 
### **_CONTENTS_**

Dedication

Preface

Part One - The Exodus is Over

Chapter One - Growing Things

Chapter Two - Summer Houses

Chapter Three - Infected

Chapter Four - Breach

Chapter Five - Shoreside

Chapter Six - Nikki

Chapter Seven - Skin Of The Teeth

Chapter Eight - Northbound

Excerpt from Part 2 The Search For A Cure

Note: This is only the first part of

the full novel.

OF SUDDEN ORIGIN - PART 1 THE EXODUS IS OVER

Copyright © 2014 Christopher Harwood / Fate & Fortune Press

cchaseharwood.com

mail@cchaseharwood.com

3627 Buena Park Drive

Studio City, CA 91604

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Other books by C. Chase Harwood

Of Sudden Origin

Children Of Fiends - Book 2 of The Of Sudden Origin Saga

The Ouroboros

### **_PREFACE_**

_Nature encourages no looseness, pardons no errors _

\- Ralph Waldo Emerson

In 1999 professor of anthropology Jeffery A Schwartz of the University of Pittsburgh postulated a solution to the so-called Missing Link. He proposed, that given the poor fossil record for evolutionary graduation, that there were no missing links. He then offered an alternative to the accepted Darwinian model: Rather than life evolving through a slow adaptation to ever changing environmental factors, he suggested that evolution was actually a history of rapid genesis and extinction, with long periods of stasis in between. Schwartz used a growing body of molecular scientific evidence to show that evolution is not a progression of perceptible mutations within species, but rather a series of sudden origins, where new species burst forth upon the scene.

In 2010 Chris Venditti and Andrew Meade at the University of Reading in the UK and Mark Pagel at the Santa Fe Institute, New Mexico, followed up on Schwartz's work, among others, with a paper published in Nature. They concluded that the Darwinian theory of natural selection (whereby, over eons, transformations occur due to subtle changes in environment) made up for only 8% of evolutionary change. While studying rates of speciation in 101 groups of plants, animals, and fungi, they used four different evolutionary models to see which model best fit evolutionary history. They concluded that 78% of evolutionary family trees came into existence via singular, rare events, such as dramatic climate change, heaving mountains, shifting lands and _disease_ \- to name just a few.

In 2004 engineers and scientists at the University of Texas at Austin and the University of Michigan successfully forced an evolutionary leap: In a process likened to natural selection, they made random alterations in the DNA of E Coli bacterium and then observed the bacterium come up with an entirely new way to make disulfide bonds – the stiffening struts that help give proteins their shape. A critical structural component of healthy proteins, disulfides keep molecules from forming into the broken building blocks of disease, such as Alzheimer's, cystic fibrosis and mad cow. These researchers offered a new alternative to the control of disease – bioengineered evolution.

Creationists have latched on to some of the above, to support their own theory - that an intelligent being, an omniscient engineer, controls all of this – completely new creatures simply don't spring forth from the ether; a greater hand is involved. Scientists would of course disagree; pointing out that these new manifestations are but the final result of an immeasurable buildup of genetic mutations – mutations, that when given the right environment, the right set of circumstances, will spring forth as new species.

**PART ONE**

**The Exodus is Over**

## **CHAPTER ONE**

### **_GROWING THINGS_**

Like most prey animals, the white-tailed deer exits the womb and in moments, struggles to stand. To survive in a world where it is a delicacy on the large predator's list, it must be able to run almost as soon as it hits the ground. In a dense forest in Northern New England, a very odd looking infant who was already on the edge of intellectualizing this, watched with glee as its mother butchered a fawn. In its own way, this baby was a creature born to survive the moment it entered the world. Within the labyrinth of connections in its fast growing brain, there was a new sense, a new skill if you will, that neither dear Mother Earth, nor God if you prefer, had ever experimented with. While its mother, and a few others around her, gorged themselves on the flesh of the still twitching animal, the infant directed Mom to concentrate on the choicest parts. Though its own sharp teeth were just breaking through its gums, and it still preferred her warm milk rather than blood marrow and muscle, it could nevertheless taste, smell and feel what its mother was eating. Everything that its mother sensed, the baby sensed as well. Its mind was connected through the ether to the others. As such, it directed its mother to eat only the choicest parts. As she gorged herself, it could feel and sense the mild frustration of the other's around it, and it gleefully directed them to chew on the lesser bits.

As it sat on the forest floor, crushing leaves between its tiny fists, the infant got an idea: a part of it already understood humor, and it directed one skinny male to gnaw on a hoof. The child could sense the male's irritation, and its sharp pointy ears folded back with amusement while a large smile spread across its healthy pudgy face. It watched its legs kicking with pleasure and it couldn't help but notice how different its legs were from the others around it. This thought, like all its thoughts, immediately transferred to the mother. What was left of its mother's mind thought, **_Fucking odd shape. Like the thing I'm gorging on._** The child's legs were hinged like the rear hocks of any fourlegged animal, only with elongated human feet; like a cat's hindquarters; built for speed.

Driving through ancient New England farmland, Jon Washington listened to the engine of his Jeep sputter with its last sips of fuel. With exhausted eyes, he scanned the old stone walls that broke up the rural landscape and thought, I don't have a clue about growing things. When his truck finally ran out of gas on a dirt road in the middle of a forest in New Hampshire, he looked around the thick wood and decided that he was far enough from civilization to warrant a piss... standing, instead of sitting, a bottle held to his crotch, the doors locked, engine running.

He'd been driving for five days straight; the last of the police and Army checkpoints the only things slowing him down. Atlanta had fallen in early April, and when Charlotte had been compromised, he, like all refugees, kept heading north. He had paused in Atlantic City where another wall had been hastily erected. He could still reach his editors who had bugged out to New York so he settled in to gather more information, report on what he thought could be helpful. A week later, commercial communication in North America fully broke down.

In some ways it had paid off to wait until the last moment to leave; the byways of the nation were now mostly open to him. At first, working north from Florida, he had struggled with the masses, witnessing the worst of the human animal when overcome by fear. It had been so tragically cliche, so Hollywood disaster, disappointing... but so very understandable. The bulk of the population who were still ambulatory, had run in shear panic; literally driving over each other trying to escape. On the highway to hell that was Interstate 95, the number of victims of mob rule was too many to count. He could only marvel at the way that people became lemmings, the flight instinct taking over any rational thought. If they hadn't run each other over, they'd shot at each other in pointless me-first-isms. Law Enforcement, First Responders and the Military simply couldn't handle the mindless wave - not for lack of a plan, not for lack of trying - many a selfless soldier, firefighter and cop died trying. It was sheer numbers multiplied by abject terror. Nothing frightens a human being more than the idea of being eaten alive. Nothing stirs pure unmitigated panic in a person than the notion of being ripped limb from limb while being eaten alive by other human beings.

Jon pulled the parking brake and climbed out of the 4X4 while grabbing his police baton and shotgun, pilfered from a dead cop's car. The two tools had become extensions of his arms since Atlantic City. His truck was loaded to the gills with other less fortunate people's survival gear; again, being one of the last ones out made for easy pickings.

The air smelled clean. It had rained earlier and the damp pine needles mixed with ozone made the surroundings fresh and sweet. During the entire drive north he kept telling himself he'd have to grow things. The canned and foil-wrapped food he'd scavenged wouldn't last him long. Hunting was something else all together. Other than the three Fiends in Atlantic City, he'd never shot anything in his life, and that had made him vomit.

As a reporter for the _Atlanta Daily Mail_ , Jon Washington had been at the front lines. His ability to get information to the rest of the country was, he thought, the most important thing he could do. Information was critical in keeping the American people safe. Information was the best weapon they had.

When the Everglades containment fencing (also known as the _Everglades Wall_ ) failed, Jon Washington was there to report that the Army was falling back to the _Lakeland_ blockade, giving citizens the time to move north behind the next barrier, officially named _The Orlando Wall_.

Before the Orlando Wall collapsed, Jon was among the first to note, from personal experience, that the infected had somehow gained a foothold on the North side. It was then that the WHO had gotten somewhat of a lock on the disease. It was bacterial in nature, and like the bacteria that causes meningitis, it was capable of passing through the blood-brain barrier; the vicious creature piggybacking on the very white blood cells that the body was sending to destroy it. They determined that it wasn't just spreading from a bite or a breath; it was showing up in municipal drinking water. The consensus was that someone was doing this. It was terrorism and it was national.

When people were suddenly becoming infected in Los Angeles in late March, then Seattle and other big cities, up to that point free of "infected" behavior, it was considered terrorism with weapons of mass destruction.

The disease was dubbed Frontal Negation Dementia by a USAMRIID scientist named Andre Zacharia and shortened to its acronym FND-z. The people gave it another name, one that they could get their heads around, one that made sense given the biblical proportions of its spread; they called it Cain's Disease – Cain: He who slaughtered his brother.

It began with an insatiable thirst that water couldn't quench. At first, many thought it was some kind of rodent poison, but that was quickly dispelled when the victim began to behave as if he'd been drugged with a huge hit of PCP: A person, once fully succumbed to Cain's, has a tenfold threshold for pain; muscles that once seemed fit to only lift a can of food, could now, in a short burst of energy, heave a refrigerator aside, kick down a door or grab a wrist and never let go. _Fiends_ (as the infected became known from the phonetic of FND-z) could be anyone, even your grandmother sitting right next to you. At first she's thirsty and then she's begging for water, which offers no remedy as her skin grows hotter and she sweats through her nightgown. Over a period of hours she rants and raves in feverish delusion, her guts twisting in pain, agony building with frightening speed, the helplessness of the observer compounding every moment. Then a sudden calm, usually sleep, even a coma-like state. The fever has broken. Thank God. She can rest. An extra blanket is found. Another cool washcloth applied. Her color returns and her eyes finally open, and... grandma isn't grandma anymore. With eyes and mouth suddenly dripping with desire, she offers a look that can only be described as purest evil. She's still human, but there is nothing human in that look; a smiling rabid wolf occupies the space that was her. Laughing with lust, she attacks. She's as strong as an ape because she feels almost no pain. She'll snap her own bones in the struggle to gorge herself on your blood, to take a bite right out of your face, your neck, your thigh, tearing into your muscles with talon like fingers and literally shredding them off your skeleton. And this won't stop until she's either been shot, stabbed or beaten to death. She's the perfect killing machine, a shark that can't be sated. If you initially survived her attack, it wouldn't be more than twenty-four hours before you became a Fiend as well. A bite, or getting spittle or a splash of blood in the mouth, eye, open wound, even too close a breath and it's all over. Do yourself before it does you.

Jon stopped as he got out of the car and listened. A light breeze rustled the trees, shaking loose the day's rain that pitter-pattered over the soft ground. He could hear a woodpecker in the distance; a good sign. Fiends tended to want to feast on any flesh: bird, reptile, fish or mammal - if it had a heartbeat, it was fair game. Most animals sensed a Fiend well in advance and fled long before they arrived with their grunts and howls, sounding like a mad troop of chimps.

The leather of his motorcycle racing coveralls creaked as he stepped onto a large granite boulder to get his bearings. Feeling relatively secure, he kept his riot helmet off to allow his ears and eyes to work better. The Moto Guzzi rig, while garish in color, did an effective job of warding off bites. The leather, with its thick padding and built in skid plates for motorcycle racing, was just strong enough to give him time to maybe break loose, maybe strike out with the baton, thrust with a knife.

## **CHAPTER TWO**

### **_SUMMER HOUSES_**

The piss was downright luxuriant as he stood and relieved himself for the first time in several days without a bottle held to his crotch. As far as a good crap, he'd have to take something to help with that. An uncomfortable constipation had taken hold of him and he knew it wouldn't let loose until he could squat and feel invulnerable.

The breeze momentarily picked up, startling him as the higher branches waved back and forth, the forest suddenly filled with noise. He instinctively zipped up and crouched, clutching his shotgun, spinning in a three hundred and sixty degree turn. Seeing himself in the window of the Jeep, hunkered down with the gun, he stopped and chuckled while standing up again.

About one hundred yards off, he spotted the edge of what looked like a lake shimmering through the trees. Grabbing his helmet and locking the Jeep, he marched in the lake's direction. He'd been trying to get to the Canadian Wall when he ran out of gas. As foretold in every modern apocalyptic tale, all the major thoroughfares were teaming with the infected, and blocked with abandoned cars. His only choice was this backwoods escape. He hadn't accounted for just how rural New Hampshire actually was. The last two gas stations he had passed were abandoned, the pumps turned off. He didn't have a clue how to turn them back on. A hoped for gallon of fuel in someone's barn turned out to be pre-mixed with oil for a lawnmower.

His GPS showed him to be shy of the border by a hundred and fifty miles; a long way to hike in rugged country with limited food supplies. A lot nicer to have a steel and glass cage around you. He needed another vehicle. The lake likely meant summerhouses. Summerhouses often meant a summer car. Unfortunately, houses also often meant Fiends.

Damned infected people had plenty of brains left to figure out that most folks just hid in their homes. Of course that was changing now. The Exodus had placed the bulk of the healthy American population behind the Canadian Wall. The infected weren't far behind. The food supply had moved north and so were they.

Jon's grandmother intruded on his thoughts again, interfering with his need to focus, to walk quietly. At first he figured she just had the flu. The flu was raging during the winter and had the same initial symptoms as Cain's or 'The Terror Disease' __ as the __ New York Post __ and __ The Washington Times had dubbed it _._ While covering the _Stand_ at the Orlando Wall, Jon was able to take a break and visit Granny Kat who had retired to Daytona ten years before. As his last living relative, he doted on her like a spoiled child. She in turn did the same and they worshipped one another in a way often lost as a child passes into adolescence. Granny Kat had cooked a key-lime pie that night, just in time for Jon's arrival. She hugged her grandson and then had to sit down, gulping what she said was her third glass of water in an hour. She was sweating and her pallor had turned gray. Jon escorted her to the couch in her sitting room and put a blanket over her. He got a thermometer and confirmed the fever: one hundred and three.

With what seemed like standard high fever delirium, the fierce fever of Cain's masked the loss of mental clarity. What was really happening was an incredibly rapid digestion of the frontal lobes of the brain and a near repurposing of its complicated design. Within an hour, Granny Kat no longer recognized her grandson. A couple hours more and she didn't recognize herself. Like the endgame of Alzheimer's, the bacterial assault resulted in the complete destruction of personality. However, unlike the cruel reduction of self that is dementia and its various forms, Cain's left the victim with the most ancient part of the brain intact; the reptilian - the part that harbors fear, anger, the need to survive, lust, and the killer instinct. The highest form of existence, love, was replaced by something wholly unholy. It was irrationally hungry, thrilled with sexual assault, and gained profound pleasure from the kill. The unique virtue that made the human animal humane was lost whole cloth.

When Granny Washington suddenly came off that couch with the strength of a rabid jungle cat–

Jon felt his chest constrict with the memory of it, a combination of intense remorse and subconscious terror. His face had grown flush, he could feel the heat of it, and he realized that he was holding his breath. He exhaled and told himself to pay attention. Losing focus was a fatal mistake. After... after her death... his safety had become less of a worry. Nevertheless, he still had a job to do. Though there was no news desk anymore to send updates to, for his own sanity, he remained a reporter. His work was what saved him from a deep depression, and it was another reason why he was one of the last ones heading out.

He assumed he had been spared from the disease so far because of his near obsession with drinking only bottled water, a sip of which he took now as he walked through the woods. It had become unfashionable to drink bottled water in recent years (the attached carbon footprint having become unacceptable to a society fighting global warming) but Jon still kept the stuff squirreled away in his car for when he was alone. He'd occasionally get a honk and a finger wag from a scolding fellow driver, but most folks left him alone, others tipping their bottles in a toast, sharing a moment of sin.

It was May now. The whole disaster had begun the previous September. Until January, it had remained contained in Florida. When it became clear that Cain's had been released in the water supplies of ten of America's biggest cities, the Federal government actually had a plan C. It involved a massive evacuation to Canada, as well as Puerto Rico and Hawaii. Mexico became a de-facto haven, but the newly finished border fence stopped most escaping American's cold, and at the mercy of a rapidly growing army of Fiends at their backs. Mercy... mercy was a quick death. Mexico (the country now run by a massive drug cartel in all but name) handled its own small northern outbreak with brutal efficiency, quarantining the depth of its first twenty miles of its US border with ruthless death squads. Hawaii and Puerto Rico became victims of an air travel society when, early on, the sick and the healthy alike looked for refuge on those islands. Paradise was lost as the Pacific State and the Caribbean protectorate were sealed off and ultimately abandoned to chaos. As far as Jon knew, it was only the US that had been attacked. His shortwave radio merely told of the economic collapse occurring on the rest of the planet and the concurring bedlam that was its natural consequence. And now there was another twist: He hadn't witnessed it himself, but a few soldiers talked about it. Some kind of mind control. Like the infected could reach out mentally, get in your head and mess with it. None of the men he talked to could really describe it other than to say that it scared the crap out of them worse than a whole charging mob of the marauding berserkers. Jon could only take their word for it. His own experience with infected people had been harrowing enough without the added element of mental telepathy.

A branch snapped under his right foot and he stopped cold, listening for the consequences. He needed to concentrate. His city-boy gait must have sounded like a foraging bear without a care in the world. As he resumed walking, each crack of a stick had him wincing at his clumsiness, his unintended signal of approach. As he got closer to the water, he began to make out the lines of a small house. It had a pitched roof and clear-coated pine siding. It looked to be in good shape — at least from a distance. He stepped onto a dirt driveway that must have wound its way back to the road where his Jeep was parked and paused, looking through the trees. He had a small pair of binoculars on his hip and leaned his shotgun against a tree to allow for a steady view.

There didn't seem to be any movement. No generator, no lights, no smoke. The only sound continued to be the breeze; the woodpecker seemed to have moved on. He moved forward more slowly, really watching his footfalls. As the house became more visible, he could smell what he hoped wasn't there. He'd done a story about slaughterhouses a few years back. The smell of fear and blood is its own unique aroma. He stopped and slid his riot helmet over his head, leaving the visor up so that he could see and hear better.

The windows on the near side of the house looked to be broken in. A rotting, fly infested corpse lay on the ground outside. No way to tell if it was a Fiend or a victim of one, but the fact that the skeleton was mostly intact indicated that it was probably the former. Fiends didn't go after each other; the disease had no reason for assaulting itself. Somehow, the infected recognized the un-infected and only attacked them. Nature nevertheless continued with its egalitarian ways - in this case a parade of insects was slowly reducing the corpse to its component parts.

Jon slowly made his way around the perimeter. The evidence of a last stand was everywhere. The fools inside had watched too many zombie movies and had assumed that they could just board up their windows. The boards had been pried off - no point in trying to break a door down with so many windows to go for. The builder had wanted to take advantage of the view. The lakeside was almost all glass - broken glass now.

After Atlantic City, Jon knew better than to walk inside what seemed like an empty house, at least not without knocking. Lowering the visor to his helmet, he lifted his police baton and whacked it a few times against a tree. If there was a Fiend inside, he could expect it to come charging out any second, howling for a kill... nothing. He waited a beat and then whacked the tree again, just in case it or they were asleep and needed waking... still nothing. He raised his visor and called out, "Hello? Anyone home? Anyone alive?" Lowering his visor, he stepped forward.

Not all Fiends attacked like drug-addled lunatics. Some hid, biding their time. Some knew how to hunt. For some, a primal instinct stayed with them, an animal cunning. These were the truly dangerous ones. They were the alphas that could organize others into a pack of sorts. The Army called them troops, just like chimps. They even kept the understanding of rudimentary tools, mostly in the form of a club or a rock as a projectile, but blades or any sharp instrument could come into play.

He stepped onto the porch, picked up a shard of wood planking and tossed it inside, listening to it rattle across the floor... nothing. He stepped through one of the smashed picture windows. The house was trashed. Overturned furniture and broken glass, books, board games and puzzles, family photos and fishing trophies; all of the trappings of a happy vacation home turned to refuse. The kitchen had a big granite-covered island, behind which the occupants had made their last stand. Their picked-clean bones told the tale of their grizzly end. They were scattered around the room, the evidence of a feeding frenzy.

From a count of skulls, it appeared to be a group of five. At least one was a child. There had also been a dog, a pretty big one from the looks of it. A cautious search of the rest of the house confirmed that they had all died together in the great room. The Fiends had feasted and moved on. But for a few kitchen knives and a golf club, there were no weapons in the house. Someone had fashioned a mace from a bat and some nails, but that was it. They didn't have a prayer.

He inspected the cabinets and found them to be nearly empty of food. There was a myriad of other supplies - flashlights, extra batteries, radio, gas canisters - but not much more than would be expected in a cabin. These people had been caught pretty much flat-footed. The fact that there was no car outside told him that either someone had gotten away or more likely, decided to try their luck elsewhere before the onslaught occurred.

He stepped back outside and walked down to the lake. The house had a small dock with an aluminum rowboat tied to it. As Jon scanned the shoreline, little wavelets made metallic sounds against the hull. About a hundred yards to his right was another house, or what was left of one. It appeared to have burned to the ground. In the middle of the lake was an island. It looked to be about a half mile out. With his binoculars he could make out a small empty dock. If there were any other structures, they were obscured by the trees. He decided to walk up the driveway to see if there might be a car between the house and the road, perhaps an unlucky would-be escapee or maybe the folks in the house parked closer to the road to throw an attacker off the scent. It sounded lame, but he didn't have anything better to do.

## **CHAPTER THREE**

### **_INFECTED_**

The driveway led back to the road. No car except his dead Jeep. In short order he found the driveway for the burned house. From a hundred yards away, he could smell the charcoal crusted timbers. It had been rained on at least once since it burned, and the black pile of timbers let off a wet acidic smell. As he walked, he heard the woodpecker again. It was a reassuring sound; a bird busy at work meant it felt secure. There was a separate garage that remained intact, but the main house's chimney had collapsed onto the driveway, blocking the barn-style door. There was a side door standing ajar. He paused and then took a cautious step forward, peering inside. Eureka, an old mid-nineties Volvo was parked amongst a slew of recreational stuff, a canoe, a small sailboat, rafts, as well as bicycles and other garage items.

He grabbed a small stone and tossed it inside, preparing himself for a charge. Nothing. He lifted his visor, tentatively stepped forward while sniffing the air - must and damp oily wood. He could see that the trusting owners had left the Volvo unlocked. The amount of dust layered on top wasn't encouraging. When he opened the door the dome light didn't come on and he squished up his face in mild frustration. The key was sitting in an ashtray between the seats so he inserted it and gave it a turn - not even a click. Perhaps they'd had taken the battery cables off in order to save it while they were away. A quick check under the hood told him otherwise. With a sigh, he realized that he'd have to hike up to the Jeep, take its battery out, and bring it down to the Volvo.

He stepped back outside and looked at the chimney stones. Two big ones were piled right against the door. He'd need something to pry them with. He'd get a big branch from the many littering the forest floor. He took off his helmet and set it, along with the shotgun, against the wall. He walked around to the back of the garage and right there, not more than thirty yards away, two infected squatted over a carcass. He saw them first, but not by much. They were adolescent males, utterly filthy - blood streaked faces, tattered clothes and tangled, greasy hair. They were struggling with a dead porcupine and so engrossed in their meal that they hadn't heard him walk up - but they saw him now.

Jon found himself stunned, his muscles locked up as though he'd been delivered an electric jolt. His brain said run, but his feet glued themselves to the ground. The Fiend holding the dead animal had both arms sleeved with tattoos. It suddenly jumped up and without dropping its kill, charged at Jon full speed, the other charging right behind. Jon finally unfroze as the tattooed Fiend's bloody maw opened with a horrific scream.

Jon ran. He ran in a straight line right back up the driveway. Out loud he found himself yelling, "Fuck You, Fuck You, Fuck You!" over and over. He didn't dare turn around for fear of stumbling. His police baton banged against his leg, but he wasn't going to try pulling it out of its belt loop and risk a fall. He got to the main road before he realized that he had left his helmet and gun behind - not that he could have done anything about it. He could hear the two Fiends only paces behind him, one letting out another scream, kicking his adrenaline into overdrive. He could see his Jeep in the distance and he angled his way toward it. His mind was rushing to keep up with his fear. The Jeep would just be a death cage, but he had no place else to run. They were gaining on him.

He grabbed the door handle and yanked, only to be stopped by having locked the door earlier. He fumbled for the keys while cursing himself and glancing at the charging monsters. He pressed the unlock button, threw open the door, and dove in while hitting lock again as they slammed up against the truck. They bellowed and punched, spider webbing the driver's glass, one of them using the porcupine carcass for a bloody cudgel. He found himself involuntarily screaming as he tried to get his mind to formulate a plan. He had perhaps seconds and they'd be through.

The Jeep was on a down slope. If he could... He stomped on the clutch, dropped the stick shift into neutral and released the parking brake. The truck started to creep forward. A look outside nearly stopped his heart as he watched one of the bastards pick up a rock and heave. The thing bounced off the driver door just as the truck started to build some momentum. "Come on Come on Come Come on!"

The wheel without power steering was like a turning an old tractor. Another rock, bigger this time, went skipping off the windshield. He was going maybe five miles an hour now, then ten, the Fiends running along side. Steering with all his might, he avoided a tree, kept the thing on track with the road, then the driveway to the burned out house, and now he was outpacing them and he cheered. "Yeah, motherfuckers!"

Then he could see the lake, and the plan was for not. With a sudden sense of defeat, he took his hands off the wheel and watched as the Jeep rolled past the ruined house over a tidy lawn and out onto a dock, ultimately launching itself into the lake. It then promptly began to sink.

The impact buried Jon under a mountain of food, assorted blankets, tents, a camp stove and bottled water. From what he could see, he was submerged under cloudy green water. Despite the spider webbing, the windows were holding. Then the seals started to leak as the water pressure increased. He had maybe a few minutes and then he'd drown. After all he'd been through this would be a stupid way to die. Still, a part of him wanted to stay in the truck. As he struggled to get out from under the weight of his gear, he really thought about it. It was an absolute horror show up there and from what he could tell, Cain's was winning the war. It was exhausting trying to survive an apocalypse. And who, besides himself, was he surviving for? He had no living relations, no girlfriend, no ex-wife. He'd always lived the life of a loner, happy to go on assignment to other states, other countries, a girl in every port. His primary reason for existence was to pass on information. What was there really to go on for?

On the other hand, he'd made it this far. If he gave up now, what was the point of the hard slog up through the South all the way into New England? He was almost to Canada. He'd be an asshole to throw in the towel now.

Strangely, as cold water came up over his calves, he found himself flashing on the defense plan for Canada. It meant giving up the West but they had drawn the line at Lake Winnipeg. Running north and south from that famous body of water was a system of rivers and smaller waterways that more or less connected the Great Lakes and the Saint Lawrence River with Hudson Bay way up north. For the most part, the infected had lost the skill that is swimming. US and Canadian engineers were working around the clock, digging connections between these waterways in an effort to create a massive moat around Eastern Canada. There were gaps, but those would be plugged with minefields and constant patrols.

In the winter, when much of that water froze, it was going to be a challenge, but maybe not. It was suggested that the infected would be forced to stay in the warmer southern climate or risk freezing to death.

When the water reached his thighs, Jon snapped out of his reverie and considered once more the supposedly easy out that was drowning. Then he laughed at the thought. He'd fight until he was either home free or dead. It sure as hell wasn't going to be by his own hand.

The water pressure would make it impossible for him to open the doors until the cab was full. He managed to get his hand on his police baton and struggled to slip it out of its belt loop. After a few awkward yanks, he got it free, gripped the side handle hard, and rammed the short bottom end into the compromised windshield. A small hole appeared and water shot at him with the pressure of a focused garden hose. He rammed the baton again. The water rushed in with a wallop. Jon found himself swirling in a cloud of gear and glass. Though the surface was only ten feet away, he was completely disoriented. Using the steering wheel, he thrust himself up and out of the truck.

When his face broke the water, the first thing his eyes focused on was the two Fiends, standing at the end of the dock. They screamed with excitement, yet hesitated to jump into the water. Jon looked to his right and saw the dock for the house next door and the rowboat tied to it. With the weight of his leathers pulling him down, he started swimming. The damn infected followed his progress from the shore. Maybe he'd confuse them if he swam under water. When he was twenty feet from the dock, he took three deep breaths and dove.

He still held the police baton along his forearm. It made swimming a bit of a struggle, but he'd be damned if he was going to let it go. He swam under the dock and slowly let himself rise so that he popped up between it and the boat. His lungs were searing, but he forced himself to take the quietest breath he could as he broke the surface. He pulled his knife from the sheath that was tied to his leg, cut the ropes and began to gently push the boat away from the dock. Suddenly, he could hear their feet running across the planking. He kicked away with all his might. They splashed into the water, reaching out and screaming, not really swimming, but achieving a sort of doggie-paddle cum spaz-splash. The tattooed one hurled the porcupine at him, the carcass sailing just past his face. The other got a grip on his leg. Jon kicked the creature in the chest, twisted free and plunged the knife into its shoulder. It howled in anger and pain, giving Jon a couple of yards of distance. The rodent chucker was still sloppily swimming toward him, and Jon used the baton, stunning it with a blow to the head.

Free for a moment, he swam a little more and then tried to pull himself into the boat without swamping it. As he struggled, his legs and arms felt weighted with lead. Then the Fiend with the knife still in his shoulder caught up with him, grabbed his left leg and bit down hard. It hurt like hell and he begged the god of _Scorpion's Titanium-Tanned Racing Armor_ to let its product hold up under three hundred pounds per square inch of biting power. He turned, twisted the knife and pulled it out. The monster gnashed and bit at him. This was the most deadly kind of proximity with an infected person and Jon could feel his repulsed and frightened body try to levitate from the water. He jammed his gloved thumb into the Fiend's eye and then drove the knife into its sternum and up into the heart. The blade wasn't coming free this time and he had to let it go. He kicked away from the dying thing as fast as he could, lest he ingest some of the growing blood blooming in the water. The one he had hit was the baton was nowhere to be seen. He had to assume that it had drowned.

With a do or die heave, he pulled himself into the boat, got the oars into the oarlocks and turned the boat toward the burned out house. He had to get his helmet and gun. Then he saw more of them, dozens more running through woods, heading toward the shore. He stopped rowing. The breeze was coming up and it gently pushed him away from land. He looked over his shoulder at the island and pointed the boat there instead. Then his stomach growled. He didn't have a single morsel of food. If he weren't such an optimistic guy, he'd swear he was screwed.

**_ The female Other that led them, stopped short of the shore and just watched. It and the Others with It arrived too late to get the Fresh One that was rowing away. _**

**_As though channeled up from the swelling in its belly, a pregnant Other felt its stomach churn, and the sense of frustration from the Others around It entered its mind. The thing that grew inside It was speaking to It again – not speaking, but feeling. Mostly It liked the feeling; the thing in its belly guiding It, helping It track down the Fresh Ones. But when It was hungry, the feeling became very harsh and It even considered cutting out the thing that grew inside._**

**_ The one that led them held its own little guiding thing in its arms – that baby Other was asleep. When it was awake, all of the Others around It got the feeling together - the baby Other guiding them._**

**_ The pregnant Other could see less panic in the Fresh One's eyes as it moved away in the boat. Another pang of hunger feeling shot up from the thing that grew inside, and It held Its growling belly with fierce frustration. They would watch for a while then the Other that led them would renew the hunt for other Fresh Ones – the infant Other that the one that led them held always knew where to find more Fresh Ones._**

When Jon got close to the island's shore he heard a new woodpecker and chuckled, deciding that he wouldn't count on them to raise the alarm in the future. He quietly tied up to the dock and walked up a path, holding his police baton at ready.

In a clearing was small house, a shack really. Its windows seemed intact. The front door was closed. There was a fire pit out front with a bunch of split log benches around it. It appeared to be an overnight camp, a place to come out to, cook hotdogs and tell ghost stories. The fire pit had some old damp ash in it. Tales of lovebirds, poets and profanity users were carved into the benches.

He walked the perimeter of the shack; reminding himself after the garage incident, don't walk into a house without sweeping the outside first. He cursed himself for having let his guard down. His excitement over the car overrode all caution. He told himself he wouldn't do it again.

Sniffing the air, he could smell no evidence of death. After whacking the baton on another tree and getting an echo in response, he walked up to the front door and tried the latch. It opened with a light creak. Inside there were several bunk beds, a potbelly stove, a kitchenette with a slop sink for cleaning fish. There was no food and nothing to eat with. Clearly, the camp was for overnights only. He could sleep in safety, but he wasn't going to fill his stomach. Heck, he didn't have an appetite anyway. The adrenaline rush had taken so much out of him that all he wanted to do was sleep. Snapping himself out of it, he decided he'd better go back out to the dock and make sure one of those infected sons of bitches wasn't a better swimmer. He scanned the water with his binoculars and then the shore. The Fiends had gone - for now.

He found a path that appeared to circle the island. It followed the shore and he was able to scan the mainland as he walked. He noted a surprising lack of other houses around the lake until he reached the opposite side of the island. On the far shore stood a huge mansion. He guessed that this end of the lake was privately owned or at least the eastern shore was.

The sun was getting lower so he finished circumnavigating the island and went back to the cabin. He hadn't gotten any real rest in weeks. The empty cabin called to him like some kind of magic sleep chamber and his eyelids got heavy. For the first time in a long time, he felt relatively safe. He finished off the last of his water, curled up on one of the bunks and was asleep in moments.

## **CHAPTER FOUR**

### **_BREACH_**

Jon woke to the sound of gunfire booming and echoing across the lake. For the first few moments, he couldn't get his bearings. He sat up in the bunk, hit his head on the one above and cursed, reminding himself to _slow down_.

KABOOM! More gunfire, small arms, and then the thunder of a heavy machine gun. His memories transported him to the tank turrets at the Orlando Wall – the machine guns blazing away in unison. At the Orlando Wall, the military had pulled together nearly every piece of fighting equipment left in the continental US. Nothing was going to get across. They'd learned from Everglades about gaps in the line and this time the Fiends were contained. But they weren't. Now, the bulk of that hardware was abandoned in the chaos that followed the exodus to Canada.

He carried a small flashlight on his belt, the one he'd taken off the dead cop. It had a red filter option so he wouldn't screw up his night vision. He turned it on and walked out to the island path. With no Fiends at his door, he was fairly confident that they either continued to drown trying to get to him or they figured out it was hopeless.

Across the water he saw the mansion's perimeter lit up with floodlights, the glow giving a sparkle to an otherwise black lake. Fiends surrounded the perimeter wall while several people on the roof were picking them off. The fifty cal blazed away and half a dozen infected exploded into red pieces of meat.

It was the lights that were the big attraction. Jon shook his head as he watched the display, _idiots._

At Everglades, Fiends were like moths to light. They just couldn't help coming. The Brass actually recommended the lights at first, better to corral the creatures into kill zones, just like these folks were doing, but when the right flank of the wall was overrun by a million hungry ghouls, they rethought the idea. It was night vision only after that. Jon wished he had a way to signal the fools that they were just inviting thousands more to run through the night to come and eat them. He watched for a while and then got tired of the carnage. He walked back to the cabin and tried as hard as he could to get back to sleep.

The assault went on for hours and he tossed and turned as the barrage continued. A dying Fiend sounded no different from someone who wasn't infected. The screams of pain were only slightly drowned out by the louder screams of rage mixed with steady gunfire. Finally, around three AM, he gave up and walked back out to see what was happening.

He had to decide if he wanted to signal these folks. He had no food and damn if he wasn't out of bottled water too. The chances of the lake being tainted by terrorists were near zero, but on the other hand, several Fiends had died in it. Who was to say that their corpses wouldn't foul the water? A look at the number of infected still assaulting the outer wall confirmed his opinion that the defenders didn't understand their enemy. He decided that for now, it would be better to remain unseen. Then the gunfire got even more intense. The infected had discovered a couple of trees overhanging the wall. They were climbing up and jumping inside as fast as the people on the rooftops could kill them. Like the Army at Everglades, the people in the mansion had badly underestimated the resourcefulness left in a Cain's-addled mind. Jon had written a post about this entitled _The CW Will Kill You_. Like nearly everyone else in the country, the folks across the water were victims of popular culture, handicapped by conventional wisdom. People equated the infected with the mindless automatons that were cinema zombies. Zombies they most certainly were not.

Suddenly, the gunfire from the roof stopped. The screaming and howling of the Fiends stopped as well. But for a few pops from individual arms from the upper windows, it was eerily silent. Then the defenders on the roof began to scream in protest, yelling, "No," begging for something to stop, and just as suddenly, they shot at each other; in seconds, gunning each other down. Jon was stunned. Then a door opened and an unarmed man stepped out fitfully walking, almost as though he was struggling with himself while walking toward the heavily fortified front gate. Another man stuck his head out the window and yelled at the walker, the echo of his panicked voice carrying across the lake – "Roger! What are you doing?"

Roger hesitated by the fence and then hurky-jerky reached out, flipping a switch. The gate rolled open and he was instantly overcome by vast wave of waiting Fiends.

Jon winced as he saw them charge for the open door. A heavily armed woman stepped into the breach, trying to pull it shut, but it was too late. The Fiends pushed their way through and were met with the sound of hollow gunfire, muffled within the big house.

Madness. Why give up and let them in? Jon's hungry stomach filled with bile as he thought of the fate of those people. The ones who survived the attack, who escaped into another locked room but were nevertheless infected, would be out killing their fellow men by the same time the following night. Everyone else would be eaten alive if they didn't take their own life first.

With the same part of the mind that was reserved for rubbernecking a highway crash, Jon found himself settling in to watch the rest of the show. Within ten minutes, the gunfire became more random and undisciplined. It was mixed with agonizing screams and useless pleas for mercy. Then flames started shooting out of some of the upper story windows.

The shooting diminished to a few pops now and again and he stood and stretched, thinking that it was basically over. Then, out of the randomness, there was a steady organized burst of gunfire. A group of ten heavily armed people came running out of a smashed picture window. Jon found himself smearing a light film of tears from his eyes in order to look again through the binoculars.

As they ran down to the dock, the group stayed tightly formed, keeping up a steady and disciplined hail of fire. The Fiends swarmed them, but they kept on moving. Jon found himself cheering them out loud, like a fan screaming for a running back to get into the end zone.

Five of the ten made it to the waterfront, punching and kicking and then finally getting to the dock. A short tug of war took place when one of them was yanked back and forth between her comrades and the pursing Fiends, her terrified screams rising above all the others. The Fiends won and the four survivors dove off the dock, swimming for their lives.

Jon had a decision to make: As exhibited at the mansion, strength in numbers meant little in terms of self-preservation. When you're alone you don't have to turn and help the one being pulled to the ground. Yet, he'd been alone for a long time. He could use a little human companionship. He pulled out his flashlight and hailed the swimmers. They spotted him and angled for the island. Jon had a sudden desire to take back his signal, but it was too late. He'd see what fortune would bring.

The swimmers came to a halt about thirty feet off shore and dog paddled. One of them called out, "You alone?"

"Yeah, it's safe." (Other than reflexively screaming obscenities, it was the first time he'd spoken out loud to someone in more than a week. His voice almost sounded alien to him.) "There's shelter and the bastards continue to prove that they can't swim for shit."

The group came on, one of them clearly in distress, the man swimming with just one arm. As they waded ashore, Jon stepped in up to his ankles and offered a hand. "I'm Jon. Jon Washington."

"Tom Newman. Guess you saw what happened to us back there."

"Yeah, I saw. I'm sorry."

A thin man and a woman with short cropped dark hair helped a third over some slippery rocks. The third guy was built like a pro wrestler and held his arm while swearing, "Shit! Mother fucking shit! Now what?"

They all seemed to be in their mid to late twenties, except for the wounded man who looked a little older.

Tom turned to the guy. "You're bit Bob. You might as well be dead."

The woman looked stricken or was it pissed off? "What if... I don't know. What if he doesn't come down with it?"

Tom snapped, "Everyone who gets bit comes down with it, Nikki! Everyone. Mark, back me up here."

Mark, the thin man, just nodded.

Nikki balled her fists in frustration. "Well, fuck, Bob! You fucking promised that we'd get through this thing!"

Bob sucked against his teeth in pain. "Thanks for the sympathy, Nik."

Mark said, "What if we just tie him up. You know, watch him overnight. I mean we can't just... We can't shoot Bob."

Jon said, "We tried that a bunch of times in Florida. There was always hope we'd say. Hell, I had to kill my own grandmother with a fire poker when she turned." He realized he was being insensitive and changed his tone. "My point is we got to where everyone decided it was more merciful to let the people do the deed themselves. If they weren't willing... well, the Heavies do that now."

Nikki said, "Who asked you?"

Tom looked at Jon anew, "You were in Florida?"

Bob said, "Um, hello? I'm the one who's bitten here. Obviously I have to end this thing. I'm certainly not going to become one of those fucking mindless things."

"But what if it's not... what if it... what if you're immune? That could happen, right?" asked Nikki, desperation in her voice.

Tom put a hand on the wounded man's shoulder. "What do you want to do, Bob?"

Despite the pain, a look of clarity came across Bob's face. He turned to Nikki and looked into her eyes. "I want this to be the last thing I think about, looking into your eyes and loving you."

She said, "Are you fucking kidding me? You're going to hit me with that cheese? We're Marines, Bob."

"I still love you."

Nikki softened a bit. "Nice of you to mention it when you're dead."

Bob let out a sigh and then shrugged. He looked at the others, "I've read that drowning isn't a bad way to go once the initial panic is passed."

Jon said, "I just had the same thought, a few hours ago." He realized how callous he still sounded and said, "Sorry, that was - It's amazing how this situation seems to take the humanity out of all of us."

Bob continued, "I don't want my girl to see or hear me get shot or strangled. I think drowning is best. Maybe tie a rock to my waist and I jump off your rowboat there, out where it's deeper."

Nikki said, "I'm not your fucking girl, you halfwit. I never said I'd be your girl." Then suddenly her hard face became stricken, "Why the fuck did you have to try and save Mary? That girl was nothing but trouble and you got bitten for it."

Bob shrugged again, "I'm sorry, Nik."

Tom and Mark rowed Bob out a hundred yards or so from the island. Nikki watched until they stopped and then went into the cabin. Jon stood between the cabin and the water's edge regretting inviting these people to his haven. He could just make out Mark and Tom securing a big rock to a line and tying that to Bob's waist. Bob made sure the knot was tight and then let them tie his hands behind his back. Bob stood up, saying something to his friends that Jon couldn't make out. The condemned man glanced back at the island, took a long look at the sky and nodded. His friends tossed the rock and he jumped in after it, disappearing in a blink. Mark and Tom waited for a few minutes and then rowed back to shore, their return journey lit up by the mansion, which was fully engulfed in flames.

As Jon tied the rowboat to the dock, he asked, "I know you guys escaped with just the shirts on your backs, but any chance you got any food?"

Mark opened a pocket on his parachute pants and tossed Jon a food bar. Jon opened it with his teeth and nearly ate the thing in one bite.

"When was the last time you ate, Dude?" asked Tom.

"Day and a half ago. You got another?"

Mark handed him another and then pointed back toward the mansion. "Plenty more of that on our boat over there, if we can get to it. Maybe tomorrow the fuckers will have moved on."

Jon bit into the second bar. "Who thought it was a good idea to shoot the Fiends? You know, attracting them with the lights?"

"The guy that owned the house. It was his setup," said Tom. "He had stockpiled the place with food and ammo - a real survivalist dude. You know the type. He invited anybody in the area to come in, even let in a few stragglers at the end. It was the stragglers who led the Shitfobs to us."

Mark picked up the tale, "They were right behind them. The mansion guy had watched the Army at the Miami Wall on TV. I guess they called it Everglades for some PC reason, something about not wanting to offend Latin Americans. Anyway, they had figured out that the devils were crazy attracted to light and they could mow them down like ducks in a barrel. We figured we'd just do the same thing."

"Ducks on a pond," said Tom. "Fish in a barrel."

"Whatever. Fuck you."

Jon asked, "You didn't watch the follow up I guess. The part where Everglades got overrun? They attracted more of the things than they could handle."

"I guess we missed that part," said Tom. "But this was something different. It wasn't how many of them were out there. Fucking Roger just walked out and opened up the gate. It was like he was in a trance or something."

"Yeah, I saw that," said Jon.

"Suicidal," said Tom. "Pretty much killed us all."

"Well, the whole infected population is heading north, following the healthy," said Jon. "It was only a matter of time before they got to your door. Why didn't you guys head for Canada like everyone else?"

Mark said sarcastically, "Well, Tom. You were one of the 'deciders', why don't you explain to him why we stayed here."

"Eat me, asshole," snarled Tom. "We voted on it." To Jon he said, "We really did have everything we needed for months, maybe even a year. We figured the government had enough trouble on its hands. Why add more refugees to the problem? We thought we could take care of ourselves."

Mark said, "Well we're fucked now."

Tom asked, "Where's Nikki?"

Jon nodded toward the cabin. "She seems like she wants to be alone."

They let Nikki be by herself for a little while, but they all needed sleep. When they opened the cabin door, they found her curled up on one of the bunks.

She said, "I'm almost asleep. Keep it quiet."

## **CHAPTER FIVE**

### **_SHORESIDE_**

When dawn broke they could see that the smoldering wreck of a mansion was now abandoned. A scan with the binoculars revealed a few dead bodies. Jon rowed Tom over to the dock and tried to avoid looking at the carnage that had been last night's feast. Tom hopped onto a ski boat, which started right up. They quickly threw the lines off the dock and towed the rowboat back to the island. The ski boat was full of emergency supplies and Jon decided that it was good that he had joined up with these people.

A short while later, the four of them sat around the cold rocks of an unlit campfire eating breakfast. Tom asked, "Why do we have to be in such a hurry? We've got enough food for weeks. Who says the government isn't going to send a force down here. You know, counter attack?"

Nikki said, "I, for one, am not going to play foursome on a little island with you jerks and hoping for a rescue that isn't going to happen."

Jon said, "I have to agree with Nikki, at least on substance."

Mark said, "We've got a better chance of surviving if we stay here than if we put ourselves on some Shitfob infested road." He looked at Jon. "Shitfob means Shit for brains; military speak for the diseased. You're hanging with real honest to goodness US Marines."

"I'm familiar with the term," said Jon.

Nikki scowled at Mark. "You're a washout like the rest of us, Newman. Why don't you just shut it?"

"Food is definitely an issue," said Tom, trying to steer the conversation back. "We could raid the few houses along the shore as needed. There's got to be tons of canned stuff out there. There's also a small town around the next bend. Probably lots of prepackaged food there."

Mark nodded in agreement, "Yeah, we've got plenty of firepower. We can certainly make quick excursions ashore, cover each other, scrounge for what we need and get back. It's easy enough to sit out in the boat and make a careful observation before docking or whatever."

Nikki said, "What part of, _I don't think so,_ are you guys not getting?"

"So what? You gonna bug out on your own, Nikki?" asked Tom.

Jon stood and paced, "The roads are tough without a car. Got a few million infected coming this way. If we don't get out now, we probably won't get out."

"Exactly," said Nikki.

"So what makes you the expert, Mr. Washington?" asked Tom.

"I'm not, really. I've just spent a lot of time running from the things. From the Orlando Wall on, I was a reporter assigned to an Army platoon. They're all dead or infected now. I was the only one to get away. We got as far north as Atlantic City before we got overwhelmed."

"Damn," said Mark.

"We were bringing up the rear of the final retreat. It was an all-volunteer force. Everyone knew it was a long shot. I got away in a dead cop's car and promptly shredded the tires going the wrong way through a spiked parking lot exit. It seemed like a thousand of them were chasing me. There was a Jeep with a dead guy pulled out of it, three Fiends busy feeding on him. I ran past them and jumped in, barely got the door closed. I made it here on two tanks of gas then ran dry."

Tom perked up, "Where's the Jeep?"

"Bottom of the lake. Another story. The point is, we hang out and it's only a matter of time before it goes bad. There's too many of them and they're like machines. I know they sleep, but they don't seem to stop, night or day."

"I've seen them sleep. They do sleep," said Mark.

"I guess I'm saying I've got my rowboat. I'll find a way. I'll just ask for a little food, a weapon and some ammo. Nikki, you want to come, that's fine with me."

Nikki said, "That might work."

Tom mulled on it, ignoring Nikki. "I don't think we can do that, Jon. If we're staying, we'll need all the food and weapons we can keep."

"If I stayed I'd be eating the food anyway. Shooting a gun anyway."

"Yeah, but in defense of all of us."

"I gotta agree with Tom on this one," said Mark.

"Oh, fuck you guys," said Nikki. "Two want to go, two want to stay. We split the food and weapons. Simple."

Tom and Mark ate silently. Finally Mark said, "Okay. Maybe it makes sense to git while we still can."

"You're such a pussy," said Tom.

Jon said, "Unless we find a vehicle, we're not going to make it far. I found a Volvo over that way, but the battery is dead. We should cruise the lake, find another house."

They scanned the shore were the burned house was and saw no activity. They gave Jon Bob's pistol, an Army issue 1911 Colt 45, and some ammo. When they were all geared up, they climbed into the boat and slowly cruised across the lake. Jon's helmet and shotgun were the first priority. The aimed for the burned house and as they got close Mark let the boat idle and drift slowly toward the dock. As they passed over it, John could see his Jeep resting down in the murk below.

When it was close enough, Jon stepped off the bow, scanned the woods and walked as fast and as quietly as he could to the garage. His helmet was there, but no shotgun. He was sure he had set the shotgun down next to the helmet. He gave the area a cursory search and then looked back at the boat. Tom stood with his arms out wide with _what the fuck_ drawn across his features. The hair on Jon's neck was at full attention, his leg muscles jittering. Frustrated about the gun, but not wanting to spend any more time on this shore, he jogged back to the boat.

"My shotgun's gone."

"Don't know what to say about that," said Tom. "Get in the boat."

Jon climbed back aboard, slipping on his helmet. He immediately felt more secure. The thick padding felt good surrounding his skull.

After a couple of bends they could make out the top of a ham radio tower poking through the trees, then a small house about forty yards inland. They stopped the boat well back from the house's dock and scanned the shore. They could just make out the front end of a minivan poking past the backside of the house.

"Jack-pot, first try," said Mark.

"Looks quiet enough," said Tom.

Jon held his binoculars to his eyes, "Don't count on it."

Tom said, "Okay, let's just sit here for a while and keep watch."

Mark turned off the boat's engine. Small lapping waves and a light breeze slowly pushed it toward the dock.

Jon listened for birds and heard none. "I've also learned, and it doesn't necessarily mean anything, but when there aren't any birds singing, no insects either, it's generally not good."

They all listened. Mark said, "That's definitely unnerving."

Nikki sniffed the air, "I'm smelling something rotten."

Jon looked at the breeze on the water, "The wind's shifted. That's all of the corpses over at the mansion."

Tom reached past Mark and turned the engine back on. "Maybe all of the birds have flown upwind to get away from the stink. It seems quiet enough. I say we dock, listen some more and then check it out."

No one objected so Mark pulled up to the dock, turning the boat around to face outward for a quick getaway. Tom hopped out and tied off. They stood still again and listened.

As the breeze swayed the trees, insects started to hum, thickening up the air with a steady sawing sound.

Tom said, "Bet it was just us keeping 'em quiet. The van keys are probably in the house, hook near a door if we're lucky. Mark and I will do a sweep around the house. Make sure the other side is clear. If there's a back entrance we'll enter there and signal for you to come up, Jon. Nikki, you'll stay at the head of the dock and protect our escape route."

Nikki smiled, "Whatever you say, cowboy."

Tom turned back to her, exasperated. "Look, I know you're combat, but with the recall, I'm still technically your superior so I want your good aim covering us from here. Am I wrong?"

"Murphy's Law says it doesn't matter, but aye aye, Skipper."

"What does that fucking mean?"

"If it's going to go wrong, Tom, it will. Your plan seems fine."

"Well, why didn't you just say that?"

Jon said, "Um, can we do this thing?"

Mark and Tom set off and then split up to walk around each side of the house.

Jon loudly whispered, "Check the van itself. Keys might as likely be there." He dropped the visor down on his riot helmet and snugged up the chinstrap.

Tom and Mark disappeared around the other side of the house. Jon and Nikki could hear them trying the mini-van doors. A minute later, Mark opened the lakeside door from the inside and waved for Jon to come up. Jon walked forward noting that the birds, if there were any, continued to stay silent, but the insects were busy.

When Jon got to the door, Mark pretended to close it in his face like Jon was a salesman, saying, "We don't want any." He chuckled and let Jon step inside. "No car keys so far."

## **CHAPTER SIX**

### **_NIKKI_**

While she stewed over being ordered around by a dolt like Tom, Nikki wanted a smoke so badly that she felt her gut twist with the craving. She'd had a carton of Camels back at the mansion and now she didn't even have a used butt in her pocket. Crappy time to go cold turkey. Cigarettes... dishonorable discharge – she and the knuckleheads inside, and of course, Bob. They'd all been part of the same supply company. The black market for cigarettes in Sudan was intense, particularly for American brands. Amazing how the cowboy image could still push tobacco. She'd had a successful career as one of the first frontline female shock troops in the US Marines. The supply company had been a disciplinary measure - an incident with a local tribal leader sending her career to the shitter. She'd pulled force security duty, and in the middle of a meeting between her battalion commander and some asshole chief, the smarmy prick had boasted about the literally hundreds of woman and children he'd supposedly raped. She asked the fat bastard, with his thick eyebrows and food stained beard, to stop talking about it. He simply smiled at her and started another story about three little girls and their mother. She then yelled at him to stop, and her commander ordered her to step out of the tent. Just before she was out the door, the chief raised his voice, telling the colonel that he would love to taste Nikki's sweet camouflaged cunny. She didn't hesitate. With what she would later describe as a reflex, she drew her sidearm and shot the pig between the eyes.

As it turned out, the tribal leader had been playing the US, feeding the Marines with bits and pieces of intel while actually delivering massive amounts of critical data to the enemy. It was that twist that kept her out of Leavenworth, and instead, into the supply company. The black market bust was just bad luck. She knew it was going on, but chose to say nothing, look the other way, try to get along with her new platoon. When the contraband turned from cigarettes to heroin and the law was laid down, her silence made her an accomplice. She was washed out along with the jerks now ransacking the house. Hell, she was over it by then anyway. Combat was her thing; delivering port-a-potties to rear echelon pukes was about going nowhere fast.

_Crack,_ she heard a twig snap, somewhere up the hill, deeper into the woods. She felt her skin tingle with energy and her eyes dilated into black saucers as she scanned the trees past her gun sight. Woods were noisy places all by themselves. Trees constantly rained leaves or sap and shed old branches. Birds, squirrels and other animals made all sorts of ruckus during their constant foraging. She listened for a moment longer, but heard nothing unnatural so she slipped back to imagining a cigarette between her lips, the smoke gently flowing out of her nostrils and curling up around her head. God, she needed to get her hands on a pack. Maybe there were some in that house. Then something curious happened: She felt a strange sensation, a buzzing in her head, vague but jumbled images tumbling through her thoughts. She couldn't control them, couldn't stop – God, the smells, tastes – body odor and mossy forest and...blood. She shook her head, losing focus and just as suddenly, it was gone.

"What the fuck?" she whispered to herself, rubbing her eyes, trying to re-focus on her surroundings.

The house was full of flies. Rotten fruit sat on the counter. An unfinished rotting meal for two sat on the dining table. The fridge stood open with more rotting food inside. The smell was overwhelming.

Mark said, "There were skid marks in the driveway. They must have had another car. Bugged out in a hurry."

In one corner there was a desk with a ham radio set, a computer, printer, and a small stereo. The printer had something freshly printed in its tray. It was a news article from Reuters. The headline stated: _New England overwhelmed. Cain's Infection reaches Southern New Hampshire and Vermont._

Jon flipped the paper around and read, "It's dated May 23rd, three days ago."

Tom came out of the laundry room, "No keys in there." He pushed past Jon and sat at the desk opening drawers.

Mark said, "Cozy place, huh? Too bad we can't just crash here tonight."

Jon said, "Enough talk. I'm surprised we haven't been attacked already."

The three of them started working the cabin over in earnest. The keys had to be somewhere.

Higher up the hill there was movement in the woods. ** _The One that the Others mostly followed crept forward toward the shelter that the Fresh Ones had gone into. The Fresh ones made lots of noise, which helped mask the Other's approach. Another group of Others approached the Fresh One that kneeled down near the water. There were perhaps thirty Others in all. Some were full and tired from killing and eating the many Fresh Ones who had hid in a different shelter only just this morning. Their hands, hair, faces and tattered clothes were covered in gore._**

**_ The One that led them was perhaps forty-years old. It crawled to a stop at the edge of a rise, some part of Its mind acknowledging the pain in Its knees where the flesh was scraped off. Wearing what was left of a tattered skirt, It had skinned its knees bare as It skidded across gravel and tree roots in the early morning assault. The fat little Fresh One had been trying to crawl under the shelter that the other Fresh Ones were hiding in. While Its companions had attacked the small home from every angle, It stood back and watched as the pudgy little one climbed out a window and crawled for a gap under the foundation. It had screamed with glee as It ran and dove on top of the squealing thing. Its triumphant howl was only dampened when Its mouth clamped itself on the Fresh One's fat little neck. It had laughed through the bubbling hot blood and then tore at the young one's windpipe, ending its screeches._**

**_ Watching the new prey in the house below, It signaled for the Others to stop crawling up from behind. It held Its infant close and watched the baby's huge dark eyes zero in on the Fresh One by the water. Then It laid the baby down and sucked in a breath full of the damp leafy ground, feeling the baby send its signal of desire to the Others, the killing fever rising within the group. It was patient. It would wait for the perfect moment to make the assault._**

The search was growing frustrating and Jon was getting even more anxious. He could feel the hair on his arms standing up and he started imagining someone watching his every move. It became so intense that his focus started falling to the windows, scanning outside.

Mark was digging in a closet full of games and said, "Hey look - Life. You remember this one? The little cars that go around the board and you do stuff like go to college, get married and add kids until you either retire to the mansion or end up in the poor house?"

Tom ignored this. "I'm beginning to think that whoever took off in the other car had the keys to this one in his pocket."

Suddenly they were startled by the sound of gunfire. A quick glance out the window revealed Nikki on one knee aiming and then pulling the trigger repeatedly.

Jon looked out toward the woods. A couple dozen Fiends were running at the house. "Outside! Now!"

Instead, the two Marines turned toward the uphill windows with the intent to shoot.

Nikki kept up a steady and careful fire as she dropped a Fiend with every other bullet or so. The civilian model M16 was semi-auto, deadly accurate in the right hands. Unfortunately, the NATO 5.56 round didn't provide enough punch to drop them all with certainty. Some were hit and kept running like nothing had happened at all. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw more running along the shore right at her. The men inside were going to be cut off. She adjusted her aim to the closer threat and fired until she was out of bullets, ejected the mag and flipped the other one taped to it into the receiver.

Inside the house, Tom racked his shotgun, smashed out a window and sprayed buckshot up the hill. Mark, seeing that they'd left the door wide open, fruitlessly slammed it shut just as a big Fiend, with lots of downhill momentum, smashed it to splinters. Mark was knocked flat to the floor and he screamed in terror and agony as the big one bit into him. Another Fiend was right behind the first – Jesus! It was carrying Jon's shotgun, finger on the trigger –then it tripped, fell to the floor and blew the top of its own head off.

Tom and Jon ran to the lake door, wildly shooting behind themselves. Tom hesitated a moment for his friend, but Jon, while remembering to slam his visor down, shoved the Marine outside.

Jon's Colt packed a wallop. He shot at everything that moved in front of them, but the beasts were everywhere. He could feel them bite and claw at his leathers. Tom, who had no helmet, was brought down by two of them biting into each side of his neck. Blood spurted in great gouts as they swarmed over his body.

Jon managed to get his hand on his baton and, using the long end along his forearm, beat a path to the boat, firing the gun until it ran out of bullets and then using it as a club. He remembered his high school football training and ran with his knees high, keeping the Fiends from being able to snag his ankles. He kicked them off his legs and finally burst through, only to be nearly shot by Nikki, who had stacked up the creatures like cordwood, calmly shooting them one by one.

With her M16 empty again, she yelled while pulling her Berretta 9mm, "Start the boat! I'll keep them back!"

Jon ran past her without hesitation, jumped in the boat and fired it up. Nikki kept up a furious killing zone at the head of the dock and then turned and ran. Jon finished untying the bow as she jumped in, grabbed the steering wheel and slammed the engine into full throttle sending him tumbling to the deck. Fiends poured off the dock in their race to catch the boat and Nikki didn't slow down until she put three hundred yards between them.

Jon pulled off his helmet and knelt retching on the floorboards. "Jesus Christ, that's twice now that it's been that close. Two times in two days." He leaned over the side and threw up.

Nikki coasted a little further and put the boat into neutral. Her hands were uncontrollably shaking and she hugged herself to try to stop it. "They're dead. Mark and Tom are dead. Everyone I know, is dead."

Jon wiped his mouth and stood. He tried to reach out to Nikki but she slapped his arm away, saying, "Get the fuck away from me."

He sat down and caught his breath. He could make out a pack of infected where Tom had fallen. Some used sharp rocks and a female had a big knife. They were all competing to get their mouths on some meat. He could see the monsters fight over slabs of red flapping chunks. He had to look away or risk vomiting again.

He said, "They waited. They laid quietly, by the tens, dozens. Waited until the perfect moment for us to be distracted. I've never seen it quite like that. The fucking things are adapting."

They remained silent for what must have been five minutes, refusing to look back at the shore, letting the light breeze move the boat at a slow sideways drift.

Finally Nikki spoke, "So now what? Going ashore is a death trap. I agree that we've got to get to Canada. I just don't see how."

"First we go back to the island. We calm down and we think. I have to wash my leathers. I'm covered in infected saliva and blood."

## **CHAPTER SEVEN**

### **_SKIN OF THE TEETH_**

Jon and Nikki took inventory of their supplies. They had enough food for a month, five weeks if they rationed carefully. There were plenty of guns and ammo. There was a camp stove with several canisters of gas, a well fitted-out first-aid kit, several blankets, and much to Jon's happiness, a water filtration device that doubled as a canteen. All he had to do was submerge it, even in muddy water, and it filtered out everything, even viruses. There was a compass as well as a hand-held GPS (though the battery was getting low and there was no way to recharge it). A hand crank radio received a weak signal from one AM station playing a looped emergency public service message. It was garbled and broken with static. Nikki shut it off.

They cleaned and disinfected themselves as best they could, ate a little food and mostly stared at nothing. In the afternoon, they placed everything back aboard the boat in a logical manner. As the evening wore on, they continued to have little discussion and ate a quiet dinner. When darkness fell, they climbed into bunks on opposite sides of the cabin and listened to each other toss and turn until they both nodded off.

Some hours later, Jon was startled awake as Nikki screamed in terror in her sleep. He stepped to her bunk and shook her shoulder until she woke. Her eyes flashed around in the darkness. A nearly full moon shining through a small window offering the only light. She focused on Jon for a brief moment and her breathing eased. Then she closed her eyes and rolled away from him without a word. Jon lay back down and couldn't fall back to sleep. He desperately longed to kick back in his apartment in Atlanta and get lost in The History Channel.

At dawn the sun streamed through the window and woke them both at roughly the same time. Nikki stepped quietly outside first and washed her face at the water's edge. Jon felt stiff as he got out of bed. He wanted coffee. Some of the MREs were breakfast oriented. They had little chemical heaters inside. One held an omelet with hash browns and a French vanilla cappuccino.

"You want breakfast?" he called out.

"In a minute. You should look at this."

Jon stepped outside. The morning mist was just beginning to lift off the lake. On the far shore, the forest was teeming with Fiends. Several turned having noticed his and Nikki's movements. A few let out the screeching howl causing others to stop and look. Pretty soon, the entire shoreline was staring at them and screeching their horrific noise. The sound wave traveled across the water and pushed against their chests. It was like standing in a stadium full of madmen. Then both of their heads filled with a buzzing disorientation. Their senses were overwhelmed as the smells, tastes and sights of other beings flashed through their minds. Nikki gathered enough wits to grab Jon and pull him back out of sight among the trees.

Jon shook his head, suddenly free of the sensation. "What was that? What the hell was that?"

"Don't know. It happened to me yesterday just before we got attacked.

Jon said, "Let's see what the other side looks like."

"Fine, but let's stay in the tree line. I think it's a line of sight thing."

"What's a line of sight thing?"

She pointed at her head. "That. It stopped when we stepped out of sight."

They moved through the trees to the far side of the island, but this time stopped short of stepping out of cover. The mansion side of the lake was the same. An army of Fiends were marching north.

"Well, now we're really stuck," said Nikki as she instinctively stepped further back into cover.

"Maybe it's just a large group passing through. We can certainly wait it out."

"Maybe. I'm hungry." Nikki walked back toward the cabin. Jon watched the shore for a while and then turned back himself.

Inside the cabin Nikki ate in silence. Jon was loath to disturb her need for quiet, but he wanted to try the radio again. He grabbed it while looking at her for permission. She shrugged and he started cranking the handle. The static returned and the same message seemed to be playing. This time they could just make out the words:

_"...Government. This is an alert to all citizens remaining within the New England area. The deadline for bombing has been shifted on the East coast due to a change in weather. Typical weather patterns should return in the next twelve to fifteen hours. Chemical bombing will commence at that time on cities and towns with populations greater than ten thousand. If you are incapable of reaching Eastern Canada above the Saint Lawrence River your only option is to stay inside and seal your home completely. Turn off all air conditioning. If you can, create an additional sealed room inside your home. Allied air forces will be dropping extremely lethal nerve and other chemical agents as well as bombing targets of opportunity. Again: Lethal chemical agents will be dropped across the Northeastern United States in twelve to fifteen hours. If you cannot make it to the Canadian safe zone, you must seal your house completely. Some of these agents can remain lethal to touch for as little as thirty-six hours and as long as several weeks depending on weather. Leaflets will be dropped giving instructions for proper protection from such agents... Six-thirty AM, six hundred and thirty hours. This is an emergency broadcast. This is the United States and Canadian Governments. This is an alert to all citizens remaining within the New England States and Canada south of the Saint Law -"_

Jon shut off the radio. Nikki had stopped eating and stared at it. Jon said, "It's hard enough that we have to defend ourselves against millions of highly infectious cannibals. Now our own government is going to bomb us with chemical weapons."

"Sounds like a pretty good solution to me."

"Yeah, if you're in Canada. I thought we signed a treaty getting rid of all of that stuff."

"Guess not." Nikki looked around. "There's no sealing off this leaky old cabin."

"It's not like we're in a populated area of more than ten thousand."

"Tell that to the massive target of opportunity walking on either side of the lake."

Jon nodded, "Okay, so we have to try and outrun those things on the shore. We can take the boat as far north as this lake goes."

"It's about three miles. Ends at a small town."

Then we get a car."

"Or find a house or other building that we can seal."

"I'm not buying that solution. Being locked in a house might as well be the same as standing outside. They find a way to break in. You know that better than anyone."

She started eating again. "Obviously, finding a car is preferable. I'm just pointing out the other logical option. It pays to have the contingencies covered."

Jon bit into his now cold omelet. Despite a reputation for tasting like reconstituted cardboard, even cold his MRE tasted great.

Nikki drove as they cruised up the lake. They kept their heads ducked down with Nikki popping up every moment or so to check on their course. Fiends on both sides screeched and screamed with excitement as they ran along the banks in frenzied pursuit.

Jon yelled over the engine noise, "It looks like we're going to have to move fast. I'm going to break the must haves into two light packs. We'll have to leave the rest."

"The most important thing is ammo. Pack everything we've got."

In minutes a small town appeared at the lake's river mouth. There was a two-story brick building near the harbor entrance. It was the fire and police headquarters. A dozen police and firemen as well as a few citizens were on the roof shooting at the infected below. Several German Shepherds were on the roof with them and the dogs barked and yipped in frustration at not being close enough to kill. The boarded-up doors and windows were under full assault.

The parking lot held several cars, but that left the question of keys. There were also a couple cop cars in a separate fenced off area. Nikki slowed the boat to an idle as they got closer. The people on the building occupied most of the Fiend's attention, but a few started to take notice of them as well. They ducked back down.

Nikki said, "The cop cars will have keys."

"How do you figure?"

"My uncle was a cop. Small town. They always leave the keys in the car. I even took one for a joy ride once."

Jon raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"We drive the boat right up to the edge of the lot where they're fenced off. We run like hell, throw the blankets over the barbwire and try to climb over before the fuckers can get us."

"You lived through Sudan with plans like that?"

"You got something better?"

"Nope. All cops just leave the keys in the car. Got it."

Nikki gave him a frustrated look then decided to let it go. They were running out of time. "I'll cruise really close to shore over that way. We'll draw the things away from the fence and then we'll shoot back this way and beach the boat."

"Okay, you run first with the blankets and toss them over the barbwire. I'll be right behind with the backpacks. I've got better body armor, so you go over first."

"Fine."

Nikki, strapped the M-16 over her shoulders, drove about one hundred and fifty yards away from the fence and stopped maybe thirty feet from the shore, engine idling. The Fiends bunched up in droves following them, some falling into the water.

When the fenced area was clear, Nikki gunned the boat and raced the other way. They hit the boat ramp hard, skidding right out of the water and used the last of the momentum to run right off the bow. The Fiends were running too and they were running fast.

Jon flung the backpacks over as Nikki heaved the blankets only to have them land short, uselessly falling to the ground.

"Shit!" She scooped them up and heaved again with the same effect. The fence was too high.

"Fuck it!" Jon started climbing the fence. "I'll lay on it, you climb over me!"

He scrambled to the top and almost fell. The barbed wire pressed painfully into his gut, but the leather held. The Fiends were almost on top of them. Nikki scrambled up the fence, grabbing onto Jon's belt, then shoulders. A Fiend jumped and grabbed Jon's leg. Then another one got a hold. "Awww fuckkker!"

Nikki threw herself over the other side and landed badly, hitting her head. She buckled in a dazed fashion, while Jon clung to the fence for dear life.

"Nikki! Nikki! Jesus! Snap out of it!"

Still dazed, she unholstered the Beretta, stumbled to the fence and fired nearly point blank into the face of one of the creatures holding Jon's legs. He broke free and scrambled over the top, landing on both feet just as a wall of Fiends hit the fence behind them. The chain link bulged and swayed with the buffeting. The people on the roof starting pouring their fire into the mass.

Jon tried the first car door - locked.

Nikki tried the other one \- no good. "You gotta be kidding?"

Fiends were starting to climb the fence. Most were getting caught in the barbwire, but a few had figured out Jon's method and were using the trapped bodies of the others to act as a path. The people on the roof kept picking them off, but Jon and Nikki had maybe seconds before they'd be overwhelmed.

Nikki unslung her rifle and was about to use the butt of it on a driver's window when they heard a loud whistle. A cop on the roof held a pack of keys aloft and then he tossed them in an arc toward them. They hit the top of the car and slid into Jon's chest.

"Thanks!" he yelled.

"Good luck!" the cop yelled back.

Jon opened the doors and they both hopped in just as half a dozen monsters made it over the fence. He re-locked the doors and started the engine.

The Fiends were on the car in seconds, pounding the windows and yanking on the doors. Jon floored it toward the entry gate, which without electricity wasn't going to open, but that didn't stop the push-bumper equipped squad car from plowing right through it. With a screech of spinning tires and scraping metal, a dozen infected were trapped and crushed as the car's wheels spun and slipped over the chain link. Then the razor wire wound itself up around the right rear axle, snaring the car as another group of ghouls threw themselves upon it.

Jon slammed the transmission into reverse, sending a cloud of burned rubber smoke into the air and the wire pulled taught again.

"Forward! Go forward!" screamed Nikki.

"No shit!" He shoved the gearshift into drive and smashed the gas pedal into the floorboards. The tires screeched in protest as the car shot forward, dragging razor wire and a section of fencing behind it. The car started to fishtail and came extremely close to spinning into the lake when the piece of fence whipped around a light post and snapped the wire, setting them free.

The street was full of infected. Snarling creatures ricocheted off the bumper and fenders like rag dolls. The volume of bodies slamming against the car was nearly deafening and Nikki and Jon screamed mindlessly, adding their horror to the incredible din. Blood and hair and spit and dirt and pieces of clothing splattered all over the hood, doors, and windows. Then suddenly they were past them. The road ahead was mostly clear and Jon released some of the death grip he'd had on wheel. He sat up, his shoulders un-hunched and he lifted his head to look into the rearview mirror.

Nikki spotted the cop on the roof, waving his radio over his head and she switched on the police scanner.

Immediately a voice came over the other end - "listening...? Folks, this is Officer Frank Gifford. You just escaped with one of our cruisers. You listening? This is Officer Gifford, You folks listening?"

Nikki picked up the mike, "Yes officer, what can we do to help you now?"

"You can keep driving. There's no way to safely come back for us."

"Sir, you know they're bombing bigger towns tonight?"

"We're probably too small, but just in case, we've got a sealed room anyway. Don't worry about us. The bastards aren't getting inside. We're going to stay up here to be sure. If we see the bombers, we'll get the bastards nice and clustered around us. The important thing is for you folks to keep going north. It's about three hours to Montreal at... What? What is that? What's that buzzing? What is that?" They heard him call out to the others on the roof. "You guys feel that?" Then Gifford took his thumb off the mic. Nikki tried to raise him again, but no luck. The gunfire suddenly stopped.

Jon slumped down in the car so he could just peer out the window and said, "Fuck. Keep your head down."

They sat in stony silence as Jon drove. After ten minutes or so, he wiped the cooling sweat off his face, "We need the GPS, I know I'm driving north but I don't really know where or how to get to the border."

"Well, that's a drag, cuz we left the backpacks back in the parking lot."

Jon sighed and shook his head.

"Maybe there's a map."

"Kind of a basic cop car. Not even one of those computer thingies."

Nikki looked through the glove box and the center console. "Some helpful gear here but no map." She pulled out a fifth of whiskey and held it up with a smirk. "I wonder if anybody gets a DUI in that town."

Jon fumbled with the key fob and unsnapped the other keys. "See if one of these releases that shotgun."

Nikki found the key and unlocked the gun. There were shells in the center console so she loaded it, racked it and made sure the safety was on.

They drove in silence for several miles. Occasionally a Fiend would run out at them like a car-chasing dog, but Jon would just step on the gas and leave it behind.

"This is my second borrowed cop car in a week," said Jon.

"You drive it pretty well."

"Thanks."

## **CHAPTER EIGHT**

### **_NORTHBOUND_**

Just outside of the town of Conway they saw a gas station with a bed sheet made into a banner hanging from the price sign: _TAKE WHAT YOU NEED. PUMPS WILL WORK UNTIL THE GENERATOR RUNS OUT. GOD BLESS AMERICA_. A pitched battle had taken place here - dead Fiends and half eaten humans littered the area around the gas pumps. A car had crashed through the front window of the attached convenience store.

Jon slowed down to a crawl, "It wouldn't hurt to top off the tank. Maybe there's a map and some food and water left. I say we risk it."

"Fine. You go in with the shotgun. I'll cover you."

Jon pulled up to the pumps, trying to avoid running over any bodies, and put the cruiser in park, leaving the engine running. He slapped on his helmet and they both stepped out to listen. No birds. No generator. Just a grunting coming from inside the store.

Jon said, "That doesn't sound good." He took the safety off the shotgun.

Nikki shouldered her M16 scanning past the sight into the store. There was another grunt that turned into a moan. "Let's not be heroes. We'll find something farther along."

"I think I see one of those map carousels. We need a map." He kept the shotgun leveled and stepped to the doorway.

The car had smashed through a good portion of the store. The passenger's lifeless body hung through the front windshield. The driver was a woman, still seated, her head pinned against the steering wheel by a heavy looking suitcase that had been launched from the back seat when they smashed to a halt. The blood had only just congealed.

A live male Fiend was trapped between the front bumper and the store's mangled checkout counter. Despite the blood trickling from its mouth and legs twisted into an impossible shape, it feebly growled while trying to reach for Jon.

Nikki stepped up to the smashed window and surveyed the scene. "That's fucked up."

"Shouldn't you be watching the outside?"

"I'm still out here. Just want to make sure the bogeyman doesn't jump you from behind some shelf."

Jon spun a rack of maps mixed with post cards and grabbed a local and a Greater New England one. The food had mostly been picked clean, but there were some bags of snacks still scattered around. The only liquid was Yoo Hoo chocolate drink and a can of Monster energy. He grabbed both.

The sound of an approaching car grabbed their attention. A big Hummer SUV was screaming down the road. The front was covered in gore from running down Fiends. The truck slowed and a rough looking man in bright orange hunting cap yelled from the passenger seat, "You got about sixty-seconds before a wall of them things come running up this road. You need a ride?"

Nikki looked to Jon, "What do you think?"

Jon flipped up his visor and said, "I think we're good with the cop car."

Nikki turned back to the guy, "We're good, thanks."

"Suit yourselves!" The SUV peeled out.

A gathering sound of screaming, gnashing humans could be heard. Nikki turned and looked down the road. It was turning black with a running mass of Fiends.

She said, "We've got twenty-seconds to get in the car."

Jon grabbed what he could carry, stopped for a hidden liter of A&W root beer and ran back to the car, tossing the food in back as he jumped in and put the pedal to the floor just as they were about to be surrounded.

Nikki put her hand on his thigh and squeezed, "Not too fast. We've gotten away. Don't need to run off the road."

Jon took the pressure off the accelerator and looked in the rearview mirror. Most people would stop running if their quarry got away. The infected didn't even slow down.

Nikki opened the New Hampshire map and scanned it. "Okay, we're going to be passing through the White Mountains, Mount Washington and whatnot. We keep taking Route 16 past Gorham to where it hits Route 26. We have to kind of zigzag up to Quebec from there. It looks like there's a border crossing at a village called Canaan. We could try angling over to Interstate 91 instead, but word was..."

"I know how bad the Interstates are. Total carnage. Let's definitely stay with the smaller roads."

They drove in silence for a while, Jon occasionally taking a glance at Nikki. She had a strong jaw line, definitely pretty, short-cropped dark hair, sharp nose with full lips. She felt his gaze but chose not to return it. She'd had men stare at her since she was a young girl, worse when she became a Marine.

Jon said, "I'm from Connecticut originally. Been living in Atlanta since –"

"Listen. It's Washington, right?" she asked without meeting his eyes. "I don't want to be rude, but I'd rather not get to know you more than I do right now. You're a reporter dumb enough to still be on this side of the wall. Maybe I'll hear your story in Canada, but until we get there, you're as good as dead."

Jon offered a condescending smile. "I'm not going to say you're dumb, but you're down here too."

"Very true. No point in getting to know me either."

He shut up and drove. The countryside was magnificent, tall snow capped mountains, thick forests, babbling brooks. He figured he might as well enjoy the scenery. It's not like he was really interested in her story, it was just the trained reporter in him. He couldn't help but ask questions. If he survived this, he would put it all down in a book, a small personal history, from start to finish. Whenever that was. Anyway, she was good looking.

As the miles went by, they'd pass abandoned cars, sometimes piled up enough to create tough obstacle courses. There weren't a lot of dead people though. For the ones who had been stranded, someone else had either given them a lift or they had walked – or maybe they had been dragged off by the infected to be fed upon in the nearby woods.

When they got to the outskirts of Gorham, they steeled themselves for attack and weren't disappointed. By the time they got to the main intersection of town, Fiends seemed to come running out of every building, every front yard.

Jon's feet danced back and forth from gas pedal to brake, swerving around most of them, hitting a few until they broke through the gauntlet on the far side of town. In Berlin they were greeted by a town on fire. At times there was only twenty feet of visibility. Jon turned on the headlights and Nikki flicked the vent to re-circulate the air. Bodies lined the road. A few Fiends crawled on hands and knees gasping. Others stayed low to the ground below most of the smoke where they could continue to feed on corpses.

They had nearly made it out when a lumberjack sized, bloody faced madman charged around a corner and landed on the hood of the car. He held a tire iron and immediately began smashing it against the windshield. Jon and Nikki screamed an involuntary curse.

Jon floored the car, zigzagging back and forth, but the thing held on. The first couple of swings with the tire iron spider webbed the already fractured windshield. The third blow made a hand sized hole. The snarling creature dropped the tire iron and shoved its whole arm inside, grabbing at Jon's throat. It reeked of body odor, blood and feces. Jon ducked and weaved and held his head back as far as he could while still reaching the gas pedal.

Nikki pulled her hunting knife out of the scabbard on her leg.

"Jesus, don't stab it, you'll get infected blood all over us! Lean out the window and shoot it in the head"!

Nikki unbuckled her seatbelt and pulled out the Beretta. She dropped the window and half leaned out of the car. Just then another Fiend launched itself at the side of the car, grabbing her arm, causing her to drop the gun. "Fuck!" It bit down on the sleeve of her jacket, but only got a mouthful of leather, it's hands grabbing and pulling as it held on.

The Fiend on the hood gnashed its teeth while its bulging eyes scanned all over Jon for a place to grab some flesh. Jon suddenly made a hard left and then jerked right, nearly throwing Nikki out of the window. The maneuver threw the windshield grabber's lower body off the left side of the hood allowing Jon to scrape it off along a telephone pole.

Nikki's attacker continued to hold on and she yelled in agony as her arm was bent back while the Fiend dragged along the ground. Jon unholstered his Colt, cocked it while driving with his knees, and slapped it into her flailing left hand. She turned and fired a round point blank into the Fiend's head and it fell away, rolling like a wet rag doll into the gutter. She pulled herself back inside, closed the window, buckling back up.

Jon glanced at her, "You all right? It bite you?"

Nikki opened the glove box, removed a pair of latex examination gloves and slapped them on. She then pulled up her sleeve and checked her arm. "No bite, but the fucking thing nearly pulled my arm out of the socket." She massaged her shoulder and reached back into the glove box, pulling out the whiskey and pouring it on her jacket where the Fiend had bit. She snapped off the gloves, tossed them out the window and then doused her hands with the whiskey as well. She tipped some more down her throat and then offered a swig to Jon. "Man, what I'd do for an LAV right now."

He took a gulp and handed it back. "Lav? Like a toilet?"

"L.A.V. – Like a light armored vehicle."

"Oh. Right." He glanced at her again. "Still, I'd be happy with the toilet– in a high rise condo... in Paris."

She gave a light chuckle.

"Sorry I nearly tossed you."

"I lost my pistol."

"At least you didn't get bit."

"The son-of-a-bitch's claws felt like a vise grip."

"If we stop again, we'll check the trunk. There's usually a lot of gear in a cop car. Maybe there's a vest or something for you. Another gun."

"Let's just not stop."

"That's a good plan too."

The air howled through the hole in the windshield and Jon found himself ducking to his right to keep it from hitting him directly in the face.

Nikki kept her head turned away from him and he could see her try to shrug off a sob.

Jon tried to soften his voice. "It's all right to be freaked. I've seen the toughest soldiers cry like babies during this thing. You okay?"

She turned, wiping snot from her nose with the back of her hand, "Marines aren't soldiers, we're Marines. You one of those dumb question reporters?"

Jon gave her a wry smile and turned back to his driving.

"That's the closest call I've had."

"Welcome to the saliva club."

"Thanks. How can I get my membership revoked?"

Nikki tried the AM and FM radio, but could only find static. As they drove into deeper forest, the carnage thinned out and the countryside became peaceful looking again. A beautiful river flowed past them on the right and they both relaxed a little until they noticed the bodies floating along, others tangled in branches or caught on boulders. That's when Jon's hands started shaking. It was just a tremor at first and he shook them out over the steering wheel.

Nikki hardly took notice, her head buried in the map. "There's a town coming up when this road comes to a T. The shortest distance is to break left, but it eventually takes us closer to the Interstate and bigger population centers. If we go right, it takes us into Maine. It's more rural, definitely farther, maybe fewer obstacles though. I vote right."

Jon tried slapping one of his hands on the dashboard.

"What's wrong?"

"Not sure. Nervous tick, I guess."

"Combat shakes. Happens all the time. Better pull over and let me drive while your nervous system sorts itself out."

"Just a moment ago you were having your own mini-meltdown. And what happened to not stopping?"

"I'm fine now. You're exhausted. You might stop us with a tree."

Jon considered this. He was certainly exhausted. "Maybe I'll shut my eyes for a few. If I think about it, I haven't really done anything but run and fight for three months now."

He pulled the car over to the shoulder. "Let's not open the doors."

"Why don't you climb in back. Lay down. See if you can catch a few Z's. You can spell me afterwards. The next town is Errols. One street. We'll be in and out in two minutes. I'll wake you only if I have to."

"Okay. That sounds good. Thanks"

Jon climbed in back and Nikki slid over. He was halfway out by the time she pushed down on the accelerator.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I hope you've enjoyed this 1st part of Book 1. Jump over to my website to buy the full novel, learn more about me and join my email list: www.cchaseharwood.com

Follow me on Twitter: twitter.com/cchaseharwood

Like my Facebook Page: <https://www.facebook.com/cchaseharwood>

Please don't hesitate to add a review at your favorite retailer. I've provided the soil and the seed, reviews are the sun and water to make it grow.

Part 2 of Of Sudden Origin \- The Search For A Cure really puts the pedal to the metal. An excerpt follows this page.

Cheers,

C. Chase Harwood

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

C. Chase Harwood made a career in Hollywood, decorating sets for film and television before turning his passion for story telling into clicks on a keyboard. While scaling the walls of the screenwriting world, he chose to experiment with prose and found a fondness for Scifi-action-adventure. Within that framework he gets to explore the countless ways that humans interact while under duress. "Life is all the more lived when the consequences are high. When told as a tale it can be quite a page turner," says Harwood. He lives in Los Angeles with his costume designer wife and young boy girl twins.

The following are some other storytellers with whom the author finds a kindred spirit: HUGH HOWIE, STEPHEN KING, SCOTT SIGLER, DJ MOLLES, RHIANNON FRATER, SEAN PLATT, JUSTIN CRONIN, JAMES S.A. COREY, PETER CLINES, SUZANNE COLLINS, ERNEST CLINE, MAX BROOKS, VERONICA ROTH, LOIS MCMASTER BUJOLD, ORSON SCOTT CARD

"Pretty big shoes..."

### **_Excerpt from Part 2 The Search For A Cure_**

###

****

**_TRAN_**

Dr. Robert Tran lay in bed, frustrated that his tiny opportunity to catch up on sleep was once again spoiled by his nagging subconscious. His brain had been tickling the back of his head for days. The researcher for the Centers for Disease Control knew the signs and it kept him awake with annoyed anticipation. The scientist in him suggested that he take a sleeping pill - a sleep-deprived brain being useless for dealing with a national pandemic. The __ holy-shit-we're-all-going-to-die-a-horrible-death normal human side of him said, "Sleeping pill? Are you nuts? You've almost got it."

A songbird began singing outside the window of his trailer. It was still dark out, but the bird didn't care and then another one joined it. Tran pulled his pillow over his head to block them out. He'd been crashing in this FEMA trailer outside the now Relocated-to-Ottawa CDC headquarters for three months. Ever since Atlanta was overrun, the race against time had taken up residence in a research park in the Ottawa suburbs. Tran was a member of the Bacterial Zoonoses Branch, which was charged among other things with scientific support for CDC's terrorism preparedness and emergency response. In reality his job was (to use the CDC's words) _Pathogen discovery and characterization of unusual bacterial pathogens and novel causes of critical illness and unexplained death_. Currently, the critical illness department was overwhelmed. No one was really sleeping, and to make matters worse, as the now partnered Canadian/American Government declared martial law, a food rationing system had just been brought into effect. Tran's stomach gurgled at the thought and he sat up to get a drink of water while cursing the chirpy birds outside.

The trailer's potable waterlines had been hooked up to an old galvanized pipe system and much to everyone's annoyance there was no filter and no home filters to be had. The result was rusty water. To minimize some of the metal, he held a handkerchief over the glass and let the water slowly filter through - and that's when he had it - the tickle in the back of his head turned into a eureka moment: The birds, the dirty water, the bacteria that riddled the brain of the infected, it all came together like the last successful turn of a Rubik's Cube.

Turning on a light, he threw his glasses on and flipped open his laptop. First he brought up a map of the initial spread of FND-z. For each date that the infection jumped north, it showed a different color swath over the Southern Continental US. Somehow, the disease had overcome every quarantine effort the government, and even panicked but still organized citizens, had set up. Of course, now the thing was a self-perpetuating killing machine, wrecking any computer modeling that showed predictive behavior. In April the population density of infected had reached a tipping point beyond quarantine within the continental US. It was literally the last hope of North America that the final barrier, the Saint Lawrence Wall as it was now called, would hold.

Tran typed into the CDC database and pulled up the data for the migratory behaviors of North American birds. The Zoonoses branch also dealt with the Avian Flu ( _if only this pandemic could be so insignificant_ ), and bird migration was a standard element in the research. He then began clicking on a list of bird species. Each click detailed the migratory patterns of that particular species. After several clicks he stopped on the Tree Swallow. Another click isolated only Tree Swallows migrating from southern Florida: and there it was, the migratory pattern preceded the quarantine breaks by a week at the most.

He highlighted various sentences in the bird's description page: _Songbird white on the bottom, shiny blue-green on top. Outside the breeding season, the birds congregate into enormous flocks. Use many feathers from other birds in their nests built over or immediately adjacent to water. The Tree Swallow winters farther north than any other American swallow, its spring and summer breeding range covers most of the Northern US as well as Canada and Alaska._

__ The recurrent sound of bird chirps outside snapped Tran out of his search. He set down the computer and quickly started throwing on some clothes.

With a combination of excitement over his potential solution, to at least part of the puzzle, and a tremendous foreboding, over songbirds no less, Tran barged into the Zoonoses lab with a severe lack of coordination. The lab, actually the entire CDC and its Canadian counterpart, were on a twenty-four hour war footing. Sleep was an afterthought, as was food (until the rationing kicked in and reminded people that they had better eat when they could). Tran crashed into several stools and nearly knocked over some lab equipment as he set down his computer bag and notebooks.

Susan Chancellor and her assistant, Aaron Burnbaum, were standing in front of an electron microscope studying an image of live FND-z bacterium.

Susan said, "Tran. Good, you're here. Even though this nasty bug keeps shape shifting, I think we've finally sequenced its genetic code."

"It's from a bird or bird related," said Tran.

"How did you know?"

"A Tree Swallow to be exact."

"Actually, we believe it's from a variety of chicken. We think Cornish Game Hen. What makes you say Tree Swallow?"

"Because Cornish Game Hens don't migrate."

"Meaning?"

Tran opened his computer and woke it up. He still had the screens up from earlier. "This thing is not some terrorist attack. It's evolution at its best – or worst, depending on how you look at it."

Susan and Aaron moved over to Tran's computer and folded their arms in anticipation.

Tran continued, "We know that this bacterium made it into the human circulatory system via water. COTPER even confirmed this occurrence in municipalities with less regulated pollution controls. You know, like Miami's Biscayne Bay aquifer. On any given day the folks in Miami have no idea where their water is coming from."

"Yes, yes, we know all of this," said Susan.

"People who drank from that aquifer and became ill, were getting their water from wells or other non-protected areas upstream from purification plants."

Aaron said, "You're not telling us anything really new, Tran."

"Just laying the groundwork. Now I want you to look at this map of the disease as it jumped past the containment zones and look at the dates. Now look at this map of the migration patterns of the Tree Swallow, in particular, those tagged in southern Florida. The dates are basically a week apart."

"It's interesting Robert," said Susan, "But we're getting chicken not swallow."

"Bear with me," said Tran. "The Tree Swallow builds its nest, in part, by using the feathers of other birds. In fact they have been known to do aerial combat with each other over falling feathers. What if you're right and it _is_ chicken, but what if the bacterium jumped to the Tree Swallow who was stealing the chicken's discarded but contaminated feathers?" Tran felt rather proud of himself as he wrapped up that last sentence.

Susan said, "Hmm, I have to admit I kind of like it. However, it doesn't explain avian/human transference."

"The Tree Swallow nests primarily near to or preferably over fresh water. Birds have to poop. These birds poop in the water. Classic vector-borne to water-borne transference."

Susan gave it some more thought then she nodded to herself. "It makes sense. I'm going to devote your team's energy to it, Tran. Get them in here."

"I think we're going to have to devote everybody to it."

"Why?"

"The Tree Swallow does most of its summer nesting in the Northern states and all of Canada. Based on conjecture only at this point, because this year's migration studies are obviously shot, I'd estimate that they have already arrived in their traditional nesting grounds. I know what you're going to say, the entire population of infection-free Canada is required to boil water, but I guarantee you there are folks in rural areas that are quite sure of the safety of their local, non-municipal water supplies and aren't bothering with the boil order. It's a guess of course, but I think we can assume that the Saint Lawrence Wall will be breached from within, and soon."

Susan and Aaron went cold at the thought.

Director Louis-Gelding was briefed and was quickly convinced that Tran's theory had more than merit. She ran it straight up to the joint chiefs where it was decided that a team of CDC scientists, along with a small platoon of Army Rangers, should be dispatched to Southern Florida with the intent to locate the suspected poultry farm. It was hoped that by finding the original super bug it could then be genetically altered to reduce or preferably eliminate its harmfulness. A vaccine of sorts then might be created that could help a human host fight off the little bastard. Unfortunately, this wasn't going to save tens of millions of Americans who had already been infected. For those poor souls there was no hope. The brain damage was irreversible. Their only salvation rested in a quick death. The armed forces had a plan for that going in high gear. The assault would be the greatest clash of forces in human history. The preparations were enormous, not the least of which was the added burden of repatriating America's massive overseas military forces. The seemingly never ending Overseas Contingency Operation (aka, terrorist whack-a-mole), and the containment of China __ had become an afterthought in America's fight for life.

Tran, Susan, Aaron and five other CDC scientists packed preassembled gear for field-testing into a van. Until now, no one ever imagined that Florida would be a Hot Zone. All of the scientists had been flown to various South, Central American, African and Southeast Asian countries at one time or another. All the same, the routine was identical: A small amount of personal gear was allowed. Everyone made sure his or her hazmat suit was packed and ready to throw on before touchdown.

The vans pulled up to a small civilian airport, which was now occupied by the US Army. It was abuzz with activity as the scientists stepped out next to two big CH-47D Chinook helicopters. A captain dressed in battle fatigues barked out orders to a platoon of thirty-two Army Rangers, a squad of which was finishing loading a Humvee into one of the Chinooks.

A Bird Colonel, dressed for deskwork, directed another squad to start transferring the scientific equipment. The two men walked over to introduce themselves, "Ms. Chancellor? Colonel Gilbert Shaw, director of the flight operations here. This is Captain O'Shea who will be leading the military aspect of your mission."

Susan reached out and shook their hands, "No time to lose, gentlemen. We can talk about the particulars of the mission while en route."

Captain O'Shea spoke with a soft North Carolina accent. "That's fine, Doctor Chancellor, ma'am." He pointed at the nearest helicopter, "If you and your team would board that one from the rear, Sergeant Bullock will get you seated. We should be ready in five." He gave a slight tip of his helmet and went back to work.

Colonel Shaw, with a pained look in his eyes, followed alongside the scientists saying, "This equipment is the best the Army has in this area. Considering the pending re-invasion of the homeland and the myriad of other things we're trying to juggle, we're lucky to gain the use of them. Still, I'm told your mission gets first priority." The man was clearly uncomfortable about giving up the two helicopters.

Susan said, "That's correct, Colonel. First priority."

The colonel offered a retreating smile and waved an arm toward the big aircraft. They were bigger than a city bus and sported dual rotors. "They're designed for in-flight refueling, but unfortunately our tankers are stretched to the limit bringing our troops back from overseas. We've devised another plan. You'll make two stops on your way to Florida. Both are Army airfields and should have plenty of aviation fuel. From the satellite imagery, there does appear to be evidence of infected humans in both locations. As a precaution, both have been targeted with a nerve agent bombing."

Susan stopped them all twenty yards short of the loading ramp, "May I ask what type of nerve agent, Colonel?"

The Colonel mulled over his answer, then decided to just come out with it. The world was going to hell in a hand-basket, who gives a crap about being PC with chemical warfare? "It's Novichok. We have limited supplies for applications such as this."

"That's a Russian product, no?" asked Tran.

The colonel ignored this, saying, "The thing to keep in mind with Novichok is that it's sticky. It leaves an oily residue that can stay on whatever it touches for months. You touch this stuff and you die. Period. Both re-fuelings will require that all personnel wear their chemical warfare suits - hazmat suits in your team's case. Captain O'Shea's troops are an elite fighting force and they are all veterans of overseas action as well as the evacuation. They've all handled a Shitfob or ten, so you are in good hands. You'll of course have to land twice again as you return north. With any luck, you'll remain incident free."

"Now you've jinxed us," said Aaron under his breath.

Rick Decker, a CDC blood analyst, piped in, "How come we don't just take an airplane down to Guantanamo, get our helicopters there?"

The Colonel grimaced, "Gitmo's gone, son. Cuban's overran it last week. No way to take it back now."

Susan started them walking again. "Well, there are only a handful of chicken farms in southern Florida, the most likely culprit is the one industrial size farm that we are targeting. I believe it's called Happyland Farms.

"Known for their Plump Okeechobee Boilers," added Tran.

Buy it here:

www.cchaseharwood.com
