundation. The poles go deep, and they dig out to compensate for the possible weight of all the prisoners pushing at once. Think yard time, they all gang up, not worried about who gets shot, knowing we can't shoot them all..."

"That's why we have the wall."

"Yes, but the fence was built to withstand it anyway. It should hold ten thousand pounds of pressure – should. We'll stress test the foundations. Basically, we'll clear the ground around them, and see if any movement has taken place. If it has, we'll place a jack against it and see what amount of poundage forces movement. We need to know that every post is solid. If one goes down and breaks the link, the chain will be pulled down and simply separate from the other, stronger posts."

"All of them, in an hour?"

"I'm assuming the majority will be intact," Eric told the Warden.

"What minority are we looking at?"

"Possibly ten percent." He shrugged. "We'll go by load. The ones with more pounds of pressure are much more likely to be compromised."

"So not dig them all up?"

"Exactly."

Warden Bowers nodded. "Good," he said, "get on it."

"And what do I do?" Sam asked. "Chris'll be gone for an hour, and it'll only take a quarter that to assemble a team."

"Pick prisoners for work detail, establish defensive positions to watch outside, and our backs inside, and stop being a pain in my ass." Bowers smiled at him. "Can you handle that?" he asked.

##  Seven

"Gibbs," the guard called as the cell door opened, "you pulled work detail."

Erin Gibbs sat up in his bunk, squinting against the fluorescents. "We haven't had roll call yet," he said.

"Not gonna have no roll call today," the guard said. Erin didn't recognize him but his patch read: HARPER. "Probably not going to have it anymore, period."

"That's a relief," Erin said, and slipped his feet off the bunk. They stayed there a moment, dangling, until he pushed himself off, dropped, and they landed with a _thump_ , his knees bending as they hit. "I'd love to sleep in Sundays."

"Not what I meant," Harper said.

"I don't remember volunteering for work detail."

"You don't?" The guard scratched his head. "Well," he said, "do you remember volunteering for _prison_? Because here at Brennick Maximum Security, you do what the fuck we tell you."

Erin shrugged, said, "Whatever," and started getting dressed.

"Outside, so put on the cold ones."

"Outside?" Erin and Bill asked together. Bill was still wiping the sleep from his eyes, but sat up at the word.

"What do you mean 'outside'?" Erin asked.

"Like _out_ side. The opposite of _in_ side."

"I'm down," Bill said, and got up, making for his clothes.

"You Gibbs?" Harper asked. He was on the heavy side of four hundred pounds, but more football player pounds – all upper body. He hooked his two thumbs up under his belt and slouched against the cell door.

Bill looked around, said, "No, he is."

"Then I don't give a damn if you're 'down', you're not on the list."

"Aw, come on," Bill moaned. "I'm fucking _offering_ to help."

"You never struck me as the type," Erin whispered.

"If it'll get me out of this cell an hour, I'll kick some ass on this project. Whatever the hell it is."

Harper eyed him for a moment, then said, "Fine. I like your enthusiasm. If half your generation was so eager, we wouldn't be fucked like we are. Course, eager about things like not killing people..."

"One step at a time," Erin told him.

Harper shrugged him off. "Let's get a move on," he said and led the way, clipboard in hand.

##  Eight

"I got thirty-two," Tim Harper told Sam Watkins.

Sam stared at him a moment, and then shook his head. "I asked for twenty," he said. "Twenty. Not thirty-two."

Tim's massive bulk had guarded Brennick's gates for nearly a decade, but had rarely ever been inside. His experience with prisoners amounted to waving buses of them through the gate, not guarding them. But with the outbreak, Warden Bowers had pulled all the men in and sealed the gate for the time being. Tim's guard shack had initial control of the gate, but it was outside, and so the Warden had reassigned Harper inside, and taken over control of the gate from his office.

Tim shrugged. "I'm an over-achiever," he said.

"No, you're an idiot," Sam told him. "I can't take thirty-two prisoners out there. It's bad enough with twenty. How many guards do you think I'm bringing?"

Tim shrugged again. "Dozen," he guessed.

"About that," Sam agreed. "No problem with twenty of these fuck-heads tagging along, but thirty-two is pushing it."

"If twenty would do it fast, thirty-two'll do it faster."

Sam sighed at him, said, "Give me the damn list," and snatched it out of Tim's hand before he could offer it. He ran down it, read the names, then went back through and crossed out the twelve highest security threats. Handed it back.

"The twelve I crossed off don't go," he said. "Take them back to their cells. The other twenty, have Rovelo and Pope chain their ankles, but leave their hands free. Split them into two groups of ten and then chain them together. That way, if they try to run, the ones that make it'll be dragging their friend's dead weight."

Tim nodded.

They looked at each other for a moment. "Harper," Sam said. "Now."

##  Nine

Erin Gibbs just stared straight ahead as the guard, Harold Pope, chained his ankles together. "What are we working on, Pope?" he asked.

Pope stood, his long, lean frame popping a bit as it unfurled, and said, "Don't tell me nothing. I've heard some rumors – crazy shit – but I haven't been out to see what's up."

"What was all the commotion last night?" Tall Bill asked from behind Erin. "Pointing assault rifles at us and such?"

Pope leaned a fraction to the right to look at Bill. "I was in Admin," he said. "I don't know."

"You're being awful quiet today, Pope," Erin told him. "Something bothering you?"

Pope shrugged. "I should be at home in bed right now," he explained, "instead I'm cuffing you fucks. Should something be bothering me?"

"Point," Erin said. "But I can't think of a single time Bowers has had prisoners pull work detail outside. In fact, I can't think of a single time Bowers has let us _look_ past the gate."

"And don't think this is going to be a fun field trip, either," Pope snarled. "We've got six men to each ten prisoners, and we're locked and loaded and itchy as hell."

Erin squinted at him. Pope was a good enough guy. Erin couldn't figure out what had crawled up his ass. After a minute of staring each other down, Erin sighed and said, "Well, I guess Disneyland's out then."

Pope nodded. "And Sea World too," he said.

##  Ten

There was a quiet knock at Warden Bowers' door and he said "Yup" without rising. The door opened and a young lady with deep auburn hair, long and slightly curled, brought herself and her legs into the office, shutting the door behind her.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Warden..."

"You're never a bother, Mystique," Bowers said. Got up and came around the desk, then settled on the corner, closer to her. He liked that. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," she began, squirming a bit. Bowers intimidated Mystique. The fact that men didn't intimidate Mystique made Bower's intimidation seem all the more threatening. He liked that, too. "I understand you retained third shift..."

Bowers raised a hand. "I had no choice," he said.

"I understand, it's just that... well, we've been on going sixteen hours. Everyone's tired as hell. We haven't gotten any orders on breaks. Are we supposed to just go twenty-four seven? When's the relief shift coming? And if we're stuck here - I can't imagine why, but the rumors are crazy - where are we all going to sleep?"

In all the chaos, Warden Bowers had never even considered it. Brennick boasted a guard and administration employment of three hundred - at any given time. But they were split between three shifts: midnight to eight AM, eight AM to four PM, and four PM to midnight. The Warden usually ran the prison from his office eight to four and then Sam Watkins took over from four to midnight. From midnight to eight it was quiet and the highest ranked guard became the Warden. It had never been a problem.

It had been obvious the midnight shift wasn't coming in when the sun went down and a fucking wall of zombies came out of the forest. Bowers hadn't even thought about it when the eight AM shift didn't come in - he had stayed all night because Watkins had been late, and then when he did get in, all hell broke loose. But the others had gone home.

And, obviously, they weren't coming back.

##  Eleven

Chris poured alcohol over his arm and said "God damn it" as it burned. The wound was festering, puss starting seep out. The dressings and alcohol weren't slowing the swelling or the infection.

"You alright in there?" someone asked from outside the stall.

"Leave me the fuck alone," Chris spat. "I don't check on you when you're taking a shit."

He heard a muffled "asshole" and then the men's room door opened and shut, and he was alone again.

The bite shouldn't be reacting this way, he thought. It wasn't deep – no veins or arteries had been hit. A simple sterilizing and bandage should have done the trick, but it wasn't. It wasn't even bleeding – it was _oozing_ – the edges of the teeth marks red and inflamed.

He put a fresh bandage on and pulled his sleeve down to hide it. Then went out of the stall and headed for the sink. He popped two more antibiotics – he had access to the medical ward's stockpiles – and washed them down with tap water, then took stock of himself in the mirror.

His eyes were bloodshot, black baggage hanging beneath them, but what could he expect after being up a day and a half? He just needed sleep, he told himself, but wouldn't be getting any anytime soon.

"You're fucked," someone said, and he looked around.

Checked under the stall doors.

He was alone. He shook it off, took one last look in the mirror, and left.

##  Twelve

##

##

"You alright?" Sam Watkins asked when Chris arrived at the loading dock. Sam had the twenty prisoners loaded into the beds of two trucks. The prisoners would ride in front of another truck filled with guards. If a group jumped, the guards would mow them down. Four trucks of prisoners and guards, plus two from maintenance: he hoped it would all be done in an hour tops – what Eric had promised – but doubted it. It was a big task.

"I'm fine," Chris said, and covered his mouth a moment. "How would you be, you looked like me?"

"I have nightmares often," Sam said. "You got this?"

"No problem. We take them out, clean up the fence, and then you and me go check out town."

"Keep your fucking eyes on these bastards. One makes a run, you know the drill."

"I got it," Chris assured him. "Don't worry on my account."

Chris climbed in the lead truck, put a hand out the window and made a circular motion: Move Out.

But Sam was worried. Not about what might happen while Chris was cleaning up the bodies, but what might happen when he got back.

##  Thirteen

##

Erin Gibbs sat in the back of the truck and tried not to breathe. If he took in too much air he would get sick, most likely. They were moving from the garage – room temperature – into the Hallway, the chain link and concrete alleyway that split the prison's two yards. To the right was the female yard, desolate beyond the razor wire topped fence, to the left the male, also deserted. Six guard towers loomed over them: one at each point of the Hallway and two rising up from Brennick itself behind them, over the warden's garden.

It didn't make a convict feel secure.

But the idea of passing the opposite way he came in made him feel... something. Something he hadn't felt in a long time.

They stopped at another gate, the guard opened it and the convoy passed through. Out of the Hallway, and into the parking area. Brennick would harass you once at the Main Gate, let you park if you got past, and then harass you a bit more each time you tried to get deeper. It was like the ten circles of hell like that: the further down you went, the worse it was.

They passed through the front gate, the trucks all staying tight, and Erin couldn't believe the bright white as the sun reflected off the snow. It hadn't been a major fall – maybe ten inches – but it had done quick work with the environment, covering everything in its thick blanket.

The truck banked right and began to take them around the parameter of the prison. Erin finally allowed himself some slow, soothing breaths. The air was cold but crisp. He hadn't tasted the scent of fresh snow in a bit under a year – the last time they had it, he had been in solitary. Again.

The sky was bright blue, with dark clouds smudging the southern horizon.

"We'll get hit again," Tall Bill told him, chained six inches away, the metal clinking on the bed with the close proximity. "One moves out, the next moves in."

Erin only nodded. Turned around on his haunches and saw what they were aiming at. It took him a moment. He thought it was a brush pile. He squinted at it, and as the truck pulled closer he realized what it was.

"Holy fucking Jesus," he said.

No one was listening. They were all looking at the carnage.

##  Fourteen

"What we need," Sam Watkins told the Warden, "is to take what resources we have and use them to plug the holes in the resources we don't have."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sam cleared his throat. Two times in the same morning, Warden Bowers was becoming annoying. Sam considered it wasn't entirely Bowers' fault – Sam was pretty keyed up already.

"It means," Sam said, "we usually have two hundred guards and one hundred administrative personnel on at any given time. We now have that. Permanently."

"Why permanently?" Mystique asked. She was sex on heels and Sam tried not to look at her. Warden Bowers did the opposite, sizing her up like a Texan choosing a prime cut.

"Because the relief shifts aren't coming," Bowers told her. Matter of fact. "We have reason to believe that if they're not here by now, they're not coming."

"I don't get it."

Sam cut in: "Listen, it's a... difficult thing to explain. Let's just say we're on our own."

"Like, how?"

"In every way."

He let that register, but didn't give her a chance to respond. "We've still got three hundred, sir," he told Warden Bowers, "we just don't have them in shifts. We'll need to properly manage what shifts we have. The prisoners are locked down, so we don't need two hundred guards on them right now."

"True," Bowers said, nodded.

"We need to give our people a chance to sleep. So we take half and give them barracks. Leaves one hundred active guards. Twelve hour shifts. Fifty can guard the population, so long as they stay in their cells. We can shift fifty more to administrative, temporarily, to fill the gap. With fifty admin people off and fifty on. Twelve hour shifts."

Bowers leaned back and stroked his belly, rolling his fingers over the spot on his shirt that held his button, then sighed. "Take twenty prisoners – the lowest risk – and have them assist admin for the time being..."

"But..."

"I've had enough of your shit today, Watkins," Bowers snapped. "I know you're doing your level best, but I'm tired and don't have the patience for it."

Sam bit down on his lower lip and waited.

"That leaves thirty guards assisting administrative on each shift. We'll have to accept that. Pick sixty prisoners and have them work in eight hour shifts. Doing whatever needs done. That way we keep the extra twenty in the towers. Remember, we're not just worried about escape: we're worried about incursion. And maybe fifty can keep our people in, but we need all we can get to keep those... _things_ , out."

##  Fifteen

"You can't escape it."

"What did you say?" Chris asked the prisoner beside him.

"I didn't say shit," Mike Sanchez said. Chris didn't understand why the man would be part of the work detail – if there was one guy he didn't trust, it was Sanchez.

"So you fucking _say_ ," Chris said, pushed up on him. "What was it?"

"This is the nastiest shit I've ever seen," Gibbs said, interrupting the conversation.

Tall Bill Mahone staggered back to the pile, wiping vomit from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now I know what the boys that found Auschwitz felt like."

Erin shook his head as he pulled an elderly woman's corpse from the pile and set it gingerly in the back of a truck. "Someone's Gramma," he said.

"Fucking look at all of them! How many, you think?"

"Doesn't fucking matter how many," Chris told them, "clean it up."

"At least two hundred," Gibbs replied, ignoring Chris.

"At this tower alone. That's a thousand all told."

It looked like they had gone for meat, not just wandered up. They had massed where there were towers. Chris imagined they couldn't see anything past the inner wall, but Chris and the guards would be plain as day, up on their towers.

"Look at her fucking eyes man," Gibbs said.

Tall Bill, Sanchez and Ray Torez all approached, the later two hesitantly. Chris knew Torez as a shit head bank robber who couldn't control his trigger finger. He decided to give the group a moment while he paced.

Torez swore and walked away.

Bill shrugged, said: "What do you expect? She's dead. People's eyes dilate when they die."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Sanchez asked. "'Die-late'? Because I bet they thought they died early."

"No," Bill corrected. "Di-A-late. You know, the pupils get bigger. It's one of the theories to explain why people always say they see a white light before they die."

"You talk to a lot of people've died?"

"No," Mahone said again, "I can actually read. Like words on paper..."

"So..."

"So when the pupils get bigger, it lets in more light. Like, have you ever seen a gray hair walking through the grocery store with sunglasses on? It's because her doctor dilated her eyes and the world's too bright. She needs sunglasses, even inside..."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Chris asked. He tucked his rifle back into his shoulder and stalked the few feet with the muzzle raised. "Get back to work."

"I was explaining to these ignorant schmucks how your pupils dilate," Bill explained. His eyes wide at the rifle point aiming at him.

Chris reached up, took his glasses off, and squinted at Tall Bill. "The hell did you just say to me?" he asked. "My what?"

"Jesus Christ," Bill fumed. He took a step towards Chris, but stopped when the barrel twitched. "I'm just going to show you."

Chris cocked his head, studying the man, and then nodded. His mind was racing. It would only take a second to pull the trigger. Less. He could end this fucker before even God knew what was happening.

Bill took another slow step, and asked "Can you see the black part of my eye?"

"Sure," Chris said, kept the rifle trained.

Bill covered his left eye with his hand for a few seconds, then pulled it away. "See how it was big and then got smaller when I took my hand away?" he asked.

"Do it again," Chris said and got a bit closer. Bill did it again, and this time Chris nodded. "Yeah," he said, "I got it. When you have your hand over it the black part gets bigger."

"It _dilates_. The black part gets bigger to let in more light."

"Well, I'll be damned," Chris said, put his glasses back on. "Learn something new every day. But – just wondering – what the fuck does any of that have to do with anything?"

"We just noticed the body's eyes were dilated, and I explained that it happens when you die. It's not some freaky zombie thing. Totally natural."

"All their eyes are dilated?" Chris asked.

"Yeah," Tall Bill told him, shrugged.

"And what would that mean for their vision?"

Bill shrugged again. "They wouldn't be able to see shit during the day," he explained. "It'd be just one big florescent light in their face."

Chris was nodding now, saying "That's why they're nocturnal" on a loop.

"You alright?" Gibbs asked him, his head cocked.

Chris stopped and looked from one to the other, like he had forgotten they were there. "Get back to work," he said. "Enough chatting. I got a call to make. I want these bodies gone when I get back."

##  Sixteen

"Got two coming out for work detail," Martinez said.

Mercedes sat up in her bunk. "Work detail?" she asked.

"Work detail," Martinez repeated.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Warden's orders," the short, female guard responded.

Mercedes glanced back at Jessie, who was rising from her bunk. "What's that _mean?_ "

"It means you got work detail."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Where?"

Martinez checked her sheet. "Kitchen duty," she said. "Cooking, cleaning, that type of stuff."

Mercedes let out a slow breath. "What was going on last night?" she asked. "When you told us to get away from the bars?"

"All I know," the guard said, "is Warden's the Man and he gave me a list. And I get to rack out in fifteen minutes. If he lets me sleep – because I know he won't let me leave – he's Jesus Christ almighty as far as I'm concerned."

"You know what you sound like?"

"What's that?" Martinez asked.

"A prisoner."

##  Seventeen

Warden Bowers shook his head and leaned against the desk that held the radio. "Say that one more time," he said into the microphone.

Chris' voice crackled over the speakers: " _Their eyes are dilated. That's why they only move out of the woods at night – they can't see_."

Bowers rubbed his chin a moment, thinking. "You've made the world of science proud," he said, "but what in God's name does that have to do with anything?"

" _Most nocturnal animals hunt at night because they see better at night. So they go out and search and hunt at night, because they don't have the sun blinding them. Humans aren't like that, but once they're dead, their pupils blow up and they can't see in daylight_."

"So..."

" _So, we bring a big ass light with us, and if we get in a pinch, we blast them with it. Deer in the headlights_."

"Or they go straight for the light."

" _Which will make us more fucked, how?_ "

Bowers knew everyone was at the edge of exhaustion, so he had loosened his protocols on free speech. Just a bit.

"Good point," Bowers said. Set the microphone down and turned to Sanders. "How tough would it be to rig a couple flood lights on to those trucks?"

"What?" Sanders asked. "I'm a mechanic now?"

"You're whatever the fuck I tell you to be. It's all electronics, isn't it?"

Sanders sighed and picked up the phone. Hit the extension and waited. Then said, "Warden wants to know how long it'll take to rig up flood lights on some trucks." He listened. Took the phone from his ear and held it to his chest. "They say they already have search lights."

"I didn't say 'search lights' I said 'flood lights.'"

"He didn't say 'search lights' he said 'flood lights.'" He listened again. Took it away and put it back on his chest. "They want to know what the difference is."

"The fucking difference..." Bowers huffed a moment. "Oh, hell, give me the damn phone." He snatched it from Sanders and held it three inches from his mouth. Shouted: "Get me the biggest fucking lights you have on those trucking and do it now, or I'll lock you up with the animals for an hour and let them get their rocks off on something tighter than a blow hole."

He tossed the phone at Sanders. Took back up the microphone and keyed it. "I doubt we'll have lights on those trucks by the time you get back. I've had ten separate requests by head of households wanting to go check on their families. And the only reason I haven't got more is I told them the next man that asks will be reprimanded. We need to get into that town. I can't wait for lights."

" _Roger._ "

Bowers sighed. "Progress report."

Chris came back: " _Cleared the first tower. Team two should be about the same. That leaves three. About forty minutes out. Maintenance says it'll take another half hour at each tower to check integrity. Should we move on ahead of them or stick close_?"

"Move on," Bowers said, nodding. "I already told you: we don't have time. The towers can protect the crew."

" _But Watkins..."_

"...Works for me."

There was a silence. Then Chris said, " _Roger_."

"And Chris."

" _Yes, sir?"_

"Good job." Bowers dropped the microphone and left the communications room.

##  Eighteen

"You can't all go," Sam told the assembly. Around him, every man who wasn't guarding cells was asking what was happening. Why they were still at Brennick. Where the next shift was. And could they check on their families.

"I'm taking eight. That's it."

" _Eight_?" someone shouted from the back. " _Fucking_ eight? My kids need me!"

The mass grumbled their agreement. Sam glared at them, sweeping the faces of the front row.

"I'm taking eight," he repeated. Short. Clipped. "Plus me, and Chris."

"So you get to make sure your honey's okay?" the man right and three over asked. His name was Clancy Thompson. He was a good man. Tall, lean, always clean shaven. But he was pissing Sam off.

"It's not seniority," Sam explained. "Warden specifically asked for Chris and I. Chris' the most experienced in this case." Sam swallowed a bit of bile at the admission. "And I'm second in command," he continued. "Obviously the fucking Warden's not going out there, so I have to. We need eight more men – Warden's orders – and we'll check on _everyone's_ families."

They grumbled again. Sam continued, "Warden wants my most reliable officers. I say you're all my top picks. There's not a man – or woman – in this prison I wouldn't ride into hell with. So I'm letting you all decide. I need men who can go out there and not be stupid. Ask yourselves: 'Can I do the job despite the consequences?'

"And let me explain the consequences: The stories are true. There are... zombies. And they're fucking... _everywhere_."

Silence settled over the room like a mist. Sam gave it a moment, but no one protested.

"We lost guards yesterday, colleagues." His voice was strong, but clearly somber. He wasn't sure what part of him was speaking, but he thought it appropriate. "Friends. And they've turned. Turned into... whatever those _things_ out there are. We call them creepers, because we don't know what else to call them. Now, some of you have seen them, others haven't. But let me tell those who haven't: they were once _people_ , and there's a damn good chance you'll have to kill what's left of people you knew, to survive."

He rolled his gaze over the crowd.

"Who can do that?" he asked.

## Nineteen

"What was that?" Jessie asked. She pulled a red lock of hair out her eyes with her left hand. "Back in the cell?"

Mercedes cleaned another dish, not looking at her friend and cellmate.

"What was what?" she asked.

"The 'work detail' thing?"

"What about it?"

"You seemed awful worried about us having 'work detail,' is all."

Mercedes shrugged. "Never had it before," she said. "Surprised."

Jessie stopped rinsing and leaned against the cold, steel sink. "Yes, you have. Warden calls you out all the time for work detail. I always assumed it was no big deal. Then you look at me when we both get called, and get all nervous. What's going on?"

"We're washing dishes."

"I know that, but there's something you're not telling me. In fact, you're flat out lying to me."

Mercedes didn't say anything, instead she scrubbed the bottom of a pan that didn't have a smudge.

"It's fine," Jessie said, and returned to rinsing. "You don't trust me."

"Jesus fucking Christ! It's not that I don't trust you. Would you just stop being a nagging bitch for two seconds and leave it alone?"

"Sure," Jessie said, nodded. Turned to Mercedes again. Said: "Just what kind of 'work' was he having you do?"

##  Twenty

Sam watched the two trucks pull in, prisoners loaded in back. Chris pulled the lead truck in, switched off the ignition, got out, and lit a smoke, leaning against the door. The prisoners hopped down as best they could, rifles trained on them, and began their shuffle. One of them said "Watts" and Sam turned to him. He recognized him but was having trouble placing the name.

"Gibbs," Sam said, nodding, "how you doing?"

"Not great," Gibbs told him. "You see what it's like out there?"

"I was out there all night."

"You look tired."

"Thanks, I am." Sam looked at the guard leading them, said, "Take the prisoners away, please," and the line got moving again.

"Where's maintenance?" Sam asked Chris.

"Checking the fence," Chris told him, blowing smoke. "Warden wanted me back so we could hit the town."

" _I_ wanted them to be protected."

Chris looked uncomfortable again, glancing around. "You hear that?" he asked.

"No," Sam said, grinding his teeth.

Chris stopped checking around him and said, "Right. Warden told me to come back." He shrugged. "Warden's the boss."

Sam stared at him a moment, hating him with every ounce he had. He didn't have any desire to go back to that town, and definitely not with Chris, and most of all not with the Warden being a ball buster.

He wasn't afraid of what they _might_ find in town. That didn't really scare him. He had seen first hand what it was and wasn't all that broken up about it. Half the fucking people deserved what they got, and the other half... Well, they got it anyway. His little speech about them being people and precious and all that shit was just to appease the troops – who were all sleeping like fucking babies right now anyway.

No. He wasn't worried about what they might find. But the other part was making his head split open. His insides torn to shreds. His hands shaky. His mouth dry.

It was what he knew they _would_ find.

And it had nothing to do with zombies.

"Oh fuck it," he said. "Let's get this shit over with."

##  Twenty-One

"Guards look like they're ready to fucking eat each other," Tall Bill Mahone told Erin Gibbs.

"They'll be fine," Erin said, and laced his fingers behind his head. Bill had taken up his old position with his back pressed against the bars. Lately, though, there weren't many guards passing by.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," Erin told him.

"You're thinking about the bodies out there, right?"

Erin sat up. "Fucking of course I am," he spat at Bill. "What the hell else should I be thinking about? Hooters girls and hot summers at the beach?"

"I would recommend something along those lines."  
"So you're saying you're not thinking about them?"

"Of course I am."  
"Then what the fuck are we talking about?"

Bill shrugged. "You got a weird kind of look in your eyes out there," he said. "It wasn't like you'd lost hope. I mean, I guess. But you've been a hundred-mile stare kind of guy the whole twenty-four hours I've known you. But... Looked like you died inside out there."

Erin shrugged this time and laid back down, returning his hands to their proper place.

"You said you don't know where they are," Bill said. Sighed. "It's a big world out there. Even if things were normal, chances of finding them are next to getting hit by lightning. Twice. At noon. On a Sunday. With no clouds."

"I get it."

"Now... Well..."

"I fucking get it."

They were quiet for a long time.

"Still," Bill broke the silence, "for your boy, may be worth it."

"For my boy, anything is."

"Like running?"

"Put it this way," Erin said, not sitting up, staring at the ceiling. "They let me out that gate again, and it'll take a hell of a lot more than chains and machine guns to get me back in."

##  Twenty-Two

"So what you're saying," Jessie said, and dropped the dishes into the sink, "is that I really don't _want_ to know, or that I don't _need_ to know or that it's _safer_ if I don't know? Which is it?"

"If I choose any of those I'm saying it happened," Mercedes said, and pushed a rack of dishes into the industrial washing machine.

"Which you just did."

"No, I didn't. I overreacted. I just get nervous when people start throwing things around with 'Warden said' before or after."

"You didn't get nervous, you got scared."

"When's the last time someone said: 'Warden said' you get to have a bubble bath?"

Jessie shrugged. "Never," she said.

"Or 'Warden said' you get steak instead of dog meat? Or 'Warden said' you're a beautiful woman who deserves to be treated better than an animal? It doesn't happen. This is Brennick, and Warden's a fucking asshole and anything he says is probably bad. Fair?"

"Fair."

They let that sit. The only sound the clinking of dishes. After a moment, Jessie said, "What the fuck do you think is going on?"

Mercedes looked at her a moment, then wiped the sweat from her dark face. Steam trailed up from the dish washer and ensured the sweat replaced itself. "Like what?" she asked.

"Like what's going on? Why are we here?"

"Because we're both murderers. Though, in my case, it was justified."

"The guy said I paint like a six year old," Jessie spat. "Sticking a brush in his eye was totally justified."

"Lighting him on fire..."

"Was overkill. I get that now. But it takes time to truly mature. That's not what I meant. Why are we working in the kitchen? This is as max as it gets, they don't let prisoners do anything here."

"And?"

"We're doing dishes. Like you said: When does Bowers let us out of our cells?"

"When he feels like it."

"And it lasts?"

"Five minutes, until someone offs the other side and then we're back locked up."

"And who's allowed out of their cells during lock down?"

Mercedes shrugged and kept working. She didn't have an answer. She didn't feel like talking anyway. She was just glad Jessie wasn't interrogating her anymore.

"No one," Jessie answered for her. "Until now."

##  Twenty-Three

"What do you think crawled up Watkins' ass?" the guard next to Chris asked. He was medium all around. Not dark, not light. Not tall, not short. Not thin, not heavy. Even his hair danced along the line of not being long, but not short, and not brown, but not blonde. His name was Phillip Craig. Chris wanted to call him "Blah" but never had to his face.

"It's the exhaustion," Chris explained and cut the wheel a hair, banking around the carcass of an animal no longer identifiable. "Guy hasn't slept in well over a day."

"Still," Phil rubbed his knees, "seems awfully keyed up."

"You volunteered for this work?" Chris asked him.

"Sure," Phil said, shrugging. "I've given Resident Evil like three months of my life. Seen all the movies. Plus Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Walking Dead, _Shawn_ of the Dead – which was awesome – Twenty-Eight Days Later, Twenty-Eight _Weeks_ Later, Zombieland – also awesome..."

"I get it."

"... I fully plan on naming my first born 'Romero' – boy or girl, doesn't matter." Phil shrugged. "Anyway, I figure it couldn't be worse than CGI makes it out to be. Hell, might be better."

Chris looked at him. His right hand fingering the wheel. The road was straight for a mile, he knew. But he kept staring. A voice in his head was telling him to look back at the road, a turn was coming up. But he couldn't. There was an artery. Right there. In the neck. He could see it, pulsing. He could... taste it...

"Holy fucking hell!" Phil screeched.

Chris turned, saw the road swerve left, and corrected. The truck kissed the guard rail for a moment and then they were back behind the others. As if nothing had happened.

"Keep your fucking eyes on the road, man," Blah scolded him. "Stead of checking me out. Fag."

##  Twenty-Four

"The fuck was that?" Sam shouted into the microphone as they neared the town. Chris' truck had hit a guard rail and nearly tossed the shooter in the bed.

" _No big deal_ ," Chris came back. " _Lost my train of thought._ "

"Well, find it. We're passing city limits."

Around them the wood had given way to exit ramps and fields. Farms unfolded lazily in the pale, winter sun.

"Look at that," Clancy said, pointing. "Whole fucking cow hollowed out."

"More than one," Sam told him. To the left of the highway a half dozen were strewn across a long, rolling field. "They all probably got it in the end."

Clancy gripped his rifle stock until his knuckles turned white. His knee started rocking slowly.

"Stop it, you're making me nervous."

"I can't help it," Clancy said. "I _am_ nervous. Not one fucking car. Not one person. Nothing."

"Everyone was told to stay home," Sam explained. "The cars are in the driveways, I would assume." Sam reached behind him and opened the window to the back. "Stay sharp," he told the guard, Will Stockton.

Five and a half feet of muscle and mustache nodded back.

They took the second exit, Sam guiding the trucks through the turn, and dropped into town on the main road. In the distance clouds bruised the sky, moving in fast.

"Shit," Sam said. "Clouds coming in."

"So?"

Everything looked deserted. Cars still lined the main boulevard, but they all sat empty. The shops were empty and dark. Bits of trash danced listlessly in the breeze. The motorcade crept past a few broken windows. The drug store, now a smoldering ruin. Local bar: door hanging open, crooked, on a single hinge. Gun store: windows shattered, bars streaked with dried blood, sidewalk a frozen waterfall of dark brown.

"Where we heading first?" Clancy asked him.

"Sheriff's office."

##  Twenty-Five

"Chow time," the girl said, and passed a tray through the slot in the bars.

"Hot damn," Tall Bill said. "They went and upgraded the cooks."

Judging by the clothes, numbers fading on the right breast, she was an inmate. She was beautiful in the old ways: Soft. Sensual. Slightly fragile.

"Just take your fucking food," she spat, "and stop ogling me."

"Ooh," Bill purred, "I've loved you all my life, I just didn't know it until now."

Erin passed him and took the next tray. "What's going on?" he asked. "They're having inmates help out now?"

"You saw what's going on," Bill said, punched him. Erin glared at him, and Bill moved off to eat.

The girl fidgeted a moment. "Yeah," she said, "I mean, no. I don't know what's going on, but they're having us help out. Fuck it, gets us out of our cell."

"Who's us?"

"Who are you talking to?" another female prisoner came up with the tray-filled cart. Erin recognized her. "Oh, shit," she said. Apparently she recognized him.

"Hello, Miss Mercedes."

"Fuck you, pig," she sneered. "How's it feel to be in the cage now, and not on the other side?"

"I didn't put you in a cage, Mercedes, your actions did."

"Very philosophical. Take his food back."

Erin pulled the tray away and set it on the bed behind him.

"Don't be childish," he said. "I was a cop, you killed someone. If it hadn't been me that dragged you in, it would have been someone else. And they wouldn't have been as nice about it."

"I don't remember you apologizing or rubbing my hand."

"I told you to watch your head."

"Hey," a guard yelled out, running up to the girls. "I told you to keep moving and do your job. Move it along."

"For dinner," Mercedes whispered, "I'm putting bleach in your mash potatoes."

Erin nodded. "That's very thoughtful of you," he said.

##  Twenty-Six

The parked trucks made an arch around the front of the Sheriff's office. Sam's truck in the lead. Will hopped out of the back and brought his rifle up steady, sweeping it around the open streets. His eyes sharp, almost not blinking. Sam got out and patted him on the shoulder.

"You're point," he told Will. Then turned to Chris, who was trotting up, said: "I'll take three in and see what the situation is. You take over out here and keep me posted. I want shooters ready and aiming down each of the five points. Will stays with the trucks. Don't do anything without consulting me first."

"Except shoot," Chris said, nodding.

"Fine, shoot, but make sure they're dead first." Sam thought a moment, unsure of how that sounded. It sounded ridiculous. "And after," he added.

"Copy," Chris said, turned and started instructing the men. He stopped, turned back and said, "Who's going in?"

"Clancy, Phil and Brooks. The others in shooting positions."

Chris repeated it to the others and they dispersed.

Brooks Pilar, one of the largest men Sam had ever known, nearly seven feet and three hundred pounds of towering black bulk, came up beside him.

"Watts," he said, his voice like cannon fire.

"Brooks," Sam returned. "I want you in front of me."

"Always."

They assembled: Brooks in the lead, Phil behind him, then Sam and finally Clancy. They checked their rifles, looking balefully at the building they would enter.

Though most of the prisoners came from the city, the town was originally peopled exclusively by those working at the prison, or there to support those working at the prison. As such, the Sheriff's office was built first as a routing station for prisoners and guards. Over time, the city grew up around it. About fifty thousand souls. For that reason, Town Hall was positioned across the street. Five streets ran off from the lot that made up the office and surrounding park like a giant impact crack. The main street was the largest and ran to the highway. The others ran until the pavement stopped.

They would have to clear it before they could do anything else.

Sam took a deep breath, and touched Brooks' shoulder. "Let's move," he said.

##  Twenty-Seven

Chris got to the far side of the lot and stopped. Checked his rifle and said, "Check in."

" _One ready,"_ came over the coms.

" _Two set."_

" _Three good."_

" _Four ready."_

"Good, remain in position and keep me informed."

" _Roger."_

" _Copy."_

" _Got it."_

" _Copy."_

The day was crisp and the wind was picking up. He could see the clouds off in the distance, getting bigger, darker, more ominous. He lit a smoke and leaned against a tree trunk. Watching. Waiting. He didn't see _any_ signs of life. No dogs or cats cutting across the street. No birds. Shit, no bugs. Nothing.

"Creepy," he said.

##  Twenty-Eight

Brooks paused at the door. Sam behind him two back. Sam looked ahead and saw Brooks standing there, his hand forward, touching the door, waiting. Sam couldn't see his face, but he imagined Brooks was trying to see into the dark station.

They had made it all the way to the door, and nothing had happened. No one shouted out and asked why they were armed. No creeper lunged out to take out their throats. No shaken trooper had burst out to thank them for rescuing him.

Nothing.

"Go," Sam said and Brooks was through the door.

Then Phil.

Then Sam.

With the shock of darkness, it took a split second for Sam's eyes to adjust, but before they had, the entryway became a blur of flashing lights as Brooks opened fire on a creeper as it leapt at him. The force of the blast threw the thing back but two more were quick to take its place. Phil broke formation and came up beside Brooks. Sam did the same on the other side. Clancy followed suit. All firing.

Sam put a three round burst into a former cop's face, shattering it in a wash of red. The body crumpled to the ground.

Brooks swept across the mass and three went down. One started to get back up – Brooks hit it again. It went back down. Stayed down.

"Pull back," Sam ordered, "tactical retreat."

Clancy turned to him, said, "What the hell is th..." and screamed as a creeper clamped down on his shoulder. It wasn't a good bite – blood started dripping, not gushing. But it held him in place as two more got hold of him and opened his jaw line. His face exploded in a rush of blood, roaring across the open space and then dropping in streams and droplets on the frenzied creatures pulling, pushing, fighting each other to get to the source.

"Get," Sam roared. "The Fuck. Back."

##  Twenty-Nine

Chris took a drag off his cigarette and kept his eyes glued to the long, desolate road. He was getting bored now. It had only been a minute or two since he got to the tree, and already he felt antsy. He hadn't even finished a smoke. What was he all worked up about?

He rubbed his arm and tossed the smoke.

Nerves. He couldn't quiet his nerves, he decided. All this shit going on.

Something moved.

Down the street. He squinted, bringing his rifle up. He was sure something had...

Gunfire broke the silence in a muffled chatter from inside the Sheriff's office. Chris started. Looked at the building, then back down the street. There it was again.

A dog.

He relaxed a bit. Looked back at the office, the rifle fire near constant. Then turned to his post and jumped back six inches.

"Holy fuck," he breathed. "Creepers."

Dozens of them. Materializing out of nowhere. Headed his way. Led by the dog. But the dog was all fucked up. Like he had rabies. There was a long gash on his side, like something had opened him up. Then he saw more creepers coming out of houses and storefronts. Not fast: stumbling, lurching, wandering – towards Chris. The Sheriff's office. The gunfire.

"Watkins! Are we secure inside?"

Shots rattled over his coms unit. " _Got three coming out,"_ Watkins said. " _Lost one, hostiles following._ "

"Fuck!"

" _All units, fall back. Defensive perimeter around the trucks._ "

Everyone gave a "Roger" and Chris started backing his way to the truck. Keeping them in front of him. But... there were more. Coming from every street. Converging on the office. On their position. Hundreds of them.

He left the ones heading down his block and broke into a run. Crossed the lot and got to the trucks. Turned around. Saw the mass mixing with ones from the other streets. Coming his way. The dog in the lead.

He shot the fucker.

##  Thirty

Sam went full auto – murderous – through the threshold as Brooks reloaded. Chipping off ragged chunks of half-turned flesh as the bullets tore through the crowd of creepers. Then dropped his magazine and reloaded while Brooks laid down fire.

They had made it out, but one man less, and still had a ways to go before they made the trucks.

What had once been the Sheriff pushed forward, and Sam shot it in the mouth. The bullet came out just below the ear. It stumbled, and then kept coming. Sam shot it again between the eyes, leaving a Rorschach blotch on the creeper behind.

"Go for the head. Head shots," he said. "Wall them in."

The three separated and stood shoulder to shoulder, pouring down fire. All at different angles. The heights varied. The shooters as well. They spent clips at different points, each compensating when one ran dry. Blood began to run in clotting bunches along the pavement, pooling around their feet. Rolling off the walkway and onto the frozen, snow covered grass. Body parts stacked up. Head wounds. Body wounds. More head wounds. Men. Women. Children. Cops. Civilians. Falling under the onslaught.

Until they stopped coming.

Out of the office.

##  Thirty-One

"They're coming to getcha."

"What?" Chris asked.

Harold Jenkins said, "What?"

"Nothing."

They were coming from everywhere now. Drawn – presumably – by the sound of Watkins' team leaving the Sheriff's office. Chris glanced behind him and saw three men cutting down at least twenty creepers. They weren't being shy about it, either: just executing them with all the firepower they had.

And then the world went eerily quiet. No gunshots. No nothing. Just small, scraping noises as the creepers crept closer.

"Well," someone said beside him and Chris jumped. Sam Watkins was there, drenched in sweat, reloading. "I don't think the Sheriff's going to win the next election."

"No?"

"Don't think he'll be running. Hell, not sure there'll be another election. But either way, I just shot him in the face. Twice."

Chris shook his head. "Probably did the world a favor," he said.

"Fuck the world. I did myself one. Bastard was trying to... you know."

"I do." Chris said, nodded. Looked out over the sea of bodies coming towards them. "I _don't_ know what the fuck we do now."

"Now," Sam said, his eyes wild, "we run like hell."

##  Thirty-Two

"You really think she'll poison your food?" Bill asked.

"Mercedes?" Erin Gibbs said, sitting up.

"Is that the name of the Nubian Goddess that brought me the love of my life?"

Erin sighed. "I guess," he said.

"Then Mercedes it is. You think she'd do it?"

Erin shrugged. "Nah. It's not her style. She'd want to watch me die."

"Were you two married or something? Because that's usually how those things go."

Erin thought back to the crime scene: It had been a bad one. She had stabbed the pimp in the throat to start off. Throat shots were messy, because the arteries are under so much pressure. The blood sprays out with force and can cover twenty feet or more. In this fucker's case he didn't have twenty feet or more – they were in a car – so literally everything had been covered.

Including Mercedes.

And she hadn't stopped with the neck. She had... taken something, and thrown it out the window. Except the car was parked, so it had been recovered at the scene. Not that Erin thought she cared: the pimp had already been dead, she was just working off her aggression. And she had. By the time Erin and the other police arrived, she was sitting on the curb, rocking herself, the knife held limply on her lap.

"She's a firecracker," Erin said, "that's for sure."

"Why didn't you tell them what we saw outside?"

Erin shifted back on his bunk, and leaned against the cold, concrete wall. "Because," he said, "what good would it have done? It's the same thing with me sitting here thinking about Blake and Nina: why bother? If they're dead, they're already dead. If not, good for them. All those people out there, they're dead. But having those girls know about it doesn't bring them back."

"But you said you wanted to go after your family."

"Wanting to go after them is one thing. Sitting here stewing about it is another."

"Gotcha. So you're planning? Because, here's the thing: I'm not leaving without my lady there, and you aren't leaving without me."

"You've known me a day and a half."

"That's long enough to know if anyone has a chance of surviving out there, it's with you at the lead."

##  Thirty-Three

There was a _thud_ as Sam ran over an eleven year old girl. Then a sort of grinding noise under the truck as he sped on. And then the truck released the girl and she tumbled along the pavement as the truck sped away.

Sam turned on the wipers and hit the action to spray solvent on the windshield. The wipers smeared red across it until after ten tries they freed the last of the girl's blood and Sam turned them off.

He turned right and then cut left. The trail of creepers moving faster now, as the clouds rolled in and their vision cleared.

"God Damn it," Chris shouted out the window, and mowed down a family as they came out their front door. "It's everyone, the whole fucking town!"

"Noticed that," Sam said and cut the wheel again, sending Will nearly sprawling.

"Well what the fuck do we do? We still have to check everyone."

"We did, we're going back."

"Warden said 'Check every house.'"

"We did," Sam repeated. "You just said it was the whole town."

"I'm telling you right now, Brooks will fucking kill you if you don't check on his wife and baby. And the Warden wants me to physically check his house. He sent me for that reason. So I could go in and get some of his stuff."

"Fucking Bowers," Sam said, shaking his head. Cut left again, onto a new street.

"So what the fuck do we do?"

"Working on it."

Chris fired off another volley as they passed the elementary school. Six children's heads splattered and they sprawled out in the playground.

Sam turned left again, trying to get back to the Sheriff's office. If they could get inside, there should be weapons there. And it was empty, already cleared. And defensible, he hoped.

"Why are you driving around in circles?" Chris asked. "We need a fucking plan."

"I have a plan, just shut up and get ready to roll out."

"Where are we going?"

"The sheriff's office," Sam told him, and cut the wheel again.

"Oh _shit_ ," Chris said, shook his head and leaned out the window, firing.

##  Thirty-Four

Maurice Avelanda heard the gunshots, loud and angry, and had been for the past fifteen minutes. They had started close, then gone further away, and now were coming back around.

He didn't understand.

He knew the local police were all dead. And if the National Guard had come in, they would be moving in a single direction: clearing the town. Not driving all over hell shooting things. Which meant it was someone else.

Gangs?

Police from the City? State?

He didn't know. For all he knew they could be worse than the damn zombies.

Now he heard something else. Engines. He couldn't tell how many. But they were floored. And they were roaring his way. He crept up to the window he had blacked out with blankets over tin foil – he thought the foil might distract them from his body heat. He didn't know if they could see or read his heat signature, but wasn't taking any fucking chances.

Slowly, he peeled back the cover of the blanket. Then – even slower – a one inch corner of the foil. Under him, four trucks screamed by. So fast they were practically a blur. But he could still see what it said on the side:

BRENNICK MAXIMUM SECURITY.

##  Thirty-Five

Sam brought the lead truck up to the Sheriff's office as fast as he could without running into the damn thing. Ran it right up over the curb and onto the grass. Drove over the walkway. Slid to a stop in the snow and was out, followed by Chris and Will.

The trucks following did the same. Their drivers, as well.

They ran the last few feet and made it to the door. Pushed in and disappeared inside.

The station was empty. Sam locked the doors behind them.

"Chris," he said, "left. Will, right. Brooks, center. The rest fan out. I want those windows secure." Sam stopped as the hoard struck the glass doors. The creepers pressed against the glass, pushing, clawing, trying to get through. "Barricade that door," he shouted. "See if we can get a gate on it. I want it secure. No different than the fence at home – enough weight and it'll go down."

"Got it," someone called and disappeared into the gloom.

"Phil, see what they have for munitions. We need ammo. Now."

"Sir." Phil left, too.

Sam went to the window and looked past the three creepers trying to gnaw through the double pane glass. The sky was turning inky. And he didn't see an end in sight. It would be damn near full dark soon, and stay that way for a while.

"I better call the Warden," he muttered.

"Why's that?" Brooks asked.

"Because we need help," Sam told him. "And because I don't feel like dying so he can get his shit."

"We can hold up in here until the storm passes," Brooks said, ignoring the comment about the Warden. "Until tomorrow morning if we need to."

"Yeah, we're safe in here, but what happens..."

Sam stopped when he heard Will scream.

# EPISODE 3:

# THE BURNING MAN

##  One

Will Stockton knew that one day he would die. He'd just never thought it would be then, at that moment, right there.

He made a right and crossed through the threshold. His rifle slung loose by his side. Stopped for a moment and flicked on the light – the power grid was still up. It would be for some time, he knew. The dam maintained a steady flow. Until the rotors seized, the power would be fine.

Will was a big fan of "Life After People" on the history channel.

Light flooded the small space, the white painted walls reflecting it back. He squinted for a moment, until his eyes adjusted.

Will looked around, examining the empty room. Saw a door on the far side. Crossed to it. Tried the knob. It was locked from his side.

He shrugged.

Unlocked the bolt and turned the handle.

##  Two

Everyone heard Will Stockton scream, but Phillip Craig was faster than the rest. Phil – with his plain hair, face, and build – had been moving in the same direction as Will, but ahead of him. Looking for ammunition. When the siren called.

He jumped, spun, and went out of the gun room – which was empty. Took five steps down the hall and turned left. Inside the room he entered, five creepers were tearing Will Stockton apart.

He fired his rifle.

Holding the trigger down.

Full automatic.

Blood spattered and bone splintered as he raked the creepers and their prey. Stockton slumped to the floor and fell over. The creepers shot backwards from the onslaught. Phil gave them one more long spray and then let the trigger return to ready.

Quiet settled in like a weight.

"Holy fuck," Sam Watkins said as he ran in. "I thought we got them all."

Phil sighed. Let his rifle drop in its strap on his side. Snatched out his pistol and walked over to Will. He pointed it at the fallen man's head.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Sam asked him.

"Making sure he doesn't turn," Phil explained.

"Turn?"

"Fucking turn, man. Into one of them." Phil showcased the zombies with his hand.

"He's dead, he's not gonna turn. Shooting him now would be: A. a waste of ammunition, and B. mutilating his fucking corpse. Put that thing away."

Phil squinted at Sam. "Haven't you seen 'the Walking Dead'?" he asked. "It's in the brain, man."

Sam rolled his eyes, crossed the room and took the gun out of Phil's hand.

"What happened?" Chris Reed asked from the door, ran a hand through his short blonde hair.

Sam ignored him and looked at Phil. "That was a _television show_ ," he said. "This is _real life_."

"Right," Phil said, nodded. "Because in real life, dead people eat live people. Tear them apart. And all of that. Right? Hold on, let me call the local talk radio station, we'll figure out what the President has to say."

He took out his phone, looked at it, and said, "Damn. No bars. Guess we'll have to assume there's fucking _zombies_ and that the best guess is we go by the only information we got: movies, TV, an' books."

"We know they're nocturnal," Chris cut in. "Because their eyes are dilated, they can't see during the day."

"Zombies are always nocturnal in the movies," Phil said, nodded again. Went to put his phone back in his pocket, stopped, looked at it, and said, "I don't even know why I still have this fucking thing," and chucked it.

Sam shook his head. "What in the hell does any of this mean?" he asked.

"It means that just because they're movies doesn't mean they're fiction. There've been zombies for hundreds of years – probably thousands – and it's always when someone kills part of the brain. They would poison someone with something that slowed their heart, and because of that, the victim would suffer oxygen deprivation to the brain. They'd become retards, basically, and then they could be controlled."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Sam asked.

"I'm saying, the people that wrote these zombie stories didn't make it all up out of their asses. I trust them to tell me what's what."

"Well," Sam spat, "I couldn't give half a shit if you trust them. I'm in charge. You'll trust me."

Phil sensed something move behind him. A shift in density. He started, turned, and found Will Stockton standing a few inches away.

##  Three

"See, and that's why I'm a big fan of the old gods."

"Old gods?" Erin Gibbs asked. Leaned back in his bunk and laced his fingers behind his head.

"You know, like Zeus and shit," Tall Bill Mahone explained. His back to the bars as usual.

"Gotcha."

"See, all of the religions say we were made by somebody else, right? In their image."

"I believe so." Erin looked at the concrete ceiling as he listened. His orange jumpsuit pulled down to his waist. Gray skin against his white undershirt. "But..."

"But, if God's so damn great, how come we're all fucked up?"

"Speak for yourself, I'm awesome."

"What I mean is: God's perfect. Infallible. Never makes mistakes, right?"

"Sure," Erin said, shrugged in his bunk.

"Then why aren't we? Either _He_ screwed up somewhere – which isn't possible – or _He_ didn't make us in _His_ image. You can't have it both ways. People are mean, spiteful, destructive little creatures. If we were made in God's image, I would think He was a douche bag."

"True. But He kind of was, if you think about it. He was a vengeful God."

"But He's not anymore. Once He got older, had a kid, He mellowed out. Which means He changed His mind about all the fire and brimstone stuff. Which means He was wrong about it in the beginning, and that He's not perfect and infallible."

"How did we get on this subject?"

"Rise of the Titans. I was saying that I like the old gods better."

"That's right."

"See, the old gods weren't perfect. In fact, they were just like people, only more powerful. They had envy, lust, anger, love, passion, all that stuff. Fathers had to keep their eyes on their daughters because you never knew when you were gonna catch her playing peek-a-boo with some demi-god's shaft. They were like all-powerful step-parents: you were allowed to hate them – they didn't mind that – but you _did_ respect them. That's the kind of gods human beings can relate with. They make the most sense.

"But, a God that claims to be perfect and then makes us in His image, and we have all these traits, and He's like 'Don't blame me, it was my number two that fucked you guys up', is just not a logical person to listen to on matters of character."

"Wait a minute, are you saying you're a pagan?"

"No, I'm saying I'm realistic. In the end, God is not infallible. He made us just the way He is. And it's right in the bible that He acts exactly like we do. The angels, too. They act just like people. Think about the battle in heaven and the fallen angels afterwards. So God's Big Man on campus, and then Satin turns against Him. Tries to take power. But he loses. So what does God do? He exiles him. He doesn't kill him. Why?"

"Are you asking me?"

"Guess."

"Because He still loves him, maybe? I don't know. Because the script told him to."

"No, He doesn't love him. In Revelations it says Jesus will kill him. So it's not love. It's because every tyrant needs a scapegoat."

"Okay, so all this going on. What's that? Are you saying this is God? Or the devil?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say it was the Big Guy," Bill told him, deadly serious.

"Really? You think God would do this to us?"

"I'll put it to you this way: if _He_ didn't want it to happen, wouldn't we have heard from _Him_ by now?"

##  Four

Sam watched it happen. Too dumb struck by the sight of one of his guards actually turning into a creeper, and right in front of him. He had used the words "turn" and "zombies," told the other guards it would happen, but when it came down to executing one of them, he was lost for that split second it would normally take to get you killed.

And if Phil hadn't been there, they probably all would have been.

Phil said, "Shit," as the creeper lunged, but got his hands up in time. The creeper that had once been Will Stockton gnashed out, trying for the throat. Phil held it there, its face an inch from the aorta.

He kicked at it, trying to push it back. Went for the knee. The joint went backwards and the creeper's weight dropped it down. Right onto Phil's chest. Jaw clamped closed by the motion. He used the momentum to give it a good shove before it could recover. Went for his pistol – but it was still in Sam's hand.

He tried for the rifle. Snatched it and started to bring it up. But the creeper was coming back at him. He only got it to gut level before the thing closed the space and was on him.

The sound of automatic rifle fire chattered through the room, bouncing off the thick walls. Blood exploded across everything. Coating the walls in a mist of red. Phil stopped firing, got a knee up between himself and the creeper and kicked it back against the wall. Took a step forward and emptied his clip into its head.

When the creeper dropped, there was nothing left above the jaw line.

Phil wiped the blood on his face with a palm, and said, "Like that."

##  Five

"What are you doing?" Jessie asked Mercedes.

"What does it look like?" Mercedes asked, and wiped the sweat from her dark face. Her long, curly hair frizzing in the moisture.

"It looks like you're pouring bleach into someone's food."

"And?"

"You're not poisoning that guy," Jessie told her. Pulled a lock of her red hair out of her eyes, tucked it behind her ear. It fell back onto her face almost immediately.

Mercedes glared at her. "I'm not?" she asked. "Who fucking says?"

"I'm saying."

"You're sticking up for him?"

Jessie shrugged. "Maybe."

"He was a _cop_ , he took me _in._ You're going to sit there and tell me I don't have a beef?"

Jessie shrugged again. "It was his job," she told Mercedes. "Now he's a convict. Same as you and me."

Mercedes squinted, sizing her up. "You think he's cute," she said.

Jessie sighed now, throwing up her hands. "Jesus fucking Christ, Sadie, you don't? I mean, I'm in prison, I'm not dead."

Mercedes hadn't really considered it. She didn't now, either. "What are you going to do? Ask him to hang the thing out the bars so you can jump on it?"

"That might be fun." Jessie laughed.

"And for how long? Until a guard catches you? That's real romantic."

"I'm not looking for romance."

"You're looking for a cheap fuck," Mercedes spat.

"Well maybe if I had 'work duty' as often as you, I wouldn't have to worry about it."

They both recoiled. Jessie put a hand to her mouth. Mercedes just worked her jaw a moment, and then turned back to her task: pouring a small amount of bleach into the soup from a massive jug. Too much, and he'd taste it out right and stop eating. She'd just have to keep at it. The consistent dosing would get him eventually. She had plenty of time.

"I'm sorry."

Mercedes stopped pouring, closed the lid and put the jug back under the sink, where it was meant for sanitizing the towels.

"I said I'm sorry."

Mercedes took the tray and brought it over to the other counter. Took a butter knife out and scratched an X on it. Then went and put it on the cart with the other trays.

"Come on," she said to Jessie. "Before it gets cold."

##  Six

Maurice Avelanda wasn't sure of the right play, but he knew he needed to make one soon. Whatever it was.

If the prison guards were in town, that was like having the police back. But in a different way. In his experience the prison guards were the kind that became bastards once they clocked out. Maybe they were just always bastards. But still, they were here, they were armed, and those two things meant the prison was free of the plague. And that state or federal government existed.

If he had any chance in hell, his best chance was the prison guards at Brennick.

But how was he going to get their attention?

Half the zombies in the city had already converged on the sheriff's office – the logical place the guards would go if they had good intentions. They had come in to see what was happening, now they were locked up tight, trying to survive their first trip back in.

The more he thought about it, the more he needed to go back with them. He needed them to protect him. He needed those thick walls between him and the hoard.

But how?

It wasn't safe to go outside. That much had always been obvious, only more so now that a heavily armed group had locked themselves up in a building to escape the creatures. He couldn't just walk up to them. And he didn't have any weapons. Even if he did, it wouldn't be enough. He would need a fucking tank to get through those things and to the door. And then they'd have to get _back out._

He closed the blinds, replaced the tin foil and blanket, and sat down to weigh his options.

##  Seven

Sam Watkins finally regained his composure and handed Phillip Craig back his side arm.

Phil nodded to him.

"Where'd they come from?" Sam asked.

Phil shrugged. "If I had to guess," he said, "the first of them would've come out of the morgue."

Sam nodded. "Downstairs," he said.

"Right. So they start coming up from the basement and hit that door, probably bite a few local cops, so they come up with locking them down there. The local boys die, turn, and we got a sheriff's station full of walkers."

"Creepers."

"Whatever."

Chris said, "The holding cells are down there, too." He looked at Sam for confirmation, who nodded. "They keep the holding cells down there," Chris said again, "with all the prisoners for Brennick that come in in the middle of the night. Plus locals that get pinched."

"That wouldn't be what did it," Phil told him. "They'd be in cells."

"That's what I'm saying," Chris explained, rubbed his arm. "If they're in the cells, maybe they're still alive."

##  Eight

Maurice Avelanda had made his decision: he had to move. He could do it now – had to – while the creatures were being drawn to the sheriff's office and the sound of gunfire. He had no idea how long they would be converged on the office.

Now was the time.

He thumbed the handle of the baseball bat as he slowly turned the deadbolt. When it came free, he did the same with the lock on the handle. Then, as quietly as he could, he pulled the chain off, carefully setting it against the door so it wouldn't make a sound.

He sighed.

Slipped his grip down on the bat. One handed. His right. Rolled his shoulders to loosen them. Took the knob in his left hand. Turned it so slowly he wasn't sure if it was really moving until he felt the catch come free.

Then, silently pulled it open.

The hall was empty save for debris. Blood smeared the walls, dried brown from exposure. Papers and glass and children's toys littered the floor everywhere.

He let his breath out in a whoosh and crept forward.

He took a step into the hall. Then another, the bat held back, ready to strike. Stopped to listen, like a hunter. Total, absolute silence. Another step. Faster now. Smoother. The place was deserted.

"You're fine," he said aloud, startled by the sound. He hadn't heard anyone speak for two days.

Creeping, each step heel to toe, glass crunching beneath his thick boots, he stalked forward. He made the first corner, peeked around it: empty. Turned it, took two steps and stopped.

His hair was on end, and he knew why: there were zombies in every apartment he had passed.

##  Nine

"Stay tight," Chris told Phil.

Phil looked at him sideways. "Man," he said, "I got this. It's what I do."

Chris nodded to him. His arm was burning but he couldn't risk reapplying the bandage – if Phil got a look at it, that would be the end. He pulled his rifle up shakily. He was having hand tremors, but the voices had stopped. For now.

"I know they're pretty, but are we gonna look at the stairs, or go down them?" Phil asked.

Chris ignored him and started down. The sheriff's office was three stories, but only one tall. Large, about ten thousand square feet on each floor. The top level was for administration and booking, the middle floor was holding cells, the basement held the morgue and storage. They would need to clear twenty thousand more square feet to actually feel safe in the office.

Sam had decided only two men would go down. He said it was because he needed all the hands he could get to fortify the upper level. Everyone knew it was because he planned on locking the door after them. Phil volunteered because he was obviously psychotic. Sam picked Chris because Sam picked Chris for everything.

They broke into a slow lope as they made their way down the stairs. The bright lights illuminating all the signs of violence: blood spattered and pooled dry on the steps, the walls, the railings – everywhere. Chris stepped over a severed leg. Phil kicked it over the side. It landed two flights down with a crack.

They kept moving.

Passed half a creeper dragging itself up the stairs. Phil executed it with a three round burst to the head.

They were on the landing now. They stopped, readied themselves, and pushed the door open.

##  Ten

Maurice waited until the first of them was close enough – it was off to his left, coming out of the door he was standing in front of – and then came around with the bat, using all the force that a ninety degree spin to strike would allow. Connected the thing's temple with the sweet spot on the bat. Its head popped in a quick burst of blood, the droplets chasing the body to the floor.

He turned right, found one of the creatures less than three feet off. Kicked it in the stomach, then – when it wretched – came down on the spot where the head met the neck. A sickening crack rolled down the hall, but Maurice was already moving.

He came across his body with the slugger and took off one's jaw, then brought it opposite to the ear, sending the thing spinning to the ground.

Two more were ahead of him now. He checked his peripheral and didn't see any behind him. But the two ahead were coming fast. Closing the space. One, once a man; the other, a severely overweight elderly woman.

Maurice didn't run.

He shifted his stance. Moving his right foot back, he planted the left. In one fluid motion he took a step forward with his right and brought the bat across his body, then snapped it back down and took out the female creeper's left leg. Came back up and down on the male's neck, just above the shoulder.

The bat now across his body again, he came across level and lined up the logo with the zombie's head, just behind the eye socket. Blood making an ink blotch on the wall. The massive body rolling forward and coming to rest in a heap.

The creeper to the left wasn't down completely. It had its right shoulder leaned against the wall, on one knee, spasming and lurching to get back up.

Maurice came up to it, took a deep breath, and then – double handed – beat its head with the bat until the aluminum was connecting with the wall and vibrating through his arms.

##  Eleven

The sound of automatic gunfire ricocheted off the walls as Chris and Phil methodically cleared the second floor. Phil was a fucking machine with it. Chris had never seen someone so pleased with the idea.

They had ignored the residents of the cells throughout the slaughter, which Chris tallied as about fifteen in all. Not too many. Outside had been worse. The woods had been crazy. Not that he really felt bad for them: he was measuring it in the amount of risk to his life. In the woods he had been surrounded. Here, they were moving from one side to the other, with the lights on, the creepers nearly blind as Chris and Phil swept through the floor, cutting them down.

They let their rifles hang low now, slung on their shoulder as the last creeper fell, riddled with holes.

"Thank God," a man said from a cell. There were about fifty in total, ten by ten, with two beds and a toilet. Plus rooms to fingerprint, photograph and interrogate. The cells were split into three sections: "squatters" – those only being held until the paperwork went through – which consisted of twenty cells, "occupants" – those being held until they made bail – ten cells, and "lifers" – transfers to Brennick. They had found no prisoners in either the "occupants" or "lifers" sections.

Chris stopped and looked through the bars at the man. "What's your beef?" he asked.

The man shuddered. "Beef? I don't know what you mean."

"You know, your beef. Your charge."

"Oh," he said, nodding, his hands shaking like Chris'. "Um, public intoxication."

"You're a drunk," Phil told him.

"I... I..."

"Whatever." Phil waved him off. "What about you?" he asked a scrawny, pale looking kid in the next cell.

"Possession."

"Not surprised. Meth, right?"

"How'd you know?"

"You look like a fucking vampire," Phil said. "Get some sun, man."

"Hey, fuck you too."

"Enough," Chris told Phil.

Phil moved on.

"What about you?"

A tall, handsome man smiled at him. "I sent my wife to the hospital, the whore."

Phil smiled back, and then shot him five times in the chest.

"What the fuck?" Chris burst.

Phil shrugged. "Just some light housecleaning," he explained, and moved to the last.

Two hands leapt out at him. Cold, white fingers bunching and extending. Trying to get a hold of him. He took a few steps back and laughed. "Well, look at that," he said.

Chris could already see. A creeper was in the cell. Its face pressed against the bars, biting at Phil, then at Chris as he approached. Teeth making a chopping noise as the jaw opened and closed.

"One of them got a hold of him," the junky told them. "Maybe... I don't know, two hours ago or so, we heard him get back up."

"Wait," Chris said, "he died two days ago, just got back up?"

"No. He got bit or scratched or breathed on or whatever-the-fuck two days ago. A few hours ago it was quiet and then we hear him. Like that."

"So," Phil said, nodding, "about a two day gestation period."

Chris' heart skipped a beat. How long had it been? A day? Shit. He wasn't even sick yet.

"Yes, you are."

He ignored the voice.

##  Twelve

Maurice made the street and scanned it. All of the zombies were pushing themselves into a tighter mass around the sheriff's station. That was good. But more were coming. He watched them as they passed, seemingly unaware of his presence. He let that sink in: they couldn't read his body heat. They couldn't smell him. It was the noise and movement that attracted attention. Then once they saw you, they were locked on.

He stalked along the building's wall until he reached the parking lot. Ducked down and tracked between the cars. Keeping out of sight. Got to his truck and put his key in the door. It was tough at that angle, stooped down. Habit was to be standing when he unlocked it. Got it turned and slipped into the driver's seat. They were going to hear his truck for sure. But he couldn't do what needed to be done without it.

He had a plan. A plan that would not only get him to the sheriff's office unharmed – he hoped – but get him into the prison and safety.

But he needed the truck.

He put the key in and turned it. The starter scratched out for a few moments, then he stopped it. Fucking thing, he thought, of all the days. It was just cold. Had to get the blood flowing. He tried again. Nothing but the tired sound of the starter whining.

He pounded the dashboard. Two had already targeted the sound. Turned. Saw him sitting there, throwing a tantrum.

He turned the key again. Pumped the gas pedal.

They were coming now. More on the way. Drawn by the sound of the droning starter. Maurice screamed. Turning the key, pumping the gas.

"God fucking damn you. Start, you piece of..."

The engine roared to life. The sound drawing two more of the creatures. He dropped it in gear and took off. Running a few down as he peeled out of the parking lot. Blood splashing across the hood as he mowed them down. Their bodies crunching under the heavy snow tires.

"First stop," he said to himself, "the animal shelter."

##  Thirteen

" _Status,"_ Sam called over the com unit.

"Phil just shot someone," Chris told him.

" _Roger."_

"No," Chris said, shaking his head, "a _person._ "

" _Non-creeper?"_

"Yes."

" _Phil, what the hell is going on down there?"_

"He was an asshole," Phil said into the microphone.

" _So?"_

"So, he tripped and fell on a few bullets."

" _How many?"_

Phil shrugged. "Five or six," he said.

The com was silent a moment. Then Sam said, " _Next time use one. Where are you?"_

"We're in the squatters section. We've got two survivors in cells, and about fifteen dead creepers. One live one in a cell, as well."

" _Have either of them been bitten?"_

Chris studied them. "I don't think so. I think they would have turned by now."

" _That's a lot of thinking for you."_

"I won't make a habit of it."

The coms were silent again. Then: _"Basement?"_

"Haven't gotten there yet."

" _Make the live creeper into a dead one and head to the basement. You can pick up the survivors on your way back up, but I want them strip searched before we let them out of the cells."_

Chris nodded. "Phil will have fun with that," he said.

"Hey, fuck you, man," Phil spat at him. Spun and shot the creeper in the head. Then turned and walked up to Chris. "Let's check the basement," he said with the slightest giggle.

##  Fourteen

Sam slapped a fresh magazine in and checked their supplies. They were fucked, and he knew it.

"What in the holy hell did they expect to do with this? Piss them off?"

The armory hadn't been what they were expecting. It was probably because the previous occupants had cleared out a good amount of the most effective weapons when the plague first hit. But it could just as well have been the sheriff being a fucking moron.

Either way, they were screwed.

Three bolt action rifles. Two shotguns. A box of shells for either. That was it. And no two-twenty-threes – the ammunition they needed for the AKs.

Brooks paced the room like a caged lion; a massive, dark skinned lion the size of a boxcar, watching the creepers press against the glass. His rifle held tight in his massive hands. "I was wrong," he said. "We can't stay here."

Sam looked at the doors, stress cracks starting to spread out and make webs. He gave the door a half hour – tops. He looked at the windows – no bars, no nothing. When they went, they'd go at once, just shatter in and the things would be on them. He had no idea how long they would last.

"I haven't checked the weather channel lately," Brooks told him, "but if there's a break in the storm, we might be able to make a run for it."

Sam shook his head. "Not with these munitions," he said. "What do you have left?"

"I got thirty rounds, total."

Sam turned to the others.

"I'm still fully loaded," Bryce Stone told him. "Haven't had to fire a shot. Got ten mags, thirty each, plus the one in my rifle."

"The same," another responded.

Sam did some quick math. Clancy was gone, but had gone down firing in the sheriff's office. Will was gone, but had also fired shots. Both of their rifles should still be in the building.

"Find Clancy and Will's rifles," he told Brooks. The man nodded his blocky head and disappeared. That left Chris, who must be damn near empty, and Phil, probably about the same. Plus four guards, none of whom had fired a shot, for whatever reasons.

Well over a thousand rounds. But would that be enough? On full automatic they could burn through that in a few minutes, and then where would they be?

"If we could make the gun store," Bryce said, "we'd have a chance."

Sam nodded. "If we have to run," he said, "that's where we'll be running."

"And then what? Where are we running from there?"

"If I have anything to say about it, home."

"What about the warden's shit? And everyone's family?"

Sam's stomach doubled when Bryce mentioned it. Fucking Warden, he thought again. One way or the other, they started checking those houses, driving all over hell on the Warden's orders, Sam was going to have a very bad day.

He stopped thinking about that when he saw a pair of headlights zip by.

##  Fifteen

Maurice dropped the bulky bundle into the back of the truck, hopped in it and took off. Went over a creeper and didn't slow down. Two more got on his trail and he gunned it around the corner and lost sight of them.

Snow had begun falling and it melted on his windshield as he drove, tracking down in lazy currents until he accelerated and the wind made them reverse course.

He cut right and blasted along the main street. Three zombies sent in opposite directions like bowling pins as he plowed through a small crowd. He passed the sheriff's office and resisted the urge to honk and wave. Let them know he was on his way. Getting the attention of every creature within hearing distance wouldn't do him any good. It might help the boys inside, but he was already working on that.

He made a right and then a left, weaving through town.

Slid a bit in the snow as he came to a stop in front of the hardware store. Jumped out and ran in, the glass doors blasted out and bloody.

He did a full 360 in the store, trying to find his purchases in the gloom. Caught site of the right sign and ran to the isle. Then stormed along it, looking for the right one. Found it. Smiled. Left the isle.

He set the item on the counter and went looking for the next. It was harder. He wasn't even sure if they had them, but he didn't want to risk another store. It took him five minutes – checking behind his shoulder every few seconds – to find it, his baseball bat held tightly in his right hand.

He would be trading up soon, he thought.

He took the second item to the front, picked up the first and held it with his elbow. The final item was in a locked cage at the front, he realized. Dropped his purchases back on the counter and went looking for a key. The set was hanging under the counter. He took them, went around, opened the cage, took one out, and got the rest of his stuff. First thing back under his arm, second in his right hand with the bat, third in the left.

Went out into the slowly falling snow. Dropped everything in the back of the truck and climbed in.

"Very soon," he said, and took off.

##  Sixteen

"Chow time," Mercedes told Erin, and slid the tray through the slot. "I hope you enjoy it."

"Should we play twenty-one questions?" he asked.

"What?"

"There's no mashed potatoes. I think it's only fair you let me at least _try_ and guess what you poisoned."

"It's the soup," her friend told him. "I'm Jessie, nice to meet you." She put a dainty hand through the bars and Erin shook it.

"Nice to meet you, too," he said.

Tall Bill made a move for the hand but Jessie pulled it back and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Aw, come on. I got... Hold on, stay right there, don't move..." He held his hands up and pumped them. "Just stay right there... I have something for you."

The other three watched Bill as he ran the three feet to his bunk and rooted through his stuff. Then, after considerable effort, he reemerged and ran the few feet back to her. Stopped, cocked his head back, and then slowly presented an unopened package of rolling tobacco.

"For the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he announced.

Jessie looked at him, then the pouch, then back at him. "I don't smoke," she said.

He stood dumb for a second, then said, "That's okay. No problem. Trade them. Get something nice. You deserve it. You deserve the world."

She sighed.

Tall Bill continued, "I would give you the world if I could. But it's through these bars, the closest we can ever get. You know how that hurts my heart? To know I'll never be able to hold you in my strong arms?"

"Holy shit, cuz," Jessie said to Mercedes, "he must read all those foofy books the librarian always pushes on us."

"I could be your hero," he assured her.

She laughed. "Just sit down and eat, ya moron. Come on, Sadie, we got food to serve."

Jessie started to walk away, then came back and took the pouch of tobacco. "Thanks, Prince Charming," she said.

"Where's the guard?" Erin asked her. "The guy with you before."

"They pulled him off," Jessie told him. "Haven't seen a guard this whole pass. They're just staying up in their little catwalk, fifty feet up, keeping an eye."

And then the girls were gone.

"I think that went well," Bill said. "She's crazy about me. I can tell. It's in the eyes."

Erin popped his neck, thinking.

"What's up?" Bill asked.

"Nothing," Erin said, shaking his head, "just what she said. No guards."

Bill swallowed a massive helping of green beans, and said, "What about it?"

"Very interesting."

##  Seventeen

Phil shot the last creeper in the eye from about five feet away. Waited for its head to slap against the linoleum floor, and then took a running start and jumped on it like a kid hits a puddle. Blood and brains shot out in a halo.

"That was fun," he said.

"You really need to see somebody," Chris told him. "I think you might have a serious problem."

"If there's any justice in this world, the shrinks got eaten first."

Chris looked around the room, at the papers strewn haphazardly across the tables, floors, some soaked or smeared with blood. Mostly they were "Cause of Death" descriptions, many with "Undetermined" scrawled at the bottom.

He picked one up from the table. He couldn't make any sense of it though. It was from the CDC. He read it twice before he started to figure what the hell it meant.

"Whatcha doin'?" Phil asked him from across the room.

Chris started, looked at him, and then shook his head. "Nothing," he said.

"Your hand's shakin' like fucking crazy, man," Phil said, pointed at it. "And you're sweatin'. You coming down off a few hard nights?"

"Just the cold."

"People _usually_ sweat when it's cold," Phil told him, dead pan.

Chris started to say something when the coms crackled to life.

Sam's voice said, _"Have you boys had your fun down there yet?"_

"Roger," Chris said. "Coming up now."

" _You might want to hurry. Looks like we have a ride."_

## Eighteen

##

"Why in the name of the Virgin Mary's sweet ass would I send a rescue mission?" Warden Bowers asked the microphone. "No one ever said you needed one."

" _It all happened so fast, I never got a chance to_ ," Sam's voice came over the speaker.

The Warden sighed. "What's the situation?" he asked.

" _We're trapped in the sheriff's office."_

"Define 'trapped.'"

" _We're locked in with about a thousand creepers outside."_

Bowers set the microphone down, leaned against the wall, and stroked his belly a moment. Then snatched it back up and said, "Casualties?"

" _Lost two. Thompson and Stockton."_ There was a pause, then: _"Craig put Stockton down."_

The Warden sighed again. "Can you make it through the night?" he asked.

" _If we can make it to the gun store, we've got a shot. Its got bars on the windows, but I think I remember the doors being fucked when we drove past. We'll have to chance it. The doors and windows here are about to go. This place was never meant to be closed."_

"Copy."

" _But I don't see how we'll get there, and if we do, how we'll fortify it. The sheriff didn't leave us shit for munitions. We'll need what they have at the gun store."_

"Got it. Just make it through the night, and in the morning, in daylight, check the town and get back."

" _Sir,"_ Sam's voice pleaded over the coms system. _"There's not going to be anything in those houses but creepers. I'm telling you: it's the whole damned town."_

"I don't care," Bowers growled. "I sent Chris with a list. I want every name and every address on that list checked off. And I want the personal items from my home. Understood?"

Another pause.

"Understood?" Bowers asked again.

" _Copy."_

Warden Bowers rolled his shoulders and thought a moment. "Out of curiosity," he said. "Why'd you think I sent a rescue mission?"

There was a flurry of static, then: _"...thought I saw headlights a minute ago."_

Bowers smiled. "That's why we're checking the town."

" _Why's that?"_

"Because if they weren't ours," he explained, "whose headlights were they?"

##  Nineteen

Maurice pulled the truck back into the lot and poured out. He hit the bed first. Got the thing out and started trying to get it on. There were zippers fucking _everywhere_ , and the fabric didn't like moving.

He got the lower half about right, the snow now about an inch thick, then struggled with the upper half. It was bulky as hell, but he figured he'd get used to it.

The creatures that weren't already pressed against the sheriff's office had mostly lost interest. There hadn't been gunfire from it in... Maurice didn't know, he had been driving.

A quick check told him the office was still surrounded, but stragglers were milling around his building, as well. A few had seen him already and were moving at a quickening pace toward him.

He wouldn't be any good with the bat in the suit, so he didn't even try. Instead he unwrapped item number one. The packaging was a bitch. They had sealed each part separately, and then all together. Every time he looked up from the wrapping, the damn things were closer by a few yards. They'd be on him in less than a minute.

He finally got the tube unwrapped and dropped it in the bed. Took item number two and cut the plastic tie that held them together. Slipped them onto his hands. Slid the last piece across the bed and attached the hose. Turned the knob.

Then, he took out his Zippo. Pulled off the left glove with his teeth. Flicked the small lighter and set it on the edge of the truck bed. The flame burning casually in the cold. With his ungloved left hand, he reached across and turned the valve on the tube until it was all the way open. Until he could hear gas moving through the hose.

He put the glove back on. Took the weapon up in both hands – one holding each half – and pointed it at the Zippo. Hit the nozzle with his heavily gloved thumb.

The gas hissed out and the sound turned to a roar as the propane hit the flame and ignited the tongue on his brand new flame thrower.

##  Twenty

Phil pushed the drunk into Brooks' large chest and said, "We checked 'em both. Chris wanted to do a cavity search but I told him we didn't have time," dead pan.

"He's fucking with you," Chris explained to Sam, his arm muscles spasming as he pushed the junky. "But we did check them stem to sternum."

"Fine," Sam said, nodded. "We need to move. Gun shop's our last hope to make it through the night."

"Gun shop? I thought they had an arsenal here."

Brooks laughed. "Fucking nothing here," he said.

"They must have cleaned it out when the morgue went," Sam told the two. "We barely got shit, and even that isn't much. But the gun store should be fully loaded, plus they have bars on the windows and most likely a security door we can draw down."

"We're at the sheriff's office," Chris reminded them. "Why would a gun store be better protected?"

"Because people _rob_ gun stores, Chris. The sheriff's station doesn't close, and the robbers try to stay away from it."

"True that," Phil said, nodded.

"Okay," Chris said, "how in the burning gates of hell do we get there?"

Sam shrugged. "How much ammo you got?"

"Jack shit," Phil told him.

"Because he wastes it like he's getting paid to."

"Top notch, swinging dick, zombie killer," Phil explained. "I do my job."

"You didn't just kill fucking zombies," Chris reminded him.

"Your hands are at it again," Phil told Chris.

Chris held them together and they stopped shaking. As bad.

"Shut the fuck up," Sam spat. "Neither of you are even involved in the discussion. We're moving out. We'll dispense ammunition equally. But if any of us runs out, their ass is forfeit." He looked at Phil as he said it. Phil shrugged. "So keep a fucking lid on it," Sam continued. "We don't even have to make it a mile."

Phil squinted over Sam's shoulder.

"We get there, we should be able to hold up until morning," Sam explained.

Phil took a few steps right, studying the spot next to Sam. His head cocked to the side. Watching.

"Chris," Sam asked, "where's the list Bowers gave you?"

"In my pocket," Chris told him.

"Give it to me."

"No."

"Hey guys," Phil said, cocking his head the other way.

"Give it to me," Sam repeated.

"No," Chris said, recoiled. "Warden said I take care of it personally. Warden's the man."

"Warden's not here. Give me the fucking list."

"Fuck you."

"Hey guys," Phil said again, walking slowly towards the window.

Sam took out his pistol and leveled it at Chris. "Give me the _fucking_ list," he said again.

"No."

Sam cocked the hammer. Curled his finger over the trigger.

"What's the problem?" Brooks asked.

"Hey _guys_ ," Phil again, pressed against the window now. His nose touching it. His head moving from one angle to another studying what was beyond the glass. Past the zombies.

"Warden gave me direct orders," Chris said. "You want that list, you'll have to have him tell me to give it to you."

"If the Warden says he keeps it," Brooks told Sam, "he's supposed to keep it."

"The. Warden. Isn't. Here," Sam said slowly. "I'm the man on the ground, on location, and I need that list."

"Hey, _assholes!_ " Phil called. "I think you're gonna wanna see this."

##  Twenty-One

"Well?" Jessie asked Mercedes.

"Well, what?" Mercedes said back, standing by the sink in their cell.

"Are you going to admit I was right?"

Mercedes sighed and turned to her. "About what?" she asked.

"About Gibbs." Jessie touched a brush to her canvas and swirled it, not looking at her cell mate.

"What? That he's cute?"

Jessie nodded. Set the brush down and picked up another.

"I don't know if you noticed," Mercedes told her, "but his friend seems to be a bit into you."

Jessie laughed. "You caught that, huh? 'I can be your hero.'"

"If anything, I think _he's_ the cute one. It's nice to find a guy who's not a complete fuck stick."

"Actually," Jessie said, "that's exactly what I'm looking for." She touched the new brush to the canvas and moved it a bit, then set it back down and took up a third.

"Ha, ha."

"So, it's perfect. You take Tall Sam what's-his-name and I'll take the fallen, wounded hero. Win-win."

Mercedes sighed again. "Not until the Warden opens up the gate – oh, and the locks – and tells us all we can have a fucking slumber party, is that ever going to happen."

Jessie looked at her sideways. "Wait a minute," she said, turning to her, "you _do_ think he's cute!"

"Hell, no."

"Hell, yes. You think that big old man arrested you is kinda sexy. Just a tad. Huh?"

"Not even a drop."

Jessie set her brush down and stared at her. "So, if the two of you were in a cell together, you know, just the two of you..."

"I'd kill him," Mercedes told her, and meant it.

##  Twenty-Two

Maurice thumbed the lever. The flame roared forward, engulfing the two creatures coming up on him. Their hair and clothing caught, and they let out animalistic shrieks of pain. But they kept coming. He hit them again. Longer this time. Held it on them until they sagged to the ground, silent, save for the popping sound of fat melting.

He nodded and started the long walk to the sheriff's office. The sound of the dying zombies was attracting others. He wasn't planning on waiting for them. He marched forward, propane tank in his left hand, flame thrower in his right.

It took a minute for the first wave to get within range. He hit the lever and the fire poured out, lighting everything it touched. He raked them with it, first fast, and then slower, cooking them in place.

Stepped over the charred bodies and lit the next batch.

And again.

And again.

The night filling with thick black smoke, mixing with the falling snow. The white powder turned black around each smoking husk.

He kicked the burnt remains of one of them on the shoulder and watched it separate, smoke rolling out from its insides.

He was getting closer now, but the mass at the office was shedding as more broke off their attempt to break in and went after him.

Three more were to his right. He lit them up and turned his attention to the two on his left. Flamed them with a quick burst and then turned back to the right. Held his torch on them – screams and sizzles and peeling flesh – and then was back on the others as the ones on the right fell.

They went down. He moved on.

Closer now. More and more of them coming his way.

Coming from every direction. Converging.

He felt pressure on his right arm and looked down. What had once been a middle-aged man had Maurice's upper arm in its jaws. It was gnawing, trying to break through. He ignored it and held the flame thrower all the way open.

Started turning in a slow circle.

The thing on his arm released and tried for his face. Maurice elbowed it, turned and hit it from two feet away with the full power of fire. It blew back and then melted under the blaze.

Maurice began turning again, igniting newcomers who had taken the place of the fallen.

Hundreds of them. Pressing closer. Getting closer. Inch by inch, over the ashen bodies of the burned. He couldn't get any closer to the sheriff's office. He hadn't thought this out as clearly as he had imagined, he realized. Any moment now one would leap from behind and take his damn head off.

He heard a gun shot and turned and watched as one of the creature's head exploded.

##  Twenty-Three

"Fun fact," Phil said, "I have _never_ seen that before."

"I think it's fair to say none of us have," Chris agreed, holding his hands together behind his back.

"Alright," Sam paced, "so we know he's original. What else do we know?"

"We know he's out there with a fucking flame thrower, killing creepers," Brooks told them.

"And that's enough for me," Phil said. Motioned to Bryce and the guy tossed him a handful of magazines. "What do we have for ammo?"

"Shit," Sam said.

"Got that part. What have we got?"

"About a thousand."

"Everyone aim high. We're heading for the gun store?"

Sam nodded.

"Then, what are we waiting for? In the immortal... well, yeah, he's probably dead as shit now, but his words live on... words of Eminem: 'You only get one shot.'"

Sam glared at him.

"I mean," Phil said somberly, "what are your orders, sir?"

Sam nodded. Took a few steps back, picked up his rifle, and said, "Everyone ready?"

No one answered. He nodded to Brooks to open the door anyway.

##  Twenty-Four

"I've been thinking," Tall Bill told Erin.

"Stop," Erin said.

"No, seriously."

Erin sat up in his bunk and sighed. He'd been thinking too, but he didn't want to think about it. "Yes?" he said.

"What does this all mean?"

"What does _what_ all mean?"

"What we saw today, what we've been hearing and what we know to be true."

"What about it? We saw a couple hundred dead bodies outside," Erin explained. "Guards said they're zombies. 'Creepers.' We had to clear them off. What's it supposed to mean?"

"Well," Bill said, and thought a moment, "does that mean the world is over?"

"Of course not. We're still sitting here. If the world was over, no one would be here."

"That's not what I meant. Whenever someone says 'the end of the world' I always get annoyed. The world isn't going to end until long after we're gone. No matter what. The only thing that could end the world is something massive and cosmic, like the sun expanding, eating us and then dying. That's not going to happen for a long ass time."

"I get the feeling this is leading to a larger point," Erin said.

"No one means the _world_ ends. They mean _our_ world ends."

"Fine, and?"

"Well, if you consider TV and internet and McDonalds to be the world, I would say it probably ended."

Erin thought about that. "So?" he asked. "What if it did?"

Bill shrugged. "Well," he said. "I don't know. If the world is over and a new one is on its way, what does that mean for us?"

"It means we're still locked in a fucking cage."

"But for how long? The old world put me in here. Who's to say what I did before is still a crime in this new world? And how many people are in it?"

"Not many."

"Enough to keep so many in prison?"

Erin sighed and lay back down. "Jesus, Bill," he said, "just tell me what you're getting at."

"It's about you wanting out to look for your family."

"Oh, yeah?"

"What I'm thinking is: just for right now, until this new world is born, maybe we're safer in here."

##  Twenty-Five

The night lit up with the sound of automatic rifle fire and the flashes of muzzles and tracers arching through the snow-filled air.

Chris made the trucks first at a dead run. He was barely even firing. Just running for his life. Got the door open. Key in. Fired it up. Opened the door for Sam, who leapt in. Phil stopped and fired off a volley, shredding three nuns. Blood spattering and bones chipping and being exposed as the bullets tore through them. Then put his left hand on the truck and vaulted into the bed.

Chris looked back and saw Brooks tucking his large frame into another truck, Bryce in the driver's seat. Two others to the third truck. The last man jumped in the forth with the prisoners from the holding cells.

Headlights erupted, shining bright on the thin crowd of creepers dispersing from the office and crowding around the man in the street.

Chris gunned it.

He heard the chatter of Phil's rifle above his head, checked the rear view mirror and could see the man's legs as he stood in the bed, firing and shouting.

They aimed straight for the man with the torch, plowing creepers with the nose of the truck, their bodies grinding under the tires. Chris cut the wheel at the last moment, missing the man and pulling up just ahead of him. Stuck his rifle out the window and opened up on full auto. Raking the creepers with murderous fire. Cutting them down in waves.

He felt the truck shift as weight was added, looked in the rear view and saw Phil pulling the man into the bed by the collar, the flame thrower still spewing its fiery breath. He watched the two men tumble backwards as their weight came down together, and then hit the gas, tossed his rifle to Sam and they were off.

"Do like I did," Sam told him. "Take them all around town and then circle back and hit the gun store."

"Got it."

##  Twenty-Six

Maurice didn't know if it was sweat or tears of joy, but his face was soaked as the truck got rolling and the mass of creatures was left behind.

The man who had pulled him into the bed was back up now, on a knee, sniping zombies as the truck sped on. He stopped when Maurice stood up, turned, and offered his hand.

"Phillip Craig," he said.

"Maurice Avelanda," Maurice returned. "Thanks for the ride."

"Anytime," Phil said, pointed at the flame thrower. "You mind?"

Maurice shrugged in his thick suit. "Go for it. I need to cool off anyway."

"Fucking _killer_."

Phil took the propane tank from him and slid it to his side, then rolled his shoulders, held the flame thrower out and said, "Burn, baby, burn!" as he hit the switch.

##  Twenty-Seven

Chris cut around the corner and floored it, the truck slipping in the snow.

"Slow the fuck down," Sam snapped. "You crash this truck and we're all fucked."

Chris ignored him. His heart racing. His mind a blur. He swerved to avoid, but accidentally clipped a creeper dressed in her lingerie. Swore as the truck fishtailed.

"Just hit the damn things," Sam told him. "Shit, what's your problem?"

"Back seat driver," Chris mumbled, and made another turn, coming up on the main street. Paralleling it.

"I swear," Sam continued, "you've been acting weird ever since you got back from those woods. I know that was some fucked up shit, but you have to move on. We're all handling it in different ways."

Chris saw the alley he was looking for, slowed, and then cut left, dropping into it. Gunned it down the slick road.

Sam said, "What are you doing?"

Chris pressed the accelerator down all the way, the engine roaring in his ears.

The truck exploded out of the alley.

Blurred across the main street.

And smashed face first into the front of the gun store.

##  Twenty-Eight

Phil felt himself become weightless. It was a different sensation than any he had ever experienced. It held for a few moments, and then it was gone, and he was crashing through glass and metal. Then everything was dark, and there was nothing but pain.

Off in the distance – somewhere seemingly very far away – he could hear voices:

"What the fuck was that?"

"You told me to 'hit the gun store.'"

"Very fucking funny. I want those trucks pulled up long ways, blocking the entrance, and as soon as everyone's in, get that security fence down."

Phil tried to get up, but couldn't. He moved his arms first – they worked – and brushed glass off of his uniform. Everything hurt. He went to put his hands down but found only broken shards under him. He looked around, trying to figure out what had happened.

"And where the hell is Phil?"

"I'm here," he croaked. He was inside a display case, he realized, pistols scattered at odd angles all around him.

Sam came around the truck and stopped to look at him. "Ouch," he said.

"Jesus, man, who taught you to drive?"

"Don't look at me," Sam told him, "it was the fucking genius over there."

"Take his license away."

"I'm thinking about it," Sam said, and offered his hand to Phil. Phil took it, and Sam pulled him up, out of the case. "Anything broke that can't be fixed?" Sam asked.

"His jaw when I get a hold of him."

"I meant on you."

"Nah, I'm good." Phil got the last of the glass off him and said, "Arm me."

Sam smiled at him. "You read my mind," he said.

##  Twenty-Nine

"Sounds like a wild ride," Mercedes told Jessie, even if she wasn't listening.

Jessie was going at it in the bottom bunk. She was being a bitch about it, too. Making all the noise she wanted in the absence of guards. Moaning. Calling out Gibb's name.

Just to piss off Mercedes.

And it was working. She lay in her bunk, rubbing her belly.

"Oh, fuck yes," Jessie called, and kicked the bottom of Mercedes' bunk.

Mercedes tried to ignore her, but it was impossible. She was really laying it on. Writhing around, giving the springs a run for their money. Mercedes wondered if it was all for show or if she was really feeling it.

She decided she didn't care. But it was getting her thinking.

Something had happened. Brennick was changing. And the Warden was the type of prick that didn't change unless there was a good reason. Unless his hand was forced. What was happening? Who was responsible? And what did it all mean?

She didn't know.

But the simple fact of it was an upheaval she had never seen coming.

At that very moment, Jessie was beneath her, openly playing with herself. Making a show of it. Calling out. Making noise after lights out. Breaking damn near every rule they had.

And no one had come to punish her.

That was... Well, it was almost like freedom.

Now, the guards were sounding like prisoners: "I know he won't let me leave", and the prisoners were acting like guards: serving food and walking around freely – if only a select few – and it had all happened in a day or two. What would the next week bring? The next year?

What in the hell was going on? What had happened to the world of Brennick she had been living in for years? A world with bars and rules and scheduled exercise and even scheduled rape?

And what about this new Brennick? Was it the kind she could give birth in? _Could_ she have a child here – she never could have at the old Brennick – and keep it? Raise it? Love it?

Jessie moaned beneath her, the springs rocking again.

And what would it be like to _make love_ to a man? Not get fucked by asshole guards that didn't ask if it was okay. But to be held, whispered to, loved? She had never considered it was something that could ever happen to her again. Not in this life. But could it? Could she be a _woman_ again, instead of a convict? Could she be a _lover_?

She didn't know the answers to any of those questions.

She sighed.

Slipped off of the top bunk – her feet making a kissing sound as they struck the cold floor – and looked at the bottom one.

Jessie lay there, naked atop the sheets, sweat glistening in the pale light, hunger in her eyes. Mercedes fell into her and they became one – for a time. Touching. Feeling. Dreaming. Both of them dreaming of someone else.

##  Thirty

"The first thing," Sam said, "is we need to clear this fucking building."

Behind him, the creepers had converged on the security gate, but it was holding up well. The best part being: they couldn't see in and the men couldn't see out. It gave a psychological reprieve to everyone inside and made them feel like maybe – just maybe – the creepers would forget about them by daylight and move on.

To Sam's left, gunfire cracked fast and angry as a guard executed a creeper in a dark corner.

"Phil," Sam said, "you wanna go play?"

Phil nodded. "I'll see you in a bit," he said. Walked along the gun racks until he found a semi-automatic shotgun. Took it down. Found a few boxes of shells. Nodded again. Disappeared into the gloom of the back offices.

"Chris," Sam called. "Excuse me... Asshole," he corrected. Chris came up despite the name change, sweating in the cold. "The fuck?" Sam asked him. "You been running?"

Chris' hands were quaking. He coughed once, then wiped his forehead. "Must have caught a cold with all this fucking outdoor work," he said.

Sam nodded. "Well, we don't have any blankets or chicken soup," he told him. "Are you solid?"

"Brick wall."

"Good. Turns out, parking this truck here has fringe benefits. I want every box of ammo and every rifle, pistol, street sweeper and pocket knife loaded up."

"It'll take more than one for that."

"Then load the bed and front. Pack it in on the seats. Fuck weight limit, we're not getting ticketed anymore."

"Still," Chris said, shaking his head. "It'll take two to three to get it all."

Sam thought a moment. "Okay," he said, "fill the truck and put the rest up against the security gate. First light, if there's no creepers, we load the other trucks. I don't give a shit if we need to walk a few people, that's what we have to do."

Chris nodded and went to work.

"You," Sam called to the stranger in the bite suit. "Front and center."

The man came and stood, weighted down by the material.

"That what dog trainers wear?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. A bite suit. Nothing short of a bullet can get through it."

Sam smiled. "Name."

"Maurice."

"Maurice," Sam said, "I like your style."

##  Thirty-One

Erin Gibbs lay in his bunk, clothed in darkness, thinking.

He was thinking about what Tall Bill had said. Were they better off inside than out? For survival purposes, he was pretty sure they were. The walls, the razor wire, the armed guards. But that wasn't enough.

Erin wasn't interested in simply surviving. Not anymore.

So what was he doing? Waiting for an opportunity. But what kind? At this point, it didn't seem likely they were going to let them back out. They were on lock down and when the Warden put them on lock down, that's what they were: locked down.

But for how long?

They had to let them out eventually. And they had already started letting women do administrative work. What was next? The men did the labor. Naturally, they already had. So what was next?

Had to be something.

Would there be a new mass of bodies in the morning? A new group to clean them off? No. Same group: they had proved themselves. Odds were good the next time they needed muscle they would go to the same trusted men. They were all low security risks anyway, that's why they were chosen. To pick a new group would be inviting an escape attempt.

So. He was waiting. Waiting for them to give him another chance.

But he wouldn't be waiting for forever.

He wouldn't be waiting for long.

##  Thirty-Two

Phil came back in and set the shotgun on the remaining display case.

"Clear," he said.

"Good," Sam told him, and boxed another assault rifle. Behind him, Chris, Brooks and the others were dropping cases of ammunition into the bed of the truck. "They give you any trouble?"

"I gave them more," Phil said. "But I'm running on empty."

Brooks called, "Same, sir. When can we rack out?"

Sam thought about it. "If we're clear," he said, "we'll split into two shifts. Brooks, Phil, Chris and I will take first watch. The others can sleep for three hours. Then switch off. I want to be ready to move at first light."

They all nodded.

Chris came up next to Sam. "I appreciate you giving us first watch," he said.

"Anytime," Sam said. "You said you were solid."

"He doesn't look solid," Phil said, "he looks like shit."

"He always did," Sam told Phil, elbowed Chris.

"Fuck you both."

Brooks, Phil and Sam laughed. Chris coughed. Rubbed his arms together. His wound burning, pain arching through his entire forearm. His head light.

Sam grabbed his shoulder and held it. "Hold it together, buddy. At first light, we're going home."

"Sure," Chris said, not really listening, lost in the pain. "At first light."

##  Thirty-Three

The low sun shined orange down on the snow swept town, the flakes reflecting it back and playing along the edges of shadows.

Sam pulled the security door up and peered out, the streets totally clear. Scratch marks in the snow showing where the creepers had fled as the horizon lit up.

Sam turned and signaled the men. They sprang into action, snatching up cases and running them to the trucks, setting them down as lightly as they could to keep from alerting the nocturnal creatures.

Phil came out with a Barrett fifty-caliber sniper rifle.

"Is that really necessary?" Sam asked him.

"Of course not," Phil told him. "Anal sex isn't really necessary, but that doesn't make it any less fucking awesome, now does it?"

Sam shrugged it off and supervised the loading. "Rifles in the front truck," he said, "ammunition in the middle. Left over small arms in the back. If we have to lose a truck, we keep the rifles and ammo."

"I should drive the front truck," Chris said. "I have the list."

"Not anymore," Sam told him, and put his hand out. "Give me the list."

"No."

"Give me the fucking list," Sam snarled.

"No," Chris repeated. "Warden said I'm in charge of the list. It's my responsibility. You're just here for security."

"In the absence of the Warden, I Am In Charge."

"Holy shit." Brooks sighed. "We're going through this again? Sam, Warden says he keeps the list, he keeps the list."

"I don't understand why this is such a problem," Bryce told them. "What's it matter?"

"It's about the chain of command's why it matters. I say give me the list, I get the list."

"Ladies," Phil cut in, "if we could put the claws back in, we have more important things to worry about." He pointed with the barrel of his rifle. A line of creepers were coming out of the shop across the street, slowly, blindly, walking toward the voices.

Sam growled and dropped his hand. "Chris, front truck. I'll ride in the back with the ammunition. Try not to fucking kill me," he spat at Chris.

Chris nodded solemnly. Walked around and got in the front truck. Sam climbed into the back. The others mounted up. Started up the trucks. Chris backed the front truck out, pulled it in drive, and said, "Everyone ready?" into the coms.

" _Roger."_

" _Ready."_

" _Let's just get this shit over with,"_ Sam's voice came through.

Chris hit the gas and they started moving.

##  Thirty-Four

"Report," Warden Bowers said into the microphone.

" _We're moving._ " Chris' voice told him over the speakers. _"We'll clear the list and be on our way back by nightfall."_

"Good. Casualties?"

" _Just the initial two. We brought on a few, though."_

"We don't need more mouths to feed."

" _You want us to dump them?"_

Bowers thought about that. He really didn't need more mouths to feed. He was already considering what he was supposed to do when their food stores ran out. Water was fine. Electricity should stay up for a week or two. They were bringing back ammunition. But food. Food had expiration dates.

But, so did people. And he had lost some, would lose more. Warm bodies meant working bodies. He could put them to use in admin or possibly even as guards. Put guns in their hands. Keep the fucking creepers away from the fence. It was about to fall from yet another batch of attacks over the night.

"Keep them," he said. "How many?"

" _Two."_

"Fine. But I want each one checked by our doctors before they get into the prison proper."

" _Roger."_

"And Chris," Warden Bowers said.

" _Sir?"_

"Get your asses back here in one piece. Understood?"

" _Roger."_

##  Thirty-Five

"What the fuck is this supposed to be?" Sam asked Chris as he hopped out of the truck bed.

"What do you mean?" Chris asked, looking around. "It's your house."

"Exactly. What the hell are we doing here?"

Phil stalked up, his rifle sweeping left and right as he did, checking the surrounding areas for threats.

"Checking it out," Chris told Sam. "Warden said check yours first since you're his number two. He had to pick a way to do it, so he picked seniority."

"Check what?"

Chris shook his head, not understanding the problem. "Check on your wife," he said, "obviously. See if she made it through."

"Don't bother," Sam told him. "We saw all those creepers last night. I've been telling you for a day now: no one made it."

Everyone was out of the trucks now, watching for creepers. Crowding around.

"I made it," Maurice said over his shoulder.

"So?"

"So, if I made it, maybe she did too."

"Fine," Sam told them, "if it will make everyone feel better, I'll go check on her."

"You can't go in alone," Chris said. "What if there's creepers in there?"

"Then she'll be dead, and I'll be right. A second ago you said she might not be dead, now you think the house is full of fucking zombies. Pick one."

"I'm saying: we don't know. But we can't take any chances."

"Jesus," Bryce swore, "what are you two, married? First it's this-and-that with the list, now it's stay-go, in-out. Warden said we check the houses, we check the houses."

Phil said, "I'll go with you." Swung the sniper rifle down and away and suddenly it was resting snugly on his back. One smooth motion. With another, he dropped the semi-automatic shotgun down off his back, under his shoulder, and brought it up to a firing position.

Took a step forward, shotgun aimed at the house.

"No, you won't," Sam told him and raised his rifle, pointing it at Phil.

"What the fuck, man," Phil said, and adjusted the shotgun to point at Sam.

"Guys," Bryce told them, holding his hands out palms down. "Let's just take this down a notch. We all just want to get our families back safe and sound. Why is this becoming a pissing contest?"

"Listen," Sam said, "this is my house. She was my wife. I'll go in and see if she made it."

"If you get bitten," Phil told him, "I will end you."

"Fine," Sam said, nodded. "That's fair."

"No, it's not," Chris told them. "No one goes in alone. That's the Warden's orders. Not even you, Sam. Phil's going with you."

"No, he's not."

"Guys," Bryce said again. "Just put the guns down." He took a step forward.

"Over my dead body," Sam told him.

"That can be arranged," Phil said, "you keep pointing that thing at me."

"She was my wife," Sam said again.

Bryce took another step forward, palms down, non-threatening. "We're all just keyed up," he said. "It's understandable, but we're all friends."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Phil asked.

Sam stared at him. Bryce took a step forward. Sam adjusted the rifle to point at Bryce, now the closest to him.

"'She _was_ my wife,'" Phil said. "Past tense. Like she's already dead."

"Because she is," Sam said, his trigger finger tight. "Everyone is."

"You don't know that," Bryce said, and took another step.

"Yes, I do," Sam said, and pulled the trigger.

# EPISODE 4:

# THE CRIMSON RIVER

#

## Before...

All Sam Watkins could think about was how bad he wanted to kill someone.

"Who is he?" he asked his wife.

"It's not like that," Joyce Watkins told him. "We've just grown apart. It'll be better this way for both of us."

"What's that supposed to mean? 'It's not you, it's me'?"

She squirmed a bit. Pulled a lock of her auburn hair out of her eyes. Said, "Something like that."

"Who is he?" Sam asked again.

She fidgeted again. Then, not looking at him, said, "It doesn't matter."

"What do you mean 'it doesn't matter'? It matters to me!" he shouted. Got up from the couch. "But that doesn't matter at all, does it? I've never fucking mattered to you, have I? You're the prom queen that fell for the lowly prison guard, right? And I'm just the dumb fuck that snagged you. But not anymore. Now I'll be ex-dumb fuck. Right?"

He took two steps toward her. Hands balled.

"Please, Sam, it doesn't have to be like this."

"Right. It's supposed to be easy for you, right? I'm just supposed to say 'Okay' and let you run off with this new asshole. Is that it? I'm making this difficult for you, hurting your feelings. It should all go so easy for you."

"Sam..."

"Always you. The house you want. By your parents. The car you want, in your color. The drapes. My job. I was going to quit my job. And now, now you spring this on me half an hour before I leave for work. What, I didn't leave fast enough? No," he laughed, "you did it so you could get rid of me. You'd spring it on me and then I'd have to leave."

"Sam..."

"And when I got home the house would be cleaned out and the papers would be on the table, right? So easy for Miss Fucking _Perfect_."

He took two more steps, looming over her now. " _Right_?" he screamed.

She shrunk back, said, "Sam, you're scaring me."

He punched her.

She screamed. Her head snapped to the side, droplets of blood falling onto the clean, gray couch. Joyce snatched at her purse. Fumbled with it. Started to take out her cell phone. He kicked it away and grabbed her by the hair.

"You're not scared yet," he told her. Dragged her by her hair down the hall.

Into the bedroom.

Slammed the door. Tossed her on the floor. Started unhooking his belt.

"But you will be."

##  One

"She's dead," Sam said, "they all are."

"You don't know that," Bryce Stone told him, and took a step forward.

"Yes, I do," Sam said, and shot Bryce in the chest.

Phillip Craig, his semi-automatic shotgun already pointed at Sam's chest, fired and sent a burst of buckshot into his superior's bullet proof vest. Sam got yanked back like he was on a cord and landed in the snow five feet back.

Phil stormed past him and kicked in the front door, disappearing inside.

Sam shook his head to clear it. His chest hurt like hell. But he was alive.

He got to his hands and knees and started moving. Slowly rising as he got his breath back. Got to his feet and limped around the corner.

He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he couldn't go back. Could he make it alone? Fuck no. But he couldn't risk going back to the prison with Phil and Chris. If he went back with them, he went back in chains.

That wasn't an option. Thirty seconds before, he had been one promotion away from Warden. He couldn't go back a prisoner. Not after all this shit. Not after fighting off zombies all day, and most of the night. Not after eyeing those prisoners for years, moving up the ranks. Not after all the shit he had to do to get where he was before all hell broke loose.

"Fuck it," he said to no one. "I'm on my own."

##  Two

Phil came through the door ready for anything. Scanned the living room and kitchen. Cleared them, and went down the hall.

Kicked in the first door: bathroom. Second: office. Made it to the last and hesitated, unsure of what he would find. Kicked it open and recoiled. Looked in again, let it burn into his memory, and went back down the hall and outside.

Sam wasn't lying in the snow anymore.

"Where the fuck is he?"

Chris Reed pointed a shaking hand to the side of the house. "Creepers get her?" he asked.

Creepers: otherwise dead humans now walking, hunting, and killing in a mass hysteria, with animal rage, nocturnal creatures. Thousands of them. The town was filled with them. The guards had every reason to believe the rest of the world was too.

Phil shook his head and went to the corner, peeked around: empty. Started to turn it to follow. Not tall, not short, not fat, not thin, hair a dusty mix of brown and blond, there was nothing about Phil to draw attention – save for the fifty caliber sniper rifle on his back and his pleasure and skill at killing creepers.

And anything else that pissed him off.

Chris stopped him Phil with: "You're going after him?"

"You're God damn right I'm going after him," Phil said. "He just shot Bryce and murdered his wife."

"He killed her? When?"

"Fuck if I know, man, but he made a mess."

Phil turned from Chris and took off alongside the house. Hit the corner, peeked around and caught a flash of uniform before Sam disappeared around the house behind his own, the yards connected.

Phil crossed the yard – snow dancing around his boots – with his shotgun raised and ready, scanning left to right. Hit the corner, came around shotgun ready and put a burst into the side of the house just as Sam disappeared around it.

Pissed now, he took off at a dead run. Made it to the next corner and threw himself against it. Leaned forward just long enough to see and then rocked back as a slew of automatic rifle fire peppered the area his head had just occupied.

"You're fucking dead," Phil called to Sam. "I just haven't made you that way yet."

"Oh, yeah?" Sam called back. "We'll see about that."

Phil eased around the corner, scatter gun ready, aiming at the spot where Sam would come out.

"I'm waiting, asshole," he said. Got no reply. Started forward.

##  Three

Sam hauled ass across the street. Made a left between a crop of houses, and cut between them. Breaking into another yard and crossed it. Ducked behind the house just as another blast of shotgun fire came from behind him.

"Fucking asshole," he said, and continued on.

He didn't know why Phil would be chasing him. Sam hadn't done shit to Phil; it was Joyce he had had a problem with. But, he figured, the fucker must just liked to fight.

Sam would give him one.

He cut right around a house and tracked back. Kicked in a back door and stalked through the house.

Came out the front.

Checked the marks in the snow. Phil had moved past the corner and through the alley between the houses.

Sam lay down in the snow and shifted up to the corner. Stuck his head out long enough to see Phil's back, as the guard stood aiming his shotgun around the corner.

Brought his rifle out, lined the barrel up on Phil's back, and fired a burst.

##  Four

Phil felt something like a sledgehammer slam into his back and doubled forward. Rolled in the snow. Came around with his shotgun. Saw Sam moving in on him. Fired.

Sam said, "Fuck," and then was lifted off the ground and tossed into the bushes by the shotgun blast.

Phil let his head rest back for a moment, catching his breath. Certain he needed to adjust his aim. The fucking vest was crimping his style. It was the training: center mass was drilled into you for so long, it was hard to break the habit. But no, he needed a head shot – just like a creeper.

Or needed to adjust weapons.

He set the shotgun down and – with considerable effort – got the Barrett fifty-caliber sniper rifle out from under him. Checked the bolt to be sure, found a thumb sized bullet inside, closed it.

Got his hands under him and dragged himself around the corner of the house – out of the line of fire – to rest a moment. He had never been shot before. He wasn't pleased with the experience.

"You wanna fucking shoot me?" he asked Sam, even if the man couldn't hear him. "I'll tap you back, man, believe that."

##  Five

Sam went ass over end and came down on the other side of the bushes, moaning. He didn't know if he could breathe anymore. He was sure at least three ribs were broken. The vest wasn't designed to stop two point-blank shotgun blasts.

Shit, he thought, his fucking _body_ wasn't designed for that sort of punishment.

He dragged himself up, wheezing, and took off at a lope. Headed down the driveway and made a right onto the street. His body starting to get the idea. He settled into a jog.

Heard a shot and looked back to see Phil standing alongside the house, using it for cover, firing a God damned cannon at him.

That got Sam to start running.

Phil fired again, missed again. That got him running faster.

##  Six

Phil came around the corner with the rifle raised, tracking right, aiming low. He wanted to keep Sam alive for a bit. Have a chat. But the Barrett was heavy – never intended for firing from a standing position – and he was having trouble keeping it steady.

Fired.

The recoil rocked the scope's view. He brought it back around and fired again. Again the scope danced. He got Sam back in view – still up and running – and let his breath out slow. He needed to take his time. He wouldn't miss three in a row.

There was a sound like a wounded animal behind Phil and he spun in time to catch what had once been an elderly man – his skin now gray and sunken – come out of the house next door at a flat run, careening toward the sound of the gunshots.

Phil pulled the trigger and the rifle spat its heavy bullet into the creeper, its upper body exploding in a wash of blood and shattered bone. Phil spun back around but couldn't find Sam anywhere.

"Fucker," he said, and started after him. Stopped when he reached the end of the driveway. All along the street: movement. Coming from houses. From the trees. From every shadowy crevice. Everywhere. Creepers.

##  Seven

Chris pulled Bryce out of the snow and brushed him off. "You alright?" he asked.

"Hell no, I'm not alright," Bryce wheezed. "I just got shot."

"Vest stopped it."

Bryce reached in behind the vest and took his hand back out. No blood. "Vest stopped it," he agreed. "But it hurts like hell."

Brooks, a mountain of black muscle, came up beside Chris. "What just happened?" he asked.

"I don't know," Chris told him, shook his blocky, blond head. "Everything just got even more fucked."

"Who's in command?" Brooks asked him. Brooks had always been Sam's most loyal follower, though Chris was Sam's right hand. The whole thing was as confusing to the lot as anything. Even the dead waking up.

Chris raised a shaking hand to his com unit, then stopped. A spasm ran down his spine and he doubled over. The bite on his arm burning. Brooks grabbed him and held him up. Chris trying to catch his breath.

"I'm fine," he said. Mustered all his strength and stood. "I'm in command."

"What are we going to do?" Bryce asked, and pointed at a creeper coming out of the house across the street. "The gunshots," he explained.

"Let's move."

Chris got back in the truck. Cranked the engine and got it moving. The others did the same, their trucks following Chris' – now with no passenger. He made the first right, the trucks sliding a bit in the snow, and gunned it down the street. Hit the first side street and turned right again, the sound of heavy gunshots rolling over the trucks as they pulled on to the new road.

The convoy drove down the street, following the sound. Slower now, looking. Chris watched Phil run out to the end of a driveway, his massive rifle held to his shoulder. He stopped, looked around, and then spotted the trucks coming.

Chris braked. Phil climbed in. They got moving again.

"Fucking creepers, man," Phil said, "everywhere."

"Not where we're going," Chris told him.

Phil looked at him. "We're going after Sam," he said.

"No, we're not. He'll draw them away. Give us time to check the rest of the houses."

"So he just gets away?"

Chris looked at all the dead stumbling down the street. Making for the trucks but being left behind. They'd center on Sam once he was forced to shoot again. And he would be. Soon.

"He won't get away," Chris said.

##  Eight

Sam's lungs were burning and he hadn't even gone two blocks. He trotted to a stop and leaned over, panting. Stood back up and there were four creepers in front of him.

"Shit," he said and got his rifle up and cut them down with a burst of automatic rifle fire. Took off running again. He still didn't know where he was going, but he was fairly certain he needed to get there fast.

A glance behind him revealed more zombies, coming out of houses. Materializing out of shadows. Moving faster now, blind in the sun but locked on to the sound of shots being fired.

He made a wide right and damn near collided with a crowd of creepers. Had to shoot them, too, drawing more from the darkness. Turned around and hit the road he had been on. It ran straight for a mile until it T-boned the river that fed the dam that supplied power to the town and prison.

Muscles pumping acid. Melting through his veins. He pressed on. His mind now a machine of pain and perseverance. Emptied his rifle into a group that got too close, and slung it behind his back by the strap. No time to reload.

Risked a glance behind him: hundreds of them. A mass now, running after him. Keeping pace as he slowed. Getting closer as he tired. More joining the hoard at every intersecting street.

He gave his legs all the juice he could muster as he rounded the corner out onto Riverside, the water coursing beside the street. Frothing in the bright sunlight. Snow covered banks glistening with the low hung sun. Ice meandering down stream at a lazy pace.

He hit the walking bridge that crossed the river. Sidewalk-wide with enough room for two walking shoulder to shoulder. Legs, arms, and torsos clotting along the foundations. Creepers down there, in the shadows, chewing. Sam burned across the bridge to the other side. Stopped. Pulled his rifle down into his hands. Spit out the spent clip and snapped a new one in: his last. Turned around and let go full automatic into the bottleneck on the other side. Dropped enough to dam the flow on the bridge and took off.

Running until he started coughing blood.

##  Nine

Warden Bowers sighed and flicked off the computer monitor.

He didn't have a choice, he reasoned. They were alone in a hostile world, and every minute they were getting closer to the breaking point. His men weren't just close to it. They were at it. Twelve hour shifts. Spending two nights straight in the towers, chopping zombies to bits with their rifles.

It didn't matter if the creepers were human anymore or not, the psychological effect on his guards was brutal, and even his best men were starting to fall apart.

He needed new men. Needed to be able to rotate them out. Give them time off. Some semblance of hope. But that was impossible. Sam and Chris and their team had been tear-assing around town for hours – spent the night there – and had only found three living people. _Three people_. Brennick needed nine _hundred_ to operate as designed. And that was when they were only worried about keeping prisoners in. Not keeping creepers out.

He leaned back in his chair, stroked his large stomach, thinking.

The Warden had one option. One pool with which to draw recruits. But it wasn't a very good one. If anything, it held more risk than hope of reward.

He thought some more. He didn't have any other play. He had to at least consider it. And he would have to see if _they_ would consider it. At any rate, a decision had to be made, and he was the man that made the decisions at Brennick Maximum Security Prison.

There was a quiet knock and Bowers called for the person to enter. Alexander Pope, tall, lean, like a stick figure in an oversized uniform, came in and shut the door behind him.

"Sorry to bother you, Warden," he said. "But should I organize work duty for the prisoners to take the bodies away from the fence?"

Bowers nodded. "And one other thing," he said, took out a pen and paper and scribbled ten names down. Thought a moment, and added one. Tore the paper off and handed it to Pope. "I want to see these prisoners in an hour."

Pope read the list, made a face and read it again. "Sir?" he asked.

"Just do it, Pope."

"Yes, sir." The tall man nodded and went out.

Warden Bowers sighed again. Took out a bottle of scotch and poured himself a finger. "God help us," he said, and gulped it down.

##  Ten

Chris closed the medicine cabinet and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked half dead. Felt about the same.

He had found his home still locked up tight and empty. Told the men to take a twenty minute breather while he collected some personal effects. Then hit the master bathroom.

Chris turned away from the mirror and looked at his arm again. Black lines curled up along his veins, to his elbow. The skin around the bite was green now, oozing hot white puss. It smelled fucking _horrible_. He cursed as he poured alcohol over it, knowing it wouldn't solve anything.

Wrapped a fresh bandage on the wound and left the bathroom. Took out his bag and filled it with fresh uniforms, shoes, socks. He took a few pictures out of their frames and tossed them in. Him and his parents, mostly. Under his socks he got the porno mags and a few naughty pictures of his previous conquests. Dropped them in.

Zipped it up, pulled down his sleeves and went out.

In the hall, Phil had Chris' gun cabinet open and was putting its contents into a duffle bag.

"Jesus, you could have asked me first," Chris said, pointing at the broken glass door. "I have a key."

"Shit, man, what does it matter now?" Phil asked. "You planning on having any house parties soon?"

Chris shrugged and crossed into the kitchen. Opened a cabinet and took a bottle of Southern Comfort out. Took a shot from the bottle and set it back down, wiping a few drops from his lips. That would do some good.

"Anybody want to load my booze up?" he asked. "Take it with us?"

"Don't think the Warden would mind?" Bryce asked from the couch.

Chris laughed. "When Bowers runs out of scotch, you can be damn sure we'll be coming back this way to get him some."

Maurice Avelanda materialized in the hall, holding a box in his oven mitted hands. His bite suit slung heavily over his body. Flame thrower resting in the living room. Maurice wasn't a guard, but he had saved their asses at the sheriff's office and been allowed to join up. "You got tequila?" he asked. "I make a murderous margarita."

Chris smiled. "That's the spirit," he said and started loading bottles into the box.

##  Eleven

Erin Gibbs sat up in his bunk as the cell door slid open. "Work detail?" he asked.

The guard nodded. "Mahone," he said.

Tall Bill Mahone came out of his bunk dressed in nothing but boxers. "Outside?" he asked Harper.

The man nodded again.

Erin's heart fluttered for a moment. Then he flipped himself off his bunk – white boxers and undershirt over gray skin – and started pulling on his bright orange uniform.

"Just Mahone," the guard told him. The guard's name was Harper. He was overlarge and a pain in the ass.

Erin looked at him, blinked twice, and said, "Why just Bill? Yesterday it was supposed to just be me, but you took us both. Now it's just him?"

Harper shrugged.

"They recognized talent when they saw it," Bill explained.

"Hucking bodies off a fucking fence? That's not why."

Harper shrugged again. "I got my list," he said, tapped it. "Only prisoners on my list go. Period."

Erin felt all of the hope he had built over the night crashing down. "This is bullshit," he said.

"Watch your fucking mouth to me," Harper growled. "Why you wanna go so bad? Thinking of taking a little trip?"

Erin glared at him. They held each other's gaze until Harper broke it off, cleared his throat, and looked back at his clipboard.

"Let's get a move on," he told Tall Bill. Bill went out. The door closed behind them.

Erin was alone. But not like back in solitary. In solitary he had been surrounded by other cells. Other inmates. He had had an ex-wife. A son.

Now, he had nothing.

##  Twelve

"If we come back into this town," Chris said as Phil's shotgun roared, the buckshot turning a creeper in a State Police uniform into a mist of red, "we're bringing silencers."

Phil turned and looked at Chris. "Genius," he said. Crossed the snow-covered yard to the truck, set his shotgun in the bed and climbed in.

"What are you doing?" Chris asked him. "I thought you were going to clear the house."

"I'm gonna clear the house, man," Phil told him, "I'm just getting supplies." Stood in the bed, took the fifty-cal off his back and set it next to the shotgun. Leaned down and started fishing through crates. "Rifles," he said to Chris. "Which truck did we put the small arms in?"

"Back truck," Brooks supplied.

"Roger."

Phil jumped out of the truck bed and walked casually to the back truck. Hopped into that bed and did his crate searching some more. Came up with two pistols. Set them down, and searched some more.

"They have to be designed for them," he said. Then brought out two silencers. Screwed them on. Slapped a clip in each, and then stood and said, "Fucking Tomb Raider."

Chris rubbed his sweating brow.

Phil flipped out of the truck and stalked up to Chris. Looked at him sideways. "Can you bring me the gun of Rambo?" he asked.

"Quit screwing around and clear the fucking house," Chris spat at him. "We still have to get the Warden's shit and get back. We lost half the morning chasing Sam's dumb ass."

"Buzz kill," Phil said and ran up to the door, kicked it in, and disappeared into the house.

Immediately, Chris heard gunfire.

"So much for silencers," he said.

##  Thirteen

"So," Jessie said to Mercedes, "what do you think?"

She held up her painting so Mercedes could examine it. Mercedes crossed the small cell and studied it. The painting was good – amazing – even for Jessie. Tall Bill stood with his foot up on a pile of dead guards, his prison uniform torn and shredded to reveal rippling muscles. Jessie draped over his leg, the proper amount of cleavage showing.

Mercedes nodded.

"I made it for the Tall Bill guy, to say thanks for the smokes."

"You're just feeding the beast," Mercedes told her.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know he's panting for you. You give him that, he'll propose right then and there."

Jessie shrugged. "You said he was a nice guy," she reminded Mercedes.

"He is. But you don't want a nice guy. You want... how did you say it? A 'cheap fuck' I think it was."

"No, you said that."

Mercedes sighed and climbed back onto her bunk. Laid down. Rubbing her belly.

Jessie took the canvas and rolled it up. Stuck a rubber band around it and shoved it down her shirt between her breasts. She looked up at Mercedes. "When do you think you'll start to show?"

Mercedes didn't answer right away. She just kept on rolling her palm over the spot where her child rested. "In the showers," she said, "couple of weeks. In a month or so there won't be any hiding it."

"Do you want to?" Jessie asked.

"Want to what?"

"You know, hide it?"

Mercedes thought about that. She hadn't been thinking of much else for the past few days. What was going to happen when they found out?

There was no way to know. She'd find out when it happened.

"Maybe," she said. "But maybe I want a lot of things."

##  Fourteen

Phil came through the door, turned right to clear the kitchen and got shot in the chest.

Slammed against the wall and said, "Shit, man, twice in one day."

"Phil?" a voice asked. He looked up to see Steven Morris huddle in the corner, a smoking hunting rifle in his hands. "Jesus, are you alright?"

Steve was part of the day shift, and had left Brennick as Phil was coming in. He did almost every day. So, though Phil rarely actually worked _with_ him, they talked several days a week as Steve was getting off and Phil was getting ready for his shift.

"At least you had the decency to do it to my face," Phil told him, and flicked the matted bullet in his vest with the barrel of one of his pistols. "Sam shot me in the back."

"What? What the hell is going on?"

"In case you haven't noticed," Phil explained, "we're smack dab in the middle of Awesome Zombie Apocalypse Three-Thousand."

"I did notice."

"Well, we came in to clear the houses."

"What do you mean 'clear'?" Steve asked, the barrel of his rifle not leaving Phil's chest. "Like kill us?"

Phil shook his head. "No, kill creepers. As you're not a creeper, I don't plan on killing you. But, if you want to use that rifle again, you might want to jack a new shell in."

He pushed himself off the wall and went to holster one of his pistols – the barrel was too long with the silencer – decided to set them both on the counter. "What do you mean by 'us'?" he asked.

Steve hesitated. "It's not just me," he said. "I've got..."

"Show me."

Steve nodded, seemingly relieved at Phil being unarmed. He dislodged himself from the corner, crossed to the basement door, and opened it.

Phil looked in. Hundreds of eyes looked out. "How many?" he asked.

"Seventy-six," Steve told him. "Including me."

"Jesus, man, we'd need a fucking bus to bring that many in."

Steve nodded fast. "I don't know what to do," he said. "Is the prison safe?"

Phil nodded.

"So you'll take us there?" a teenaged girl in front asked. Phil put her age at about fifteen. Cute enough.

Phil sighed. "I'll be back," he said.

##  Fifteen

Erin started as the doors began to move behind him. Turned and saw Harper standing there again. No clipboard this time.

"Warden wants to see you," he told Erin.

Erin looked around the cell. "Me?" he asked.

"No, the other half breed named Gibbs."

"What's he want?"

"To see you."

"Why?"

"How the hell should I know? No one ever tells me jack shit. Warden tells Pope he wants to see Gibbs, Pope tells me come get you. Period."

Erin thought a moment. There was no reason for the Warden to want to see him. Unless...

"Did you tell him I wanted work duty?" Erin asked Harper.

The heavyset guard eyeballed him. "No," he said. "Should I have?"

Erin got up. "Just wondering what's going on," he said, ignoring the question.

"Were you this much of a pain in the ass when you were a cop?"

"Yeah," Erin told him as he came out of the cell. "Why do you think they tossed me in here?"

##  Sixteen

"Seventy people?" Chris asked.

"Seventy-six," Phil corrected.

"How in the flying fuck bird are we supposed to get seventy-six people back to Brennick?"

Phil shrugged. "My first thought was to drive them there."

"In what?"

"I don't know. Go get some buses. I'll keep things locked tight on this end, you pick a few up and get Warden's shit while you do. Meet me back here in an hour."

"God damn it! At this rate, we're never getting back."

Brooks came up next to them. "Bus station is a five minute drive," he said.

"We'll need two."

"I'll be right back," Phil said. Crossed the lawn of glistening snow and disappeared into the house. Came back out a minute later with Steve's car keys. Tossed them to Chris.

"Steve said you can borrow his car," he told Chris.

"Fine," Chris spat. "Brooks and I will go get buses. We'll pick up Warden's stuff and meet you back here."

"That's what I said," Phil reminded him.

"Fuck you. You, Bryce and the rest hold down the fort here. If they lasted this long inside there, you should be fine here an hour. When we get back, we're out of here, and we're not stopping for shit."

##  Seventeen

Erin Gibbs and Alexander Pope stopped at a minimum security lock. Pope punched in a code and the door started sliding sideways.

"I think you forgot something," Erin told Pope.

"What's that?" Pope asked.

Erin held his hands up in front of him. "Cuffs," he said.

"Warden said not to worry," Pope told him. Looked at Erin sideways. "I don't have to worry about you, do I, Gibbs?"

"Nope."

They made their way down the hall. Stopped at an elevator. Pope put in his code and the doors opened. They went in.

"You know what's going on?" Erin asked. "Why he wants to see me?"

"I have a vague semblance of an idea."

"Seems like a long way to say: 'Maybe.'"

"Pretty much," Pope agreed as the doors closed. He hit the top floor. It started going up. "I figure it like this: Warden's getting ready to take us out of lock down."

"Why would he do that?"

"Don't know. Probably something to do with needing more workers. You were outside yesterday, so I assume you know why."

Erin nodded.

"It's the only thing that makes sense. Otherwise, Warden was always partial to keeping you locked up as long as possible."

The ground shifted as the elevator reached its floor and the doors opened to a long hallway. They went out and down it almost to the end. Erin checking the doors as they walked, each carrying the name of a high-ranking guard or administrative figure. They passed the one that said "SAM WATKINS" and came to one that read "CONFERENCE ROOM."

Pope knocked twice. Waited. Erin heard the Warden invite them in. Pope opened the door and Erin passed through.

##  Eighteen

Chris navigated the station wagon through town with shaking hands.

"Want me to drive?" Brooks asked.

"I'm fine," Chris told him. But he wasn't. His head was splitting and his arm was throbbing again. The fucking tremors felt like they were tearing his insides apart.

Brooks nodded and looked out the window.

"What?" Chris asked. His eyes flicking between Brooks and the road.

Brooks shrugged his massive shoulders. "Watkins, is all," he said.

Chris nodded. He couldn't believe what had happened with Sam, either. It was crazy. But he didn't feel like thinking about it. "Keep your head in the game," he told Brooks. "There's nothing we can do about it, anyway. He made his choice."

"Did you actually _see_ his wife?"

"Well, no. Phil did. You think Phil would lie?"

"I think he likes to fight, is what I think."

"Still, he said she was dead."

"Didn't say he killed her."

"Fuck, Brooks, he shot Bryce."

"Didn't kill him."

"That's enough," Chris shouted at him. "He's fucking gone. Now suck it up."

Brooks looked at him balefully. Chris didn't care. He couldn't take the noise of Brooks' voice anymore. It was just working together with all the other voices in his head and turning them to white noise. He needed to be able to think. To hold it together. Every new distraction made that more difficult.

He pulled the car into the parking lot of the bus station and they poured out, weapons ready. Ran around the side to the gate. Padlocked.

They climbed over. No razor wire. Chris thought how odd it was for there to be a fence without razor wire. What was the point of a fence without something to shred you if you tried to climb it?

The buses were all lined up, ready to move out. But cold and quiet. Empty. Brooks shot a creeper as it came around one of them and it dropped like a heavy bag in the cold snow.

Chris hit the first bus and checked the driver's side door: locked.

"Can I get a hand?"

Brooks nodded, walked around the bus, and smashed out the folding, passenger entrance.

"Thanks," Chris said and slipped in. Hopped in the driver's seat and found keys already in the ignition. "Thank fucking God for small favors."

Tried to start it. Failed. Tried again. This time the engine roared to life. He hit the lever to open the folding doors and shouted out, "It'll take a few to get warmed up. Grab the one behind and when they're ready, we'll smash the fence with them."

Brooks nodded and left.

"Finally," Chris said, "some peace and quiet."

##  Nineteen

"Here kitty, kitty," Phil said, shining his flashlight under the house. "Here kitty... Gotcha!" He yanked the stray out of the hole and pulled it up. Petting it.

Brought it to the truck and tossed it in the cab. Slammed the door. The cat tried for the window but it was rolled up.

"Stay," Phil told it. Crossed around the truck and hopped into the bed.

There had been one thing in the gun store that he thought could be fun. Well, more than one, but one could be _really_ fun. Ridiculously fun. Immorally fun. He cracked open the box and looked at them.

"Fun," he said, and took a handful. Hopped out of the bed and went back around to the truck's cab. Climbed in and shut the door.

"Now," he told the cat. "I want you to know, this isn't going to hurt me anywhere near as bad as it will you." He picked it up and set it on his lap. Petting it. It started to purr.

He took up the handful and set them next to the cat. Next – without startling the purring cat – he took his spool of duct tape and peeled off a starting point with his finger nails. Took the flap and stuck it to one side of the bundle, then wrapped it around a few times. Ripped it with his teeth and set the spool back on the dashboard.

Then he took the threads and wove them all together.

He sighed.

The bundle was bigger than the cat.

"Perfect," he said. Grabbed the duct tape back off the dashboard and pulled a good few inches, then picked up the cat with one hand, and started wrapping it around. The stray meowed at him, he said, "Hold still," and pulled more tape. Wrapping it around the small torso, then around the bundle. Three good turns and then cut it with his teeth and set everything down beside him.

Opened the truck door, reached over and picked up the cat, and got out.

Ran down the street a bit. Set the cat next to a nice, shady tree. Took his lighter out and sparked it. The cat meowed at him again. He said, "Stay," to it and then ran back to the truck.

"What are you doing?" Bryce asked.

"I made a Misty Kitty."

"What's that?"

"Um..."

Bryce squinted down the street. "Did you strap dynamite to that cat?" he asked.

"Yeah," Phil said, nodding.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Phil said, pointed at the cat. "Look, creepers are already going for it. I bet I can get six. I bet you five bucks I get six of them with it."

Bryce pushed up on him, their bodies now at a ninety degree angle to the animal. He pointed at the cat, too.

"That," he said, "is cruelty to animals. That _poor_ cat. You just leave it out there to be bait. And then you're going to blow it up?"

"I'm saying, man, look at it." Phil kept pointing with Bryce. They looked. Three more creepers were after it now. The cat, weighted down, could only drag itself away from them. Total of five creepers now near it. "I bet I can get six," he repeated.

"You," Bryce said, and pointed at Phil, "are a _sick fuck_." He punched Phil with his finger with each word. "I bet you were killing people and burying them in your tomato garden before any of this happened."

"Fuck you too, buddy."

"That cat," Bryce continued, pointing at the cat again, seven creepers now close, one had it up in its jaw, going for the throat, "has rights."

"It's just a fucking cat, man, loosen up."

"Loosen up? I'm not going to..."

There was a deafening explosion as the dynamite went up, and they both turned and watched the fireball roll hastily into the air. Blood washed out for fifteen feet. Bits of creeper and fabric hung for a second and then dropped to the ground with slapping sounds.

They both stared. Bryce blinked a few times. Then he said: "That..." his voice breaking, "Was... _Awesome!_ "

Phil laughed. "I know, right," he said. "I got seven. You owe me five bucks."

Bryce took his wallet out and peeled off a bill. "You know," he said. "If you hooked it up to a dog, it could carry way more dynamite."

Phil recoiled. "A dog?" he asked.

"Yeah, I bet you could get like fifty pounds on the fucker."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Phil asked him. Shook his head and walked away.

##  Twenty

"Take a seat," the Warden told Erin.

The conference room was just one long rectangle, guards with shotguns standing at each corner. Pope closed the door and stood in front of it.

In the middle of the room, a table ran nearly the entire length. Warden Bowers sat at the head of the table. Around him counterclockwise were one Asian prisoner – tattoos in Chinese or Japanese or some other language Erin couldn't distinguish running across his entire body, snaking up his neck and wrapping around his skull; three Latino prisoners – tattoos of the Virgin Mary and crosses and crying women with logos of their gangs intermingled; and one Russian – tattoos similar to the Latino's in Catholic symbols, but filled with steeples and prison wire, a star on each shoulder. Across from those sat three black prisoners – tattoos of raised fists and AK-47s and elaborate graffiti gang signs only visible on their shoulders and arms, the rest hidden under their uniforms – and two white prisoners – tattoos of swastikas and double thunderbolt SS insignia and racial epithets covering every available inch from fingertip to nose. Erin could read all but the Asian's, and knew he was looking at no less than ten Head's of State.

The Warden waved at the foot of the table, where Erin sat.

"Shot Callers," Bowers began, addressing the gang leaders, "and Mr. Gibbs. I'm sure you are all wondering why you're here and not in your cells where you belong. But before we get to the particulars of what I brought you here to discuss, I have some words to deliver and then we'll watch a short film."

The Shot Callers exchanged glances. Erin was stumped, too.

"You are all – save for Mr. Gibbs – the leaders of your respective factions. Therefore, in a very real way, you speak for the prisoners of Brennick. I am the Warden and therefore the sole owner and operator of this institution. But the men I see in this room carry much more respect with the prisoners than I do, and so I am going to make a proposal. Now, for your consideration, is why:"

He made a wide, sweeping gesture and used it to spin his chair. Behind him – in front once he spun – was a flat screen television. He picked the remote up off the arm of his chair and pressed a button.

The television came to life with black and white footage of hundreds of zombies pressing against the fence. Flashes blurred the camera a moment, and then it focused as more flashes could be seen on the outskirts of the frame. Zombies were cut down, blood flying, bones exposed as they fell. The footage continued to role. More continued to press against the fence. More continued to be executed in a methodical and gory fashion.

The Warden pressed a button on his remote, the television went black, and he spun back around to face them.

"What," an Aryan Brotherhood member with swastikas on both sides of his head just behind the temples, said, "in the hell, was that?"

The Warden smiled. "Zombies," he said. "And don't give me those queer looks. I know it sounds stupid. But there's thousands of them out there. Gibbs," he called, "you went out yesterday and cleaned up bodies, I'm told."

Erin nodded. "I did," he said.

"How many?"

"Hundreds."

"Ah, fuck that," one of the Latinos told the rest. "This mother fucker just saying what the Warden tells him to."

Bowers nodded to Pope. The door opened, and Pope disappeared. It didn't close for a moment, and then Pope was coming back in, pushing a wheel barrel. It had a body in it. A slob of a man in a guard's uniform. Skin purple now. Tongue lolled out. Leg torn off in shreds. Chunks of flesh missing from his shoulder. Two bullet holes in his forehead and exit wounds in the back the size of grapefruits.

"This man was part of a detail I sent out to check on the phones," Bowers explained. "These fuckers ate him and eight more. And then, he turned into one."

Erin held a hand up to his chin, and then let his head rest on it as his elbow took the weight and transferred it to the table top.

"What I'm offering," the Warden continued, "is a way for you to get out of lock down. And stay out of lock down."

He sighed. Leaned back in his chair, and went on: "The fact of the matter, boys, is that we can't keep you _in_ and keep them _out_ at the same time. That is a painful admission for me to make. I'm proposing a partnership of sorts. There's no reason for you to worry about us holding you here anymore. Fact is you can go any time you want. But when you go, those fucking things are waiting for you."

He pointed at the carcass.

"Or, you can stay here. With these thick walls protecting you, and work with me. Those are your options."

"So," a small, skinny black kid said, Erin knew him as Eddie "the Prince" Holmes. He looked like a munchkin. He killed like a Mongolian. "You're saying I can take my niggas and just walk. Whenever I want?"

"No," Bowers corrected, "I'm saying _you_ can walk. If that's what you want."

"And my people have to stay?"

"Yes."

"The fuck is this then?"

"Someone will take your place," Bowers told him, and waved to Pope.

Pope walked up behind Eddie, picked him up by the shoulders, and escorted him out.

##  Twenty-One

Chris smashed through the gate with the nose of the bus and accelerated. Cut the wheel and brought the bus onto the street.

"You there?" he asked Brooks over the bus' radio.

" _Right behind you,_ " Brooks told him.

Chris looked in the rearview mirror and saw the second bus close behind.

Chris nodded. Used the hand he'd used to operate the radio to rub his arm. Blinked, shook his head, tried to clear away the fog that had rolled into his mind.

He brought the microphone back to his lips and said, "Okay, we hit Bowers' house first. Get what we came to get and then haul ass to the house and pick up the survivors."

" _Copy. You think they're doing alright?_ "

Chris thought a moment. Cut a wide right and turned a corner, ignoring a red light as he passed through the intersection.

"They'll be fine," he told Brooks.

" _Should we check in over the coms?_ "

"If you can do that and drive the same time, by all means."

##  Twenty-Two

"I'm having second thoughts," Phil told Bryce.

"About the dog thing?"

"No, man, fuck. They're man's _best_ friend. What kind of sick piece of shit do you think I am? No," he said again, "about using the dynamite in the first place."

They pressed their backs against the trucks. Around them, the street was awash with creepers. The other guards had already retreated to the front porch of Steve's house. Steve, now in his guard uniform, stood with them, a newly pilfered AK in his hands. Maurice stood between the porch and the truck, his flame thrower lit and waiting.

"It _was_ pretty loud," Bryce told him in a hushed voice.

"Maybe if we just stay quiet, don't make any sudden moves..."

" _Craig, come in,_ " the coms unit blared.

Phil reached up fast and turned down the volume. Turned his back and whispered, "This is Craig."

" _Status._ "

"Um, we've got a bit of an issue."

There was a pause.

" _Like what?_ " Brooks' voice came over.

"Like, I don't know, I think we woke the neighbors."

" _How long can you last?_ "

Phil looked over his shoulder at the crowd. Then turned back and said, "How long do I got?"

##  Twenty-Three

Warden Bowers watched Eddie Holmes being released from his prison. Part of him was curious as to how far the little man would actually make it. All of the Shot Callers were lined up at the window. Watching. Most of them visibly excited at the prospect of walking out.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Bowers called, and Pope came in with another prisoner. His name was Christopher "Smalls" Brown. At nearly seven feet tall, he filled the entire doorway and completely blocked Pope from sight.

"Mr. Brown," Bowers said. "Come take a look."

Smalls was hesitant. He was Eddie's second in command, and had no idea what in the hell was happening. Finally, he approached. Bowers handed him a pair of binoculars. Then took another pair for himself.

He pointed. "There goes your boss," Bowers told Smalls. Put the glasses to his eyes.

Smalls did the same.

Bowers watched as the front gate opened and Eddie looked back, saw no one would shoot if he ran, and bolted. He ran down the road, Bowers and Smalls following him with their binoculars. He made for the woods.

"Bad decision," Bowers said.

He got within a few yards and then coasted to a stop. Bowers could see why: there was movement in the trees. Eddie cocked his head to one side – a small movement from the distance Bowers was watching from – and then started to back pedal. Turned around and came running back towards the prison. Five forms came out after him. Then twelve. Then it was a sea of them. Flowing down. Swarming up on him and taking him down. Tearing into him. Even from this distance, they could all see clearly as the creepers ripped his insides out and gorged themselves.

Bowers turned to Pope. "Open fire," he said.

Pope whispered into his coms unit and suddenly there was the rolling sound of gunfire as the guards started raining down bullets on the creepers.

"Now," Bowers said, and set his binoculars down. "Would anyone else like 'to walk'?"

##  Twenty-Four

Chris took the bus around the corner, slammed on the breaks and said, "Holy _shit_."

The street was filled with creepers. To the point that he couldn't see down it to the house where they left the survivors. Chris leaned forward and watched a moment, dumbfounded, as the zombies milled about. The closest ones homed in on the sound of the buses as the brakes released pressure and whined.

"Shit," Chris said. Picked up the microphone and keyed it. "Brooks, ol' buddy ol' pal, what do you think?"

" _I think we're on our own,_ " Brooks' voice crackled over the speakers. " _No way we're getting through that, not with our doors smashed open._ "

Chris looked at the broken door, safety glass still clinging in clumps around the edges. "Warden'll have our ass, we leave them," he said into the microphone.

" _Warden can have my ass. Better than feeding it to those fucking things._ "

Chris hung up the radio and triggered his com unit. "Phil," he said, "report."

Phil's voice came back a whisper: " _Kinda hard to talk right now, boss._ "

"What the fuck is going on in there?"

" _Trying to stay quiet til' you boys get back._ "

"We're back. But there's no way in a Bumble's ass-crack we can get through this. Where did they all come from?"

Bryce's voice now: " _Phil was playing with dynamite._ "

"What?"

Phil: " _I got bored, man, cut me some slack._ "

Chris rubbed his sweating forehead. "Well," he said into the coms unit, "you're not gonna be bored when you drag all those people out here to the buses."

There was a silence over the coms. Then Phil said: _"Like, through the creepers?"_

"Through the creepers."

Another pause. _"Why don't you just drive through them?"_

"Because I don't want to get eaten."

More silence. Then: " _What if you drive around to the back street, and we'll cut out the back door?_ "

Chris thought about that. "How are we going to get them out the back?" he asked.

" _Simple. You just need a distraction._ "

"And what would that be?"

" _Pull the buses around back. You'll know it when you see it."_

##  Twenty-Five

"Maurice," Phil whispered as he mounted – slowly, quietly – the steps up onto the porch, where Maurice was now huddled with the others.

Maurice nodded back.

"We can do this one of two ways: you can wear the suit, or I can. Which is it?"

"It's a little stuffy anyway," Maurice told him, rising.

"Okay. Go inside and get it off, I'll be in in a minute to put it on."

Maurice nodded again and went inside the house, closing the screen manually to keep it from slapping the jamb.

Phil crossed back to Bryce. "Do me a favor," he said.

"What's up?" Bryce whispered back.

"While I'm inside, get that box of dynamite down for me. I'll need one stick ready to go, the rest I want you to keep in the box. But I need the box open. Got it?"

"Check."

Phil crossed back to the porch. "Steve," he whispered. "You have kids, right?"

"Yeah," Steve said, nodded. "Two of them. But I don't know where they are. When I got back..."

Phil waved him off. "That's not why I asked," he said. "Do they have like a little wagon or something?"

"I have a Red Ryder in the shed."

"Perfect. Get that for me and bring it around. Have Bryce load the dynamite in it."

Steve looked at him like he had lost his mind, but said, "Okay."

"Perfect. Now I just need a few more things."

"Like?"

"For starters, a football helmet."

##  Twenty-Six

"Here's how it'll work," Bowers told the group.

All of the prisoners had sat back down at the table, listening intently. Erin was, as well. Not sure where it was going.

"I'm offering to let you out of lock down," Bowers continued, "on one condition: that you self-regulate. The first time some asshole skin head or whatever kills someone, everyone goes back on lock down and the offending individual will take a walk."

He looked from one set of eyes to the next. "Understood?" he asked.

They all nodded.

"Let me be clear: this is still my prison. I am allowing you new privileges, but with them come new responsibilities. You will be responsible for cleaning up after yourselves. Sanitation. Maintenance. Security. And other duties. Female prisoners will handle laundry and kitchen duties. You will volunteer for work duty when we ask. If you do not, you will be put back in lock down. If this facility does not stay clean, you will be put back in lock down. If the guards in the cat walk observe any unethical activity, you will be put back in lock down. If anything at all happens, in any way at all that doesn't please me pretty as fucking pudding, you will be back in lock down. Indefinitely."

He let his gaze wash across them again. Said, "Understood?"

They all nodded again.

"Now, because we will no longer have a significant guard presence, the ability for you to voice grievances or warn us of possible events unbecoming a properly ordered prison will be diminished. Therefore, I am going appoint one of you as my representative."

He nodded to Erin.

"I don't expect an answer right now, though I think we all know the obvious one. I will give you twenty-four hours, and you'll be called back tomorrow to give me your answer. Talk with your people. Dismissed."

Everyone stood. "Not you, Gibbs," the Warden said.

Erin sat back down. The other inmates filed out, casting him hateful glances as they passed.

Finally, the door closed, and the Warden cleared his throat. "Any questions?" he asked Erin.

"Only the obvious one."

"Ah," Bowers said, got up from the table and crossed to a small cabinet. Opened it, took out a bottle of scotch and two glasses. Came back to the table on Erin's side. Sat on the corner of the table. Set the glasses down, and then picked up one and poured some scotch in. Handed it to Erin. Repeated the process with his and then sat the bottle on the table.

"Why you," he said.

Erin set his scotch on the table and looked up at the Warden.

"Too early?" Bowers asked.

"Saving it for later," Erin told him.

"Don't bother, you can have the bottle."

Erin picked the glass back up and took a sip. It was good. Well rounded. He liked it. Had another sip.

"I chose you for two reasons," Bowers explained. "One: because I like you. But more importantly, two: the prisoners don't. Not only do they dislike you, not only do they fucking _hate_ you, but they're scared shitless of you."

Erin nodded.

"You used to be a cop, so they hate you, but now you're a prisoner. But not because you were corrupt, because of an accident. So they can't really embrace you as a criminal."

"I've never really felt like one."

"Right. And you're not white, so you couldn't just go to the Arian Brotherhood and say 'Yeah, I shot that black boy on purpose.' But you're not black and you shot a black kid, so the only way you'd ever get protection from the black gangs is by being someone's bitch. Which I think it's safe to say is out of the question."

Erin nodded again.

"You're an outsider. You don't conform to any of their little rules. So, what are you?"

Erin took a sip of his scotch. Set the glass down. Said, "Your new representative?"

Bowers smiled. "Exactly," he said.

##  Twenty-Seven

The wagon had a squeaky wheel, or maybe it was the weight, but it was pissing Phil off.

His only hope of making it back to the house in time rested atop the dynamite in the wagon.

He didn't know if he could make it. He wouldn't be able to run well in the suit, the fucking thing must weigh fifty pounds, he thought. And he didn't know how long the fuse was. He tried to think back to the Misty Kitty but couldn't gauge the time, he had been arguing with Bryce.

A minute? Half that?

He decided it didn't matter, and purged the issue from his mind.

The most important thing now was to move slowly, and not lose his cool. He took another half step – walking sideways, creepers rolling around him like a tide – the wagon wheel squeaked again.

Even in the frigid air, Phil was sweating. It could have been his nerves, but he doubted it. Between the helmet and the suit, he was practically an oven. He imagined himself standing there pouring off steam.

Took another half step. The wheel squeaked again.

How far out should he go? A hundred feet? A hundred yards? He didn't know. How much fucking dynamite was in that crate, anyway? Could be hundreds of sticks. But dynamite went by pounds. He guessed fifty to sixty. Blast radius? A big one, that was for sure. He held back a giggle. If he survived, this was going to be the greatest thing he had ever done. Possibly the greatest he ever would.

Shit, he thought, possibly the greatest thing ever done ever, by anyone.

Took another half step. The wheel squeaking as he pulled it behind him.

He assumed they would already be sneaking people out to the buses. It only made sense. His Big Boom would give them the cover to move the rest of them, but if _he_ was in charge, they would be moving the women and children now. The men would make a run for it, and the guards could pull the trucks out while the creepers were on the ground. But he wasn't in charge. He was pulling a God damn wagon through the crowd.

Took another half step. The wheel squeaking.

He thought he was far enough now. He would have to be. They just didn't have any more time. Any second someone was going to make a noise or a cloud was going to cover the sun, and they'd all be fucked. Most of all, him.

Took his last half step and stopped. Took a deep breath and let it out.

Reached down and picked up a single stick of dynamite. The gun store owner must have been a fucking nut job, he reasoned, to have a box of the stuff just lying around.

Took another deep breath.

Reached down and picked up the lighter. Flicked it. Touched it to the fuse. It started sparking. Dropped the stick into the wagon and picked up his only hope of survival.

Pulled the cord.

##  Twenty-Eight

"Where the hell have you been?" Tall Bill Mahone asked as Erin came back into the cell. "And what's that? Is that scotch? Where'd you find a bottle of scotch?"

Erin held it up. "Warden gave it to me," he said.

Bill looked at him like he had just landed in a space craft and asked to speak to their leader.

"The _Warden_ gave it to you?"

Erin nodded. "Don't ask," he said. Walked past Bill and set the bottle on the counter next to the sink.

Bill asked, "Why?"

"Didn't I say, 'Don't ask'?"

Tall Bill scrunched up his face in thought. Then said, "Fine. Fuck it. But can I have a taste?"

"With dinner," Erin told him. "Like civilized people."

The door to the cell clanked shut and Bill took the opportunity to take up his usual position against it, his back to the bars. "So," he said, "where you been?"

"I said..."

"Don't ask. Yeah, I got that. I'm asking and you better start telling. Because that dead look you had in your eyes, it's not dead anymore. I want to know why."

"Like: do I have something cooking to take you and your one true love out of here?"

"Something like that."

Erin climbed up into his bunk and lay down. Laced his fingers behind his head and sighed. "Warden had an interesting proposition."

"Being?"

"He wants to let us out of lock down." He let that sit a moment, then said, "Those bodies we pulled off the fence yesterday, you pulled off today, they're fucking zombies. Flesh eating, all of that. I saw them in action today."

He waited for Bill to respond. He didn't, so Erin continued, "And now the Warden doesn't have the man power to keep them out and us in. So he's decided he's more worried about keeping them out. So, anyone who wants out is free to leave."

Erin heard Bill shift against the bars. "Is that so?" Tall Bill asked.

"It is. Except me seeing them in action today? That was when the Warden let someone walk out the gate."

The statement settled in over the two, pressing the edges of the cell, and hung there. Erin's mind moving from possible scenario to possible scenario. All ending in being torn limb from limb. Except one.

"So," Bill broke the silence, "what are we going to do?"

Erin shifted in his bunk. "Well," he said, "funny thing happened when the Warden made this decision: he decided I would be his personal representative..."

"'Attaché' is the proper word."

"Anyway. Now I'm his go-between for the prisoners. If, and when, they take the deal."

"When's that?"

"Twenty-four hours from about an hour ago."

##  Twenty-Nine

Chris got out of the bus and made his way back up to the house. He had to pass the house they were parked in front of, then go through that yard and the next, to come up to the rear of Steve Morris' house.

"Where are we?" he asked Brooks.

"At the back door of Morris' house," Brooks told him, and laughed. Covered it with a meaty palm to soften the sound.

"Ready for Comedy Central," Chris said. "Do we have time for another run?"

Brooks shrugged his massive shoulders. "Probably," he said.

"Okay. How many do we have left?"

"About forty. Only a handful able to carry anything or shoot it. Most of them came with us."

"Fine. We'll need Phil's distraction – whatever the hell it is – to move those trucks full of ammunition...."

Chris doubled over from a searing bolt of pain in his side. His muscles tightened – all of them – and he thought they might break his back. Brooks held him up again, and Chris waited for the pain to subside. He sagged into Brooks' strong arms as the pain washed away, and then stood up shakily.

"Take one more," he said. "And then we're done. I'm going to go out front and wait for this big plan of Phil's. Then whoever we have left will get run down to the buses and we'll take off in the trucks. It's the best we can do."

"Roger," Brooks said, and left him.

##  Thirty

"Will they take it?" Alexander Pope asked Warden Bowers.

"Would you?" Bowers shot back, rubbing his belly.

"Of course," Pope told him.

"They'll take it. Fucking animals, they're lucky as hell for me to even offer. Just gave them the choice to make them feel better."

"What about the women?"

Bowers thought a moment. The men had been his main concern – they were good for labor and possibly to hold a rifle, the lower risk ones, anyway – but the women would have to be managed as well. Could they self-regulate? He doubted it.

"That's another matter completely," he said. "The men have got set factions. Women? Whatever sounds good or makes them feel all warm inside goes."

Pope leaned forward in his chair. "Should I speak to some of the female guards? See if we can't pick out a few prisoners that carry more respect than others?"

"See," Bowers said, and grimaced, "there's the difference. The men's loyalties are split along gang lines. There's some of that with the ladies, but not so much. And the men's gang lines are built on being smarter, and more brutal. You got a skinny little fuck like Eddie 'the Prince' who couldn't actually fight for a damn. But he's got big bastards like Smalls to do the fighting. Not the same with the women.

"Instead you're looking at the biggest, fattest, angriest fucking dike in the world at the moment running the show. Different world between the two."

Pope nodded.

"And we don't have a Gibbs on that end, either."

Pope nodded again. "A representative," he said.

##  Thirty-One

"Chow time," Mercedes told the two men. Erin Gibbs came up to the bars and took the tray she handed him.

"Anything I need to know about?" he asked.

"You're a piece of shit," Mercedes told him.

He shrugged. "Not urgent information."

"Oh, killer," Tall Bill said as he approached. "Dinner."

"Lunch," Erin corrected.

Bill glared at him. Mercedes smirked.

"At my house, this is 'dinner' and the other's 'supper.'"

"Semantics," Erin said.

Jessie came alongside Mercedes, said, "Hey, Tall Sam McMahon."

"Tall Bill Mahone," he corrected. "But anything you call me is like the finest symphony."

"I made something for you," she told him. Reached into her shirt. Mercedes watched Bill turn nearly purple at the gesture. Jessie pulled out the canvass and passed it through the bars. "For the smokes. You know," Jessie said, shrugging, "to say 'thanks.'"

Bill took the rolled up painting. Unfurled it in front of him. Looked at it. Started to say something. Stopped. Started again. Stopped. Said, "I'm playing hard to get," and then stalked off to his bunk.

Jessie covered a laugh with her hand.

Erin leaned back and said, "Oh, fuck it, it's dinner somewhere."

"At my house," Bill said, "it's called dinner."

Erin pushed himself up from the bunk, crossed to the counter next to his sink and took the bottle off it. Came back over and offered it to Jessie.

They both looked at it. Mercedes hadn't seen anything like it since...

"Holy _shit,"_ Jessie said, "is that _real_ liquor?"

"Scotch," Gibbs said, shrugged.

"Where'd you get it?" Mercedes asked.

"Never mind," he said. "Let's all have a pleasant drink."

Bill was back at the bars, leaning close, eyeing Jessie. "Like we will when we get those moments to ourselves, my love. Just a pleasant drink."

Jessie shook her head. Took the bottle and tossed back a bit. Grimaced. Passed it to Mercedes.

Mercedes tipped it back and gave herself as much as she could stand without spitting it back out. Let the angle fall and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

"Save some for the rest of us," Bill told her.

"What 'rest of us'?" Mercedes asked him. " _Po_ lice man gave me this, it's mine now."

"Sadie," Jessie said.

"Come on," Mercedes pushed the tray cart towards the next cell with her right hand, bottle held tight in the left. "Before it gets cold."

##  Thirty-Two

Chris was kneeling down on the porch. Steve to his right. Maurice, now without his suit, looked small as he stood in front of the door.

They were all waiting for the distraction.

They needed something to get them out. They could make a run for the buses now if they wanted, but they'd be leaving all the weapons and ammunition behind. They couldn't do that. And, with dozens of people moving at once, all it would take was a sneeze and they'd all be toast. They needed whatever Phil was planning – what it was, no one had mentioned to Chris – and they needed it soon.

So he kneeled, waiting.

The sky was blue and clear, not even a bird chirping. Or, perhaps there was and Chris couldn't hear it. He couldn't be sure he wasn't missing things. A hundred conversations going on between his ears. Some of the voices were loud, some soft, some strong and others weak, some he recognized and some he didn't. There was one that was most distinct. The original voice. The others had started as white noise and grown in volume, becoming distinct as they did.

But the original voice remained the loudest.

And it sounded like Chris.

He cocked his head to the side and listened, the voices dying down for the moment.

"What's that?" he said.

"What?" Bryce asked.

"That sound."

"I don't hear anything."

Chris listened for a moment. It was a distinct humming. No, a purring. No, a grumbling. He had heard it before, many times, but it seemed so out of place.

"Is that...?"

"What?" Maurice asked.

"Is that a fucking chainsaw?"

##  Thirty-Three

Phil was running, screaming, and laughing – all at the same time. The chainsaw howling in his outstretched hands.

All of it was tough in the bite suit.

The saw bit into another creeper, the teeth tearing away flesh, sending it flying back in Phil's face. He took a hand away and wiped the debris from the visor. Pushed as hard as he could and dislodged the saw and pushed forward.

The things were converging on the sound, but the teeth just kept on chewing away, and he held it up to take out the heads rather than deform the bodies.

But he hadn't made it far. And time was ticking away.

He needed distance, God damn it. Or he was going to end up vaporized like the fucking things he was trying to kill. He dug the teeth into an old man he recognized as his seventh grade English teacher. Decided the bastard needed extra killing for flunking him when everyone knew Shakespeare was a fag, and held the blade there until there was nothing left and the saw was binding on the bone.

Pressed forward again.

The wall was becoming too dense for even the chainsaw to get through. It chewed and chewed and always there was more flesh to bite into.

A creeper tried for his neck, was stopped by the suit, and he kicked it back and brought it to the ground. Spun around and took it apart at the neck with the saw's grinding metal molars. Turned back toward the house – unable to see through the mass.

He pressed on. Chainsaw pushing forward ahead of him. The teeth sending more flesh onto the helmet visor.

"Damn," he said as red splattered against the Plexiglas shield, "this is a nice fucking replica."

Let the saw work on a shoulder until the body dropped and stepped over it. Still holding the saw out, letting the creepers decide who was next.

He took a step forward. The saw reaching out for a head, and then heard a ba _-BOOOOM!_ and was weightless again. This time, he crashed only into darkness.

##  Thirty-Four

Chris watched the crowd with an eye he had never really known before. Now, they weren't just creepers. Now, he could understand each story. He could hear their rage. Understand it. The voices weren't abstract constructions of his psyche, they were out there. Walking. Hunting.

He saw a red mist growing from the center of the crowd. The sound of the chainsaw growing. He watched as it approached.

"Fucking Phil," Bryce said, awestruck. "He's almost here."

Chris only partially heard him. He was mesmerized by the bright red and dark browns flying up and then misting down. How far gone were the browns? he wondered. How fresh were the reds?

He started to see the crowd breaking up. Moving. Around something. The sea of cold flesh gyrating, pulsing as something moved through. Like the wake on a ship. He squinted at the movement.

"He's almost back," Bryce said. "He's going to..."

There was a slight pop, and then a brutal roar and a gust of wind that sent them all reeling. Chris ended up tucked into the corner of the porch from the blast. Shook his head. Pushed himself up and watched the mushroom cloud climb into the sky.

In the air were the pieces to a thousand creepers, hanging there, floating for a moment on the wind. Then they came rushing down to the ground. Landing everywhere. Sick slaps and dark rain falling all over. Pouring down the gutters. Chunks of bones being spit out onto the lawn. Bruising the snow a deep maroon as they did their job, funneling the fluid and sending it to the ground.

Chris stood and walked down the steps. The blood had mostly all landed now. The last droplets a mist in the air. The rain flowing downhill. Running to the sewer drains and around where they were already clogged with creeper pieces. Rolling down and around his boots like a crimson river.

"Come on," he told the others, "we're going home."

# EPISODE 5:

# WHISPERS IN THE DARK

## One

Chris Reed had never seen such a pissed off group of zombies in his life.

Only moments after an explosion leveled the majority of the streets' occupants, they were back up. Chris had his guards back in their trucks, cranking the engines and getting ready to flee back to the sanctuary of Brennick, the maximum security prison where the guards worked. The trucks pulled up long in front of the house. Behind the house, the last line of survivors were streaming out, cutting through yards and heading for the two buses Chris had commandeered.

All that was fine, and when the first "creeper" started to stir, Chris hadn't really cared. He didn't have any desire to kill them all. He just wanted to get back to the prison.

But it wasn't long before he realized something was wrong. Very wrong.

He could hear them, in his mind, and they were screaming. He could feel their rage. Coursing through him. Like ether, intoxicating him. Filling every pour. Pure, unfettered rage. And not the kind he had felt before. White hot, now. And focused.

Focused on the trucks.

## Two

Bryce Stone keyed his microphone and said, "Ready when you are, boss," into it. Waited for Chris to respond.

Nothing.

"Chris, we're all loaded up and ready to head home," Bryce tried again. "Go on your orders."

Nothing but white noise came from the speakers.

Bryce keyed it again, said, "Come on, Big Guy. Just say the word."

A voice came through the static – not Chris' though, another man's. A guard named Brooks who was driving one of the trucks that followed Chris' said, " _Jesus Christ, Chris, if you don't put that fucking thing in drive, I'm leaving without you_."

Bryce said, "Brooks, what the fuck is going on?"

" _We're moving_ ," Brooks reported.

"Good. Are you providing escort?"

There was a silence on the other end, then Brooks said, " _Negative. Get moving now. Make your own way. You hear me? Stay the fuck away from us_."

Sweat broke out on the back of Bryce's neck. He keyed up the mic. Asked: "Why's that?"

Brooks didn't answer. He didn't have to. A second after he asked the question, the guard's trucks exploded through the intersection up ahead. Screamed across it. Disappeared at the other end. Bryce blinked twice, unsure of what had just happened. Then a flood of creepers emerged, surging through the intersection, following the trucks. Bryce flinched, dropped the microphone, dragged it back up by the cord and keyed it again:

"Marshall," he said into it, calling the driver of the second bus.

" _Roger_ ," Marshall acknowledged. " _What in the hell is going on_?"

"We're moving. Looks like they're heading west. That means we're heading east. We'll leave town out the back way, circle around and head to the prison."

" _Without escort?_ "

"Do you want them escorting you?"

Marshall didn't answer. Bryce took that as a No. Put it in drive and pulled a U-turn over someone's lawn. Took out the mailbox. Shrugged, and got the long vehicle back on the road. Pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

"Alright everyone," he called to the huddled group of survivors in the seats behind him. "Cross your fingers and say your prayers. Next stop, Brennick."

##  Three

"Do you have any fucking concept of what you're doing?" Steve Morris asked Chris as the truck sped through town.

Steve sitting passenger. In his uniform. He had been on his way home when the outbreak hit. Had saved over seventy people. Most would consider him a hero. Chris didn't even remember the guy was in the truck.

He cut the wheel right, tires squealing as they rounded the corner. It was the last turn they'd need to make until they hit the highway. They were almost home. Chris wasn't thinking about that, either. It was an abstract thing. He was driving on autopilot. All he could do was try to block out the sounds of the enraged creepers as they chased the trucks. He could feel them, like a cold spot in his mind.

They were getting farther away. The further behind they grew, the quieter his mind. He liked that. Pressed the pedal down to the floor board. The engine screaming as the speedometer maxed out.

"You're gonna fucking kill us," Steve shouted.

Chris ignored him. The voices low now. A dull roar. That rage, only a hint of it still lingering. The animal hatred. Hunger. He was so hungry. But less now. If he could just go a little bit faster.

Steve squinted at the windshield, turned and said, "Toby?" and pointed as the truck blurred past two figures on the sidewalk.

Suddenly, there was a rush of cool air and then Steve was gone. Chris looked over at the empty space as the door slammed shut from the wind. Looked in the rear view mirror and saw Steve rolling to a stop as the trucks behind swerved to avoid him.

"What the fuck?" Chris asked and slammed on the brakes. Cut the wheel. Flipping a bitch with the truck in the middle of the street. Gunned it for a few seconds until he was close and then slammed the truck in park and hopped out.

Steve was up now. But barely. Dragging his right leg. Bloody and bruised from the roll. He was approaching the two children. Chris kept his distance. Not wanting to be too far from the trucks and possible escape. The creepers running towards them. Their voices growing into a fury in Chris's mind.

Steve gurgled, "Toby," and staggered towards his son. There was another figure. How many kids did Steve have? Chris wondered. Steve said, "Toby," again. Louder now. Dragging his leg. Getting closer. Reaching out now.

"Toby! Get back!" a woman screamed. Three shots cracked hot and angry, rolling across the street and continuing on. Steve's head exploded and he crumpled to the ground. A woman, running desperately, emerged from the darkness along the street, her hair flying in all directions. She bent down and scooped up the two children. Ran towards the truck, a kid under each arm.

She made it to the truck, Chris watching in bewilderment. Stuck the kids in the front seat and climbed in after them. Chris couldn't think, his mind so close to the creepers, every thought was drowned out by their rage.

"Come on!" the woman shrieked.

Chris obeyed. Ran back to the truck, hopped into the driver's seat. Dropped it into gear and took off. Passed the other trucks – the drivers stopped and watching – and kept on. Checked in the rear view mirror and saw them get moving.

Chris was just glad to be putting some distance between him and the creepers.

"Are you alright?" he mumbled to the woman.

"We're okay," she said between gasping breathes. Looked at Chris, studying him. "You're from the prison?"

Chris nodded.

"Oh, thank God. You work with my husband, Steve. Where is he? Is he alright?"

##  Four

"I'm fine," Mercedes told her cell mate, Jessie, as she stirred the massive pot of soup.

Jessie sighed. "You shouldn't even be drinking. You know that, right?"

"Come off it. I had one shot."

"Doesn't matter how much," Jessie scolded. "No alcohol, smokes or drugs."

"What are you, my doctor now? Besides, we're in fucking prison, where would I find drugs?"

Jessie gave her an incredulous look.

"True that," Mercedes said, and went back to stirring. "But it doesn't matter anyway, because we all know they won't let me keep it."

"What does that matter? You want the best for it, right? So, let's say the young couple in the Beemer want a little baby or whatever, you think they want one with fetal alcohol syndrome?"

"The young couple in the Beemer won't want my baby anyway."

"Young couples with Beemers want babies, they don't care where they come from," Jessie told her. "I did a portrait once for this guy. Nice, young guy. Worked for his dad, big in construction. Pretty little wife. She was... about my age, but this was years ago. I was in high school then. Anyway, he wanted this portrait of his dad to give him for Father's Day. Paid me ten bucks an hour to paint this guy's old man looking like someone important..."

"Is this going somewhere?"

"The point," Jessie snapped, "was that she couldn't have kids. Something happened when she was young. Sick or some shit. Anyway, this young guy just loved the shit out of her anyway. So they were going to adopt."

"And? He just told you all this while you painted? Like at the barber's?"

"If you interrupt the story again," Jessie told Mercedes, "I'll stab you."

Mercedes laughed. "Go on," she said.

"Where was I? Oh, yeah. So, anyway, they spent like three years and a small fortune. I heard it was like eighty thousand dollars to get their kid. It was crazy. Then I heard – this was after I was in here, my mom sent me a letter – that the biological mother came and sued to get the kid back. A great big fucking mess. The best thing a young couple in a Beemer can hope for is a kid whose momma has life."

"How flattering," Mercedes said. Sighed. "Fine, you can have the damn bottle."

"Thanks," Jessie chirped. Skipped over to Mercedes and snatched up the bottle of scotch from under the counter. Skipped back over to her work station and deposited it inside the cart, well hidden. "I know just what to do with it."

##  Five

Warden Bowers leaned over the desk and keyed the coms unit. "Watkins, report," he said into it.

Waited.

"Watkins, damn you, report. You should have been back hours ago."

Silence. Then Chris' voice came over the speakers: " _About two minutes out, Warden. Four trucks. Have you got any buses coming in?_ "

"Buses?" Bowers asked. "No, we haven't had any buses coming in. Why? Is there a tour group in the area? Field trip I need to know about?"

" _No..._ "

"Like a 'scared straight' kinda thing?" Bowers interrupted him.

" _No, damn it, we sent two buses back with survivors, but we lost track of them_."

"You lost track of two _buses_? Did you check the last place you left them?"

" _Not really an option, sir_."

"Jesus Christ, Chris, what the hell is going on? And where the fuck is Watkins? I've been calling him all morning."

Silence.

"Chris?"

" _Watkins isn't with us anymore_."

Warden sighed. "How many more we lose?" he asked.

" _Couple. Hard to tell right now. We'll have to do a head count when we get in_."

"Anyone bit?"

" _Negative_."

"Alright," Bowers said, nodding. "First thing I want is to talk to you and the other boys that were out there. I want a clear picture of what we're dealing with. Understood?"

" _Copy_."

"And Chris."

" _Sir_."

"Good job. You're almost home. I'll see you soon."

" _Yes, sir."_

Bowers dropped the microphone and left the coms room. Heading for his office. He would need to open the gate. And probably close it up fast.

##  Six

Bryce steered the bus along the highway as it snaked around the town. Staying in the center lane and keeping it at the speed limit. He didn't know why. There were no other cars on the road.

He looked down at the town as it rolled by. He kept his right hand on the wheel, his left hanging down. Glanced back at the road, then back at the town. It was past noon now. The sun shining down gray with the winter. It made everything seem faded. Cold. Lifeless.

Bryce shuddered and turned away. Unsure of why the sight made him so uneasy.

Then, in a breaking wave of emotion, the totality of what he had experienced in the past two days hit him. The fear. The shame. The blood. The smell of gunpowder. The flashing bursts of muzzles. The fear. The carnage. The smoking bodies. The hope. The pain. The loss. The fear.

The _fear_. The _terror_.

He ran his left hand through his hair and then used it to wipe at his eyes.

When it had been happening he hadn't much considered it. He had done what had to be done. He had clung to the thing that was important: survival.

But now, driving the bus as it circled the town to make its way to Brennick, all the images came slashing back at his mind, the faces, the names, the brutal realities: Will. Sam. Phil. Women. Children. Jesus, he thought, they were shooting fucking nuns. The sheriff! Everyone was dead. _Everyone._

He felt a tremor and thought he was losing control. Thought he might be breaking down right there. His right arm was rocking up and down. He took it away and replaced it with the left. Now that one was doing it. Was he losing his mind altogether? Was any of this real?

He looked in the rearview mirror and realized the whole bus was vibrating in a slow, rhythmic fashion. Was this all part of his psychosis?

No. He had felt something like this before. He applied the brakes and took the bus down to a lesser speed. The vibration turned to a thumping. He stopped the bus. Cranked open the busted out folding door. Hopped down the steps and looked at the passenger side front tire.

It was shredded.

##  Seven

"You look like shit," Pope told Chris when they met at the interior gate.

"You look like someone's ass," Chris told him. Then sighed, and said, "I meant that as a compliment."

Pope glared at him. "Warden wants to see you," he said. "In fact, Warden wants to see all of you. And I don't blame him. You were supposed to be back hours ago. And you went and lost two buses full of survivors. And your own damned CO. And..."

Chris held up a palm and shook his head. He didn't have any energy to waste with Pope.

"I got it," Chris told him. "Tell the Warden we're going to get cleaned up first. We spent the last day and a night running from cannibal fucking nightwalkers and slaughtering thousands of them to stay alive. Saw a man get shot by his own wife. Found out one of our best was a wife beater and a murderer. Got run around all over hell trying to get some of Warden's special shit. And then saw a friend of mine blow himself up. And to top it off I haven't had a cigarette in hours."

Chris cocked his head to one side, eyeing Pope. "How was your day?" he asked.

Pope cleared his throat. "I'll let the Warden know you requested a half hour to get your men in proper shape."

"You fucking do that, cocksucker," Chris said, and pushed past him.

A woman came out of Chris' truck and said, "What does he mean: 'Saw a man get shot by his own wife'?"

##  Eight

Marshall said, "Shit" when he got a look at the tire. Peaking at five foot eleven, he didn't look like much with his jacket on. Bryce knew that in a short sleeve uniform the guy was a monster. Brennick had held a boxing tournament between the guards one year. Marshall had gone head to head with Brooks – all six foot five and three hundred pounds of him – for three rounds before the warden stopped the fight.

Brooks had lost.

Marshall had his bus parked behind Bryce's, the engine still running.

"Well," Bryce said, "what do we do now?"

"Call triple-A."

"Very funny," Bryce told him. "But seriously."

Marshall's green eyes locked on the tire, then flicked back at his bus, then back at the tire. He rubbed his tanned face. "We can't fit them all in my bus," he said.

"No shit. That's why we brought two."

"And we're, what, twenty miles out?"

"About that," Bryce agreed.

"So, the question is: do we try to drive it like that, or fix it here?"

"We fix it here, we have to get all the survivors out to stand around and wait."

"True," Marshall said, nodded. "But if the rim goes a mile from the prison, we're surrounded by the woods. Then we have to walk thirty people along the highway with creepers flanking us all around."

"Fuck," Bryce said, and kicked the frozen gravel along the road.

Marshall nodded. "The term I would have used," he said, "is 'fuck-ed.'"

Bryce stared at the tire, thinking. After a moment, he broke his glare, stomped up the steps and turned to the thirty-odd survivors huddling together in the seats.

"We've got a flat," he told them. "I'll need to jack up the bus to fix it. That means you all have to get out. Line up along the concrete barrier and stay in the light. Do not fucking move or speak when you're out there. If there's any men who can help, we're not asking: you _will_ help us fix the tire. Once it's done, we'll be back on the road."

He looked from one set of frightened eyes to the next. "Move it!" he told them.

##  Nine

"So," Tall Bill Mahone said to Erin Gibbs, "what's his play?"

"Who's?" Erin asked, lying in his bunk, fingers laced behind his head, gray skin, orange jump suit tied at the waist, white undershirt. "The Warden's?"

"Yeah." Bill nodded. "So he wants to let us out of lock-down because he can't watch us and keep those fucking zombies out at the same time."

"Correct."

"But how does letting us out help him? I would think it would make it harder."

"The idea is that the Shot Callers will keep their soldiers in line. If someone does something stupid, everyone goes back into lock down and whoever did the stupid thing gets put out."

"Put out?" Bill asked.

"Like outside." Erin shrugged on his bunk. "To get eaten."

"Jesus fucking Christ, that's brutal."

Erin nodded. "Sounds like the Warden, right?"

"But how does that help him?"

"He needs workers to maintain the prison so that his guards can concentrate on shooting. I would imagine he probably needs more shooters, but can't just come out and say that. So this is basically a trial balloon. See if we can all play nice. If we make it okay through this, maybe he starts giving the better behaved boys guns."

"Like setting up his own little kingdom."

Erin sighed. "I'm not defending the man," he said, "but he's just trying to survive this. He's planning for long term, worst case scenario. If a week from the now the National Guard rolls in and knocks on the gate, I figure he'll be happier than shit. But that doesn't mean he can't plan for them never coming around. Anyone who's been outside can see the reason for him to be skeptical."

"'Warden Bowers' press secretary said in a statement.'"

"Hey, fuck you, Bill," Erin snapped, and sat up. "What would you have done? Said, 'To hell with you, I like being locked in my cell twenty-four hours a day with another man'?"

Bill thought about it. "Good point," he said.

"Besides. Think about what he's offering: the ability to move freely around the prison. That could be useful, don't you think?"

Bill didn't think this time, he just nodded.

"Very useful," Erin said.

##  Ten

Chris let the water roll over him, washing away the clotted blood and dirt and gun powder. It washed over the oozing, gangrenous mass that had once been just a small bite mark. The flesh now dead, rotten, black lines tracking out from it, running up Chris' veins like a tribal tattoo. They had passed his elbow now, reaching up along his bicep towards his shoulder.

He turned the water off and sighed. His mind quiet now. No voices. No rage. No hunger.

"Chris," Brooks called from the locker room. "Pope says Warden wants us there in five. You alright?"

"Fine," Chris called back. "Go on ahead of me. I'll meet you boys at the Warden's office."

"Roger," Brooks said.

Chris heard the locker room door open and close. He peeked around the shower curtain. The locker room was empty. Came out and took a towel and dried off. Then, he went to the sink and applied a new bandage to his arm – it wouldn't do any good for the wound, but would sop up the puss and help conceal it under his shirt.

He pulled on fresh boxers and uniform pants. Socks and his work boots, taking extra time to tie the laces. Pulled on a clean undershirt. Put on deodorant. Then his uniform shirt. Buttoning it up and tucking it in.

Finally, he crossed back to the sink and looked in the mirror. His skin was pasty pale. Eyes sunken, bruised and bloodshot. Two day's stubble making him look shabby even in his pressed clothes.

"You look like shit," he said to the mirror.

"Fuck you," his reflection spat back at him. "I was born this way. What's your excuse?"

##  Eleven

Mercedes set the last tray on the cart and sighed. She loved getting out of her cell, but it had been a long time since she had done an eight hour shift at anything that could have been considered a real job. It was wearing her out. It was also making her feel... maybe not appreciated or free, but less of a prisoner.

Fuck it, she decided, she'd take it.

"You ready?" she asked Jessie.

Jessie nodded.

The double doors swept in and brought a guard with them, then settled back in their usual place at rest, the guard now standing in the kitchen.

"Warden wants to see you," he said.

Mercedes looked at Jessie, who looked back at Mercedes.

"Me?" Mercedes asked.

"Yeah." The guard nodded. "Warden wants to see you," he said again.

Jessie stared into Mercedes' eyes. Fear etched into the soft lines of her face.

"I'll see you in a bit," Mercedes told her, and punched her in the shoulder. "No worries."

Jessie nodded and looked at the floor, pushing the cart towards the double door. The guard watched her as she passed around him and went through. Then said, "What's the matter with your friend?"

"Nothing," Mercedes told him. "Let's get this over with."

The guard shook his head. "I don't understand why everyone gets nervous when the Warden wants to see them," he said.

" _You_ wouldn't."

##  Twelve

"Why does everything have to be such a pain in the ass?" Bryce asked no one in particular.

Marshall answered him anyway. "At this point," he said, "I'm leaning towards operator error."

"Very funny." Bryce kicked the tire. "Or, maybe it's that I'm trying to put a fucking bus tire on by myself."

Marshall shrugged. "I'm awfully tired. Besides, that's how you learn."

Bryce stood and glared at him. "Because changing bus tires is some life experience I need to master?"

"Maybe," Marshall said, nodding. "Maybe you need to build some upper body strength. This is God's way of saying 'stop being a pussy.'"

"Screw you," Bryce said and went back to work trying to line up the bolts.

From behind him, a survivor came up. Young guy, maybe mid-twenties. Marshall didn't recognize him. He said, "Can I help with that?"

"Sure," Bryce said, and gave him room.

The kid came in and squinted at the tire. Pulled it back and rolled it off to one side. Reached up and grabbed the bolts and tried to turn them. They didn't move. He rolled the tire back over and looked at it again. Got down and turned his head sideways, looking through the holes, rolled it left and right.

"It's not up high enough," he said.

"How's that?" Bryce asked him. "We took the other tire off this high."

"Other tire was flat. This one's not."

"Right," Marshall said, nodding.

"You knew that the whole time?"

Marshall nodded again.

"And when were you going to share that with me?"

Marshall shrugged. "It's nice to be outside without creepers chasing my ass. I figured if I started seeing some, we could have the tire back on and be on the road in five minutes. So, I was just enjoying the sunshine."

The kid reached down and took the jack handle. Bryce took a step back, out of his way, but closer to the bus.

"That's bullshit," he said.

The kid hit the jack. There was a tearing sound as the jack slipped and the bus lurched forward and down. Knocked Bryce to the ground. Landed on his knees. He screamed as the bones were crushed.

"Shit," Marshall said, jumping back.

The kid looked around, frantic. "What did I do?" he asked.

Bryce screamed again.

"It was an accident," the kid told him.

Marshall came up to Bryce. Bryce let out a half scream as Marshall took his head and snapped it.

"What the fuck?" The kid recoiled.

Marshall stood, said, "Get that fucking tire on. You have two minutes."

"Then what?"

"Then," Marshall told him, "you're driving."

##  Thirteen

Chris walked into the conference room without knocking and sat down at the foot of the long table, across from Bowers.

Around the table sat the three guards that had made it back to the prison in the trucks. Brooks Pilar, a mountain of black muscle who had been Sam's favorite. Then next to him, Sean McCourt, who claimed to be related to Frank McCourt, whom Chris had never heard of but Sean assured him was extremely famous. And then Harold Jenkins, short, round, and who had somehow made it through the entire trip to town without firing a single shot. Plus Pope, Chris, and Warden Bowers.

Bowers took a deep breath, looking around the table, and said, "Well, what kind of a cluster fuck is this?"

Sean said, "Sir?"

"I sent ten of you out there, and this is what I get back?"

"Sir," Chris began, "let me start at the beginning."

Bowers nodded.

Chris took a deep breath. "Watkins' orders were to secure the sheriff's office first."

Bowers held a hand up, stopping him. "Where is Watkins?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No, sir. He ran away."

"Define 'ran away.'"

Chris threw up his hands. "Like he _ran away_."

"What you mean is: you left him."

"Yeah, we left him. He murdered his wife. And shot Bryce."

"Where's Bryce?"

"Driving one of the buses."

"That haven't gotten back?"

"Yeah. So he admitted to killing his wife..."

"He said he knew she was dead," Sean clarified. "And then shot Bryce."

"And then he shot Phil in the back," Chris said, nodding.

"But that was after Phil shot him in the chest," Sean told Bowers.

"Where the hell is Phil?" Bowers asked, flustered.

"Phil blew himself up," Chris told him.

"Why?"

"Probably because he was out of cats," Sean said, dead pan.

"What in the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"You had to be there," Sean said, and waved him off. "I'll let Bryce tell you."

"Bryce isn't fucking here!" Bowers boomed.

Everyone fell silent.

Bowers looked from one to the other. Finally, he said, "So what you're telling me is: I sent out ten men. Two get killed in the sheriff's office, where you find two guys..."

"We found three," Chris explained, "but Phil shot one of them."

Bowers held up his hand again. "Where are the two guys you found in the sheriff's office?"

"On one of the buses."

Bowers nodded. "Then, when you go to check on survivors, Sam tells you he killed his wife and then shoots Bryce?"

"No," Chris said, shaking his head. "We tried to check on his wife and he wouldn't let us. He said it was pointless because no one was still alive in town. And then Maurice said that he had survived, maybe Sam's wife had..."

"Who the hell is _Maurice_?"

"The guy that rode back with Brooks," Chris explained. "He had a fucking flame thrower and a bite suit on, and he saved us when we were trapped in the sheriff's office."

"Ah," Bowers said, nodding, "the headlights."

"Yeah." Chris nodded quickly. "Then Sam said he knew she was dead, and Bryce said he didn't and Sam said he did."

He stopped. Bowers raised his eyebrows at him. "And then Sam shot him," Chris finished.

Bowers rubbed his face. Let his hands drop palms down on the table, and said, "So, then you find all of these survivors..."

"Yeah. We went to clear the houses like you said. And Phil went in with two silenced pistols..."

"That you took from the gun store."

"After I crashed the truck into it," Chris said, nodding. "Yeah."

"You crashed the truck _into_ the gun store?"

"Watkins said 'hit the gun store' so I did."

Bowers sighed. "So Phil goes in," he supplied, moving his right hand in a circle to get Chris going again.

"And gets shot by Steve."

"Steve?"

"Morris. The guy from the day shift."

Warden Bowers said, "Ah" and leaned back.

"So Steve shoots Phil. And then when they realize the mix up, he shows Phil all these people he saved. And so we decided to get buses and bring them back."

"Where's Steve?" Bowers asked.

Chris shifted in his seat. "His wife shot him," he said. Threw out his hands and added: "Totally by accident. She doesn't even know she did it yet. She thought he was a creeper."

"Why would she think that?"

"Because he was all bloody from the explosion and jumping out of the truck," Chris explained.

Bowers rubbed his face again. "Holy shit," he said. "What explosion?"

"When Phil blew himself up," Sean cut in. "He made a bomb with a stray cat. And he and Bryce were arguing about it, and then when it went up, they were like best friends after that. But it drew like a million creepers..."

"Is that an exact number?"

Sean shrugged. "I'd call it a guestimate."

"There was a fuck load of them," Chris said. "Ask Brooks."

Bowers looked at Brooks, who nodded.

"So," Sean continued, "Phil took the bite suit from Maurice and put it on, and then dragged a toy wagon filled with dynamite out into the middle of them, and blew it up."

"And himself?" Bowers asked.

"He tried to make it back," Chris explained. "But he didn't. I think he was using a chainsaw to try and cut through them. No dice."

Bowers leaned back again. Stroked his belly a moment, thinking. Chris watched him, suddenly realizing how incredibly stupid the whole story sounded. But it was exactly how it had happened. He wondered if it was any more asinine than telling someone for the first time there were zombies everywhere trying to eat them.

He figured they were about even.

Finally, Warden Bowers shook his head. "That," he said, "is the most ridiculous, most convoluted fucking thing I've ever heard. Brooks, what do I need to know?"

Brooks shrugged his massive shoulders. Nodded to Chris. "I don't know what the hell happened with Watkins," he said, "but Chris took control and got us out of there. Long story short: I've had the craziest fucking two days of my life."

Bowers nodded.

"And," Brooks continued, "if the past two days are any real good guide, it's only gonna get fucking crazier."

##  Fourteen

"A Nubian Princess, perhaps?" Tall Bill asked Erin.

"You know that's slightly racially insensitive?" Erin replied.

"What is?"

"The whole 'Nubian Princess' thing. Why don't you just call her a princess? The fact that she's black shouldn't matter."

Tall Bill sagged. "You're not pulling that shit, are you?"

"What shit?"

"The terms change every three fucking weeks. First they want you to call them colored, then that's wrong. Even if they name their most powerful organization the National Association for the Advancement of _Colored_ People, if a white guy calls them that, he's racist."

"Look..." Erin said, holding up a hand.

"Then, we're supposed to call black people black. Which is cool, it's the color they are. And then, _that's_ racist."

"You're not getting it..."

"And finally, they decide they're _African_ -Americans – which should be insulting to anyone who's actually been to Africa."

"You've been to Africa?" Erin asked, surprised.

"No," Tall Bill said, shaking his head. "I watch the news, though. Does anyone really _want_ to be from Africa?"

"Again, not what I was saying..."

"And then they go and use the word..."

Erin was on him in a millisecond. Hand wrapped around his throat. "Don't," he said, "Use. That. Word."

"Who said I was gonna?" Bill wheezed.

"What word were you planning on using?"

Bill's eyes darted around the cell as he grasped at an alternative. "Brother?" he asked.

Erin let go of his throat and Tall Bill slumped against the bars. Rubbed the sore spot a moment, eyeing Erin.

"What's your problem, anyway?" he asked. "I was trying to compliment her."

"That," Erin said, and nodded at him. "You were trying to compliment her by calling her a 'Nubian Princess.' There's nothing complimentary about telling a black woman she's black. Or a white woman she's white. Calling her a 'Nubian Princess' is just as racist and wrong as calling a white girl an 'Arian Princess.'"

"Is this because you're half black?" Bill asked.

"No," Erin told him. "It's because I'm half white."

Tall Bill thought about that a moment. "You'll never guess what just happened," he said.

"What's that?"

"You just beat me in a debate."

Erin smiled. "Child's play," he said.

##  Fifteen

Bowers sighed, trying to let all the pieces fall into place. He was out Sam. Chris was the next in line. But he looked like he couldn't take much more. It wasn't just that he needed a shave. It could have been he just needed to sleep. But there was something else. Something... off, that Bowers had never seen before in all the years he had known the young man.

Brooks was capable, but he wasn't a leader. Pope could handle it, but he didn't have the stones for the rough stuff. Couldn't be trusted to keep the men in line properly.

"Alright," he finally said. "Chris moves into Sam's position. Brooks, you take over as my second. Pope will be your second," he told Chris. "I'm going to alternate shifts from here out. I've got day. Chris is in charge at night. Six PM to six AM. I'll take the day shift. Six AM to Six PM. Understood?"

They all nodded.

"Why am I night shift?" Pope asked.

"Because I need Chris to have the absolute best administrator he can have until he gets the hang of things," Bowers told him. Then swept his gaze over the others. "And, because we'll be letting the prisoners out of lock down tomorrow. Which means I need my brains at night and my brawn during the day."

Brooks nodded.

"Why are we coming out of lock down?" Chris asked. "We don't have the man power to run this place with them locked up, let alone out."

"The Shot Callers are going to control the population," Pope explained. "The Warden spoke with them earlier. They're set to take the deal tomorrow morning."

"And then we come out of lock down and try to figure out a routine where we all stay alive," Bowers said.

"So that's it, then," Chris said, nodding slowly. "This is it. We're stuck in here."

"For now," Bowers told him. "We just have to make the best of it. How many people were in those buses?"

"Seventy-something," Chris said.

"Seventy-eight," Brooks corrected, "including Bryce and Marshall. It started out seventy-six with Steve. Plus the two from the sheriff's office. Steve rode with Chris, and Bryce and Marshall each drove a bus."

"Fine." Bowers thought a moment. "That's a lot of mouths to feed."

There was a light knock at the door, Bowers beckoned them in, and Mystique stepped in with Mercedes.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," Bowers told them. "Sean, you're night shift, Harold, day shift. That's all for now."

The guards all stood. Chris crossed around the table to the Warden. "What's she doing here?" he asked, pointing at Mercedes.

Warden Bowers looked at him sideways. "I told you, we're coming out of lock down."

"And?"

"And, she's going to be my go-between for the female prisoners. Look," Bowers said, and sighed, "you're exhausted, son, go get some rest. Take Watkins' office, rack out. You're on in a few hours. The prisoners will still be locked down tonight. Tomorrow I'll walk you through how it's all going to work."

"Tomorrow," Chris said, nodding. "Right."

##  Sixteen

Marshall swung the lug wrench and connected with the temple of a creeper as it lumbered closer to the buses. There was a crack and the thing went down in a heap. Three more coming up now, getting closer.

"I said two minutes," he quietly cursed the kid, who had introduced himself as Jack Boyd. Twenty-one and currently employed at the Jiffy-Lube, he was having trouble getting the bus back up. He was a hundred feet away and had no way of hearing Marshall, but Marshall cursed him anyway.

He kicked out and sent a creeper no taller than three feet reeling back, then brought the lug wrench around and took out the neck of what could have possibly once been the child's father. The creeper went sideways, twitching.

The next was almost within range. Marshall paced himself. It could barely see him anyway, he remembered. Took a step sideways and brought his right foot down on the base of the fallen creeper's skull. Crushing it. Then one forward, bringing the third in range and heaved the wrench up in an uppercut. The heavy tool split the throat open, blood erupting and running down the female creeper's shirt, soaking her flowered dress.

Came back around and put the wrench just behind her ear, sending her sprawling.

The kid was back now, running at him. He waited until it was just a fraction of a second away and then sidestepped. Letting the small creeper run past him, diving. He gave it an extra push as it passed, slamming face first into the concrete barrier. Slid down, a streak of red left in its wake.

"Ten more minutes," Marshall whispered. "And my bus is moving. With, or without the others.

##  Seventeen

"I don't know why you're pushing this so hard," Erin told Tall Bill. "It's obvious Jessie's into you. She painted that for you."

He pointed at the painting of Tall Bill, triumphant over the guards. Jessie draped over him.

"So, why are you trying to hook me up with Mercedes?" he asked.

"I'm not," Bill told him. "I just offered up the idea of you maybe being interested in a Nubian Princess, and you defended her honor. Which makes me think that you're very interested in the gorgeous inmate whose skin happens to resemble your complexion. Only darker."

Erin shook his head. "I didn't 'defend her honor,'" he said, "I just said that she's a beautiful woman whether she's black or white. It makes no difference."

Bill smiled at him. "I could ask Jessie if she's into you. You know, just hint around about it."

Erin looked at him balefully. "This is prison, Bill, not fucking high school."

Bill laughed. "I'm just saying," he said.

Harper, the overweight guard that had originally taken Erin to Pope to be taken to Warden Bowers, approached the door. Waved to another guard. The door started to open. "Warden wants to see you," Harper told Gibbs.

"Again?"

Harper nodded. "Again," he said.

##  Eighteen

Chris sat down in Watkins' chair and sighed heavily. Spun it around, snatching up the remote as he did, and flipped on the television. There was nothing on. Literally. Just fuzz. He switched it off and tossed the remote in the trash can.

Spun again and looked out the window. It was so bright outside. He got up and crossed the office to the window. Looked out a moment, the female yard spread out below. Pulled the blinds and shut out the sun.

Went back to the chair and sat down. The room dark and quiet.

He just needed rest, he told himself. A good night's sleep. Watkins' had a couch. If he just curled up on that couch, he'd be fine. Get a good few hours. How long did he have until six? He checked the clock. Not long. But if he could just really _sleep_ , instead of lay on cold concrete, it would help. It had to.

"It won't help," his voice whispered.

"Shut up," he told it.

"It won't save you."

"I said 'shut up.'"

"When were you bit?" it asked. "Two days from when? Tick-tock, tick-tock."

Chris tried to ignore the voice, but he couldn't deny the point. When had it been? Almost dark. Two days before.

But he was fine.

He had a bit of a cough. His arm was fucked. He was hearing voices. Sweating all the time. Tremors. Muscle spasms. Hallucinating...

"I'll be seeing you soon," the voice whispered.

##  Nineteen

"Have a seat," Bowers told Mercedes.

She shifted a bit in her orange prison uniform, and then walked around the Warden – where he was seated on the corner of the long conference table – went to the chair furthest from him, and sat down. The Warden chuckled into his fist, and then spun on the corner so he was half-facing her, only able to look in her eyes by turning his head.

"Do you have any idea what's happening?" he asked her.

She shook her head.

"Okay," he said, nodding. "It won't sound right for me to come out and say it. Sounds crazy. So let me try and start from the beginning:

"There was a virus," he began, "called the four-seventeen-B, and it was killing people. A lot of people. The CDC requested entry to Brennick to check on the health of the prisoners. I refused. With me so far?"

She nodded.

"Shortly after the last phone call I received from the CDC, everything went offline. TV, phones, internet, everything. I sent a team of men to figure out the problem. They didn't come back."

He paused. "I sent a secondary team out to find the first team," he explained. "Four men. One came back."

Mercedes stared at him.

"The man who made it back, Chris, told one hell of a story. It seems that after the virus killed these people, they came back. Not necessarily 'to life.' They're... Oh hell," he huffed, "they're zombies."

Mercedes laughed at him.

"What?"

"You're right. It sounds fucking _stupid_. You really expected me to believe that?"

"It's the truth," he growled at her.

"Sure. Whatever."

There was a knock at the door. Warden Bowers said, "Perfect timing," and got up. Crossed to the door and opened it.

"Mercedes," Bowers said, "let me introduce Erin Gibbs. He's a friend of mine."

##  Twenty

Marshall snapped the head of a creeper dressed in a white lab coat. The body dropped to the cold pavement atop two others. He was getting tired. But, most of all, he hadn't liked the business from the beginning. Marshall was tough because he had to be. Had to be if he wanted to protect his sisters growing up. He learned to fight to _protect_ people, not bully them.

Not kill them.

He heard a bus engine turn over and spun. A boy ran up to him.

"Jack got it going," he said, breathless. "We can go!"

"About damn time," Marshall said, and kicked a creeper in the gut. Brought his wrench down on its skull as it was bent over. "Let's go," he told the boy, and took his hand.

They ran back to the buses.

The occupants of Marshall's bus still inside, cowering. Jack had the door to the first bus open and was ushering people in.

"You can drive this thing, right?" Marshall asked him.

Jack nodded quickly. "No big deal," he said.

"Alright," Marshall said. "Now, I'm going to pull around you and take the lead. You just follow me close and keep your eyes on the road. I'm not stopping again."

He squinted at Jack.

"Understood?"

Jack nodded again.

"These people are depending on you," Marshall reminded him. "Their lives are in your hands."

"Understood," Jack said, and climbed into the bus.

Marshall walked back to his. Stopped at the door and looked at the closest creeper. Long, blonde hair, now matted to her pale, purple skin. Dried blood across her face. Flowing night gown, once white, now bruised with blood and dirt. He watched it, as it came across the street. All the way on the other side of the highway. Drawn by the screams. Looking for food. Searching for prey.

It was his youngest sister: Samantha.

##  Twenty-One

"Chow time," Jessie said when she got to Erin and Tall Bill's cell. She looked inside, and followed with: "Where's that hunky cell mate of yours?"

Bill shrugged. "Warden wanted to talk to him."

"Oh, yeah?" Jessie asked, scrunched up her face. "That guy's popular today. Sadie's up talking to him right now, too."

She shrugged. "Anyway," she said, and slid the tray in, "I got him his bottle back."

She passed the bottle of scotch to Tall Bill, who smiled.

"How'd you manage that?" he asked.

"Mercedes isn't the big bad bitch she pretends to be. Besides, she shouldn't be drinking."

Tall Bill eyed her. "Is that so?" he asked.

Jessie sucked in a breath and covered her mouth. Bill smiled at her and settled onto his bunk. Scotch bottle on the bed next to him. His tray on his lap.

"How'd that happen?" he asked.

Jessie snarled at him, "If you tell anyone what I just told you, I'll..."

"What?" Bill asked, acting shocked. "That she shouldn't be drinking? I know lots of people who shouldn't drink for lots of different reasons. Like me, I really shouldn't be drinking, but I'm going to do it anyway."

He picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap and took a swig. Held it out to her. "How about you," he asked, "should you be drinking?"

She took the bottle. Had a taste. Handed it back.

"You know what I mean," she said.

"I would never break your trust. You own my soul."

She laughed. "God," she said, "you are the lamest guy I've ever met, you know that? If we were out in the world, I wouldn't even let you buy me a drink."

Bill looked hurt. "Why?" he asked. "What's wrong with me?"

"You've got no game," she told him. "You can't just spout off shit you saw in movies. Just because it worked for Harrison Ford doesn't mean it'll work for you."

He frowned.

"Look," she said, "you're cute enough, in a puppy dog way, but not in an 'I want to sleep with him way.' I'm not saying that to be a bitch, but if you want to get into my panties, you better figure out something better than 'you own my soul.'"

"Like what?" He perked up at the mention of her panties. "Like poetry?"

"Holy fuck," Jessie said, and shook her head. "I'm a convicted murderer, does it seem like poetry would work on me?"

"You're an artist," he said. "You're supposed to be a romantic."

"Like Gibbs," she told him. "Act like Gibbs."

"But I'm not Gibbs. I'm Tall Bill. I don't want to act like anyone but Tall Bill."

"See," she said, and pointed at his chest, "that was good. Back bone. That's more like it."

Bill frowned again, totally confused.

"You know, flirt. Like he does with Mercedes."

"You mean like with the poison?"

" _Exactly,_ " she told him. "I mean, I don't know how you ever got a girl on the outside."

"I was always drunk," he explained. "It made me confident."

"Probably made you an asshole, too."

He shrugged. "No more than normal," he said. He thought a moment, and then asked, "What did you say?"

"When?"

"A minute ago. About Gibbs flirting with Mercedes."

"I said 'like he does with Mercedes.' Like with the poison and all of that. How he calls her Miss Mercedes and stuff. He's always giving her stuff, or getting up closer to her. Like when he pushes you out of the way to come sit there." She pointed where Bill was sitting now. "To be closer to her."

"And that tells you he's into her, right?"

"Hell, yes. And she never pulls back. She gives him shit, but never tries to get further away from him."

Bill laughed.

"What?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing. It's just, they're both in the Warden's office." He looked Jessie in the eyes. "I was just thinking if she wasn't already pregnant, she probably would be soon."

##  Twenty-Two

Marshall watched her approach. She was moving so slow. Lumbering along. Her hands limp at her sides. Fifty feet away. Just coming off the shoulder.

He didn't know what to do.

He couldn't kill her, could he? Never. But, how could he leave her like this? Marshall had checked the houses of both his sisters, and they had been empty. Totally devoid of life. Part of him had been glad for it. The lack in closure of never knowing. Leaving some hope there.

But now, he had to make a decision: leave her out there, alone, like that, or kill her.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Figure a way out.

She took another awkward step. Almost tripped. Righted herself. Kept on.

It was the only right thing to do, he told himself. If it was the other way around, he would want her to do it. But, how could he say that for sure? Was any life better than none? The prisoners at Brennick lived out their lives, just differently than others.

It was a life.

Was this her life now? Was he just selfishly assigning his own beliefs on life? Projecting them onto her? Hell no, he decided, she was a creeper. If there were any others who had survived and he let her go on like this, she could be the one that turns the last true person into one of _them._

He started to pull his service pistol out. Stopped. He heard something. Something that shouldn't seem so out of place. But even just two days since he had last heard it, it seemed wrong. Eerie. Alien.

"What is it?" the boy asked from behind him, standing in the doorway to the bus.

"Music," Marshall told him.

##  Twenty-Three

"I take it you know each other," Bowers said as he stepped in front of Mercedes, halting her running attack on Erin.

"Piece of shit," she spat at Erin. "Once a pig, always a pig."

Erin frowned at her. "Does she know what's going on?" he asked Bowers.

"Partially," Bowers said. "Can we all sit down like human beings so I can explain?"

Erin wondered at Bowers' game. He was acting very different around Mercedes than he had around the male prisoners. Erin guessed that made sense, but the Warden never struck him as chivalrous. If anything, Bowers was treating Mercedes like he knew her well, which he must have for her to be in the room. Erin wasn't sure what to make of that.

He filed it away for later and took a seat.

Mercedes took the chair she had flipped over when he walked in, sat it up, turned it backwards and sat with her legs spread like a gangster.

"Very lady-like," Erin told her.

"Fuck you," she said back.

"Now," Bowers interrupted their staring contest, "the reason I said this was perfect timing is, Mercedes doesn't believe what's happening is actually happening."

Erin shook his head. "It sounds crazy," he said, "but it's true. I've seen them in action."

"Says you."

Erin shrugged.

Bowers sighed. Walked over to the door and knocked. Brooks opened it. "The wheelbarrow, please," Bowers said. Brooks nodded and disappeared.

"That's not necessary," Gibbs told him. Turned back to Mercedes. "It's true. Trust me."

He let his eyes bore into hers until she broke the connection. Turned her head and whispered something he couldn't catch. Then Brooks was back with the corpse in the wheelbarrow.

Mercedes started when the dead creeper in the guard's uniform was wheeled in. Stood up and took a few steps back.

"It's dead," Bowers assured her. "That first group I sent out to fix the lines? He was part of it. They ate him, and then, he turned into one."

Mercedes looked around the room, as if searching for a viable exit, backing herself into the corner as she did. Finally, her gaze settled on Erin.

"You knew about this?" she asked him.

He nodded.

"How?"

"They had Bill and I outside yesterday, pulling bodies off the fence."

"Off the fence?"

He nodded again. "From what I understand – which isn't much – they can't see during the day. So at night, they made for the guard towers. The only living people still around."

"Not the only," Bowers told them. "We've got two buses full coming in right now."

Two buses full, Erin thought. So there _were_ survivors. He filed that away for later, too.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Mercedes asked Erin.

"I didn't see how it would help."

"Help what?"

"You," Erin said.

Mercedes covered her mouth, and rocked back and forth a moment.

"Can we get that fucking thing out of here?" Erin asked.

Bowers waved. Brooks nodded. Wheeled it out.

"Jessie," Mercedes said, her hand muffling the voice. "She thinks..."

"What?" Bowers asked. "She thinks what?"

Mercedes turned her gaze to the Warden. Her face twitched once and then went vacant of emotion. Like a switch being tossed.

"Why are you showing me this?" she asked Bowers.

Bowers shrugged and looked away. Erin read something in his eyes before he could turn. He didn't like the implications. Something deep inside him wanted to stomp the Warden into the carpet.

"I'm putting together a sort of..." Bowers thought a moment, as if trying to choose his words, "...a 'coalition' if you will."

"What are we doing?" Mercedes asked, incredulous. "Invading Mexico?"

Bowers sighed and rubbed his face. Erin tried not to smile. Mercedes was getting to him. That thing behind his eyes was starting to turn. It was like he was shrinking. Erin knew enough to know that was the first sign of trouble. A man like Bowers only fell back so far, and then he lashed out.

But, Erin wondered, why was this exchange taking place at all? When Eddie "the Prince" had questioned Bowers, he had gotten a one way ticket to the chopping block. Mercedes was being openly disrespectful. Erin wondered how long this would go on before Bowers cracked.

"No," Bowers told her, "we're not invading fucking Mexico."

"Warden wants to take us out of lock down," Erin explained. "He had us in here earlier to discuss it."

"Us?"

"Me and the Shot Callers."

"Why you?"

"Because he needs someone outside the prisoner hierarchy as a go-between. To bring the prisoners issues to the Warden without having a full on democracy. The Shot Callers will control the population. The Warden will control the guards. I'll be the guy in the middle, keeping everyone from killing each other."

Mercedes glared at him, and then nodded and said, "So, why am I here?"

"You're here," Bowers told her, "because I need someone I can trust to do the same with the female prisoners."

He let that settle in a moment, then continued: "The women don't have the same gang structure as the men, so I'll need you to appoint women who can keep the peace. I'll assign you a five guard security detail, as well, until everything's settled. Any woman who causes a problem will be released, where she will be promptly dismembered by creepers."

"Creepers?" Mercedes asked.

"That's what the guards are calling the zombies," Erin explained.

Mercedes shook her head.

"Now," Bowers continued, "I'm going to have the men keep up maintenance. I want the women to take over administrative duties. Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry. Paperwork. All of that. Because of this, we will be having women moving through the male portions of the prison, and vice versa. That means you two will have to work together and communicate."

This was sounding better to Erin every second. He was waiting for the catch.

"The last thing I need," Bowers said, "is to have some poor girl gang raped while she's trying to take out the trash. So if anything like that happens – on either of your ends – I will hold you both personally responsible."

There it was.

"Understood?"

They nodded.

"Good," Bowers said, nodding too. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other business to attend to. I trust you can find your way back to your cells."

##  Twenty-Four

Marshall couldn't believe his ears. It wasn't just music, it was rock. Hard rock. Like riot music. And it was _loud_. Getting louder.

The creeper that had once been his sister heard it too. Had adjusted course. Now traveling up the highway toward the sound. Stumbling along the center line.

Marshall didn't know what to do. His mind told him to get back in the bus and take off. His heart told him to ignore the music and shoot the creeper behind the ear. Humane as he could be. Put her down quick and painless. Yet another part of him said if there was music, there were people. And if there were more people, alive and well, there was hope.

He pressed the service pistol back down in his holster and watched the road. There was a car on it now. Small but getting larger. Growing with the volume of the music. He couldn't tell what make yet. It had something strange on the front of it.

Yellow. With black lines running crooked across it.

He squinted at it as it grew larger.

Then in a blare of hard guitar, the car materialized fully on the highway. Swerved, clipped the creeper in the night gown, sending her careening off to the side as the V shaped plow struck her. Then blasted past and kept going. Marshall watched it until it disappeared around a bend and then shook his head. Not sure what had just happened.

Got back in the bus and dropped it in drive.

## Twenty-Five

Chris lay on the couch, the office dark as tar, listening to the voice speak. He tried to ignore it at first, but it was very persistent.

And, it had started making sense.

"I don't get that last part," Chris told the voice.

It repeated itself. Calmly. Understanding. Comforting.

"Really?" Chris asked. "How is that possible?"

The voice explained it to him. How it had all been right there. In that report he read from the CDC. Chris tried to remember but couldn't. His mind was too sluggish. If only he could sleep.

The voice reminded him that sleep wasn't what he needed. What he needed was to listen. The voice would help him. It was the only thing that _really_ cared about him. And, of course, Chris thought, it _would_ care about him. Without him, the voice wouldn't exist.

The voice told him they needed _each other_. Together, they could beat this. With the voice's help, Chris was unstoppable. He could be anything he wanted to be. He could be the Warden. He could be _above_ the Warden. He could be _a god_.

Chris smiled. He liked the sound of that.

The voice told him he could have anything he wanted. _Anyone_ he wanted.

Chris liked the sound of that, too.

Just do what the voice tells you. Even when you don't understand. Even when it sounds crazy. Even when it makes no sense. Just do it. And everything will be alright. Everything will be perfect. Everything will be the way it was always supposed to be.

Chris nodded.

"Whatever you say," he told it.

##  Twenty-Six

Mercedes walked behind Gibbs and off to his right. It wasn't like she was worried about him: she just wanted him to know she didn't trust him.

They came to the first of many locks that led back to their respective cells, the guards exchanging glances at the pair. Didn't open the lock.

" _Gibbs_ ," one of them said through the speakers. " _Where's your escort?"_

Erin shrugged. "Warden didn't give us one."

The guards looked at each other again. The one who had spoken to Gibbs picked up the phone and punched an extension. Erin and Mercedes waited. The guard said something into the phone. Nodded. Hung it up and said, " _Okay. Warden says you two will get clearance badges tomorrow. Until then, I'll have Mystique escort you_."

The lock opened and Mystique came out. Nodded to them, and started down the hall. Erin followed her. Mercedes followed him.

"Strange stuff, huh?" Mystique asked over her shoulder. "If someone had told me two days ago you two would be allowed to just traipse around wherever you wanted, I would've fainted. But now, Warden says to let you two through, and I didn't even bat an eyelash."

"The times they are a changing," Erin told her.

"So," Mercedes asked, "we're going to be able to go wherever we want? Just walk up to a lock and nod and you guys'll open it?"

"Pretty much," Mystique told them. They stopped at a lock. Mystique waved. The gate opened. "But I don't suggest you take advantage. The two of you aren't going to be real popular with the guards. Every time you pass through a lock, instinct is to shoot you."

"Very comforting," Erin said.

"And I don't guess the prisoners are going to be real impressed with you two having special privileges, either. You might want to spend the time in your cells tonight figuring out how you're going to survive all of this."

They paused at a lock, and Mystique waved. The lock opened and a guard came out, his bald head shining under the halogens.

"Gibbs," he said to Erin.

"Roc," Erin returned.

Mystique said, "Rococoa'll take you back to your cell. I'll escort Mercedes the rest of the way."

Erin nodded and followed the guard through the lock. Made a left. Mystique got moving again. Passed through the lock with Mercedes in tow and made a right. They walked in silence for a while.

Then Mystique said, "Gibbs is cute."

Mercedes wanted to puke. Two days ago the prisoners were "animals," now it looked like it would take everything the Warden had to keep Brennick from turning into an orgy.

##  Twenty-Seven

Marshall pulled the bus into the loading bay. Put it in park. Shut the engine off. Opened the folding door, and got out.

Brooks said, "Warden wants to see you and Bryce right away."

"Nice to see you too," Marshall told him.

"If you had gotten here on time you could've showered and shaved first like the rest of us. What'd you do, stop for snacks?"

"Bryce's fucking front tire blew," Marshall huffed. "We had to fix it on the side of the highway. I was killing creepers with my bare hands! And I found my sister. That was fun."

"She with you?" Brooks asked, looking past Marshall at the stream of survivors coming out of the bus.

"No," Marshall told him. "She was a creeper."

"You kill her?"

"No, she got hit by a car."

Brooks stared at him. Then said, "Where's Bryce?"

"He got hit by a bus."

Brooks stared at him again. Marshall shrugged. Brooks turned from him and said, "Get these people checked out. I want full cavity searches of everyone, even the kids. If anyone's bit or shows any sign of being sick, send them right back out the way they came."

The guard he had instructed nodded.

"Come on," Brooks told Marshall. "We don't want to keep the Warden waiting any longer than he already has."

##  Twenty-Eight

"Have a nice visit?" Tall Bill asked Erin as the door to their cell closed.

"How's that?"

"You and your beautiful woman?"

"How'd you know she was there?"

"Jessie told me," Bill said, and shrugged. Pointed over his shoulder. "She brought you back your bottle."

"Nice of her." Erin went around him to the sink and took the bottle. Looked at the amber fluid inside. "Have a bit of a party?" he asked Bill.

Bill shrugged again.

Erin sighed. Opened the bottle and downed some. "It was interesting," he told Bill. "Mercedes didn't know."

"Know what?"

"She didn't _know_ , because I didn't tell her."

Bill nodded his understanding. "How'd she take it?"

"Not well. I think she's pissed at me."

"More than before?"

"More than before."

Bill nodded. "That sucks," he said.

Erin climbed into his bunk and laced his fingers behind his head. Thinking. Thinking about Mercedes. And Bowers. And that look in the Warden's eyes. The history he read there. He thought about the knot in the pit of his stomach, and the quietly burning rage he held for the Warden. He thought about where this all was going, and what he would be able to do once he got that security pass. He thought about Blake, out there in the world alone. Possibly with his mother. Possibly not. Possibly dead.

"Tomorrow," he told Bill, "I get a security pass to go through any lock, anywhere in Brennick."

"Anywhere?"

"I'm not playing repeater," Erin told him.

"Sorry," Bill said. Erin couldn't see his face, but knew he was smiling.

"But, yes, anywhere."

"So, we just have to make it through the night. Snug as bugs in our cells here. And then tomorrow morning you get a hall pass. And we're set."

Erin nodded. Shifted in his bunk. Said, "Just one more night."

##  Twenty-Nine

Warden Bowers glared across the table at Marshall. The young man now the fifth guard to return alive to the prison. It wasn't that Bowers had anything against the guy: he just couldn't imagine what took him so long to return, or how he had done it without the sixth guard.

"Where's Bryce?" he asked Marshall.

"There was an accident," Marshall explained.

"An accident?" Bowers asked, raising an eyebrow. "What kind of accident?"

"The bus fell on him."

Bowers continued to glare.

"He got a flat," Marshall began, "and he had the bus jacked up. The jack slipped and it came down on top of him."

"Killing him?"

Marshall squirmed a bit. "No, but he was screaming and it was attracting creepers..."

"So?"

"So, I killed him."

Bowers sighed and nodded. "I see," he said.

Warden Bowers was getting tired. He felt his age. Which meant he didn't feel well. It was bad enough all this shit going on, but when the troops get back and can't tell a fucking straight story to save their lives, it takes an even heavier toll. Now Bowers was ready to call it a night. Lock the door, pour himself a tall one of straight scotch, and have himself a good drunk.

Yeah, he thought, that sounded good.

He looked at Marshall again. Sighed again. "If you had heard the fucking stories I got from the others," he said, "you'd understand why I'm a bit stumped when you come walking back in here telling me Bryce got a bus dropped on him."

Marshall shifted in his seat.

"Did you bring my personal effects? From the bus?"

Marshall nodded, reached down and picked up a suitcase. Got up and brought it around the desk.

Bowers nodded. Marshall went back around and sat down.

"So," Bowers said, "here's how it's going to be: Chris will now be in control of the prison from six PM to six AM. We're on twelve hour shifts now. I'm telling you this the same way I told the others just made it back today, and for the same reason: a lot's changed since you left. Even if it's only been a day."

Marshall nodded.

"When's the last time you slept?"

"Last night, about an hour."

"Fine," Bowers said, and nodded. "You can take the night off and pull day shift starting tomorrow. A lot's going to change tomorrow, as well. So, rack out and in the morning Brooks'll have your orders."

"Yes, sir." Marshall nodded. Got up and walked to the door.

"One more thing," Bowers said, stopping him. "You told Brooks you saw your sister, she was a creeper."

Marshall turned around and nodded.

"And then you said she got hit by a car."

He nodded again.

"Explain."

Marshall took a deep breath, and said, "I was going to put her down. The only thing I could do. Then I heard music. Like, riot rock stuff. It got louder and louder. Samantha started walking towards the noise. It got louder. Then I saw a car. It was something small, I didn't get a good read on it because it had a plow on the front."

"A plow?"

"Yeah," Marshall said, nodding. "Like an icebreaker or something. You know, pointed. So it screams up and swerves and takes out Samantha and keeps right on going."

Bowers frowned. "Strange," he said.

"That's one word for it."

"Alright," Bowers told him, "dismissed."

Marshall went out. Warden Bowers watched the closed door for a moment, then looked at the clock. Right on time, he thought. Got up and went to the door. Opened it and went out. Passed his secretary's desk – empty, she would be back to work in the morning, but for now she was resting – and went out into the hall.

Went two doors down. To the one marked "SAM WATKINS", and knocked.

Silence.

He knocked again. Heard shuffling inside the room. Then a light came on, shining under the door. Bowers waited. The door opened a crack.

Chris, looking as disheveled as ever, peeked his head out, sweating.

Bowers ignored his appearance and said, "Your shift is up."

Chris looked down the hall both ways, then back at Bowers, as if he was a complete stranger. Then he said, "Gotcha. My shift. No problem."

"Are you alright?"

"Perfect. I've got it all figured out."

"What?"

"Nothing to worry about," Chris assured him. "My shift. Everything's perfect."

Bowers shook his head. Cleared his throat. "So," he said, "it's your first shift running the prison. There's some things you need to know: we converted the auditorium in the male wing of the prison into a barracks for the male guards and administrative workers. Same with the women. Everyone should be at their post, but if they're not, that's where you'll find them.

"We got hit again last night along the fence. So you'll need good men up there again. I put one thirty-aught in each tower. Those are for the longer shots. If we can keep them away from the fence, that's what we wanna do.

"You've only got half the staff we normally would during the night. I've been using female prisoners in eight hour shifts to fill the void. Pope will have the names for the shift and a half you'll preside over. It shouldn't be much of a problem. But I wanted you to be aware of it. You following me?"

Chris nodded.

"Good. And, most important of all," Bowers told him, "if anything goes wrong. Anything at all. Please hesitate to call. Seriously. I'm gonna pour myself a strong one and lean back on the couch and enjoy a good movie. Can you handle that?"

Chris nodded again. "I'm good," he said, "I've just got so much work to do."

"Good boy," Bowers told him and patted his shoulder. Turned and went back down the hall. Past his secretary's desk again. Into his office. Closed and locked the door.

Went to his cabinet and took out a bottle of scotch and a glass. Brought them over to the couch. Opened the bottle and filled the tumbler with scotch, closed it up and set them both on the coffee table. He'd need the bottle for refills.

Went back around and pulled up the suitcase and set it on the desk. Unzipped it and looked at the contents. Smiled. Scanned through them, reading the dates and remembering which was which. Picked the one he wanted. Zipped the suitcase back up and brought it over to his coat closet. Put it in and closed the door.

Went around the couch and put the disk in. Back around the table and sagged into the couch. Took a sip of his scotch. Picked up the remote and pointed it at the screen.

"And..." he said.

Someone knocked on his door.

"No," he called to them. "No one's home."

"Warden," Pope called.

"No."

"Warden, sir," Pope pleaded.

"No! It hasn't even been five minutes!"

"Warden, _please_."

Bowers tossed the remote on the couch, pushed himself up, and stormed over to the door. Flung it open and shouted: " _What_?"

"Sir," Pope said, his head bowed. "We have a situation."

"Tell Chris," Bowers snapped.

"I can't find him."

Bowers cursed under his breath. "What is it?" he asked.

"There's someone at the gate."

# EPISODE 6:

# WITH A VENGEANCE

# PART ONE

##  One

Phillip Craig thought he smelled bacon. He sniffed once – his eyes still closed – and then coughed. If someone was cooking bacon, he decided, they were burning it.

He opened his eyes and peered through the football helmet's Plexiglas visor, wondering where the hell he was. Then, in a wash of memories, he knew exactly what happened: he hadn't made it back to the trucks in time. The dynamite must have gone off with him too close. He recalled running through the mass of zombies, chainsaw held out, blood and sinew and bone raining back on his visor. He remembered wondering how much longer he had, and then...

He sat up and looked around. The air around him was clotted with pale white smoke. The houses along the street cold, pastel through the haze. No movement at all. He panned his view right, searching for the four white trucks that should have been there. His head swiveled and he noticed his right shoulder was on fire.

"Shit," he said and laid back down, rolling left and right for a few moments. Stopped, and stayed where he was. Face down. Took a few breaths, the cage on the helmet resting on the cold pavement.

Phil sighed and pushed himself up with a groan. Brushed soot off the thick, coarse bite suit he was wearing, and spun in a complete three hundred sixty degree circle.

Everywhere he looked: smoldering bodies and miscellaneous parts, blood and gore. The smoke was hanging lazily above the frozen street. A few dry trees had caught from the blast. There were no trucks in sight, but he thought he heard gunfire off in the distance.

Phil thought a moment. If he was still here, where were the creepers? He couldn't have gotten them all with the crate of dynamite. Or could he have? No. If they were all dead the other guards would have at least checked around, seen if he had made it. But they had hightailed it. Which meant they were most likely being chased.

So Phil was on his own.

He unhooked the strap and took the helmet off. Then he shrugged off the bite suit – unzipping it as he went, moving as fast as he could – revealing his guard's uniform beneath. Embroidered on one breast was: BRENNICK MAXIMUM SECURITY. On the other: P. CRAIG. At an average height, average weight, average face, with average length hair that could be a sandy blond or a sun-bleached brown, there was nothing to distinguish Phil in appearance. He had always thought his personality made up for it.

Phil started walking. Stopped and studied a twisted piece of red metal. The wagon he had pulled out. He hoped that fucking squeaky wheel had been vaporized. Got going again, not really sure where to.

He needed a weapon. He wasn't sure where his chainsaw had been thrown, but it would have been too loud anyway. He needed something quiet but fierce. Something he could run with. He made a right and came off the street, stepping over body parts as he made his way to the sidewalk. Turned left and followed the sidewalk, looking at the houses. He needed to find one with a shed.

Passed down half the block before he found one. He crossed down the snow-covered driveway to it and sighed: locked. He could pry it open if he had a bar, but it would be noisy. Walked around it, looking for a window.

Nothing.

Scratched his head a minute, then turned around and went up to the house's back door. Tried the handle: unlocked. He smiled. Started to turn it and stopped. Were there creepers inside?

"Only one way to find," he told himself and opened the door. Peeked inside. Said, "Hello, hello...?"

No answer. Phil shrugged and went in. Walked down the hall to the kitchen. Empty. Opened the fridge. Took out a beer, closed the fridge and popped the spin top and took a gulp. Still cold.

Went over to the key rack and studied them. He needed to find the small pad-lock key, but didn't see one. There were a few assorted keys, some with little white tabs connected to them for reference but without anything written on the paper. A single keyless entry set with buttons for lock, unlock, trunk, car-start, and panic. He fingered the emblem on the plastic remote.

"Now we're talking," he said, and smiled.

##  Two

"Say that one more time," Warden Bowers told Alexander Pope.

"There's someone at the gate," Pope told him.

Bowers turned from him and went to his computer. Pulled up the security system and looked at the film from the front gate. There was a sports car at it, idling. Attached to the front end was a V-shaped plow blade. Marshall – one of the five guards who had actually returned from town – had mentioned something exactly like the car. Bowers wondered who could be driving it, and how they would know the prison was secure.

"Who do we have at the interior gate?" Bowers asked Pope.

"First interior gate is Eldridge and Green," Pope told him.

"Get them on the line."

Pope picked up Bowers phone and punched in an extension. Waited for someone to pick up, and then handed the phone to the Warden.

"Who's this?" Bowers asked.

" _Eldridge, sir,"_ Peter Eldridge returned.

"And who the hell is that?" Bowers asked him, pointing at the car on his screen.

" _Sir?"_

"The car, the fucking guy in the car! At the main gate."

" _We can't tell, sir. He's all the way on the other side of the gate, and there's that plow hooked up to the front. Couldn't see who's behind the wheel to save our lives."_

Bowers nodded. "Okay," he said, and pressed the enter key, opening the main gate. "Get your rifles ready, because he's coming to you, and they just _might_ save your lives."

##  Three

Phil tossed the empty beer bottle on the passenger side floor board and reached into the plastic bag on the seat next to him. Pulled another out and popped it. Had a pull, trying to do it all while keeping the Porsche on the road. It wasn't easy at the speed he was going.

He cut left and took the small car around a corner, drifting in the snow as it made the turn.

He needed some tunes, he decided, as he brought the wheel back even. But what could he do? There was no radio and he certainly couldn't hit up iTunes. He thought about that and took another draw from his beer.

A creeper was off on the sidewalk, keeping in the shadows of a store front. Phil swerved and clipped it at the knees, sending it flying over the roof of the sports car and rolling to a stop in his wake.

"Shit," he said, and swerved back on to the road, barely missing the pole to a stop light. He took another drink and thought some more. Looked down to see how fast he was going as he passed a speed limit sign: three times the legal limit.

He laughed and sped up.

Turned right and took that for a few minutes until he saw something that piqued his interest: a junk yard. Not a grimy one, just a long fence with mesh to block prying eyes. On the gate it read "WE BUY BEATERS."

Phil had an idea. He pulled the emergency brake and sent the Porsche into a spin. Then let it go and cut the wheel and brought the sportster sideways, skidding on the slick street, stopping perfectly in a parallel parking space.

"Ha," he said, and put it in park. Got out, the engine still running. Went to the gate and pulled the latch up out of the ground. Pulled it open – they must have been open when the creepers hit for it not to be locked – and left it that way. Went back to the Porsche and got in. Pulled it around into the lot. Shut off the engine, got out, and closed the gate.

##  Four

Peter Eldridge was middle aged, plump, had a single lock of hair smeared across his otherwise bald scalp, and had been looking forward to an early retirement with a solid pension. He had absolutely no fucking idea how to handle what had been happening over the past few days. He'd been trying to convince himself it was all just a dream when the car had pulled up to the main gate and honked its horn.

He held his rifle – an Aptomov Kalishnakov 1947 – so tight in his thick-fingered hands it was starting to make his knuckles hurt. The gate opened fully and the car pulled forward. Rolling toward Peter and his compatriot, Stuart Green.

"Be ready," Green told him without needing to. Peter was ready; he just wasn't sure what for. At that moment he was ready to fire or faint – leaning evenly between both.

The car crept forward.

Now Peter was certain he couldn't do it. He couldn't fire into the car if needed. He couldn't run if his life was in danger. He was completely frozen. His life was flashing before his eyes. He could see himself sitting in the grass as a child, playing with matchbox cars. He could see himself sitting in his room as a teenager, reading comic books. He could see himself sitting in his apartment in his twenties, looking ridiculous in his eighties' attire, watching MTV. He could see himself in his thirties, sitting in his living room, watching football. He could see himself now, in his forties, sitting in his guard shack.

Jesus, he thought, did he ever _do_ anything?

He shook his head, tried to clear it, as the car rolled to a stop next to him.

##  Five

Phil pressed the CD he had stolen from the tow truck into the Porsche's player. It was a burned disk that had "ROAD MUSIC" scrawled in sharpie across the top.

The player didn't start by itself, so Phil hit play and cranked it. Bass rumbled through the car. He smiled. He couldn't remember the song – something from the late nineties – but it was perfect. True, angry, drive music. The kind that forced you to push the pedal down.

He rolled the shifter for a second, and then dropped the clutch and took off. He didn't stop to open the gate this time, just blasted through it, the plow blade he had attached splitting it and sending both sides flying out in their respective directions. Creepers attracted to the music tossed to either side by the gates as they were thrown open.

He took a right and tore through the outskirts of town. Clipped a creeper and kept on going, checking the rearview mirror only long enough to note the thing wrapping itself around the same pole he had barely missed earlier.

Hit the highway and took the onramp up and around, dropping in the middle lane. Punched it. Music blaring. Engine humming. Cold beer in his hand. He looked off to his left and watched the town roll by. Peaceful in the pale winter light. He wondered how many more creepers were down there. Right now.

He shrugged. Enough to keep him busy for a bit, he figured. Up ahead a creeper was trying to cross the road. Had turned to follow the sound of his music. Buses parked along the side.

"Odd," he said of the buses, and then swerved and smacked the creeper with the plow, sending it careening off the side of the highway.

##  Six

"Hey, Pete," Phillip Craig said as he pulled the Porsche up next to Peter Eldridge. "You look like you've seen a ghost, man."

Peter sagged. "You scared the shit out of us," he said.

"Speak for yourself," Stuart told Peter. Then to Phil: "Where'd you get the Porsche?"

Phil smiled at him, revving the motor. "Some guy gave me a screaming deal on it," he explained. "I practically stole it."

"Where'd you get the plow?" Peter asked.

"That," Phil said, "I can't tell you. A magician's secrets and all that. Anyway, are you boys gonna let me in?" He revved the engine again. "I wanna talk to Chris. Let him know he forgot something back in town."

"What's that?" Peter asked him.

"Me."

Stuart nodded. "Right," he said.

"I feel like Joe Dirt, man, and it hurts." He tapped his chest. "It hurts my heart."

Stuart nodded some more, stepped back into the guard booth and hit the switch. The gate started its slow roll to the side.

Phil said, "Thanks man," and passed Stuart a half-drank beer. "You can kill that for me, it's warm." Then the clutch popped and the tires started squealing and the Porsche took off in a haze of white smoke.

Peter looked at Stuart, who shrugged and finished the beer, tossing the bottle into the parking lot.

"I fucking _hate_ that guy," Peter said, and went and sat back down in the guard booth.

##  Seven

Chris passed through the lock and headed down the hall. The guard behind the Plexiglas screen waved, but Chris ignored him. There was so much to do. So, so much. And so, so little time. He didn't see any way he could accomplish it all in one night. But the voice – his only true friend, the only one who cared – assured him he could do it. If anyone could, he could. He nodded his blocky head, cropped blonde hair moving from the motion.

Chris' com unit lit up and Warden Bowers' voice came out of it: " _Chris, report."_

Chris sighed. Keyed his unit and replied, "Roger."

" _Where the hell are you?"_

"In admin," he explained. "I thought you were off."

Warden Bowers should have been off. Doing whatever the hell he did when it wasn't his shift. That would last six PM until six AM, when Bowers took over again. Chris was in charge over the night shift. For the first time. He needed every minute of it.

" _I'm supposed to be,"_ Bowers snarled. _"But we got one of our guards back. Seems Phil isn't as blown up as you said."_

Chris shrugged. "Can't win them all," he said.

" _What?"_

"Copy, sir, Phil's back. You need me to debrief him?"

" _That would be nice."_

"Roger. I'll meet him in ten. Take care, Warden, I've got it from here."

" _Copy,"_ Bowers said and was gone.

"Pope," Chris called through the com unit.

" _Pope here."_

"Have Phil escorted to the conference room. I'll debrief him there."

" _Copy."_

Chris sighed and replayed the conversation he had just had. He hadn't been that clear minded in days. Two days, to be exact. Maybe the voice was right. Maybe it was all going to be okay. His arm didn't hurt anymore. His hands weren't shaking. And everything was clear, perfectly clear.

He stopped at the door to the nurse's office and went in. Didn't bother to turn on the light. He didn't need it, he realized. The world was so fucking clear, he could even see in the dark.

##  Eight

Erin Gibbs sighed and shifted in his bunk, thinking. His grey skin exposed from the waist up under the halogens.

"You've been doing that all afternoon," Tall Bill Mahone told him. Lying in the bottom bunk, rather than in his usual perch with his back pressed up against the bars.

"I've been doing that all my life."

"What? Flopping around on your bunk?"

"No," Erin said, "thinking."

"You know I meant flopping around on your bunk like a God damned fish. What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, just thinking."

"Okay. Whatcha thinking about? Or, should I ask, _who_ are you thinking about?" Bill asked, and chuckled.

Erin shook his head. He _had_ been thinking about Mercedes. The young woman he had arrested years before after she murdered and mutilated a pimp she claimed had raped her. It wasn't that Erin doubted the man had, but there was no way of proving it – or any reason to try – after she cut his throat.

Now, across the ocean of time that spanned those past few years, they had met once again, under completely different circumstances. And now they would be working together to keep Brennick from imploding and dooming every prisoner, guard and administrative employee to death by zombie.

Hell, even civilians, if Bowers was being honest about the buses filled with survivors.

But Erin wasn't thinking about that, really, because he didn't plan on staying at Brennick beyond the immediate future.

"Just get it out," Bill told him, "you'll feel better."

Erin shifted again.

"Check this out," Bill said, standing up so he was face to face with Gibbs. "It's a poem, for Jessie:

"Sunlight shining through your hair,

Your skin so soft as it's laid bare,

My rough touch you soon embrace,

As I stroke your perfect face..."

"Stop," Erin told him, and held up a hand. "I'm already feeling homicidal."

"Fuck you," Bill said, and disappeared into his bunk. "I thought it was pretty good."

Erin didn't say anything. He just lay in his bunk, thinking.

"She's gonna fucking love it," Bill assured him from beneath.

##  Nine

"He offered to write you poetry?" Mercedes asked Jessie, and laughed. "What a fucking _loser_."

"I've been thinking about it," Jessie said from her bunk, "and I think you should stop swearing, too."

"Why?"

"Because," Jessie explained, pulled a lock of red hair out of her eyes, "you don't want to teach your child all those words. I heard somewhere that the baby can already hear what's going on. You know, from inside your belly."

Mercedes sighed. "You're starting to get on my nerves with this shit," she said.

"Yeah, yeah," Jessie told her. "Anyway, I thought it was kind of cute. He kept spouting off and just floundering, you know, and couldn't figure out what I wanted him to do."

"So he threw out poetry?"

"He was really on edge about it."

"Sounds like it. So, what are you going to do?"

"Play with him some more."

Mercedes sat up, her dark face a mask of righteous indignation. "You didn't," she said.

Jessie laughed. "Not like that. I meant 'toy' with him. It's fun."

Mercedes lay back down and shook her head. "I'm sure," she told her cell mate.

"What are _you_ going to do?"

"I'm going to figure out who to put in charge, and then I'm going to figure a way out of this shi... hell hole. I'm getting a security pass tomorrow, guards said I could go anywhere I want. I figure that means I can get close enough to get out."

"You want out?"

Mercedes didn't know the answer to that. She stayed silent.

"Still," Jessie said, "that's not what I meant."

"Oh?"

"I meant: you're going to be spending a lot of time with Mr. Gibbs, the big bad cop man."

"Ex..."

"Right. Ex-cop man. Funny, you adding that part."

Mercedes fumed. Why had she added that part? she wondered. Was it because she was starting to think of him as an equal? Or just as a man, and not the man who had arrested her?

Never.

She was justifying working with him. That was it. She had to stop hating him long enough to get everyone out of lock down and back to something like normal. Then this new Brennick could be her new world. She would be in charge. Then they wouldn't take her baby.

They couldn't. Who would they give it to?

And Gibbs would never let them, she told herself.

He would never let them hurt her again.

##  Ten

##

##

Alexander Pope watched the Porsche pull up behind the buses, the V-shaped plow just inches above the pavement. Blood smeared and splatted across it in blotches and droplets. A bit of hair was caked in the blood on a corner.

The engine was turned off and then the door opened. Phillip Craig stepped out, holding a beer.

"Well," he said, "if it isn't the fucking Pope."

"I heard you were dead," Pope told him.

"Shit, man, it'll take more than a few thousand creepers and a little explosion to take me out." He took a pull off his beer and smiled at Pope. "I just advanced to the next level, is all."

Pope nodded. "Chris wants to see you in the conference room in ten," he said.

"Tell Chris I'll see him when I see him."

"Marshall said he saw this car a few hours ago. It killed his sister."

"Marshall?" Phil asked, and downed the last of his beer. "Oh, was he driving one of the buses?"

Pope nodded.

"Whoops."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Phil shrugged. "I saw them on the side of the road. Thought it was a coincidence."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Did you kill his fucking sister?"

Phil shrugged again, looked around a second, then cupped his beer and lobbed it into a nearby trash can. "If it was a creeper, man, I killed it. It's what I do. What I don't do is hurt women. So, no, I didn't kill his sister."

Pope nodded. "Chris wants to see you in the conference room in ten," he said again.

"I already told you: I'll see him when I see him. I'm not real impressed with our new fearless leader right now. And I need an hour and a penthouse before I'll be ready to think straight."

"Excuse me?"

"Look," Phil explained, "I spent two days straight shooting, burning, beating, and blowing up zombies. Set off like a hundred pounds of dynamite. Then drove this fucking thing all over town." He showcased the Porsche with a wave. "At this point, my erection isn't going down on its own. I'm starting to get lightheaded, man, seriously."

Pope shook his head. "You're fucking disgusting," he said.

"I'm a man," Phil told him, walked up and patted him on the shoulder. Pope recoiled and pulled away from his hand. Phil looked at it, and then laughed. "Don't worry," he said, "I'll wash up after."

##  Eleven

Chris tore open the refrigerator and rifled through it, tossing vials over his shoulder as he searched for the right ones. They had to be there. They just had to be. The voice had been very specific. It was just a mineral. But it had an interesting side-effect.

"There," he said and snatched up two bottles of the stuff. Studied the labels to make sure. Then set them gently in a nursing bag he had found in a cabinet.

Next, he needed to find the syringe. Where was it? He pulled out the drawers in the fridge and tossed them. Vials and safety needles skidded across the tile floor.

"Damn it," he seethed. He was running out of time. And he had another stop he wanted to make, without the voice's permission.

"What you're told," Chris' voice reminded him in his mind, "without question, and only what you're told."

"It'll be quick," Chris assured it. "You won't even notice."

The voice reminded him that it had already noticed. It told him that this wasn't about the voice. It was about the two of them. Together. A team. Partners. If Chris wanted to survive, he would listen and do as he was told.

"Found it," Chris said, and held it up. "It's no problem."

The voice told him he was doing very well.

Chris spun a chair out and sat. Took a string of surgical tube and wrapped it around his arm. Rubbed his eyes.

"Everything's going perfect," he said, and pressed a needle into his vein.

##  Twelve

Maurice Avelanda stepped out of the shower and sighed. He didn't know how he felt. Being in the prison was surreal.

He had risked everything to get to the prison, to be safe behind its thick walls. But now that he was, he felt this instinctual need to get out. He felt like the walls were closing in. Everywhere there were people with guns. On the outside, that seemed like it would be comforting.

It wasn't.

And none of the guards seemed very pleased with having the civilians around. They had been led straight from the buses to the showers. Maurice being forced to wait in the loading bay until the rest of the survivors arrived. Armed guards watching his every move. Then, as a group, they were forced to strip. Then they were searched by nurses and guards. Any possessions they had succeeded in keeping through the outbreak taken.

A guard named Pope, supervising, explaining that it was standard procedure. Everything would be organized, categorized and stored. If they were ever released, their possessions would be returned.

It was the "if" that made the entire group nervous. Not to mention the inhumanity of being naked around total strangers. Pope explained that they had no other choice. There wasn't enough space or time to check them all individually. If someone was infected, they could turn at any moment. Maurice thought the tall, lanky Pope was just getting off on the power and the sight of the women and girls naked.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the men and women were separated – wives clinging to husbands and children crying – and the women were led off to God only knew where. The men were allowed to shower.

Now, standing in the steamy room, Maurice thought he had made a mistake. Something was terribly wrong. He could feel it. It was in the air. Something about the loss of Sam, the man Maurice thought was their leader. Something about the loss of the other guards. Something about having civilians on the guard's turf, where they were used to being in complete control.

Pope came back into the shower room with another guard. The latter pulled a laundry cart filled with uniforms. The guard brought it beside Pope and stood back.

"Clothes," Pope told them. Then he took a bag from the laundry cart and pulled a handful of long, thick orange strips from it. "We don't want you dressed like prisoners," he explained, "it would confuse the guards. But we can't have you dressed like guards just yet. We're all trying to get used to each other, and these are extreme circumstances. So, we'll be giving you guard uniforms, and you will each need to wear these strips on your right upper arms."

"Like the Star of David?" one of the men asked.

Pope sighed. "Like 'don't fucking shoot me, I'm a civilian,'" he said. "I know you're all scared. Don't worry about the women and children. They've been taken to the female wing's auditorium, where they'll be living with our female guards. "

The man stepped forward, naked. Maurice didn't know his name. But he was sturdy, muscles toned and flexed in anger. "I want to see my wife," he told Pope.

"Not an option."

"You say they're with the female guards. We'll get dressed, and then we can go see them."

Pope shook his head.

The man crossed his arms and said, "Then we have a problem. I'm not going anywhere with you until I see my wife."

Pope nodded. Then, in a flash he had a baton in his hand and brought it down on the man's shoulder. A crack echoed off the walls, and the man went down to one knee.

"The only person here that seems to have a problem," Pope told him, "is you. Right now, I am within my legal rights to shoot you for interfering with a prison guard and jeopardizing the security of this institution. How's that sound?" Pope looked around. "Anyone else have a problem?" he asked.

No one spoke up.

"Everything will get worked out tomorrow," Pope assured them. "We just have to play nice and make it through the night, and then the Warden will meet with everyone and explain how we're all going to survive this. Until then, I need you to understand that we're sharing these nice strong walls with the worst society has to offer. Because of that, and the risk of infection, we have to take every available precaution. Is that clear?"

The men nodded.

"Good," Pope said. "Now get dressed. We'll be back in fifteen to bring you to your quarters." He looked at the man, still kneeling. "Cuff this piece of shit," he told the other guard, then left.

##  Thirteen

"What do you mean the showers are taken?" Phil asked.

"I mean we've got the civilians in there," Harper told him. Big, heavy, but with a football player's build, Harper had a way of filling a space and not letting things pass. That had been his job for years at Brennick: guarding the main gate. Phil wasn't impressed with his attitude.

"So what the hell am I supposed to do?" he asked Harper. "I'm covered in blood, sweat and gizzards, you want me to use a wet napkin?"

Harper shrugged. "They'll be done in a few minutes," he said.

"Have you smelled me? I don't have a few minutes. I want to take a God damned shower. Why is everyone being a prick to me?"

"Don't be a baby."

"I come in and Pope's talking shit. You won't let me take a shower. Chris is desperate to talk to me for some stupid reason. I mean, man, somebody toss me something here."

Harper reached in his front pocket and took out a tissue. Tossed it at Phil.

"There," he said. "To wipe your tears."

Phil let it drop and shook his head. "Fuck it," he said. "I'll use the lady's."

He turned and started walking away.

"And if there's women in there?" Harper called.

"Then the second half of my problem will be solved, too."

##  Fourteen

Chris passed through the lock leading to D-Block.

" _What's in the bag_?" the guard at the lock asked through the speakers.

"Your mother's panties," Chris told him. "Mind your business."

" _Asshole._ "

Chris ignored him and kept on. D-Block was the furthest from Admin. That would work nicely. The male's wing was split into four blocks, alphabetically from closest to admin to furthest away. The prisoners considered more likely to escape were housed progressively deeper inside the prison. Though everyone at Brennick was a lifer, these guys were the real psychos.

"Perfect," Chris said as he walked along the floor. Above him, on the catwalk, guards nodded down at him. To his left and right prisoners looked through their cell bars. Chris being the first guard to walk the floor in over a day.

Chris stopped at a cell and peered in. Two sets of eyes looked back. One set belonged to Jared "Hardline" Patterson. A behemoth of meth addicted fury, he had raped and murdered six women before they caught his ass. Jared had only gotten bigger and more brutal inside. The second pair belonged to a skinny little shit in drag.

Chris waved to the guard in the control room. "Open fifty-two B," he called.

The guard nodded. The cell door began to open.

Jared nodded to Chris. "What's this about?" he asked.

"Just a check-up," Chris told him, and stepped into the cell.

##  Fifteen

Erin flipped off his bunk and landed with practiced grace. Went over to his cubby and picked up his snow globe, shook it and set it back down. The snow dancing around the boy and father skating.

"You never did tell me the story behind that," Bill told him.

"I didn't?"

"Nope."

"Huh." Erin climbed back up onto his bunk and lay down, lacing his fingers behind his head. "So the first thing we need to figure out is transport," he said.

"Like trucks?"

"Exactly." Erin nodded. "There's no way we're running out of here. But that means I'll have to get to the loading bay, I would assume."

"Or the parking lot."

Erin shrugged. "That's a tough place for me to bullshit my way into."

"True." Bill was silent a while. "How are we going to get the girls?"

Erin said, "Mercedes will have to figure that part out."

"Does she know that?"

"Not yet." Erin laughed. "She doesn't even know I'm planning on leaving."

"Would she rat us out?"

"What for?"

"To get back at you."

Erin thought about that. He couldn't know for sure. But before he brought it up, he planned on finding out.

##  Sixteen

Phil paused at the lock that led from admin to the female wing of Brennick. Male guards were rare in this wing, and he knew it. But he didn't think it should make much of a difference. He wanted a shower and didn't understand why everyone had turned into fucking robots since they left two days before.

"Whatcha doin' over here?" a voice asked from behind him. Phil turned and found Mystique standing there, smirking at him.

"I'm trying to take a shower."

"Is that so?" she asked, and arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "I heard you had quite the day in town."

Mystique was that girl that everyone wanted, and the ones confident enough to ask got to have. Phil had never gotten a shot at her, not because he couldn't bring himself to try, but because he had never had the opportunity.

"Yeah," Phil said, nodding. "Really got me worked up, if you know what I mean."

"I do." She smiled at him.

He glanced over his shoulder. Then back at Mystique, her long hair slightly curled. "You know, they kind of frown on male guards being over here."

She nodded.

"It might make everyone feel better if I had an escort. You know, just so they know I'm not gonna try and take advantage of some poor girl."

She smiled again. "Of course," she said. "My shift was over an hour ago. I'll walk you to the showers."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Phil told her. Put his arm out and she hooked hers through it. The lock opened when Mystique nodded to the guard. They passed through, arm in arm, Phil whispering in Mystique's ear.

##  Seventeen

##

##

Maurice and the column of survivors paused as the guards counted them.

"I got twenty-eight," one of them called.

"Same," another returned.

The column got moving again. They had been doing that every few minutes: counting heads, making sure no one had disappeared into the prison. Where they weren't allowed. Keeping tabs like they were prisoners.

They passed through a steel gate and entered a long, wide hall. The floors painted with arrows and stop and go signs. The walls covered with stenciled reminders to keep their hands in front, eyes ahead, and that any offense was a punishable offense.

Went down the hall for a few minutes. The guards stopping them at two wide double doors. Beyond them, Maurice could hear the chatter of low voices. People inside. A lot of them.

The front guard pushed open the doors and kicked down the stop, leaving them open so the survivors could stream in.

"Everyone pick a bunk and make yourself at home," the guard instructed. "We don't have set beds. The sheets'll be cleaned at each shift change. That's every twelve hours. Starting tomorrow we'll be putting you to work, too. So just pick a spot and like it."

The auditorium was massive, probably ten thousand square feet. A perfect rectangle with folded bleachers running along either side. The center was a grid of cots laid out four feet apart, running from about ten feet from the doors all the way to the other end. About half full. Probably a hundred male guards milling or sleeping.

Maurice chose one at the end. Sat down and sighed. He was dead tired, he realized. Maybe he could sleep now. With the walls between him and danger. Maybe he could rest.

He wasn't sure.

##  Eighteen

Chris could feel seconds tick away from his life at every lock he passed. It was maddening. How many hours had he lost over the years, waiting for fucking doors to open in this place?

"Come the fuck _on_ ," he hissed at the guard. "I don't have all night."

The lock started to open and he cut around it as soon as the opening was wide enough. The voice was angry with him, and it wasn't being shy about it.

"It's fine," Chris told himself. "I've got to wait a bit anyway. Everything is still perfect."

He made a right and went down the hall. Stopped at a trash can and dumped a few spent needles into it. Kept on. He had about an hour to kill, by his calculations. Just enough time to get one last thing done before he and the voice had their vengeance.

He would need to call ahead, he decided, he couldn't just wander around in the female wing.

##  Nineteen

##

##

Mercedes could feel something in the air. It was like a shift in weight. The feeling you get when a loved one dies: even before the phone call, you know something's missing. Like a sadness that can't be explained. Like a black hole, sucking all the light out of your life. Only this one was moving.

It was somewhere close, but she didn't know why she could feel it. Like a rabbit sensing a wolf, she knew it was there. But what was it?

Maybe, she thought, it was all in her mind.

Everything that had been happening, her world was changing too fast. It was making her nervous, and now her nerves were paying her back for the strain. Now she was on edge. That was all.

She felt it move around her.

Abstract. So far away, yet breathing on the back of her neck. Evil. So evil it made her want to cry. Why was this happening?

"You feel that?" Jessie asked her from the bottom bunk.

Mercedes nodded, even if Jessie couldn't see her. "What is it?" she asked.

"Feels like a ghost."

Mercedes waited. Jessie went on, "I remember when I was little. We got a ghost in our house. My grandma said it came in through the mirror. If you put a mirror in a room and don't put space between it and the wall, she said it makes a portal because you can't see behind the mirror."

"Sounds stupid."

"That's what my mom thought. And then one day – I was little, like seven – I was taking a shower. You know, too big to take baths. And I felt something. Something just like _that_. I opened the shower curtain and there was a man standing there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He disappeared right away."

Mercedes waited. Jessie didn't continue.

"And?" Mercedes asked.

"And nothing. It feels like a ghost."

Mercedes watched the ceiling, tracking the feeling as it moved. "There's no such thing as ghosts," she said.

The cell was quiet. Nothing but the two women breathing. Then a latch clanked and Mercedes snapped up, sitting in her bunk, her eyes staring at the cell door, which was opening.

Ramirez, one of the female guards, short and petite and olive skinned, stood on the other side. The door slowly rolling right. "Warden wants to see you," she told Mercedes.

##  Twenty

"I think about the devil, sometimes," Tall Bill told Erin.

Erin sighed. "Not this again," he said.

"Totally different take on it."

"How's that?"

"I think about what he would be like, to meet him," Bill explained. "Would he be suave? Would he be smart? Would he be handsome?"

"That's how he's always described. He's, you know, whatever he wants to be. Like God. God can be a bum or movie star handsome. Whatever he wants."

Bill was silent a moment. "I guess," he said.

"Why? What were you thinking?"

Another pause. "I was wondering," Bill told him. "How would you know it was the devil? I mean, everyone says this person is evil or that person, but how do you really know?"

Erin shrugged.

"I mean, the easy one is Hitler. Everyone accepts he was pure, unadulterated evil. But the people around him, they thought he was great."

"Sure," Erin agreed.

"So, I'm just wondering, what does true evil look like? And if you saw it, would you know?"

##  Twenty-One

Chris watched her walk into the shower room. God, he thought, she was beautiful. He had never really thought about it, but she was. Even in her prison uniform, she was stunning. He couldn't imagine how he had missed it. He just hadn't seen her with his new eyes, he told himself. Everything was clearer now. Almost perfect.

"Mercedes," he called from the corner.

She started, looking around. Then she saw him, and gasped.

"It's okay," he told her, "it's just me."

"What's _wrong_ with you?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Nothing," he said, grinning. "I've never been better."

"You look like you died and came back."

"Oh, that," he said, and let out a nervous laugh, "just fighting a cold."

"You said you'd never been better."

Chris thought he heard something. Let his eyes scan the bright room. The lights were too much. He squinted against the glare. "You hear that?" he asked.

"No."

"Anyway, what I meant was: I'm in charge now. Watkins is gone. I'm the man now."

Mercedes shrank back against the wall. "Warden's in charge."

Chris shook his head quickly. "Not for long," he said. "I'm gonna be in charge. You'll see."

He came up to her. Quick. Startling her. He touched her shoulder. She recoiled. He pressed closer. Until she was backed against the wall. Trapped between the cold tile and his body.

"We can have everything," he whispered in her ear. Smelled her. She smelled delicious. He wanted to taste her now. He licked her neck. So sweet. He wanted more. His lips parted, teeth coming out. Her arms were up against him now, pushing. Chris shook his head and eased back a hair, looking into her eyes.

"Our baby," he said. "We can have our baby."

He pushed forward again, kissing her soft lips. His tongue trying to enter her mouth. He was so hungry. He needed her. He needed to taste her. Mercedes lips stayed clamped. Her hands pressed against his chest. He fought her. Took her wrist in his hand and twisted. She started to cry out and his tongue flicked into her mouth. Rolling inside. Consuming her.

He felt a shock like lighting and doubled over. Realized she had kneed him in the groin.

"Stay the fuck away from me," she shouted in his face, and pushed him away. Got around him and made for the door.

"No you don't," he snarled, limping after her.

##  Twenty-Two

Phil stopped pumping a moment and said, "Did you hear that?"

Mystique said, "No," and rolled her hips.

Phil groaned. "I thought I heard someone shout," he said.

"It's a prison," Mystique told him, keeping up the workout without his help. Breathing heavy. Almost there. "It's filled with criminals."

Phil shrugged and got back into it. Watching as he slipped in and out of her, his right hand pressed against the shower stall's wall, keeping them upright.

Stopped again. He could swear he heard a man's voice now. Low and angry. There shouldn't be any men in this wing, he thought. Turned his head and listened.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Mystique spat and pushed him away. "At least pretend to be paying attention."

Phil ignored her. He knew he heard it now. He pulled his pants up, fumbled with the belt.

"What the fuck are you _doing_?"

He wasn't listening. Got his belt secured and pushed the curtain aside and came out of the stall. He heard Mystique curse but didn't care. He could hear it louder now. Coming from just outside the showers. He crossed the open space and put his back against the wall, listening. They were close.

Rolled out of the door and found Chris with a female prisoner, on the ground. Chris pounding her head against the floor.

Phil felt something inside him break. Came up behind his boss and took him by the hair. Pulled until Chris cried out and let go of the prisoner. Then Phil tossed him by his hair against the wall. Chris grunted as his head slapped against the hard concrete block.

"How's that feel?" Phil asked him, and kicked him in the side. "You fucking like that, man?"

Came up on him, looming over, and punched him in the jaw. Again. And again. Took a step back and kicked him in the head. Again. And again. Leaned back down and punched him again. Took him by the hair and pulled his head back, ready to smash it against the wall.

"Phil!" He turned and saw Mystique standing behind him, ashen.

Phil held up a finger. "One sec," he told her, and wracked Chris' head into the concrete. Pulled back for another and felt something odd. A sharp pain. Small. Like he'd been stuck with a needle. Then his muscles locked up and the world hazed and he passed out.

##  Twenty-Three

Chris couldn't move. His body awash in pain. His skull felt like it had been split open.

Maybe it had, he thought.

There were stars dancing around his peripheral. Somewhere in the distance, someone was talking in a quick, machinegun burst of words. He couldn't make them out. They just blurred together with the pain.

He tried to move his hands. Got them under him and went to push himself up. His head weighed too much for his arms to carry. He lay back down.

"Get up," the voice instructed.

He tried to tell it he was trying, but only gargled. Sipped the blood back into his mouth and swallowed.

"Get up, or you'll die here."

He tried to push himself up again, this time finding the strength. Got up to his knees and tried to look around. Everything was smoky and faint. The person was still chattering off somewhere, but he couldn't see the speaker. His head starting to clear. His mind clicking into gear. Fear stabbed deep into his chest. The voice was right, he had to move.

" _Go_ ," it told him.

Chris got to his feet. Shook his head and winced. It weighed so much, how was his neck supporting it?

Took a few steps.

Now he was walking, but he didn't know how. He couldn't remember building the momentum.

Now he was running, but to where? Everything was wrong. Everything was fucked.

"Everything is perfect," the voice reminded him. "Just keep going."

"Where?" he asked it, his voice a croak.

"D-Block."

##  Twenty-Four

Warden Bowers came out of his dream with the ringing of his phone. He glanced around, his mind fogged with scotch. The television screen was a blue blank. He flipped it off and pushed himself up off the couch. Went around it and picked up the phone.

"Someone had better be dead," he said into it.

Mystique's voice came through hurried, " _It's Phil_ ," she said.

"Phil who?"

" _Craig. Phil Craig_."

"What about him?"

" _He just almost killed Chris."_

"What?"

" _I had to tase him to get him off."_

Warden Bowers shook his head and rubbed his eyes, not understanding. "Why?" he asked.

" _It's a long story."_

"Where's Chris?"

" _I don't know. He got up and took off."_

"Why didn't you stop him?"

" _I don't know."_

"Where's Phil?"

" _He's here, on the floor."_

"Where's 'here'?"

" _Outside the women's showers."_

"What the fuck were they doing there?"

" _It's a long story."_

Bowers sighed and rubbed his eyes again. He couldn't take one fucking night off, he fumed. And, with all the shit going on, now he had his night shift supervisor running around where he shouldn't be, and getting into fights with guards, who were also not where they were supposed to be. Didn't they get it? He needed them to step up, not start killing each other.

"When Phil wakes up," he told Mystique, "I want him up here to explain himself."

" _Yes, sir."_

"And if you find Chris, tell him I want him checked for major injuries, and then I want _him_ up here to explain himself."

" _Yes, sir."_

"Keep me informed," Bowers told her, and hung up.

##  Twenty-Five

Mercedes had watched it happen in a state of utter disbelief. At Brennick, guards didn't protect prisoners. Not at the Brennick she was used to. She looked up, wide eyed, at Mystique.

"What the hell just happened?" she asked her.

Mystique looked at her like Mercedes had just materialized out of smoke. "You weren't here," she told her.

Mercedes nodded.

"Get back to your cell."

Mercedes went to get up, but stopped. "No escort?" she asked.

The guard on the floor groaned. Pushed himself up off the floor, shaking his head. "Oh, man. You fucking tased me?" he asked Mystique. "Today just keeps getting better and better."

"What was I supposed to do?"

He got to one knee, looked around and asked, "Where's that sack of shit?"

"He took off."

"Which way?"

"Warden wants to see you right away."

"That's not what I asked."

"He sounds pissed."

"Then he knows how _I_ feel," the guard told her, and stood up. "Which way?"

"Go back to your cell," Mystique told Mercedes.

The male guard turned and looked at Mercedes. "Which way?" he asked her.

Mercedes pointed.

"I said _go_ ," Mystique told her.

"Which way's your cell?" the male guard asked.

Mercedes pointed.

"Same way," he told Mystique, then to Mercedes: "I'll escort you. Wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea." He turned back to Mystique. "I had a lovely evening, but I'm afraid I have other business to attend to. Mind if I call you some time?"

Mystique shrugged. Said, "You know where to find me."

The guard smiled and nodded, then ushered Mercedes away. They walked a bit in silence, Mercedes not sure what they would talk about. She glanced over at him. Not tall. Not short. Not handsome but not ugly. Not really anything to distinguish him from a million others. She felt like she should just call him Blah.

He caught her studying him and stopped. Put out his hand and said, "My name's Phil. Nice to meet you."

##  Twenty-Six

The voice in Chris' head was reminding him that this was what happened when he didn't follow orders. Chris wanted to tell it to go fuck itself, but it wouldn't do any good: it was right and they both knew it.

His mind clearing. He could remember everything that had happened. He knew his mission. He knew where he was going. No pain now. No weights in his head. Just pure, unfettered rage and purpose.

"It's not over," he told himself. "He'll get his. They all will. That little bitch, too."

He paused at a lock, the guard inside stared at him as the gate rolled sideways. _"What the fuck happened to you?"_ he asked.

Chris passed through without acknowledging the question.

Walking down along the floor, muttering to himself, the lights too bright for him to see well. He checked his watch: fifteen minutes to lights out. He would have to hurry now, but everything would be easier in the darkness.

He passed through A Block without a problem. The prisoners watching him pass without showing any emotion. Stopped at the lock that split the passages between A-Block and B-Block and waited for it to open. When it did, he went through. Crossed the hall that ran between them and stopped at the lock leading to B-Block.

Checked his watch again while he waited.

The gate came open and he passed through and kept going.

"Everything's going to be perfect," he told himself. "No one's ever going to fuck with me again. Not after tonight."

The lights burning his eyes. Everything a bright white haze. He made it through B-Block. Went through the locks mechanically. Not even sure where he was. Just knowing he had to move forward. Get to D-Block. Do as he was told.

He made it halfway through C-Block and heard his name. Stopped and turned.

"What was that?" he asked.

"I said 'how's it going?'" the prisoner told him.

Chris blinked a few times, trying to focus. "Gibbs," he said. "Going great. Almost lights out."

"I know," Gibbs told him. "What's going on with you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know, you look like shit."

"Fine, don't worry about me."

Gibbs studied him a minute. "Warden tell you what's up in the morning? Me taking over as his go between?"

"He mentioned something about it. But don't worry, everything's going to be perfect."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Chris looked at him a moment. Studying his gray skin. His eyes, alive and boring into Chris'. He wondered what he was going to look like after. Chris would have to wait and find out.

"You'll see in a few minutes," Chris told Gibbs, and left.

##  Twenty-Seven

"What do you think that's supposed to mean?" Tall Bill asked Erin.

"Fuck if I know," Erin told him, and sat down in the corner, thinking.

"What happens in a few minutes?"

"Lights out," Erin reminded him.

"Right, but I mean, so what?"

"No idea." Erin shook his head. "Did you see that guy? Looked like he'd been through a fucking grinder."

"Looked like he got his ass kicked and then some," Bill agreed. "Like he got himself killed, then when he tried to dig himself out to come back to life, someone hit him with a steam roller."

"Very descriptive," Erin said.

"Thanks." Bill smiled.

He hadn't been exaggerating, Erin thought. Chris' face had been a tapestry of blood and slowly bruising flesh. His left eye sunken, the right already inflaming from some recent trauma. A gash on his forehead, slowly trickling blood. What looked like a boot mark to his jawline.

"Someone fucked him up, big time," Erin told Bill.

"Yep."

"Now," Erin asked, "who the hell would do that?"

##  Twenty-Eight

"This is your stop," Phil told Mercedes. She was holding up alright, he decided, as they waited for the cell door to open. After getting beaten like that, she could easily have been in hysterics. He had seen it before. Many times.

"Thank you," she said, hesitated, "for everything."

"Not a problem."

Mercedes' cell mate came up as the door rolled to the side. "What the fuck happened?" she asked, and touched Mercedes' face. Now that Phil was looking, he could see a few day's old bruises there. Under the new ones.

"No big deal," Mercedes said, and shrugged.

"You," her cellie said to Phil, pointing a finger at his chest, "are a fucking dead man."

"Jessie," Mercedes said to her, and pushed the girl's finger down. "It wasn't him. He saved me."

Jessie glared at him. "How's that?" she asked.

"Chris was..."

Phil watched Jessie's eyes go wide and then snap back down into a squinted rage. Flames rolling across her irises. "Chris," she seethed.

"I'll take care of it," Phil told her, and meant it. "I have a meeting with the Warden in a few. I don't think he'll like how his new number two spends his free time."

Mercedes looked at him balefully and then stepped into the cell. Phil didn't understand, but he had never really understood women. He didn't think anyone did.

He nodded to her, and waved to the guard to close the cell door. It started rolling back to its closed position. The latch clanked shut. Phil waved and left them. Heading to the Warden's office. He was going to do more than kick the shit out of Chris, he thought. He was going to fuck him, too.

##  Twenty-Nine

Seven minutes to lights out.

Chris passed into D-Block and made straight for Jared Patterson's cell. He was running out of time. He had three more stops before lights out. He needed this to go quickly. Smoothly.

The voice assured him it would.

He made it to Patterson's cell and peered in. The bitch was lying on the bed, reading a romance novel. Jared was sitting beside him on the bunk, sweating.

"Fifty-two B," Chris called. The door started to open.

Jared glared at him as it slid to the side. "What the fuck did you give me?" he asked.

Chris looked up at the guard on the catwalk. "Need to have some words with Mr. Patterson in private," he called. "Have someone take his lovely lady for a walk."

The guard nodded and disappeared.

Chris waited, didn't go in.

"What was it?" Jared demanded, slowly rising.

"Just a flu shot," Chris told him.

"Bull shit."

Another guard, Ryan Parker, came up next to Chris. Medium height, with dark black locks curling along his hairline. "Sam," he told the prisoner in drag. "Come on, Sam."

"Not until you call me by my real name," Sam said.

"Samuel T McBride."

"Wrong."

" _Samantha._ "

"Better," Sam chirped, and got up. Gave Jared an overlong kiss on the lips, and went out. "You look like you need some R and R," he told Chris as he passed.

Chris ignored him and stepped in. "Give me five minutes and then bring him back. I have to give Jared here a shot."

"What for?"

"How the hell would I know? Doctor tells me to give him a shot, he gets a shot."

"Copy."

"But he'll probably be asleep when you get back. I'll just be in here, waiting. Keep the cell closed until then. Oh, and we need the catwalk guards in the tower after lights out. Keeping the creepers off the fence. Pass it along to the control room."

The guard nodded and left with Samantha.

The door began closing. Chris directed his attention to Jared.

"Why'll I be asleep?" he asked Chris.

"Sedatives."

Jared flashed a gap toothed grin. "I like sedatives," he said.

"Then you're going to fucking _love_ this," Chris mumbled. Pressed a needle into a vile. The label read: POTASSIUM CHLORIDE.

##  Thirty

Warden Bowers picked up the phone and dialed A-Block. It rang twice and then was answered.

" _A-Block, Lajolla speaking,"_ the guard said.

"Have you seen Chris?" Bowers growled.

" _About fifteen minutes ago."_

"Where?"

Lajolla hesitated, then said, _"Here."_

Bowers sighed. "I got that," he said. "Where was he going?"

" _I didn't ask."_

"Have you seen Phil Craig?"

" _Negative."_

Bowers sighed again. "Fine," he said and pressed the phone's tongue in with his finger, then let it go and punched in the extension to the B-Block lock. It rang twice and was answered.

" _B-Block, Flynn speaking."_

"Have you seen Chris?" Bowers asked again.

" _Yeah, maybe ten minutes ago."_

"Did he mention where he was going?"

" _No, sir. He was pretty banged up. I asked him about it but he ignored me. Is there something wrong, sir? I thought Chris was in charge."_

"He is," Bowers told him and hung up with his finger again. Pulled it off and called C-Block's lock.

" _Just saw him. Five minutes, tops."_

Hung up. D-Block next.

" _Yeah, he's here. Said something about the doctor wanting him to give a few prisoners shots. You want me to go get him?"_

Bowers thought about it a minute. Then said, "No. It's fine. But when he's done with whatever the hell he's doing, tell him to come see me immediately."

" _Roger that."_

The guard started to say something else but Bowers hung up on him. Leaned back in his chair, thinking. "What the hell are you up to?" Bowers wondered aloud.

##  Thirty-One

Phil passed through the last minimum security lock on his way to the Warden's office. Went down the hall to the elevator and punched in his code. Waited. It dinged and the doors opened.

He went in. Pressed the top floor. The doors closed. He fingered the spot on his side where Mystique had tased him. "Shot twice, blown up, and tased, all in one day," he said. What's tomorrow gonna bring?"

He thought about his short fling with Mystique.

"Probably herpes," he admitted.

The elevator dinged again and the doors opened. He stepped out onto the top floor of administration. Went down the long hall. Passing all the offices. Ignoring them. The Warden's was the last, at the end of the hall. It overlooked the garden in the entrance, now frozen and covered with snow.

Phil had never thought it was all that special anyway.

He passed the office that read SAM WATKINS and stopped. Fucking Sam, he thought. He still wished he could have caught that piece of shit. Instead, the fucker got to kill his wife and just run away. Coward. Phil thought about going in and trashing the place. Showing Sam what he thought of him.

What the fuck was with the guards at this prison? he wondered. One kills his wife in the morning, the other attacks a prisoner at night. Had he really worked with these assholes all this time and not noticed?

He opened the door and went in. Looked around the gloom.

Sam wasn't there anymore, he reminded himself. He had run away, but in almost every possible scenario, he had been torn limb from limb and consumed by ravenous creepers.

That made Phil feel better. He smiled. Crossed the room and flicked on the light.

"Holy fucking shit, man," he gasped, turned and ran out of the room. Down the hall. Through the Warden's reception area. To Warden Bowers' door and pounded on it.

##  Thirty-Two

The guard was back with Samantha. Chris got up from his seat on the bed and nodded at him. "You might want to give him some space," he told Samantha, "after those sedatives, you wake him up, he's going to be in a real bad mood."

The bitch nodded, knowingly.

Chris took one more look at Jared lying peacefully on the bed, and went out. Patted Ryan on the shoulder. "You pass that message along?" he asked him.

Ryan nodded. "Hunter's up in the control room. Once lights are out and we've made a last pass, we'll pull everyone but me and him out. I'll be on stand-by in case something happens. Hunter'll stay in the control room. That way, I need to bust a head, he can open the doors for me."

"Good man," Chris nodded. Checked his watch. "What," he asked, "three minutes 'til lights out?"

Ryan nodded. "About that," he said.

"Fine, we'd better get a move on then."

"What's up?" Ryan asked as they started walking.

"I just have a few more prisoners to see," Chris explained. "I'll need to keep the cellmates out while I give the injections."

"What's that all about, anyway?"

"If these bastards found out what I'm walking around with," Chris explained, "it would start a fucking riot like you've never seen."

##  Thirty-Three

Warden Bowers answered the door, angry. Flung it open, barely keeping it on the hinges. "Where the fuck have you been?" he snarled.

"Sir," Phil said. "There's something you need to see."

"No, there's something I need to _hear_. Like why the fuck you were in the women's wing, what you were doing in their showers, and why the hell you kicked the living shit out of one of my guards."

"He's an asshole," Phil told him.

" _Not_ the fucking point. You may be able to run around shooting and blowing shit up on the outside, but that's not how it works in here. You _don't_ assault my guards. You _don't_ go wherever the hell you please. This is _my_ prison, not yours. And you are _my_ guard. If you don't like me, or my rules, you'll be out on your _fucking_ , _bland_ , ass!"

"Who said I was bland? That's fucked up, man."

"So," Bowers prompted, ignoring the question, "explain."

Phil thought a moment, then said, "There's too much."

"Too much? Bullet point it."

"Look," Phil said, grabbed the Warden's arm, "I really have something you need to see. Seriously. No bullshit."

"Everything I've heard for the past eight hours has sounded like bullshit."

Phil thought about what had happened in town and nodded. "That's probably fair," he said. "But you _really_ need to see this."

"I don't need to see anything I don't damn well want to see," Bowers told him, and pulled his arm back. "You don't tell me what I need, what I do, what color the fucking sky is. _I_ tell _you._ "

Phil sighed and nodded.

"Now, I want to know what the hell is going on. What happened, and I want to know now. I don't give a shit if it's 'too much,' I want it all."

Phil took a deep breath, and then rambled, "I went to the women's wing to use the shower because the civilians were using the men's shower, on the way met with Mystique, she wanted to fuck, so we did, but I heard something and went out and found Chris beating this chick's head into the floor, so I lost it and kicked the shit out of him..." deep breath, "then Mystique tased me because I guess she thought Chris had had enough, I woke up and he was gone, so I was gonna go after him but the prisoner, Mercedes, needed to be brought back to the cell and Mystique said you were pissed, so I brought her back and then came up here."

Phil paused and took another deep breath. "But on the way," he continued his fast talk, "I was going past Sam's office, and I was pissed because he killed his wife and got away – fucker – and so I went in, no real good reason because he's more than likely dead, but when I went in I found something that you really," deep breath, "really, really, really, really, really, really, really," deep breath, "really need to see."

Bowers blinked a few times. Phil waited.

"Well," Bowers said slowly, "that actually makes sense. Sort of."

"I'm saying, man, you need to see this."

"Fine." Bowers nodded. "Lead the way."

##  Thirty-Four

Mercedes lay in bed, thinking.

"I swear to God," Jessie told her from beneath, "I will kill him."

Mercedes didn't say anything.

"At least you're not defending him this time," Jessie told her. "That fucking limp dick piece of shit is going to get his day."

Mercedes thought he had already had a pretty bad one. She thought about the guard, Phil, who had saved her. What was his deal? Why had he jumped in like that? And vicious. Brutal. If Mystique hadn't stepped in, Chris would be dead right now. And why had Chris just ran away? And what the fuck was wrong with him? The world was getting so complicated.

Prisoner. Not prisoner, _representative_. Guards. Not guards, _co-workers_. Was that it? Had her station changed and now she had that "security detail" the Warden had talked about? She doubted it. Phil was a maniac. She didn't think it had anything to do with her personally.

And then there was Erin. Soon to also be the Warden's representative. A man she loathed but couldn't stop thinking about. A man she felt safe with. A man who knew how to survive.

"I'm not kidding," Jessie told her. "I'm going to shank that fuckhead if it's the last thing I do."

"Don't worry," Mercedes told her. "Phil took care of it."

"Who's Phil? Your new boy toy?"

"No," Mercedes said, and smiled, even if Jessie couldn't see it. "He's just a guy with a shred of decency."

There was a rolling sound as the lights at Brennick went out.

"Fucking prison," Jessie told her. "Suddenly it's full of nice guys."

Mercedes thought of Erin and Phil and Tall Bill and smiled even more. Rubbed the tiny – almost imperceptible – lump in her belly. There, laying in the darkness, the cold walls so thick and the shadow so complete, for the first time in as long as she could remember, Mercedes was not afraid.

Not even a little.

##  Thirty-Five

The cell closed with the sound of metal scraping metal, and Chris nodded. He was ready. The lights were out now, the world so much clearer. He thought back to when they first learned the creepers were blind during the day. That prisoner – Chris couldn't remember his name – said that the pupils dilate when the person died. Maybe that was it, Chris thought, maybe he was already dead and didn't know it yet.

"All set?" Ryan asked him.

"Perfect," Chris said.

"Alright then. I've got to do one last pass and then we'll be set for another uneventful night." Ryan thought a moment. "In here," he said. "Outside, I'm sure there's plenty of fireworks."

"Don't count the night out yet," Chris mumbled.

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing. You go about your business. I have a million things to do. You know how it is."

Ryan stared at him. He didn't know, Chris realized.

"Well," he said, "running the whole show now."

Ryan nodded. "Big responsibility," he said.

"Got that right." Chris coughed. "Check the cells."

Ryan nodded again. Set off, his nightstick swinging and slapping against his leg.

"And Ryan," Chris called. The guard turned. "Good job."

##  Thirty-Six

Ryan Parker walked slowly, enjoying the quiet. On either side of him were cells, the inmates talking in low, hushed tones. He hadn't walked the floor like this for days, and he missed it. There was something peaceful about it. Everyone knew who the Man was, and it was Ryan, if only for the moment.

For the past few days, he had just wandered the catwalks. Which was fine, but it wasn't the same. Up there, he felt like he was watching a scene play out below him. Because he was. But down here, he was part of the story. Part of the lives of every inmate in D-Block.

He stopped to tell a prisoner to quit jerking off. The guy didn't stop. He should still be asleep, Ryan thought. The fucking sedatives Chris had given him.

"Jared," Ryan called. "Jared, quit fucking that little bitch of yours or spanking it or whatever you're doing."

The smacking sound continued. Ryan sighed.

"Jared," he said, "if you don't stop it right fucking now, I'll have to come in there and kick the shit out of you. Is that what you want? Because I really don't feel like starting my night with a fight."

Ryan waited. Jared was still keeping rhythm. Grunting now. Ryan shook his head. Waved to the control room. "Fifty-two B," he said. The door began to open.

"I swear to God, Jared," Ryan scolded him. "A dick sucking isn't worth the ass whooping you're about to get."

He stepped in as the door slowly rolled right, and flinched. Jared wasn't jerking off. He wasn't fucking his gay lover. He was _eating_ him. Samantha's throat open in a gash. Blood still pouring out onto the bunk. His eyes dead and glazed. Jared lapping it up, grunting, pressing his face in for more.

"My fucking God," Ryan breathed.

Jared started and looked at him. Black eyes. He snarled.

Ryan almost made it to the bars before the creeper tore his spine out.

##  Thirty-Seven

Erin lay there. He didn't have anything more to say. He didn't want to think any more. He was done. Whatever would be would be. He thought there was a Spanish phrase for that.

"Que Sera, Sera," Tall Bill told him.

"What, are you a fucking mind reader now?"

"No. But you're that quiet that long, I figured you were thinking. Then I figured 'what's he thinking about?' Then I remembered your little spiel about how the girls didn't need to know and you didn't need to think about your family. And I figured you were thinking about your plans, and about how you can't do anything about it now. Right?"

"Fuck you," Erin told him.

"I already told you: I pay attention."

"At this point, I feel like you're stalking me."

"I live with you."

"Don't remind me."

"You're right though," Bill told him. "There's nothing you can do until tomorrow."

Erin only half heard him. He thought there was something odd coming down from one of the blocks. Them all connected only by steel gates, the noise could travel through most of the male wing before dying out. Sound waves bouncing off the concrete walls. The prisoners used it often to communicate between blocks.

"What was that?" Erin asked.

"What was what?"

"It sounded like someone screamed."

## Thirty-Eight

Chris smiled when he heard Ryan Parker scream. Everything was coming together so nicely. The voice had been right. Everything was going to be perfect.

He stepped into the control room.

Fred Hunter had been sitting in his chair, watching the TV screens. He jumped when he heard the scream, and when the film of Ryan being torn to shreds crossed the screen. He made it a step and then stopped. Staring at Chris. Not understanding.

"What's happening?" he asked. "There's... He's..."

"Go help Parker," Chris told him. "I'll keep an eye on control."

Fred nodded and moved forward. Chris waited until he was just next to him and swung around with his nightstick and hit him at the base of his neck. Fred grunted and went down. Chris stepped over him. Fred's body now between his legs. Brought the club down five times, hard. Until blood sprayed out with every strike.

When it was done, he sighed. Stepped back and looked around the control room.

"Everything's just like you promised," he said. Walked over to the PA system and keyed it.

##  Thirty-Nine

"What the fuck is all this supposed to be?" Warden Bowers asked Phil. Phil didn't know what to tell him.

"I'm saying, man, you needed to see this," he said.

Around them, covering every wall, were insane ramblings scrawled out in Chris' childlike handwriting. Prophetic omens and biblical preaching's, all shamelessly rewritten to include Chris as a deity. Phil went up to one and touched it. Pulled his finger back and smelled.

"Magic marker," he said.

"You think Sam did this?" Bowers asked.

"Unless he's got a serious crush on our boy, Chris, no."

Bowers looked at him. "What are you saying? It's his office."

"Sam's gone, man," Phil told him. "Who's the last one in here?"

"Chris."

Phil nodded. "Right," he said.

"What are you saying?" Bowers asked again.

"I'm saying we need to go get him. Now. Before he fucking kills someone."

"Chris?"

"Yes. Chris. The guy's lost his mind. He's fit for a fucking cell, man."

Bowers took two steps and punched Phil in the jaw. Phil went down. Sucked in a bit of blood as it flowed out of his gums, and spit it onto the carpet.

"Watch what you say," Bowers growled, looming over him, "that's my son you're talking about."

The PA system exploded with feedback. Both men covered their ears. Then it subsided and a low voice came across. Slow and slurring:

" _Mic check,"_ it said, _"one two, one two. Can you hear me now?_

" _Hello all of you ladies and gentlemen out in radio land. My name is Christopher Reed, and I'll be your host for this evening's entertainment."_

# EPISODE 6:

# WITH A VENGEANCE

# PART TWO

##  One

Someone screamed. A blood freezing scream that echoed off the concrete walls and danced along the floor as it made its way through Brennick.

Mike Sanchez sat up in his bunk. The scream had come from three cells over.

"Hey, Patterson," he called. "You finally break that bitch in half?"

The PA system came to life with a whine of feedback. Mike covered his ears and waited. Then the sound faded and a voice took its place. Low, slurred, he recognized it despite the synthesized tone:

Chris. Warden Bowers' puppy.

" _Mic check,"_ he said, _"one two, one two. Can you hear me now?_

" _Hello, all of you ladies and gentlemen out in radio land. My name is Christopher Reed, and I'll be your host for this evening's entertainment."_

"What the fuck?" Mike wondered.

His cell mate, Alec Young, said, "Got me."

" _For those of you who are wondering, our program will be somewhat of a beginning and somewhat of an end. You see, a lot is changing here at Brennick Maximum Security, and I wanted to celebrate that by bringing you some original content, and giving some people a bit of closure. How does that sound, by way of applause?"_

There was a pause, D-Block completely silent. Then the PA system came back to life.

" _I thought so,"_ Chris' voice came over. _"So, who's our first, lucky winner? Let's see here. Well! It's the one and only Michael Rafael Sanchez! Congratulations!"_

Sanchez sat in his bunk, not sure what he was supposed to do.

" _And this is coming from Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby Malone. Do you remember them, Mr. Sanchez?"_

Mike probed his memory. Was that their names? Yeah, he thought it was.

"Yeah," he said, "that's the old folks I killed."

"He can't hear you," Alec told him.

There was the sound of metal scraping metal and then their cell door started open. The lights came on in the cell. But not out on the floor. The door rolled to the side. Mike leaned forward, peering out of the bars to the right of the door. "Is this a joke?" he asked.

Mike heard a low, predatory growl and then Jared Patterson was inside his cell. But there was something wrong with him. He was covered in blood. His skin pale under the halogens.

And he was attacking Alec.

"What the fuck?" Mike said and pressed himself back against the wall.

Alec made a high pitched noise that started as a scream and ended in a gurgle. Mike pressed himself further back, all the way in the corner. Samantha – Jared's bitch – came through the door next, vaulted onto Mike's bunk and went after him. Teeth exposed in a long gash across half Sam's face. He skittered across the bunk towards Mike.

Mike kicked it back. The creature came at him again. He kicked it again, this time harder. The zombie flew back a few feet and almost off the bunk, but it got a hold of Mike's leg and stopped the momentum with it. Righted itself and then rocketed forward. Clamped its mouth down on the fleshy inside of Mike's leg.

He screamed. The teeth ripping through his orange uniform and into his skin. Blood poured out in a steady flow. With a ripping sound, its jaws came away, gnashing blood and flesh while its greedy fingers clawed past the torn fabric and plunged into the exposed soft tissue. The bitch's long fingernails sinking into Mike's leg, rupturing the artery. Blood tore across the wall of the cell.

Mike took a breath to scream again, but before he could release it, another one of the creatures – this one in a guard's uniform – came over the cross-dressed zombie and sank its teeth into his throat, shaking its head like a dog, tearing flesh and veins.

With morbid fascination, Mike watched his blood rise up like a geyser and fan out in a red mist.

And then, everything went white.

## Two

"And now," Chris said into the microphone, "a brief word from our sponsors."

He plugged his iPod into the system and pressed play. Heavy metal began pouring out of the speakers, flooding Brennick with rage. Chris could feel it. White hot. Like a drug, coursing through his veins. He could feel Jared down there. Samantha. Ryan Parker. Their hatred.

And he could feel something else. Even stronger: Fear.

The fear of the prisoners. The whole place stank of it. He inhaled through his nose, savoring it. Then, he sighed and leaned forward. Turned off the music and activated the microphone. Said, "Without the sponsors, none of this would be possible."

He paused, thinking. Then continued, "And let's not forget the taxpayers of our great state. Those are the people that have kept us in business all these years. Without them, there'd be nobody for you all to rape and murder and then we wouldn't all be here together, enjoying this wonderful show. And where would the fun be in that?"

He cleared his throat, coughed, and then recovered. "And one of those taxpayers," he said, "was Curtis Smith. Nineteen years young, he was shot to death by a gang member because he wore the wrong color hat. Very compassionate. And that leads us to our next big winner..."

Chris reached over to press a button but stopped. He thought he heard something. He crossed out of the control room and stuck his head over the railing.

"What was that?" he called down.

"I said 'fuck you!'" someone yelled back.

"You mean you don't want your prize?" Chris asked.

"Let me out of here and I'll show you a fucking prize. I'll snap you in two, you little prick!"

Chris laughed. "Deal," he said. Went back into the control room and opened the next cell.

##  Three

Rick Taylor hadn't meant to kill the kid. That wasn't true, he meant to kill him, but it hadn't been his idea. It was his initiation. He did what he was told.

The lights came on in his cell, and then the door started to slide right. Rick huddled in the back by the toilet, a toothbrush shank in his right hand. His cellmate, Will Johnson, to his left. A pencil the only object he could find to defend himself.

"If I get bit," he said to Rick, "just fucking kill me."

"Same," Rick said, nodded.

Waited.

He could hear them coming. Fast. They rounded the corner, the big one that had once been Jared Patterson in the lead. Rick waited for him. The bastard was a mountain. And they were moving so fast. Rick thought time would slow down, but it didn't, it went into fast forward.

The zombies flooded in – five of them now – filling the room. Rick lashed out with his shank. Expected them to jump away from it.

They didn't.

He caught the lead on in the neck with the shank but it kept coming. Its mouth open wide. Came down on Rick's shoulder and clamped down like a vice. Its weight dragging them both to the ground. Rick heard Will grunt and looked to see two zombies – both inmates – pulling his insides out. A third – this one a guard – had Will's head in its hands and was trying to gnaw through his skull.

Rick wanted to scream, but he had his own problems.

He tried to get his shank out of the thing's neck and try for the brains. He remembered something he had seen somewhere – but couldn't remember where – that zombies went for the brains. It was all about the brains. To his right, what sounded like a cantaloupe being split drew his attention that way once more. Will's head had been opened up. The uniformed creeper gorging itself on the gray pudding inside.

Frantic now, Rick put everything he had into it and the shank came loose. The creature was still latched onto his shoulder, drinking his blood. He could feel its tongue flicking over his skin. Rick brought the shank around and stabbed it into the back of the zombie's head.

The plastic broke on the bone.

He screamed.

Over the PA system, he heard Chris laughing.

##  Four

Phillip Craig and Warden Bowers passed a blank stare between the two of them, and then Phil said, "I fucking told you," and took off at a dead run. Out of the office. Down the hall. Hit the elevator. He didn't need to put his code in at this level. Pushed the button instead.

Pushed it again.

Tapping it now. Over and over. Like Morse code.

Then said, "Fuck it," and took off again. Ran to the door marked "STAIRS" and blasted through it. Going down them two and three at a time. Jumped from four up to the landing below and kept on. Around and down. Further. Brennick was five stories. He needed to get to the floor level and through to wherever Chris was.

Hit the second to last landing and vaulted over the railing. Dropped the last ten feet and landed on his feet. His knees cushioning the fall. Spun and burst through the doors onto the ground level. Ran until he hit the first minimum security lock.

" _What the fuck is going on?"_ the guard inside asked him through the speakers.

Chris had left the PA system, but now music was blaring. It was hard as hell to hear anything.

"Chris' lost his fucking mind, man," Phil told him. "Open the God damned lock."

The gate started moving. Phil passed through it. "Where's Chris?" he asked the guard.

He shrugged.

Phil took off down the hall. Ran flat out for a full minute until he reached another lock. Cursed. The gate slid to the side. He went through and started running again. Came to another lock.

"God fucking damn it," he yelled at the guard in the booth. "Just leave them open. We need to be able to move."

" _What? What do you mean 'leave them open'?"_

"Where's Chris?" Phil demanded, ignoring her question.

" _Don't know. He passed through here about...."_

"It doesn't fucking matter when. He's somewhere that has access to the PA system."

" _Any of the block's control rooms would have it. Or the Warden's office."_

Phil took off again. Trying to think. Trying to guess. Trying to find the crazy bastard before it was too late.

##  Five

"What the fuck is going on?" Tall Bill Mahone asked Erin Gibbs.

"Do you realize how many times we've asked that in the past two days?" Erin asked back.

"That's because crazy shit like this," Bill told him, and pointed at the ceiling, "keeps happening lately."

The music cut out and Chris' voice came back over the loud speakers.

" _Hey there and welcome back to... Shit, I just realized, we haven't named our little show here. Let's see..."_

There was a long pause. Erin and Bill looked at each other, waiting.

" _Let's call it the 'Fight for Your Life Party.'"_ Chris' laughter crackled over the PA. _"Yeah,"_ he said, _"I like that._

" _So, who's up next on the Fight for Your Life Party? Oh, this is a good one. Okay, so what shouldn't you do when you have three bodies in a freezer?"_

Silence.

" _No guesses? I'm sure contestant number three knows. You shouldn't hook it up to a surge protector. Because if you do, and then leave town for a week, the power could cut out and you'd have decomp running down your driveway. Sound familiar?"_

Erin remembered the case. He hadn't been involved, but all the boys at the precinct thought it was funny as hell. Far off, rolling down the halls from D-Block, Erin could hear the perp shouting at Chris. Erin didn't know why, it hadn't worked out well for the last guy.

A moment later there were screams again. High, shrill, painful screams. The kind that made your throat bleed. Erin shook his head.

" _Another satisfied customer,"_ Chris said.

##  Six

"We need a plan," Larry McInnis told his cellmate.

Jerome Baker nodded. Jerome hadn't kept a body in his freezer. That was Larry's deal. Jerome had knifed a guy in a bar fight. That wouldn't have been that big of a deal, except the guy was a cop. And he died. And when they searched Jerome's apartment they found a pipe bomb. And a Tommy gun. And a meth lab.

"So," he asked as Chris read out the crime, "what are we going to do?"

"As soon as the door starts to open," Larry told him, "you go right, I'll go left."

"What? Like run?"

"In opposite directions," Larry said, nodded, "yeah."

"Very creative," Jerome said. The light came on. The latch came free. The door started to open.

Larry bolted. Jerome followed. Came out of the cell and turned right, running as fast as he could. He heard Larry scream behind him, but didn't risk a look back. Just ran. He could see the lock up ahead, a light on in the guard's booth.

Pushed himself to make it. To get there as fast as he could. To beat those fucking things and survive this. If only for a moment. If only for the night.

Hit the lock and screamed, "Open the fucking lock!"

The guard inside shook his head. Went to pick up the phone.

Something collided with Jerome's back. It felt like a person trying to tackle him. Then pain surged through his side and he looked down: a zombie had impaled him with its hand, ripping parts of him out the side. Trying for organs. Holding him against the lock, pinning there, snarling in his ears.

His knees didn't want to hold any more. He let them go. Slid down, the creature now kneeling now. Following his side. Pressing vital organs into its mouth.

##  Seven

Phil's com unit squawked again: _"Holy shit. There's creepers in D-Block. Repeat, creepers in D-Block."_

" _Where the hell did they come from?"_

" _Fuck if I know, but they're at my lock, trying to get out."_

Phil stopped running and coasted to a stop at a lock, waving to the guard. Keyed his com unit and said, "Don't open that lock. Don't open it."

" _I wasn't planning on it."_

"You said D-Block?"

" _Roger."_

He turned to the guard in the room attached to the lock he was passing through. "Is there a way to the control room at D-Block without walking the floor?"

The guard shook his head.

"Fuck," Phil said and took off. He needed a plan. At least he knew where the fucker was now. That helped. But it didn't do shit if he couldn't get to him. Chris was in commercials again, the music pounding out of the speakers.

Phil made it to the first maximum security lock, three away from A-Block. Said, "Come on, man, I don't have all day."

The gate started open. He passed sideways through it. No time to wait. He ran another twenty feet and then stopped.

"The cat walk," he said. If he could get to the cat walk, he'd be able to cross D-Block without touching the floor. It would be a bitch, but it was better than trying to kill every damn creeper on the way.

He had to try. But that meant: "Shit," he said. "Back up the stairs."

##  Eight

"What's happening?" Maurice Avelanda asked the nearest guard. He had to shout over the music.

"No God damned clue," the guard shouted back. "Hey, you're the guy with the flame thrower."

Maurice nodded.

"Marshall," he said, and held out his hand, "we were never introduced with all that crazy shit in town."

Maurice took Marshall's hand and shook it. The guard had more than just a firm handshake. "What are you doing here?" Maurice asked him.

"Trying to sleep," Marshall said, and laughed. "What do you make of all this?"

Maurice shrugged. "Sounds like someone's having a little fun."

"Sure. But what's all the 'fight for your life' and contestant stuff?"

Maurice thought about it. Then shook his head.

"I think Chris' lost it," Marshall explained. "But I still don't know what it means."

Marshall looked Maurice up and down, studying him. Then said, "Take that off your arm." Pointed to the piece of fabric that identified Maurice as a civilian, even though he was dressed in a guard uniform. "And then come with me."

Maurice pulled it off. "Why? Where we going?"

"To figure out what it all means."

## Nine

Jessie and Mercedes huddled together in the corner of their cell. Mercedes didn't know what was going on. She didn't know what Chris was talking about. But she knew it couldn't be good.

He had been out of his mind in the showers. Now, it seemed he was in control of the prison. God, what if he was? Could Phil stop him? He could, she knew. The next time Phil got a hold of Chris; there might not be someone there with a taser. She smiled a tight, grim smile. She liked the sound of that.

The music stopped mid-song, and Chris came back on:

" _Now, Ladies and Gentlemen of radio land, we move to round two of our fantastic new game show: the Fight for Your Life Party. In this round, we move one floor up D-Block, to the C and D cells. Don't worry E, F, G and H, we're on our way to you. Promise."_

"It sounds like he's moving up the floors," Mercedes whispered.

"What gave you that idea?" Jessie shot back, her voice still hushed.

Mercedes looked at her sideways. "It might be a clue," she said. "If there's someone killing people in D-Block, why would they be moving floor to floor?"

Jessie shrugged.

" _This round's first lucky contestant once told a room full of Catholic schoolgirls that he wouldn't hurt them if they didn't tell. Now, while I can understand many of you not being offended, the state found it less than professional. They also didn't appreciate it when they found one of said schoolgirls wrapped in plastic in the trunk of Father Harold's Buick."_

There was a pause. Then Chris said, _"Don't worry Father Harold, there's no need to come on down, they're coming to you..."_

##  Ten

##

##

##

Father Harold Morgan shuddered as his name was announced. He could hear what was happening below. He didn't need to be a genius to know it wasn't good. Something was down there, and it was killing prisoners. And for some reason, the more prisoners that were killed, the more of those monsters there seemed to be. It could only mean one thing: the rumors he had heard were true.

Down the hall – the second, third and fourth floors didn't have the same open floor design as the ground. Their cells opened to a railed and chain linked walkway that led to a lock. Once through the lock, they reached the chain linked stairs. Going down them, they reached another lock which allowed them to either the next level or the ground floor – Harold could hear a cell door opening. He thought maybe – just maybe – Chris had opened the wrong cell.

Then came a shriek. Like the ones he could hear below. A furious wail. Then the slapping of bare feet on concrete.

Harold looked at his cellmate. An abortion bomber who had always preached the end being near, Tucker White, who nodded at him, knowingly.

The light in their cell came on. Then the door began to open. The wet sucking sound of the bare feet again. And suddenly a form was inside their cell. Pasty black skin and shaved head. Harold couldn't even recognize the face before the creature plunged into Tucker, knocking him to the ground.

Harold started to pray:

"Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be His..."

A zombie came around the corner and cut him off as it lunged forward, arms out, teeth bared. He brought his hands up and they locked on the thing's neck. Its hands around his. Jaw snapping as it tried to press closer.

Harold screamed in its face: "In the name of God..." and then his right elbow snapped and the creeper got hold of his throat and tore at it. Teeth shredding his flesh. The head pulled back, bits of veins wedged between its teeth.

The creeper tilted back and screamed with all the fury its dry lungs could give. Then leaned forward and resumed its meal.

##  Eleven

Brooks Pilar stopped at the lock heading to D-Block. Six foot plus and just beneath three hundred pounds of hard muscle and dark skin, Brooks made everyone nervous.

Even if he _was_ a nice guy.

"What the fuck is going on?" he ground out.

" _Nobody knows_ ," the guard rambled off in a quick, machine gun of words. " _Fucking D-Block's overrun_."

"How?"

" _Nobody knows,_ " the guard repeated.

"Every level?"

" _I don't know. But Chris just said he was moving up a floor, whatever the hell that means."_

Brooks had heard it. He had heard the whole thing. He thought about the pieces of information he had and placed them together. He didn't like the picture the assembled puzzle made.

"Arm every guard you can find," he told the man in the booth. "Keep every lock sealed tight. No one moves in or out. Understood?"

The guard started to nod, and then stopped, picked up the phone and talked into it. Then he held it out to Brooks and said through the speakers, " _It's for you, sir. Warden._ "

Brooks passed through the lock. Came around and typed in his security code to open the door to the lock's security room. Came in, took the phone, and said, "Warden, sir."

" _Do you have any idea what in the sweet Mother of Saint Paul is going on in my prison?"_ Warden Bowers barked.

"I think I have an idea," Brooks told him.

" _Then get your ass up here. You're my number two and I need you."_

"What about Pope?"

" _Fuck Pope! He was supposed to be keeping an eye on Chris. Now my boy's in D-Block apparently having delusions of Howard Stern."_

"Where's Pope?"

" _I said 'fuck him.'"_

"You don't know, sir?"

The line was silent.

" _No."_

"I'll be up immediately," Brooks said, handed the phone back to the guard and went out.

##  Twelve

Alexander Pope hugged his knees to his chest and tried to breathe slowly. Calm down. Stay silent. Not move.

He shouldn't have come here, he decided. He was pissed, and that had been understandable, but he didn't want to be here anymore.

_Here_ , was the lock separating ground level and the stairs leading up to the second floor. It was basically a cage. Chain link on all sides, with nothing more than a safe key being needed to open each of its two doors. The thought had crossed his mind that he could move up and to safety, maybe make the control room, but now with creepers on the second floor, too, he discarded that idea on the whole.

"Stupid," he whispered to himself.

After dealing with the survivors, Pope had decided the time was right to find Chris and set him straight about some things. There was no way he was going to be passed up for promotion _and_ made to do all the fucking work, too.

So, he had gone looking for his new boss. Searched through word of mouth from Admin, to D-Block and all the way to the female wing, where he deserted his search. Then, he saw the bastard passing through A-Block, and went after him. He almost caught him, too. Chris had moved up the stairs to the control room. Pope followed. Went into the stairwell. Turned and closed the gate, moved to the next side, went to put his key in and heard someone scream.

That had been... He didn't know.

A creeper came up, cocking its head from side to side. The ground level was a sea of shouting voices. Chris had retired to his loud music, and the prisoners were taking the opportunity to release a little pressure. It was driving the creepers fucking _nuts_.

The creeper came closer. It had been a prisoner. A massive one. It punched the chain link three times – the metal bending under the pressure – then tried to gnaw it open. Someone shouted something and it turned. Pope had never been this close to one. It ran for the shouting prisoner and reached into the cell, somehow got the poor bastard close enough and clamped on. Pope heard the prisoner screaming. The others joining in. Then Chris was back on and Pope covered his ears, trying to forget any of this was happening.

##  Thirteen

"Squires and Ladies, please," Chris said into the microphone, swarthy, in control. "We would appreciate it if you would keep your applause until after the program. The performers tend to get a bit flustered if they're heckled."

Chris thought he could hear the voice laughing in his ears. But he wasn't sure anymore if it was the voice or him that was laughing, and which was actually speaking.

"Next up in our star-studded line-up is none other than the OG-Triple-OG himself: Jamal 'Abu-Wazeeri' X." Chris laughed. "Come on," he said, "that shit got old like thirty years ago." He thought a moment. "Oh, I guess it was probably very trendy in your day.

"Anyway, the fine rebel leader of the Black Panthers, Abu-Whatever got his rocks off killing cops in the seventies. His Modus Operandi was to cut off their hands and feet, some deep symbolic meaning for the struggle of the black man. So, now, the Big Reveal..."

##  Fourteen

Jamal "Abu-Wazeeri" X – not his real name – shrugged. Small, shriveled, his once tan skin now pale from lack of exposure. He didn't need a fucking guard to talk shit to him. He had heard it all. Never topping out above five six and reaching the plump weight of one forty only once, the little, blonde-haired California boy had been ridiculed by everyone from the Black Panthers to the cops and back again. By now, his heart was nothing but scar tissue.

"Fuck man," his cellmate said, and paced. His name was Paul Greenburg and he had been born long after Jamal had been incarcerated. "I fucking _knew_ he'd pick you. You fucking joke."

"Fuck you," Jamal spat at him. "I did more for the cause than..."

Paul came up fast and punched him. Jamal shrugged. He'd gotten used to that, too.

"Cutting off their fucking hands," Paul continued, "did you even do that shit?"

Jamal nodded. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"What? Your momma didn't hug you enough?"

Jamal shrugged again. "I thought it would be cool to be a revolutionary. No one ever told me you had to be black to be a Black Panther."

The light came on in their cell.

"Fuck," Paul seethed. "I make one God damned mistake. One. And I end up in this shit hole about to get fucked to death with this asshole."

"You got sent here after your fourth violent felony," Jamal said.

Paul looked at him. "Yeah," he said.

"I would think, then, you made at least _four_ bad decisions."

The door to their cell began to open. Jamal stood. Paul started to back away from the door. His eyes locked on it. Not even noticing as Jamal moved in behind him.

Jamal heard the animal cry of the zombies as they moved in on the source of light. He stepped up close to Paul, holding his breath. Not wanting to alert his cellmate. He could feel Paul's body heat as he moved within a centimeter.

They came. A rush of clawing, snapping, violent bodies. Jamal closed his eyes for a split second, then brought his hands up and pushed Paul as hard as he could.

##  Fifteen

Marshall pulled Maurice along behind him. "Now," he told him, "I'm assuming you had to know some shit to get past all those creepers. Back there in town, you couldn't have just had that fucking suit and torch, you had to go get it, right?"

Maurice nodded.

"So you've got some moves," Marshall said, returning the nod. "And you had some balls walking out into that fucking crowd. So, I figure you and I have a real good shot of figuring this out and putting an end to it."

"And then what?"

Marshall stopped, turned and glared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Then what?" Maurice repeated. "Who the hell is in charge of this place, anyway? We've been here less than a few hours and already we've been strip searched, separated from our families, humiliated, and in some cases beat. And now there's a mad man on the PA calling out...."

"Exactly." Marshall nodded. "We don't know. But I can tell you this: We're putting an end to it. Tonight."

The look in Marshall's eyes told Maurice he was serious. Maurice nodded and Marshall started walking again.

"Where are we going?" Maurice asked again.

Marshall pointed to the coms unit he had turned back on. "D-Block," he said.

##  Sixteen

Jamal didn't wait to watch the zombies take Paul apart. He made a left out of the cell and ran. Passing cells in a blur. Prisoners shouting at him as he passed.

He made the gate and slammed into it. Tried to open it: locked.

"Fuck," he said, pounded on the chain link. Turned and ran to the nearest cell.

Four eyes looked back at him, hiding in the darkness.

"Give me something," he told them. "I can't get out. Gate's locked. Give me a shank. Something to pick the lock. Come on!"

One of the prisoners came up to the bars. Jamal didn't recognize him in the gloom. He said, "Get away, man. Stay the fuck back. Last thing I need is those fucking things after me."

Jamal reached out for him, but the guy jumped back. Then they were on him. Pulling. Tearing. Biting. Dragging him away. Jamal tried to hold on to the bars. His right hand came free under the pressure. The left held. He tightened his grip. Knuckles white. Then, with a sickening tear, the elbow separated and Jamal was gone. Lost in the sea of dead flesh.

The arm held for a moment. Then a creeper came to the bars. Pried the fingers open. And took it away.

##  Seventeen

Phil reached the top level – above the fourth floor by a few feet – and typed his code into the lock. Stepped through and onto the cat walk. There was no one else in sight. Not at this height. He leaned over the railing and looked down fifty feet to the ground level. It was complete chaos.

Creepers were running everywhere. Big ones, little ones, ones in orange and some in blue. Creepers made from prisoners and guards alike. It reminded him of a particular scene in a movie or game he had played, but couldn't place it.

Shrugged it off and let his view trail up. The second floor was engulfed as well. Not as many: maybe a half dozen. There weren't many more on the ground level but they were much more active. The sound of the prisoners shouting sending them into a fury, running from cell to cell, searching for food.

The prisoners on the second floor were wisely staying quiet.

Phil started across. Still unsure how he would handle this. The catwalk ran in a giant horseshoe around the Block. Cells on either side of each floor; the cat walk could survey each one and fire down upon them at will. It was nearly impossible to reach. One lock to get into the guts between D-Block and C-Block. One lock for each floor. And then another. This one using an individual password for each guard. So that if someone got up high without the proper permission, it would trigger an alarm with the highest ranking on duty.

Phil's coms unit came to life: " _Craig,_ " Bowers' voice called him, " _what the fuck are you doing on D-Block's catwalk?"_

Phil looked down again. Music pumping out hot in the moments after Jamal "Abu-Wazeeri" X had bitten it, agitating the creepers. They ran across the ground floor, zig-zagging, following the shouting. Running along the railed walkways of the second level, pounding on cell doors. He watched them from way up there, and wondered why he didn't have some sick-ass sniper rifle. He could almost see them pixilated through his X-Box's scope.

" _Phillip Craig, I asked you a question."_

Phil keyed his mic and said, "Have to get to the control room, sir. Chris is locked up in there tight. Got creepers in D-Block. More every minute. Every time Chris opens a door, we've got two more to deal with."

" _And what the hell do you plan on doing about it?"_

Phil smiled. "I'm gonna stop it," he said.

##  Eighteen

Warden Bowers brought his right hand down hard. "What the fuck is going on?" he roared.

Brooks said, "Chris' about as sane as a Christmas ham."

Bowers glared at him.

Brooks shrugged. "You asked me. I told you. And what's all this 'my boy' stuff?"

"I ask the questions," Bowers snarled. "Not you."

"Sir," Brooks said, and stepped his massive body closer, "with all due respect: from what it looks like, we've got a man in this prison opening cells so creepers can snack on the inmates."

Bowers kept up his intense stare.

"And you called that man 'my boy' a few minutes ago."

They both waited. Neither spoke. Neither moved. The Wardens' computer made a noise and he sighed. Turned from Books and typed in a command. Stared at the screen a moment, then said, "Phillip Craig is on the catwalk above D-Block."

Brooks nodded.

Bowers picked up his phone. Dialed. Talked to the man at the lock. Hung up. Walked up to Brooks and took the coms unit off his shoulder and keyed it. Called Phil. Spoke to him. Then stuck it back to Brooks' shoulder. Stepped back around his desk and sighed again.

"God damn," he said.

Brooks nodded. "What now?" he asked.

Bowers looked off and thought for a few moments, then looked at Brooks with eyes the man had never seen and said, "He's my son."

"Phil?" Brooks asked, confused.

"No, damn it, Chris."

Brooks nodded. "That makes sense," he said slowly.

"What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Brooks shrugged his massive shoulders. "Nothing, sir."

They went silent. Then Bowers leaned back in his chair, set his hand on his belly and asked, "What was I supposed to do?"

Brooks shrugged again. "Not for me to say. You're the man, Warden."

Bowers nodded and leaned forward, studying one of his most loyal guards. "Phil's going to kill him, you know that," he said.

Brooks nodded.

"So?" Bowers asked.

"It's your decision," Brooks told him. "What's more important: your son, or your prison?"

##  Nineteen

Marshall and Maurice stopped at a lock. Marshall waved. The gate didn't move. Marshall walked up and rapped on the Plexiglas barrier, pointed at the gate. The guard inside, Russell Kent, shook his head.

" _Brooks has us completely locked down_ ," he said. " _No one goes nowhere_."

Marshall glared at him. "You know what's going on?" he asked.

" _Hell if I know, but Chris seems to be having a blast."_ Russell pointed up, apparently indicating the music screaming out of the PA system.

"Open the lock," Marshall said.

" _No_ ," Russell told him.

"Yes."

" _Hold on, let me check something."_ He turned around and looked at a form. Hung it back on the wall. Turned back around. Clicked back on the microphone and said, _"Still no."_

Marshall punched the glass. It didn't even bend. Two inch ballistics grade. It hurt like hell, too.

" _That was mature,"_ Russell said.

"Fuck you. I'm trying to figure out what the hell is going on here, and you're in my way. Do you know what happens to things in my way?"

Russell shrugged.

"They get taken out of my way. One way or the other. Now, which is it?"

Russell shrugged again. Didn't open the lock.

"Fine," Marshall said. Stomped away. Headed down the hall to the last lock they had passed through. Typed in his password and entered the office, Maurice in tow.

"Who's he?" the guard inside asked, pointed at Maurice.

Marshall ignored him and picked up the phone. Dialed Warden Bowers' office. It rang once and then Bowers answered and snapped, " _What?"_

"Marshall, sir. I'm trying to get to A-Block, two locks away, and they just shut me down. Said no one can move in or out of anything."

" _Right,"_ Bowers told him. _"We don't need this thing to spread."_

"What thing?"

" _The damn creepers. We've confirmed D-Block is crawling with them."_

Marshall digested that a moment, and then said, "Then we need to send a team in and secure that block. We can't just leave them there."

" _Negative. We need damage control, then I'll consider sweeping it."_

"Warden, sir, please. Let me do something. You can't expect me to go back and rack out with creepers running around. Not like I could with this fucking music so loud."

Bowers was silent a moment, then said, " _Alright. You can go in. I need you to find Phil."_

"Phil? Why?"

" _He's in D-Block."_

"What the hell is he doing there?"

" _Trying to stop Chris."_

"Okay." Marshall nodded. "And you want me to help him."

" _No,"_ Bowers told him. _"I want you to stop him."_

##  Twenty

Tim Harper didn't like it. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to go to work, sit on his ass, and open the fucking front gate. He never wanted to be in D-Block. He never wanted the night shift. He was an early bird. Now, here he was, guarding the lock that led from the space between C and D-Blocks, to D-Block proper.

And it was driving him nuts.

Another creeper was at the lock. Hands reaching through. Two more were pounding on the Plexiglas, through the bars on the other side. Their hands bloody and smearing the thick glass. One of them he had seen die. Then watched get back up a minute later.

And what could he do about it? Not a damn thing.

The music cut out and the phone rang at almost the exact same moment. He picked up the phone just as Chris' voice came back on the PA, and tried to ignore Chris and concentrate on the phone.

"Harper speaking."

" _Harper,"_ Bowers began. _"How's things look on your end?"_

Harper looked at the creepers running around, from cell to cell. Banging on his booth. Reaching through the bars. Shook his head and said, "Not great."

" _Well, you just hang in there ol' buddy. I've got a few people on the way to help you out."_

"You're relieving me?" Harper asked him, hopefully.

" _No. You'll need to get them into D-Block."_

"You want them to go in there?"

" _Just do what you're told,"_ Bowers ordered, and hung up.

Harper sighed. Hung up the phone. Looked out through the Plexiglas. On the second floor, another light had come on.

##  Twenty-One

Erin Gibbs didn't even bother to listen anymore. Chris was rambling about some convict who had done something terrible. But Erin was doing his best to close his mind down. It wouldn't do him any good to listen to each one. He needed to center. Be prepared for when he became a player.

And he had no doubt it would come to that.

Once Chris got bored with D-Block, he would move on. Erin didn't know how the actual security system at Brennick worked, but he had to assume that if he wanted to, Chris could fling open every lock and let the fuckers go rabid throughout the prison.

He had to assume it was possible, even if it wasn't, just to be safe.

"You still alive up there?" Tall Bill asked him.

"Yes."

"I think Chris just smoked the Butcher."

Erin nodded in the darkness. Listening to the slowly dying screams. "Sounds that way," he said. "He's building up to something. Each time he comes on it's shorter than the time before. He's almost to his grand finale, if I had to guess."

"Shit," Bill breathed. "What the fuck could that be?"

"Don't ask questions," Erin told him, "that you don't want to know the answers to."

##  Twenty-Two

Phil looked over the edge of the railing, down at the floor, the creepers running wild. Then adjusted his view to center in on the control room. It was just ten feet below him, but the angle was bad.

He could approach it two ways: he could hang off the catwalk and try to swing onto the walkway below, but that would be no good. The chain link blocked him. He'd skip off and wouldn't land until he hit ground level.

That left option number two: hang off the catwalk and try to catch the chain link surrounding the stairs leading up from the third floor to the fourth. From there he could climb his way up to the stairs running to the control room – which had no chain link because there was no way for the prisoners to access it – and climb over that. And then he'd be good.

So long as Chris hadn't locked the door.

Phil thought about it, still leaning over the railing. Really, he decided, he had one option. And that was it.

"Fuck it," he said. "It's time to fight the boss."

##  Twenty-Three

Brooks came out of the lock and marched over to Marshall. Looked at Maurice, said "What's he doing here?" and started walking towards the next lock before Marshall could answer.

"I thought he could help," Marshall said.

Brooks grunted and waved to the guard inside. This time the gate started to open.

"Quick question," Marshall said. "Why are we stopping Phil, exactly?"

"He's going to kill Chris."

Marshall nodded. The music cut out and Chris came back over the PA:

" _And now, dear listeners, we get to the fun part. No more hints as to who's next. We're now entering the bonus round. That means it's all about playing the odds. There are a hundred and sixty five cells in D-Block. Two men to each, save for the few empties. I've opened... a few. Let's call it an even one fifty. For this next round, I'm opening five – maybe all on the same floor, maybe not – so you've got a one in thirty chance of being creeper food. Who feels like playing?"_

Brooks continued walking briskly. Got to a lock and waved. It opened.

Chris' maniacal laughter echoed through the prison. _"There's nothing like a captive audience,"_ he said. Then the music started going again.

"So," Marshall continued as they passed through the lock, only one remained before A-Block. "Just, real quick: why are we trying to stop Phil, again?"

##  Twenty-Four

At the word "creeper" Mercedes flinched noticeably. Jessie looked at her and said, "What?"

Mercedes didn't answer.

"What's that supposed to mean, 'creeper food'?"

Mercedes was quiet. Jessie waited, looking at her.

Mercedes didn't know what to do. Could she tell her? Should she? She hadn't fully believed it, even when she had seen the evidence. But now...

She had to tell Jessie. If only because she wouldn't stop asking until Mercedes broke. She started to say something, and then clamped her mouth shut.

"Damn it, Sadie, what's going on?"

Mercedes held up her hands and said, "You won't believe me anyway."

"Try me."

Mercedes sighed. "They're zombies," she mumbled. No way for Jessie to hear over the music.

"What?"

"Zombies," she mumbled again.

"Jesus, I feel like I'm dealing with a five year old. What the fuck are you saying?"

"Zombies! There are fucking zombies outside, killing everyone. The guards call them creepers. Chris must have let some in and now..."

Jessie stared at her. A single tear rolled down one cheek.

"Now he's feeding prisoners to them," Mercedes finished.

##  Twenty-Five

Alexander Pope couldn't take it anymore. Chris had just opened two cells on the ground floor, one on the second and two on the third. One of the cells had held two creepers. How the hell had he gotten them into cells? When? He had only been back a few hours. And Pope was sure he had been locked up in his office for most of that time. It didn't make any sense.

He decided it didn't matter. There weren't any on the top level – fourth floor. And if he could get there, he could pass through the final gate and be at the steps to the control room. Then what would he do?

He didn't know. He figured it would come to him.

He opened the gate and mounted the stairs to the gate that lead to the platform on the second floor. Opened it and crossed the platform. Not bothering to close or lock either of the gates he had passed through. Opened the next and went up to the third floor. Repeated the motion and started up the steps to the fourth floor. So close now. His heart racing.

He got to the last two gates. Fumbled with the keys and dropped them. Bent down and picked them up. Put the key in the lock and heard a crash above him.

He looked up and saw Phil latched on to the chain link roof of the stairs.

"Hey Pope," Phil said, and then started climbing.

##  Twenty-Six

Phil stepped over the railing and held on tight with his hands behind him. Looked down at the stairs and sighed. He could see someone running up them. Not a creeper. He was using keys to open each gate.

Took a deep breath and pushed himself off.

Rotated in the air so he was now facing the stairs. Hit them and bounced a bit. Got his right hand to catch and followed it with his left. Looked down and saw Pope staring up at him.

"Hey Pope," he said and went up. Climbing at a forty-five degree angle. He got to the top, curled his fingers around the edge and flipped down onto the stars, three steps from the gate.

"That was fun," he said. Behind him, the gate opened in and Pope walked up next to him.

"What the fuck were you _doing_?" Pope asked him.

Phil looked at him, and then scoffed. "We can't all take the easy way," he said. "Come on."

##  Twenty-Seven

Brooks got to the lock at D-Block and peered through.

"Holy shit," he said.

"You can say that again," Marshall told him.

"Holy shit," Brooks said again.

D-Block was crawling with creepers. There had to be twenty or more. And they weren't just milling around, stumbling into each other. They were attacking anything they could find: prisoners behind bars, guards behind glass or bars, each other, anything that moved.

"We're not getting through that," Brooks said.

"What if we're armed?" Maurice asked him. "We can get some rifles and sweep it out now, before it gets worse."

Brooks thought about it. It made sense to do it now. If Chris let too many more go they'd never be able to contain it. But that meant dealing with Chris, and Bowers said he wanted him alive and well. Anyone else that needed to suffer, they suffered, but Chris survived.

The music stopped and Chris came back on:

" _It saddens me to say this, but we're coming to the end of our program. It's been fun, and will continue to be, but we're running out of time. And so, with great fan fair, I announce the lightning round. Everyone on ground floor, your time has run out..."_

Brooks, Marshall, and Maurice watched as every cell on the ground floor began to open. They could see – through the darkness – hands wrapped around bars, trying to stop the doors from moving.

It wasn't working.

It seemed some of the cells were already filled with creepers. Brooks guessed some of them had been bitten through the bars. All it would take was a fatal wound and there you had it: not one, but two creepers. The infected person would turn, and then attack his cell mate, who would turn.

In a rush, Brooks understood everything. How it had happened. Where it was going. How it would end – best case scenario, and worst. Most of all, he understood that there was only one way Chris could have gotten the creepers in in the first place: he had _made_ them.

"Shit," Brooks said.

"What?"

"It just got worse. A lot worse."

##  Twenty-Eight

Chris tried to think, but it was getting harder. The voice had all but taken over now. Chris hadn't spoken a word for... he didn't how long. He was being pressed down. Into darkness. He could only hear faint sounds, like he had been submerged in water and someone was speaking on shore. It sounded like his voice. But he couldn't be sure.

He tried to decide if he had done everything the voice had instructed, the way he had instructed. He thought he had.

He now had two turned on the fourth floor. Four on the third. Ten on the second, and about eighty on the ground floor. Assuming everyone would turn, and they would. There was no way even sixty prisoners could overpower twenty creepers without anyone getting infected. It was a numbers game, the voice had assured him.

And, if the voice had been right about what would happen next, the other prisoners would be trapped. The creepers inside would have food.

For a while.

"Long enough," he said, but no sound came out.

Strange.

But there was something he was supposed to do. Something very, very important. He couldn't remember what it was. But he should be doing it right now.

What was it?

Oh, he remembered. The syringe. Now, how did that thing work? He was supposed to push this button. The needle popped out. Clever, he thought.

It was supposed to go into his heart. A direct adrenaline shot to the heart. That was supposed to make his heart beat faster, which would pump a last shot of oxygen to his brain. Stop the deprivation.

Perfect.

He smiled. Curled his fingers around the syringe, his thumb on the plunger and held it out. He was so tired. Everything was so black and cold. He brought the syringe back in a stab, pressing the plunger down as it struck.

##  Twenty-Nine

Warden Bowers knocked back another shot of scotch and burped. Wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

Pressed a key on his computer and brought up the surveillance feed from outside:

Creepers pressing against the fence. Flashes of machine gun fire as they were cut down. Dozens of them. More tonight than the night before. More every single night, he thought.

He typed a few keys and the picture changed, now a feed from D-Block:

Creepers, dozens of them. A frenzied mass. Pulling prisoners from cells and tearing into them. The ground floor was a total loss. There was no way anyone was making it out of there alive.

And what about Chris?

He let the thought linger as he poured another finger of scotch into his glass and tossed it down his throat.

"Hell," Bowers said, "he's never been much of a son anyway."

Mama's boy, he thought, even took the bitch's name. Didn't want to be Chris Bowers anymore. Not good enough. Sure, it was okay for his old man to get him a job. Of course, he ran around the prison like it was his own personal playground. But continue on his father's name – never.

"Fuck him," Bowers swore. Poured another shot and took it.

But he couldn't just write him off. Blood was blood. And just because everyone else was having their loved ones turned into the undead, didn't mean Bowers had to go through it.

But... Jesus, he'd let creepers in! He let fucking zombies walk right in the door. Or something similar. How had he even gotten them inside in the first place? Bowers wondered. He looked back at the screen, studying it. Everyone was dead now. Bodies littering the concrete floor in every stage of gore. Creepers kneeled or sitting or standing, all eating.

Then there was movement from one of the corpses. A hand. It moved out, and pressed against the floor. The arm pushed and the body rose. Then there was more. More getting up. More and more. Like sprouts shooting from fresh soil, they all rose.

And turned.

And made for the lock.

##  Thirty

"Get tear gas in that fucking block," Brooks ordered over the music. Chris hadn't been on the PA for ten minutes. Just the music now, blaring down. Causing everyone's nerves to fray. It was worse now, with a wall of creepers pressing against the bars.

"You really think that'll do any good?" Marshall asked him.

"It couldn't fucking hurt anything."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Maurice told him. "We need a plan. This isn't crowd control anymore. We have to kill them, not make them cry."

"And you'd know what?"

"He made the bite-suit-flame-thrower deal," Marshall said. "Let him talk."

"I highly doubt the Warden's going to let us use dynamite, flame throwers or any other damn thing that could harm the rest of the prisoners or the guards. You think he wants to take the whole prison down?"

"What about flash bangs?" Maurice asked. "We throw one in, it goes up, they'll all go to the sound. Then we mow them down. The survivors will go for the gunfire – we throw another flash bang."

Brooks thought about that.

"See," Marshall said. "The guy's fucking smart."

"Or," Maurice continued, "could we at least start by getting the lights back on? If we had the lights on, they'd be blind, right? That's what you guys said."

"Lights would be run out of the control room. Which we assume Chris now owns..."

"Who we're trying to protect," Marshall sneered.

Brooks ignored him.

"Wouldn't the Warden be able to control them from his office, too?" Maurice asked.

Brooks nodded. "What did you do," he asked Maurice, "before this?"

"I was an engineer."

Brooks nodded again. "I bet you were a good one."

"Thanks." Maurice looked between the two men. "So," he said after a moment, "the lights?"

##  Thirty-One

Erin sat up as the lights came back on. "That's new," he said.

"Guess they figured we weren't sleeping, anyway."

Erin nodded. "Or, the creepers are nocturnal," he said.

Tall Bill nodded back, sitting with his back to the bars. "Funny how long it took them to remember that."

"Funny wasn't the word I was thinking." Erin hopped off the bed and went to the bars, standing next to where Bill was sitting. Looked out, trying to see down the long hall. "I expect they'll be fighting back now," he said.

Bill nodded again. "That's good, before he made it all the way to us."

"Takes time to organize. When something like this happens, no one knows what the hell to do."

"When's the last time something like this happened?"

Erin shrugged. "Think about Nine-Eleven. How long was it before anyone knew what the fuck was going on? Long enough for them to crash _three_ planes. Or even the outbreak. Okay, so you saw how many people were at those fences, right?"

Bill shrugged.

"So, think about all the people in the world. All of them trying to figure out what to do, and suddenly there's zombies everywhere. Cops, soldiers, fire fighters, boxers, WWF – all those guys. Anyone could have maybe saved themselves and their families, yet almost no one did. Warden said they were bringing two buses of people back from town. Two buses. Out of all the people in town."

"Sure."

"That's all that were clear thinking enough to survive."

"This good ol' boy shit, where you defend the guards and the Warden is really starting to get old," Bill told him, and yawned for effect.

"I'm just saying: now we'll see the fireworks."

"Which reminds me," Bill said, "what ever happened to Chris' grand finale?"

##  Thirty-Two

Phil paused when the lights came back on. Looked at Pope. Pope shrugged. Phil took a step further. He didn't know what he was going to find when he walked into the control room. And the fact that he was completely unarmed had occurred to him – too late, of course – and it was making him uncharacteristically nervous.

Was Chris going to be sitting in the corner with a machine gun pointed at the door? Phil wouldn't put it past the little prick.

He looked at Pope again. The two of them could handle Chris no problem, he decided. Besides, Phil was going to enjoy kicking the shit out Chris.

Again.

He took another step and made it one down from the platform. Stopped, took a deep breath, and went up. Hit the platform and ran across it, slamming against the wall next to the door. His back to the wall. Waiting for Pope to do the same. He did. They looked at each other, and then stepped into the control room together.

The music was just as loud in the control room as outside. But, now that the lights were on in the block, the room seemed cold with the darkness. Against the far wall, hunched over the desk, a TV screen in front of him flickering with snow, sat Chris.

Phil and Pope approached cautiously. Pope went to the right. Phil the left. Walking slowly. As quietly as possible despite the throbbing music.

"Chris," Pope said, his voice just a whisper, lost in the noise.

"Chris," he tried again. "You alright?"

Phil got closer. Pope did as well. Chris didn't move. Didn't respond.

"Chris," Pope said, louder now, shouting. "You alright?"

They each took a step closer.

"Hey, _asshole_ ," Phil yelled. "You're pissing everyone off, man."

Chris didn't respond.

Phil came up next to him. Chris motionless over the PA's microphone. Phil reached for it, Pope made a sound like a gasp, and Phil stopped. Looked at him to make sure nothing was wrong. Pope's eyes wide. Unsure.

Phil continued to reach out. Touched the iPod and unplugged it. The music stopped immediately. Phil jumped back. Ready. Waiting for Chris to react.

Chris didn't move.

Pope leaned forward and looked at him, squinting. "I think he's dead," he said.

Phil shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense," he told Pope. "Who killed him? I beat his ass, man, but he ran away after that."

"Could've been internal bleeding or something. Maybe it set him off and then he hemorrhaged to death."

Phil didn't buy it. He stayed alert. Watching Chris. Pope leaned further forward, studying him. Then he sighed and said, "Well, shit, that was anti-climactic."

Phil relaxed a fraction of a hair. Then, in a burst of rapid movement, Chris was up, out of his chair, and on Pope, ripping his face off.

## Thirty-Three

##

Brooks took another handful of flash bangs from Marshall and set them next to the gate. They would need them close, but couldn't carry all of them. Maurice, Marshall, and Brooks would carry four each – two in each pocket – and Harper would lob one every few seconds from just beyond the gate. Tossing it over the crowd and praying he didn't hit one of the guards.

"Where the hell is Marshall?" Brooks shouted over the music.

Two seconds later Marshall walked up with another box of full magazines. "It's a long walk from the armory," he explained.

Brooks nodded and slapped a clip in his AK. Jacked a shell in and then set it down. Pulling out magazines and stuffing them in his side pockets. Maurice did the same. Though he had told Brooks he had never fired a gun, he expressed immediate admiration for the design of the Aptomov Kalashnikov 1947.

"Simple. Deadly. Rugged," he had said. "Perfect for the job."

Harper took up his post next to Marshall and Brooks, Maurice behind the two armed guards. They would go in the same way. Marshall and Brooks side by side. Maurice behind. Harper staying right where he was standing. Another guard, Brad Quinn, would operate the lock.

Brad was the only one Brooks was worried about.

Scratch that. He was worried about Brad running the lock because Brad was a rookie, and under pressure he might just close the fucker and strand them. But Brooks was also deathly worried about Harper. If shit went wrong, he realized, Harper would probably _order_ the young bastard to close the lock.

"We ready?" Marshall asked him.

Brooks nodded. Sighed. Motioned to Harper, who waved to Brad to open the gate.

Brad reached forward.

The music stopped.

Brad's hand stayed there, frozen in time.

Everyone looked around. Brooks cocked his head. "Now what?" he asked.

They waited. Waited for Chris to come back on and announce the latest victim. Waited for a minute. Then two. Brooks was trying to figure out the game. There had to be an angle. What was Chris up to?

Brooks looked at Marshall, who shrugged. Then Harper. Then back at the lock. Beyond it, creepers were pressing harder against the gate. The mass getting denser as they tried for the only living flesh left within reach.

"I..." Brooks said, and then his coms unit erupted with frantic calls for help.

##  Thirty-Four

Mercedes looked at the ceiling as the music stopped. It was eerily quiet now. The silence like a void in the darkness. She had no way of knowing what was happening, but the music dying out seemed like a good sign.

She slowly got up from the corner. Jessie following. Approached the bars, peering out. The floor was deserted.

"Hey," she called to the cell next to theirs. "What's going on?"

"How the hell would I know?" one of the inmates called back. "Whatever that freak show was, I guess it's over."

Mercedes nodded and retreated to her bunk. Passed Jessie and climbed up. Jessie crawled into her bunk beneath Mercedes, silently. There was nothing for them say.

Was it over? Mercedes hoped it was. She hoped the long nights and empty days were a thing of the past. That the Brennick she had lived in for years was over. That the Brennick she had seen over the past few days had started and ended, and the new Brennick could start in the morning.

She hoped the armed guards were gone. That the violence and rapes were over. She hoped that in the morning, the sun would rise and the world would be cleansed. That the blood would be washed from the grass and the fence and the walls and concrete. That it would be gone from her hands and those of her captors.

She hoped the world would be at peace. She hoped it for herself, for her child, for Jessie and Erin Gibbs and Tall Bill and every other prisoner. The guards. The Warden. But most of all, for her unborn child.

She hoped all these things, but even as she did, she doubted. Something deep inside her, embedded into her DNA from so many generations of descendants, from so many long, hard years of her life, told her that it wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

It was all just getting started.

##  Thirty-Five

Phil didn't have time to save Pope. It was too late for him. But he could use it to his advantage. If Chris stayed occupied long enough, it would give Phil those precious few seconds he needed to end the fucker and be done with this whole episode. Put it behind him. Have some fun clearing D-Block.

But that after this. After Chris.

He took three steps, Chris on top of Pope on the floor. Walked up and drop kicked Chris in the head. The creeper lifted from the force and fell backwards against the desk, his neck smacking the hard edge. It only took a split second for it to recover.

Got its feet under it and lunged at Phil. Arms out, teeth bared. Phil was off balance, and the creeper tackled him. He got his legs up between himself and the undead Chris and flipped it off to the side. Sent it crashing into computer towers.

Outside, the lights flickered a few times, but remained on.

Phil rolled and got to his feet. Snatched the keyboard off the desk. The creeper came at him again. He brought the keyboard up along the right side of its face. The creeper went left. The keyboard shattered. Little keys flying around the room. Phil searched desperately for another weapon. Chris getting back up now.

There was nothing. More keyboards. The monitor. He picked it up and hurled it at the creeper just as it was coming off the floor. The screen hit it full in the face, knocking it backwards again. Phil ran up and tried to jump on its head, but landed wrong, the back of the monitor not perfectly flat. He went sideways and landed on his shoulder, slid a few inches. Now between the zombie and the door.

Tried to get back to his feet. Creeper Chris got the monitor off its head and threw it back at Phil. Phil never seeing it coming. Just as he got to his feet, there it was, in the air, coming at him. It struck him hard on the chest. He tumbled backwards. Out the door. Down the stairs. The creeper running after him as he rolled.

Phil went through the gate. Swiveled on the floor and slammed it shut in Chris' face. Held it there with his feet. Kicking off the hands as they reached through to snag him.

He needed to lock it to be safe. But how?

He snatched at the ring of keys on his belt, got them in his hand after the third try. Picked the right one. Let the gate open enough to give the creeper momentum and then kicked it back shut. Chris went flying onto the stairs behind him. Phil jumped up and slid the key in. Turned the lock and heard the bolt slide true.

Turned and ran for his life down the stairs.

##  Thirty-Six

" _One coming out,"_ Phil's voice came through the coms unit. _"Coming out hot."_

"You can't expect us to open this lock," Brooks told him.

" _That's exactly what I expect you to do."_

"We've got about a hundred creepers pressing on this gate. If it starts to open, there's no way we're keeping them in."

" _A distraction,"_ Phil reminded him, breathing hard, obviously running. _"Like with the buses."_

Brooks looked at Marshall, who shrugged. Maurice passed him another flash bang. Brooks thought a moment. He no longer had any interest in saving or protecting Chris from anything. Fuck the Warden. But Phil... Phil had gone in and risked everything to stop it. That was the kind of men Brennick needed.

"Fine," Brooks said. "How long?"

" _I can do a mile in seven, but I never had creepers coming after me before."_

"Two minutes?"

" _Sounds about right."_

"Fine," Brooks said again. "We'll open halfway and then close it. That gives you about a thirty second window to slip through. After that, you're on your own."

" _You're the best."_

Brooks turned to Harper. "Get those flash bangs ready," he said. "We're gonna need them."

##  Thirty-Seven

Phil's plan hadn't worked out, and now he was on plan "just-trying-to-survive."

He had figured once he was locked in the stairway he could wait it out. Hang tough and wait for the cavalry to come and sweep the place clean. Sure, he wouldn't get to participate, but he'd have plenty of time to play after he made it out. The key was to survive to play another day.

But something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Chris was following him. Through the locked gates. Somehow. Phil turned and slammed another shut. Locked it and watched in confused amazement as Chris stopped at the last gate he had locked, took out his keys, and opened it.

"What the fuck, man?" Phil asked. Took off down the last flight of stairs.

Things were going to get sticky pretty soon. Once he was through the last gate he was going to have to run flat out, through a sea of creepers to the lock, and pass through untouched.

He likened his odds to bumping into Jesus at a strip club.

Maybe slightly worse than that, he conceded.

Got to the second to last gate. Went through. Slammed it shut and locked it. Watched Chris pass into the final stairwell. Not slowing down. Phil turned and unlocked the gate to the ground floor. Took a deep breath and swung it open.

##  Thirty-Eight

"Now!" Brooks bellowed, and Harper let a flash bang fly through the space between the bars. The thing flipped a few times before landing with a metallic sound somewhere past the mass of creepers.

Seconds ticked by.

The thing exploded. The sound deafening. The concrete walls allowing no dulling as it rolled along them and moved past Brooks and Marshall and Maurice and Harper.

The creepers turned and started breaking off. Going to it. Blind in the bright lights. Driven only by their animal instinct and rage.

Brooks nodded to Brad, who – shaking – hit the switch. The gate started open. As soon as the space was large enough, a creeper pushed through. Brooks shot it in the head. Another was through. Then two more. Marshall executed one, Brooks hit the other.

"Another flash bag," Brooks called. Harper pulled the pin. Drew his arm back. Was taken to the floor in a rush by a creeper as it slipped through the gate, closed the space in a blink and clamped onto his forearm. He screamed. The flash bang went skidding along the slick floor. The creeper got its knees on Harper's chest, his wrist held tight in its jaw, and then it pressed up and tore the arm away in a blast of red oxygenated fluid.

The flash bang rolled to the wall of the booth operating the lock to C-Block, and exploded. The blast knocking down Marshall and Maurice. Brooks the only solid thing to stay standing. The force of the explosion shattering the booth's Plexiglas window. The pieces now held on only by the embedded mesh.

Creepers were streaming in now. Brooks trying to stem the flow. Mowing them down. Reached into his pocket, took a flash bang out. Pulled the pin and lobbed it through the open gate.

A creeper passed him in the instant it took to throw the bomb and ran full bore for the shattered window. Jumped through head first. Its shoulder and body weight bringing down the mesh. It tumbled inside and went after the guard. The man fell back. Hit the computer's keyboard.

The lock to C-Block began to open.

##  Thirty-Nine

Phil ran.

His muscles screaming. His mind a blur of pain, adrenaline, and fear. Creepers everywhere. Up ahead, something exploded. He tried to steer around it. Knowing the creepers would converge there.

He ran into two creepers, splitting them, and sprawled. Got back up as fast as he could. Kicked one away from him. Took back off.

Gunfire now. From the lock at the end. The chatter making its way along the ground floor. How much farther did he have to go? A hundred yards? Tops, he decided. Time to pour it on.

He risked a glance behind and could see the crowd parting. Moving around something.

Chris.

Coming at him at a dead run. Blood caked on his pale face. His prison uniform rumpled. His dead face a mask of white hot hatred.

God, Phil thought, if you're up there, fuck you.

And ran.

##  Forty

"What the fuck is going on?" Erin shouted as the feral screams filtered down C-Block. Something was wrong, and he knew it. Those screams were from _inside_ C-Block. Not D-Block. The gunfire and explosions didn't put him any more at ease, either.

"Open the cell," he shouted at the guard on the catwalk. His voice like a beacon for the creeper. "I can help. I'm the Warden's go-between! Open my damn cell!"

The guard looked down, said something into his coms unit, and then nodded.

"Come on," Erin told Bill. "We're putting a stop to this."

Turned when he heard the latch move and the gate start opening. Waited. Someone ran up to the cell door. Reaching through the slowly opening space. Trying to get Erin.

Erin jumped back.

"Close the fucking door!" he roared. The bars kept moving. The creeper slipped through and was on him in an instant. The bars stopped moving. Then began closing again.

The creeper came up close. Tackling Erin onto Bill's bunk. Jaws gnashing at him. Trying to get a good bite. Erin held it off. His muscles pressing it back. Bill threw a boot at it.

"Not helping," Erin growled. Flipped the thing off the bed and jumped on top of it. Got his knee on its throat and punched it. Again. Again. Pressing down with his knee, trying to collapse the windpipe. Not sure if that would accomplish anything anyway.

Bill came up next to him and kicked it in the head. Two times. The thing tried to bite his foot. He thought better of it and looked around.

" _Help_ me here," Erin ground out. Pressing down with his knee. Bill looked around a moment, then snatched something off the sink and handed it to Erin.

Erin took the thing – he didn't know what – and brought it down with all the force he had on the creeper's head. Again. Again.

Heard glass break. Again. Again.

Saw clear fluid running along the floor. Again. Again.

Saw blood running with it.

Looked down at the mangled mass that had once been the creeper's head. Sighed. Stood up. Looked at his hand. He was holding the shattered remains of his snow globe. The father and son ice skating. Bloody. The father figure broken in half. Embedded in the creeper's head.

He stepped away. Went to the sink, and set it down. Blood puddled with the last drops of water. White flakes swirling inside the bright red.

##  Forty-One

Maurice pushed himself up and looked around. Pandemonium. Brooks was holding the majority of them back. Firing wildly into the mass as they tried to move through the lock. The gate closing now. Phil running out of time.

Marshall was on the floor. A creeper atop him, feasting. Harper, dead, laid out in the corner. Maurice took two steps and sprayed the creeper atop Marshall. Then kicked it off and shot Marshall in the head. Then he stepped up and shot Harper in the head, too. Not taking any chances.

Behind him, he heard a screech and turned just in time to see a creeper coming out of the shattered window of the booth. He brought the rifle up and pulled the trigger. The creeper went back like he was pulled by a chute and slapped wet against the wall.

Maurice trotted up and fired into the booth. Eviscerating the remains of the guard.

Brooks said, "What the fuck," from behind him and Maurice spun. The creepers were falling back. Parting, and moving away from the space left open by the slowly closing gate. Maurice ran up next to him. Leveled his rifle.

"What's going on?" he asked. "I thought they were mindless."

"I don't know."

Maurice stared as the gap widened. There was something coming. He could see Phil now. Running for all he was worth. But why would they let Phil through? It didn't make any sense.

Now he could see someone else. Running after Phil. Chasing him. Maurice recognized him:

Chris.

##  Forty-Two

Phil could see the creepers parting. Letting him through. But why? Then he realized they weren't parting for him. They were parting for Chris. Letting him go past. Like he was their king. Like he was controlling them.

But was he?

He couldn't be. It wasn't possible. A million zombie books, movies, games, Phil thought, no way. And besides, if he was, they'd be converging on Phil.

No. It was something else. And how could Chris have opened those locks? He was a fucking _zombie_. None of it made any sense.

He gave every last drop of energy he had to his legs. Ran through the parted sea of creepers. Slipped through the lock sideways just as it closed.

Chris slammed into it. Reaching out. Trying to snag Phil before he could get away. Didn't make it. Phil stopped and doubled over. Panting. He looked at Brooks – too traumatized to move. Maurice – frozen. Then, finally, he looked at Chris. Standing there. Glaring at him. Blood clotted and streaked across him. Eyes black. Skin white and dead.

Chris nodded, took two steps back, and smiled. "Perfect," he said.
