

Industry of Death

by Jason R. Thornton

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 JASON R. THORNTON

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
INDUSTRY OF DEATH

Copyright © 2013 JASON R. THORNTON
Prologue

Tyler knelt among the trees just outside of Fairfield, Idaho. The town was nothing more than an intersection of two minor and remote mountain highways. Before the coming of the zombies, the town's industry had been a gas station with an adjoining diner that had catered to travelers vacationing in the nearby mountains and wild rivers of the region. The gas station had long since been abandoned, but the diner was in full operation. White smoke billowed from a newly built chimney and a light breeze carried the smell of frying bacon to Tyler.

The breeze also brought the scent of zombies, but they were safely harnessed and secured to the vehicles they were meant to power. Zombie power, once it had been discovered, had fueled the redemption of the human race from the brink of extinction. Zombies provided power for personal vehicles, homes, communities, and the new post-apocalypse industries. Zombie power was also the reason that Tyler knelt among the trees just outside of Fairfield, Idaho.

****
Zombie power had been discovered, quite by accident, by Chuck and Margette Smith when they were fleeing from Reno, Nevada in Chuck's old Ford F100 Ranger pickup truck. The truck was solidly built and the 'straight-6' engine was as reliable as the day he bought the truck in 1968. Unfortunately, the gas they had siphoned forty miles ago wasn't as dependable. Just outside of Reno, the contaminated fuel clogged the jets of the truck's carburetor and the engine died. Margette pushed in the pedal of the old truck's clutch and slipped the transmission into neutral, allowing it to continue coasting forward at highway speeds. Chuck climbed out the passenger window and wormed his way into the truck's bed. Crouching within the bed, while the truck moved, he found a hefty three foot section of metal pipe that he kept there and prepared to make his final stand.

The truck coasted for a full minute, before finally coming to rest on a long stretch of open highway. Margette didn't bother setting the parking brake when she exited the cab. She was carrying a small twenty gauge shotgun. She would have preferred to have been armed with a heavier twelve gauge shotgun, but all the stocks of larger caliber ammunition had been used up quickly in the early days of the zombie apocalypse. She shut the door to the pickup and climbed into the bed.

They had at least one hundred rounds of ammunition for the shotgun, but Margette could see that the horde following them numbered over five hundred. They could run, but a small horde like the one coming would exhaust and overtake them within eight hours, or quickly tear through any fortifications they could erect if they found shelter. "No," she thought. "This is where I will make my stand. This is where I will die, and if God is cruel, the only zombies to leave this massacre will be those of myself and Chuck. If God is kind, I'll have two bullets left."

Chuck and Margette had a few minutes before the zombies would catch up. Zombies couldn't run, but that didn't mean they were slow. Fresh zombies could manage an awkward stiff-legged gait, effectively moving at a slow jog. While they waited, they opened each box of shotgun shells and carefully set them on top of their other supplies in the bed of the pickup. The shotgun held seven rounds in the tube, but required manually reloading new rounds into the tube once it was emptied. She was quick at reloading, but she would lose precious seconds if she had to fumble for rounds and open new boxes.

Their plan was simple, Chuck would kill zombies on the right side of the truck, and Margette would kill zombies on the left. If either died, the other would continue to fight until he or she couldn't fight any more. So far their plans had worked. They always killed all of the zombies they had encountered in the past, but they had never been caught in the open before or faced a horde of more than several dozen.

Just before the first of the horde slammed into the back of the truck, Margette leaned over and kissed Chuck on the cheek. "Love you, Babe," she said, then took up a ready stance with the shotgun to cover the left.

The horde from Reno contained a large number of 'fresher' zombies, and they reached the truck at nearly the same time. They gave no cries, or bellowing calls, the only sound was the scraping and padding of feet upon the pavement. They hit the back of the truck hard, causing both Chuck and Margette to stumble forward. A second wave was immediately behind the first, and they slammed into the backs of the first group, almost as hard as the first group had slammed into the pickup truck. The first group had been trying to climb up, but they were caught by the press of the second group and pinned to the back of the truck. More zombies quickly swarmed in and forced the first rows of zombies tighter and tighter to the back of the truck. Chuck and Margette found themselves focusing their efforts on the side of the truck, where the zombies were still free to move.

They didn't notice that they were rolling forward until they saw that the zombies, the ones trying to climb up the sides of the truck, had to continue walking forward while their ragged fingers reached for the sides of the bed. Chuck took a moment to glance forward, confirming that they were indeed moving, and also saw that they were drifting towards the shoulder of the road. After smashing a zombie's face as it reached for the truck, he looked at Margette and said, "We're moving forward, get up front and keep us on the road. I can hold them off from here."

Surprised, Margette looked around and saw that they were moving. Instead of jumping down and entering the cab through the driver's door, which would put her within reach of the zombies alongside the truck, she knelt down and blasted the back window with the shotgun several times. Then she kicked at it until she had forced open a jagged hole large enough for her petite body to squeeze through. She was careful as she wiggled through and managed to only get a few scratches in passing. Her thick jeans protected her backside and legs from the shards of glass as she sat down behind the wheel and began guiding the truck down the center of the highway.

They traveled for another twelve hours as the zombies behind continued to push the truck forward. Chuck smashed their undead skulls the entire time. The end of the pipe he was using snapped off twice and he was forced to quit using it when it placed him too close to the reaching zombie hands. By that point the horde numbered less than fifty and he began using the shotgun. When Margette spotted a gas station ahead on a remote section of the highway, and after they verified that there were no zombies lurking within its shadows, Chuck quickly dispatched the final twenty zombies with the shotgun.

They fixed the truck and refilled it at the station, but they had learned how to harness zombies for rudimentary power, and as they travelled in the future, they began to use zombie power more often. Others saw, and learned, and adapted, and improved. Eventually, zombies became their own unit of energy measurement. No one knew what gave them their strength or their energy, but whole hordes of stinking, rotting zombie flesh were used to turn massive generators, providing power and electricity for a recovering world.

****

Tyler had been part of that recovering world.

He surveyed the vehicles outside the cafe again. There was only one 'zombie-powered' rig, an old RV-styled vehicle, good for traveling long distances and keeping the owner safe as he slept at night. There were several saddles horses and also two horse-drawn wagons. Tyler couldn't tell what was piled in the wagons, but it was most likely basic trade goods, harvested from the mountains. There was only one gas-powered vehicle in the group that appeared to be in working order, and it was a menagerie of repairs, welded armor, and stacked crates that were nothing like the corporate vans or mercenary rigs that he was watching for.

He sat quietly for another minute, before the smell of bacon and a hint of coffee emboldened him. He left his pack and rifle hidden in the tall grass and casually walked across the road with nothing but his good luck charm and a small pistol holstered at his side. Confidently, he opened the door to the café and stepped inside.

****

Tyler stood in the entrance of the café and surveyed the room within. It was dark, the only illumination provided by poorly designed sky lights and narrow slats in the boarded up windows. A few LEDs, probably jerry-rigged to cheap solar cells on the roof, were placed at strategic locations within the café to provide meager lighting at each of the tables and on the counter. Seated at about half of the tables were dour, stone-faced men and women. They watched Tyler with the hardened eyes of survivors. The alien light of the LEDs, intensified that look, creating sharp and sinister shadows upon their faces.

Tyler ignored them. They were mountain people, wary and irritated by rabble such as himself, even before the zombie times. Eventually, though, they would move closer and the look upon their faces would change to one of deep interest. It always did when he told his story. The story of why he was 'then and there' sitting among them.

He walked to the counter and sat down on a barstool in front of the café's patron. Tyler didn't know if the man in front of him was the owner, the head cook, or simply an order taker, but the wide welcoming smile on the man's face said that Tyler was a welcome guest. He was rather well dressed for a restaurateur, but a person could dress in whatever clothes he wanted to in the post-apocalypse times. The clothes weren't fancy, with ruffled lace or made of silk, but they were in a newer condition and made with quality materials. The man's face wasn't clean shaven, having a full day's growth of stubble, but neither was Tyler clean shaven. It had been well over two weeks since he had taken the opportunity to trim his beard to more manageable lengths and it gave him a wild look.

The man leaned forward and placed his hands upon the counter in front of Tyler. He said, "Welcome to Fairfield, Idaho and to the Fairfield Café. I'm Tom, 'the owner, manager, and head chef of this fine establishment." He stood back up, with pad and pen in hand and said, "You're obviously new to our fine region, so I suggest a basic beef steak with grilled potatoes and onions. We also have deer and elk, but unless you're accustomed to it you won't enjoy it as much as a slice of our truly free-range cattle."

Tyler nodded, adding, "That would be great, thank you."

The owner Tom was just turning to prep Tyler's meal, when he hesitated and reached for a porcelain coffee cup instead. He placed it in front of Tyler and as he began to fill it with fresh coffee he said, "Coffee's on the house if you've got fresh news from the valleys below."

Tyler answered, "You better make a full pot," and took a sip of the hot drink.
Chapter One

Stokers

Tyler had begun his work for the Corporation as a stoker. It was an easy job, but one that few could do and even fewer could do well. He had lived in the 'wilds' during the zombie apocalypse. The experience was ideal in preparing him for duties as a stoker. Living in the 'wilds', outside of protected zombie free zones, meant that he was forced daily to deal with the undead. One's fear is overcome and knowledge of everything zombie becomes ingrained upon the survivor that lives in the wilds. A stoker's job is easy, but only the suicidal or the massively confident can stand alone in a room with several dozen zombies and purposely antagonize them into a blood-thirsty rage for more than a few moments. Tyler was one of the latter — massively confident.

Tyler could work a full eight hours or more if required. Stokers were never allowed to carry weapons to prevent them from shooting zombies in their fright, but Tyler always brought his good luck charm. It gave him the final boost of confidence to overcome his own personal caution, to become a success.
He never applied for the job, or even ventured out of the wilds to know what a stoker was. He had been living in a small North Dakota town, scavenging for sustenance and suppressing wandering zombies when the Corporation came to him. A crew of zombie hunters from the Corporation had entered the town, looking for zombies to capture and return to the electrical plant in Fargo. When they entered town, Tyler approached them, somewhat more cautious of the living than of the dead.

The hunters travelled in a convoy composed of several diesel trucks pulling cattle cars, several armored motor homes which provided support for the crews, and another diesel truck that was pulling a cattle chute mounted on a trailer. Before he made contact, Tyler watched as the vehicles parked in the center of town. The trailer with the cattle chute was placed directly to the side of one of the cattle cars, with the upper run of the chute lining up with a door in the cattle car. Peering from afar at the cattle trailers he saw movement inside them. As he continued to stare, he saw brown and black rotted finger reach through small openings in the cattle trailer, grasping for the living men working outside of the trailers. The men spent several minutes connecting the chute to a cattle car, and then everyone climbed back into their vehicles and secured themselves inside, with the exception of one man. He climbed to the top of the cattle car, attached to the cattle chute, and began calling out in a loud voice, "Soui, soui, come and get your dinner."

It dawned on Tyler what they were doing. He had heard about zombie power in his travels and knew that they had value as a commodity, but never before had he seen the collection of the undead. He had always assumed that areas around the safe zones had an abundant supply.

Unfortunately for the men, Tyler's current home was free of zombies at the moment. From behind cover, he called out, "Hello, there are no zombies here." He waited a minute, for knowledge that there was a living human present to sink in with the new arrivals, before stepping out from his cover into full view of the people in the trucks.

The man on top of the trailer, a fat man in a sweat stained t-shirt and shorts called back to Tyler, "What's that you say? No zombies here?"

Tyler replied, "No, I've killed them all."

The man furrowed his brow in consternation and said, "Well then." He looked around for a few moments and then decided that what Tyler had said was true. Recklessly for a man of his size, he descended rapidly from the trailer and began walking toward Tyler. He raised his hand to give a signal that the area was clear and motioned for the rest of the crew to join him. Walking up to Tyler, he offered his hand and said, "Hello, my name's Reed."

Tyler took the offered hand, answering, "Tyler. Nice to meet you."

Reed motioned back toward the vehicles in his convoy, "Nice to meet you also. We've got fresh grub if you're interested. I don't know how long it's been since your last contact with anyone, but I would love to sit down and hear how you've been doing. Maybe get an idea of some local concentration of zombies and help clear them out for ya?"

Tyler followed as Reed led him towards the vehicles. "I travel a lot and usually meet other travelers every few days, but it's been just over a week since I've seen anyone. A lot of people are starting to head to Fargo for the safety of the Fargo safe zone, regular jobs, fresh food and to expand their opportunities for meeting the opposite sex." Tyler paused and motioned around him. "Personally, I'm comfortable traveling and luxuriating in the spoils of pre-apocalypse culture..." He grinned, not sure if he meant it, then continued, "...but I'm always more than willing to spend quality time with the living."

They walked to one of the large recreational vehicles and Reed held the door open for Tyler. Inside, he found the interior that had once been designed to provide maximum comfort for the original occupants had been gutted with the majority of the reclaimed space devoted to providing prepared food for the Corporation team. Toward the front of the RV, several tables had been set up restaurant-style in order to seat as many people as possible in the limited space. The rear of the vehicle was wholly devoted to a very well stocked pantry and a well-equipped, but modest-sized galley. Reed indicated the two people already on board and said, "Roger and Chris. The kitchen is their responsibility. They rotate duties between cooking and driving. Personally I prefer it when Chris drives. Roger's a better cook."

Chris, a brown haired woman in her forties scowled at Reed, which turned to a bright smile as she waved at Tyler. "Hi," she said.

Roger also smiled and said, "Hey."

Reed motioned to the booth. "Have a seat. I'll have them put together a quick sandwich." He looked toward the two cooks at the back and asked, "Sound doable?"

Roger answered, "No problem at all. You okay with a BLT? We've got left over bacon from breakfast. The tomatoes and lettuce are still fresh."

The prospect of fresh bacon was a luxury he hadn't enjoyed for a very long time, since before the apocalypse. Hungrily he replied, "Oh yeah, that would be awesome." He had been able to find fresh tomatoes, still on the vine, but fresh bread and lettuce that hadn't turned bitter by the time he found it were as rare as bacon.

"Hey, you want a beer? We got a good selection," asked Reed.

"No, not right now, but if you're willing to part with an amber ale, I promise to enjoy it later," replied Tyler.

Roger brought the sandwich and set it down in front of Tyler. Sections of orange, most likely from a can, served as a garnish. A moment later, Chris set down a full glass of cold milk next to the plate. Water beaded on the side of the glass, evidence that the milk was thoroughly chilled.

Tyler picked up the sandwich and took a huge bite, savoring the full salty flavor of the BLT. He accepted the gift of food without reservation or guilt, for it was customary to share food with travelers whenever they were encountered. It was also customary to share information and news. Tyler knew he could provide plenty of useful information to these people.

Half-finished with the sandwich, Tyler set it down and picked up the glass of milk. In one gulp he drank three quarters of the glass, somehow tasting every ounce of the elixir. He set the glass down and looked at Reed, who was sitting across from him. Several other members of the crew had also entered and sat down at the different booths. "What do you want to know?" he asked with a smile.

"Well," Reed began, "if you haven't already guessed, we're hunting zombies. Live zombies, if you can call them that." Reed's expression changed to a slight frown and he raised his hands in a frustrated shrug. "But as you well know, there are no zombies here." He brought his hands down and pointed at Tyler, changing his frown to a grin. "But you know where the zombies are. Don't you? You know exactly where they are."

Tyler took another bite of his sandwich before answering, "Yep." He waited a moment, and then said, "Any particular location? Do you have a preference in types of zombies or concentrations?"

"We like them fresh and concentrated, but not so many as to constitute a horde," answered Reed.

Tyler knew just the place, where the zombies were fresh, undamaged by exposure to the elements or injuries incurred in the hunt for the living, and concentrated, having been isolated since the very beginning of the zombie apocalypse. "There's a large grocery-'slash'-department store in the next town over, to the west. I estimate that there are about fifty to one hundred zombies inside." The store was a treasure trove of supplies, but Tyler had avoided it because of the overwhelming number of zombies. He could handle a few at a time in an enclosed space, but there were simply too many in the store to risk it. There were enough supplies in the area that he just avoided the store, grateful that the barricades that they had built to keep the undead out also worked to keep them in.

He continued with Reed. "If you want, I'll take you there and maybe distract the zombies while you tear down the barricades at the entrance. So they can get out into those trailers of yours."

****

For Reed there was no question. It was a done deal and he said so. They would be able to pack their trailers to capacity and then some with the zombies from the store, and then return home with a full load. The zombies weren't exactly fresh, grade-A zombies less than a week old, but they should definitely be grade-B zombies, whole and undamaged by exposure to the weather or encounters with the living. But then again, grade-A zombies would degrade to B if they took too long getting them back to Fargo. Reed had nearly a full trailer of grade A's, 'rescued' from a recently over-run football stadium. If he got back to Fargo, they'd earn him and his crew a bonus and another week before they'd have to head back out for another harvest.

Reed knew that it was a good deal for Tyler, clearing the large store. They'd grab some high value items, booze and cigarettes mostly, but everything in the store would be Tyler's after they departed. "He can have it," thought Reed. The idea of living alone in a vacant store held no appeal to him.

****

As Tyler rode with Reed toward the store, he outlined his plan. "The entrances are heavily barricaded. If you try to crack them without a distraction, the zombies will be on you and your crew in seconds. There are several skylights towards the back of the store. Once on top, I head to the skylight furthest from the entrance and bust out the glass. It's covered with a heavy duty metal grate, but I won't need to go inside, just break the glass. Then, I'll start calling them in. Once I have their focus, you'll be able to pull down the barricades. There's a tall ladder that I left at the rear of the store when I first scouted the building that I'll use to climb up."

Reed asked him, "What are the barricades like?"

"They're a mix of the typical barricade items, shopping carts and store shelves. That's the exterior section of the entrance, but the interior doors are barricaded with plywood which is reinforced with two by four studs. You can safely pull out the exterior barricades, but you'll need tools to dismantle the interior barricade," answered Tyler.

"We got the tools," said Reed. "Plywood ain't nothing. You won't have to distract them but for a few minutes."

"So what've you heard about Fargo?" asked Reed, unexpectedly changing the subject.

"Just third and fourth hand stories. I haven't met anyone who's actually been, except you," answered Tyler.

"So what have you heard?" repeated Reed.

"I've heard that it's safe, and that you can walk on the streets... unarmed. I've heard that the food is fresh and that you can eat a hot meal without attracting hordes of the undead. It's just like it was before the apocalypse is what I've heard," said Tyler.

"Well, that's all true," said Reed. "Plus everything that was too expensive for blue collar workers before, like me, can be bought for a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of booze or a hot meal. That's just for regular folks. Zombie Wranglers like me and the crew here — we can have it all — the best food, the finest homes, the most beautiful women. Yep, you're right... for those willing to work hard, it's just like before." Reed paused for a moment, and Tyler saw a momentary look of irritation on his face before he continued, "The refugees though... you don't want to be a refugee. They're rabble, just clamoring for hand-outs from the Fargo mayor or from the corporate bosses. They get squeezed into the old apartment buildings and are satisfied to eat the government gruel." He looked at Tyler. "But you, you would do well. I can see that you wouldn't be satisfied with the 'refugee' life. Yes, you would indeed do well."

Tyler asked, "What's government gruel?"

"Oh boy, let me tell you. It's nasty. There are warehouses and warehouses of food stockpiled from before. Food meant for distribution at the grocery stores before the zombie apocalypse. The government brings in truck-loads of boxed food. Drives it into the safe zone and what isn't rotted gets dumped in big pots and boiled into gruel. Doesn't matter what it is; cocoa-flavored breakfast cereal, liver-flavored cat food, or hamburger helper, it all gets dumped into the pot and ladled out."

"If people aren't willing to go out and find work, then the government isn't going to go out of its way to cater to them. 'Food, shelter and de-lousing', that's the official government policy, or at least that's the rumor. Personally, I agree with it. I'm risking my life every time I come out here, why should some poor lazy bastard be living better than me, who's working for it? There's plenty that needs done. Even the street sweepers got a good lot, but too many of the refugees think it's beneath them to do manual labor. Honestly, I don't know how they survived the zombies. Luck of the draw maybe." Reed paused, aware that he was on a rant. He continued, shifting the conversation, "But here I am ranting again. I know you'd do well and if you ever need a job, the offer is open."

Tyler answered automatically, "I think I'm happy out here."

****

They drove for another twenty minutes. It had been a long time since Tyler had ridden in a vehicle and he was fascinated with the scenery, comparing the differences of foot travel with his current mode of travel, high up in the passenger seat of a diesel truck. At first, every time they passed homes, vehicles or other buildings along the route, he wanted to scream at Reed that he was being reckless in not checking for zombies before approaching such an obvious hazard. The tension passed after several minutes, but he still surveyed each site as they passed and stored the information for later use.

He had glanced once at Reed and noticed that the man appeared to be studying him as he drove.

They were approaching an intersection where they would need to turn. Tyler said, "Turn left here, but take it slow. There's a Dodge pickup that smashed into a couple cars near the intersection. It blocks part of the road. You can see an old corpse that's caught up in the front axle, probably when the driver smashed into the zombie in the early days. You can also see where it bent the truck's steering linkage underneath. Probably, forced the truck into a hard right turn and crashed it into the other cars, from the looks of it."

"You think we got enough room?"

"Yeah, plenty, even for the trailers and RVs," answered Tyler. "Once you make the left, you go two blocks and make a right into the store's parking lot."

Reed slowed down and entered the intersection to make his left turn. He had to swing the truck all the way to the right of the road in order to help clear the trailer past the wrecked truck. Looking down he did indeed see a corpse wedged up into the front wheel well of the truck. The flesh had rotted away long ago, leaving only dark stained bones and rags of clothing. The corpse's skull was crushed and a single skeletal arm stretched out from the wreckage, resting motionless upon the pavement.

A minute later they wheeled into the parking lot. Reed pushed hard on the brakes and cursed loudly. It hadn't occurred to Tyler before, but looking ahead at the store he could see what had made Reed curse. Abandoned cars, trucks and vans littered the parking lot at the front of the store, blocking access for the trucks and trailers of Reed's convoy.

Reed looked at Tyler, the irritation being replaced with a look of apology. "I forget sometimes that people living out here don't think about traffic anymore. This will take us half an hour or so to clear up. Why don't you help pull security while we drag some of those vehicles out of the way in order to get a clear shot at the entrance for these trucks?"

"No problem," said Tyler. "Sorry about not saying anything about this."

Reed replied, "Like I said, it's not something you shoulda remembered. But it is something I shoulda remembered to ask. Hop down and go see Mark in the red truck. He's in charge of coordinating security. And don't get bit by any zombies, cuz we still need you."

Tyler climbed down from Reed's truck and located Mark at his red truck. Mark sent him to keep watch on the right hand side of the store while the rest of the crew worked to clear a path to the entrance of the store for the trucks.

Tyler watched as Reed unhooked his own trailer and used his truck to clear the path to the entrance of the store. He worked quickly, fastening a crude hook and chain to one vehicle at a time and dragging them out of the immediate area. When Reed and his team had formed a clear path to the entrance, they re-attached the chute trailer to Reed's truck and backed it, along with an empty cattle car, to the entrance. They parked the vehicles, leaving room for the crew to disassemble the barricades.

Tyler was still waiting and keeping watch when Mark and Reed returned from their work. "Alright Tyler, we're ready to start tearing down the barricades. Mark is going to head up with you so we can maintain contact and coordinate our efforts."

Tyler noticed that both were wearing small portable radios clipped to their belts.

"No problem," answered Tyler. "You ready, Mark?"

Mark nodded his head. "Yep. Let's go."

Tyler led Mark around the side of the building to the rear of the store. He was careful as he went, always alert for zombies even though he had reduced their numbers to zero in the surrounding areas. He found the ladder where he had left it. He carried it to the store's elevated loading dock and raised the ladder to the roof. He mounted the ladder and ascended to the roof. Mark followed him up a moment later.

They walked from the edge of the roof to the nearest skylight. It was as far from the entrance as any of the other skylights at the rear of the store. Tyler un-shouldered the small .22 caliber rifle he carried and rested its butt on the ground. Nobody thought twice about openly carrying weapons anymore, beyond noting the condition, make and model. Tyler had noted long ago that Mark was carrying an H&K MP5 sub-machine gun. It was a decent close quarter and short range weapon and only wasteful if placed into full-automatic fire mode. The supply of 9mm ammunition was still high, due to the popularity of 9mm weapons with the police, military, and civilian self-defense markets before the zombie apocalypse. But even after noticing and assessing Mark's weapon, he hadn't given it a second thought since first meeting him.

They stood there in silence, waiting for the signal to go ahead. They only had to wait a minute before the radio squawked with Reed's voice. "Mark... go ahead and start distracting the meat."

Mark looked at Tyler and motioned with his eyes toward the skylight, indicating 'to go ahead'.

Tyler stepped to the edge of the skylight and carefully slipped the butt of his rifle into a space between the metal of the grate covering the skylight. With a jerk he slammed the butt of the rifle into the glass of the skylight. The tempered glass of the skylight failed to shatter, shocking Tyler as the butt of the rifle thudded against the surface. Irritated he placed a foot on the metal of the grate for better leverage and tried again. He slammed the rifle four more times against the glass before it finally shattered. He watched as the glass dropped to the floor, landing on a crowd of zombies starting to gather below.

He stepped back off of the grate and lay down on the roof so that his face was directly over the hole in the skylight he had just created. As soon as he was down and over the hole, he hollered as loud as he could, a harsh blood-curdling scream guaranteed to draw in zombies from a quarter mile away. It was a holler he often used. The most common use of the call, for him at least, was to call in zombies from as far away as possible in order to kill them, thus clearing the immediate area of any roamers that might wander in and surprise him as he scavenged for supplies in an area. He tried to do it every other day when he had chosen somewhere to settle down for a while. The other use of the call was to deal with very large and dangerous hordes of the undead. Zombies are both tenacious and dumb. Once they were on the trail of a living human, they would travel in a straight path towards the sound of their quarry. Tyler would use the call to draw a horde toward him. He would stay well ahead of the horde and use the call to guide them away from where he ultimately intended to go. Once they had the bloodlust driving their rotted minds, he would give the call one last time and then cut ninety degrees to the zombie's course of travel. Bloodlust is a zombie 'state of mind' in which when they will not stop chasing a human until they have that human's flesh in their jaws. It can last anywhere from hours to weeks, maybe even months. Once locked on, he would quietly sidestep the horde as they continue moving toward his last calling location. The zombies would then unknowingly pass that location and continue traveling for miles.

He called again and began banging his fists on the grating of the skylight. Mark had lain down right next to him and was peering into the darkened store below. Mark brought up a small flashlight and aimed it into the deep gloom. Despite being small, its powerful LED beam washed the interior in brilliant light. Dozens of zombies stared up at them.

Mark commented, "Those are good ones, look at the flesh, leathery without tears. Their clothes are also in excellent condition." He pointed the strongest rays of the light beam at the floor in front of an arriving group group of zombies and said, "Look, see how they're still wearing shoes? And those shoes are still in really good shape."

As the zombies began to crowd beneath the skylight, Mark said, "Okay, give one more call, and I'll let Reed know it's safe to take down the barricades."

Instead of hollering, Tyler let out a deep painful moan. The kind of sound a mortally injured man would make. A sound that meant food was imminent to a zombie. Immediately the zombies became agitated and began to press into a tighter knot within the skylight's illumination, their hands reaching up eagerly to try and bring Tyler, easily fifteen feet above them, down and into their snapping and grinding jaws.

Mark keyed his small radio and said, "Reed, you're clear to take down the barricades, we'll keep the zombies attention until you give us the word."

Reed's reply squawked on the radio. "Copy, thanks."

To Tyler, Mark said, "Keep up the distraction until we get the word. You're doing great."

Tyler answered quietly, "Got it," and immediately continued calling the zombies. He spent the next several minutes calling out and banging upon the steel grating of the skylight. He alternated his calls, providing fresh cues to keep the zombies' interest.

It was going well until they heard a loud crash from within the store. They could see bright light flooding in from the front of the store, reflecting dully off of the leathery skin of the zombies below. In unison, all of the zombies turned toward the sound and began shuffling towards it. In an effort to regain their attention, Tyler bellowed as loud as he could, a harsh, hoarse, blood-curdling scream. The zombies ignored him and began to slowly surge toward the front.

Tyler cussed and quickly stood up.

Mark had the radio up and was shouting into the microphone, "Reed, get out of there now. We're losing them."

The radio squawked back, "We're pulling back now."

While Mark was communicating his distress, Tyler was in motion with a last ditch effort to regain the zombies attention. He had already loosened the button and zipper of his trousers and was standing directly over the opening in the skylight. Forcing his body to do what it wasn't prepared to do on such short notice, he urinated through the hole. A hot stream of stinking liquid splattered the zombies below. Immediately they stopped their advance toward the front of the store and returned their attention to Tyler. The heat, scent, and actual physical properties of his urine probably reminded the zombies of the imminent meal just above their heads. Tyler sighed, half in actual relief and half in his continued effort to provide noise for the zombies below.

Mark immediately radioed the change, "Reed, we got their attention again. Go ahead and finish up."

Reed replied, "Alright, we'll need another two minutes to get the cattle chute and a trailer in place. We'll call when were ready."

Tyler spent those two minutes keeping the zombies undivided attention until the radio squawked again, "Alright, were ready. Let 'em go." Tyler heard the radio message and immediately stopped his efforts. In the quiet that followed he heard Reed hollering from the front of the store, "Soui! Soui! Come and get me!"

Mark said, "You ready?"

Tyler nodded.

"Okay, then let's head down. It'll take a few minutes for the zombies to funnel into the trailer and then we can check out your store." He turned and walked to where they had climbed up on the roof. Tyler followed.

****

At the front of the store Tyler watched as the zombies funneled themselves up the cattle chute and into the cattle cars, drawn there by Reed offering himself as bait. Mark left Tyler while they waited and climbed up onto the trailer with Reed. Tyler watched the operation, as the other two held a conversation, pausing occasionally as Reed issued another holler to keep drawing in the zombies from the store.

The flow of zombies slowed, until it ceased with the arrival of a final zombie, crawling because it was incapable of walking upon a set of prosthetic legs. Mark climbed down. Reed followed him after securing the loading door on the side of the trailer.

"Once we get the trailers moved, we'll check out your store. Mark says you did a hell of a job up there. If you want, there's a job in Fargo. The corporation always needs someone like you, someone who's not scared of calling in zombies. Either a caller like me, or one of the stokers in the generator plants. I'm offering you a job."

Tyler answered him, "I'm still planning on sticking around here."

The trucks had reconnected to the trailers and we're pulling them from the front of the store. "Let's go inside and you can think about it," said Reed. As Reed moved to enter the store, half of his crew, with guns drawn and ready, entered the store ahead of him to clear it of any zombies that may have been trapped behind closed doors or otherwise not drawn in by Reed's insistent calling.

After clearing the store, Reed's crew spread out to secure luxury items like cigarettes and alcohol. While they were working, Tyler walked the interior perimeter of the store, assessing what he had just gained by helping out the zombie harvesters of Reed's crew. The shelves held a literal lifetime of food, enough that he would never have to scavenge again. There were crates upon crates of bottled water and water filters for when the bottled water ran out. Books, movies, batteries, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Everything he ever needed to live the rest of his life was right there in the store.

But beyond the noise of the harvesting crew, the only noise within the store was silence. The walls, once painted a mild shade of ivory, appeared gray in the dusty light let in through the skylights. The scent was musky, the smell of old death. The produce and refrigerated sections of the store held mounds of rotted vegetables, crumpled boxes and bottles of rancid fluid. It smelled as bad as it looked. The furniture section of the store, which had once been arranged by the survivors to provide a comfortable living area, was in disarray, with much of the linen stained with blood or mold.

But once he resealed the barricades, he would be safe... and he would be alone.

Tyler found Reed and said, "I'll take you up on that offer."
Chapter Two

The Ride to Fargo

Tyler rode with Reed on the trip back to Fargo. He felt secure within the high cab of the diesel truck, fully aware that nothing was zombie proof, but knowing that the truck was constantly moving and well maintained, which overcame any doubt he had regarding his safety.

They chatted idly during the trip about life before and during the apocalypse. Their stories were the same, each having told and heard it dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of times before.

Occasionally they would see lone survivors or zombies in the distance. Tyler asked Reed why they didn't stop and gather up the lone zombies. Reed had replied, "Well, for one, we're already full, but the real reason is that it's not worth the trouble and the risk, or the time. You see, we're set up to haul in large groups of zombies. The time it would take to get the ramp set up for a lone zombie wandering around just isn't worth it. We've tried it before, but end up killing the zombie three quarters of the time, since they get in too close while we
setting up and become a danger to the crew." It made sense to Tyler and he nodded in understanding. Reed added, "There are people that do bring in the lone wanderers, but they're better set up for it than us."

As they approached Fargo, Tyler noticed less and less of both zombies and the occasional survivor scavenging through the ruins. When they were just twenty miles from Fargo, there were none to be seen at all of either. He asked Reed about it. Reed answered, "We've already harvested all of the zombies from around Fargo, and the scavenging crews have stripped these same areas of anything of value. There are people living out here though, farmers, but you won't see them near the main road since anything near it was destroyed by raiders in the early days of the apocalypse. They sell fresh food. It brings a premium price in Fargo, so the farmers are becoming the new middle class entrepreneurs. They spend their money buying labor, fortifying their properties and investing in weapons. The bosses in Fargo try to convince them that they're safe being so close to town and don't need to invest so much in fortifications, but the farmers just say, '"It fell apart once, it can fall apart again.'"

When they reached the 'city limit' sign, Reed began speaking about the changes made to the town. "So we're entering the suburbs now. No one lives here anymore, so all homes have been boarded up to keep people and zombies out. If we see that the barricades have been torn down, we send out security. It's always the living that they find, and they get run off."

They passed several homes in various states of demolition. "They're tearing these down and reselling the building materials back to the farmers for their own barricades, basically trading our labor for their food."

"Everyone lives within the downtown area. It's not a large downtown by the standards of most cities, but it's a huge area for our limited population. The downtown and commercial areas of town are completely enclosed in a continuous barricade. The barricade itself is actually thousands of cars, smashed flat, stood up on their noses, and placed together to build a wall ten to fifteen feet high and six feet thick."

Tyler continued to watch while Reed explained what he was seeing as they drove further into town. They left the suburbs and approached Fargo's downtown district. Tyler saw the barricade of cars. It was indeed very tall. He noted how the odd color combination of stacked vehicles formed a strange multicolored picket fence. The top of the barricade had been flattened and a catwalk constructed of lumber had been installed for the guards that walked along the top of the barricade. Straight ahead was a narrow gate with a queue of people lined up for entry. Tyler could see guards making cursory and routine checks of the people and vehicles.

Reed slowed the truck as they approached the gate, and then made an unexpected left turn, following a road that paralleled the barricade. The drove for another mile and then passed through a large chain link gate, entering a large fenced in area that was further divided into pens.

Tyler had seen pictures of the German concentration camps from World War II. The area he entered looked eerily similar. The zombies were sorted into different pens based on the 'grading' system that Reed had referred to before. Tyler looked throughout the compound, noting that each enclosure held a homogenous mix of the dead, based not just on 'freshness', but also on the physical stature of the zombies. He felt a strange revulsion when he spotted the pen holding adolescent zombies.

Reed had been watching the expressions on Tyler's face and commented, "Welcome to the sorting yards. The small ones there, they serve well in portable, low horsepower applications. Not all zombies can be used to power the industrial-sized power generators for the town, or as the raw horsepower necessary for the heavy farm combines, so they get sorted here and sold to the appropriate customers. We get buyers traveling here from hundreds of miles away."

Reed pointed to a pen stocked with very fresh and often still bloody zombies, "Now those ones — the grade-A's — the corporation pays the big bonuses for them. They'll be taken and dunked in a formaldehyde bath for a week to preserve the skin, and then they're soaked in another bath of motor oil for another week to keep their flesh supple and hydrated. When they're done with the preservation, they're shiny and black, and as evil lookin' a zombie as you've ever seen."

The trucks pulled up to a loading chute. The crews opened the doors and the zombies quickly exited the trailers, drawn out by a caller whose job was to motivate them out. The zombies were forced into a narrow channel so they could be sorted; fresh from old, damaged from whole, large from small, fat from muscular.

Reed pulled into a parking area and shut down the truck. "Come on, let's go see the recruiter," he said as he opened his door and climbed down from the cab. Tyler opened his own door and followed him down. They walked across the parking lot, through the middle of the sorting yards, and entered a solid-looking, cinder block building that appeared to have been built at the same time as the barricades, its high roof in line with the top of the barricade and also equipped with several large caliber machine guns. Tyler ran the assessment of the weapons in his mind. "M2 .50 cal heavy machine gun, M240 medium machine gun, plenty of ammo, good for stopping and slowing down large hordes in emergencies."

Inside the building sat a bored-looking, gray haired man behind a gray metal desk. He looked up from a small screen, appraising both Reed and Tyler. "You bring me another one today, Reed?"

Reed nodded. "Yep, he'll make a good caller or an even better stoker. Mark watched him work on our last load-up, said he's one of the best he's ever seen. Said that he worked the zombies just right to keep their attraction, worked like a pro, not over doin' unless it was called for."

"But do you think he'll last more than a day or two?"

Reed answered, "Without a doubt."

To Reed, the man said, "Well, all right then." To Tyler he said, "Welcome to Fargo. My name's Jay and I'm the Corp's exterior human resource manager."

Reed interrupted, "If you two are okay, I've got to settle the books for this run. Tyler, I'll see you on the inside, but if we miss each other, I just want to say good luck." He offered his hand to Tyler. Tyler took it and they shook.

Reed stepped back and Tyler raised his hand to send him off. "Thanks, I'll keep my eyes open on the inside." Reed waved back, then turned around and walked out.

Jay spoke up. "All right, we don't have any opening for callers, but we always need stokers to work in the plants. The pay is real good, 'cause most people don't last more than a few days. You get unlimited food, alcohol, your choice of apartment in the worker section of town and three hundred dollars a week."

Confused as to why he would need money when it appeared as if he would receive everything he needed as part of the job, Tyler asked, "What's the money for?"

Jay looked at him like he had just asked the most foolish question in the world and answered, "For buying things, you fool. Better food, electronics, girls, guns, pretty sports cars." Reed barked a laugh. "Ha, just kidding about the sports cars. You can have any car you want though, as long as it stays right where you bought it from, the barricade." He laughed again.

Tyler didn't see the humor in the man's joke, but he was anxious to move on with the next chapter in his life. He stepped up to the metal desk and said, "Where do I sign?"
Chapter Three

Fairfield

A pair of patrons rose from their table and started walking towards the door. Tyler wondered why they hadn't bothered to pay, when Tom waved to them and said, "Thanks for coming in, friends. I'll see you tomorrow."

The pair grunted something unintelligible back at him and stepped outside, briefly letting in the bright sunshine. Concerned that the pair hadn't paid, Tyler was about to ask Tom about it, when Tom set a fresh cup of coffee down in front of him.

"You've got to try this," said Tom, grinning in anticipation. Tyler looked at the cup and noticed that it was cloudy with creamer. "Whiskey and Amaretto cream," said Tom in answer to Tyler's unspoken query.

"I thought that the flavored creamers had all spoiled years ago," said Tyler.

"They did," answered Tom. "This is my own brew. I use fresh cream and mix it with those bottles of flavor extracts that you could buy in the grocery stores. So tell me more about
Fargo. We don't get much news about it this far out."

Life In Fargo

Tyler sat waiting outside the closed door of the employment director's office. It was three in the afternoon and he had scheduled a meeting with the director for three thirty. While he waited he reflected on his time in Fargo.

His work was easy enough. He was employed full time in the city's generator plant and was paid handsomely for what he believed every survivor should know how to do by instinct, the manipulation of zombie rage in order to control their actions.

His home was more than adequate for his needs. He had chosen to live in an office building that had been converted into living space. It was located near the town's barricades for easy escape if disaster struck in the form of a full blown zombie outbreak in town. He had chosen to live on the second floor, using the same logic, high enough to be off the street and low enough to escape through the exterior windows. The interior walls of the building were constructed of dry wall and the entry door was a large sheet of glass. Both features were original from the apartment's days as an office space. Tyler used his money to buy plywood for cladding the interior walls and to purchase an antique door, constructed of solid hard wood, to replace the glass entry door.

He had more than enough money, even after limiting his diet to only fresh foods bought from the area farms and prepared in local restaurants. After buying a small radio, he spent his money upgrading and improving his personal survival gear, exchanging anything that was old, frayed, rusted or unreliable for fresh and proven gear. He kept his bug out kit next to the front door.

In his spare time, he had tried socializing at the night clubs, but found the people inside to be petty and vain. The regular patrons of the clubs fell into two general groups, the 'glams' and the 'stalgics'.

The glams had become a society unto themselves, presenting themselves in the most outlandish of costumes and modeling the most egregious behaviors of pre-apocalypse icons as read straight from the ancient pages of the Hollywood tabloids that could still be found lovingly displayed on racks of Fargo's coffee shops and bookstores.

The 'stalgics' were all about nostalgia. They were obsessed and intent upon reliving, or bringing back, life from before the apocalypse. With the exception of the corporate directors and city managers, members of each group came from every walk of life within Fargo. There were cliques and subtler divisions within each of the groups, but Tyler had never bothered to explore them in depth.

Instead, he had found a thriving full time scavenger market within Fargo and became a regular visitor. He spent lots of time speaking with the vendors, occasionally making a purchase, paying the vendors more for their news of life outside of Fargo and their company than the products he was purchasing. He formed a number of solid friendships with the scavengers, even going so far as to offer a place to stay when needed, usually when they first arrived in town and hadn't made enough sales for rent at a hotel.

It was his contact with the scavengers that finally cemented his decision to meet with the employment director.

Life had become empty. He no longer felt alive, having gone from surviving and thriving, to simply subsisting. The plentiful corporate rewards meant very little when he compared it to his life before Fargo, when the personal reward of finding a pristine can of sweet corn was worth more than twenty pounds of solid gold. He missed the freedom. He missed the challenge. He missed the authenticity of the human experience. He missed the authenticity of the humans he met before coming to Fargo. The vendors he found within the scavenger market had that authenticity. What they sold had very real value to them, a value beyond a wad of paper bills printed with images of Fargo, North Dakota.

There was a heavy turnover at his job and he was frequently called upon to work double and triple shifts, or to come in on his days off, but he didn't think that was the problem with how he felt. Still though, it didn't help that he found the work to be nearly mindless. He had perfected his skills, even learning how to calm the zombies down by becoming motionless, blending into the surroundings, and letting a calm spirit wash over him, in effect becoming invisible. Several times he was talked to by his supervisors, upset that the zombies were no longer providing power. In truth, they were actually quite angry because he had caused blackouts within the city as the power failed.

Regarding the zombies, the city only used the best for the power plant, the fresh ones that had been preserved in formaldehyde and motor oil. They were commonly referred to as pickles, death pickles by some. The pickles, like the stokers, only lasted so long before having to be replaced. With their oil-contaminated skin, they all looked and smelled the same. It wasn't until Tyler learned to pick out unique individuals, either by the length and color of their hair, or by the tattoos that managed to show through the oil stains, that he was able to determine how long the average pickle lasted. A pickle would only last about two months in the generator plant before needing to be replaced. On the rare occasion that he met Reed within Fargo, he found out that the lower grades zombies would only last about a week before falling apart. It was also Reed who had suggested a change in employment at their last meeting, after hearing from Tyler that he was bored with his current work.

So at 3:30 the door to the director's office opened. Jeff Baird, the corporation's director of employment stood in the doorway. "Are you ready?" he asked, motioning for Tyler to join him.

Tyler answered, "Yeah," as he stood up. Walking to the door, he took the director's hand, shaking it briefly, before they both entered the office.

Jeff motioned for Tyler to take a seat, before sitting down in his own seat across from him. "So what can I do for you Tyler?" he asked.

Tyler sat down and said, "Jeff, I'm ready for a change. I need something new. I was talking to Reed and he says that there's always room for more people on the harvest crews."

Jeff nodded while Tyler spoke. He waited a moment before replying, "Tyler, you are the best stoker we've ever had. Some would argue 'too good', after you put the zombies into dormant mode and caused the blackouts, but that's just more proof of your capability. Look, the power output has never been more reliable and the pickles have never lasted as long since you came to came to work for us. What can I do for you to reconsider? More money? An apartment in the management district? You want it, name it, and I'll get it for you."

"It's not that I want or need anything. It's that this life, the nine to five, the cafeterias, the 'glams', the 'stalgics', it's not for me. It's not what I want from life. It's an empty life." Anticipating Jeff's next argument, Tyler continued, "But I know that there's people in Fargo who would love to have what I currently have. Even with the high turnover, there's always a queue for people wanting to be a stoker. Jeff, no, there is nothing that you can offer. What I need is to work outside of Fargo."

Tyler could see Jeff thinking before he replied, "Listen, Tyler, I'll make you a deal. We don't need callers on the harvest crews, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you just work as a grunt. I need stokers, period. I want you to be my recruiter. In town, on the road, I don't care as long as you keep a hot body on the other side of the cage to motivate the pickles to turn my generators. You'll also be responsible for training them, of course. You do that and I'll let you keep your apartment, pay, and other benefits. I'd offer bonuses, but I don't think you really care."

Tyler thought about the unexpected offer. Maybe he would make an ideal recruiter, especially among survivors outside of Fargo. He still remembered what it was that drew him to Fargo in the first place, the need to be around people, and that many survivors would gladly drop everything in order to have what he had. Quite a few would certainly thrive, probably even mesh with the 'glams' and 'stalgics', while happily keeping the generators spinning. To Jeff he said, "I'll do it."
Chapter Four

Recruiter

Tyler began his new career as a recruiter within Fargo itself. He had no idea how to recruit people, or even how he would teach them to be an effective stoker, but he wanted a change so he hit the streets of Fargo to find his replacements. He quickly found that even though he was an expert in relating to the undead, he was horribly inept when it came to recruiting strangers to work for the Corporation. Even so, he had seven prospective recruits on the first day. In truth, they found him when word spread in town that he was seeking stokers and that the Corporation would pay handsomely.

His first recruit was Marie. She was a long-term resident of the refugee's slum apartments and wanted to bring her two children out of the squalor that was the life of Fargo's refugees. She was willing to find work, but found herself restrained by the need to remain close and care for her children. As a stoker, she would be able to move her family out of the slums and to pay for a full time nanny.

Kari was the next recruit. She had just arrived at Fargo,
after having wandered the 'wilderness' of the zombie wasteland since the early days of the apocalypse. She had arrived at Fargo simply by chance and had decided to enter town for a look. She had asked around and, hearing about the job, decided to give it a try. If she liked it, she would stay. If not, she could leave whenever she wanted.

Franklin worked as a runner, running errands, supplies, and messages between the various businesses of Fargo. It was a decent job, but too many people had entered the runner business and were under-cutting his profits. He was having trouble paying for rent at his modest apartment and had been forced to skip meals to make ends meet.

Travis was another refugee recruit. He didn't mind the life of a refugee, since his belly was always full and he had a roof over his head, but the boredom of poverty was driving him crazy. He wanted some spending cash for Fargo's night clubs, since they wouldn't even let you in the door without a corporate or city worker ID, or a hefty chunk of Fargo cash for the club's cover charge.

Paul worked for the city as a barricade guard, patrolling the catwalks on the eastern edge of the city. Like Franklin, he thought it was a good job, with regular hours and decent pay, but he found he wanted more from life. He wanted a challenge, while remaining safe, and a chance to advance in life. He figured that once he was hired by the Corporation, he could begin working his way upward in management.

Jackson was one of the merchants Tyler regularly talked with at the scavenger market. One who had occasionally accepted Tyler's hospitality when he first arrived in town. Lately, he and the other scavengers had to travel farther and farther from Fargo in order to find decent supplies, and they were forced to consume increasingly larger portions of their product while traveling the greater distances. He had been thinking about joining a corporate harvest crew, but he had seen how well Tyler was living and decided to give employment as a stoker a try.

Jason was the last recruit. Unlike the others, he told Tyler nothing about his history or reasons for wanting to work as a stoker. Tyler had never seen him before, but as Tyler sat down and began to eat his dinner, Jason approached him at the table and introduced himself, "I'm Jason and I hear that you're looking for people to work as stokers. I'm interested, so what do you need from me?"

Tyler set down his fork and offered Jason his hand while remaining seated. Jason took it and they shook briefly. Tyler said, "Well, Jason, what I've been telling people is to meet me at the main entrance to the Fargo power plant tomorrow morning at 8 AM. They've got some vacant rooms which we can use for training. I'll be teaching everything I know about being a stoker. I'll be winging it and stumbling through the class, but I think we'll manage."

Jason nodded. "Thanks, I'll be there." He waved briefly and left, leaving Tyler to finish his meal of fresh vegetables, roast beef, baked bread and a tall glass of cold milk.

****

The next day, Tyler arrived at the power plant a few minutes before eight. Each of the recruits were already there. They had gathered in rough circle in casual conversation. Jason was near, but stood about a pace outside of the main group. With Tyler's arrival, their conversation died and they focused their attention on him.

With their eyes on him, Tyler stammered a greeting, "Hi, um, welcome to the Corporation. Um, I'll... um, we'll go inside. Our exterior human resource manager will meet with everyone to go over the terms of employment, and then our human resource director will come in and give everyone a pep talk, er, mission, vision, and values presentation for the Corporation and its goals... and also how our roll as stokers is vital for the Corporation's success and also the success of Fargo."

Tyler took a big breath and let it out. "Okay, let's go inside."

****

Tyler sat in the back of their classroom while Jay, the Corporation's exterior human resource manager, gave his speech to the group of recruits. He was very blunt, very direct, and very effective in presenting his message. To the group he said, "Listen up, my name is Jay and I'm the corporation's exterior human resource manager. What you need to know is this, those pickles you'll be motivating are very expensive to acquire. As such, we have a zero tolerance policy for weapons in the power plant. That means no guns, no swords, no machetes, hammers, et cetera." He said etcetera in a way that emphasized each of the syllables. Continuing he said, "We have metal detectors set up and everyone entering the stoker chamber has to pass through it. In addition, you have to know what you're doing. That's what this training is for. Tyler's the best. You don't motivate the pickles enough and the city goes into a brown-out. You over-motivate the pickles and you'll start frying light bulbs. Even more important though, if you over-motivate the pickles they'll wear out too fast. Before Tyler came along, the pickles would only last a month. With Tyler, they last two."

Marie raised her hand and said, "Excuse me, what are pickles?"

Jay gave her a look of contempt and disbelief, but answered her question. "Pickles are zombies that have been pickled in formaldehyde and motor oil." He continued on, finishing his discussion regarding the rules and regulations of the corporation, as well as their benefits, before presenting them with a hiring document outlining everything he had just discussed. Marie appeared to be unfazed by the look he had given her.

After they had finished filling out the mandatory paperwork, "a requirement to maintain the rule of law, even in Fargo" as Jay had explained, he gathered up the documents and exited the room.

Tyler could see they were expectantly waiting for the next briefing when Jeff Baird, the corporation's director of employment, entered. He smiled broadly at the group and said, "Welcome to the D-Tec Corporation. My name is Jeff Baird and I'm D-Tec's director of employment." He leaned back against the table behind him, getting more comfortable before continuing. "What D-Tec does is of supreme importance for the continued survival and future prosperity of the human race. What you do as a stoker benefits not only you, but also your own species. You WILL make a difference. What D-Tec does is to build, power, and service zombie-powered devices. From Fargo's city power plant, to the factories within Fargo, to 'single-zombie' portable generators that power small safe-houses, to 'twenty-zombie' cargo haulers moving goods and services throughout the wastelands, and to everything in between, we are powering the future of humanity. We are rebuilding that which was lost in the zombie apocalypse with the very agents that destroyed it."

Jeff paused to look directly at each of the recruits. "The Corporation works because of everyone within it, doing their job and doing it well. It starts with the harvesters collecting the raw materials, zombies. It moves to the storekeepers, who sort and prepare the zombies for the most appropriate application. Our factories build custom machines that will harness the unlimited potential energy of the zombies. Our Fargo power plant provides energy for both this city and the factory. Our recruiters seek out talented employees. Our salesmen seek out customers throughout the region and beyond. Management brings it all together."

"We are very glad to have each and every one of you here. You are the core of our business. Without stokers of one kind or another, zombie power doesn't work. I want you to listen to Tyler and trust his advice." Jeff stood up and walked to the door, where Jay was waiting with a cardboard box. Jay brought the box in and set it on the table where Jeff had just been leaning. Jeff said as he left, "It's not much, but here's a token of our appreciation. Good luck and I'll see you around."

As Jeff stepped out, Jay spoke, "All right, come and get it. There's enough for everyone."

Tyler stood up with the rest of the group and approached the table. Travis, who had been sitting closest to the table, reached in the box and pulled out a plastic coffee mug. It was light green and was emblazoned with large scarlet letters, spelling out 'D-Tec'. Below the 'D-Tec', in small black letters, was printed, 'Industries of Death, Making a Better Life for Tomorrow'. Tyler watched as Travis held the mug up in disbelief, before looking at Jay with the same look of disbelief.

Jay quipped, "Enjoy your gift," and walked to the door.

Before stepping out, he turned to look at Tyler and said, "Let me know when you're ready to schedule them, I got shifts to fill."

****

Tyler fumbled his initial attempts at training the recruits, over-lapping key concepts and failing to find an adequate vocabulary to describe those concepts involved in motivating zombies. After about ten minutes of explaining everything he knew regarding zombie psychology, twice, Marie began to ask questions, helping him focus and drawing out the depth of his knowledge. At the end of the day, they understood the concepts of escalating and de-escalating zombie rage in order control their actions, as well as a variety of techniques need to accomplish both. They were also more familiar with the story of his life after the apocalypse than most people, having heard in great detail about his encounters and the techniques he'd used in the past, as well as how his current refined knowledge could be used in such situations.

It was four in the afternoon when Tyler ended the day. Before dismissing them he told them about the next day's activity, "Tomorrow I'll be in the generator chamber. You'll be watching from above, behind heavy-duty mirrored windows in order to see the techniques you've learned today applied. After that, I'll be bringing in one person at a time to practice what you've learned. We'll have a short session between each person in order to discuss the practice. Any questions? No, then I'll see you in the morning at eight."

****

When Tyler arrived in the morning, the group of recruits were assembled the same as they had been the previous morning. Once again, their conversation stopped as he approached and they focused their attention on him.

He was more comfortable with the group, but all he said to them was, "Ready?"

When they nodded and replied that they were ready, he said, "Okay then, let's go."

He took them inside and led them upstairs to a small room. It was set up like a break room with a round table and several chairs. The windows overlooking the generator room were to the left of the entrance and would require the recruits to stand up in order to watch below. Eric, the day shift stoker was working. When Tyler and the recruits would come into the generator room later, Eric would take a break and wait outside.

After all of the recruits had made it in to the room Tyler motioned for them to come to the window. When they were at the window he spoke, "I'm going to go down in the chamber now. I want you to pay attention to my actions, to the sounds I make and how the zombies react. I'll run each of the techniques a couple times. When I'm done, I'll come up and we'll discuss it. Then it will be your turn."

Tyler headed back downstairs, and after passing through a set of metal detectors, entered the generator room. Eric smiled and said, "Nice to see you, I'll be waiting outside." He stepped out and Tyler went to work. He worked each of the techniques; bring the zombies through various levels of activity, from extreme rage to near zombie catatonia. He ran through three cycles before leaving the chamber.

Returning upstairs he found that only six recruits remained. When he asked about the missing recruit, Marie said, "Travis quit, said something about no club being worth that and walked out."

Tyler said, "Alright then, that's too bad. So tell me what you thought, what you saw."

Marie spoke first. "It's pretty much exactly as you described it. You make them angry and they work harder, you go quiet and they calm down. It's pretty simple really."

Jackson said, "But how do you keep yourself calm?"

Tyler answered, "Breathe deeply and realize that everyone dies eventually."

Shaking his head, Jackson replied, "I'll probably end up having to change my shorts first."

Tyler asked, "Anyone else? Comments? Questions?" No one answered so he said, "Alright, who's first?"

Marie raised her hand, "I'll go."

****

Marie's session went very well. She practiced each of the techniques and even though she struggled to calm the zombies down after bringing them to a rage, she was able bringing them down from a level of heart-rending terror to a smoldering angry mob. Discussion afterward focused on her efforts to bring down her own terror and how it affected the level of zombie rage.

Franklin was next. His session also went well. He was able to bring the rage down further, working harder at controlling his own fears.

The rest of the recruits performed well until it was Paul's turn. Once he was in the generator room he started to panic, shouting "Let me out! Let me out!" The zombies immediately reacted, enraged so much that they began pounding on the walls and the iron bars that separated themselves from Tyler and Paul. The overhead lights in the room immediately brightened with the increased energy generated by the enraged horde. Paul tore open the door to the room and bolted outside. Tyler remained behind to calm the zombies down.

After twenty minutes, he left the generator room. He found Jackson waiting for him outside. Jackson looked upset and said to Tyler, "I don't think I can do this. I can handle the zombies in the wild, in the open, but I can't be locked up with them in a room. Tyler, thanks for the opportunity, but I'm gone. I'll see you in the market."

Tyler wasn't surprised by either Paul or Jackson's reaction. He had seen it before and knew that it happened to even the most experienced survivors. He was saddened that Jackson wouldn't be staying, but he said, "I'll miss you, Jackson, but thanks for giving it a try. It's not easy and no one will judge you for not staying. Good luck." They shook hands and Jackson left.

Tyler headed back upstairs and met with the remaining four. He asked, "How is everyone?"

Marie answered, "Good."

Jason added, "I think we'll all be here tomorrow."

Tyler said, "Okay, then we'll break for today. We'll start again tomorrow at eight. Same thing. If you feel comfortable, I'll let you work the room on your own."

They nodded and when no one added anything, he said, "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow."

****

Within a week, each of the remaining recruits, Marie, Kari, Franklin, and Jason, were all proficient stokers and scheduled to begin regular shifts. Tyler would head out with a harvest crew the following week.

Recruiting the Field

The harvest crew Tyler found himself riding with was led by Ben. Tyler wondered how Ben had managed to survive for so long, since Ben frequently placed himself in dangerous situations, utterly clueless to the fact that he was doing so. His behavior paid off though, especially when he foolishly drew in hordes of relatively high grade zombies to quickly fill his trailers. When Tyler asked him how he was so successful despite his obvious lack of fully understanding zombies, he had replied, "Easiest job in the world, man. Wherever I go, there are zombies, and they come streaming in without me having to do any work. All I gotta do is keep my butt from hanging too low when I scramble up the trailer. Like I said, it's a cake job."

The crew itself was tight-knit, working well together with clear lines of responsibility and unquestioning support for their crew boss. All harvest crews had to work well together, or they would fail. Failure usually meant death. Ben's crew openly joked with him about his ineptness with zombies, but stood behind him and supported him without question when there was work to be done.

One of the secondary duties of the harvest crews was to recruit employees for the Corporation, so when Tyler joined them for their trip out it was an oddity. Never before had the Corporation sent someone whose sole purpose was to recruit people. Even so, they freely offered him advice from their own experiences.

One of their first axioms of success was, "If you can actually find a living survivor, you're already half way to recruiting him or her." What it meant was that unless a survivor wanted to be found, there was zero chance of meeting, speaking with, or attempting to recruit that person.

The next axiom was, "Food is as good as money in the bank." While it is custom in the wilds to share food when encountering other survivors, sometimes there just isn't enough food. A hungry, malnourished survivor will accept employment with the Corporation almost every time it is offered.

A third axiom was, "Companionship nourishes the soul." Any person, after too long in the wilds alone, becomes starved for human contact. Human contact can be almost as powerful a recruiting tool as food to a starving survivor. Companionship was the draw that brought Tyler to the Corporation.

A final axiom was, "Too long gone is too far gone." If a survivor went too long without regular human contact, madness would set in and make them worthless as potential recruits. Insane humans were likely to be more dangerous than the zombies the crews were harvesting.

Tyler's first opportunity to recruit a survivor came when Ben brought the convoy to a halt at the entrance of a large bridge. There was a tangle of cars that had crashed at the entrance of the bridge in a massive pile-up. Ben intended to clear the wreckage so that their convoy could pass. He exited his truck and walked to the obstruction by himself. There was a gap wide enough to walk between the vehicles, and he walked into that gap, quickly disappearing behind the vehicles.

As soon as Ben disappeared from view, Tyler heard the clang of metal on pavement. Looking around he saw that Ben's crew was deploying the walk-up ramps that were attached to each of their trailers. They had done away with the chute trailer that most of the harvest crews used long ago and installed ramps on the side of each trailer instead. The ramps hinged at the base and would swing down quickly, giving them the opportunity to prepare at a moment's notice whenever Ben brought in a large group of zombies.

Even as the crew finished preparing their trailers, Ben came tearing through the small gap into which he had disappeared only moments before. He was screaming, "Here they come! Here they come!" He sprinted to his own truck and scrambled up a ladder to the top, joining the rest of his crew who stood atop their own trailers. He pulled the locking pin which secured his own ramp to the side of his trailer and allowed it to swing down. It slammed into the pavement below.

The zombies came streaming from the bridge, passing through the small gap in a tightly packed line. Their skin had the appearance of dried driftwood, having been bleached by the sun and worn smooth by the wind from spending, as Tyler assumed, years on the bridge. But they were otherwise whole and intact and would definitely rate 'Grade B' when they were returned to Fargo. Ben's crew would earn a decent bonus.

The zombies flowed in and around the trailers, eventually making their way up the ramps and through the one-way gates that were installed in each of the trailer doors. Semi-skilled as stokers themselves, the crew coaxed the zombies in, eventually filling three trailers completely full and the remaining two to ninety percent of capacity. By Corporation standards, they had a full load and could return to Fargo without penalties to bonus or pay.

When they were finished, the crews raised the ramps back up into place and began preparing to camp for the night. Ben had decided there was no need to continue traveling in order to try and fill what little space he had left in the trailers and would begin his return trip to Fargo the next morning. But, in true Ben fashion he wanted to scout out the bridge and see what had drawn and kept such a large number of zombies in one place. He asked Tyler if he wanted to come along.

Tyler, figuring that the majority of zombies had been cleared and any remaining would be severely damaged, which would make for easy mop up if needed, answered, "Sure, why not. Are you expecting to find anything interesting?"

Ben answered, "Yeah, probably survivors. Zombies will move on if there's nothing to hold their attention."

As inept as Ben had usually acted in dealing with zombies, Tyler was mildly surprised that Ben was likely right about survivors and formed a hunch that he might know more about what he was doing than the crew or himself gave him credit for. To Ben, he said, "All right, lead the way."

Ben turned toward the bridge and before he had taken a full step, stopped. Tyler looked towards the bridge and immediately saw a man sitting cross-legged, atop the roof of a car that had managed to rest upright upon the top of several other vehicles in the pile-up. The man, dressed in a leather jacket and blue jeans stood up and climbed down from the vehicles.

He approached Ben and Tyler, then stopped about two paces short of them. He spread his arms wide and said, "Welcome to the Lorenzo Bridge. I'm Terry Baldman and this is my home."

Ben took the lead, as was the custom with the harvest crews, and answered, "How do you do, Terry. I'm Ben Jameson and I'm the crew boss for this harvest crew." He offered his hand in greeting to Terry.

Terry took another two steps and shook Ben's hand. "Nice to meet you." Then he shook Tyler's hand.

Tyler spoke up. "I'm Tyler. Ben and I work for the same employer."

Following custom again, Ben asked, "Are you interested in fresh grub? We'll be cooking up dinner soon. I think it's actually steak tonight."

Terry nodded. "Sure thing. How long do you think it will take?"

"Probably forty five minutes to an hour. We weren't here long enough to get everything set up, so the cooks need time to get the grills hot and salad prepped."

Terry's face lit up when Ben said salad. "Awesome. I can definitely wait for fresh vegetables. In the meantime, since you seemed interested, I can take you on a short tour of my bridge."

Ben said, "Sounds like a deal. Lead the way."

Terry led Ben and Tyler back through the gap in the vehicles and onto the bridge. As he traveled from the outer section of bridge to the central section where he had made his home, he explained how he had prepared the bridge for his survival. "Once we walk clear of the vehicles piled up here, the bridge is clear all the way to the other side." Pointing to a mass of stacked concrete highway dividers, he said, "As you can see ahead, I took the barricades that used to run down the center of the bridge as dividers and using a heavy duty forklift which I just happened to find at the highway maintenance yard up the road, restacked them three high in the very middle of the bridge to create a safe area for myself. Sorry, but even if you had cleared the pile-up, you wouldn't be able get through with your trucks. There's another horde on the other side of the bridge, but you'll have to take the Archer Highway Bridge nine miles downstream in order to get 'em. But anyways, here's my home."

Terry had arrived at the cement barricades that were stacked at the center of the bridge. Grabbing the rough edges of the concrete, he scaled the barricade and climbed to the top. He waited for them to follow and then descended down the other side. Once Ben and Tyler made it down, he continued, "This is my home."

Looking around, Tyler saw that Terry had made a comfortable space for himself. He explained the space to them. "Along with the forklift you see there, I also acquired a top of the line RV, fully tricked out with all the latest gadgets and gizmos, even GPS and satellite." Pointing to a large twenty by thirty foot area covered by a foot of dirt and planted with a variety of vegetables, he said, "This here is my garden. I've already harvested the summer vegetables. All that's in the ground right now is root vegetables that will keep over winter."

He pointed to another section. Rows of fish were laid out flat on a large and varied collection of racks to dry in the sun. The cement deck of the bridge below the racks was stained black from past fires that he had used to smoke the meat. "This is where I cure my meats — wild game and fish mostly. I don't trust the canned stuff so much anymore."

He led them to a stout metal pole, which was anchored to the bridge deck using a concrete barrier and hung over the edge of the bridge. He gestured for them to look over the edge. Looking down, Tyler saw a mass of concrete directly below which formed the central support column of the bridge. A rope ladder descended to the river below and was tied to the column at various points to keep it from swaying in the wind. A block and tackle was affixed to the pole hanging over the edge, which paralleled the rope ladder down to the river. At the base of the column were several steel cleats which were used to secure the rope for the block and tackle. Also secured at the base of the column was a canoe with a small gasoline engine. The canoe floated lazily in the eddy created by the column. ""This is my front porch and down there is my garage. It's really the only way in or out with the zombies on either side of the bridge... or at least it was... but of course, the zombies will return and replace the ones you captured today.""

Terry stepped back from the edge. ""But anyways, this is my way in and out. I use the canoe to travel to safer areas up or downstream, for scavenging or trading with the nearest town.""

Thinking about the height from the river to the bridge deck, Tyler asked, "Isn't that a long ways to climb up after a long day of scavenging?"

""It is. A quarter of the way up is a flat area. I've set up a small rest area there with a few supplies. If it's really dark when I return, I don't want to climb the ladder any further than I have to.""

"Cool," said Tyler.

Ben spoke up. "Terry, this looks alright, well done. You ready to head back and get some hot grub?"

"Yeah, let's go."

****

Tyler sat and watched as Terry ate his dinner. After he was finished, Tyler went to work, "Terry, half a year ago I was surviving in the wilds. I was doing well and had just cleared an entire store, completely virgin territory, no scavenger or raiders had been there, and it was ready for easy barricading. But I was ready for a change. I needed a change from the solitary life of a scavenger. I needed, I wanted, a chance to see another living human's face every day. When the Corporation came through and offered that change, I jumped on it. I worked as a stoker, purposely angering zombies so they'll expend energy, which turns the Corporation's machinery, which is rebuilding human civilization. I've left that work in order to recruit more stokers. If you're interested, the Corporation will give you the best living accommodations, regular food of high quality, and a good paycheck. What do you say?"

Terry set down his fork and smiled. To Tyler he said, "You know what? Six month's ago I would've taken you up on that offer, but I got a girlfriend now, nearby in Rigby. They've got a safe community set up there. I've almost got her convinced to move here and start a family with me. But then again, six month's ago maybe I wouldn't have. I got freedom here. I also don't trust no governments or corporations. As far as I'm concerned, they're the reason for the whole zombie apocalypse, and they'll just do it all over again if given the opportunity. No. Thank you for the offer, Tyler, but I'm truly happy and content to remain here."

Tyler nodded in understanding. "I understand," he said in reply to Terry's denial. He stood up and said, "I'm going to head outside while it's still light. Enjoy your meal."

Tyler exited the dining truck and stood outside in the setting sun. He felt the sting of denial even though he agreed with Terry's reasoning one hundred percent. Despite his previous lackluster performance as a recruiter in Fargo, this, his first one on one attempt at recruiting in the field, was a failure. It was hard to swallow.

****

Ben's crew began the return trip to Fargo the next day. Along the way they brought Tyler's spirits back up. They said, in truth, that he had done very well on his first attempt. He had connected with Terry as a fellow survivor that had lived in the wilds and his promotion of life within Fargo and the benefits of working for the corporation were just right for the situation. They explained, despite the axiom's they had preached to him earlier, that they probably recruited only one in ten of the survivors they encountered.

****

Tyler continued to travel with the harvest crews, both large and small. As time passed, he became more proficient in his duties as a recruiter. He never recruited one hundred percent of the people he met, but on occasion approached a seventy-five percent success rate. The crews began to remark that he had more luck recruiting survivors than they had finding grade-A zombies.

While traveling with Reed's crew, Reed had also commented that the grade-A zombies were becoming harder to find. "If we don't find any more good zombies to work in the generating plant, then we won't have a need for stokers. You'll be out of a job and scavenging for supplies from the refugee camp."

Tyler had smiled and said, "Whatever."

Contrary to Reed's prediction, the Corporation began to pressure Tyler to recruit more survivors. They explained that turnover was extremely high with his recruits and that some didn't even bothering to show up for the first day of training. They told Tyler that it was their assumption that the recruits had elected to disappear back into the relatively safety of the wilds surrounding Fargo after receiving a free trip at the Corporation's expense.

To help Tyler with recruiting, they issued him a large fully equipped recreational vehicle with a full time cook, masseuse, and a driver. Candidates were offered not only fresh food, but a hot shower, a full body massage, and a warm bed if they desired. The Corporation had also put together a quality recruiting video declaring the virtues of employment with the Corporation and of life within Fargo. They pulled out all the stops to bring in fresh bodies to work as Stokers.

After several months of successful work and after returning to Fargo from a recruiting mission, Jay called Tyler into his office.

Tyler walked into the abrasive man's office and said, "What's up, Jay?"

Without preamble, Jay said, "We're putting you back on the floor."

Tyler was dumbstruck. Agitated by the unexpected announcement, he exclaimed, "What? What for? I don't get it."

Jay looked at him with a slightly cold expression. "We don't need you to recruit anymore. We sent out six recruiters today. We don't need you to train anyone. We have a whole program set up for that. What we need is a reliable stoker that can keep the pickles working for more than three days. The quality of pickles has gone down. That means the quality of stokers has to go up. You're going back on the floor, end of discussion." He looked down at the paperwork before him, then looked back up at Tyler. "Unless you want to quit, of course. No severance package though."

Tyler shook his head. "No, I'll stick around."

"Good. If that's all, get a move on. I got work to do." Jay motioned toward the door behind him, the door which led to Fargo.

Tyler grunted acknowledgement and stepped around Jay's desk to walk to the door. He exited the office without another comment. After successfully passing through the mandatory security and strip-search station, he found himself standing alone on the streets of Fargo. He walked to his apartment building and walked upstairs to his own apartment on the second floor.

After unlocking several locks on his front door, entering, and then relocking them, he walked into his living room to discover that the Corporation had given him a welcome home package. There were several bottles of quality beer, wine, and liquors, as well as some quality snacks like almonds, dark chocolate, and fruit. While Tyler appreciated the food, he preferred none of the expensive beverages that had been selected for the basket. He was deeply disturbed, however, that someone had been able to enter his home despite the extensive safeguards and locks he had built in.
Chapter Five

Back on the Floor

Tyler walked into the power plant the following morning to begin working the floor again. Walking into the chamber, he relieved Eric as the primary stoker. On his way out, Eric said, "Nice to have you back. The schedule's been tight around here since you left."

Tyler answered him, not being truthful about how he really felt about being returned to the floor. "Yeah, it's nice to be back."

He performed flawlessly for his entire shift, but when Jason showed up to relieve him, he was more than ready to leave.

As Jason came into the chamber he said, "Hey, your recruits totally sucked. They were about the most worthless, short-lived, and undependable pieces of puke that I ever met." Immediately the zombie activity picked up on the floor, cuing in on Jason's comments to Tyler. Jason immediately changed his body expression, visibly relaxing himself. He added to Tyler, "But really, I'm glad you're back. We need you here on the floor."
A few days later, Kari relieved him in the chamber. Just before he walked out, she said, "Hold up in here for a few." Tyler stopped, assuming a neutral look for the zombies while Kari took over stoking.

In between snarling and stomping her feet to get the zombie's attention, she spoke with Tyler. "I heard Jason and Jay gave you a hard time about the recruits. I don't know if it's just the people you recruited or that the Corporation isn't training them right, but all of your recruits have failed to be of any value. They literally don't last more than one shift before disappearing from town."

The zombies suddenly turned aggressive, causing a minor power spike. Kari froze and seemed to melt into the cinder block walls. Within moments the zombies calmed down to an acceptable level. Tyler looked much the same, as he stared dead-pan at an imaginary spot one hundred feet outside of the building.

Kari continued, her voice seeming to originate five feet from where she was standing. It was a new skill Tyler would have to learn. "I don't know why the recruits would leave so quickly. The Corporation seems to have taken very good care of them. They're set up with all the perks from day one and have a whole building for training. We don't get to see them until they actually start working and, like I said; they only stick around for a day."

"When we ask the Corporation executives about it, they just say that you keep bringing in poor recruits. They tell us that whenever they send someone to check on them at their apartment, that the recruits have already packed up their gear and left town. The few recruits that they do manage to find before they leave town tell them to keep their pay, that they want nothing to do with being a stoker."

"Myself, Eric, Jason, and two others have been carrying the schedule while you were away. That's why we're glad you're back. We haven't had a break for months."

Tyler thought about it for a moment, and then said, "I brought in people like you and me, survivors. I can't believe that they'd all quit that easily."

Karie replied, "Neither can I. I'll see you tomorrow."

Before he stepped out she added, "Oh and by the way, we've had to use more finesse in working with the pickles. The harvesters are bringing in a lot more super fresh grade-A's than normal and it's easy to get them over-producing. They last a little longer though."

****

The days began to drag on. Before he knew it, he had already worked several weeks on the floor. The new zombies were indeed lasting longer, so long that the heavy oil coating their skin had a chance to wear off, exposing details of the skin beneath, skin tone, tattoos, and scars. Tyler took note of the details that began to emerge, giving nicknames to each of the zombies appropriate to their appearance. Names like blue-eyes, red, scraggly, and buff-boy.

His work days continued to remain long and boring, so mind-numbing that he had time to reflect on the months he had spent recruiting. In looking back and reflecting on each recruit, he tried to jog his memory, looking for a subconscious clue for what he may have missed that made them such poor recruits.

****

Misty had a cold beauty that emanated from her. It wasn't so much her physical appearance; although it wasn't bad to Tyler's standards, but the piercing gaze of her icy blue eyes when they fixed upon you. Tyler had found her when they stopped at a large highway filling station to scout for valuable supplies. The station was intended to service high volumes of automobile and truck traffic, but was in an area of inhospitable desert miles away from any towns.

They were looking for the usual high-priced consumables of tobacco and liquor. Once the crew had located the supplies they wanted, Tyler headed off on his own to scout the rest of the store. Using his nose, he knew the store was clear of zombies, although in the past he'd made the mistake of confusing a freshly opened container of beef jerky with the smell of zombies. Because of that, he rarely ate beef jerky unless he was somewhere he knew was totally safe and secure.

He was walking through the food section of the filling station when something caught his eye. Dust over the years had settled thick upon the shelves, but there were four pristine circles on a shelf that held cans of ham and chicken salad. Tyler stopped and immediately looked around, seeing more signs that someone else was in the store with them. He found more places where cans and boxes had been recently removed from the shelves. The uncovered silhouette of the removed items revealed the pristine glistening surface of the store shelving beneath. A new layer of dust had not had time to resettle and to dull the gleam of the surface.

Looking at the floor, he saw a distinct set of footprints. Reading the prints he saw that a person had recently been standing where he currently was. There were additional scuffs where the person had shifted along as he or she rummaged the shelves. The prints led away from where he was standing to the rear of the store. Tyler guessed from the distance between each print that the person had sprinted away, most likely when he and the harvesters had arrived. That person was probably somewhere in the back of the store.

Tyler was carrying a police issued Glock .40 caliber pistol. He found it to be an ideal weapon when he worked with the harvesters, a perfect combination of dependability, high volume magazine, penetration and stopping power. He drew the weapon and called out loudly, "Hello in the store. My name's Tyler and we're fellow scavengers. We have fresh food."

From the dark recesses in the back of the store, a female voice called back, "Come any closer and I'll blow your head off. Get you and your buddies and clear out."

Tyler called back, "Okay, we're going to leave." For female survivors living in the wilds, any group constituted a threat that they couldn't afford to take lightly. The risks of rape and enslavement were too great. Tyler knew that she would shoot him without hesitation and the rest of the crew as well, so he gathered everyone inside the store and they left.

Once outside he called the crew together and explained the situation. "We've got a female scavenger inside the store. I'd like you three," he pointed to the three women on the crew, "to go inside and see if you can talk her out. I'd like a chance to see if we can recruit her."

One of the three, Florence, said, "No problem, but do you think it's safe enough. Is she crazy?"

"No, I don't think she is, just cautious and probably worried about raiders."

Florence replied, "Alright then, girls, let's go." Florence and the other two women entered the store. Outside the men waited or went back to their trucks and stashed the goods they had already scavenged from the truck stop.

Five minutes later, Florence and the two other women came back out, followed by a slender, blond-haired woman, whose hand rested firmly upon a large revolver holstered at her hip. Revolvers were a good choice of weapon when dependability was important. A revolver was always ready to fire, and since it didn't have a spring loaded magazine, there was never an issue with malfunctions or misfeeds. Tyler guessed that it was a heavy caliber, capable of obliterating the skulls of both the living and dead.

Tyler walked forward and offered his hand. "Hello, I'm Tyler and I'm a recruiter for the D-Tec Corporation."

The woman walked up and briefly shook his hand with her left hand, keeping her right hand firmly resting on her weapon. "Nice to meet you. I'm Misty and I'm scavenging this here store."

****

They had encountered Fitzgerald happily walking along an open highway between survivor camps. They had already been told about him in the previous camp, from which he had politely been asked to leave after making sexual advances on every single female within the camp. His behavior might have been tolerated, except for the fact that even after several women accepted his amorous intentions, he continued to make propositions. Finally, the camp's leader, a married woman of thirty years grew tired of him and sent him packing. She told Tyler and the harvester crew that they would find 'Fitz' walking towards another nearby camp to try his wily ways on that group's female members. They'd know him immediately from his flamingly bright locks of gleaming red hair and beard.

"That's his strength and his weakness," she said as they were getting ready to leave the camp. "Women. He's an expert scavenger and knows how to manipulate the zombies like nobody else, but only because he's always thinking about his next date. He doesn't give the zombies a chance to key in on his fear, since he only considers them a distraction on his ultimate quest for endless love. He's not a bad guy, nice to have around, but he just causes too many problems. I'm sure he'll take you up on your offer once you tell him about the nightclubs in Fargo."

They had spotted Fitz's red hair when they were still half a mile away. His red hair glowed like a beacon. Along the route, they'd encountered several dead zombies, freshly dispatched with the skill and precision of a small bullet to the forehead. When they caught up to him, he was indeed very pleasant and quickly accepted their offer of employment when Tyler promoted Fargo's nightclubs.

****

Russell was a unique recruit in almost every way. Russell was so unique that Tyler almost hesitated to recruit him. Russell appeared greasy and grisly, probably from not having bathed, ever. He was also most-likely a psychopath.

Russell's story was that he had found an armored truck in the early days of the apocalypse and used it as a mobile safe house, traveling from gas station to gas station, and siphoning diesel from the dregs of the fuel storage tanks. That didn't make him a psychopath, but what he did whenever he stopped did. Russell would purposely draw zombies to his location in the hundreds, perhaps thousands, and then spend hours blasting them with a huge arsenal of weapons he had collected. He would only stop when he was hungry or ready for sleep. He would climb through the reinforced roof hatch, seal up the opening, and then rest comfortably while hundreds of zombies raged outside.

Tyler never did figure out how he managed to drive the armored truck out of the radius of carnage he created and he also never figured out why Russell accepted his offer to work as a stoker. His explanation of, "I'm all for any chance I can get to piss of a zombie, and if I can do it every day, that's all the better for me," seemed inadequate for a man bent on more severely maiming the already maimed and dismembered bodies of the living dead.

****

Busteed was also another unique recruit. He was massive and muscle-bound. Even while they sat down and discussed terms of employment, he had a set of small five pound weights that he continuously used to work various muscles in his arms. He also ate a massive amount of food from the harvest crew's kitchen, which he followed with a colorful dessert of pills. In the zombie post apocalypse world there were no laws, and therefore there were no laws against the use of drugs. Busteed happily explained the cocktail of pills he was taking to Tyler. "Steroids for muscle, Ritalin for alertness and energy and Vicodin to manage the pain from steroids and to take the edge off the Ritalin. I've got more, but I save them for when I need them."

He went on to explain his reasons for being so muscular. "It's simple why I'm like this," he said. "When you yourself are a weapon, everything and anything you can put your hands on only enhances your deadliness. With a rock half the size of a baseball, I can crush your skull at twenty feet. I can impale this spoon in your cranial cavity. With this steak knife, I could quickly sever each of your limbs and your head... and do it quickly, quicker than a zombie can react to prevent it. Shovels, sticks, axes, guns, pipes, and cinder blocks. That's the ammo, I'm the gun."

"Impressive," said Tyler. "But if you decide to accept our offer of employment how will being the ultimate weapon help you as a stoker?"

Busteed answered, "Easy. I know my body. I know my mind. If what you say is true about managing yourself to manage zombie rage, I can do that. Easy."

****

Tyler found himself once again haunting the scavenger market. His friend, Jackson who had tried and failed to work as a stoker, found him when he returned to town from a scavenging trip. Jackson walked up on him as Tyler was strolling through the vendor stalls, chatting with the merchants. Placing his hand on Tyler's shoulder, he said, "Hey, I just got back into town."

Tyler looked back, glad to see an old friend. He noticed Jackson was carrying an oversized military rucksack that appeared to be heavily weighted with goods. He smiled broadly and said, "Good to see you. You look like you've got a fresh load."

"Yeah. Only high value stuff, mostly medicine. Follow me while I trade this in, then we'll head over to Annie's for some fresh meat and vegetables and then over to Jake's to cook it up. I got a six pack of Fat Tire Amber Ale we can split. I know it's one of your favorites."

"Sounds good to me."

While they walked, Jackson talked about his last scavenger run. Each run they had to travel further than the previous run, but the rate at which the distance increased was slowing down due to a decrease in the amount of total scavengers willing to make the long trips into the wilds and as a matter of simple geometry; as the distance the scavengers had to travel increased, the total searchable area and scavenge-able sites increased exponentially.

The harvest crews traveled even farther out than the scavengers since they had already harvested the higher quality zombies, leaving the slower and more ragged zombies for the on-foot scavengers to deal with. They also left the bulk of goods untouched, focusing on the high demand items of booze and tobacco. For Jackson, the payoff was getting better, even if he had to spend more time traveling.

After Jackson sold and traded-out his haul, and after they had purchased fresh food from Annie's, they sat down at Jake's restaurant. Jake had a basic menu of meals and would offer it to anyone who asked, but his restaurant's specialty was preparing food that the customers brought in. He provided the spices and expertise to turn anything into a five star gourmet meal. The restaurant itself was located in an old McDonalds building. With different lighting, tinted windows, plants, paint, and artwork, the restaurant lost the fast-food-joint feeling, even though the tables and seating remained unchanged. Jake had also stripped out much of McDonalds' automated cooking equipment and replaced it with quality equipment from around Fargo. The only items of hardware in the kitchen that he had retained were the deep fat fryers and refrigerators.

Jackson opened two bottles of ale and poured them into frosted glasses provided by Jake. "So I heard you're back on the floor," he stated.

"Yeah," answered Tyler. "It seems all of my recruits from the wilds failed to stick around."

"All of them?" asked Jack incredulously.

Tyler nodded. "Uh huh. All of them. They tell me they didn't last a day."

Jackson shook his head. "Wow, that's too bad. So what happened to them? Where did they go?"

"They tell me that they packed up and headed back into the wilds," said Tyler.

"How many?" asked Jackson.

Tyler thought about the numbers for a second, then figuring out loud he said, "Well, I averaged two to three recruits per trip. I'd say that each harvesting trip averaged about a week in length. I worked the wilds for four months. So conservatively, sixteen weeks times two a week, thirty two recruits. Forty eight to fifty tops."

Jackson had a strange look on his face. "And you say they all went back into the wilds?"

"Yeah, that's what they tell me," answered Tyler.

"Tyler, I haven't encountered a single one of your recruits," said Jackson, concern now evident upon his face.

"I don't know why you would," said Tyler.

"I pay attention to everybody and anything that moves where I'm working. You're a survivor," said Jackson. He paused then pushed his point. "You know what I'm talking about. You watch. You pay attention. You even come to know individual zombies. You have to, in order to survive. Tyler, I know who leaves Fargo and there aren't many. If you had only recruited ten people, I would have encountered a minimum of three. That's how many people have quietly left Fargo since you went to work as a recruiter in the wilds: debtors, criminals, and lovers mostly. People, living people, leave signs and I always check them out. It benefits a scavenger to know who's in their area and might be stirring up the zombies."

Concern now showed on Tyler's face. "Not a one?" he asked.

"No," replied Jackson. "Not a one."

The rest of their meal was quiet. Jackson stayed the night, sleeping in one of Tyler's spare rooms. Conversation didn't pick up again. Tyler's mind was trying to grasp what had happened to all of his recruits. Nothing seemed to make sense.

The next morning as Tyler headed to work and Jackson headed back to the market to prepare for another trip out, Jackson wished him a good day and said, "Be careful, Tyler. I don't know what's going on, but I've got a bad feeling."

Tyler agreed, simply saying, "Yeah," before they parted ways.

Tyler's shift was no different than any other and he quickly lapsed into thinking about recruits.

****

Tyler had been working with Reed when they encountered Lifer. That wasn't his real name, but it was who he was. Lifer was the sole living resident of a high security prison. The zombie plague had spread quickly within the walls of the prison and Lifer had been spared simply by the fact that he was confined by himself in death row segregation. According to the prison's policies, he was allowed a few luxuries, like television, radio, hygiene products and a selection of pre-packaged food items from an approved vendor. It was Lifer's policy to make sure he always ordered as much food as he could, since the prison's daily menu lacked variety.

When the plague spread outside, Lifer sat within his tiny cell and prepared. He saved water in empty soda bottles and trash bags, and stockpiled more food than he was authorized by prison policy.

When the plague spread within the walls, Lifer sat and waited. While he waited he began fashioning a weapon. Using a small fingernail file, he cut a three foot section of metal from the soft iron of his bunk. One edge he sharpened using both the file and the cement of this cell. The other edge he left blunt for smashing. He tightly wrapped strips of bed sheet around the base of the weapon to form a handle. Before the apocalypse, the guards would have found the blade within a week, but they had lost all desire to conduct cell searches, afraid to venture into prisoner cells at the risk of being attacked by either the living or the dead.

Three days after the plague entered the prison walls, the guard in charge of watching death row, Correctional Officer Gerwell, attempted to leave the prison; abandoning Lifer and the other death row inmates. He returned in fifteen minutes, panicked and bloody. He was dead within another fifteen minutes. Five minutes later, he was a zombie roaming the corridor outside of Lifer's cell. Lifer and the other inmates remained safe behind their cell doors.

The following day the power went out. For two weeks Lifer waited. The other inmates lasted a few more days before succumbing to dehydration. Lifer, with his supply of water couldn't help, so he kept quiet while the other inmates died. In truth, he didn't want to help them. They were the worst of the worst. Worse even than him. They had killed for pleasure, perverse and demented pleasure. Lifer was a contract killer, a hitman employed by a national drug ring. When debts were owed and collection efforts failed, Lifer was sent to liquidate the client. It was a prosperous job with plenty of work. There was no pleasure in his work. For him, it was on par with taking out the trash.

It wasn't until one of the ring's lieutenants was caught that Lifer came to justice. The lieutenant kept a log, against the ring's own criminal code, of the ring's business dealings. It included a complete list of Lifer's hit jobs. The federal cops had been trying to track him down for years, and the prosecutors offered the rat lieutenant a sweet plea deal for rolling over on Lifer. Lifer had been arrested at his home without incident. A hit was ordered and carried out on the rat in prison. Lifer's prison bank account, for ordering food, magazines and anything else, was always kept full.

Lifer's post apocalypse escape was easy. Every high security cell in prison has food tray slots built into the doors for issuing and receiving supplies. Any inmate worth his weight in canned beans could open those slots, despite the sliding lock being located on the other side of the door, in less than five minutes. Closing it was another matter. Lifer was down to four twenty ounce bottles of water when he decided to make the attempt. Officer Gerwell still patrolled the corridor running between the cells of death row. On his belt he carried a set of handcuffs, a long-dead radio, a can of pepper spray, and a swinging set of jangling keys. In preparation, Lifer slid the locking mechanism of the food slot to the side without allowing the slot door to fall open. Then he banged on the door, drawing Officer Gerwell to him.

Officer Gerwell appeared at the door in seconds, his bloated face pressing against the narrow strip of safety glass in the door's window. Gerwell's eyes looked at Lifer with hungry lust. Keeping his face directly across the glass from Gerwell's face, Lifer kicked open the food slot. Immediately Lifer dropped to a knee and snaked his hand through the slot to grab Gerwell's utility belt. He pulled hard, forcing Gerwell flat against the door and preventing him from reaching towards the slot with his ragged hands.

Maintaining a tight grip, Lifer worked the keys loose from their spring clip and pulled them free. With keys in hand, all he needed to do was reach outside and unlock his door. He couldn't do that until Gerwell's zombie was dead.

Lifer let go of Gerwell's belt and stepped away from the slot. Immediately Gerwell reached inside with both hands. Lifer grabbed his weapon and hacked them off at the elbow. The arms withdrew and Gerwell stuck his face in the slot to look inside. Lifer twisted the weapon and smashed the blunt edge into Officer Gerwell's face. Gerwell dropped to the floor, but brought his face back up to the hole a moment later. A ragged line of ripped skin and gore ran from Gerwell's forehead to his upper jaw. Lifer tried again, swinging the weapon in a full arc from the ceiling and making a concerted effort to strike Gerwell directly on the forehead again. With a crack, Gerwell's face disappeared from the hole.

After waiting fifteen minutes to insure that Gerwell was dead, Lifer unlocked his cell and became the sole living occupant of the prison. To clear the prison, so that he could scavenge supplies, he used the prison's system of corridors and sally ports to shuttle the zombie residents and guards to a single housing unit. He took up residence in the prison's control and administration area. He harvested food from the prison garden. He survived. Experience living in segregation kept him sane.

When the harvest crew arrived at the prison, Lifer met them at the gate. Tyler took note of his appearance, immediately aware that the man greeting them was not a former employee of the prison. Lifer was dressed in nothing more than a pair of knee length blue denim shorts and leather work boots. Upon his chest was an exquisite tattoo of two skulls, one bright white and the other ebony black, intertwined loosely in a representation of yin and yang. Fourteen rust-colored spikes, like the spikes of a barbed wire fence, were tattooed within the gold and red swirl of flames around the skulls. Tyler would later learn that each barb represented a victim.

Lifer agreed immediately to Tyler's recruitment offer, grateful for an opportunity to leave the prison and move back into civilization. He also helped the harvesters load the trailers with scores of premium grade-A prisoners.

****

The zombies were beginning to grow lethargic, so Tyler focused his attention on them, clapping his hands to gain their attention. In the front row, pressed against the bars holding the zombies back, Tyler saw a gleaming white tattoo showing through the oil coating of one of the pickles. Nonchalantly Tyler strolled forward to look at the tattoo. The tattoo was partially obscured by the oil, but it was definitely a skull. Tyler continued to look, ignoring the zombies as they began to rage and made out several spikes and wisps of flame where the oil had been scraped clear. Tyler felt twinges of fear as he realized he was looking at Lifer.

He began looking through the mob of zombies on the other side of the bars, feeling abstract panic as he realized a great many of the zombies were his recruits. Alarms went off as the zombies reached a threshold limit of overpowering the electricity grid. Tyler shut down immediately, putting himself in a state of calm. He forced himself for the rest of his shift to think about nothing, wiping the thought of recruits from his mind.
Chapter Six

Explaining the Recruits

A mindless lifetime passed before Kari entered the chamber to relieve Tyler. When she did, Tyler said to her as he hastily stepped out, "Hey Kari, I gotta go. See you later." He was out of the chamber and in the hallway before Kari had a chance to reply. Even if she had replied, Tyler wouldn't have known. He was headed to Jeff's office, his brain rapidly reviving the information he forced himself to suppress while he was in the chamber. As his thoughts flowed, the hallway lights seemed to glow brighter. Tyler realized that his emotions were rising to unhealthy levels and he consciously forced himself to relax and think more logically. The lights dimmed to their normal level, bringing a brief, fleeting realization that the zombies cued in on more than just physical signs from the living.

D-Tec's corporate offices were located in a new three story office building two blocks away from the generating plant. He rarely went there, but as the Corporation's best stoker the receptionist knew who he was when he entered the
building. She asked, "Hey Tyler, how can I help you?" Reading his face, she said, "You look concerned. This is important, isn't it?"

"I need to see Jeff. It's about the recruits."

"Okay," she answered, "I'll give him a call. Have a seat."

Tyler nervously waited in the reception area, trying to relax and prepare himself for what he had to say while seated in one of the lobby's plush but hygienic chairs.

After fifteen minutes the receptionist's phone rang. She picked it up and listened for a moment before saying "Okay." She hung up the phone and looked at Tyler, "Jeff is ready to see you now. Do you remember where his office is?"

Tyler answered as he hastily stood up, "Yes. It has been awhile, but I remember."

She smiled politely. "The door will be open. Just walk in and have a seat."

Tyler smiled back, saying, "Thanks," as he headed for the stairs to the second floor. He could feel the stress mounting as he climbed each step, sickly aware of the reality he was about the face when he told Jeff what he knew. Deep down, he was also beginning to feel a twinge of guilt for luring competent survivors to their death.

He had been focusing on the steps of the stairs, and then the carpet of the upstairs hallway, and failed to realize he was standing in Jeff's doorway. He stopped abruptly and looked up. Jeff was standing at his desk with a look of concern on his face.

He motioned for Tyler to enter, saying "Tyler come in and have a seat." He indicated a comfortable chair across from his own desk. "Do you want anything to drink? Coffee? Water? Hard Liquor?"

Tyler made his way to the seat and sat down. "No, nothing, thank you." The seat was doubly comfortable than the seat downstairs in the lobby, which somehow made Tyler doubly nervous.

Jeff took his own seat across from Tyler. "Alright, so what is it you need to tell me? Something about the recruits?"

Tyler sat forward in the chair. His fingers were interlocked as he worked them together in stress. It occurred to him, as he sat there, how ironic it was that he had absolute control over himself with the dead, but turned into a nervous wreck when dealing with the living. He took a deep breath and visibly relaxed himself. He looked directly at Jeff and said, "Jeff, I know what's been happening to the recruits."

Tyler finally relaxed internally as the news of his discovery was finally out. He watched Jeff, waiting for a response.

For a fraction of a second, Jeff froze and strange looked flashed upon his eyes. The look lasted barely a moment before melding back to a look of concern. He answered, sounding confused at Tyler's statement, "I thought they'd all taken off. Our agents think most of them were just along for a free ride to the Fargo area, in the relative luxury of the harvest convoys. You think something else is going on?"

"Yes... No. I think we've got a zombie problem in the areas outside of Fargo. Something the security crews missed, or else a new population of zombies have moved in. Jeff, I don't have a clue as to why the recruits are taking off, but they're not getting very far. I think that after they sneak out of town, they are taking shelter in the abandoned areas of Fargo, the areas we've told them are free of zombies, and they're getting attacked and infected because they've let their guard down."

Jeff sat back in his chair. The look of concern had intensified. Tyler wasn't sure anymore if the look was directed at him or in response to the situation. Jeff asked, stammering to get the right question, "So... why... how... what makes you believe this is happening?"

"Because they're now pickles in the generating plant. I recognize some of them, Lifer, Misty, Fitgerald, Rusty, Busteed."

Jeff sat forward in his chair, slowly but enough that his bearing changed. His look had shifted from concern to something else. Tyler could see Jeff thinking, but he couldn't read the meaning behind the intense look on his face.

After a few seconds, Jeff spoke, "Okay, Tyler. I have no reason to doubt what you've said. We haven't been able to fully figure out how the recruits have left the city and nobody ID's the zombies when they come back in as product. I'll contact the city and let them know we might have a zombie infestation. Perhaps we'll get some fresh product out of the clearing operations."

Jeff stood up abruptly. To Tyler he said, "But you, you need to go home and relax. I can see that this has stressed you out, telling me. Go home. We'll follow up and fix this mess. You're the best stoker we have, Tyler, but you don't need to be on duty every hour of every day. After your shift tomorrow, go see Jay. If you need anything else, better pay, better apartment, whatever, ask Jay. I'll make sure he knows you've got my blessing of approval."

Tyler stood up too, "But what about the recruits in the plant?"

Jeff raised his hands in a half shrug, "What's done is done, Tyler. We'll fix the recruit program and get you some relief." Jeff offered his hand across the desk, "Are we good?"

Tyler took his hand and shook it, "Yes, I think so."

Jeff smiled broadly, "Good. You're the best there is Tyler and we're backing you one hundred percent. Now get out of here so I can call Jay and tell him to give you a pay raise."

"Thanks, but it's not necessary. Good bye, Jeff, and thanks again."

Tyler exited Jeff's office and left D-Tec's corporate building. He walked to the scavenger market and had a simple dinner of hamburger and fries before heading home. All the while he was feeling good that maybe the recruit situation would improve. He went to bed that night, considering the possibility of giving Fargo's night clubs a second chance, or of finding a girlfriend to spend his time with, or even starting a family.
Chapter Seven

Doors

It was a glorious morning for Tyler. He woke up feeling refreshed, confident in a brighter future with the Corporation. Before heading in to work, he stopped at Jake's Restaurant and ordered a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast off the standard menu. He enjoyed every bite of the meal.

He brought those good feelings with him to work. He was surprised when he opened the door to the chamber to relieve Kari and found a bald-headed man whom he had never met before working instead. Seeing Tyler enter the chamber, the man answered Tyler's unasked question, "Kari had to take the day off, one of her kids are sick."

Taking it in stride, Tyler replied, "That's good, she really does need some time off." In keeping with his mood, he said to the man, "It's nice to meet you. We always need people in the chamber and you seemed to be doing a good job." The zombies really were performing well, moving at a strong, steady speed. The man was very skilled with the zombies and Tyler wondered why they'd never met, either on the harvest crews or working the floor of the chamber.
Trading out, the man maintained a neutral demeanor as he walked out the door. "Have a good shift," he called as the door closed.

Tyler worked a little harder than usual, challenged to find a balance between his uplifted mood and the need maintain a proper aggravation level for the zombies within the chamber. It was not an emotion he normally experienced and not an emotion he'd ever had to control when working with zombies. He found it a refreshing experience, which in itself added a new emotional dimension for him to work with.

About two hours into his shift, Tyler heard the loud rumble of heavy engines coming to life. The Corporation maintained several diesel generators to power Fargo in case of an emergency, or to replace electricity from the zombie powered generators when maintenance needed to be performed at the chamber. Tyler reasoned that they were performing maintenance on the diesel engines themselves, running them to prevent avoidable malfunctions brought on by disuse of complex machinery. For several minutes he listened as the engines sputtered and loped before coming to a steady rumble.

The lights flickered for a split second and Tyler heard a deep groan. The zombies on the other side of the cage suddenly pressed forward against the bars separating themselves from him. Tyler realized the groan was the sound of the treadmill platform the zombies used to turn the generator coming to a stop.

Immediately Tyler went neutral, emotionally and physically. The press of zombies against the bars seemed to relax, but something was still driving their aggression. He had succeeded in making himself invisible, but they were focused on something else. Following their dead gaze, he saw that they were looking behind and above him, towards the viewing room above the chamber. Slowly he looked over his shoulder and saw a figure looking down from the window. It was the bald-headed man he had relieved earlier.

As Tyler watched, the man began pounding on the windows and screaming, an obvious attempt to illicit a reaction from the zombies. They reacted, in fury.

Tyler was trying to puzzle out what was happening. Slowly, he walked to the door, so he could exit and be free to let his mind focus on the problem without adding to the zombie aggravation. Reaching the door, he grabbed the handle to open the door. When he twisted the knob, it refused to turn. He tried it again, pulling at the same time. It was locked. The pounding at the viewing window above continued. The zombies across from him continued to thrash in anger. Tyler remained motionless, using every fiber of his willpower to do and feel nothing.

Tyler heard a loud metal clang from the area near the bars. A few seconds later he heard the loud hum of electric motors. Slowly, with a squeal of metal dragging on metal, the bars separating Tyler from the zombies began to rise up.

Tyler died. In his mind he pictured himself as a corpse; mangled, rotted, and long ago desiccated along an abandoned road. On the other side of the room he conjured an injured and bloody woman in his mind. If there was an emotion for zombie bloodlust, he projected it toward the physical location of the woman he was creating in his mind. He also projected his voice, a moan, toward the area.

Through the soulless eyes of the dead, Tyler observed the slow rise of the bar separating him from the zombies. Before it had even raised a yard up from the floor, zombies were dropping on their bellies and crawling toward the corner of the room where Tyler held the image of a mortally injured woman. He felt a sense of dread and the zombies hesitated, confused, eyes searching for the source of the emotion. Immediately he suppressed himself, but at the same time transferring that felt emotion to the mental image he was projecting. The zombies focused back on the corner, drawn by the renewed strength of his mental image.

Slowly the zombies migrated towards the corner of the room. When the bars were fully raised to the ceiling there was a clear path to the room beyond, where angry zombies had once turned the machinery that powered Fargo. Tyler's legs moved then. In his mind, zombies began to bite the woman. She screamed.

Without reason or emotion, his mind registered details of the zombie portion of the chamber. The bars, which he had once assumed were permanently embedded in the cement, fit snuggly into channels integrated in the floor and the walls of the chamber. The tread device itself, the surface that the zombies walked upon to generate power, was a marvel of engineering. It spanned the entire width of the chamber and was a full fifteen feet from the front edge to back. Each three inch wide segment of the tread also spanned the width of the chamber. It was set into the floor in such a way as to prevent damage to the zombies. The front joint was recessed behind an angled kick plate of heavy steel to prevent pinch damage to the zombie's feet with the same treatment at the rear. When Tyler stepped on it, he felt it move a mere fraction of an inch before catching against whatever had locked it in place, a testament to the quality of engineering needed to make such a huge treadmill turn with minimal effort.

At the far end of the room was another door with a narrow pain of glass running vertically along its length. There was no handle on the door. It was the only door. It was the only 'anything' besides solid gray cement. Tyler allowed his eyes to roam. In his mind, he made the woman twitch, spasm and writhe in agony.

His legs ceased moving. He was no longer visible to the bald-headed man at the viewing window. He continued to scan the room. Bars. Treadmill. Door. Cement. Bars. Treadmill. Door. Cement. Bars. Treadmill. PANEL. In the floor, on the far side of the treadmill was a metal panel set into the floor. Tyler's legs brought him to the panel. In his mind, the woman thrashed upright and ran toward the chamber's entrance.

Tyler stood over the panel and examined it. It appeared to be thick, thick steel. A hinge ran along the side facing the stoker section of the chamber. Recessed on the opposite side of the panel was a handle. Tyler reached down and lifted. It was heavy, very heavy. He pulled harder. The panel lifted up. Tyler saw cement floor six feet below. Balancing the panel upright, he dropped into the hole below. A moment later the panel slammed closed above him, shrouding him in darkness.

In the dark, Tyler relaxed. He wiped the image of the woman from his mind and within seconds he could hear the zombies swarming above him. He allowed himself to think. He understood that someone, the Corporation, had just tried to kill him. They would have if he hadn't been able to throw off the zombies. He marveled at the panel. Was it really heavy enough to prevent zombies from opening it? Certainly the zombie Busteed could easily lift the panel. Busteed was among the zombies trampling above him.

Tyler's eyes adjusted to the limited light filtering down from the treadmill surface. He was in a chamber that mirrored the length and width of the treadmill above, probably a maintenance area. The surface of the treadmill dropped from the ceiling at a forty five degree angle toward the center of the space. Tyler guessed the drop was to allow space for a driveshaft to transfer power to the generator.

To his immediate left was an opening through which the driveshaft ran. Looking into the dim space, all he could see was dangerous looking gears, sprockets and machinery. He turned right instead and walked to the far end of the chamber. The surface of the treadmill vibrated with the mass of aggravated zombies above. At the far end, he found only heavy cement and steel supports for the driveshaft and axles of the treadmill.

Tyler walked back to the gap and peered inside. He didn't have any option. He would have to enter the gap and navigate his way through the machinery. Without putting anymore thought into it, he reached into the gap. He grabbed a large, arm-sized spoke and pulled himself forward. As he placed his hand on a thick section of gearing, he realized that even if zombies had managed to open the panel, the turning machinery would have quickly crushed and dismembered them. If the Corporation were to immediately restart the chamber, he would be quickly crushed and dismembered as well.

Cautiously he made his way through the gearing, wary of the sharp edges and liberal amounts of grease. He would be a sight to see if he escaped. He might even scare a few people with the grease making him look like a pickle. Eventually he found himself crouching on a cement floor. He couldn't see the generator above him, but he could sense its massive presence. Across from where he sensed the generator, an exit sign glowed next to a control panel with a bank of blinking red lights.

Tyler cautiously made his way to the exit, dodging murky objects in the deep shadows of the room. He tried the door handle and found it unlocked.

When he opened the door, fluorescent light flooded into the room, revealing the stark machinery he had just crawled through. In addition to the gears of the machinery, heavy electric cables ran from the generator to a bank of transformers, before snaking out of the room along insulated support poles. Tyler shuddered to think about the mass of energy in the room when the generator was running.

He made his way into the next room. It was filled with toolboxes, work tables and a utility basin. He walked to the basin and turned on the faucet. After scraping off the heavier globs of grease, he used a dirty rag to more or less get his face clean. There was a grubby set of gray coveralls and a cap resting on a chair at one of the work tables. Tyler grabbed them and threw them on over his own clothes.

At the far end of the room was another door. He opened it to find a set of stairs. Cautiously he climbed to the stairs, which ended after one flight at another door. He opened the door to find himself standing in a long hallway. There was an exit nearby. He opened the door and exited the building to a glorious day.
Chapter Eight

Traversing

Tyler stepped out in the light of day. It was around ten in the morning. The sky was a perfect shade of blue with a few high wispy clouds. The temperature was perfect. He didn't notice any of it, though. The door slammed closed behind him. He took a half step backward and stumbled against the curbing, falling into the door behind him with a thump. With the shock of contact, his thoughts came unbidden and free-flowing.

'What, what, what was that? What did I just do?' He had just controlled zombies with his thoughts. He had never tried it before. The concept had never even occurred to him. He remembered the image of the woman, a figure he had never met but simply created from his imagination. He remembered how the zombies had reacted; drawn by the power of his thoughts. I'm an evil wizard, a dark mage, a necromancer. No. I'm sure anyone can do it. Kari taught me voice projection. Maybe it's like that? Or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe when she projects her voice she's projecting an image.'
Some of the techniques, of picturing yourself being dead and becoming invisible were already well versed to the stokers. Were the zombies drawn by thought alone? Is that why zombies could find you in the dark? Why blind zombies, zombies with smashed faces, zombies whose skulls were nothing more than decayed, rotted, withered or tattered flesh could still find survivors?

Tyler felt his level of anxiety rise, felt his heart pound deeply in his chest as he tried to grasp the enormity of his new discovery. Had every action, scream, wild antic he had ever used to generate zombie rage simply been the physical manifesting of the thoughts he was projecting. Could he sit, zen-like, and orchestrate the behavior of entire hordes of zombies without twitching a muscle. Could he make them raise him up on their shoulders and carry him like a hero? No. Certainly he didn't have that kind of control. The zombies didn't have that kind of control themselves. He didn't think he could control their individual movements. He couldn't even conceive of how to try. No. He could control the hordes and that was strength enough in and of itself. But what would he do with the knowledge. What would he do with the knowledge in regards to the Corporation?

Tyler jerked with a start. The Corporation. They had just tried to kill him! He couldn't do anything with his new knowledge if they killed him, and they would certainly continue trying when they realized that the mob of pickles in the chamber had not done the job. How long would it take them to check for his dismembered corpse within the chamber? Did they expect to use his undead corpse to power the corporation's array of machines?

He remembered the recruits then. They had never tried to escape. The Corporation has used him to bring in a fresh supply of living product, the best way to insure a constant supply of grade-A zombies. Did they convert the recruits in the chamber, or did they do it somewhere else? Probably somewhere else, a new zombie wouldn't be any good as a pickle if he'd been ravaged and torn apart by the other zombies during the conversion process? They probably did it in the training facility. Maybe they each received an injection from the Corporation, were told it was an inoculation against some common illness plaguing Fargo residents.

It was time to move. The Corporation would find out sooner or later that he had escaped. He looked at his surroundings. A few individuals dressed according to the roles they played in Fargo traversed the streets and sidewalks, en route to wherever their jobs called them. None of them seemed to be paying particular attention to Tyler, dressed in workman garb and resting against the door of his own place of employment. It was still a glorious day. Why would anything be wrong on a glorious day?

Tyler started walking, making his way back to his own apartment. As he passed through each of the districts he looked at the people, noting how they continued their lives unaware that he had nearly been murdered. He fought the urge to run up to each person, grab them by the shoulders, and warn them of the Corporation's activities. But he could see that they were happy, content with the safety that both Fargo and the Corporation brought. To take their innocence would serve him no purpose. It would be selfish for him to destroy their veil of safety and innocence, those persons who had found their place in the post apocalypse when it was only him and the new recruits that were in danger.

He waved back when his friends saw him, but didn't stop to speak or even call out a greeting. It wasn't safe in Fargo. Probably not even safe within the Corporation's radius of influence. He had to get his gear and get out of Fargo. Once he was outside of the walls of Fargo, he would be safe, able to move safely through the zombie infested wilds, easily avoiding the main roads which the harvesters and other corporate crews travelled in their armored rigs. Safely through the zombie wild,' he repeated in his thoughts, Yes. I can control them. I can bring this knowledge to the people of the wilds... when I warn them about the evils of the corporation.

As he closed the final mile to his apartment, he reasoned out a plan of action. He kept a heavy backpack full of food and survival gear, a fresh set of clothing, and a pair of weapons at the ready for a quick departure in case Fargo found itself about to be overrun by a zombie horde. Active patrols outside the walls of Fargo made the prospect of a full scale horde overrunning Fargo a remote prospect, but he kept his gear at the ready anyway. He had seen the safest cities fall before, and to assume that Fargo was any safer was a fool's belief.

He reached his building, stepping around a white cargo van parked in front of the entrance, and entered through the front doors. The elevator was normally shut down to save power, but as he entered the building he saw the doors close ahead of him. Zombie power might be limitless, but only so much could be generated at the plant. It was an agonizingly slow ride to use the elevator and Tyler would certainly reach his floor before the elevator had even started to move. They were probably using it to help someone move in to one of the upstairs apartments.

Tyler took the stairs, using his key to unlock the stairwell doors on both the ground floor and his own floor, a safety feature commonly integrated into buildings to prevent an unchecked flood of the undead.

Exiting the stairwell he walked down the hall and found his door open. Each of the locks had been opened without any evident signs of forced entry. Looking inside, his saw that his apartment was empty. No furniture, no supplies, no gear. Even the posters had been removed from the walls.

He heard the ding of the elevator behind him and turned to look. Inside he saw Travis, whom he had once recruited from Fargo's refugee camp to work as a stoker, only to quit on the second day of training before even entering the chamber. Travis also saw him and quickly drew a small pistol. It looked like a small .380 automatic, potentially ineffective against both zombies and humans, but dangerous nevertheless. A bullet in his gut or face might not kill him right away, but any serious wound would kill him in wilds. Tyler raised his hands in placation, showing Travis that he wasn't a threat.

Travis gestured with the pistol. "Step into the apartment, stay where I can see you and keep your hands up."

Tyler did as he requested and stepped into the apartment. He moved backward slowly, keeping his eyes on Travis and insuring his hands remained raised. When he was several steps into the apartment, he stopped and said, "So what's going on Travis? Why is the Corporation trying to kill me?"

Travis followed him into the room and closed the door behind him with his foot. "You've asked too many questions, Tyler. The bosses don't like the wrong people asking questions about their number one resource."

"What do you mean?" asked Tyler, "All I did was suggest what might be happening to them." Tyler downplayed what he now knew for the truth about the Corporation's use of recruits as the source for new high quality zombies. He wanted Travis to talk, not just to fill in the blanks of the Corporation's schemes, but to let his guard down.

Travis pursed his lips in irritation. "You're really an idiot sometimes, Tyler. The recruits never left the damned city. There are no zombies hiding out in the abandoned suburbs of Fargo. You brought them in and the Corporation pickled them. It's a real efficient operation."

"But why go through all the trouble of sending out a recruiter? Why not use the refugees? There's thousands of them doing nothing but sucking off the Fargo teat."

"Stupid. Tyler. You're so stupid. If the Corporation did that, then we'd have a riot and everything pretty about Fargo blows up. As it is right now, if the refugees ever did find out about the operation, we can keep them happy by telling them that no citizen of Fargo has ever been converted to a pickle. That also includes you. Either you become a pickle and we revoke your Fargo citizenship, or I shoot you in the head."

Good Luck Charms

Tyler paused in telling his story. Tom was clearing away the dishes he had set in front of Tyler earlier. The coffee had grown cold a long time ago. Tom reached below the counter and pulled up several beers. Water and crushed ice dripped off a pair of Fat Tire Amber Ale bottles.

Tom said, "I been saving these for myself, but you're telling a good tale."

Tyler sat up a little higher and stretched. Looking around he noticed that only one pair of patrons remained at the tables.

Tyler always paused at this point in his story, for it involved his good luck charm. No one knew about his good luck charm and he insisted to himself that no one ever would. Not only had it saved his life in Fargo, but also in several other communities since. He might have to use it again, possibly even today.

Tyler carried a foot and a half length of hardwood in the middle of his back, strapped between the shoulder blades in a loose holder. He had found it when scavenging a truck stop for supplies. It was called a 'tire knocker', but Tyler wasn't quite sure what its specific purpose was regarding tires. What he did know was that it was an excellent skull smasher. It was quick. It was silent. It was precise. The heavy, hardwood would kill a zombie with one well-placed crack on the skull. With the addition of a leather strap, it gained an additional six inches of power and speed.

What Tyler never told anyone, is that as Travis kept talking, to decry Tyler's stupidity, Tyler brought his good luck charm into play. Tyler continued to hold his arms over his head and slowly relax his forearms until his hands gripped the leather strap of the knocker.

He asked Travis then, "So what are you doing here? Are you now a corporate lap dog?"

Anger flashed across Travis's face. "Screw you, Tyler. But if you must know, I'm here to make sure there's no evidence..."

'WHOCK!' In one smooth motion, Tyler drew out the knocker. As the wood travelled upward, Tyler applied pressure and motion to accelerate the shaft's momentum. When it reached its apogee, Tyler applied every ounce of energy to bring it down. He guided it to contact directly with Travis's temple. When Travis recognized the threat, distracted by his own words of anger, it was already too late to react.

Travis crumpled to the floor. Tyler had never used the knocker on the living before, but the effect was the same. Travis twitched on the floor.

Fighting aside the revulsion of what he had just done, Tyler reached down and searched Travis's twitching corpse. He retrieved a small holster for the .380 pistol, a set of keys to the van parked outside, Travis's wallet, and a single folded piece of paper. All that was typed on the paper was the start time of his shift at the chamber and his apartment address.

After picking up the pistol, Tyler made a quick tour of the apartment. Everything was gone. Tyler exited his apartment then. Stepping into the stairwell, he heard the sound of someone making their way up from the first floor. He waited until he saw it was a neighbor from the same floor. She saw him and smiled broadly. "Hey, congratulations! I heard you got a promotion... managing another power plant somewhere in Minnesota. I forgot which city the movers said, but hey... congratulations." She continued smiling as she made her way past him.

Not wanting to destroy the illusion being generated by the Corporation regarding his sudden departure, Tyler replied, "Yeah, thanks. It's actually Winona, south of the ruins of Minneapolis. They diverted water from the St. Croix River to form a flowing moat on the west side of the town." Tyler had never been to Winona before, having only heard about it from harvest crews and scavengers. He didn't even know if the Corporation had any vested interest in the town.

The neighbor stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back. "Oh, I thought they said somewhere else." She shrugged, "No matter, good luck." She unlocked the second-floor door, stepped out and was gone.

Tyler continued down the stairs and exited the building.
Chapter Nine

Forty Three Seventy Four

The day remained unchanged. No different than it had been a mere five minutes before when Tyler entered the building. Tyler could see Fargo's citizens continuing about their day, still innocent to the crimes of the Corporation.

He needed supplies. He could try to leave Fargo with only what he was carrying, a pair of coveralls and the .380 pistol, but it would be a long time before he could find supplies, even food. The areas of Fargo had long been scavenged of all useful supplies and equipment. Starvation was a very real threat if he attempted to flee without supplies.

In his own wallet, he had $32.50 in Fargo dollars. Travis's wallet contained $11.24. The cash wouldn't be enough for more than a few cans of dog food and a day pack to carry it in. He needed more than that to comfortably and safely re-enter the wilds. He needed a reliable rifle, a quality automatic handgun, a heavy pack, clothing, food, water and inclement weather gear.

He mentally kicked himself. He should have hidden a
stash in the wilds, as a precaution for the worst case scenario. If the zombies overran Fargo and he couldn't get to his apartment before fleeing, a hidden stash, or two or three, would have been a life saver. He had the cash in his accounts. Those hidden stashes would have helped him to avoid what he was going to have to do. He was going to have to use his company issued debit card to purchase a new set of gear. It was a risk he was going to have to take. He didn't know if they would be monitoring his transactions.

The debit cards were a pre-apocalypse hold over. Originally citizens of Fargo continued to use old forms of cash for daily transactions, but as scavengers discovered that the old tender was still acceptable, they flooded the community with a limitless supply, making the old money worthless. Fargo began printing and using Fargo dollars after that.

The Corporation, for its part, hooked into the existing banking infrastructure and began using a debit system for its workers, basing their accounting on the Fargo Dollar. Since most stores were already wired to accept electronic payments, it was easily re-integrated into daily life. The Fargo government quickly seized on the opportunity to monitor and tax the transactions, bringing renewed validity to the debit system. The only hold outs that didn't fully utilize the debit system were the merchants in the scavenger market. Barter was the primary method of exchange, but even if the scavengers accepted Fargo cash, they didn't trust the debit system and it would serve them only in a handful of reconnected communities controlled by the Corporation.

Tyler had more than enough money in his debit account to fully restock for life in the wilds several times over.

Charles DuBois ran Fargo's best outfitter shop. He was a picky buyer and would reject any gear scavengers brought in if it wasn't in perfect condition and of the best quality. He paid a premium and he also charged a premium. Tyler had purchased most of his gear, the gear that had to work reliably every time without exception, including most of his weapons and ammunition, from Charles's shop. He accepted Fargo dollars, debit cards, gold and trade. That's where Tyler was headed. Charles also kept several pre-assembled kits for inexperienced citizens of Fargo thinking about venturing into the wilds for the first time. The composition of the kits weren't ideal for Tyler's style, the kits even included beef jerky in the food packs, but they were solid and would allow him to get out of Fargo quickly without having to shop for the components individually.

Tyler made the trip to the shop without incident. He kept his eyes searching the entire time, searching for any signs of corporate agents that might be searching for him. So far the streets remained safe. Nobody appeared to have any idea that Tyler was now a liability to the corporation. He increased his pace halfway there, anxious that his luck might fail en route.

The shop was located in an old two story office building. Charles's shop was on the first floor with a single heavily fortified entrance. The shop used to have several large display windows, but Charles had them bricked over in the early days of the apocalypse, when the store had originally been a military surplus store. It served as focal point for the community in the early days of Fargo's defense.

Tyler pushed open the door and entered the quiet atmosphere. The smells of machine oil used to lubricate the weapons, formaldehyde preservative for the old military gear and tobacco smoke were thick in the air. Charles was also a heavy smoker and would provide hefty discounts in exchange for unopened cartons of name brand cigarettes. He would often comment that the greatest thing about the zombie apocalypse was that he could finally smoke in his own business again. He'd say, "I can die of lung cancer or I can die from a horde of zombies tearing the flesh from my bones. Never heard of lung cancer slowing down one of those ghouls, have you? Hell, they don't even worry about breathing." He'd end it with a conspiratorial quip, "It was probably the same damn government that outlawed smoking indoors that invented this whole damned zombie plague."

Where Charles had once sold replica weapons and paintball guns, he now sold a full assortment of lethal guns, rifles, and even heavy duty military grade machine guns. Instead of curios like chemical protective masks and military insignia, he carried a full array of medical equipment and supplies to meet the demands of scavengers and the survivor communities away from Fargo. The cheap knock-off brand of military gear that he'd once sold to youthful high schoolers had been replaced by quality clothing and footwear scavenged from military warehouses and outdoor outfitter shops. Some of the usual gear remained unchanged; tents, tarps, cook stoves, shovels and the like, but where Charles's surplus store had once been equated with a junk shop, it was now known as one of Fargo's finest sources of quality survivor gear.

Tyler walked to the back counter, where Charles was smoking a cigarette and watching a movie on an old flat screen monitor connected to a DVD player. Tyler guessed it was some sort of menthol brand of cigarette by the slight odor mixed in with the thick smoke and the green band around the cigarette's filter.

Charles noticed him and looked up. "Hey Tyler, how ya doin?" he asked.

"Good, Charles. What are you watching?"

"Sci Fi flick. They kinda make me sad though, reminds me that I'll never set foot on the moon." He smiled. "What ya need today, Tyler? What do you need, that I carry, that you haven't already bought?" Charles laughed at his own joke.

Tyler smiled back. "Actually, I need one of your bug out kits."

Charles's smile changed to a questioning look. "Huh? Tyler, I don't get what you're asking. You've already got a bug out kit. The ones I sell are basic, just enough for the uninitiated Fargoite to run out in the wilds for a week and then come crawling back here to safety."

Tyler answered, telling Charles a half truth. "I'm looking for a back up kit, something to stash outside the barricades in case things get real bad."

Charles nodded his head in understanding. "Yep, you never can be too careful. I heard tales of too many cities being overrun by the hordes that thought they were impenetrable. Yep, hadn't thought about it myself, but that's a damned good idea Tyler." With the cigarette smoking in his hand, he pointed behind Tyler where he kept the kits, "You'll want the Elite Featherweight. It's got a 10/22 rifle with a lightweight composite stock, five mags, a brick of ammunition, a glock with three mags, fifty rounds for that, freeze dried foods, a couple of canteens, water filter, mini stove, pot, bowl, cup, poncho, lightweight sleeping bag and a parka."

Tyler looked behind him at the kit Charles was speaking of. It did look light, perfect for moving quickly with minimal drag from the equipment. The weapons, strapped to the outside of the pack, were visually clean and appeared to be in good condition. Tyler had no doubt that they were in excellent shape. He pulled his corporation issued debit card and handed it to Charles. "Sounds good, I'll take it."

Charles took the card and ran it through card reader. While he waited for approval, he asked Tyler, "So you found a good spot, somewhere the scavengers won't find it?"

"Yeah, but I'm not telling you," answered Tyler with a broad smile.

Charles frowned and said, "Huh." He looked up at Tyler and said, "It says denied. I'll run it again." Charles swiped the card through the reader again and waited.

Tyler's anxiety had dropped when he entered the store, but it was quickly building again, so much so that when Charles said, "Damn, denied again." He physically jerked.

He reached in his wallet and pulled out the cash he was carrying, then pulled out Travis's wallet and pulled the cash from that.

Concern crossed Charles face when he saw Tyler pull out the second wallet. "What's going on, Tyler?" he asked.

Tyler look at him and said, "Charles, it's better that you don't know. Life is good for you here and I don't want to ruin it for you. I got forty three dollars and seventy four cents." He reached in his pocket, pulled out the .380 pistol and set it on the counter, "and this cheap pistol. What will this buy me?"

Charles answered, the concern still evident on his face. "I can't sell you a bug out kit for that amount. I'll make you a deal though. Grab a mid-sized backpack, fill it full with food, a set of clothes and maybe a small tarp or poncho... and I'll call it good. Are you sure you can't tell me what's going on? Maybe I can help."

"No." He thought maybe his reply was too curt, but he didn't want to drag Charles into his mess. He continued, trying to show that he was grateful. "Charles, it's bad, it's nothing I did, but I don't think you want to be involved. I'm truly grateful for what you're offering and I know it's worth more than I've put on the counter. Thanks."

"I've already profited greatly off of you, Tyler. Consider this a toaster for your continued patronage."

Tyler cracked a brief smile. "Yeah, I know, but you've got the best products, guaranteed. And you're supposed to give out the toasters after the first purchase."

"Get your stuff and get out of here," said Charles, dead serious again.

Tyler set the money on the counter next to the pistol, "I don't know that I'll be having an opportunity to use this stuff, again." He considered what he'd just said and tossed both wallets on the counter as well, "Won't need these either."

He stepped away from the counter and headed to where Charles displayed the backpacks. He grabbed a mid-size backpack that was dark brown in color. Making his way through the store, he selected a military poncho with a liner, and a set of lightweight camouflaged pants with a matching top. In the food section of the store, he stuffed as much freeze dried food as would fit in the pack, leaving room for a two quart canteen and small water filter. Cinching the bag closed, he called back to Charles, "I think I'm done, you want to check out what I grabbed?"

Charles called back from the counter. "No, I trust you only took what you needed. Good luck and get out of here."

Tyler headed straight to the exit. "Thanks, Charles. It was a pleasure knowing you."
Chapter Ten

The Ride from Fargo

Opening the thick heavily fortified door, Tyler exited the store into the bright sunlight. He found himself staring at the back of a van, its back doors fully opened. Two large well dressed men were standing on either side of the opening; each partially concealed from view from anyone that might be on the street. They were pointing their pistols directly at this face. "Get in the van," one of them said. Tyler heard no options offered in the tone of the man's voice. The men carried old military issue nine millimeter Beretta pistols.

Out of habit Tyler reviewed what he knew of the pistol in his head. It had several design flaws that could prove fatal in close quarters combat with both zombies and the living. The first being that pressure applied to the barrel would prevent the weapon from firing. The second was that a quick person could not only apply pressure to prevent the weapon from firing, but also with one hand rotate a lever on the upper receiver and separate it from the lower frame of the weapon. Sure it was dangerous, but so was having a pistol pointed at your face.
Tyler dropped the pack he was carrying and raised his hands over his head. The men before him seemed much more professional than Travis had been at his apartment. The look in their eyes told Tyler that these men would kill him very soon. Using his good luck charm was going to be difficult, especially with two guns trained on him, but he was already dead if he failed. Time was short; he'd need to use it before entering the van, where he would have inadequate room to fully swing the club at the men. He took a step forward, casually flexing his right arm behind his head. He looked at his bag, then back at the men and said, "What about my bag?"

The man on the right replied, "You won't need it where we're going." To the other man he said, "Grab it anyway."

The second man stepped forward and reached down to grab the bag. At the same time, Tyler took another step towards the van, sidestepping the space where the first man's gun was aimed. The time to act is now, he thought. The first man was distracted, observing both Tyler's compliance with his directive to enter the van and the second man securing Tyler's pack. Tyler hoped he was distracted enough to give himself the fraction of a second needed to strike. Tyler brought his arm up, swinging the club clear of the holder strapped to his back. He placed the palm of his left hand directly on the muzzle of the pistol, applying pressure which forced the barrel and receiver slightly rearward, which in turned caused the weapon's internal mechanisms to disengage the firing pin. He watched the first man's eyes, saw how they shifted from the second man, to himself, and then to the club which was in full arc. Tyler watched the eyes as they registered the impending attack, noted the subtle shift of the pistol in his own hands as the man squeezed the trigger without effect, and saw those eyes change , becoming vacant, as the club smashed into the man's temple.

Even as the club rebounded, Tyler pivoted to face the second man, applying torque on the leather strap to redirect the club's direction and momentum. The club flew in an underarm arc, guided towards the face of the second man, who was fully unaware that his partner had just been attacked, whose body was still in the act of collapsing to the ground. The club glanced off the side of the man's face, causing him to grunt in agony and abruptly stand up. His eyes widened in shock as he realized that Tyler had just attacked him. Tyler swirled the club over his head and smashed it against the man's temple. The second man dropped to the ground.

Tyler stood there behind the van. The doors of the van had concealed his activity from the street. The front of the van was separated from the rear by a solid sheet of metal. Tyler heard someone pound on the inner wall from the front of the van, calling out, "Hurry up, get him in and let's go." Tyler slapped twice on the floor of the van in reply. In turn, he grabbed each man and pulled their bodies in the back of the vehicle. He could only assume the driver would think the bustle of movement was normal for what they intended to do. Searching the men, he took both of their pistols and four magazines of ammunition. He also pocketed a knife and a multi-tool, both good additions to his inadequate survival gear. Tyler closed the doors, picked up his pack and walked to the passenger door at the front of the van.

He opened the passenger door and pointed one of his new pistols directly at the face of the driver. "Keep your hands on the wheel. I'm already a dead man, so shooting you here, in the middle of the street, won't change things for me."

The driver, surprised, looked back at him, alternating his gaze between the pistol pointed at his face and Tyler. The man answered, "Whatever you want. Where's Brown and Dugun?"

"Dead," answered Tyler, "Now shut up and do what you're told."

"Okay," said the man. He appeared ready and willing to follow Tyler's instructions.

"Where do you keep your sidearm,?" asked Tyler.

"On my right side," he replied.

"Okay, carefully pull it out and set it on the passenger seat. If it points anywhere but down, I'm putting a bullet through your chest." Tyler kept the pistol pointed steadily at the man.

"Got it, nice and gentle, and you don't kill me," said the man. Carefully the man let go the steering wheel with this right hand. Fingers spread wide, he brought it to his side and slowly lifted up his suit jacket, exposing another Beretta pistol. Releasing the retention strap, he brought the gun out of its holster using just his thumb and forefinger on the pistol's grip. He moved it daintily, using gravity to keep the muzzle pointed down, and set it on the passenger seat. He even went so far as to ensure the muzzle pointed back at him when it lay upon the seat. He placed his hands back on the steering wheel.

Tyler grabbed the pistol and placed it in one of the overalls' spacious pockets with the other gear he'd just acquired. He tossed his pack on the floor of the passenger seat. Then, while keeping the pistol in his left hand and pointed at the driver, he climbed in and carefully closed the door. To the driver he said, "Drive to the main gate, we're leaving town. If anyone asks, we're headed to the farms for maintenance."

"Got it," said the man and slipped the van's transmission into drive.

Tyler pulled off the cap he'd been wearing and lay it over the top of the pistol, concealing it from view.

Tyler had never ridden within the secure section of Fargo before. Automobiles were unnecessary to get around in town and mostly limited to government and utility work. A few intrepid scavengers occasionally brought their vehicles into town, too precious after years of modification to leave unsecured outside the barricades with the zombie-powered rigs.

Zombie-powered rigs were never allowed within the secured section of Fargo. The town's population was grateful for the benefits of the Corporation's zombie industry, but highly intolerant of zombies working within the confines of the barricades.

Somehow the population overlooked the power plant, or considered it secure. After his morning escape, Tyler could envision the fall of Fargo originating from the power plant. All it would take would be one zombie pulling up the maintenance panel in the floor and the rest flooding the chamber below, a few clogging the machinery with their bodies, and the rest to swarm through the unlocked doors of the maintenance rooms into an unprepared and unprotected Fargo. The defenses of Fargo were oriented to the outside of the barricades. It would take time re-direct them inward. Tyler hoped that would never happen.

Within five minutes the driver had navigated the streets and was in a short queue to exit town. Tyler had also never used the main gates to enter town, always leaving and entering through the Corporation-owned sorting yards. The main gate was where refugees, scavengers, and travelers entered Fargo. From his friends in the scavenger market, he knew that exiting was much easier than entering town. Entrance for everyone involved a complete physical exam of the body and thorough search of vehicles and equipment. All imports into Fargo were legal, but anyone suspected of being infected with the zombie plague, or carrying infected body parts, would be quarantined, turned away, or shot if the situation warranted it. His friends advised him that if he ever had to enter through the main gate, bring a book and expect to wait for a long time.

The queue to enter was indeed very long, probably at least fifty people. In addition to the people in line, there was a small compact car, two pick-up trucks, and a small deliver van. Each of the vehicles had added various levels of armor for protection against zombies in the wild.

They were waved through, and the driver drove through the gate without having to speak with the guards.

"Just keep driving out of town. I'll tell you where to stop," said Tyler.

The driver asked nervously, looking towards the gun Tyler was concealing beneath the hat, "You're not going to shoot me, are you?"

Tyler shook his head. "No. I'll probably even give you your gun back. In two pieces of course. I'm sure you've still got two magazines and know have to re-assemble the Beretta."

"Yeah," answered the driver. "What about my partners in the back?"

Tyler felt a twinge of guilt at having taken more lives. He replied to the driver, "We'll pull them out when we stop. You can do what you want with them, but I don't think you'll be able to carry them by yourself back to Fargo."

The driver looked at Tyler. "You're taking the van then."

Tyler looked back. "Yeah, did you have some other plan for Fargo's most wanted?"

"No," he replied, "So why do they want you dead?"

The question caught Tyler off-guard. For some reason, he expected that anyone sent to kill him would be told why. In response, he asked his own question, "Didn't they tell you?"

"Hell, no. I'm just the driver. The two dead guys in the back, they're the corporate muscle, one of the executive goon squads that do the dirty work. I got an idea about some of what goes on, but I keep my eyes turned the other way and my lips sealed tight. Keeps the jobs rolling my way and the bonuses high."

By his answer, Tyler wasn't quite sure how to judge the man sitting next to him. Greedy? Selfish? Probably. Someone worth putting a bullet through the brain? Definitely not. "You should probably find a new line of work, before someone like me, or the Corporation, decides that you're too much of a risk to keep around."

"Yeah, you're probably right," he said.

They were both silent for a minute when Tyler asked, equally to break the silence and to satisfy his curiosity, "How'd they find me?"

"I heard Brown and Dugan talking. You were supposed to have died in the chamber. No mess that way. No questions. They just incinerate another worn out pickle past its prime. When the Corporation got a hit on your debit card, which they'd already deactivated, they knew you'd managed to escape. They seemed confused as to how, since all the exits were locked. We were on standby to get rid of your corpse, but we rolled out to DuBois' shop, where the debit card was used... fast. We, they, have never done it like that, in the open during daylight."

He looked concerned and exasperated. "I'm asking again, what is going on that the Corporation would risk killing you, their best and most celebrated stoker, in the middle of the freaking day?"

"What's your name?" asked Tyler.

"It's David," said the driver.

"Well, David, I asked too many questions and now I know too much. David, what the corporation is doing is recruiting survivors from the wild and then turning them into zombies when they get to Fargo, Grade A pickles, because the remaining zombies in the wild aren't getting any fresher. A good stoker like me could keep one of those pickles working for months."

"Yeah. So What?" said David.

"It means I'm leaving Fargo and I'm going to spread the word, and the Corporation is going to lose its source of prime quality pickles. How long till the generator fails with Grade B or C zombies? Will they turn to the refugees next? What's a few refugees every week? Promise them a good corporate job with travel, no one sees them again, no problem. How easy would it be for them to pull out lone individuals at the front gate for screening, and make them disappear? Maybe even drivers that know too much after their goons get killed."

"Crap!" exclaimed David. "You're going to get me freaking killed."

They reached the edge of Fargo as proclaimed by a sign that read, 'Welcome to Fargo, City of Parks.' Tyler said, "Pull over."

When they stopped, he said, "Leave the keys in the ignition and get out. Step to the front of the van where I can see you."

David did as he was told. Walking to the front of the van, he waited for Tyler.

Tyler got out and walked to the front also, keeping a safe distance between him and David. The pistol was exposed and pointed at David. "Head to the back of the van. I'll follow you."

David made his way back and stood next to the taillight. Tyler said, "Open the back door and pull out the bodies."

Tyler stood to the side as David open the back doors of the van. He was about to step up when he turned quickly away. "Damn, they're stinking already," he said, "Hit me right in the face, nearly gagged." He faced back to the van and jumped in the back. Grabbing the first man by the collar of this jacket, he dragged him out the back van and onto the ground. He did it again with the second man. Standing up, he looked at Tyler and said, "Ugh. Now what?"

Pointing with the pistol, Tyler said, "Walk back down the road fifty feet. I'll break down your weapon once your there, the receiver I'll leave laying on your buddy's chest and the frame I'll set towards the front of the van. Then you're on your own."

David, powerless to stop the situation, replied, "No problem." and started walking.

When he was a safe distance away, Tyler took the pistol he was holding and released the magazine. After placing the magazine in his pocket, he separated the pistol's receiver from the frame. He set the receiver on the chest of one of the dead men in front of him and then walked to the front of the van, where he set the frame on the ground next to the driver's door.

He climbed into the driver's seat, put the van in gear and started driving. Looking in the rear view mirror, he watched David walk back to the corpses of his partners. Instead of immediately trying to put the parts of the weapon back together, it looked as if David began searching of the bodies. Tyler was curious to know what David was looking for, but in moments he had turned on a side street and David was gone.
Chapter Eleven

Odor

In the diner, Tom cleared away the empty beer that Tyler had been nursing. He had taken his time drinking it and it had become warm. He still continued to sip at it until it was empty. Tom asked him, "You want another beer? This story you're telling me is fascinating."

"No," answered Tyler. "But do you have some fresh water?"

"Sure do," answered Tom.

As Tom turned around to draw water from a large jug, Tyler caught a whiff of rancid meat. He asked Tom about it. "What's that awful smell?"

Tom glanced down at the floor behind the counter before answering, "Oh, I got some old meat that's starting to go bad. I'll take it out later; maybe toss it to that z powering the rig outside."

Looking around Tyler noted there was only one other customer in the diner, a heavily bearded man with a hard, steely gaze. Something was wrong with the situation, but
Tyler wasn't sure what. The reassuring weight of the club concealed on his back helped him to continue his story despite his unease.

Quick Sale

Tyler had several options. Grand Forks to the north and Jamestown to the west both had decent-sized communities, but also a strong corporate presence. They were also in direct communication with Fargo, via the Corporation's effort to expand the debit card network and resulting demand for its services. The areas to the south and east were mostly devoid of people and already thoroughly scavenged. Devils Lake, due north of Jamestown and due west of Grand Forks, held a respectable survivor community that hadn't been integrated into the corporate network yet. The Corporation did maintain an office there in order to sell their products, but lacked direct communication with Fargo and had no influence with the community's affairs. Devils Lake had a thriving scavenger market, ready and willing to makes trades for any product, including Corporation equipment. He had more than enough fuel to make the trip, even if he took indirect routes to get there.

****

Four hours later he was parked at the scavenger market in Devils Lake. He'd made a few connections during his travels with the harvester crews and also with a few of the scavengers that occasionally journeyed to Fargo. One of his best connections lived in Devils Lake and he found her after asking some of the vendors in town. Wendy wasn't unethical about what she traded, but she had connections with connections with connections. If someone needed it, she knew where to get it, and if someone needed something sold, she knew where to move it. She did it by talking to everyone, including corporate stokers that hung out in Fargo's scavenger market. She had been one of those persons welcome to use Tyler's apartment whenever she ventured into town.

Her shop and home was located in a cluster of old businesses located near the railroad tracks that ran between the lake and the town. When she saw Tyler approach, a big grin spread on her face. "Tyler," she said, as he walked up to her shop, and gave him a big hug, "What brings you to Devils Lake? I heard you weren't recruiting anymore."

"Hey, Wendy," he replied. "I'll tell you just as soon as you help me dispose of this big white van."

"Really?" she asked, giving him an appraising eye. "I know of a shop that appreciates working vehicles. It's running, right?"

"Yeah, it's running and in good shape. It's even had regular maintenance," he added.

"So what are you asking?"

"A dependable rifle, small caliber, preferably a 10/22. Some clothes. Maybe dinner," he said.

"That's not much for a working vehicle, except for the dinner part. Is the former owner of this van approving this transaction?" she asked, giving him the appraising eye again.

Tyler smiled. "No, and I'll explain that after the van goes away."

She smiled back. "No problem, I'll use the same connection. Anything else you want to get rid of?"

He pulled one of the pistols from his pocket. "I've got an extra Beretta nine millimeter that I don't need. I'll trade you two for a Glock, any model."

She looked at the pistol and frowned. "You're in deep, Tyler. The Corporation has a whole armory of these. They like to give them to their goons. Don't know why the goons use them when there's better handguns out there, but I'm not making decisions or working for the Corporation."

"Yeah, like I said, I'll tell you about it later."

****

Half an hour later, the van was gone. Working vehicles, stolen or not, always commanded a premium. Since the apocalypse, most cars and trucks had fallen into disrepair from disuse. Seals dried out and crumbled. Fuels decomposed. Tires rotted. Batteries discharged. Wendy hustled a few of her contacts and got him the supplies he was looking for, a hefty personal commission for herself, and a bag of fresh meat and vegetables for dinner.

Locking the doors to her shop, she set about making dinner while Tyler began arranging his gear for travel by foot.

Spreading the items on the counter, she called to him from the kitchen, "Okay, now what in the hell is going on? No more dodging the question."

Tyler told her then, in detail, everything that had happened and that he had learned that very morning. He told her about how he had taken his suspicions to the Corporation, about the attempt on his life in the chamber, about meeting Travis in his vacant apartment, and about the attempted kidnapping in the middle of Fargo. He explained to her what he had pieced together regarding the Corporations use of the recruits to restock their dwindling supplies of high-quality zombies.

Then he told her about what he had learned about the zombies, how he had controlled them with just his thoughts. "Not telepathy," he explained. "Not really. Maybe. I don't really know. What I thought, they saw, they knew." He pondered the significance aloud to her. "But how do I use this knowledge? How do you use it? What does it mean when, what will happen, if everyone knows how to control the undead with their minds? I can't really fathom the impact, the complexities." He shook his head. "What happens when more than one person tries to control the zombies? For good, for bad? Will it come down to a force of wills? Will it force us to bury our emotions in order to survive and thrive? ...but we already do that. We did that before the apocalypse."

He stopped and looked up at Wendy. "I don't know, Wendy. People need to know and that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to travel the wilds, from survivor to survivor, from town to town." Resolve crept into his face. "I'm going to tell people about the Corporation, so they know, so they can stay safe. I'm also going to teach them to control the zombies. The techniques. How to control your own mind. Tell them the truth about how the zombies sense us... so they know, so they can stay safe."

Wendy looked at him from across the table over an empty dinner plate. She took a sip of wine from her nearly empty glass and said, "Tyler, I don't know how this changes anything. People in the wilds already don't trust the Corporation, or any other big organizations for that matter, and they already know how to control the zombies and their emotions. It's part of surviving the apocalypse in the wilds." She gulped down the last of her wine. Setting the glass down she said, "Why don't you get some sleep. In the morning we'll figure out what your next move is."

****

Tyler woke up to the sound of urgent knocking on Wendy's door. He sat up from Wendy's couch, where he had fallen asleep, as Wendy made her way to the door.

She looked through the cracks in the fortified door before opening it. Bright morning sunlight streamed through the open doorway, blinding Tyler and preventing him from seeing who stood outside. Tyler recognized the man's voice though, having heard it yesterday when they sold the van.

The man's words were urgent, not giving Wendy an opportunity to greet him before speaking, "Wendy. The Corporation's in town. Four vans showed up this morning, like the one you sold me last night. Lots of men inside, all of them armed. They came to my shop, asking if we'd seen Tyler. I said we hadn't. Someone else will probably remember seeing him, and they'll remember that he was with you. He needs to leave, and he needs to leave right now."

"Okay. What about you? Did they see the van?"

The man replied, "No. We shipped it out last night."

"Good. I'll get him moving. Where are they now?"

"They're making their way through the residential area. Going door to door."

"Is the waterfront clear?"

"Yeah, probably the best route, I think they also got roadblocks set up," he said.

"Okay. I'll take care of Tyler. You get out of here before somebody ties you, me, and Tyler together."

"No problem. I'm a ghost. See you later."

Tyler was already up and getting dressed. Light briefly filled the room when the man left until Wendy closed the door. She looked at Tyler and asked, "You heard that?"

He nodded his head.

"It looks like you're almost ready. Your gear is already packed too. Do you need anything?"

Tyler shook his head.

"Alright, I'm staying here. You came here last night, tried to trade the van, I said, 'Hell no, it's stolen,' you took off. Sound good?"

Tyler, knowing that this was the best he was going to get, said, "Yeah. I gotta thank you for everything you've done." He threw on the rest of his gear; his pack, rifle, and other items. Then walked over and gave Wendy a hug.

She walked him to the door and opened it. "Turn right and head straight south to the water. There's a trail there that will carry you west and clear of town. Be safe, Tyler. I'll tell people your story. People that I trust."

She let go and he stepped outside into the bright sun. He turned south and left Devils Lake.
Chapter Twelve

From Here To There

Reflecting on the Journey

Tyler stopped at this point in the telling of his story. It was something he'd been doing more often in recent months as his story grew with each opportunity to tell it. Each town deserved its own chapter, each encounter with the Corporation, the same.

He looked up from reminiscing and said to Tom, "How about another cup of coffee, with some of that homemade creamer?"

Tom said, "No problem," and turned to begin working on a fresh cup. He kept a pot of hot water on the stove, and he used it to pour scalding water into an old French press.

While Tom was working, Tyler thought about the journey. The months had been long and hard. Winter had come and gone. Tyler wanted nothing more than to settle down and rest, but after witnessing the Corporation becoming even more vile in their activities, Tyler knew he couldn't stop spreading the word.

Tom set a fresh cup in front of Tyler. "So you just escaped
from Devils Lake, then what?"

Tyler took a sip of the coffee. It was good, probably good enough to drink without Tom's creamer. He continued telling the story.

Bluster

The next place he stopped was Rugby, North Dakota. It was an hour's drive west from Devils Lake, but it took Tyler three days on foot. After the first day, he was exhausted and realized how out of shape he'd become living in Fargo.

Rugby was a rural community in the heart of agriculture country. The zombie hordes had never developed in the area to overwhelm the town and its defenses were non-existent in comparison to Fargo. What defense they did have consisted of a volunteer brigade of citizens patrolling the countryside for roaming zombies. It worked well, and Rugby became a self sufficient community.

The Corporation maintained a showroom in town, but anything zombie-powered was outlawed by the town's post apocalypse constitution.

Electrical power in Rugby was generated from wind, solar, and methane-powered generators. Transportation was by horse, cattle-drawn cart, or vehicles retrofitted to burn methane. Needless to say, cattle was a vital commodity in Rugby, and unlike zombies, it was renewable.

Tyler had visited Rugby many times with the harvest crews. While the town's law forbade the harvest trailers from travelling within the borders of the community while they were loaded with zombies, their crews were welcome to stop if the trailers were empty. A favorite spot for both locals and visitors was the Rugby Grill and Conference Center. If Tyler wanted an audience, that was the place for it.

Activity in town moved like any other day. No one paid Tyler any attention as he made his way up the town's main street to the Conference Center. While the town's laws regarding a complete exclusion of zombies were very strict, survivors entering Rugby didn't have to suffer through the same exams that survivors entering Fargo had to. If he happened to be infected, the townspeople would have found out soon enough and put a bullet through his head.

He thought about his pitch as he walked. Would he have time to tell the story like he had with Wendy? Would the townspeople quickly tire and wander away? Would they doubt him, calling his credibility into question? Could he afford to remain exposed for so long, being in a public place without an easy escape plan? It didn't really matter, he told himself. He was already dead and he had decided that his life's mission was to tell his story.

Before he knew it, he had strolled through the tree-lined boulevards and was standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to Rugby's Center. He made his way up the steps, feeling the exhaustion of three days of hiking with each step. He stopped at the top of the steps momentarily, waiting for the burn of exhaustion in his thighs to ebb. After a moment, he walked to the heavy double doors, opened them and stepped inside.

A low buzz of conversation greeted him. It stopped for a brief second as everyone looked toward him. After deciding he wasn't a threat, conversation resumed. Occupied tables were interspersed throughout the room. At the far end was a counter that ran the width of the room which provided additional seating for customers. Behind the counter the waitresses and cooks worked. He stepped to the side as a well-dressed man exited the Center. They locked eyes briefly, the man giving Tyler an intense look.

The man left through the door and Tyler made his way to the counter in back, trying once again to decide how to begin his story. Choosing a seat near to several people enjoying a late breakfast, he set his gear down next to the stool and sat down.

A waitress immediately walked up behind the counter and said, "What you having, hon?"

Tyler took a deep breath, preparing himself for his first presentation. He slowly exhaled before beginning. "My name is Tyler and I used to work for the Corporation. I've got a story to tell."

The look on the waitress's face changed to irritation. "That's great, honey, but what do you want to eat?"

The man next to Tyler spoke up. "He's having a cup of coffee, Elizabeth." He turned to Tyler, offering his hand in greeting, "My name's Bob. I'd like to hear your news, Tyler."

Tyler accepted and shook Bob's hand. "Thanks, Bob.

"No problem. Coffee's cheap. News isn't."

Tyler launched into his story. "My name's Tyler and I used to be a stoker for the Corporation until about four days ago. That's when the Corporation tried to kill me." Tyler began the story with his first meeting with the harvest crews. He was just beginning to talk about life within Fargo when he heard the roar of engines from outside. Tyler turned to look out a window and saw several corporate vans scream past. They stopped at the front of the building. The sound of the engines was replaced by the slam of the van doors opening and closing, and the shouts of men outside.

The front doors of the Center slammed open and four men with automatic carbines stepped inside. Tyler expected the men to walk up to him and either shoot him or throw him in shackles. Instead, each and every person within the Center stood up from where they had been sitting and drew their own weapons, focusing both their attention and the barrel of their weapons on the four men in the doorway. The shouting began immediately, a back and forth cacophony between the residents of Rugby and the corporate men standing in the door. Mixed in the shouts of outrage that the corporation couldn't just bluster into Rugby, Tyler heard his own name and the word "murderer".

With all attention focused at the entrance of the Center, no one noticed Tyler quickly grab his gear and sprint in the opposite direction, through an opening in the counter and out the back door. He turned left and continued to sprint for a full twelve blocks until he reached the edge of town; only slowing to tighten the straps of his gear. He entered a field, full of tall stalks of corn, and disappeared from Rugby.

After

After Rugby, Tyler learned to be more cautious. The Corporation began running patrols along the roads and highways. In order to hide quickly, he avoided the major highways, travelled along the edge of the roadways, and always listened for the approach of vehicles. He took no chances, treating every vehicle or traveler as an agent of the Corporation. They set up small outposts at bridges, mountain passes, and along other travel choke points. He was forced to detour around those outposts, which meant wading through streams, finding boats to cross the larger rivers, and hiking miles out of his way through roadless areas.

As he put distance between himself and Fargo, the patrols and outposts diminished, but Tyler still marveled at the Corporation's resources. He was also disturbed that so many people seemed willing to go on the hunt for him. Surely murders still happened in Fargo, as the Corporation was accusing Tyler of, but never had such a large manhunt ensued. Tyler realized the agents seeking him out weren't seeking justice for the citizens of Fargo, but were employed by the Corporation for one purpose, to silence him. That's what disturbed Tyler about the corporate agents, that there were so many people left after the apocalypse still willing to do the work of evil.

Within the communities, Tyler also became more cautious when contacting the residents. He would spend a day watching them from afar, learning the community's movement patterns, identifying key persons and spotting the corporate presence. If the community's central meeting place felt too risky, he'd seek out the scavenger markets. If the scavenger market, typically a safe anti-corporate haven, felt compromised, he would move on without contacting anyone in the community. He had only completely skipped two communities. Both had a large corporate presence, as well as a side trade within the scavenger market for zombies.

Rigby, Idaho

Tyler had travelled over eight hundred miles on foot. It had taken him nearly two full months, passing through and visiting survivor communities along the way. He had avoided the zombie hordes that roamed the regions around Billings and Bozeman, which probably added significantly to the estimated eight hundred miles he had walked. The dawn sun had just risen behind him in the East, and he stood looking at the outskirts of Rigby, Idaho. The bright morning light blazed into the town before him, making clear every detail. Dogs roamed along the streets and among the buildings, awakened with the morning's glory. Cattle and other livestock kept in pens foraged within at the sparse weeds, anxious to be fed from the stacks of hay nearby.

The desert mornings in Idaho were always frigid, even in the summer, and Tyler figured that the citizens of Rigby weren't ready to start the day. In this region, electricity still flowed, powered by numerous hydroelectric dams. Because there was still electricity, the residents didn't need to build fires for cooking and heat, and as such there were no columns of chimney smoke as there were in other communities.

Because of the abundant electricity, the corporation hadn't set up offices in the town. There was just no demand for undead power. While the occasional harvest team would stop and rest in Rigby, as Tyler had in the past, the town was completely free of corporate influence.

The defenses of Rigby weren't robust as they had been in Fargo, or as open as they were in Rugby. The citizens of Rigby had elected to build fences to delay and divert the undead. When the occasional zombie wandered from either of the nearby horde cities of Idaho Falls or Rexburg, they would be diverted around the town by long miles of re-routed highway barricades or ensnared in deep layers of fencing until the town's people could dispatch them with a rifle.

Confident that the Corporation wasn't waiting for him, Tyler boldly entered the town with the wind at his back. After passing through the zigzag maze of fencing and highway barricades that formed Rigby's gateway, Tyler headed for a truck stop located near the county's courthouse. Its large interior space was already an ideal meeting place for the townspeople. The convenience store shelves were still stocked with a mix of scavenged supplies, locally grown vegetables, baked goods, fish from the Snake River, and cured meats. The kitchen was also well-stocked. The only change to their menu was the deletion of dollar amounts from the price list. The townspeople had adopted their own local coinage for purchases, but the waitresses were quite adept at haggling and bartering with travelers in payment for goods at the truck stop.

Walking through town, Tyler looked the dew glistening everywhere, having settled in the crisp morning air. Passing by homes, he could hear the people inside starting to prepare for the day. Their boarded up windows muffled the sound of chairs scraping to the breakfast table, or the rattle of someone whipping up scrambled eggs. Several dogs, always friendly in survivor towns, came to greet him and trailed behind him as he walked.

Tyler smiled to himself. Life must be good in Rigby, he thought. He hadn't seen a zombie for nearly two days. The deserts surrounding the Snake River were crisscrossed with hundreds of miles of canals, which the survivors here used to slow the course of wandering zombies. He wouldn't recommend it, but apparently the residents of Rigby felt safe enough to go without permanent guards.

Approaching the truck stop, Tyler could hear people moving inside. The dogs, probably discouraged from hanging out at the doors, held back as he reached to open the door.

He grabbed the handle and pulled. The door rattled loudly, but refused to open. He looked down at the sign that said push and felt like a total fool.

He pushed the door in and stepped into the dark interior of the truck stop. Tyler stopped, confused. Why was the interior dark? Movement to the left caught his eye. He turned to look, simultaneously registering the smell of death. He let his mind go blank. The only thought remaining in his head was to exit. He steps backward and pushed against the door. It rattled, but failed to open. His heart jumped in panic until he realized the door opened inward. He reached behind him, grabbed the handle and rotated himself through the door.

Glancing as he stepped out, he saw dozens of tiny forms swarming toward him. Their flesh was intact, bloated yellow with splotches of purple. They were fresh and undamaged, turned only days ago. Dozens and dozens of zombie children swarmed for him. Hunger burned in their dead eyes. Their tiny, innocent fingers reached up toward his face to devour him.

Tyler pulled the door closed, shutting away the horde of adolescent zombies. The door creaked under their weight, but the reinforcements made to the door after the apocalypse resisted the pressure of the dead. Tyler slowly backed away, fighting to control his emotions and revulsion.

Something cold and wet brushed against his hand and he jumped. Looking down he saw it was one of town's dogs. They had waited, away from the entrance of the truck stop, and watched. He stood among them now, and their eyes were focused expectantly on him.

He turned away from the truck stop and quickly walked away. The dogs trotted with him, seemingly unconcerned whether they received his permission or not. Passing by the homes he had passed earlier, he recognized the morning sounds for what they were, the noises of the dead confined within.

Suddenly Tyler was very angry. Rigby, Idaho was dead. It had been a successful survivor town that was well prepared to carry on and thrive in the new world. A horde hadn't invaded. The barricades and building were undamaged and whole. A rogue wandering zombie, lucky enough to navigate the wire fences without become entangled in the wire wasn't the reason either. Lone zombies no longer caused mayhem like they had in the early days of the apocalypse. Tyler knew of only one organization that purposely turned the living into zombies. Tyler pictured the faces of Jeff and Jay, as well as the other executives of the Corporation, wishing murder upon them.

With fury in his heart, Tyler heard a series of crashes, from his front, from behind, and from either side. The dogs scattered. Surveying the situation, he noted the abysmal condition of the zombies that had forced their way free of their homes. They were fresh and unmarked, but they were corpses of the handicapped, the elderly and the infirm. Their bodies, already damaged by disease and age, were of no use to the Corporation. The zombie woman in front of him, who had miraculously escaped from her home while still strapped to her wheelchair, would never turn the electrical generators in Fargo. She dragged herself on her belly toward him, scraping the wheelchair along and shredding the soft flesh of her crippled legs on the asphalt roadway.

Behind him, a man who was most likely corpselike before becoming infected, teetered toward him. He was naked except for a pair of old underwear and was nearly skeletal in appearance. The meager amount of muscle remaining on his frame would have worn out quickly in a corporate machine. To his left was another man, but instead of being skeletal, he was huge. Morbidly obese was the medical term. Tyler wasn't sure how the man had managed to escape from his home, since his bloated and rotting flesh had dragged him to the ground and prevented him from rising again. If and when the fat was torn away, maybe the man could rise again. Tyler shuddered at the thought of such a ravaged zombie wandering the wilds. To the right was another gray haired man. His steps as he approached, the quickest of the four, were extremely stiff, probably from the effects of advanced arthritis.

Tyler calmly unstrapped his rifle and shot all four in the head. He shot several more defective zombies as he exited the town. The dogs rejoined him as he went.

Tyler stood on the far side of the town's barricades. He was perplexed as to why the Corporation would have raided Rigby, harvesting the population, when the town of Rexburg and city of Idaho Falls still had large zombie populations. Surely the Corporation could afford to use a supply of grade B zombies, even if it meant having to replace them more frequently. It didn't make any sense. It made as much sense as infecting the recruited stokers to use in the power plant of Fargo. He really didn't know. He couldn't fathom why the men, the leaders of the Corporation would stoop to killing the living. Greed, ignorance, power — none of it made sense to him.

This meant that his message about the Corporation was even more important for the world to hear. So where to next? he thought. He could follow the Snake River. Further west the deep canyons and twisting plateaus that followed the river made ideal locations for survivor camps. Travel was difficult though; because the walls of the canyon were steep cliffs of basalt worn nearly vertical by the river's passage. The harvest crews had learned to find other routes around the area, since the enormous bridges that spanned the canyons had been heavily barricaded. He could follow the Snake River, as well the Columbia River after they joined, all the way to the Pacific Ocean. While the regions around Portland, the Tri-Cities, Boise, and Twin Falls were undoubtedly fully overrun by the undead, he was sure he would find survivor communities scratching out an existence along the entire route.

He was just about to settle on the idea of traveling along the river when he remembered a survivor he had met when he first began recruiting in the wilds. Terry Baldman, who lived on the Lorenzo Bridge. Would the Corporation even bother with a one man camp? Had the harvest crew boss at the time, Ben, passed the information to the Corporation when they returned to Fargo with a full load of zombies? Undoubtedly the barricades Terry had erected on the bridge were still in place. Perhaps that was enough to divert the Corporation. Perhaps Terry could tell him what had happened in Rigby. He'd had a girlfriend in town. Surely he would know what had happened.

He started walking north toward the Snake River. Once he met with Terry, he could figure out which direction to travel.

When he arrived at the bridge, he found that the barricades had recently been changed. Bare metal gleamed where the paint had been scraped off of the recently moved cars. A thousand shards of broken glass littered the ground, sparkling in the sunlight. The path that had once wound through the abandoned cars to the center of the bridge was gone, having been closed in when the vehicles were re-arranged. It reminded Tyler of Fargo's barricade, except that the cars were stacked two high and resting on their sides with the noses facing outward. Unlike Fargo's vertical wall, Tyler could see that the barricades on the bridge were meant to be thick.

Tyler grabbed onto the grill of a pickup truck and pulled himself up, easily scaling to the top of the barricade. Behind him, the dogs that had followed him from Rigby barked and whimpered as they ran in frustrated circles. Ignoring them, Tyler carefully walked forward until he could see Terry's camp at the center of the bridge.

Terry's homestead had been improved upon since the last time Tyler had visited. The cement barricades had been pushed outward to create more space for an expanded garden. There was a greenhouse, several water tanks, and a large wooden shed next to the RV. Wind breaks had also been erected along the outer edges of the bridge.

Announcing his presence, Tyler called out from atop the barricade. "Hello!"

He watched as the door the RV opened and Terry stepped out. Seeing Tyler, Terry immediately reached inside the trailer and pulled out a shotgun, swinging the barrel towards Tyler. The look of anger in his eyes warned Tyler of trouble and he quickly stepped back from the edge of the barricade and lay flat.

Expecting to see Terry any second with the shotgun blazing, Tyler drew his sidearm and brought it to bear to his front. Instead of Terry shooting at him, Tyler heard him yell from the other side of the barricade.

"I know who you are, corporate man! I recognize you from before. Get your butt outta here before I fill your forehead full of twelve gauge slugs." The anger in Terry's voice dripped with hatred.

Tyler called back, "Terry, my name is Tyler and I'm a survivor. I used to work with the Corporation, until I discovered they were turning recruits from the wild into zombies for their machines. They've been hunting for me for months, trying to stop me from telling my story."

Terry shouted back, "Why the hell should I believe you?"

Tyler didn't have an obvious answer, but called down, "Because I don't have to be here. I can just go around your damned bridge."

"Fine," Terry called back. "Come on down, but keep your hands where I can see them. I've got more than one gun trained on you in case you think you can outgun me."

Tyler stood back up and holstered his pistol. Slowly, keeping his hands raised, he advanced to the edge of the barricade. Terry still had the shotgun trained on him. Tyler couldn't tell if it was pump or automatic, but it didn't matter since it was pointed directly at his heart. A second barrel, a rifle by the length of it, was poking out from the RV's front window at him.

Cautiously he descended from the cars, scaling the cement barricades that formed the inner walls of Terry's shelter until he stood on the bridge's deck.

Terry pointed at the ground with the shotgun and said, "Drop your gear, and your weapons right there. Then we'll go inside and eat breakfast. It's cooking right now. By the way, your story's nothing compared to mine."

Tyler looked at him. "You mean Rigby?"

Terry gave him a suspicious look. "Yeah. Rigby."

They sat down to a classic breakfast of bacon, fried eggs and potatoes, Terry introduced his wife Morgan and toddler child Mica. They had moved in with him several weeks ago. There was another child hiding in the far corner of the RV that Terry introduced as Aiden. Tyler waved toward him and Terry said, "He doesn't like to hang out with people so much, but once you've told your tale he'll have plenty to add."

Tyler spent the rest of the day telling Terry everything he had learned and experienced. Terry stopped him when he described controlling his thoughts to control the zombies. He was fascinated at the concept and dragged out everything Tyler could tell him about it. "As revolutionary as anything can be after the apocalypse. This will revolutionize everything. Imagine scavenging, travelling and living without having to fear the zombies. Heck, now that I know that it was our fear driving them to my front door in the first place, I think we got this problem licked."

As dusk approached, Tyler wrapped up his story with his entry into Rigby.

They ate dinner outside around a fire, so that Aiden could tell his own story. The dogs had weaseled their way into Terry's camp through the many tiny gaps that still remained between the automobile hulks. Even the largest of them, a black lab, managed to get in. They settled around the people, seeking the company of Rigby's remaining humans.

Aiden began his tale, his eleven year old voice deep and clear. "The harvest crews arrived nearly two weeks ago. I stayed hidden. I wanted to practice my hiding skills, and since my parents were killed in Idaho Falls, no one cares what I do."

"Anyway, the harvest crews arrived and they told everyone they were in desperate need of stokers. They threw a huge picnic for the community, even taking trays of food and drink to the shut-ins. I heard everyone talking about it like it was a big party. 'La la la,' they said. 'Let's dance.'

"I didn't trust the harvest crews. They wore gloves to serve the food. No one does that anymore. And they never ate any of it either. They just walked around serving drinks, smiling a lot, and asking for volunteers to return to Fargo to work as stokers. They smiled too much.

"They left that night with three volunteers. I saw the volunteers again in the trailers. The next day everyone was sick. I'd seen it before, the zombie flu. My mom got it when the zombies killed Dad. They bit her. She told me we had to leave each other. She was turning into a zombie in front of me. I watched her for a day and a half until she fell asleep. Then I ran. That's why I'm so good at hiding from the dead and the living.

"So anyway, the truck stop cleared out and I moved in. Everyone went home sick. I think they knew. I went to the truck stop and hid out there 'cause I wouldn't have to scavenge for food or water. I barricaded the door to keep the zombies out, but I didn't care about them and they didn't care about me. They're slow and dumb anyway.

"Two days later the harvest crews came back. They pulled up in front of the truck stop. I went out the back and snuck back around to the front. I hid under a porch across the street. They had no idea I was there watching and listening to them. Mom said I shouldn't spy on people, but sometimes you need to know what bad men are doing."

"They called the zombies in and used their trailers to sort the grownups from the kids. Then they called the kid zombies into the truck stop, after they forced open the door, and then closed them inside. They left the crippled people, their zombies at least, in their homes.

"I heard them talking. One of them said, 'I can understand why we're not taking the damaged ones, but why not the kids?' The other said, 'The bosses in Fargo want to set a trap for Tyler.' Then the first guy said, 'But why kids?' Then the other one replied, 'For one, they're not as valuable. They wear out faster. But if the little zombies don't kill him, the bosses in Fargo want to send a message. Let him know that we're willing to kill a whole town to shut him down. Throw a guilt trip on him, you know what I mean?'

"After that, they got into their trucks and left town. I stuck around town. There's tons to scavenge still. At least I stuck around until Terry showed up in town to trade. I told him what happened and he brought me back here."

Aiden finished his story and Tyler felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool breeze. Tyler had been drinking a cup of instant cocoa, but he set it down, no longer interested. He was dismayed and horrified that he was the reason that Rigby was dead. A whole town killed to silence him.

Terry got up from the fire. "Tyler, there's a bunk in the shed if you want, or you can sleep in the open. In the morning we can discuss your travels. But for now, rest."

Aiden got up as well. "I'm sorry Tyler. What they did in Rigby was wrong. It wasn't your fault, and maybe if you'd been there first then the townspeople wouldn't have trusted the Corporation either, and ate their poisoned food. I think what you're doing is good."

Tyler felt remorse for the townspeople, and regretted that maybe he could have saved them with his story. But more importantly, he felt heartened to know that he was right that people needed to be warned about the Corporation. He settled in to rest in the open air on the bridge deck, surrounded by the dogs of Rigby.

Tyler awoke with the light of dawn. He saw movement in the trailer and smelled fresh coffee. As he stood up, Terry came out of the RV with a steaming cup. "There's fresh coffee inside the RV if you'd like. I'm making a short tour of my kingdom. Early bird gets the worm and you can never be too careful, that kind of stuff. Morgan's making French toast for breakfast, using up the last of our bread from Rigby. Breakfast should be about twenty more minutes."

Tyler stretched and quietly offered, "Thanks." Walking to the RV, he opened the door and was greeted by the scents of coffee, frying eggs and bacon. He detected a hint of cinnamon. Morgan grabbed a porcelain mug from a cupboard and poured him a cup from an old enameled coffee pot. He accepted the cups, thanking her. Aiden was reading a children's book for Mica at the table.

Tyler stepped back outside to wait for Terry. The dogs, huddled together against the cold, looked up but didn't move. They hadn't been a problem when he walked from Rigby, proving capable hunters. The lab even offered him a rabbit, which he cooked up and shared with the dogs. They also helped alert him to zombies that he wasn't aware of. In the short day hike from Rigby to Terry's bridge, the dogs alerted him to five separate zombies. The zombies were in poor condition, sometimes immobilized as their bodies failed and sometimes trapped in badger holes, canals or tangled in barbed wire. He put a bullet into their skulls.

Tyler turned as Terry returned from surveying the bridge and the area around it. He expertly descended from barricades without sloshing coffee from his cup.

"You ready to head in?" asked Terry.

"Yeah," answered Tyler.

Terry walked to the RV door and opened it for Tyler. Tyler entered through the door and sat down at the table next to Aiden and Mica. Terry followed and sat down across, scooting in to make room for Morgan.

Morgan set down a platter in the center of the table, stacked high with French toast, bacon, and fried potatoes. She sat down next to Terry and said, "Eat up."

Tyler helped himself, loading his plate with four strips of bacon, two slices of French toast and a serving of potatoes.

Terry took a bite of his French toast, chewed it for a few seconds and swallowed it. He began speaking. "Tyler, I was thinking."

Aiden interrupted, "I was thinking too. I think I want to tell Tyler's story. I can head west, follow the Snake River. I know the area well. I even travelled to several camps after I left Idaho Falls."

Tyler set his fork down and looked at Aiden. "Well, then what am I supposed to do?"

Terry answered, "I think you should head north into the mountains. The Corporation doesn't travel into the mountains. There aren't enough zombies and the roads are impassable to the Corporation's harvest trucks. There are lots of communities up there and I'm sure they're willing to listen.

Aiden spoke up. "That's a good idea. We can spread the word on two fronts."

They spent the rest of the morning discussing a route in the mountains. Terry provided a basic map, highlighting which communities were still occupied. By late afternoon, Tyler had set out, leaving Aiden to travel west. The dogs were content to remain with Terry.
Chapter Thirteen

It's All In The Name

Tyler finished his story and took a sip of coffee. It had turned cold long ago, but Tom's silky smooth and flavorful cream helped the coffee taste good at any temperature.

Tom set his hands casually on the counter and leaned slightly forward. "There's only one question I have for you, Mr. Green. How did you kill those men when you didn't have a weapon?"

Tyler nearly jumped out of his seat, but held it to a sudden twitch of his body instead. He felt the blood drain from his face, felt the pounding of his heart is it surged in panic as he realized that Tom had just used his last name. Tyler never used his last name; not once while he worked in Fargo, never when he traveled the wilds, never when he told his story to an audience, never. The only time he had ever used his last name, was when he filled out employment papers with the Corporation. The only way Tom would know his last name would be if he were in contact with the Corporation.

Tyler ran the clues through his head. Tom knew his last name. Tom was not dressed right for his role as cafe owner.
The clothes he wore spoke of practicality in traveling the wilds and of having access to quality gear from quality shops in established towns. Not one of Tom's customers had paid before leaving. Paying for your purchases hadn't ended because of the apocalypse; it only meant you might get a bullet in your back if you tried to skip out without paying. The other key difference was that he hadn't acquired an audience. Every time he told his story, he had a crowd gather and listen. There was no one left in the cafe except for him and Tom.

Tyler had to act. Tom was close enough that Tyler would be able to strike him with his good luck charm. Tyler leaned back and feigned a yawn. As he raised his arms in a stretch, he glanced behind himself, surveying the room. Evening had set outside, leaving only the LED lights to cast a glow on the empty tables. The rest of the room was cast in sinister shadows.

Tyler casually flexed his arms, bringing them toward the strap holding his good luck charm in the center of his back, and looked back forward toward Tom. Tyler froze.

Tom had taken a step back and had his pistol pointed directly at Tyler. "Mr. Green," he said. "I suspect you were about to show me how you killed those other men." Motioning with his eyes toward the counter, the pistol never wavered, Tom said, "Why don't you place your hand on the counter."

Tyler set his hand on the counter. This is the end, he thought, watching as Tom's index finger slowly tightened on the trigger. It suddenly occurred to Tyler that he'd never paid attention to Tom's pistol. It was a heavy caliber revolver of some kind. Tyler couldn't tell which manufacturer because it was pointed directly at his chest. Tyler glanced at the holster. It was leather without retention straps, good for quick draws — a cowboy holster for a gunfighter. Tyler glanced at Tom. The look on Tom's face was business. It wasn't a cruel look or an angry look. Tyler realized that he was about to be harvested, not unlike a zombie, a product.

The boom was deafening when it finally came. Tyler wondered where he'd been shot and began a mental assessment of his body parts, focusing on his chest where Tom's gun had been pointed. It didn't hurt. Tyler wondered if it was the adrenaline or if, when you were about to die, it was normal not to feel pain; a reaction to spare you from the worst of death.

He looked at Tom and saw a different look in the man's eyes. There was pain and confusion in his eyes. The pistol that had been pointed at Tyler was gone, no longer was it in Tom's hand, which had dropped to his side. Tyler noticed the spot then, on Tom's chest. It was bright red. Tyler watched as it grew in size. Suddenly Tom collapsed to the floor.

A voiced boom behind Tyler. "You've gotten sloppy. Easy to track, easy to predict."

Tyler jerked around. Behind him, in the far shadowy corners of the room, a grizzled man sat forward, revealing himself in the dim light of the table. He wore simple clothing of durable jeans and a flannel shirt, common to the survivors living in the mountain where he was traveling. His beard, long, gray and curly, framed the hard eyes gazing back at him. He picked up an old brown cowboy hat, that was nearly floppy with years of use, from atop the table and set it on his head as he stood up. Tyler watched as he rose to his feet, well over six feet tall, and re-holstered the beefy revolver in his right hand.

Confusion paralyzed Tyler's thoughts as he arranged the fact that he was still alive with his certain death only moments before.

The man spoke again, the same deep booming voice, breaking the gridlock in Tyler's mind. "You stopped into my hometown several weeks ago. Told your story. But you weren't the only visitor that day. No, but I don't think you would've known the difference, between a local and a new face. When you finished and left town, I followed the other guy. Watched him use a high tech satellite phone. Had to be brand new at the apocalypse time."

Casually, the man stepped from behind the table and approached Tyler. "We already know your story out here. It's moving faster than you are now. But, since I already knew the story I figured they were setting you up, the Corporation, and decided it would be best if I followed you."

The man stepped to the counter and looked over the edge. "That's too bad. Mark ran a nice cafe."

Tyler turned and leaned over the counter to see what the man was looking at. Below he saw Tom's body, but below that, shoved ingloriously against the bottom edge of the counter was another body. That was the smell, the smell of death. Even just after a few hours of death, the scent of a human corpse became nauseating. It disturbed Tyler to think he had been sitting just inches, separated by the cafe counter, from the former owner's corpse.

The man stood upright from leaning over. "The first two weeks I just tracked and followed you. Wasn't hard since I know this region like the back of my hand... and you also don't try to cover your tracks. I figured out real quick where you were headed and decided to get comfortable in town before you arrived, keeping my eyes open.

"You know the Corporation's got spies everywhere now. They're not hard to spot. Their faces are too fresh. Their clothes aren't worn out. They still carry those Beretta pistols. There's one outside the cafe right now. Jacob's probably already knocked him upside the head and locked him up with that zombie this fool Tom drove up with."

"So you're lucky, Mr. Tyler. Lucky we've been keeping an eye on you. We've been tolerant of the spies, but that's about to change. Mark was a friend of mine. Hell, everyone out here is a friend of mine. I don't know who this Tom fella was, a corporate assassin probably, but killing one of ours has gone too far. It's time to clean house."

Tyler was still at a loss for words and when the man suggested they step outside; he was grateful for the direction.

Stepping to the door, the man said, "My name's Robert, by the way."

The man's greeting kicked Tyler's mind into gear, forcing an automatic response customary when all survivors meet. "Hello. My name is Tyler. I'm very glad to meet you, Robert."

Robert smiled then, and opened the door.

Tyler stepped outside to be greeted by a small but very tense crowd, each person having a firearm pointing directly at him. Upon seeing him, the tension evaporated from the crowd and they immediately lowered their weapons.

A woman stepped forward and offered her hand. "Welcome to Fairfield, Tyler. My name's Steph. I run the trade shop down the road."

Tyler took her hand. "My pleasure."

Several people broke from the crowd and entered the cafe. They came out moments later, dragging the corpses of both Tom and Mark. They carried Mark's body to a waiting wagon, but Tom's they dropped next to another body lying to the side of the crowd, something that Tyler had failed to see when he exited the cafe. Tyler figured the other body was dead until it rolled over to face away from Tom's corpse, which was dumped in front of it. Tyler saw that the person's hands were bound with tight cords.

Robert walked up besides Tyler. "Tyler, a civil war of sorts is about to break out in these mountains. Maybe even it'll catch on and spread back east. Zombies are a plague, not a commodity. You're welcome to remain here, find a home in the mountains... or you can move on, heading west, but your truth has already preceded you... or you can help us push back against the harvest crews. The choice is yours, but you're always welcome."

Tyler looked at the small crowd of people surrounding him, saw the welcome in their eyes, saw their humanity, and decided what he wanted to do.

The End

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