 
# ZOMBIE WORLD ORDER

### P.J. KELLEY

Copyrighted @2011, P.J. KELLEY

Smashwords Edition

Cover art by S.C. Kelley:

Tables of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: Marie

Chapter Two: Rehab

Chapter Three: The Celtics

Chapter Four-The Steelers

Chapter Five- Cowboys and Angels

Chapter Six: Buying Guns

Chapter Seven: Zombies at the Tollbooth

Chapter Eight: Marie Loads Up

Chapter Nine: Arty and Phil

Chapter Ten: Afghanistan Al

Chapter Eleven: Visiting Isaiah

Chapter Twelve: Showdown with the Creep

Chapter Thirteen: Truckstop Battle

Chapter Fourteen: Zombie Therapy in the Cloisters

Epilogue

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my children and to my Mom, who thought I might write a book someday, though this is probably not what she had in mind.

# Prologue:

It was the arctic winter of 1986, and somewhere in the frozen vastness between upstate New York and Canada, a wolf howled. The only lights within one hundred square miles were from a few fenced in homes near an ice covered lake.

Inside the compound, two women sat with a newborn baby.

"The wolves are restless tonight," observed the older one, as she peered into the baby's face. Her luminous purple eyes appeared to fascinate the infant, who stared back at her with rapt attention. "It's as if they are celebrating her birth."

"Best security system in the world," responded the younger and much stockier woman gruffly. She too was appraising the child. The wolf had broken a long silence.

"I'm so glad Alan was away on business. He has a tendency to confuse things," the younger one continued. "We need to keep this kid as far away from him as possible." She said this as if it were cant, or manifest wisdom.

The older one stared at the child some more. "What can we do? It's his baby, Hulga. He's going to want to see her."

Hulga looked angry. "He's such an egoist. When we tell him about all the prophetic signs surrounding this one's birth, he's going to think it's a tribute to him, don't you think, Isidra?"

Isidra answered in a low, soothing voice, never removing her marvelous eyes from the baby's face. "Oh, much worse than that. Alan will never be content to be a mere harbinger. He's going to be jealous of this child. It's why he must never know who we suspect she is."

Hulga frowned. "He's bound to suspect something. He can read the stars pretty well. I mean he's not stupid, whatever else he is."

"You and I are the only people who know the exact hour and time of this child's birth," Isidra answered meaningfully, finally looking away from the baby and turning her probing gaze to Hulga's face. "Her poor fool of a mother hardly knows where she is most of the time. It's up to us to protect this infant. Alan can teach her much. He was chosen for a reason, and we need to respect it. I'm doing what I can to protect this child, even as we speak." She returned to staring at the baby's face, who at last had recovered from the ordeal of birth enough to sleep, it seemed, finally closing her eyes as she clutched Isidra's finger.

"Little Marie, we must know each other better," Isidra murmured, staring at the new born baby with her hypnotic purple eyes, which were, in a way, quite beautiful.

# Chapter One: Marie

Six months before she walked into the rehab, Marie had spent the day hiking in the woods of The Endless Mountains of Northeastern Pennsylvania with Frankie, her best friend for the last five years. When the day had dwindled, they'd decided to head home, but along the way had stopped by at The Brew House, their neighborhood bar that had excellent steaks. A few of their friends were always there. It was a good, homey place. What's more, Marie felt safe there. Safe. Her mind ground on that word like a spent clutch failing to shift into gear, and that one word alone could be why this mission was so vital to her.

Marie was not unreasonable. She did not expect total security at all times, or feel entitled to it. No sane person could live in this world and expect that. It was just events in her early life in particular had made her especially appreciative of the concept of a security oasis. She had spent her childhood being backed into corners, living with lunatics who never allowed her any place to retreat. Whether it was a doll she loved or the most sacred rights of childhood, security had always been something capable of being tossed into a garbage can at any moment. So going out to The Brew House with some friends, some she knew from martial arts and some she just knew, was much more important to her than it might have been to someone who had not lived so much of their life in fear. Marie refused to sit home and hide anymore.

Maybe the text message had set her off? A longtime friend had texted her that she might want to steer clear of The Brew House tonight, as "The Creep" was there. If she and Frankie hadn't already decided to go, she would have just avoided the place. If she hadn't got the text message, she might have been too shocked when she got there and saw The Creep to stay, and just immediately left. However, knowing he was there, and would have laughed if he knew she had avoided him galvanized her will. She had walked in there prepared to do battle, she admitted to herself now. She refused to be driven from yet another oasis by The Creep.

If she'd been thinking completely clearly, she might have considered that her real bastion of defense was her own self. Forgetting this might have been what compromised the security of the people in her life who cared about her. In all honesty, Marie knew that a certain measure of bravado had influenced her decision to go. Frankie was a freewheeling, confident girl, the type who easily combined her Mediterranean good looks with a kind of humor and endearing charm, and Marie had been unwilling to be perceived as being cowardly in front of her. Of course, Marie should have been informed more by her vast life experience with The Creep than her desire to impress a friend.

The Creep had no business slumming at a place like The Brew House anyway. He had an excellent condo in Lower Manhattan. He loathed the small Pennsylvania city of his origin, and only returned there to prove what a big shot he'd become and to torment the people unfortunate enough to have ever known him on his way up. The fact that he was at The Brew House, a neighborhood joint with a tiny following of blue collar workers and the more down to earth variety of student, indicated the weirdo had been tracking Marie with private detectives again.

Just because you are paranoid, doesn't mean someone out there isn't stalking you.

So Marie had strode into The Brew House with Frankie as if she had not a worry in the world, even though she had felt physically ill in doing so. Seated in a corner of her favorite bar, surrounded by loyal friends, she had felt protected and strong. What had she been thinking about that night, before it all got started? That the long nightmare of her soul had ended, and now she could be free, untouchable? That an inheritance so freely given to so many could finally be hers to possess-the right to believe she could live in a positive world freely, and without fear? That she had moved on?

Unfortunately, The Creep had not. Before too long, he had made his presence obvious, playing loud death metal tunes on the juke box and whirling around on a non-existent dance floor with his latest "employee", a hard looking woman who stared at Marie with an unnerving coldness and self-assurance. Something had seemed wrong, and Marie now knew what it had been. The Creep and his worker had been too focused, as if they were working through some kind of elaborate script. Marie should have understood this then, but her anger had been clouding her judgment.

After a while, since Marie had refused to acknowledge their existence in any way, the twosome had grown more obtrusive. Whirling into Marie's group, they managed to spill Marie and Frankie's drinks all over their jackets. Their laughter while apologizing profusely had not helped Marie's mood. Most of all she resented Frankie getting dragged into this, knowing Frankie was watching her as she was again assaulted by demons from her childhood.

Staring at The Creep's leering, drunken face as he and his latest squeeze made snide remarks about how cheap it would be to replace her and Frankie's jackets had triggered something deep in her subliminal memory. She hurled the contents of her barely sipped pint of Yuengling in their faces, snuffing their laughter and high spirits instantly. The woman had immediately started to come at Marie, viciously holding up her painted claws for all the world like The Wicked Witch of the West menacing Dorothy. Marie had stood ready, and her friends had also immediately risen to her defense as well.

Marie had lost her temper. She shouted at The Creep, calling him a pedophile and a pervert, publicly denouncing him in a way she had dreamed of doing all her life. The Creep had acted calmly, which was completely out of character for him. He firmly, yet gently, led his "employee" away.

This alone should have set off some warning alarms in Marie's mind, but again, the suddenness of the intrusion and her already deep anger had clouded her reasoning ability. Maybe The Creep had planned on this, made book on it. He knew her, after all. Her nature wasn't to sneak; her nature was to be direct.

One of the distressing aspects of human talent is how often immoral people are blessed with it. The Creep had made a career out of predicting how individuals would react in given situations, and he was good at it. Marie had let her hatred of The Creep blind her to his ability out of loathing. Big mistake.

The pair had left, without even seeming upset. Another warning sign ignored by Marie, since The Creep was filled with rage even on his good days. Marie had been angry at herself for months thinking about how many warnings she had been oblivious to that night, but now her self-recriminations were replaced by an eerie calm. She had stared through the prison minibus windows as Pennsylvania rolled by with what could be termed a completely impassive expression on her way to rehab.

The rest of the night had been a blur. They had stayed late, and she had well exceeded her quota of alcohol, which was okay because Frankie was her usual self-one of those moderate drinkers who would have been perfectly competent behind the wheel of a car even if she had overindulged, as she infrequently did, as if she'd been born to drive a car. Marie had wanted to leave, but couldn't, because to get up and run home would be to admit to herself how frightened and alone she felt, even surrounded by loyal friends. She had for some reason, ridiculous to her now, assumed the evening was mainly over, but of course it was just getting started.

Donnie had left shortly before closing time, but had returned only a few minutes later with news-The Creep and his escort were waiting for them by Frankie's car in the parking lot.

When she had heard this, Marie felt a backwash of emotion, the way you might feel right before a tsunami, the perfect stillness of the moment when all the water has receded, and the bones of ships and dead sailors lie uncovered in the harbor. The ignored horror rising from the deep, exposed again.

All the group of young people could think of doing was to walk out into the parking lot. Marie had never trusted authority enough to consider involving the cops, and would have felt silly asking anyone for help anyway. She had her friends with her. In retrospect she would much rather have been alone.

The Creep's tactic had first been one of solicitude. He was worried about her. He'd heard she had been drinking too much, and hanging around with all the wrong sorts of people. His "employee", now introduced as "Esther", had begun lecturing her about how kind and generous The Creep was and how he loved Marie and wanted the best for her. Marie should apologize for all the insane lies she was spreading about him. Didn't Marie realize how damaging such lies could be to such an important man's ability to advance and help the United States? Didn't Marie realize how desperately the Country needed a man of The Creep's ability right now?

Marie just pushed by them to the car. Esther seized her by the arm and tried to spin her around.

"Apologize!" she shrieked. So intent was Marie on ignoring them, at not giving The Creep the attention he so desperately needed that she had not seen Esther's fist coming at the side of her head. She must have had a small rock or brass knuckles clenched in her hand, because Marie was instantly floored, covered in blood. The whole world had lit up for a second.

"Apologize you little dyke!" The fist rose and fell on Marie's prone body. Esther got down on the pavement, grabbed Marie's hair, and literally started pounding her face on the concrete. Marie's friends immediately starting pulling Esther off her, though in shock at what was happening. Incredibly, The Creep had pulled a gun out of a shoulder holster. Marie had known he sometimes carried, but it was uncharacteristic for him to get his own hands dirty in such encounters. What the hell was he doing this for? she remembered thinking, just before she blacked out. He leveled the barrel at her small group of friends, college students and kids who'd watched too many Bruce Lee films. They had never encountered pure evil before, unmitigated hate. Doing something she knew would haunt them for the rest of their lives, they backed off from the gun and the madman behind it. Of course, from a safe distance they had pulled out cell phones and called the cops. She was told all this later, since she had been unconscious. She was totally unaware, even of Esther bouncing her face off the parking lot until it was raw meat.

Eventually, it ended. Esther rose, and turned over Marie's body, looking at her face.

"Oh my God," she said, or at least that's what Frankie later said she said. Her tone had been hard to read, Frankie added. It could have been a moment's remorse, or compassion. It might have been an expression of satisfaction at a job well done. Whatever her feelings, she and The Creep had jumped into his Mercedes and peeled off, leaving Marie lying face down in the parking lot as her friends came to her assistance.

Six months and a lot of reconstructive surgery had produced miraculous results. Her face had been truly ghastly that night, but though the human face bleeds and bruises easily, it often recovers quickly too, especially with decent medical care. Her nose would always be slightly crooked, like a boxer's. It could have been much worse, she was told.

Her part time job at the hospital had served her well in this instance, as some of the doctors there provided her with much better care than her health insurance called for. She was grateful to them for this, especially as she and her friends had been arrested that night. Esther and The Creep had preemptively called the cops and said Marie and her friends had assaulted them in the parking lot. Some additional charges such as public drunkenness and disturbing the peace had been tacked on as well. One of her friends, Donnie, had a bowl and a small amount of marijuana in his pocket, and he was actually looking at jail time on some trumped up charges. He'd been in trouble for some piddling scuffles before, but a record is a record, and a good excuse for The System to throw the book if they decide they want you for some reason.

The county jail had been right next to the hospital, so her doctor friends hadn't been too inconvenienced, but it was humiliating to have to go for appointments with people she had worked with while shackled and with armed guards.

Marie herself had been offered two choices-one year in jail and three years' probation, or one successfully completed rehab and one year probation. She had chosen rehab because it would be easier to break out of to do what she had to do, or barring that, it was the fastest way to get the freedom to do what she had to do. Again, the cushy deal alone should have set off warning bells but she had figured The Creep and his cronies were trying to sweep everything under the rug to avoid a trial and any resulting publicity.

Of the four people she had been with that night, Donnie had already recanted his initial version of the events, and appeared ready to perjure himself in any upcoming criminal trials. He was an Apprentice Pipefitter who had studied karate with her. He'd quit karate since that night, and spent a lot of time drinking alone. If he did happen to see Marie in passing, he was unable to speak to her or look her in the eye.

At first, Todd and Janey had seemed like they would be with her to the bitter end, but a couple of weeks ago, Frankie had told her Todd had said somebody had been leaving threatening messages on his phone, and Janey's mom had been put into the hospital after somebody tried to run her off the road. They had also recanted, she had heard through her lawyer.

Frankie had had some problems with shoplifting and pills years before, so she had a record, though not a serious one. It was enough to make her testimony at least slightly questionable, and enough to threaten her with second offense jail time. Recently, Frankie had written her and said a long lost relative had left her some money in his will, and she was leaving for California to start looking for work.

All things taken into consideration, Marie thought, the price for a steak and a couple of beers with her friends was way too high.

Compounding all this was the fact that The Creep was involved personally and financially with a lot of high ranking courthouse types in Marie's home county, a county famous for scandals and corruption. Just recently, mobbed up judges had conspired to send local juvenile offenders convicted of petty offenses to hardcore juvenile detention centers designed for kids who had committed adult crimes, but could not be legally sent to adult prison because of their youth. For doing this, the judges were given millions of dollars in kickbacks by the owners of these facilities. Some of the local kids had committed suicide after being abused by more hardened kids in for crimes like rape and murder. This was the tip of the iceberg for corruption in this former coal mining nexus.

Marie felt sorry for all her friends, and had absolutely no anger towards them. Her only regret was The Creep had besmirched their world with his presence. She understood how they felt. We go through our whole lives, reading about evil, and watching shows about it on television, and one day it waves a gun in your face in a parking lot and you are totally unprepared for its visceral existence.

It's been written that Satan's greatest achievement has been convincing the world that he does not exist. Unlike Marie, her friends had never met The Creep before. The Creep had always had a special aptitude for opening up the maw of hell and giving a guided tour. Marie was still puzzled though. Why was The Creep so heavily vested in destroying her? It had been uncharacteristic of him to use up so many owed favors just to screw up her life again. He just didn't care enough to do it out of malice, and the whole episode could potentially make him look bad. Also, he had signed off on the plea agreement, after he had pushed for a maximum sentence for her. His only condition had been that Marie had to complete a program at a rehab for drug addicts and alcoholics at a facility of his choice. He'd pay, he said, but she had to complete this specific program before he'd drop the charges. There was a mystery here, a mystery Marie needed to solve for the sake of her physical and emotional well-being.

There was another thing that needed to be resolved as well. Marie was a good looking lady and she knew this. She was not under any illusions-she would probably never have been asked to be on the cover of fashion magazines even if she had never had to have plastic surgery, but that didn't even matter. She was a girl, and The Creep and his whatever she was needed to learn that there were serious ramifications to cutting Marie's face.

# Chapter Two: Rehab

His neck still bruised and swollen from his latest suicide attempt, David strolled amiably through the entrance of the rehab.

There was something frustrating to David about the concept of a failed suicide attempt. Suicide itself was such an acknowledgement of failure. Did not the concept of a failed attempt constitute an almost double failure? Or was it more like a double negative which turned into a positive?

However you looked at it, while a successful suicide attempt was a resume killer, at least it pointed towards some competence and conviction on the part of the suicidee. A failed attempt was like the beginning of a bad joke.

David had some bad memories that ambushed him a lot whenever he'd managed to put together a couple of non-pathological months, or weeks, or lately, hours. He couldn't focus on a solution anymore, and didn't know if there ever really had been one. Oblivion was becoming less of a viable option, since he was starting to become a danger to others when he drank. Non-existence seemed like a workable alternative, but he'd had some trouble in closing the deal. Truthfully, he'd had some incredibly bad luck in this regard. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why that prison guard had walked by at that moment. He hadn't been scheduled to go around for another twenty minutes, and David had really only required another five, realistically, to guarantee success.

After the guard cut him down, he'd been visited by a psychologist who had asked him a bunch of questions and asked him if he wanted to go to a special rehab for alcoholics and drug addicts with "additional problems" such as David had. If he did it, he could avoid more jail time for his most recent foul up, which had involved David driving into a telephone pole near a school house at ten in the morning. It could have been a school bus full of kids for all David had known. He was looking at some real time, though when you're suicidal, it's not much of a deterrent.

David chose rehab over prison for two reasons. First, he felt he was starting to get the hang of offing himself. Given enough freedom and opportunity he would eventually get it right, and it seemed like rehab would provide a better opportunity. Second, although David was certainly nothing to rave about physically, some of the other inmates were starting to make him nervous. Whatever David had done, he didn't think he deserved the indignity of jailhouse rape for his sins.

In retrospect, it seems ironic he chose as he did. Of course, David had no way of knowing about the new Homeland Security provisions which had been passed in top secrecy even as he waited in the holding cell for transport to the drunk farm, provisions which didn't exactly stress David's personal dignity either.

In retrospect, it seems almost rational. The Government had at some point to accept the fact that it had acted incompetently during the various crises confronting it, and needed to take drastic measures to rectify all mistakes. By chance, David was one of the people who got to be in group alpha for the new plan for rectification.

Lucky him.

So when David got to rehab, it wasn't all sweetness and light and sobriety tips. After a couple of days of orientation, the first and only full group therapy session consisted of the typical stereotype of such proceedings, a circle of chairs with others like him facing each other. Introductions were made. Still bleary from a long ride through the Pennsylvania wilderness and several weeks of sleeplessness caused by anxiety and an extremely uncomfortable bed in lockup, David was only dimly aware of the others. It's almost funny, if you think about it. These would be the most important people in his life over the coming days. Almost every relationship he had ever had or ever would have would pale in comparison to the one he would have with some of the people sitting around him.

One of the recent rule changes had been to deny bail to everyone, for every offense, unless they could post an exorbitant amount of Pill Alpha as collateral, since The Pill had become the new de facto currency since all paper currency had essentially collapsed. Since David had never desired The Pill and had none, he had spent the eight months sitting in a small cell with Nevermore even before he got convicted, sentenced and transferred to an actual prison. He had been cut off from all news of the world, except that which filtered through the county lockup's grapevine, which was so outlandish it couldn't possibly be true. Once he got to prison, all the movies he had seen prior to that experience convinced him the other inmates were just trying to scare him with fake news from the outside world for some diabolical reasons of their own. He may have actually succeeded in convincing himself of this. The Human Mind is quite good at creating a buffer zone of denial if reality becomes too onerous.

So he'd been in rehab for two days, getting to know the basic rules of the place. There was free time where you talked with other patients or read the literature. It was a really isolated facility, lost up in the mountains of Northeastern Pennsylvania, but people were from all over the East Coast.

It was on his first Friday night there when they'd had the big sober jamboree. This was when everybody got into one big group that was like a big group therapy session. They were also supposed to meet some of the counselors who had thus far been absent from the smaller groups.

The past few days had been a blur to David, but as the patients sat in the darkened circle, some names and faces did register, and he fumblingly tried to understand them.

There was Gwen, a young married alcoholic with some kind of weird kidney disease. She didn't drink much, but what she did drink was killing her because her body couldn't process it. She was pretty. She seemed the sort of person who would drift from distraction to distraction, forestalling the loathed moment of recognition of her true despondency. She lacked the ability to live in a moment, purely for what it was, and it was killing her.

Al was an extremely nervous heroin addict from Brooklyn. He would look very intently at each person once, and then look away forever, seemingly. Like David, he seemed to be there to avoid doing serious time. He seemed genuinely afraid to speak, which at the time was chalked up to self-consciousness, mainly. He took every smoke break allowed, and spoke to absolutely no one beyond the most minimal necessity.

Charlie was this very plausible person who on closer inspection went from mystical spirit guide to spoiled rich kid. He was playing everybody, himself most of all. He had been to fifteen rehabs, and really did qualify as an expert on drug and alcohol treatment centers around the world. The one in Hawaii sounded incredible. David wondered what it was like to walk on a beach with black sand on it.

Charlene was a black woman from Atlantic City who looked scarred, emotionally and physically. Her smile showed what ravages the world can perpetrate on a decent soul. At one time, she would have been the most beautiful woman in the room.

Joe was from Staten Island. He had gotten some time off on an armed robbery sentence by agreeing to do rehab. He had the very tough mannerisms of a person who has had an extremely hard time in prison and is terrified of anyone knowing it. In civilian life he had worked on a garbage truck and smoked crack. In his voice, the way it cracked and strained at key moments, you could hear the price Joe had paid in suffering for having a conscience.

Gregor was from Russia, and worked for his family business in New Jersey, driving a truck, he said. He had some problems with coke, from what he said.

Marie was a Pennsylvania girl, from some rust belt city about fifty miles away. She also looked as if she had recently been beaten up pretty badly. Anger was just one of the emotions emanating from her psyche, but it seemed to be the most dominant one at that moment. Even with bandages on her face, you could tell Marie was beautiful. She spent most of her free time reading. She had tried playing chess, one of the activities encouraged by this rehab, but she had beaten anyone willing to play so badly she had either become too bored to continue or had run out of victims. She'd been locked up for assault for the last six months, and had been specially selected for early release upon successful completion of this program.

The other Marie (there were two) was a soft spoken Italian girl from New Jersey someplace. Her boyfriend had got her mixed up with hard drugs, and her family was trying to fix her and break up the relationship in one stroke by sending her to rehab. By some quirk of fate, this Marie had the same general build and body type as the other Marie as well, and the same general hair color and style too. This chance resemblance eventually resulted in a classic case where knowing what God's Perspective was might have been really educational.

Dwight was a well-spoken, affable, and charming young man of mixed Latino and African American race from South Philadelphia. He was heavily involved in all the discussions, and seemed completely earnest and sincere, asking intelligent and thought provoking questions about the underlying philosophy of sobriety and the history of Alcoholics Anonymous in general. More than once, he mentioned his gratitude, because he honestly seemed to think that by going to rehab he had thwarted imminent death.

Navni was in his fifties, from India apparently. He played chess assiduously, and horribly, except on one occasion when Gregor had started taunting him mercilessly about how bad he was. Navni had then proceeded to wipe the floor with Gregor in three straight games, and had then left the room. Supposedly, according to rumor, he had run through the town he was living in his underwear shooting a pistol at nothing in particular. He was pleading "wet brain", or alcoholic dementia, for his court case. At his core was a sort of despair.

Keisha was a young blond girl from one of those fortress neighborhoods in the Bronx left over from the days before the Cross Bronx Expressway leveled such a large swath of that borough. If you aren't from where she was from, it would be impossible to understand her, probably. On some levels, she was keenly mindful of the feelings of others, and her social morality was complex, imposing upon her a rigorous code of conduct. At odds with her finer sensibilities, which arose from her culture and her own nature, was her response to a society which would label someone from her background as "Ghetto Booty". She played that role when she felt there was some expedience in appearing simplistic.

Dante, a late arrival, was a large black man in his early twenties. He was addicted to crack cocaine, and wanted to quit, but whether he could or not seemed like anyone's guess. He was complex in a frightening way-if psychotherapy or some other analytical tool had been used to break down his defenses, one wonders if he could have ever functioned again. He was wrapped so tight unwrapping him might have destroyed him.

The introductions went around the darkened room, and had almost been completed when, suddenly, the lights came on. A tall, thin, almost graceful black man entered the large room and sat in the only vacant chair. He was extremely well dressed, as if he had just returned from some rarefied dinner party to grace this relatively unkempt group with his presence. He waited, patiently, for the last of the introductions to be completed, looking around the room, and when he looked at David, for a moment his eyes literally seemed to twinkle, though he immediately looked away. He then folded his hands and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, as if gathering himself. Later, David remembered thinking that this would be the most interesting part of the show. He was right.

"My name is Gerard. I am an alcoholic, a user, a pimp, a junkie, a thief, and a murderer," the counselor began, after a suitable hush had fallen over the group.

"You know, as I listen to you and look at you, I can't help but think of my own experience at rehab. I would say first experience, but that would imply that there had been a second time. There hasn't been. I am one of the few who got sober on the first attempt.

"As I look around this room, I see a lot of people who will be dead within at least a few years, probably even sooner. I know some of you don't believe me, but it's a harsh reality. A month ago, I gave this same speech to a group a lot like this one. In just that span of time, one of them committed suicide, and two overdosed. They left treatment. This is a very frustrating job, and I'm starting to get tired of it."

The man paused, and waited for a long moment before proceeding.

"Now, out of respect, I am willing to grant that every one of you means well, and has the best of intentions. This disease we have, though, the disease of Alcoholism, is cunning, baffling, and powerful. I wonder how many of you, if any of you, will be where I'm sitting in twenty years. You see, for me it was a matter of Life and Death. If I kept using, then I would have had to continue the same behaviors. Continuing these same behaviors would have led to a speedy death for me. I was pissing off the wrong kinds of people, and not just that, my disease had progressed to the point where I was liable to just overdose one day, intentionally or unintentionally. I was faced with the Existential Question." At this point he paused and looked right at and through David. "I chose Life."

"How many of you will choose Life? How many will choose Death? What if I were to tell you that these are not just rhetorical questions? I do not mean choose Life or Death next year or in five years, or next week. I am talking about tonight. Right now, and over the next several days, you must answer The Existential Dilemma for yourself."

David was beginning to enjoy rehab. This kind of thing was quite entertaining, and was actually doing him some good, he thought. David also appreciated the fact that Gerard wasn't dumbing it down much, if at all, though that fact alone should have set off some alarm bells for him.

"Which one of you wants to live?" He looked around the room as people nodded and murmured their assents. "Which one of you wants to be the one who stays sober?" Again, nods, assents.

"Statistically, not all of you will. Whether you know this or not, most of you will revert to old habits after leaving here and relapse. Your quality of life will suffer. You will not be useful members of Society; in fact you will even be detrimental to it. These are the hard facts. Still harder is the fact that our planet has rapidly dwindling resources. You all know about Pill Alpha and Pill G." Gerard paused, briefly. "How much do you all know about the events occurring, as we speak, in the external world? How much do you know about Pill G Psychosis going viral out there? As of right now, armed troops are patrolling between here and New York City, shooting all afflicted individuals on sight. There are millions of these poor creatures. Each one at one time a fully functional person with a soul such as yourself, now just drooling maniacs who would literally feast upon the bodies of their parents while still living if they could catch them.

"As you look around at each other, we need to realize that we are blessed, that I am blessed. You see, I have grown weary of watching my friends and charges such as yourselves die. Very few of you have any real sense of your danger. You stand to lose your only real possession, your lives, but have no conception of the magnitude of this loss. The United States Government has recognized this problem, and in their wisdom, has designated The Department of Homeland Security to attempt to solve it."

"Provision 3313", said Gerard slowly, looking around the room with great sadness, "is your only hope. Many of my co-workers here disagree with this, many do not understand. In fact, almost all of them disagree with it. Not me, though. I understood instantly. I have everything, money, a beautiful woman, a magnificent automobile. I live in a mansion. You know what though? I always had those things, even when I was using. What I lacked then was an appreciation for the gift of life. Provision 3313 will give all of you that gift, the most precious treasure imaginable. Each of you will be given a survival pack. Each of you will be released, to find your way to a selected destination. Each of you will attempt to achieve goals, both personal and team, which by accomplishing will teach you the value of your life. You will wear monitoring and communication devices which will enable you to keep up with and communicate with a base of operations. The difficulty will consist of the mission itself, which will pass through large swathes of area completely dominated by people afflicted with Pill G Psychosis."

His pronouncements were greeted with chilling silence. This was not a man who inspired sarcasm, in fact, his was one of those commanding presences that instilled belief. Still, from the puzzled looks on people's faces, it seemed there was some kind of assumption this was a rehab head game of some sort. Marie, the beautiful young woman with the bandaged face raised her hand. Gerard nodded assent.

She began, "Could I ask a brief questi..." but was abruptly cut off by Gerard.

"Who are you?"

"I am Marie, and I'm an alcoholic. Could I please go to the bathroom?"

Gerard smiled a little, genuinely amused. "Could you hold it in for just a little more Marie? I promise this won't be much longer."

Gerard began again. "When you leave this building, you will be in teams. Each team will be given both team and personal objectives, as mentioned already. Some of the personal objectives will remain just that, personal, as they won't directly concern your teammates at all or at least not until much later in this exercise. This building has been heavily fortified with security, and you won't be allowed back here until all assignments are completed. We are designed to accommodate all kinds of people here, and since some of you are assumed to be flight risks anyway, the measures we have taken to insure you stay serve equally well in preventing your return."

Keisha raised her hand. "Hi, I'm Keisha, and I'm addicted to heroin. Are you really going to let us go or are you just testing us to see if we want to go?" Keisha seemed knowing beyond her years, and perhaps, if cynicism is wisdom, then she would be considered wise as well.

"We are letting you go. The situation out there has deteriorated rapidly in the last 48 hours, which would have been right around the time you all checked in. Pill G Psychos are roaming around everywhere. Civil unrest among those unafflicted is skyrocketing. It is a dangerous world out there. You would be well served to be on your guard and take this seriously."

Dante raised his hand. Gerard nodded. The man began, "I'm Dante, what if we don't want to go?"

Gerard stared at him. For the first time, there was a fracture in his amicable exterior. Quite slowly, he asked "Who are you?" There was a genuine note of a question underlying a question.

Dante paused briefly. "Like I said, I'm Dante, and yes, I am addicted to crack. What if we don't want to go?"

Gerard's amiability returned. "Then you will be unhappy leaving."

Gerard opened his suit jacket, revealing a weapon. "Look, this is a Glock with an extended magazine. I have 31 rounds in this, and I have two more magazines in my pocket. There are some Homeland Security operatives right outside the door, and if they think they need to come in, believe me, they will. I volunteered to come in here myself and break this down for you in a reasonable manner, and they consented. Believe this or not, but I respect and care about each and every one of you. I felt I owed you this brief little session out of politeness. I mean, why make this more unpleasant than necessary?"

The reasonability of his tone seemed to resonate more with the group than browbeating them might have. This group was inured to verbal abuse, but the novelty of this appeal to their civil natures caught them off guard, and for the first time some of them seemed to start taking Gerard seriously.

"What purpose....I'm Bridget, and I'm an alcoholic," a red haired woman in her late forties stammered. "What...what purpose will this serve?"

"As I said before, you need to learn to appreciate the gift of your lives. Another and more practical purpose of this is simple. All of you are human, and therefore weak. Many people can identify with you. As you proceed on your missions, your monitoring equipment will record your words and deeds. This will be played on the Internet and on television for the millions of people who will be living under quarantine until this crisis is resolved. In short, you will now be reality TV stars. You are all going to set an example for the entire nation. Just what kind of example you choose to set is up to you. If there are no further questions, your survival packs with your mission assignments will be distributed now. If you cooperate, you will be bused out in a relatively safe manner. If you don't, you will be released directly outside the gate, where several hundred Pill G Psychos have congregated in the last few hours.

"Now, I am going to begin announcing your teams. Remember, each member of your team is a vital component of your overall success. If even one of you declines, this will weaken your team's chances significantly. However, I can tell you this. If you do complete the overall tasks, you will be well rewarded, not just with enough to last a hundred years and cash awards totaling one million credits in gold, but most importantly, Sobriety. You will achieve mastery of your own life. You will master your own will. I can promise you this."

The door opened, and a beautiful and exotic looking woman came in smiling. Behind her were two large men in Homeland Security uniforms dragging large suit racks with satchels suspended from them.

"Hi, I am Amiko, and I am here to assist Mr. Gerard as much as possible. Please excuse my accent. I have only recently moved here from my former home in Japan. Until the last several years, I was just like all of you. I lived only for drugs and alcohol. I sold my body for them." Her smile was unchanging, and her eyes were filled with a mysterious joy. "After the recent events in Japan, I embarked on a program much like the one you are about to participate in. Since I survived my ordeal, which was admittedly much less structured than this one, I have been joyous, happy, and free, and have also been drug and alcohol free for two years this Monday." She paused slightly, as if expecting something, and seemed mollified to hear scattered clapping, a confused and tepid round of applause, which she enthusiastically joined in herself.

"I am here to tell you, this program works. When I announce your names and team designation, please join up at the front. Each team will then proceed to their own mini-bus. This will be the team bus. You would do well to pick a designated driver as your initial task. There will be four teams of five recovering alcoholics each. The first team to complete their mission wins. If you win, you will have a hundred years to savor the victory, at least. If you lose, you won't have to worry anymore. Please excuse the names we have labeled the teams with. We are trying to make it more appealing to television audiences." Amiko raised both hands in an attitude of surrender. "Marketers! What can you do?" She seemed sincerely apologetic. "To begin-The Celtic Team. Bridget, come on down!"

Very slowly, Bridget got up. "Hurry, Bridget. The faster you get going, the better your chances of success."

Bridget stood uncertainly at the front of the room. "What beautiful red hair you have. If she gets sober she will get all of her looks back, don't you think so, Mr. Gerard?" Amiko wanted to know.

Gerard nodded agreement. "Oh, most definitely."

Bridget did not seem certain how to respond to this.

"Al, come on down." The heroin addict from Brooklyn moved quickly to the front. His face was unreadable. Amiko merely looked at him, a friendly light shining in her eyes.

"Keisha. You're up, girlfriend." Keisha shuffled up bemusedly. She too was unreadable.

"Now Gregor." The intense glasses wearing alcoholic/addict arose.

"Now we need one more for the Celtic Team. David, please join the group." She smiled at David. David did not smile back, but neither did he frown. He rose and joined the other four.

"Now, remember this. If you cooperate, we will try to help you all the way. We will keep on passing valuable information to you, and will assist where possible. If you don't cooperate, you will be abandoned." Amiko made a sad face. "This group doesn't have very many friends left in the world, so I suggest you don't alienate the few remaining." Amiko paused, as if receiving some subtle signal. "There are actually 21 alcoholics here today, which means one group will get a wild card to make them six. Dante, you might as well join this group. Dante was a late arrival, and we have no substantive personal goals for him. We are adding him to The Celtics because it is easiest to incorporate him into their plans. So come on Dante."

Dante did not move. Slowly, and with great feeling, he said, "I absolutely hate The Celtics." Both Gerard and Amiko burst out laughing, and even some of the alcoholics/addicts smiled. "It's just a name, Dante, go on up and join the group." Gerard was smiling, but the Glock was suddenly in his hand. Amiko casually reached into her jacket as well, but her hand did not emerge. For a moment, she looked like a Japanese Napoleon.

Dante looked around the room. Nobody returned his gaze. He frowned and got up. He proceeded to the front, and The Celtics left the room.

# Chapter Three: The Celtics

Two Homeland Security agents in full body armor and carrying machine guns met The Celtics at the door. Several more waited in attendance. The group walked down some stairs and then to the corner of a large gymnasium. A garage with four mini-buses awaited them. About twenty Homeland Security agents were inside, clustered around the entrance of the nearest bus.

"When we open the door, you will drive out to the entrance and wait at the first gate. This is like an airlock system. You will go through the first gate, drive through, and when the first gate closes behind you, you will then proceed out the second gate when it then opens. Any questions?" The Celtics looked confused more than anything. "Who is driving?" The Homeland Security operative was waiting, pen poised, and clipboard in hand. There was a pause, and Gregor said, "I shall."

"You shall not, Mr. Magoo. I'm not trusting my safety to a blind person. If anybody is driving, it's going to be me," said Dante, apparently recovered from the unpleasantry of Gerard pulling a gun on him.

Gregor snapped, "I drive a delivery van for my uncle for years. I am expert."

"I am expert too," Dante said mockingly. "I've been driving since I was twelve, often in high speed chases. Seriously, just let me drive out of here, this is going to be rough." The two men stared at each other, and Gregor grudgingly surrendered. The group piled into the small bus. Gregor sat in the very front. Bridget and Keisha sat behind them, and David shuffled into the back. Al was already there, next to the emergency exit. He said nothing, and David responded in kind.

The Homeland soldier stood at the entrance. "One more thing, you do know how to use GPS right?"

Bridget piped up. "Of course."

"Great, the bus is equipped with it. If you need instructions, there are some in your satchels. Move out as soon as I give the signal. Shut and bolt the door right away."

Immediately, he backed off. Dante started the bus, and pulled the lever that shut the door. Gregor frowned, and then slid a heavy steel bolt across the door. He seemed puzzled. The garage gate rolled open, and the Homeland soldier screamed for them to drive to the first gate. As soon as the garage door closed behind them, the first gate slid back. Dante eased the bus through to the entrance of the second gate. A voice from the radio speakers suddenly sounded. It was the Homeland soldier. "Drive out fast when the second gate opens, on my command. Don't stop, get on the road for a few miles and you should be able to get your bearings. Your goals are in your satchels. You can accomplish them in any manner you like."

The second gate was massive, a metal structure that must have weighed several tons. The Celtic Team members gasped collectively as they noticed the area around Gate Two. Dead bodies were strewn over the ground. As it slowly rolled open, a wall of Pill G Psychos began running in. Their savage appearance was a shock to everyone on the bus. They looked like people suspended in the most intense moment of rage imaginable. The Celtics experienced a kind of group sensation of suspension of reality. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing media reports proving to be accurate and not just sensational fear mongering. If anything, the danger appeared to have been understated.

When the gate had opened enough, the radio blared the command to proceed. Dante gunned the small bus as hard as he could and popped the clutch out of the gate at the highest possible speed, enabling them to plow through the compact mob of Psychos at the Gate. The bus jounced harshly as Psychos were run down under the tires. Several Psychos had already begun climbing onto the exterior of the bus as others tried to smash the metal grills protecting the windows or wrench open the door. As Dante peeled out he swerved hard all over the road trying to knock Psychos off. As the gates closed behind them, the sound of loud automatic weapons fire was heard behind them. The guards must have been pulverizing every Psycho who had run into the area between Gate 1 and Gate 2.

For a moment, the bus had seemed as if the sheer weight of the Psychos under the tires would bog them down, but Dante's aggressive move had saved them. Acknowledging this, Gregor said quietly, "Good job."

After a moment, Dante responded. "Thanks."

The entire group was subdued. After a long moment, Keisha broke the silence. "What the fuck was that?"

Gregor responded. "I have only heard some rumors, but ever since that comet passed the Earth so closely last week, the Pill G Psychos have been getting way crazy, and there are suddenly a lot more of them. I have...read some things on the Internet. I haven't been outside in two weeks. My Uncle...He had put me in kind of house arrest until he could get me in rehab. I steal money from him, from his business, for cocaine. He said I had to go to rehab or he would send people to collect money from me."

Keisha seemed puzzled by this, but proceeded. "Well, what did you hear?"

Al spoke up for the first time, from the darkness in the back of the bus. "The comet story is just a rumor, I heard."

Gregor seemed startled, but answered cautiously. "Yeah, probably. I have actually heard very little. Very little. Basically what I just told you. There were some videos on YouTube about it, but they were taken down before I got a chance to see them. My cousin Yakhov emailed me about it, but I haven't heard from him in days." Gregor seemed more guarded and hesitating than was characteristic for him, and more uncertain as a result. "Whatever is going on, if that wasn't staged to try to scare us, it is getting a whole lot worse and fast."

The bus sped on as fast as it could go. Dante seemed intent on driving. Silence reigned until Bridget opened up her satchel and started looking through it. The others followed suit. The satchels contained two pounds of trail mix, water, a Swiss Army knife, one hundred Pill Alpha credits for money, and a sealed booklet of instructions, which everyone opened except for Dante.

"Read your instructions, and when you're done take the wheel for a while so I can read mine," Dante told Gregor, who nodded absently as he read his booklet.

David's personal instructions seemed infuriatingly nonsensical to him at that moment, and weren't of immediate import. The group goals were more accessible though, and they were the same for all six Celtics. The instructions were not to discuss their personal goals, and none of them did so at that time.

Bridget began to read the team goals aloud. "One- Proceed to New York City. Go to The Cloisters Museum. Return to rehab. In doing this, you will all be able to fulfill your personal goals, and so complete the exercise."

Bridget stopped and looked around. "Do any of these goals make sense to anyone?" Her statement was greeted blankly. Nobody wanted to discuss their personal goals.

Dante swung the bus over to the side of the road. He rifled through his satchel, and pulled out his booklet, tearing it open. He read for a few minutes. "I have no personal goals." It was true; the section of his instructions which would have contained them was blank, as he showed the group.

"They did say you were a late addition," Keisha speculated. "Maybe they just didn't have time to think of any?" Nobody responded, as suddenly, in the headlights of the bus, human figures emerged from the fog, running frantically towards the bus, yelling for help. Dante put on his high beams.

"Help! Help us please." The voices could be heard distinctly through the bus's thick glass. Nobody moved. The people pounded on the door, clearly in terror. More running figures emerged from the gloom, but these people weren't screaming. They ran silently towards the bus, and their approach drove the figures at the door into hysterics.

"Let them in," Gregor said quietly.

"Fuck that," said Keisha. "How do we know they are not Psychos?"

"They aren't." Gregor sounded adamant as he pulled back the bolt. "Psychos never talk." The people began to pile into the bus.

"Make this quick," Gregor snapped, looking nervously at the advancing horde. As he began to shut the door, a Psycho materialized from nowhere and began blocking the door as Gregor tried to close it.

"He must have come right from the roadside," Gregor exclaimed.

"Hell no, man. He was on the roof since rehab. I never shook him." Dante took the bolt and slammed the Psycho in the head with it, and jammed the door shut in the next instant. Immediately, he was behind the wheel again, driving directly into the advancing crowd.

The three young people who had boarded the bus collapsed into their seats. Exhaustion and panic seemed to overtake them, catching them as soon as they stopped running. For several minutes, the three seemed incapable of speech. The bus sped past the RV, which had all its doors open with the light from inside spilling onto the blood stained highway as the Psychos swarmed the interior. The girl and the younger male began crying, burying their faces in their hands. Apparently, this had been their family's recreational vehicle. It was packed as if bound for The North Pole. The brief glimpse provided betrayed the fact that something ghastly had occurred there recently. The Team members tacitly said nothing for a while. The story was plain to read without elaboration.

Finally Bridget spoke, her voice sounding unnaturally strained. "Well, what's the plan, Stan?" She seemed to address nobody in particular. "I mean, what's next? What are you all going to do?" Nobody answered. "It looks bad out here. I admit I drink way too much, and my husband and children are just about done with me, but I signed up for rehab, not some kind of Scavenger hunt through Psychoville. I know some of you are facing jail time if you quit, but before we even left rehab I decided my personal goal was to haul ass as far away from Gerard and Amiko as possible. I know crazy, I've known it all my life, and believe me, those two are crazier than shithouse rats."

Again, nobody responded. Seemingly undaunted, Bridget proceeded. "I mean, this is nothing personal, but when it's convenient, I plan on bailing. Homeland Security was out of its mind to recruit us."

Everyone in the bus was listening intently now, and she sensed this, and was encouraged by it. "I mean, what am I missing? True, the Psychos have definitely amped it up, maybe just locally, maybe not. What do we win anyway, Pills for a hundred years? Is running for our lives going to make me stop drinking? Maybe I could just become an adrenaline junkie." She cracked a small smile.

"Give me your personal goals before you go. I'm playing this out." Dante's voice emerged from behind the wheel. Gregor nodded agreement. "My uncle, he says he'll kill me if I don't finish rehab. Literally kill me, Russian style too."

Keisha spoke up. "I'm going as far as the Bronx, so I'm sticking at this point."

Al and David in the back said nothing. The others just assumed that they would lie due to their legal status. They were right too; the smart move for them was to play this pretty close to the vest, and then run at the first opportunity. However, David was kind of keen to go, believe it or not. This whole thing was extremely entertaining, especially when compared to a jail cell. Plus, he liked the company. Being around alcoholics and drug addicts was relaxing, he was finding. Naturally pretty selfish people, they were so focused on themselves, especially in a crisis, they weren't especially interested in pestering him.

David had always enjoyed being around people, but mainly as an observer. The outcome of the trip was unimportant to him, really. He was a philosopher, which means that compared to the age of the universe, he had a tendency to think the human condition was of fleeting temporal importance. He did understand why others lacked his perspective, since there had been a time when he had lacked it as well.

Al said absolutely nothing.

One of the three new arrivals, a tense looking young man in a Mets cap suddenly spoke up, directing his question to Bridget. "Where are you going to go?"

"Home," said Bridget. "My family will just have to deal with me. This is a crisis."

"Where is home?" the newcomer asked.

"Woodside. In Queens," Bridget answered curtly. The newcomer lapsed back into silence, but the girl next to him started at this. She was Asian-American, seemingly of Japanese origin, a disheveled person for whom an untidy appearance did not seem to be her normative state. "Have you been watching the news?"

"No," Bridget almost smiled, "I have been indisposed. What did I miss?"

The young man next to the Japanese girl nudged her, still looking straight ahead. The girl seemed to pause, and said, "There has been a lot going on. I'm Jen, this is my friend, Jorge," gesturing slightly to the tense young man. "I'm afraid I don't know the name of our traveling companion. We joined him rather unceremoniously. I'm sorry we have not introduced ourselves, you could say we have been through something of a shock." She spoke vacantly, almost listlessly.

There are those who decry the importance of good manners. This is understandable, to a point. However, often graces such as dignity and hope prove ephemeral, and at the end we are left with manners, if we ever had any, to provide some venue for civil communication with our environment. Jen was not screaming, ranting or raving, though one sensed that this might have been healthier for her. She seemed frozen, beyond deep traumatic stress, yet something in her upbringing and nature made her regret foregoing introductions for so long. Shamed somehow, Bridget introduced herself and the rest of the Celtics to Jen and Jorge.

The third new arrival suddenly piped up. "I'm Dan." He had blond buzz cut hair and an ingratiating manner. "When I saw everybody running, I followed. It looks like the three of us were the fastest."

"What happened?" Dante asked, as if he had been waiting for the right moment to inquire.

"Tough to say," Dan answered. "It all came down pretty quick."

Jen nodded. "Our foster parents were driving. They pulled over to fix a flat. Dan pulled over to help and ask for directions and after about five minutes these shapes started appearing in the mist ahead of us, all lit up and glowing from our headlights. They weren't moving fast until they got to within about fifty yards, and then they really started to run. They didn't even look human. We'd been hearing all kinds of crazy stuff on the radio and on the TV, and we were checking the Internet too, though the reception has been spotty for all three, so we were at least a little bit on guard. They came up so fast though, it was all so unreal. When they jumped on Bob, our foster Dad, we all just stood there, like it was some kind of joke. If Dan hadn't pulled out a gun and started shooting, we would have been dead. As it was, we wound up just sprinting. Barb, our foster Mom, must have fallen behind, or maybe she couldn't leave Bob. It happened so fast. They were tearing Bob apart with their bare hands."

"I shouldn't have run," Jorge exploded. "They were so good to us. I could have died with them, something."

"What would that have accomplished?" Dan countered. "You had a flat. Bad things were going to happen from that point. It was nobody's fault. This is awful, but you had the bad luck to break down and be unprepared right at the beginning of this thing."

"Hold up a second there, Dan. What do you mean right at the beginning of this thing?" Dante broke in.

"This is just getting started," Dan retorted.

"Why were you walking around with a gun?" Bridget asked him.

"Thank God I was. I'm a Rent-A-Cop, coming home from work. I'm licensed to carry and I have been 24/7 since things started going crazy. I get better information because a couple of my buddies are real cops, so I've been real alert. I don't even think the bunch we saw were from the main brigade of them. This was just kind of a peripheral action."

"What do you mean?" Bridget asked.

"You should really watch the news," Dan said curtly, and clammed up.

Bridget seemed nonplussed, and began to say something but appeared to restrain herself. Instead, she leaned forward in her seat a little and called out, "Hey, Dante? Could you turn on the radio and see if there is any news on?" The others nodded and made sounds of assent. Dante flipped on the radio, using the Scan function, but it soon became clear no signal was forthcoming.

"Try AM," Dan suggested. After a few moments, an AM radio station came on, playing Country music.

"This is all I'm getting." Dante's voice seemed strained.

"Country music sucks," observed Keisha.

The minibus drove on. Road signs appeared stating that I-80 was twenty miles away.

"We're taking I-80 East. Where are you three going?" Gregor asked the three young people.

"That's the thing. We live in Tobyhanna, near the Army Depot. Those Psychos started popping up everywhere so Bob and Barb were going to run us out to their relatives towards Harrisburg. They said it was bound to be safer in the State Capitol," Jen explained. "Then we kept getting diverted by roadblocks."

"Why did they think that?" Gregor demanded, seemingly puzzled.

Jen blushed. "I'm not quite sure. It doesn't matter now I guess, so it would be helpful for you to know that those two smoked quite a bit of pot. Sometimes their minds made jumps that I'm sure were completely plausible, but were often mysterious."

Keisha looked at her closely. "Were you born here? I mean, where are you from? Your accent sounded completely American until just now. I'm not trying to be rude, I'm just curious."

Jen spoke as if to herself. "I was an exchange student from Japan living here when my family died. They lived right outside of Fukushima. Since I had no living relatives, I was granted citizen status with extreme expedition and placed in foster care. I tried to learn to speak in the American style out of respect for my new homeland, and to avoid having to discuss the death of my family, which is painful to talk about."

The bus rolled on for a few minutes before Keisha spoke. "I am extremely sorry for your loss. If you have nowhere else to go, all three of you are invited to stay with me at my home in the Bronx until this gets sorted out."

Jorge seemed to be fighting with conflicting emotions. Finally, he broke his silence. "You are seriously all going to New York City? Why? Why now?"

"It's a little hard to explain, in fact, it is basically makes no sense to me, so it will be impossible to explain it to anyone else. We are all in rehab. Or sobriety counselor has sent us out on something that can best be described as a scavenger hunt. We have to go to this museum called The Cloisters in Manhattan. We each have some general goals we need to accomplish as a group, and also we have some private goals we need to achieve as well. By doing this, we are to learn the value of Life." Keisha chirped in a sing-song manner. Jen and Jorge looked disbelieving, and Dan said nothing. "Is that about right?" Keisha asked the group in general. Gregor and Bridget exhaled heavily. Dante chuckled in a manner resembling a snarl. "Oh, and we are supposed to be on reality TV while we do this."

Bridget suddenly exploded. "You know, I can fucking see quitting drinking. I mean, I'm not as bad as they say I am, and there are a whole lot who are worse. This is so bogus though. This seems like some kind of national crisis getting started. They can't be serious about it, or they didn't know how bad it is. Maybe it's just a local thing."

"It's not." Jorge's eyes were wide. "Bridget, that's what we've been afraid to tell you. This is breaking out all over the East Coast. Pennsylvania is supposedly not that bad yet, but Jersey and New York are over the top with Psychos. You guys are heading right into this storm."

Dante called out sharply, "Hey Dan, what are your cop friends saying?" Before Dan could answer, the radio squawked with the high pitched dissonance associated with AM radio. "We interrupt this program to bring you updates on the current crisis involving the phenomena referred to as Pill G Psychosis. It appears that the activity of the Psychos has escalated dramatically in the past 24 hours. Major cities such as Chicago, Boston, and New York have all instituted martial law until such time as the crisis has been resolved. If you live in or near an afflicted community, you should proceed immediately to the nearest civilian defense center. If for some reason you can't leave your house, barricade yourself in as best you can. If you have Internet access, go to www.HomelandSecurity.com for online assistance. Above all, stay off the major interstates. Remember, Psychos must be avoided at all cost. If forced to confront one, they can be incapacitated by breaking their kneecaps, for instance, but can only be stopped permanently by destroying the Medulla Oblongata portion of their brain stem. This message will be repeated at half hour intervals."

After a brief pause, a slightly crazed hillbilly voice chimed in, "Oh yeah, that was a message from the good folks at the Department of Homeland Security. If you can't go for help, stay indoors and stay locked and loaded. Remember, head shots get you extra points. Conserve what food and water you have. That crazeee comet charged up the Psychos batteries considerably, and I'm working on the theory that when their batteries die, they'll scale it back down again. Thanks for nothing, Doc Gaultier. I'll keep you posted on new developments, until then here's a song from Randy Travis. This is Tex Western, signing off." Some kind of religious ballad began. Dante turned it down. A sign appeared saying I-80 was about ten miles away.

There had been no sign of Psychos since the RV wreck. There seemed to be an unusual amount of battered and stranded vehicles, but there had been no sign of life for miles. This was a desolate part of Highway 33. The few moving vehicles they did see were hauling ass in the other direction at top speed.

Gregor and Dante began to confer. "No matter what, we'll have to go through the Delaware Water Gap," Gregor said, sounding dogmatic. "There are no other entrances close to here, realistically."

"We would have to backtrack quite a bit. I'm not too familiar with this area. Seems like on the other side of I-80, the next bridge is at Dingmans Ferry, after that, it mainly looks like Port Jervis, following Route 6," Dante was studying the GPS monitor. "That would take forever."

"Right after the first couple of exits, we could jump onto 46 East. That's a smaller highway that parallels I-80 all the way to New York City. They said avoid the major interstates."

"The problem is going to be getting through traffic on I-80 East to jump off. It's bound to be stacked up," Dante opined. Gregor said nothing, but looked worried.

"Not necessarily," David interjected suddenly. "There is a chance that we will get the 'reverse commute effect'." Their blank stares forced him to continue. "I mean, if everybody is running away from New York, I-80 West is bound to be stacked up. We might just sail right through on I-80 East though, at least until we start hitting population centers. My guess is we get to Denville and get bogged down." David felt self-conscious from everyone staring at him, but really, what did he expect? He had hardly said a word since the trip started. "I used to work out there. I have driven this route quite a bit," he ended, kind of lamely.

They looked at him. "Our best bet is to see what's up at the Water Gap," Dante answered. "What are your plans anyway?"

Quietly, David replied. "I am not heavily vested in any plan. However, if I was vested in the plan laid out by Gerard and that exceedingly hot girl named Amiko, I would first stop in Pennsylvania at a gun shop for supplies."

"Do you have enough credits?" Gregor asked cautiously.

"As a convicted felon, Pill Alpha credits would not help me in this or most other states. Also, it is eleven o'clock at night. Most stores would be closed anyway. Also, I would imagine there have been a substantial number of like-minded people who enjoyed the advantage of freedom we have lacked recently to make their purchases. In short, the gun stores might be sold out. If we were to attempt to break in and ransack such a store, we might be greeted by an armed and angry gun shop owner. One assumes that a person who owns a gun shop would not be morally averse to utilizing his own merchandise in a just cause, and shooting looters is an eminently just cause, methinks." One should know that the reason David usually remained silent is that he was generally annoying to listen to, and had been made aware of this on many, many occasions.

"You're damn skippy," Bridget snapped. "I'm not robbing anything just because some jailbird tells me to. I have morals, unlike some."

Feeling misunderstood, David reiterated. "I am actually arguing against stealing guns, if you listen to what I just said carefully. I am only saying that if we were going to try to get some weapons, this would be the state to do so in, I think. I have no insider information here. Alternatively, we could go to a firing range or something. I have heard there is one around here that has a lot of different guns you can rent and try."

Dan looked up. "That's actually not such a bad idea. I go to The Liberty Range in East Stroudsburg. That's how I know those cops I told you about. If we stopped there, they know me. They might loan me a couple of shotguns or something on credit. I know the owner pretty good. We would have to drive just a couple of miles out of the way, but it might not be a bad idea at all. Also, the owner lives right there, and he has a ham radio and is some kind of computer hacker, from what he says. He might know more about what's up than anybody. In fact, I was thinking about going to see him anyway."

"Can you call him?" Dante wanted to know.

"His number is programmed into my cell, which is in my car which is surrounded by Psychos. His number is unlisted, and his business line rings in his shop and goes right to voice mail, which he never checks when he's not working at the range during the day. In other words, no, I can't really call him. I only know the cops from hanging out there and drinking beers after we get done shooting. I never talk to them otherwise."

In the sudden silence, Keisha spoke up. "Before we commit by crossing the Delaware Water Gap, we should talk to somebody who knows what's going on." She seemed to express what the whole group was thinking. "Whatever happens from there will at least be based on some information. This whole thing is starting to get completely terrifying, and for me to say that is a sign of extremely crazy events happening."

"Okay, get off on Shiffer and go west, and then we head to Rimrock Canyon Road in the State Park area," Dan advised. "His rifle range is right in there. It's pretty easy to find, and he should be there. He never goes anywhere at night."

Dante jumped off the highway onto a long and unlit stretch of road. There were few cars, and most of the houses were also dark. Having resolved on some action, the group lapsed into silence, just listening to the radio. Occasionally, Jen or Jorge had to stifle a sob.

# Chapter Four-The Steelers

As the last of The Celtics filed out of the room, Gwen stared at Amiko's preternaturally cheerful face. She was having difficulty processing these new developments.

Over the past few years, Society had been crumbling fast, she knew this. Everyone did. Shantytowns were springing up like mushrooms as even members of the upper classes were finding themselves locked out of the American Dream. True, many people weren't missing a beat economically, and as hyperinflation and street crime winnowed through the populace, Gwen hadn't suffered much. Her husband had an excellent job with the government, one of the few employers left who could afford to give cost of living adjustments. Her accountant husband had let it be known that "team players" such as himself were indispensable to the workings of the present system, and that she had nothing to fear. He was a good provider. They lived in a virtual fortress, in a super secure "gated community", of the type only integral and productive members of society such as her husband, an IRS agent, deserved to have. He had been given one of the much coveted prescriptions for Pill Alpha, and he was trying to get her one as well, though of course, as he frequently told her, she could imagine the difficulties in getting off the waiting list.

Gwen did not know why she drank, she just did. She had a rare genetic disorder of the kidneys that made it highly likely that she might eventually lapse into an alcoholic coma if she drank anything at all. Yet she would tipple whenever possible, drinking literally anything that contained alcohol, such as mouthwash or even perfume on particularly desperate occasions. Her husband's attempts at restricting her access to alcohol only made her more ingenious at thinking up new sources of the drug. She would have liked to have said that the reason she drank was depression induced by observing the current economic and political situation, but she knew she drank because she loved the feeling. Whatever the underlying reason, her life had taken on an aspect of morbidity beyond the common experience of most. Every time she drank, she literally toyed with Death, and she couldn't stop. Gwen was no different from millions of people in that she periodically sought release in a popular and legal chemical substance. In her case, though, her attempt at substituting a drink for a healthy relationship or meaning in her life could have lethal consequences. After three days in a hospital where she had literally almost checked out after drinking a pint of vodka, she had been convinced to give rehab a shot.

Outside the large room, Gwen could hear the sound of gunshots and screaming in the distance. From the pained expressions on their faces, these noises seemed to fill everyone in the group with foreboding. Gerard went to the door, opened it, and had a brief discussion in low tones with a uniformed Homeland Security agent. The content of that discussion would not have cheered Gwen or her fellow patients. At the far end of the large complex, several hundred Psychos had managed to topple a fence and had fought their way in. They had taken the security guards by surprise, and now even the members of Homeland Security responsible for filming the game were drafted to try to put down the uprising so the breach could be mended.

Gwen watched as Amiko began reading the names of those chosen for the next group. Joe, the Staten Island crack addict was called to the front, where he stood looking a bit wild-eyed. Marie, the pretty girl who was wearing a bandage on her nose was called up as well. The extremely self-assured young man named Charlie was also summoned. He had already established himself as the resident expert on rehab and the philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous to the others over the course of several small orientation sessions since he had checked in two days ago.

George was up next. He had also been to several rehabs. His family had some money. Gwen had seen his father drop him off, and he had been driving a new BMW. George didn't seem like a bad sort of person, really, and he was appealing in a low rent James Dean kind of way. His problem was dope. He hadn't yet graduated to shooting it, but he was smoking it and sniffing it so much that it was just a matter of time.

When Gwen's name was called, she felt a wave of weariness. There had been some moments in the past few days when she had felt a flash of recognition, a sense there were some elements in the rehab process that could help her. This felt wrong, like a surrender to anarchy. The last thing she glimpsed before being hustled through the door was Amiko's smiling face.

They were herded into the minibus in no time. Charlie and Joe were immediately arguing over who would drive. George and Marie seemed extremely absent for the moment, as if preoccupied with their own plans. Gwen didn't really care who was going to drive. Joe kept talking about how he drove for a living, and Charlie appeared offended that his superiority could even be questioned. Somehow, even though The Steelers completely panicked when swarmed by the Pill G Heads at the gate, they made it out with Joe at the wheel and Charlie screaming instructions at him. As the bus lurched forward, the windshield antenna was slightly damaged in the middle as a Psychos jawbone bounced off the magnetic strips running down the center. Also, what looked like some kind of fog lights on the roof were shattered and ripped off. Still, the bus seemed fully functional even after the brief but frenzied battering.

Soon they were cruising down the same strip of highway just traversed by The Celtics. It wasn't long before they too drove past the swarmed RV. To Gwen, it all seemed like scenes from a nightmare. Joe, George, and Marie were adamant about getting to New York as quickly as possible, so very little discussion of the goals took place. Charlie seemed to be lapsing into some kind of madness, his eyes glazed, and he babbled incoherently about Gerard, and the underlying philosophy of this Provision 3313 as it related to their recoveries. Joe drove like a madman, and had apparently developed a great hatred for Charlie after only a brief association, which he expressed by refusing to acknowledge his existence on any level. Marie and George said nothing, and Gwen was left to stare out the window and wonder to herself how it had all gone so wrong.

As soon as everyone was agreed, Joe jumped off 33 onto 22 and headed for a steel bridge over the Delaware River, using the GPS as his guide. I-80 was out of the way, he said, and likely to be jammed up. This way, they could get on Highway 10 and be in New York in two and a half hours, easily.

# Chapter Five- Cowboys and Angels

The third team selected was also hustled off to their minibus fifteen minutes after the Steelers had departed. These unfortunates had a few disadvantages. The Pill G Heads were waiting for them, the area before the second gate was littered with bodies, making it more difficult to traverse, and the sight of all the Pill G Heads swarming the minibus completely fractured the nerves of Marie, the gentle heroin addict from New Jersey. She fought to get out of the bus, as it lurched and stalled as the engine suddenly quit, black smoke pouring out of it. Although she was restrained, she did manage to open the back emergency exit a little, and that was all it took. Every member of The Cowboys was dragged out of the bus and literally torn apart by the crazed Psychos. Homeland Security had a devil of a time driving the Psychos out so they could clean up what was left and get the bus out of the way for the next group, who were delayed as a result.

Of course, these deaths were noteworthy. Each member of The Cowboys had been somebody's baby once, and the needless human tragedy was an unforgivable waste.

Marie's presence on the bus had been ill-fated in several respects, though realistically, even if she hadn't panicked The Cowboys would have been doomed anyway. Homeland Security Forces were under strict orders not to intervene when the bus stalled, even if they had not still been distracted by the Psycho attack. Her presence was doubly unfortunate because she did not even belong on that bus. At the best of times, bureaucracy does not run smoothly, so of course The Machine must be expected to skip beats when greatly stressed. It must not come as too great of surprise, then, to hear that Marie had been placed on the wrong bus. She had actually been meant to be a Steeler, not a Cowboy, but the fact that she looked like and shared a first name with the Pennsylvania Marie from the overall group had resulted in the sort of bureaucratic oversight which still occurs even in the computer age. Nobody caught it until well after the fact, which was understandable in view of the fact the rehab staff and security had an unexpected and unwelcome ingress of Psychos right at the time they were dispatching the teams. The resulting tumult insured that the badly mangled body of the poor Marie from New Jersey was mistaken for the Pennsylvania Marie until it no longer mattered.

The Angels had the advantage of watching all the other minibuses leave on big screen TVs, and found the lesson of The Cowboys particularly poignant. They blasted out of the gate on a mission, and, two miles from the rehab, removed all electronic monitoring devices from the minibus, including the Lo-Jack. They were assisted in this by the presence of Dwight, the polite young hoodlum from Philadelphia, who seemed preternaturally knowledgeable about vehicular security systems. They then blasted off for points unknown, and while their adventures were many and worth recording, their experiences have no bearing on this story anymore. It is worth noting, though, just for the human interest value, that Navni, a member of The Angels, exhibited no sign of alcoholic dementia at any time.

They might not have pulled their escape off so easily, had not the rehab staff and Homeland Security been far too busy gunning down the several hundred Psychos that had crowded in through a faulty fence to efficiently track their charges. Even Gerard and Amiko entered the fray, as soon as the last team had departed. Although the chaos created a gap in coverage of the actual teams involved in the show, On The Road to Recovery, the resulting confusion did benefit at least one player, a member of The Steelers. It is an ill wind that blows no one any good, at least from the hypothetical God perspective.

Ah yes, the hypothetical God perspective. It seems such a glib way of putting it. Most of you know the background of the events I'm describing, having suffered through them. Still, I should try to explain it a little better, for the children, as politicians used to say when there were any. They were cynically appealing to the most infantile of voter intellects, though, and I am quite serious.

The hardest part of this is to explain what happened to the children here. They ask the simplest and at the same time most difficult questions. I've racked my brain trying to figure out how to make them understand, but in the end, I've decided to write it out so maybe they could read about it when they are older and figure it out for themselves to some extent.

The problem is, I only understand parts of the story myself. Still, it's worth trying, and like all the remaining survivors cooped up in here, I have plenty of time, at least until we don't. Anyway, let me start with when things starting getting really bad, around the time this computer virus started causing meltdowns in various nuclear reactors around the world. Most of you older people have already lived through most of these events, but please bear with me while I try to explain them to children, present and future.

Stuff started getting strange towards the end of 2012, and started getting stranger as 2013 wore on. There wasn't just one cause, of course. It was more of a perfect storm of reasons, as if several unrelated factors conspired to provide a proof of the law of unintended consequences. One important ingredient in the mix was continued fallout from the Japanese nuclear disaster wreaking a strange kind of havoc on the biosphere.

Human cancer caused by the fallout increased dramatically, as you might imagine. It was simply epic how many people developed variations of the often fatal disease, a veritable modern Black Death. The radiation alone, however, was not the sole cause of the dramatic events. Life extension and prolongation had been a serious if underpublicized branch of scientific research for decades, but the wave of cancer related deaths gave a great stimulus to the efforts. The work became more risky, more ruthless, as researchers and their funders watched their loved ones die, or even as the scientists slowly faded away themselves. Nothing adds meaning to one's work like the added threat of losing a personally precious life through failure.

Human nature is such that if the life in jeopardy is one's own or one's offspring, certain survival genes kick in, as is only natural. That school of thought that seeks to alter mankind's nature confuses the issue with moral judgments, which are often oblivious to the power of harnessing Humanity's natural traits for a useful purpose. The cause of "The Common Good" is a banner often waved by the manipulating sociopath, while the naturally exclusionary emotion of Love is scorned as being "selfish." How can one be expected to love all people commonly and still call it Love?

The cancer spread regardless as the fallout continued to rain down, no matter what motivated the people trying to cure it. The earth was also experiencing some macro effects, as it gradually lost rotational velocity and its magnetic field diminished and shifted. Earthquakes, volcanoes, and tsunamis became increasingly frequent, and jaundiced viewers of network news grew inured to the sight of natural disasters and the resulting helpless refugees. There was increasingly the smack of desperation in the air.

The world economy, developed over millennia and thus imparted at least some underlying structural stability, began to deteriorate as the complexities of the emerging New World Order altered its underlying dynamics, an unprecedented structural change. It could have been remedied faster, possibly, but the political landscape was changing rapidly as well, part and parcel to the whole process, but nevertheless making the situation incomprehensibly arcane to all but the most erudite of initiates. These few watched as what little influence they had was neutered by a veritable explosion of Populist movements across the globe, as desperate people tore up pre-existing political structures in an attempt to create rapid improvements, as food prices skyrocketed, and as people sickened and died.

Panic was saturating the entire globe, like an incandescent bulb filling with gasoline in one of those prison movies, just waiting for a spark to engulf the world in flames. The tools, talent, and even the will were present for what seemed like an inevitable and dramatic decrease in population size, as a wave of History seemed ready to yet again pound civilization into the surf, when a miracle occurred. A cure was discovered, not just a cure for cancer, but a cure for Death.

Science and technology, the long suffering whipping boys for all recent social ills, emerged from the dugout with a bases loaded grand slam in the ninth to win the World Series. Science kicked a 70 yard field goal in sudden death to win the Super Bowl. Technology hit a buzzer beater to win Game 7 in triple overtime. In short, the boys and girls in the white lab coats completely redeemed themselves. It had not been lost on the general populace that Nuclear Fallout and Pole Shift were two phenomena that Science had either failed to anticipate or to prevent, but The Life Pill, as it was dubbed, silenced all critics. The Life Pill lived up to its billing. If The Pill was taken daily, the biological process known as Death simply ceased occurring.

Having illicitly eaten of The Tree of Knowledge, Mankind had now licitly, it seemed, eaten of The Tree of Life itself.

This achievement was properly heralded. Millions of people with fatal illnesses, such as cancer and old age, simply went on this cheap and cost effective pill and literally stopped dying. True, there were some side effects. People on the pill became essentially infertile, existing in a state that could best be described as stasis. No one knew how long this stasis would last, but no one was asking too many questions. The pill stopped the bleeding, ending the brutal reign of Death. Nobody asked too many questions about the primary research either, not even the FDA, which rushed through an approval under the most extreme political pressure. The Pill was, and still is, the greatest technical accomplishment in history, if viewed solely as the answer to a technical problem.

It essentially worked by redefining the electrochemistry of the brain using commonplace elements found in abundance in the Earth's crust, such as zinc and iridium. One of the basic causes of cellular death was found to be the loss of cellular magnetism, so introducing electro-conductors in the right proportions directly into cells greatly amplified the natural pulsing of the induced magnetic field which exists all around us because of our body's interaction with the Earth's core. These analog waves had always been present, but had finally been harvested for health benefits.

Once on the Life Pill, humans began to operate more on electrical pulses, and that seemed to remove much of the stress and workload from the body's organs. The Pill also served as vasodilators, or histamines for cells, creating avenues for cellular excretion of former metabolites which had amassed in the cells and become toxic, such as oxidized iron. Rust finally slept. It all seemed perfect, really, too good to be true. The problem is though, as the old saw goes, if something seems too good to be true, often as not, it usually is.

Most of the most haunting and inexplicable events of Life might be more understandable if they could be viewed from the God Perspective. Lest someone with an atheistic bent close their minds at this point, consider video game design. There is usually an all-powerful "God" character the designer creates to manipulate the game with. Within the context of his own game, the designer becomes God. What would the perspective of an immortal being living outside of time be in Reality, the largest video game imaginable? Even if one does not believe, one could still entertain the notion purely as an intellectual exercise, couldn't one?

How might God perceive any single event? Oftentimes, a memory we might view as unmitigatedly positive or negative could be both, or contains elements of both. Some say they did the best they could with what they had, as if to excuse all subsequent failures, though anyone, including Hitler could make that same boast. We might just as easily say we did the worst we could with what we had. It just seems more fair, and honest, to say that we did what we did with what we had. This seems closer to God's perspective than trying to rationalize our actions, if one can even venture to guess the mind of God, if indeed God has a mind in the conventional sense.

Essentially, all stories contain elements of spin doctoring. It's impossible to avoid, since no one is perfectly objective. Bearing this in mind, let's try to consider some of the events of 2013 from the perspective of a few years later. From the smaller story we might begin to understand the larger one, and though this seems a faint hope, it's about the best hope there is at this point.

The Life Pill worked, you see, no doubt about it. It worked really well. Nobody on it ever died, unless they suffered a horrible brain trauma, but the guy who invented the original Pill, a Professor Gaultier, supposedly went mad when the Government confiscated his patent rights, or at least this was the official version of events at the time. This doesn't seem like a problem, since the manufacturing process was laid out in a pretty elaborate synthesis in the patent, but in this case, Gaultier reportedly omitted some odd alchemical seeming fine tweaks to the formula when he wrote it up. The Government Life Pill, or Pill G, still worked, but it had one really major side effect. After a few months, whoever took the Pill became completely psychotic, an irrational and unthinking beast, too overcome by rage to form a comprehensible thought. You took Pill G long enough and you got fried, no ifs, ands, or buts. The original Life Pill, Pill Alpha, was now deemed too precious for the common herd because though stockpiles existed, they were now finite, as the inventor had pulled a major disappearing act right after the patent confiscation, or robbery, as he termed it. Seems like Gaultier thought he deserved a little gratitude and respect for curing Death and getting neither, he just bailed, apparently, an action he was roundly vilified for in the Press.

In some ways, as you might imagine, this created some problems worse than before The Life Pill existed. People were naturally upset if they were deemed unworthy of Pill Alpha, since many who were deemed worthy seemed worthier by virtue of political pull. A truly revolutionary atmosphere existed, the most dangerous state of mankind. People wanted change, whether it led to a constructive goal or not. Kings and queens have lost their heads, literally, at such times, when blind animal violence and anger trumped all sensibility. Just because somebody has it coming doesn't mean it is always practical or smart to give it to them, but people were gearing up to burn down the plantation.

Homeland Security Provision 3313 nipped this problem right in the bud. It was a stroke of evil genius if ever there was one. Earlier, I mentioned harnessing Humanity's Essential Nature rather than seeking to change it as being a more realistic goal, and The Homeland Security people definitely owned that playbook. Provision 3313 was diabolical, a work of Machiavellian cunning. The trick, you see, is to divide and conquer. As long as all the averagenauts out there viewed State Elites as possessing something desperately needed which was inaccessible to the masses, the State was the enemy. Provision 3313 changed that perception. It gave the lower classes somebody else to hate and fear, namely each other.

The events of 2013 could be told from millions of different perspectives. I hope that when this particular story is done, you will understand that I was not attempting to diminish the other stories by omitting them. I only have my own discretion to rely upon, and this has at times proved unreliable, so please have some forbearance, children.

# Chapter Six: Buying Guns

After a few miles, The Celtics turned north onto Rimrock Road and followed it. True to Dan's promise, after about a mile a large, low, white structure emerged from the gloom. It was lit up, and there was the sound of a generator clacking away. There didn't seem to be any other sign of activity when they pulled in. Dan looked at the place, and then around at the group.

"He might get nervous if we all start piling in there at once. Let me run in and tell him our situation. He's pretty cool, really, but it is pretty late." When no one dissented, Dan hopped out and ran over to the front door and started pounding on it, yelling "Jerry! Jerry!" Dante kept the motor running. Almost instantly, a light appeared in the front window, as if a curtain was quickly parted. The door opened slowly, and Dan seemed to literally be pulled in by his arm. After what seemed an interminable wait, Dan came running back out with a large sack and what looked like a golf club bag.

"He says you can't come in. He doesn't believe your story about the rehab, though he did say it sounded like something Homeland Security would pull. He did give me a couple of pretty nice shotguns and about a thousand 12 gauge shells for my gold watch, three hundred credits, and my debit card with my ATM password. He says he'll only take a thousand credits off it. I told him what happened up on Highway 33, but I don't think it sunk in. He buys and fixes up guns for a living and buys shells in bulk, so he's happy because he just made some credits."

Everyone looked at each other.

"Does he know what's happening? You said he's got a ham radio." Bridget queried. She sounded cross. Bridget, along with more than one of the others had been hoping they would be invited in to hole up. A rifle range seemed like a pretty ideal place to be right now.

"He says it's getting blown out of proportion. He said he thinks the government Life Pill G causes a buildup of electropositive metals in the brain. When the comet went by, their brains basically got supercharged. He said it has to wear off in a couple of hours."

From the back, Al spoke up. The rest had almost forgotten he was there. "Who told him it was the comet?"

"He has a ham radio. Some guy in Fort Lee, New Jersey was going on and on about it. Jerry said he sounded pretty smart. This guy was convinced this whole thing would fizzle out. Jerry said he hasn't seen anything happen here. The guy in Fort Lee is giving updates every twelve hours or so, and he is due anytime. There's been some rioting, but Pill G Psychos are really dumb, I mean, the cops will take care of this. Jerry said Highway 33 sounds like a fluke."

"He should tell that to Barb and Bob," Jorge spluttered, as Jen nodded vigorously. "They got ripped to shreds by that fluke."

"That's what I was saying. What I think it is is that he doesn't know me real well, and he might think I have gotten overexcited." Dan frowned. "To tell the truth, Jerry knows my family and thinks I'm a spoiled rich kid."

"Hold up a second. He gave you four 12 gauges for essentially about two thousand credits," Jorge began, "So it might be smart to pool whatever credits we have and load up here. Where else can we buy guns right now, and if this is just the beginning, like you said, where else are we going to get weapons? The price will go way up if Jerry thinks this is real."

Each of the rehab patients had been given one hundred credits in sets of ten in their satchels for gas and expenses to get to New York and back. Jorge had fifty credits. Dante had a gold ring. Gregor had a thin platinum chain. Keisha threw in a thick gold necklace, Jen slowly took off some pearl earrings, and Bridget tossed in her wedding ring.

"Look, I'll make sure he knows you'll want to buy these back soon," Dan assured them.

Keisha smiled, and said, "He can keep the chain. Just see if he has a 9 mm Beretta, ammo, and an extra magazine." Bridget said thank you, and that she might want her ring back someday. Jen said thanks, because the earrings were a gift from her mother.

Dan ran back to the door. Each patient kept forty credits. The jewelry was easily worth five thousand credits wholesale. Dan disappeared again, and another long wait ensued. The night was motionless and silent.

Dante spoke, "Okay, this Jerry, he doesn't think the Psychos are a big deal. He must be worried, though, unless he always cranks up his generator whenever there's a power outage. He seemed mighty quick answering the door too."

"He might be doing a lot of business," David suggested. "Fear seems like it would drive gun sales."

Keisha giggled. "It's like buying dope. I bet he buys these junk guns under the table from private citizens, restores them, and sells them at a jacked up price to whoever can pay enough to stay off the books."

"Either that or he knows Dan well enough to trust him. He can't exactly run a check on us at this hour," Gregor said.

"Whatever, I just bet there aren't any serial numbers on these guns." Keisha didn't sound upset. "As long as I get my 9, I don't give a shit."

"What's that?" Al said sharply. From the woods beyond the edge of the firing range, shapes could be seen, moving slowly towards the house. It was impossible to say how many there were. Jorge grabbed a shotgun out of the golf bag and start jacking shells into it, and Dante followed suit. They were Remington five-shot cop shotguns, very basic to maintain and operate. More hesitantly, Gregor picked up a shotgun and started loading it. Keisha grabbed the last one and loaded it like an expert. Al hadn't budged. Bridget looked uncomfortable. David, however, experienced a pleasing sensation akin to being seated front row and center for a screening of a B gangster movie. This was much more entertaining than David had thought rehab could ever be.

"Should you lay on the horn a little?" Gregor asked Dante. Dante looked uncertain.

"Do you think Jerry would mind a big black guy with a shotgun pounding on his door at one a.m.? The horn might tip off the Psychos we're here, if they don't already know," Dante asked.

The figures drew closer. "Fuck it, I'll go," Keisha went to the exit. "Open this up, I'm not leaving without my chain or my 9." The door opened, and Keisha raced to the door and began knocking, hard. She was holding the shotgun with the barrel pointed at the ground, looking around her as she waited, her breath making a fine mist in the air around her. In the street light, her bright red jacket seemed lurid, like living blood. The door opened quickly, as before, and she was pulled in like Dan had been earlier.

After a minute, a tall and thin bald man with a goatee who may have been in his early sixties emerged. He hardly glanced at the minibus. He was carrying what looked like an AK47, and held up field glasses, scrutinizing the tree line. He scanned one side of the field and then another. He stopped at one point and adjusted the focus. Apparently satisfied, he turned to face the door again. "It was probably just some deer." He screamed, as a dozen Psychos lunged at him from behind a shed. Recovering his wits quickly, he started firing his AK. Keisha and Dan ran to him and started blasting away as carefully as they could to avoid hitting Jerry, and Dante, Jorge, and Gregor raced out as well. Dante grabbed a short shovel leaning against the shed and started swinging it like a battle axe at the heads of the Psychos who were trying to grab Jerry. Their quick reaction had a lot do to with how on edge they had been since seeing the RV and its occupants.

Suddenly, Psychos were everywhere. Jerry's house had a lot of windows, and Psychos were breaking them and crawling in. Others rushed the front door, as others began to try to enter the minibus. Al vaulted from the back seat and slammed the bus door shut. He peeled out in a wide circle, and seemed to be getting ready to flee. Instead, he slammed into reverse and expertly pulled up in front of Keisha, Dante, Dan, Jorge, and Gregor, who had succeeded in freeing Jerry from the clutches of the Psychos. Jerry seemed shaken, but unhurt.

"Hurry up," Al shouted, as the group quickly piled in. Al immediately peeled out as the Psychos pursued.

"Go in a circle and wheel back. There is a bag of guns and ammo on the front step. We need it," Dan said adamantly.

Al must have agreed, since he drove the bus in a wide circle and then skidded up to the front, blocking much of the door with the bus. Dan quickly leaped out, grabbed the bulky bag, and immediately returned. The bus was peeling out again before the door was completely closed.

Jerry panted, trying to catch his breath, "I have a lot more guns in the house."

Al looked in the rearview. The house was literally being swarmed. "Is there anybody else in there?"

"Not since my wife became an alimony check. What just happened?"

"I was trying to tell you. These Psychos are all over. People are getting ripped to shreds. You can forget about the rest of your stuff for now. Be thankful for what we managed to get out." Dan was stern and chiding. David wondered if there was some small element of satisfaction, or vindication in this episode for him.

"Well, you bought at the right time. In fact, I'll buy everything I sold you back for three times what I paid for it right now," Jerry offered. Jorge chuckled grimly. He'd been looking through the Army duffel bag Dan had retrieved. "We'll sell you 500 rounds of ammo and an extra clip for your AK if you give Jen back her pearl earrings."

Instantly, Jerry produced the earrings. "I felt guilty about these anyway. Dan told me the mother was dead."

"In my religion, we do not consider those we loved dead. Thank you for the earrings back, Jorge." Jen put them back on.

"No offense meant," Jerry apologized.

"I know," Jen said calmly.

"This is cool," Keisha said, holding up a sawed off shotgun.

Jerry looked embarrassed. "I honestly thought Dan would be back in two days pestering me to buy the stuff back. I sort of gave him odds and ends, but everything works good. There is a gun in there for every job. I admit I thought Dan was making most of this up, or maybe had been smoking too much chronic. You have a sniper rifle, a couple of snub nosed revolvers, and an old Chinese drum gun that can shoot 120 rounds if it doesn't jam first. There is this sawed off, and a halfway decent M4 knockoff from Czechoslovakia and a couple of good deer rifles with scopes. There is even a 9 mm Beretta, as ordered. I threw in a 2.5 Taurus Judge, because Dan said he thought some of you couldn't shoot so well."

Dan colored a little. "All I meant was that some of you didn't seem too enthusiastic about the shotguns, so I figured you never owned a gun."

Bridget chimed in. "Well I never have. The rest of you seem to have some background. David didn't seem too enthused either."

This was an unfair assumption, thought David, who had bought a gun a while ago, and had been trying to work up enough interest to kill himself with it prior to his arrest and conviction.

"As for me forgetting about the rest of my arsenal, that's not really going to happen. I have been accumulating guns for so long in case of just this kind of disaster, the irony would be too bitter to lose everything now, just when it was all about to pan. I made a big mistake not listening to you, Dan. I apologize. Now what do you say we regroup and head on back there? Even if there are a couple of hundred of those things, the ten of us could take most of them out from the bus windows, at least long enough to load all the weapons onto the bus and my SUV. What do you all say? I'll make it worth your while." Jerry seemed to have bounced back from his near death experience fairly quickly. As if sensing that no one was tempted, he leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Now, I know a lot of you are trying to get sober at the rehab. Now, I don't believe in alcohol or hard drugs myself, but in addition to all the guns and ammo you need, and cash for the trip, I have a half a pound of Pocono's finest hydroponic version of Sour D. This hybrid blend is normally reserved for the upper echelons of Manhattan delivery services, but it can all be yours. A very good friend of mine has a greenhouse up in the woods."

Still no one answered, but Jerry knew this idea was in play, at least with some of the patients. Dan started laughing. "Jerry, you are evil."

Keisha spoke speculatively. "It would be nice to calm my nerves a little bit. I mean, I am coming off heroin." Gregor also seemed to be considering the offer.

"I hate smoking pot," Bridget said categorically.

Dante just laughed. "No way do you have so much Diesel. You probably don't even know what it is."

Al and David maintained their habitual silence. Jorge suddenly spoke. "It might not be a bad idea to shoot some of these Psychos. Popping them from the bus window would give us a chance to use these weapons, and have the experience of shooting at someone. The Psychos still look like people. I don't feel comfortable shooting them."

"Yeah, and you'll blow out your eardrums. Do you know how loud a shotgun is going to sound contained in here?" Al spoke up.

"Well how about this, then? I have a couple of friends who live about fifteen miles from here. If you give me a lift over to where they live, I could try to recruit them for this." Jerry was still trying to hustle.

"The problem is your house isn't fortified. The Psychos are all over it. If we drive them out the door, they'll be coming back through the window. This can't be done, especially since there could be thousands of them. They seem to be attracted to light and noise. What's going to happen when we start making all this noise and emitting barrel flashes?" David was stating facts, not opinions. He didn't care what the group did, in an abstract sense.

"My cellar is fortified. In fact, heavily fortified is a huge understatement. If we try this and get stuck in the cellar, we could ride this thing out for six months, easy. Seriously, I have tons of supplies down there."

Gregor said with conviction, "As long as my Uncle is alive, I am going to New York. The rest of you simply do not know him. He has made my recovery his very top priority." Gregor wryly smiled. "He will be extremely disappointed if I am unnecessarily diverted."

Dante was also against it. "I just don't want to give that bastard Gerard the satisfaction. He already told me I couldn't quit using."

"That was just his game. Gerard is really smart, or at least really good at seeing what makes people tick. I wouldn't take that personally," David interjected, suddenly very talkative.

Bridget stated firmly, "New York."

"New York," Al also said simply from the back.

Keisha agreed. "I'd feel better in the hood. Nobody I know is the type that takes Life Pills."

"You guys are just going to New York, doing some stuff and coming back? That might only take a few hours, really," Dan said. "If you wouldn't mind the company, I wouldn't mind tagging along."

"That only leaves Jen, Jorge, Jerry and David left to decide," observed Dante.

"I'm in," David said. "Gerard doesn't think I could face my personal goals. I just want to teach him about the power of philosophy."

Jen and Jorge looked at each other. "Can we come too? We seem to be out of places to go," Jen asked.

"Whatever else we are, nobody here would put two kids out alone on a night like this. I just hope you're making the right decision," Bridget said. Everyone nodded.

"Answer me this though-when this is over, would you all help me sweep out my house? I mean, say we are coming back in twelve hours. Will you all provide some cover fire for me as I kick Psycho ass? Because I think that might be all I would need, that and about fifty clips of ammo which I can grab from my kitchen cupboards the second I get in the house." Jerry was still bargaining. "It looks like being out on the road in a well-armed group might be the safest way to play this, barring being in my cellar with the steel shutters bolted down. What do you say?"

Nobody had any objections. The bus could comfortably have fit twenty people, and when one has an AK47 and is extremely adept with it, personality flaws, if any, are usually overlooked in desperate circumstances

Al pulled over. "Dante, you want to drive again? I need some sleep. Also, we need to start thinking about getting some fuel. We still have about two thirds of a tank, but we should fill it up and even get some gas cans if possible."

Dante climbed behind the wheel. "I have to say, Al, you don't talk much but you sure can drive when you have to. When you peeled out, I thought you were taking off. Sorry for thinking that. Thanks for proving me wrong too."

Al said nothing. He just climbed into the last seat and lay down.

For a while at least, silence ruled. Each person dealt with their regrets and desires alone. Surprisingly, the addicts and alcoholics were not as obsessed with thoughts of their drugs of choice as one would think, as their bodies created superhuman amounts of adrenaline and endorphins that would compensate for any chemical cravings.

# Chapter Seven: Zombies at the Tollbooth

The small bus had merged with I-80, and sure enough I-80 East was fairly unobstructed, at least up to Stroudsburg, which they had just passed. I-80 West was a mess, however. The two lane highway had morphed into four jam packed lanes of obstructive traffic. Nothing seemed to be stirring, but a long stretch of cars just looked wrong. Doors hung open, windows were smashed, and car bodies were crumpled. It looked as if there had been a massive pile-up and everyone had just left the highway for coffee after. On closer inspection though, one could make out figures walking through the wreckage. Dante pulled the minibus over, and everyone peered through its windows. There were a couple of battered and stranded emergency vehicles. The bus stopping immediately started drawing attention from the moving figures, many of whom started climbing slowly across the highway divider. The appearance of these figures, even from a distance, did not inspire a desire for a closer association.

"Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to keep moving," Gregor mused, as if to himself. "I'm not seeing much from here with no lights on. This mist doesn't help either."

"Do you think there could be survivors trapped in those cars?" Bridget asked this unwillingly, as if afraid someone would say yes, and the onus of trying to offer assistance would fall upon the group, and by extension, herself.

"I'm getting the feeling that whatever just happened already happened," said Keisha. "It's like after a thunderstorm."

"It's funny, but you'd think more people would just cross over when they could and just go west using the I-80 East. People don't think that way though," David said.

"Why is that funny? It's funny that people try to obey the law, even when it's completely broken down? I think it's tragic more than anything else," demanded Al from the back. He had woken up, if he had been sleeping at all.

"It's funny to me because I think. It's tragic to you because you feel," David responded, suddenly loquacious. "It was a poor choice of words on my part. There are a bunch of gas stations near The Water Gap, and even if we have to wait until Jersey, there is a huge truck stop just a couple of miles in, just in case anybody cares. Al is right, a full tank and even two five gallon tanks would be a pretty good safety buffer. We are bound to have to take a detour or get stuck in traffic."

"David, of all of us, you might need to finish this program the most," Al said quietly. "You need something, man." Al spoke without rancor.

"I'm not loving the idea of stopping around here for gas," Dante said, staying on focus. "A lot of the gas stations I could see from the highway looked like the windows were smashed. We might be better off finding some hose and siphoning some gas rather than risk stopping at a public place."

"What do we do if there is a blockade at the Delaware Water Gap?" Dan asked.

"They won't be blocking traffic into Jersey, I don't think. They might be. There is another way across the river, if you follow 611. It's a good question really. We'll have to see." Approaching The Water Gap had piqued David's interest. Indeed, most hardened interstate commuters would understand the significance of this step. "If we can get through the Gap, then in all probability we can get through to New York. This is the fastest way."

I-80 runs right through The Delaware Water Gap. On one side are tall, majestic, stone cliffs with dozens of hawks wheeling through the sky during the day heralding the entrance to The Appalachian Trail, and on the other side is The Delaware River. It never seems to change. The place has a lot of natural beauty, but also a lot of strategic significance. This narrow pass connects New Jersey and Pennsylvania. There is not another major road crossing the River until Port Jervis to the north by almost fifty miles. To the south, there are several small bridges running into 33, but nothing major until close to Philadelphia. Close this artery and several large population centers could be separated from each other by natural physical barriers. Any Psychos that could make it past the high rugged cliffs or the wide and fast moving river would be up against a million registered Pennsylvania deer hunters as they wandered through the woods.

There was no real sign of trouble until the Celtic bus came within visual range of the toll booths, the lanes of which were dark and jammed with cars. The only sign of life was a group of people standing atop a tractor trailer. They were surrounded by a swarm of Pill Heads, who kept trying to climb up from the hood of the truck. A man with a cowboy hat was shooting them, one by one, and a pile of bodies around the cab was a testament to the length of time they had been there. When the people atop the truck saw the minibus, they started waving their arms either as a warning or as a call for help, the group in the minibus couldn't tell for sure.

"This looks bad," Dante said.

"Should we try to help?" Bridget wondered aloud. "A couple of them look like children."

"What attracts them is noise and light, from what I've seen," Jorge observed. "If we make a disturbance, maybe we could distract the Psychos long enough for those people to get down and escape."

"It looks like they were waiting at the toll booth and got taken by surprise. Maybe their vehicles are boxed in by others and they can't escape?" speculated Gregor.

One thing seemed certain, whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. The cowboy seemed to be conserving his ammo, meaning he was running low. The people atop the truck's trailer were starting to show symptoms of panic, screaming and cowering on the roof.

Jerry said, "I have an idea. Just pull up to the beginning of the line."

Jerry's idea was not complex. He vaulted out of the door of the minibus and quickly climbed onto the roof. Then he started blasting away with his AK47, the immediate result of which was all the Psychos began moving towards their minibus.

"Now slowly back up as they approach," Jerry screamed from the roof, and started tapping the window with a spent magazine. "Reload these empty magazines for me," he instructed, as he handed them to Jorge through a bus window.

The crude plan had the genius of simplicity, and was starting to work. Dante started beating his horn and flashing his lights. The plan started to seem like it was working too well when the whole crowd of Psychos abandoned the tractor trailer and began moving quickly toward the minibus, but the people on the truck seized the moment and quickly climbed down and got into the cab of the truck. Through a series of advances and reversals, the truck started battering its way out of the line of vehicles, knocking them aside.

As the minibus backed away, Jerry, seeing the people were relatively safe, climbed back into the bus from the roof. Moments later, the bus was surrounded by the frothing maniacs.

"What now?" Dante asked. "Should we turn back? This looks impassable."

"Wait a few minutes," Jerry answered abstractedly. He was watching the tractor trailer with great interest.

The massive truck had succeeded in pushing enough cars out of the way to break through a toll booth gate into Jersey, but persisted in backing up more cars behind it.

"I think he's clearing a lane for us. Well, that's a fine thank you," Bridget spoke up. "I might have floored it out of here."

The truck battered enough vehicles out of the way to clear a path for the minibus, and then drove past the toll booth into Jersey. About fifty yards in, the truck paused and the horn started blasting.

"Looks like he wants to form a small convoy," chuckled David. "Never met that guy, but I'm starting to like him, whoever he is."

"Yes, I admit that was pretty cool," said Keisha.

Dante shifted into drive, and did a pretty respectable job of blasting through the danger zone at fifty miles an hour, cleaving through a swarm of angry Psychos who seemed to be trying to crash the bus by using their own bodies as speed bumps. Some Psychos did manage to latch onto the bus somehow, but they were scraped off by the remains of the toll booth. Dante drove up to the waiting truck, and after an exchange of sign language, began following the truck down the highway at a reduced rate of speed. There were wrecked vehicles here and there, but no signs of life. I-80 was fairly desolate on the eastbound side. The westbound was just one large automobile graveyard.

After a safe distance from the toll booths had been attained, the truck slowed down, and a hand appeared outside the window, waving the minibus forward. Dante pulled up alongside the truck, and they spoke through their windows.

The man with the cowboy hat was behind the wheel. He facially grimaced in a manner reminiscent of a smile.

"Thanks for your help back there. I mean it. I was just about out of ammunition. The truck stop down the road is still open, if you need to eat or gas up. My treat." The cab was crowded with toll booth refugees, faces peering out from the gloom.

"Are you sure it's safe? We've been seeing and hearing some bad stuff," Dante said.

"Positive," said the cowboy. "I've been communicating by CB with a couple of my buddies who are there already. The locals set up a kind of militia with The National Guard, and are using the truck stop as a rallying point. There's plenty of food and gas. My name is Sammy."

The people in the minibus looked at each other. They all suddenly felt very hungry and sick of being on the bus, and it showed in their faces.

"Okay, you lead and we'll follow. Thanks for the offer. We're The Celtics," Dante replied, chuckling, and the bus began tailing the truck through the early morning stillness. A chilly mist was rising from the river, obscuring their vision as they navigated through the gloom. Here and there they saw moving shadows, elusive forms scuttling through the burnt offerings which formerly had been the frames of cars and trucks. The figures neither waved nor made any other comprehensible appeal for help. The minibus rolled on, silently, passing through the carnage the way a dreamer can traverse a nightmare.

The truck stop was close, and within a mile or so they were jumping off at the exit. The entrance was heavily guarded by armored vehicles that bore National Guard insignias. In addition, there were several jeeps which, though lacking armor, were heavily fortified with fifty caliber machine guns mounted on the backs. These were manned by support troops with lighter machine guns. These jeeps roamed the parking lot of the complex incessantly, policing the complex for any stray Psycho wandering through.

The parking lot itself was packed with RVs, campers, SUVs, vehicles of all makes and models which could accommodate several people and a load of supplies. There was a surreal quality of a tailgate party to the whole thing. Several dozens of charcoal grills were seen functioning as food was distributed. Although Sammy must have vouched for them, a uniformed man poked his head into the bus at the first checkpoint, and waved them through only after a long look at them. The next guards made each of them say their name, and asked if any of them had been bitten or was bleeding. After this brief and cryptic interrogation, they were allowed to follow Sammy into the parking lot, parking near his truck. They got out of the bus carrying their weapons.

When Sammy and his group emerged from the cab of the semi, they immediately ran up and hugged the minibus passengers as if they were long lost relatives. They had, to use an expression, received a good scare back at the tollbooth. They were a motley group, explaining that the Psychos had spilled over in a sudden inundation from I-80 West while they had been backed up at the tollbooth, and Sammy had had just enough time to scoop up some of them onto his roof while grabbing his guns and ammunition. They had watched from the roof as dozens of people had been killed by Psychos. Sammy's methodical shooting had kept them safe for two hours, but they had been seeing the writing on the wall until the minibus had shown up.

"You'll have to check your guns when you go in, but bring them in with you, nobody will confiscate them," Sammy advised. He led them into the truck stop diner. If one had visited this establishment early in the morning over the course of a normal week, it would have seemed a clean, well-lighted place. Good truck stops usually have better quality, service, and hygiene than common stereotypes suggest, since it is a highly competitive business with a mobile and gossipy clientele. Now it was bedlam, as waiters and waitresses ran through the packed dining area seeking not to acquire tips through stellar service, but to feed as many people as possible in the shortest amount of time as possible. Diners were not encouraged to dawdle over brandy and cigars, in other words. Smaller groups that did not use all the chairs at their tables soon had visitors, as every chair at every table was immediately taken upon the vacation of the previous tenant. The Celtics and Sammy's group had a twenty minute wait with which to look upon the scene until a table was ready. They stood by the door, watching the packed diner function like a physical entity.

"It reminds me of The Most Excellent Dumpling House," Gregor said smiling. "It's in Chinatown, and you never know who you will be eating with. It is not altogether unpleasant really. The food is so good and so cheap that it is constantly filled to capacity."

"I can't eat Chinese food. All that MSG gives me heart palpitations," Bridget opined.

"It depends on where you go. Comparing most Chinese restaurants to the Dumpling House is like comparing frozen pizza to real Italian pizza," Gregor responded, sounding slightly hurt.

The atmosphere of the place was altogether different from even the busiest of Chinatown hole-in-the-walls. Though all guns ostensibly were checked at the front desk, many of the diners displayed bandoliers of ammunition across their chest. Although the new arrivals were greeted with non-hostile stares, this was a place where really hungry people were eating fast so that other really hungry people could come in and eat as well, so there was not any of the false cheeriness sometimes associated with such establishments.

Sammy spoke briefly to the hostess, who he apparently knew fairly well, who nodded to Sammy when he made some sort of a request. When a large table became free near the door, "and close to our guns", as Sammy had put it, the group of fourteen crowded around it. Extra chairs were brought. Menus which had been greatly simplified to expedite the cooking and dining process were distributed. Some fresh and perishable foods were on the menu, but there was also a lot of anything that could be canned or frozen. This was actually a pretty good place to eat, as many of the truckers holed up here had full loads of goods in their trailers. A loose barter system was developing, and Sammy had already made arrangements to pay for the meal with cases of beer from his truck, beer being a commodity with high trading value here.

The food was brought with the supernatural speed some truck stops seem to be masters of. The group tucked in to plates of cheeseburgers and fries, steaks, pancakes, home fries, waffles, and club sandwich platters. The sight of the food revived any waning appetites, and indeed, a lot had transpired since any of them had eaten anything. The trail mix given to The Celtics had largely been ignored. Coffee, soda and water were produced in a seemingly endless supply, and for a little while the memories of the evening's horrors were temporarily shelved.

Opinions regarding the age of the human race, or what is known as "modern man" vary. Some say men and women were created about 12,000 years ago, along with the rest of the Universe. Others postulate that the human race has been essentially the same for several hundred thousand years. The extreme resilience shown by these people being able to sit down and eat a meal in the face of such a ghastly sequence of events makes a compelling argument for the latter theory.

When everyone had eaten enough, plans were discussed, introductions were solidified, and rumors were perpetuated. Everyone agreed that whatever was happening was extremely worrisome, but the sheer normality of getting off the road and eating in a diner made the dangers just faced seemed remote. Food and coffee can often have a powerful restorative effect after traumas.

Sammy became expansive as the remaining food began to be consumed at levels approaching politeness. "Now, whatever you guys are planning, you should consider this-this place is like an armed fortress. They have National Guard helicopters choppering in guns and ammunition and reinforcements constantly. It looks open, but they are gearing up to start circling the wagons in the parking lot by pulling all the trucks into loose rings and blockading them with lumber, plywood, anything we can use off the trucks. They are going to create a kind of encampment, with the first wall of defense the National Guard and militia you saw, and the last line being the ring of trucks. If they all get breached, it'll be fixed so everybody can just pile into their vehicles and take off. I don't think even the largest mass of Psychos could take us though. Everybody here is locked and loaded, so to speak, and whoever thought of those roving jeep squads with the 50 Cals mounted on the backs was really thinking."

"It was originally a Somalian War Lord, from what I understand," said Al as he uncharacteristically broke his silence.

This stalled Sammy momentarily, but he began again. "Now, of course, this is a really ugly situation, but if I was you I would think about going to ground right here. You have as good a chance here as anywhere else, and anything you need I can get you. I don't know where you all are going, and it's none of my business I expect, but you saved my life back there."

"We're on a mission from God," David joked, earning a contemptuous look from Bridget.

"Everybody is feeling the strain," Dante said, looking at David searchingly.

"Now, you and me think alike. I had an emergency shelter setup for this type of thing but the Psychos came in so fast that I didn't have time to get to it. Now I'm out on the road with limited resources and firepower. I would rather be in a safe place until this plays out. I mean, at some point the military has to start doing counteroffensives. These Psychos aren't great fighters, but they just come so hard and fast that I have to admit they are scarier than shit. They're like rabid dogs though, they have to run out of steam soon," Jerry spoke in a torrent of words. Sammy and Jerry seemed to be poised on the brink of an epic friendship.

"Cujo didn't," David observed, but was ignored. On the bus his quips had been more tolerable since they defused some tension, but here they were regarded as a distraction.

"Excuse me," said a couple of teenage girls who had walked up to the table. "Are you The Celtics, from the reality show, On the Road to Recovery?" Astoundingly, they had little pads and pencils and were asking for their autographs.

"What you did just now out the Water Gap tollbooth took a lot of guts. We've been watching your show online here for hours," a girl wearing a Pink concert shirt said to Jerry. "And the way you smashed all the trucks out of the way with your semi was beyond clutch," she cooed to Sammy. "What drugs are you all addicted to?"

"The non-sequitor surprise is always the greatest surprise." David said. This time no one evinced any response to his sarcasm.

"What are you talking about?" Gregor burst out, genuinely confused.

"Your reality show. Are you Gregor? I can't believe I'm talking to The Celtics. Wow, Dan, you are cute in real life too!" said the girl, who was wearing an Oklahoma Sooners T-Shirt. "You guys are the best thing on the Net. The Drudge Report and TMZ are linking to your feed. Your show has like twenty million fans on Facebook."

"Yeah, that's right. At first we thought it was going to be some dumb fake show about rehab. All those long therapy sessions were boring, and nobody was that into it, but your show went viral fast once that minibus filled with patients got attacked by Psychos. No way they faked that," the Pink fan said adamantly. "It was just too gruesome."

In fact, the group suddenly seemed to have attained celebrity status. People were craning their heads to look at them, some holding hand-held computer devices and waving.

"Yeah, it's a live feed. We've been watching it while we ate and all of a sudden, we realized that you were sitting in the very same diner we were in," her friend exclaimed.

"Show me," Dante said simply. The Sooner's fan handed him an I-Phone. Sure enough, there was a fairly decent video image of the group. You could click on any individual patient's name in a menu and see from the perspective of that individual. Dante clicked on himself, and after a moment, he slowly waved his hand over the front of his jacket. What he saw appeared to startle him. He handed the phone to Gregor, who performed the same experiment. All the patients requested to see the phone, except Al, who appeared to be apathetic about the whole thing.

"I must admit, this is fascinating," David said. "There seems to be a camera and a mike concealed in the buttons of our clothes. Oh the wonders of digital nanotechnology."

"Who was in the bus where everybody died, do you remember?" Bridget asked suddenly, addressing the girl with the I-Phone.

"I'm not sure. One of them was Charlene. I remember her because she had bandages all over her face."

"Are you thinking of Marie?" Gregor asked. "She had some bandages on her nose."

"She was on that bus too, the girl named Marie, now that you mention it. She flipped out when their bus conked out before they even got out of the gate. No, Charlene, was black, er, I mean African American. Marie was that really angry girl whose father's girlfriend beat her up in a parking lot. "

"How do you know that?" Gregor wondered.

"They posted her sessions with her intake therapist. That girl had issues," she said. Her friend, the Pink fan, concurred. "I felt sorry for the people on The Cowboys. They had no way of knowing how pissed off Marie was."

"I would be too if my father had done all that stuff to me when I was a kid," said the Oklahoma Sooner fan.

This seemed to annoy the Pink fan. "From what I saw, Marie was some kind of police character. Her own friends are saying she is lying about all of that stuff, and that she attacked her father's employee for no reason. She sounded nuts. I mean, I felt bad for her and all that, but still."

"How much for your I-Phone?" Keisha wanted to know.

"It's totally not for sale. This place is totally boring and this is about all there is to do. Besides, there's a guy out there with a whole rig filled with them. You could probably trade something for one. He's that guy over there with the lumber jacket on," the girl with the Oklahoma T-Shirt answered, gesturing towards the far end of the diner.

"What'll he take in trade?" Keisha asked.

"He's a huge fan of the show. You might get one for an autographed picture. It would be bound to be a collector's item. We have to get going. Thanks for the autographs and sorry for disturbing your meal. Could we have our phone back?"

"One more thing," Gregor asked. "What are the other teams doing?"

"The Angels just stripped all their monitoring equipment off and took off. The Steelers had theirs too badly damaged to be much use right from the beginning, but they are going to New York pretty fast. The Cowboys I just told you about." The pretty blond girl looked sad. "You know, it didn't even seem real to me until I met you. What a crazy thing to have happen to you."

"Yeah, I know, it's just so like, unfair," her friend echoed. "They should have called your field trip off when the Psychos started attacking."

Bridget grudgingly handed the girls back their phone. As a final gesture of good will, the two Midwestern teenagers went to the I-Phone dealer they knew and brokered an exchange of three phones, still in their boxes, for forty bucks, fifty 12 gauge shotgun shells, a case of beer donated by Sammy, and sure enough, a quick cell phone picture of himself with the group.

"He gave you a good deal," the girls assured them. "These things are very valuable right now."

"I just hope we don't regret the shells," Jerry said, as the two girls walked away. "Still, it'll be nice to know what's going on."

"I had no idea I was dining with celebrities. What drugs are you addicted to Jerry?" Sammy said, smiling.

"I sort of fell in with the group. I just joined the field trip," Jerry explained, laughing a little. "After that meal, though, I wish I could have gotten a little of my reefer before the Psychos changed my plans."

The group giggled. "What do you say we get going so the next customers can come in?" Sammy asked, looking at the waiting line of would-be diners. "I'll feel better with my guns back anyway. I don't care how safe this place is."

Everyone agreed. It had been a most productive meal. Soon, they were yawning and stretching in the parking lot, standing in the early morning chill of the early Fall.

"Take your bus over to the gas station there and fill it up," Sammy said handing Dante a hand written receipt. "I already talked to management about it. They got the pumps working but electronic credits are down. I don't know what you all are planning on doing, but if you do want to proceed I just want you to have enough gas for your trip. Plus, you'll want to run your bus for a while so you can run the heater for a bit. Even I can't swing a room at the motor lodge, and I been coming here for years. We are sleeping in our vehicles tonight."

"We have some empty seats in the bus if you want to crash there. The five of you is going to be crowded," Bridget said.

"Thanks, but there is a shelter set up for families over yonder. I know the lady in charge, and she has set aside a couple of bunks for my Indiana compadres. The kids will be more comfortable there."

The tired Celtics and their camp followers, having resolved as much of the day's problems as possible, got gas, pulled back alongside Sammy's rig, and ran the motor until the bus was pleasantly warm before shutting down. Keisha used the time to put at least a partial charge on the new phone by plugging into the cigarette lighter. Sammy was also charging another phone for them in his truck.

"Does anybody have anything to say to the viewers at home?" David said, as the exhausted group wrapped themselves up in their jackets and prepared to crash on their foam bus seats. "How about some Gladiator stuff, like Are you not entertained?"

"This is all too weird. Let's just get some sleep," Bridget replied sullenly.

Incredibly, sleep came for all of them, as the trucks wheeled in from the road and the carnage, and as jeeps with their machine gun crews slowly circled the parking lot. Only Al seemed afflicted by insomnia. He paced the parking lot a bit and acquired a carton of Lucky Strikes from a guy selling them out of the trunk of his car, the only kind still available. Al had to part with the last of his credits. In addition, he had to autograph his signature a few times and submit to some photos. Apparently, he had achieved some measure of stardom on this reality show as well. The vendor complimented him on his driving when they had retrieved Jerry from the rifle range. Al supposed the show had its good points, if it enabled him to score some cigarettes, which are traditionally gold in a society in flux.

He stood for hours, as the others slept, smoking and staring at the mist in a patient vigil. In his pockets were both snub nosed revolvers, and as he smoked and stared, more than once he patted them, as if to make sure they were still there.

# Chapter Eight: Marie Loads Up

"Pull over," Marie commanded. Joe looked up, surprised. Throughout this trip, Marie had seemed the most intent of all to get to New York. True, this patch of abandoned and wrecked vehicles looked bad, but no worse than any of the others they had driven by.

"It's not safe," vacillated Joe, halting, but not opening the door.

"I thought I saw someone alive waving by that cop car," Marie improvised. "I'll check myself, nobody else gets out." Nobody else wanted to.

Marie strode out alone into the night, her satchel swinging from her hand. She actually pretended to check the few relatively intact bodies, and then crouched down by the dead cop, obstructing the view from the bus with her body. Without any humor, she pried the cop's gun from his cold dead fingers, and quickly removed his other available equipment-handcuffs, pepper spray, and extra bullets, which she speedily stuffed into her satchel. She looked up quickly when she heard a rustling noise, but it was only the wind playing with some debris. Hurrying, she rose and grabbed a set of keys out of the police car's ignition, and used one to pop open the trunk, finding what she'd been hoping for-a police shotgun and a couple of boxes of shells and a few boxes of bullets for the revolver. The cop must not have had time to grab the shotgun, since it was a much more formidable weapon than the pistol. She shucked in five shells, and stuffed the rest into her satchel as well.

There was a mangled heap of meat with the remnants of a blue coat and a badge affixed to it. Fighting back her revulsion, she kicked another gun away from the pile, which must have been the other cop's partner. She swiftly wiped the revolver down.

Some instinct warned her she had been there long enough. The wind sighing through the wreckage and the dead bodies got to her and she had that unmistakable feeling of being watched. Whether she was justifiably cautious, or whether a lifetime of danger had made her overly so was academic, really.

Returning to the minibus, she announced, "Everybody was dead. I figured grab this while I was out there. It might come in handy." She plopped down on the bus seat, pokerfaced, holding the shotgun over her knees. Joe gave her a strange look as he shut the bus door, but said nothing. The others were also silent. Marie had the calculated cold bloodedness of a cobra, and she inspired respect in the way a cobra is respected. When alone with a cobra, it is best to stay very still until the cobra decides what to do. Marie felt Charlie's eyes on her, but when she glanced at him, he looked away. His self-assurance seemed to have fallen away as the early morning progressed. Joe peeled out. Looking through the window, Marie could still see no sign of life, but was glad to be getting away from there.

After a moment's thought, Marie quietly handed the second revolver to Gwen.

"Watch out. There's no safety. Here's an extra box of bullets."

Gwen took the gun as if Marie had just handed her a live snake. She quickly stuffed it into her satchel and continued to stare straight ahead.

Marie was actually sorry to have made them more uncomfortable. She didn't mean it personally. She had nothing in particular against them, and she actually like Joe's driving style. She was fortunate, she thought, that Joe was as desperate to get to New York as she was. She assumed he had some ulterior motives for this.

The conditions of this game were thoroughly ridiculous, and she believed none of them would actually be foolish enough to try to abide by them. In fact, she believed that the whole game was a typical Homeland Security snafu. The Psycho problem had escalated so rapidly that it seemed incredible they were actually expected to contend with them during what could best be described as a combination A.A. field trip and scavenger hunt. Gerard had even mentioned some kind of TV show they might be in, which seemed preposterous now. The original premise, she reasoned, was the shrinks at the rehab decided to see what would happen if the patients were given enough rope to hang themselves. The ones who didn't seize the opportunity to go and use whatever substances they were in for would then be separated from the hopeless cases. That sounded close, she reasoned. Insurance companies were getting a lot more brutal about paying for drug and alcohol treatment, especially for repeaters.

America was also having serious systemic problems. When Iran had been mired in a war with Iraq back in the 1980s, The Ayatollah had supposedly used drug addicts to sweep mine fields before regular troops went through, Marie remembered reading in a history book. Whether this was true or just wartime propaganda because the USA had been backing Saddam back then, she didn't know, but it did underscore that certain social elements become more expendable than others at times of great social stress.

Marie had never been to rehab before, and was confident she would never be back. She didn't feel like she was violating anyone's trust, since she had not exactly been voluntarily committed. Unconsciously, she rubbed her nose with a grim expression. The bandage from a recent surgery obstructed her vision, so she peeled it off. Her left eye was still a little swollen, but her face had come a long way towards returning to normalcy in the last few months. The only sign of a real injury on her face now was one small bandage left on her nose, which would forever be slightly crooked. Joe continued his frantic driving. Whatever Joe's agenda was, his driving was fine by her, as long as he got her within striking distance of New York in one piece.

The chance to grab those guns had been a lucky card. She was actually a pretty good shot. She had been taught to shoot by fellow Cult members as a child, and had stayed in practice blasting cans with Donnie and his brother in an old strip mine. Naturally small-boned and petite, she had been practical enough to realize her martial art studies alone were never going to make her truly formidable at self-defense, so she had continued to train with both traditional and Western weapons. Being a quick study, her interests had served to prepare her for this journey, which she always knew must come, but had always prayed would not. Just six months ago, she might have said that perhaps this trip could be avoided.

Joe was a lucky card too, she thought. He could drive like a bat out of Hell. This may be why we've had so few problems thus far. Maybe Fortune does smile on the bold. How ironic. Everyone else had been so upset at being forced to go to New York for this crazy scheme, while I might have carjacked somebody to accomplish this same end.

She'd been successfully set up by someone who knew her and understood her weaknesses, but Marie understood some things about The Creep, too. In this time of national crisis, The Creep would never impetuously leave his little fortress of solitude in Lower Manhattan. It was too well fortified with panic rooms and supplies for a year. If things got too dicey, he had a private helicopter pad on the roof, but he would not play that card until the end. If there was a crisis, he would ride it out with his coke dealer and pimp friends' numbers on speed dial and within delivery distance. If something really catastrophic was pending, he had plenty of high up contacts who would warn him when to get out of town well beforehand.

Marie knew nobody was warning him about her though. Her small blip was off the radar and moving fast. Thirty more miles of watching Joe veer around scenes of destruction, and she would be close to the heliport. The Creep's rooftop chopper pad was supposed to be his golden exit ticket, but Marie was going to use that perceived strength as a real weakness. She patted her shotgun like patting the shoulder of a friend.

"Joe, if we drive by a hardware store or something like that, could you pull over so I could run in?" Marie asked into the silence.

Charlie was surly now. "What, are you planning on doing some home repairs?"

Marie smiled, but her smile did not inspire warmth, but rather uncomfortability. "No, I just wanted to grab a saw."

# Chapter Nine: Arty and Phil

Marie was spared having to risk her fellow patients driving off without her while she ran into a store when they chanced upon a work truck loaded with the sort of metal pipes she associated with Donnie, who had taught her how to saw off a shotgun. The vehicle looked like it had been abandoned in a hurry, and the keys were still in the ignition. There was a telltale blood signature, as if someone had been wounded before fleeing. Marie plucked out the keys, and sorted through them until she found a small one that seemed likely to unlock the small metal compartments on the body of the truck. Her association with Donnie, who owned a similar truck, taught her where to look. The first compartment contained a suitable file, and the third held exactly the type of metal saw she required. Spying some old rope and a rubber hose, she grabbed them as well. Highway 10 was desolate and terrifying, but the minibus was only stopped for a total of three minutes before roaring back onto the road.

Marie sat and cheerfully sawed and filed away at the shotgun until it was short and stocky, and could easily be concealed in her long coat. Charlie watched her impassively as she worked. When she finished, and began tidying up the metal shavings, he asked "What is the rubber hose for?"

"That's a present for you guys. You might have to siphon some gas on your return trip. I think you can make New York on what you have, though."

"I thought you were coming with us?" Charlie asked, sounding surprised.

"I have some personal matters to take care of, and I have to catch a flight about ten more miles up the road, so there is where we'll be saying goodbye."

"What is it you have to do?" Charlie asked.

"Well, if you must know, I have to visit my father. I just think it would be fun to drop in and surprise him." Marie ran her finger around the freshly abbreviated and filed steel shotgun barrel. All of the patients exchanged glances, except Joe, who appeared not have heard a thing, and just kept staring fixedly at the road as he drove. Only once did Marie feel him looking at her, briefly in the rear view mirror. When she met his gaze he instantly looked away. This gave Marie a twinge, but it was just a shadow, a memory of an older pain. Marie had been forced to bid farewell to friendship and camaraderie so many times she had now abandoned the capacity out of a desire for emotional survival.

Theirs was a silent journey, with but a minimal recourse to words. Charlie and Joe no longer spoke to each other, George seemed a bit on the slow side, and Gwen apparently had arrived at the conclusion that Marie was some kind of gangster. Her native timidity had been exacerbated by the rigors of the last few hours, and she had lapsed into a kind of catatonia, staring out into the moonscape that was New Jersey in disbelief as Joe gunned past and through the mayhem. Psychos reacted to the passing bus, but a moving target is hard to hit, and the main contingent of them seemed to have already swept through here on their way towards areas of greater population density. Whether by luck or some kind of psychic sense of Joe's, his choice of routes had made their journey at least passable, but their progress was starting to get slower due to all the road obstructions.

At last, they arrived at the small airport, which at first glance looked deserted. The sturdy chain link fence encompassing the perimeter appeared to be unbreached.

Dawn broke as the minibus pulled up to the gate. With scant words of farewell, Marie climbed on to the roof of the bus, tossed her satchel and equipment over, took off her coat and spread it over the razor wire on the top of the fence. She quickly crawled over the coat, using it as a shield to reduce the amount of laceration her lithe body received as she fell over to the other side, clawing at the metal links to slow her descent. Her high level of physical conditioning contributed greatly to the success of this procedure. The bus had peeled out before she landed on the airstrip side.

"I guess I didn't really deserve an emotional sendoff," Marie quipped. It was easier this way. Friendship was a nice idea, but Marie had cured herself of ideas, and was finally dealing with just realities. The world had shrunk in the last six months, and she could no longer delude herself that there was room in it for both her and her father. She headed for the helicopter ports, making sure her police revolver was fully chambered, and her sawed off shotgun had all five shells in and the safety off.

She tucked the revolver into the back of her jeans. Coatless now, the early morning wind bit into her thin frame, but she didn't mind. After hours in the bus her joints were stiff, and she welcomed the fresh air and exercise. Although she had been locked up, she had spent most of her time inside doing the corniest thing imaginable-pushups, thousands every day. She had never felt stronger or more toned.

The heliport looked deserted, but as she walked up, two figures emerged from the gloomy interior. Thinking they were Psychos, she instantly went for her revolver, but as she raised it, long gun barrels emerged from the gloom as well, as the two figures raised their weapons.

"Okay, just stop. Lower your gun, raise your other hand, and walk towards us," a voice shouted. Marie obeyed, her satchel dangling from her arm she was carrying her sawed-off with.

As she got closer to the two men, she watched their eyes, and in them saw the reaction she had been hoping for. Marie had been blessed, or cursed, with an unusually pretty face. All her life she had taken it for granted. It was only the recent threat of losing her looks that had made her conscious of how much easier her life sometimes was made by virtue of them. After what may have been days spent in isolation and panic, the two men still lit up involuntarily at the sight of Marie, even Marie unwashed, in jeans and a T-Shirt, a bit bloody from the fence, and with a bandaged nose. If Marie could have believed it, it was also the boldness of her step, and the courage with which she faced them that anyone would have found attractive, but she had been objectified too much over the course of her young life to accept this possibility.

The men looked at her closely. "Were you bitten?" the shorter one asked, looking at her bleeding arms.

"No, I just got scraped pretty bad coming over the fence. Why do you ask?"

"The Psychos are contagious," the shorter one said, his eyes roaming over Marie's body with a kind of fearful admiration. They both kept watching her as if she were about to transform into something unholy.

"I thought only the people on Pill G were affected," Marie countered.

"You thought wrong. They caught the disease first, but now they are transmitting it. What are you doing here anyway?" the short one demanded.

"I came to catch a ride, if possible. What are you doing here?" Marie asked. Taking the offensive is sometimes a good strategy. Maybe if she preempted their questions she would be able to make them defensive enough to question her less.

"We work here, young lady," said the shorter one, who may have been five years older than Marie. "We are responsible for keeping an eye on things."

Marie liked people by nature. Why she had not lost this trait given her travails was a mystery, even to her. So, it was not without an element of good natured fun that Marie responded, while looking around at the barren tarmacs and the empty stretches of open hangars.

"What are you keeping an eye on?" she asked, smiling just a little.

"Never you mind, you are trespassing. You are lucky we don't kick you out right now. The radio says a horde of Zombies is coming right at us," the taller one said officiously. "We'll be very lucky if they don't crash right through here anyway." Marie realized that these two were almost quaking in fear, despite their attempts at bravado.

"Why do you call them Zombies?" she asked, curiously.

"Because that is the name that best describes them and what they do. They rage, they bite, they infect. After the disease incubates, the bitten person essentially joins them in their raging beserkness. According to the finest literary traditions of George Romero, Psychos are actually Zombies, or Zombies are Psychos, ipso facto. Whatever the government's cover story is, even though it appears to contain a few kernels of truth, if it looks like a Zombie, waves his arms and staggers like a Zombie, and turns others into Zombies by biting chunks out of them, it is a Zombie. Words have exact meanings." The tall one appeared to have been waiting for a fresh audience for this speech, as the shorter one had obviously heard it before.

"Essentially, he calls them Zombies because he fell off his rocker," the shorter one inserted.

The taller one grew angry. "How can we expect to defeat them if we cannot even name them accurately? They are best defined as Zombies."

"Well, whatever you call them, what's your plan?" Marie was processing this new information, but since it had no real bearing on her immediate mission, she would ignore it for now.

"We were supposed to stay here and keep the last helicopter ready to go. It belongs to some rich guy in Manhattan, and when his pilot got here we were supposed to catch a ride out with him. We've been waiting for eight hours. With this horde coming, I don't know if the pilot could ever get through even if he decided to try to show." The tall one spoke as if to himself. He was terrified. Marie knew all the signs, knew them extremely well in fact.

"Why don't you just take the chopper and get out of Dodge then?" Marie asked the leading question.

"We, uh, don't fly. We mainly keep plane and helicopters flight ready, fueled up, that sort of thing," the short one said. "We do a lot of pre-flight checks, anything really. We sort of can fly little Cessnas, but helicopters are a lot different."

"Where would you go once the pilot gets here?" asked Marie.

"My uncle has a really nice boat. He says the best thing would be for us to join him. He's already out at sea, but the helicopter has a long rope ladder. We figured the pilot could just sort of dangle us down to the deck. Sounds safer than dry land, at any rate," said the shorter one.

The taller one chimed in, "My family is in Texas, and so I was just going to go with Arty here to the boat. My name's Phil, by the way."

"Glad to meet you. I'm Marie. By any chance do you know the name of this rich guy in Manhattan?" Marie knew what they were going to say before they even answered. Sometimes you can just feel the luck rolling. When they did answer, she smiled. "That would be my father," she said, telling them the address. "You are in luck. I can fly that helicopter well enough to get you to where you are going, and then I will deliver the chopper myself. The pilot isn't coming, and you know you have to get out of here soon." She addressed herself particularly to Phil, who seemed very open to the idea of leaving. "Why be heroes? I might be your last chance out of here. By the way, what was that pilot's name?"

Arty and Phil stared at each other for an interminable moment.

# Chapter Ten: Afghanistan Al

At about 7 a.m., Dante woke up and came out of the bus. He went to one of the numerous Port-o-Johns that had been set up, and came out wiping his hands with a Chem-Wipe. Many of the men had simply been relieving themselves in the bushes, but Dante was naturally fastidious. He walked up to Al explaining. "I never smoke. I won't keep bumming them. Luckys. You must have death wish. I know you just got out of jail now." Dante took the proffered cigarette and the lighter Al handed him. He lit up and started coughing. "Damn, boy, you don't need the Psychos if you keep smoking these."

Gregor also emerged from the bus. He did not seem to be a morning person, and signaled for a cigarette by hand gestures. When the rest of The Celtics, along with Jerry, Jorge, Jen and Dan emerged, Al began to speak.

"This was the only kind I could find. Lucky to have them." Al spoke patiently. "What's our next move, do you think?"

"Well, Sammy sounds like he's talking sense. We could just ride it out here. Like he said, there's plenty of supplies, and we are bringing some guns to the table and Sammy owes us, he says, so I don't see a problem with just hanging out. Think of this-how many of these Pill G Psychos can there even be? They have to be thinning out," said Dante.

Slowly, significantly, Al raised his hand to the top button of his coat and covered it. Dante looked confused for a microsecond, and then covered his own coat button. Gregor looked obtuse as well, but then covered his button. The rest of The Celtics followed suit. Al nodded, and then spoke: "You are right, by that line of reasoning, but let me ask you this-how do we know how many there are? True, it started with the Pill G Psychos, but what if it is spreads to the general population? What we've seen so far could still be just like the early tremors before a major earthquake." Al spoke softly, facing away from the bus. "If this is true, being in an open space like this with a lot of panicky civilians with kids could be a major mistake. There's no high ground that's really defensible. If these Zombies really start coming, they won't come in thousands, or ten thousands, but more like hundreds of thousands, swarming towards the Water Gap. All we've seen so far are just a few strays from the main contingent."

Dante looked at Al for a long time impassively. Then he spoke, very softly, "Al, until you used the word Zombies, I was totally on the hook. You just left me. Was that just an expression or did you actually mean to use that word?"

"I know something about this. I intentionally used the word Zombies because the best way to describe what we are facing is to call them Zombies. The term Pill G Psychos only applies to the initial generation of the diseased. After the initial infection resulting from the use of the generic form of the Life Pill G, the reasons for which the government has detailed, and are, in fact, essentially accurate, the disease morphs into full blown Zombieism in the second generation. This highly useful fact is something the governments of the world are not talking about." Al spoke rapidly and perfunctorily. He seemed to be racing to make himself understood, while at the same time knowing that what he was saying would take some time to internalize.

"Al, you have obviously given this some thought, but why would the government lie to us? Also, how did you become such an expert?" Dante looked unbelieving, as did the rest, except for David who was staring out across the truck stop parking lot to the mountains beyond.

Al lit up another cigarette. The morning sun betrayed his exhaustion. Exhaling, he spoke thusly: "Dante, I don't know why the government would lie. I do have some theories, though. I think that it is probably a combination of reasons more than any one particular item. One of the reasons is the true origin of the Life Pill. I am going to explain this to you as it was explained to me, as best I can. First, consider this question-of all the periods of scientific research, particularly biochemical research, when do you suppose was the most productive, or one of the most productive?"

Dante shook his head. "Maybe right now, there are a lot of research labs and stuff, at least there were."

"Yes, you are right, but some of the most important foundational research occurred in Nazi Germany. It's one of the dirty little secrets of Biochemistry, if you want to call it a secret. People just don't take the trouble to find out. Hitler understood the value of science, and he provided an unlimited number of human beings for primary testing. Can you imagine how much faster that was? After the war, when the origins of so much of this primary research was so easily swept under the rug, a lot of scientists from the Allied powers saw this and got inspired. Some Nazi scientists were rehabilitated and brought to The States, the USSR, or anywhere there was a cooperative government willing to allow them to work unmolested. This yielded more than cutting edge technology, some of which has inarguably saved lives. It incorporated an ethos, a new ideal, into Western Science. The ends began to justify the means when it came to formulating, developing, and implementing new chemical compounds.

"This brings us to Afghanistan. Now, we could talk about that war all day, but the important thing is that long about early 2007, after years of fighting, we were about to throw in the towel. American kids were dying for reasons nobody seemed to remember, and there was no foreseeable way out that could preserve our national dignity, as well as the careers of the Pro-War president, senators and members of Congress who would be up for re-election in 2008. The Afghan Army we were raising up to fight the Taliban after we left was essentially not useful, to put it charitably. We needed better home grown fighters, and we needed them fast." Al paused, his face visibly tense. He had forgotten his cigarette burning to the nub, and grimaced, throwing it away and rubbing his hand briefly where it had singed him.

"So along comes this egghead named Professor Gaultier with a project he's been working on for his entire career, which up to the then had been mainly teaching at some no name school in the South. It had started out as part of his doctoral thesis on life prolongation, which nobody had paid any attention to. He noticed his latest attempt at it prolonged animal life extensively while maintaining the emotional stability of the subject, but another variation promoted longevity but also an almost superhuman aggression. He was still perfecting the first one, Pill Alpha, but he wanted to know if the Defense Department might have a use for the second one, which he called Pill G. Apparently, he had gotten tired of living in University Housing.

"The Pentagon took a look at it and liked what they saw. They asked him what he needed to test it, and he said, although he would never do it, the fastest path towards optimizing this pill and the dosage, etc., would be to test it on humans who were living under stressful conditions. Well, it didn't take long for somebody in the military to get the idea of killing two birds with one stone by testing the new drug on humans while also accelerating the training of Afghan freedom fighters. They had not much to lose, and a whole lot of funding to gain. Like I said, even though the Nazi Scientists are dead, their ideas remained. It's like nibbling at The Forbidden Fruit, you may as well just eat the damn thing."

"At first, the operation was an incredible success. The new amped up Freedom Fighters were impervious to almost anything but a direct head shot. As far as being aggressive enough, these guys would literally tear the Taliban to pieces, or anybody else for that matter. They were like these destructo-bots, except that their brains would get fried and they would lose all power of cognition and forget how to use weapons or talk or anything else requiring higher cognitive ability. They also started attacking anything that moved. Still, they didn't attack each other, and as long as we just dropped them into the heart of Taliban country, they didn't have the opportunity to kill too many friendlies once they turned Psycho. They were like these walking land mines even after they turned stupid. They created a lot of chaos, a lot of confusion. They were scaring the crap out of the Taliban, who as a group, I feel qualified to tell you, are not known for scaring easily."

"Doesn't sound like a problem so far, at least from a military perspective," Gregor interjected.

"It wasn't at first. We even installed cameras and GPS monitors on them so we could track them. We could get them to attack a Taliban hotspot by hitting the area with ultraviolet light and dropping in noisemakers that were like these pulsed dog whistles. They'd see the lights and hear these dog whistles, which can't be sensed by ordinary people, and they would come shambling in to attack. They tripped land mines and IEDs and would just keep crawling with half their bodies blown off. The Taliban used up an awful lot of ammunition before they figured out that only head shots would work against them."

"So what happened?" asked Keisha, who was starting to wake up at last.

"What happened is just what I'm talking about here. The original Pill G Psychos in Afghanistan started infecting people. Suddenly, all these hill people are staggering around trying to tear us apart. We have no way to monitor them, and little control over them. These second generation Pill G Psychos, or first generation Zombies, whichever you like, still responded to UV lights and dog whistles, but that was our only method of controlling them at all. We could only contain them. I'm sure there are still Zombies in Afghanistan, they are just all up in the hills. Now both the Taliban and us are fighting them, if you can deal with that irony. We shoot them on sight as soon as they get to the lowlands. I'm not saying that we don't kill civilians over there--we do, but a lot of those flying drones you always hear about are hunting Zombies only. A blown up Zombie looks essentially the same as a blown up Normal, so some of the blame we are catching is undeserved, in a way. The worst fear has always been for this to hit a population center which contains American voters, which is what we have happening here. This has to be a huge mistake, since it's so devastating to our current political system."

Gregor looked at Dante, then back at Al, and spoke, smiling coldly. "You have hardly said a word in the two days we've known you, and now this torrent. Why do you keep saying 'we' anyway?"

"I was a part of this. I was a monitor, which is what people who kept track of Pill G Psychos were called. I got the background after, when I was reassigned to be a prison guard there. I was only in charge of one prisoner--Professor Gaultier. He had degenerated greatly, due to guilt and the abundant supply of primo Afghan Brown he was using to deal with it. Somebody had shown him footage of some Psychos tearing up an entire Afghan village, and he couldn't hack it after that. Pathetic, really. All that brainpower and he didn't see this coming. He never once anticipated The Brass wouldn't let him pull the plug at any time. What was he thinking? At first, probably how slick he was to become a multi-millionaire and help the war effort. He was one brainwashed puppy, in the beginning. After he woke up, he was crazy enough to threaten to squeal. Squeal to who? Jimmy Olsen? Reporters take dictation in this country, so imagine what goes on in places like Afghanistan. So they locked him up, or put him in 'protective custody'." It shows how highly they thought of him, really. Anybody else would have been dead and buried in the Afghan Mountains before they could have finished that threat." Al was obviously starting to get worked up. "So you can see why I am worried now. We might be better off if we keep moving."

"Well, what happened to Professor Gaultier? I can't believe you actually met him, though I'm not calling you a liar, understand," Gregor said, not sounding very convincing. "His disappearance is famous, he was like Elvis. He cured Death for God's sake, and then he tainted the formula to cause Pill G Psychosis out of spite. Everybody knows this." The others nodded in assent. Gaultier was the most easily recognized scientist's name in the world, and the most hated as well.

"For all I know, he is still in military prison somewhere. They kept him pretty drugged up and lethargic, and he doesn't care anymore. Anyway, he told me a lot of stuff I wasn't supposed to know because I brought him extra dope. I'm just sharing what he told me. Also, for the record, the government story about him destroying Pill Alpha and causing Pill G Psychosis is total bullshit. I knew the guy. He made a mistake in selling his invention to the military, but he was a good man. He was just an idiot with a 180 I.Q. He was not capable of causing all this out of malice. I don't know why they are pinning it all on him. It's like he's Emmanuel Goldstein from that book, 1984.

"I'm just saying I've got a bad feeling about being here. I got a bad feeling about all this. I'm not saying the Zombies are smart, they probably are not, but somehow they always seem to arrive en masse for important objectives, the way ants always do," Al continued.

"How come you haven't said anything so far?" Gregor wanted to know.

"Because, dude, we are being watched. I'm trying to impress on you the gravity of our situation. The Zombies have a tendency to surround a target and come from all sides relentlessly. Soldiers panic when they do it, especially the first time they see it. How do you think untrained civilians are going to react?"

"Okay, granted, you sound like you know what you are talking about," Dante spoke up, "So what's our next move?"

"Well, this is a tough spot. There's ways to make this place more defensible, but it would require coordination and cooperation. I don't think we'll get it. Not that these aren't good people, they seem like great people. They just don't know what they are up against. I don't want to abandon them to their fate, but let's face facts. If a couple hundred thousand Zombies hit us at once, we'll go through all the ammunition here inside of an hour. We have very light artillery, and the air support looks like a couple of old helicopters with light guns. The harsh reality is that once they break through, and they will break through, it's going to be every man, woman, and child for themselves, barring individual acts of heroism and self-sacrifice which will probably be pointless anyway.

"So I say we load up and haul ass. It stands to reason that the main body of them would be coming from New York and the big Jersey cities down the major highways. If we could stick to back roads, we might be able to sort of outflank them, and keep going to New York. They are very herd-like once they start moving. There won't be too many stragglers left behind once the vanguard passes through."

"Passes through to where?" Dante asked.

"Picture a mob of hungry cave men cannibals. They get to a food source, they grab up all the easy kills, they eat, and then they keep going to the next easy supply. It's easier to just keep despoiling than it is to figure out how to catch every last straggling human. Look, I'm telling you this for a reason, what do you want to do? We need to make a decision."

"What are you going to do?" Dante asked.

"I go where the bus goes. We need to get a consensus. This might not be a good place to be tonight."

"We should at least tell Sammy and the others what's going on," Gregor opined. Some part of Al's lecture had sunk in with him. "We could just tell them we heard a whole lot of Zombies were heading this way and it was time to bail."

"I'll go talk to Sammy and see what he says," Jerry said. It was arranged that the group would meet around the bus in one hour's time, so there would be ample time for discussion and a breakfast of some sort.

The discussion never took place. An advance contingent of Zombies, maybe fifty thousand strong, struck about forty-five minutes later. They'd gone unnoticed by satellite because they had advanced under the canopy of trees which extended around the truck stop for miles. Al's speech was not without some benefit, since the gist of his talk had spread like wildfire through the truck stop proper, resulting in a highly alert populace. When the first wave hit, Sammy knew enough to sound the alarm immediately, sending everyone scurrying into their vehicles. Although the rest of the people at the truck stop got a greatly abbreviated version of Al's story, it was good enough to hammer home the gravity of their situation.

The National Guard fought bravely, and the wolf packs of jeeps with 50 caliber machine guns mounted on the back were highly effectual, a good idea. The problem however, was the sheer number of Zombies that kept appearing in fresh assaults. It was like watching those South American Army Ants that will fill a ditch with their bodies, so the rest of the horde can pass across over them. The parking lot soon became impossible to maneuver freely through, as the crumpled bodies of Zombies began to obstruct the Jeeps. As the Guard lost the ability to provide massive firepower quickly at the site of any breach in their defenses, breakthroughs became more common. Rifle fire could drive back ingressions, but it was shocking how much ammunition was being used so quickly, how many weapons were becoming jammed and overheated. The horde just kept coming.

Al had said he was anxious to leave, but he leaped into the fight. He got one of the truckers to let him use a bulldozer he was hauling, and he started to move the scattered bodies into large piles. He was fairly secure in the locked cab of the bulldozer, so even though he was immediately swarmed, the cage he was in protected him. Soon the parking lot was clear enough for the jeeps to become effectual again. For some reason, there was no shortage of 50 caliber ammunition, so Al had reasoned that keeping them going was a top priority. After three brutal hours, the attack ceased. The Zombies hadn't retreated, or quit to look for easier targets, there just weren't anymore, in any real numbers. Snipers on the truck stop roof were picking off any still lurking around.

"I told you we were safe here Al, what do you say now?" Sammy was jubilant. A small group of National Guard and truckers stood with him, celebrating the victory.

"We were lucky. The first attack came by day, so it was like an advance warning. Somebody in the National Guard has a brain, because whether anybody has told him so or not, those jeeps are genius. Plus, we just happen to have bulldozers and diesel fuel right on the site. This could have ended very badly, even though there weren't that many of them."

"Weren't that many? We just killed fifty thousand of them at least."

"Yeah, and half our ammo is gone. Look, we need to rest, they don't. We need to eat and sleep, they don't. They will never stop coming. We would be better off running."

"How about all the people here?" Sammy demanded, "We just leave them?"

"Bring 'em along. Look, eventually, the military is going to get it together. The pattern is that once enough people have died, the bosses get scared and let somebody who actually knows how to fight do the planning. We could pack everybody into the backs of these trailers, load them with drinking water, food, and guns, and just start driving, maybe go to the ocean and see if we can get on board an oil tanker or cruise ship, anything. These things don't climb so well. If we can wait this out someplace safe where we don't have to fight, we could live long enough for the people who get paid to fix this stuff to fix it. I don't think we can take another attack like this last one, and we definitely don't want to be here for a night attack, like I said. What are we defending here? It's a truck stop. Yes, it was being used as a rallying point, but it seems like we've rallied as much as we are going to. There haven't been any new people for a while, maybe they've stopped coming, or there are too few coming to worry about since that would endanger the many that are already here."

Unbeknownst to the others, Jerry and a National Guard officer had been standing and listening to the whole exchange.

"I'm in command here, soldier. You have something to say you should talk to me. I know you're not scared and that you're smart after what you did with that bulldozer. Talk to me, and advise me what you think is best," the officer said to Al quietly. Al joined Jerry and the Guardsman, who apparently knew each other somehow, and they went into a brief huddle apart from the group.

In the end, all of Al's plans were used. One long convoy of trucks would carry all supplies. 50 caliber guns were to be placed on the roof of every fifth truck. The lead truck would be hauling bulldozers in case the road needed to be cleared. Diesel trucks would be flanked by any armored military vehicles available. The convoy would proceed along minor highways towards the Camden yards where several decommissioned ships would be available as fortresses. The hope was that the convoy could drive right up, unload their gear, and just sit in the harbor for a while.

The National Guard officer briefly outlined the plan. "The best thing is just to get moving towards the ocean, even The Hudson River would have big enough ships. They need to keep moving, I agree. We can monitor the Zombies via satellite to help the convoy avoid them on the road. Confidentially, between us, our helicopters have seen a gigantic mass of these things about twenty miles away coming westbound down Highway 80. There looks like another horde coming right after them. Both are several times as big as what we just faced. We think we have two or three hours so we should be able to get rolling. Our scouts are saying if they can stay off 80 and to a lesser extent 46 by sticking to side roads, they should be able to get back on the interstates once the main hordes have passed," the National Guard officer explained. "Let's get this going. The more I think about it the more I think it's the only way, at least for the civilians."

"What are you going to do?" asked Al, dreading the answer.

"I'm going to barricade myself and a few volunteers on the roof of the truck stop with all the field artillery and all the ammunition we can't spare you, and I am going to try to take a chunk out of the advancing hordes. We're the only thing standing between them and Pennsylvania."

This response reminded Al of a simpler time, as if he were hearing something he had believed in a long time ago, and had thought he had forgotten. Al dreaded knowing what he would say next.

"Captain," Al said, addressing the officer by his rank for the first time, "I'm clean now, but I got bounced out of the military for shooting dope. I mainly think all of the wars we are in are for the wrong reasons, and I could be convinced we're in Afghanistan for the heroin dealers more than anything else, not that I'd know for sure. I am no longer what is popularly considered a patriot, but if you'll have me, I'd like to volunteer to join you."

The Captain smiled grimly. "I could use you. I don't really know how you got here, but what matters is you'll be saving a lot of lives now. Help get your friends set up and moving, and then report to the truck stop to help haul stuff up onto the roof."

They didn't bother saluting. Al found The Celtics and told them the plan. Surprisingly, Jerry, Jen, Jorge and Dan wanted to join as well. Sammy did too, but he was taking that small family from Indiana in his truck to the shipyards, and everybody agreed that was the best move for him.

"This is a suicide mission. I appreciate the gesture, but you are all young kids, and Jerry should go with you to watch you," Al wheedled with them, knowing he would regret it if they stayed.

Jen was firm. "I can reload, carry water, help the injured, and fire a gun if I have to." Jorge would stay if Jen was going to, and Dan and Jerry were also immovable on the subject.

The rest of The Celtics were uncertain. David was the only one who seemed undistracted. "Hey, do you want me to stay and be a hero too? It'll be like The Magnificent Seven, though there would only be us six."

Dante and Gregor also spoke of being willing to stay, but Al knew they didn't really want to. Keisha was clear on the topic--she would make her stand in The Bronx or nowhere, and Bridget was simply not going to be much use in this particular situation.

"You guys just get going, okay? Whatever possibly valid reason Gerard and Amiko had for pushing this game, I think I understand it now. It's worth it. Jen, if you go, Jorge will go as well. Think of that."

Al and the rest of The Celtics exchanged only the briefest of farewells. There was little time for sentiment. The morning's events had reaffirmed the reality of the impending danger. He felt a twinge as he watched the convoy lining up to drive out. He hoped his plan would work for them. At least they would have access to some military technology, and that should be really helpful for avoiding advancing swarms on the road, for the most part. His farewells completed, Al shouldered his gear and started walking towards the truck stop.

He didn't look to see who came with him, but when he got there, he looked around and there was Jen, Jorge, Jerry, and Dan, as promised.

"This is the right thing to do," Jen explained, walking alongside him. "This is going to save a lot of lives. It will slow down and thin out the horde somewhat, and give everybody in Pennsylvania time to get ready at The Water Gap. That's the place to stop them for real." Although Jen was merely parroting the plan, and was really just a high school girl on the surface, some switch inside of her had been flipped, and Al could easily believe she was committed to the death.

The work was hard and intense, as pallets of supplies were hauled up ladders and stairs. The Captain seemed to be getting ready for an extended siege. The twenty foot high walls could be held for a long time if the truck stop was properly barricaded. The most open parts were being blockaded with empty tractor trailers, their tires being quickly flattened to make crawling under them more difficult.

Al and the rest had worked for maybe twenty minutes when they saw the minibus wheeling slowly out of the convoy. It stopped, and David, Dante, Gregor, Bridget, and Keisha got out, satchels and shotguns in their hands.

"Screw it, we want to die too," Keisha said cheerfully. Without further explanation, they got out and started hauling freight up the stairs with the Guard.

# Chapter Eleven: Visiting Isaiah

Ten minutes after Marie got off at the airport, Joe, Charlie, Gwen and George were finally starting to see Psychos. A lot of Psychos, to be exact.

They weren't fast or anything like that, but they were supremely willing to sacrifice their bodies to stop a hurtling minibus. Anyone who has ever hit a deer with their car can appreciate that sickening thud flesh makes when hit by a large chunk of metal. The conundrum became this--if they drove too fast, Psychos would jump in front of the bus, causing a lot of damage. If they drove too slowly, Psychos would have time to start massing around their vehicle and tip it over the way anti-capitalism protesters in Argentina tipped over vans a few years back.

To make matters worse, they were starting to run low on fuel. Gwen stared at Marie's gift of rubber hose with an almost talismanic awe. Although it had seemed as if Marie had been joking, or being a smart aleck, Gwen was disturbed at what a thoughtful present it had turned out to be. All the gas stations were ravaged and desolate, and many still looked occupied by Psychos.

Finally, Joe started talking. "I hoped we could get through on the big Interstates, but they look jammed and really dangerous. I have an idea, but I don't know if you will like it."

"What now?" Charlie said. He didn't sound like a receptive audience.

"Here it is--we jump off 10 and get on 202 heading northeast, then get on 59 heading east until we hit The Hudson River. Then we get a boat from somewhere and just drift down to the intersection of The Harlem River and The Hudson on the northern tip of Manhattan. That part of Manhattan might be our best bet. There is a really old park there, and right past that is a canoe club and then pretty much a deserted wasteland along railroad tracks. We might be able to get off around there and just work our way up through the woods to The Cloisters, which is right there on top of this big hill."

"You seem pretty familiar with this place," George observed.

"Well, I used to buy a lot of crack in Washington Heights, and I would wander around a lot around there smoking rock. Before 9/11 and before they built that big bike path up to The George Washington Bridge, that area was like the undiscovered country in Manhattan. Nobody knew about it. Fort Tryon Park is huge, and has all these little rock formations to sleep in, and nobody ever bothered me."

"Are you feeling tempted, Joe? Do you want to talk about it Joe? I'm here for you brother, though I know we've had our differen...." Charlie was gearing up to provide his wisdom when Joe interrupted him brusquely.

"My point is, I don't see how we'll get across The GW. It's probably blocked by cars, and I for one do not want to have to walk across that thing. I'm saying we siphon a full tank of gas, start driving, overshoot Manhattan, and come back by boat right next to The Cloisters."

"I'm in," said George. "You are a genius dude, seriously."

Charles was less encouraging. He approved the plan, mainly because he knew Joe would demand a better one from him if he didn't, and Charlie couldn't think of one.

Gwen agreed because the world had turned upside down, and more than anything else, she didn't want to be alone.

"Okay then, its set," Joe summarized. "First we steal some gas, and then we have to start working on Point B--thinking up a way to get some guns."

"Are you sure we'll need them?" asked Gwen. "You just said that part of Manhattan is pretty deserted."

"It's still Manhattan, Gwen. I'd rather not be running through those woods which are bound to be full of Psychos with nothing but my good looks for protection," replied Joe. "Not to mention it's a long way just to get there on this route. I'm just thinking that upstate is bound to be less populated with Psychos than Central Jersey, plus this way we beat the bridge and tunnel problem."

Gwen looked at Joe's anguished features, contorted by the emotions of the night but also from long battle with a particularly bad crack addiction, and she thought that he might just have a point. As if to prove him right, as they got on 59 East and started making their tortuous way towards the Hudson River, the wash of Psychos began to thin out. The dangers of their massing in numbers became less, and then almost non-existent.

"It's like they form large masses and then all migrate at once," observed Charlie, commenting on the obvious. It was a sign of lessening tension that he had made a fairly lucid statement though, and Gwen was glad he had roused himself from his fearful, mumbling catatonia. Charlie had made a career of jumping rehabs when treatment became too demanding, so one can only speculate what the concept of nowhere else to run was doing to his head.

George shifted in his seat uncomfortably. This wouldn't have been as bad if Gwen hadn't been here, but she was, and George found himself in a highly embarrassing situation.

"Guys, I hate to say this, but I really need to go to the bathroom," he finally just admitted. "Could we pull over someplace when we get the chance?"

Joe, Charlie, and Gwen all tittered, Gwen in spite of herself. It was just too ludicrous.

"Here," Joe said, "Here is an empty water bottle. Go in the back and pee in it."

"I can't," George said adamantly. "I need to go number two," he said, looking shamefaced.

This brought the house down as the other three burst into uncontrollable laughter.

"Dude, you have to hold it in. It's not like any of these rest stops are safe, and do you really want to go into the woods by the side of the road right now? Go in the back, we'll open a window," Charlie said through his hilarity. The situation might have been mildly amusing in normal times, but something about this intrusion of one of Life's mundane necessities at a time like this made the problem almost manically funny. Maybe finding something to laugh about was like grasping at sanity for their frayed nerves.

"No. Please. We have to stop someplace," George said, becoming upset. His mind did not function well in the abstract, and he was unable to distance himself from this moment enough to understand the amusement of the others as a reaction to their quandary, only seeing himself as the brunt of what seemed to be cruel humor. "Anywhere is good. We haven't seen a Psycho in fifteen minutes."

Guiltily, Gwen joined George's cause. "George, I'm sorry I laughed at you. Guys, we probably could find a safe spot for him to jump out for a couple of minutes. He's right, I haven't seen any Psychos either for a little while. Maybe they do only travel in packs?"

After some debate, it was decided to find a relatively safe spot, much to the increasingly discomfited George's relief. At first, Charlie suggested finding a big parking lot, and then they could watch for Psychos while George went, but George didn't want people to see him.

Joe then suggested finding an abandoned car and pulling over to let George lock himself in and go right there in the back seat or something. The group agreed this was disgusting, but put it in the maybe file.

Gwen racked her brain for an idea as well, and then something about the morning light triggered some memory stored in some forgotten trunk of her mind, covered with dust, and steeped with antiquity.

"I've been here before," she said, staring out the window fixedly. "Not for a long time though, when I was a little girl." She thought of a day she had been a passenger in her family's station wagon driving along this very road. The sun had filtered through the slowly changing leaves almost exactly as it did now. Her parents hadn't been fighting that day, nor had they been driving in sullen silence. They had driven up here on one of their infrequent visits to her Uncle Jimbo, who was a patient in this huge mental hospital and treatment center at that time. Later, the government had substituted cheaper medications for more expensive institutional care, and released all the heavily sedated patients back into the community. Many had made a fairly successful readjustment, but some had not, including her uncle who had ended up a homeless street person in Newark.

Her uncle never spoke to her parents, but had always seemed kind to Gwen, in an abstracted kind of way. Her parents didn't really care, since the real reason they came up here was on sightseeing junkets. They would read about an old monastery/winery, or about an unusual geological formation, or an old Revolutionary War fort in the area, and say "Time to visit Uncle Jimbo!" Looking back, Gwen wasn't even sure if that was his real name, or if it was just what they called him. They hadn't gone to his funeral.

"Guys, there might be a place up here in a mile or so, if you take a right," Gwen spoke up, almost tremulously.

"Why, what's up there?" Joe asked.

"Years ago, my family was driving around up here sightseeing, and my Dad drove into a ditch. My parents had been drinking. Anyway, the ditch was right in front of this old apple orchard, and this ancient stone building they used to store this cider press in. It took like eight hours to get a tow truck, plus we had to get our broken axle fixed, so all day long, I ran around this apple orchard with this kid who lived there. His name was Isaiah, I think. He had a beautiful little sheep dog named Gypsy. The apple farmers didn't seem to like my parents too much, but they let them sit outside on their patio all day and gave us lunch. When we had to use the bathroom, they took us to the one in the cider press building. It was like a fortress. I think they were afraid my parents would steal something if they let them in their farmhouse. They liked me though. The apple farmer's wife asked me if I wanted to stay and live with them, and I said yes. In a way, I think she was serious, though my parents would never have allowed it. I was their excuse for being together."

"Cool story," smirked Charlie. "Did you ever go back?"

"You know, I might have, but until this very minute, I had forgotten where it was. I had kind of forgotten about the whole day, except for playing with Gypsy and Isaiah. It was on this old dirt road, and nobody else lived near them," Gwen remembered.

"It sounds worth a shot, if you're sure about this," Joe said, sounding interested.

Joe turned right and went through an underpass. At each turn, Gwen gave directions, as association jogged long lost memories. After one unexpected hard right into a forest, Joe looked at Gwen quizzically in the mirror, but seemed satisfied when she evinced no doubt.

After several miles of hard jouncing down the dirt road, they did indeed emerge in front of a large apple orchard, with a large old white building next to a farmhouse.

"This looks different," Gwen said. "The cider press building was made of old fieldstones."

"It looks like they covered it with chicken wire and covered that with masonry cement, spackled it and then painted it. It protects the building and looks nice. Whoever did it did a pretty nice job," Joe said approvingly. Seeing the new white masonry next to the green fields and apple trees seemed to cheer him up for some reason.

They pulled up next to the place, slowly.

A little too late, Gwen realized how strange it was to rely on a fifteen year old memory of a day to use as a pretext for unexpectedly stopping by in the middle of this Psycho crisis. Uncertainly, she hesitated.

"The coast looks clear. I'm going to go knock on that door to see if anyone is still home. Maybe they all left." By some instinct she went to the cider press building, not the farmhouse itself, and began knocking. She had brought her satchel, and as she waited she suddenly noticed that her hand had grasped the revolver Marie had given her, as if of its own volition.

Just as she turned away to go back into the van, the door opened. A kind of rawboned looking young man in his early twenties was standing there, staring at her. He was holding an old 10 gauge shotgun.

"Can I help you?" he said, with admirable civility.

"Hmmm. Ummm. We were just wondering if our friend could use your bathroom? We're afraid to stop anywhere because of all those Psycho things," Gwen said.

"Would you show me what you are holding in your bag first?" he asked. Gwen showed him.

"Are you planning on robbing me or something? I don't mean to sound suspicious, but people are acting funny these days."

"Are you Isaiah?" Gwen asked. It was the logical guess, of course, but it was still a surprise to see him after all these years all grown up.

"Yes." Isaiah sounded taken aback. "How did you know?"

"I was here once. My parents broke down. I spent the day playing with you and your dog Gypsy."

A cloud passed over his face. "That was a long time ago Gwendolyn. It's crazy how you can remember certain people." He looked at her and he looked at her friends in the minibus. After a long moment of indecision, he sighed and said, "Hurry up and get in here, It's not safe outside."

The others piled out of the bus and locked it. Once secure inside, the first thing Isaiah did was show George where the bathroom was, who ran in wordlessly. The last few miles of bouncy dirt road had not been pleasant for him. He then led the others past the old cider press, and back into an office with several lit up computer monitors, motioning to some chairs for them to sit in.

"I thought the electricity would be off," observed Charlie.

"It is. I have a couple of windmills going and a backup generator in the basement so there's not so much noise. I'm able to surf the Net for several hours a day. Terrible things are happening out there, just terrible. Things I never dreamed possible. Could I offer you some tea and sandwiches or something? If you like apples, you came to the right place." Isaiah was in a sort of shock that had not been engendered by the unexpected arrival of The Steelers.

"Are you alone here? Are your parents still alive?" Gwen wanted to know.

"No, they passed about ten years ago. They were killed in a car accident. A drunk driver plowed into them on a rainy night." Isaiah looked pensive. "Gypsy too, he's gone as well. He died just six months ago. That dog lived sixteen years. He was just a pup when you met him." As if for something to do, Isaiah started typing on the keyboard of the nearest computer.

"Now, somebody is using a satellite feed and reported sightings of the Zombies to generate this time release graphic of their spread. As you can see, the vector of the outbreak is omnidirectional. The ocean is stopping it on the east, but in all other directions it is spreading fast, plus there are some isolated outbreaks throughout the country as well. So far it appears to have been contained mainly on the East Coast of the United States, though," Isaiah stated.

The three Steelers looked at him. "Why did you call them Zombies?" Gwen asked, without a trace of humor.

"Because calling them Pill G Psychos perpetuates a government myth, a falsehood that I refuse to endorse even for acquiescent convenience," Isaiah said didactically. "The government is either wrong or lying, and this graphic proves it."

"How so?" asked Charlie.

"Look at the spread of the disease. There is a definitive outbreak cluster right here," Isaiah said, drawing an invisible circle in the map on the screen with his finger, encompassing New York, Newark, Trenton and several other large East Coast cities.

"Makes sense," Charlie said. "A lot of people were on Pill G in that area."

"True, but everybody has been taking Pill G everywhere, all over the world, for approximately the same amount of time. Why is the initial outbreak so contained? Whether by accident or on purpose, somebody has tainted the Pill G supply right in this area. It can't be The Pill itself or it would have been a generalized outbreak, everywhere, all at once. This graphic proves this was either a mistake or intentionally done."

"Why, though? Why would anyone do such a thing?" Gwen wondered in disbelief. "Not just who would it benefit, but who could even pull this off?"

"The Shadow Government, for one. The unelected rulers of the USA, of the whole world, for that matter. A catastrophe like this changes the whole underlying structural dynamic of our society. America is fairly stable because its people are fairly complacent. They know they are getting screwed, but figure probably not much can be done about it, and if there was something, it would only make things worse. I mean, yeah, the Country has enemies who are chipping away at The Constitution little by little, but when something like this happens, our enemies can just take a sledgehammer to the whole thing at once," Isaiah was getting worked up.

Gwen asked, out of curiosity, "Isaiah, what have you been up to the last fifteen years? I mean, you seemed smart when I met you but you seem like you know a lot."

"Well, I was always into books and computers. After my parents were killed, I got this massive payout from the insurance and civil lawsuit, so I haven't had to work a regular job, so I mainly just read all day. I went to school a bit, and I've taken some courses online. That's pretty much it, except for keeping this place up. Mom and Dad had it down to such a science that there is not as much work as you'd think, and it's all at certain times of the year. Plus, I don't have to earn a living with it."

George finally rejoined the group, looking much more at ease. Charlie got up saying "Now I have to go too." George quickly assured him that this would not be such a good idea. Charlie went anyway, disregarding George's warning, and loud exclamations were heard from the direction of the bathroom as Charlie realized, too late, that he should have heeded George's advice.

"Ahem, yes," Isaiah said. "Anyway, Gwen, what have you been doing with yourself?"

"Well, I went to school for a while, and then I got married."

"Oh congratulations. Any children?" Isaiah asked conversationally.

"No, no children. It might be for the best anyway. I don't know if my marriage is really working out," Gwen admitted. "I've had some drinking problems," she confessed, ashamed to admit it to someone whose parents had been killed by a drunk driver. She felt a twinge, as we sometimes do when we meet someone we knew from childhood, when the world was vastly simpler, and sense they can tell how far we've drifted from the idealized visions of our youth.

"Hmmm. That's too bad, Gwen. Your parents kind of liked to drink too, if I remember correctly. Your Dad drove into that ditch at around ten a.m., if memory serves."

"That should have made me less likely to start, in my opinion," Gwen responded.

"Anyway, how about those sandwiches? You must be hungry. I haven't seen too many of those Psychos around. I saw one and I just stayed inside and watched him for a day, and he finally just wandered off. He seemed to just forget about me when I didn't make any noise. You should be alright here for a while. Stick around, I like the company."

"We need to get moving pretty soon, if we're going to make it to New York City," Joe reminded them. "I have to admit though, resting awhile would be nice." It hit Gwen that Joe had been driving for about eleven hours straight.

"Joe, if you're tired, go into that sitting room right there and take a nap on the easy chair or the sofa. I'll save you some sandwiches. All of you should, you look beat." Isaiah sounded like he was being more than just polite. He was being genuinely hospitable. Joe and George thanked him and went to take him up on the offer, as did Charlie when he returned.

This left Gwen and Isaiah. Gwen wasn't hungry, but said she would like some tea. They talked about a variety of topics. Isaiah seemed to welcome the chance to talk about his parents and Gypsy, because even though Gwen had met them only briefly, they had made such a distinctly favorable impression upon her that Isaiah felt she had really understood them.

At one point, they heard a small plane circling overhead, but it left after ten minutes or so. They didn't look very closely to investigate, but if they had, they would have seen a small parachute sprout in the air, carrying a small metal box to within a hundred feet of the cider press building.

Finally, after Isaiah and Gwen had been talking for two hours, hours which were wonderfully restful for both of them, they got around to talking about more personal issues.

"So I got hospitalized after I had partial kidney failure, and I was just lying there wishing I had just died when my husband came in and said he was divorcing me unless I went to rehab and stopped drinking. He said I had embarrassed him enough. I was lying there, and all of a sudden, as he was talking, I suddenly wanted a drink so badly I would have drunk nail polish if they had let me have any. I just can't understand how things got so screwed up," Gwen regretfully related.

"You say that, but in a way, you haven't changed that much at all," Isaiah said reassuringly.

"Oh, that's nice of you to say. Here's the kicker--when I did get to rehab, they put me on this reality TV show called On The Road to Recovery, and sent us to this museum in New York, right in the middle..."

Spasmodically, Isaiah interrupted her. "No! How could I have not.... I watch that all the time!" Isaiah was genuinely excited. "This is crazy. The show is mainly about The Celtics because The Angels took off and The Cowboys all got killed. You are a Steeler! Holy smokes." He ran to his computer and frantically started striking the keyboard. "Your monitoring equipment got damaged right out of the gate, so there were only fragments of conversations heard from the bus, and no video. I wonder though, now that you are out...Whoa! Crystal clear pictures coming from all four of you! Nothing from Marie though. Wow! I am on it now, because you are looking at me. It must be in the buttons on your coat. This is truly amazing."

At that instant, a loud thumping could be heard on the door downstairs. Charlie came out of the sitting room looking alarmed.

"Hate to break the news, but I can see a couple of hundred Psychos or Zombies or whatever right outside your door, and a lot more coming down the road straight at us," he informed them.

Time is a strange commodity, if thought of as a commodity. Some hours and days are so fleeting, yet if one could purchase time, and could choose the fleeting moments as opposed to the moments that seemed to drag on into infinity, the fleeting moment would be the ones bought, and the buyer would have no sense of being swindled. For The Steelers, the next few moments were not the kind they would ever wish to purchase again.

The very air seemed to have thickened, and Gwen fought for breath like an asthmatic. She ran to the window and looked out. Charlie had not been exaggerating. They were being swarmed hard.

Everyone was in shock. It just intuitively did not make sense to them. Isaiah checked the satellite feed on the Internet, which had been converted from tracking traffic patterns to Zombie migrations, and if he scanned back over time, it was obvious that a large swathe of Zombies had started converging on this precise spot from several directions about two hours ago. What's more, these weren't semi-lethargic Zombies just poking around to see what they could stir up. These fellows were in a frenzied state, hurling themselves against the outside doors and walls like organic battering rams. Nothing any of them had seen had prepared them for the ferocity of this onslaught.

"Dude," Charlie quavered, "Are those doors down there going to hold?"

Isaiah spoke carefully. "I don't know, I thought they would. They seem like they are tearing at the fieldstone walls. They might eventually break through."

The minibus was being destroyed by degrees. It was probably undrivable, and definitely no longer safe. That exit was blocked.

"Isaiah, the only explanation for this is they followed us somehow. I am so sorry for this. If I had thought this would happen I would not have come here in a million years. Please believe me." Gwen was in tears.

"Followed you how? This makes no sense," said Isaiah. "Anyway, I'm still glad you came." This seemed to have been the right thing to say, because Gwen started to calm down immediately.

"Okay, right now we have to think. We will figure out the how of it later. First, where exactly were you guys going?" Isaiah asked.

In a rush, Joe explained their destination and their plan, and their hope that once they got to The Cloisters they would be met and taken to a safe zone, or at least back to the rehab.

Isaiah looked at them. "I know the gist of this from following the show, and ordinarily I would try to talk you out of it because the whole thing is so crazy, but now I don't know. I don't think it's safe to stay here, and therefore we have to go somewhere, if you don't mind me joining you. There is a garage downstairs, where in honor of my father who loved this vehicle like a second son, I maintain his old International Harvester Scout in almost perfect condition. That thing can go anywhere, in any terrain. He was a farmer, so he had an underground gas tank, just like a filling station. Have any of you ever fired a shotgun?"

Joe had, and Charlie said he had as well.

"Okay, me and George are going to start loading up The Scout with supplies. The rest of you stand at this window and do this," Isaiah said, as he aimed his 10 gauge. The head of a Zombie who had been in full stride to batter the front door again suddenly exploded as Isaiah fired the shotgun at him at the height of his charge. "This will keep them off the front door and buy us some time. Let me see you try."

No shrinking violet, Joe grabbed the powerful gun, reloaded it with great efficiency, and managed to blast a charging Zombie equally as well as Isaiah had.

"Good. Very good. Teach Charlie. Gwen, what size ammunition does your gun take?" Gwen didn't know, so Isaiah took it from her. "It's a .38 caliber. I have boxes of those. This is an old school cop gun."

"You have a gun?" Charlie demanded, incredulously, and George and Joe were also taken aback. "Did the rest of you get guns? Why was I the only one left out?"

"Marie gave me this gun in the minibus," Gwen said. "I don't know why she gave it to me."

"Oh," said Charlie, who had some inkling that Marie had not held him in very high consideration, if she had considered him at all.

As Joe kept blasting, Isaiah gave Gwen a quick lesson in firing the .38. "I want you to get some practice. We have some time until we are ready, and I want you to get blooded, as they used to say."

Gwen frowned, not understanding.

"I want you to get the experience of shooting at Zombies from the safety of this window. Whenever Joe is reloading, I want you to fire at them. Don't worry so much about your marksmanship--just get the experience of shooting at something."

"Okay, first, all of you give me your coats, and take these wool sweaters my Mom used to make instead. If you have anything in your pockets you need take it out, but please don't bring anything electronic, okay?" Isaiah was friendly but firm, and he took the coats into another room, shut the door and came back.

"Now, I believe I can get you to The Hudson River. There is a long band of National Park land, and from hunting and fishing around here since I was a kid, I know back roads and Park roads that will take us to a place a few miles below Bear Mountain without ever having to get on a real highway. From there, I believe we can get a motorboat or at least a couple of canoes and make Manhattan early tomorrow morning. Sound like a plan?"

The others agreed. The plan was essentially the same, except for the route to the river, but staying off the beaten track definitely had its selling points.

So while George and Isaiah did whatever it was they were doing to make The Scout road-ready, Joe, Gwen, and Charlie took turns taking pot shots at the mass of Zombies congregating outside the front door. Not only did this get them used to firing guns, it also attracted all the Zombies to the front of the building, causing them to leave the garage doors in the back unattended.

The assault had devolved into a standoff, apparently, but this was deceptive. Eventually, no matter what Isaiah had stored, they would run out of ammunition, the Zombies would break through the front door, and it would all end badly for them. Finally, after about an hour, George and Isaiah came back upstairs.

"Did you hit anything?" Isaiah asked .

"I hit a couple. I fired the gun like a hundred times," Gwen said, feeling silly for being proud.

"Well, you kept them off us. Thank you," Isaiah said to the group in general. He grabbed a boom box and put in an old AC/DC tape, cranking it at full volume, and placing it at the window. "Fill your sacks with these boxes of ammunition," he instructed them, grabbing a couple more .38 revolvers from a desk drawer.

"Why do you have so many guns and stuff?" Charlie wanted to know.

"I'm a farm boy. For us, guns are like toy blocks are for most city kids. Besides, my dad was the town sheriff. Let's go."

To the loud strains of AC/DC, the group walked to the garage and piled into the loaded up Scout. Water bottles, food, shotguns, fishing rods, gas cans, and even camping equipment were neatly tucked into the back. Isaiah had evidently been a Boy Scout.

"Good, now the garage door open up and we blast right out of here. I couldn't find a completely Zombie-free route just from looking at satellite, but I found one we should be able to negotiate. Get ready."

As soon as they were clear enough from the automatically rising door, Isaiah gunned it out of there. He had already locked the wheels into 4 wheel drive, and they went racing up the hill through the apple orchard meeting very light Zombie resistance thanks to the distractions Isaiah had prepared. Soon, they were moving at a decently controlled speed through the vast forest, as the late afternoon sun began to cast longer shadows.

Isaiah was a locked-in driver, looking neither to the right nor the left. While Joe had kept them on the edge of their seat, Isaiah inspired confidence. In fairness, these country roads were the same ones he had learned to drive on, and as they drove on through the evening and into the night, generally always heading towards The Hudson River, they saw no one and nothing saw them.

Gwen could feel herself drifting into sleep, which was amazing under these conditions. As she entered that state of being where overlooked events come out of from hiding in the background, something occurred to her.

"Isaiah, you said your dad was the town sheriff, so why didn't he arrest my dad for drinking and driving when he drove into that ditch in front of your house?"

For a while, Isaiah said nothing, and then he answered quite reasonably. "My dad could have pulled your dad's car out of that ditch in five minutes, but he made him wait around for eight hours so your dad would sober up. I admit it, my parents didn't like your parents, and talked about them for years, but they loved you. I remember my mom asking you if you wanted to be her little girl and come live with us, which was completely out of character for her. I think she thought you would actually wander up to the orchard someday to stay. She always wanted a little girl. My dad said he probably should have arrested your dad, but he did give him a good talking to. He seemed sad about the whole thing. Gypsy missed you too."

"Oh," said Gwen, and fell asleep.

# Chapter Twelve: Showdown With The Creep

The helicopter was already fueled up, needing only to be warmed up a little. Since they were the only flying machine in sight, they didn't need to bother being cleared for take-off. As the helicopter rose up to a hundred feet in the clear sunlit morning, the three were treated to the sight of the barbed wire fences shaking and collapsing, as a horde of Psycho-Zombies, or Zombie-Psychos trod it down through sheer weight of numbers. Arty ran his hands through his receding hair, looking like a pensive and diminutive Jack Nicholson, and Marie could swear she heard Phil stifle a small sob of what might have been relief.

Finding the uncle's boat was pretty easy using the helicopter's state of the art GPS monitors to hone in on the yacht's coordinates. The uncle was only a few miles out, off the Jersey Coast. It was touch and go for a while, since climbing down a rope ladder onto a boat from a hovering helicopter is even more difficult than it sounds, and Phil and Arty were not exactly trained commandos.

"Just one thing," Marie asked, right before the two prepared to begin the climb down the ladder. "My dad doesn't know I'm coming. I want to surprise him. This means I really don't want you on the radio talking about me. Is this going to be a problem for you?"

Both Phil and Arty looked at her as Joe had in the minibus. Whether she was an angel sent to deliver them or a demon sent to damn their souls they sensed they might never know for sure. They swore to radio silence, allowing themselves to pretend to believe Marie seemed like the type to engage in a little father/daughter prank at a time like this. They landed on the deck, safely but shaken, and waved feebly at the already vanishing helicopter.

Marie may have waved back, but both were sure that she probably hadn't.

Alone, Marie finally began to talk as she flew the chopper towards Manhattan. "That was incredible. Right in the nick of time. Of course they won't tell. What is up with those two though? Zombies! My stars. They were living it though. They think this is The Night of the Living Dead. That is so cool."

Marie was a decent pilot, though not a great one. Wryly, she reflected that Donnie had been a good friend after all, since his National Guardsmen brother had trained her on a very similar model, though of course Daddy Dearest had his loaded with all extras. This was a limousine with propellers, whereas the one she learned on was stripped down surplus Donnie and his nutty brother had bought at an auction, retooled, stored in a barn, and went tearing around over old coal fields, stripmined "black deserts" that would have suffered no material damage if they'd crashed, since these played-out coalfields were already wastelands. Donnie and his brother were extremely mechanically minded, and the brother was an adept at stealing parts from National Guard sources, so the two lower income brothers were able to enjoy what is usually considered a rich man's hobby.

They had had some good times, drinking beer and smoking reefer while junketing around in their chopper. After Donnie and his brother accepted the fact that she was not romantically interested in either of them, she had thought they had evolved a genuine friendship. Maybe they had. Marie could forgive Donnie for not wanting to go to jail for her, but she knew Donnie was not going to be able to forgive himself, and this would forever taint their relationship. Nobody wants to be seen as weak.

Marie wished she could speak with Donnie now. Whatever had happened, Marie now understood she had always been destined to be doing exactly what she doing, no matter what the circumstances. Her flying skills were making this mission possible, and she had Donnie to thank for that at least. She wished she could make Donnie understand how sympathetic she was for the loss of his innocence.

As she approached Manhattan and her father's building, she fumbled open a compartment and pulled out shades and a flight cap, which she put on. There was a blue windbreaker with the logo of the airport on it, and she put that on as well. There were security cameras on the roof, and she wanted to delay the moment of recognition for as long as possible. The security guard hut on the roof was empty, as she had been hoping against hope for. Apparently, The Creep had been abandoned. Marie's luck was just rolling today.

She landed and quickly secured the helicopter as she had been taught. She hurried to the security intercom, and wiped a thin film of helicopter grease over the security camera lens before pressing the button for her father's condo. Her father's voice, sounding groggy and dazed, answered after a few minutes.

Gruffly, muffling her mouth with the top of the windbreaker, she spoke harshly. "Sorry for the delay. Your helicopter is here, we should leave immediately."

"Who are you?" A lifetime of treachery had made her father cautious.

"The pilot service sent me. Zombie Psychos got Manion and his whole family. I was the last one left. I'm a good pilot, I just got hired out of flight school though," Marie rolled her eyes. The hope was that the fear of being saddled with a novice pilot would trump his other suspicions. Marie was staring at the intercom, looking away from the befouled camera lens with her windbreaker and cap pulled low.

After the briefest of pauses, her father spoke, "We'll be right up. We just have to grab a couple of bags. You got here just in time; the Psychos are already in the building. We'd just been discussing heading for the roof anyway as a last resort."

Marie wondered if "we" meant who she thought it might, and sure enough, after a few minutes, the stairwell door opened, and The Creep and Esther walked onto the roof. Blinking in the suddenly strong sunlight, it took a few moments for it truly to register that the smiling young lady standing there pointing a sawed off shotgun at them was Marie.

"Shut the door," Marie commanded, and Esther kicked the door shut behind them. Her father, red eyed, hungover, and obviously high, looked at her with disbelief. Esther seemed clearer headed, but also incredulous.

"You are dead. We saw you get killed. You can't be here!" Esther screamed.

Not quite knowing how to respond to this, Marie shrugged her shoulders and grinned a little. "This could all be a dream," she said. Both barrels of the shotgun were cocked. Marie held the gun with both hands at a distance of less than ten feet from her father and Esther.

Her father tried. "It's just that...we're glad you're not dead, honey, but we saw you killed on the reality TV show, On the Road to Recovery. Psychos ripped you apart. I'm so glad it was a lie."

Esther spoke, "Wait, what team were you on? The producers swore you would be on The Cow..." Esther stopped in midsentence.

"I was a Steeler. Why, what happened to the other teams?"

Avoiding her eyes, The Creep spoke. "The Angels wouldn't play and disappeared. The Celtics are stuck at a truck stop in Jersey in a world of trouble. The Steelers had their main transmitter knocked out by the Psychos coming out of rehab. Details concerning them are sketchy at best, though I guess you made it. The Cowboys got trapped coming out of rehab. They didn't make it."

"The Cowboys. The team I was supposed to be on, right Esther?" Marie spit out the words. One of her weaknesses was a bad temper, and she was struggling to contain herself.

"Now, Marie, I know nothing about all that... I mean, what Esther just said." Furiously, Esther glared at Marie's father, but said nothing.

"I find that hard to believe, Dad."

"Well, what are you going to do? You can't prove anything. It's your word against ours," Esther sneered. She perceived that Marie had some basic human decency, and Esther was the sort who perceived this as a weakness. It still had not registered with her that Marie had not magically appeared on their roof with no purpose. Perhaps, in a world gone topsy-turvy, Esther had seen Marie and had leapt to the certainty she was a vengeful spirit, and this had made her slow to recover her faculty of reason.

"You are correct, within the parameters of your logic." When Marie said this, her father blanched, as if this were the signal he had been dreading.

"Marie, you have to forgive me. I was so drunk, I had no idea how badly hurt you were. I let that fight continue out of respect for you, because I know you take such pride in your martial arts. I know now this was a mistake. Can't you forgive me? I will drop all the charges against you and all your friends. I will make it all go away." Her father was cunning, even in this extremity.

Seeing his words had no effect, he began to grow desperate. "Marie, I know I was a lousy father. Could you forgive me? Can't you see how monstrous the whole world is? I'm just one evil little symptom of such a larger disease. I'm not worth it."

Marie looked at him with a kind of grief. "You were a lousy father? You were worse than lousy, you were a criminal. Mom just looked the other way. It was easier for her. Still, I could have forgiven all that, I could have moved on, if you had just left me alone. Why did you need to keep ruining my life? Maybe you tried to have me killed on this stupid show you're talking about, maybe you didn't. I don't care."

"You should care about your father. You have no idea of how important he is in diplomatic circles. He has a lot of responsibility, protecting America. You are so selfish, so much worse than he ever told me. Even now, while America needs him... needs US most, all you can think of is your silly little contrived grievances," Esther shouted, spasmodically advancing upon her. "You can't pull that trigger anyway, you don't have the heart. I hate girls like you. If you had any guts, you'd fight me fair and square."

Marie raised the gun, and said, "Stop," very quietly. "You may be right about me shooting you, at least in cold blood, but if you rush at me, I probably will fire this thing, and two barrels from a 12 gauge is not the makeover you are looking for. You will look a lot worse than I did six months ago. As for fighting you, it's actually tempting, and I have already considered it. I think you lost your rights to a fair fight the second you popped me in the head with a rock or whatever that was six months ago when I wasn't even looking. Anyway, you're the hired help." Marie considered for a long moment. She tossed the pair the handcuffs she had removed from the cop's body in Jersey. It seemed like a long time ago, though it was less than five hours earlier.

"Okay, Dad, you put on one handcuff, and now push the other one through the small gap in the side of that metal fence. Yes, that's good. Now Esther, put the other handcuff on. That's right, is it locked? Tug hard for me. That's good, thank you. Now, hold still while I think about what to do with you."

Marie stood for about five minutes, reflecting. Finally, she spoke. "If I do let you go, where exactly are you going anyway? If you thought about flying somewhere, all the airports are closed, and the helicopter has only a little more than half a tank. You can't get far. Maybe you should just wait it out here in your panic rooms?"

Her father, sensing she was wavering, was reassuring. "That's the beauty of this whole thing, Marie, and that's why I'm so glad you are here, whatever the circumstances. We were just going over to my new boat, The Belinda. Your mom must have mentioned it. I told her all about it. It's huge, and I have it docked right off Montauk where I kept our last boat. It's even got a landing pad for a helicopter. Let's all go there together, the three of us."

"Just like old times?" Marie said eagerly, and her father's face froze.

"Okay, then, both of you raise your free arms. Now hold hands way up high. That's good," Marie spoke in a gentle but firm tone. Grabbing her rope from her satchel, she quickly tied their free hands tightly together through the fence. Then, patting them down quickly, she produced a thick set of keys, which she sorted through quickly. One was labeled, The Belinda, and Marie smiled and nodded her head at Esther and her dad as she tossed the keys into her satchel. Going through their bags, she found a CZ-75 pistol in a bag full of women's things.

"I bet you wish you'd been carrying this, Esther, unless this is my Dad's bag. He is pretty freaky."

Rifling through their belongings, she pulled out a variety of papers, gold coins, and credit cards. Tossing the cards, she kept the gold coins. There was a huge bottle of tiny pills she looked at quizzically, reading the label. "You know, I've never actually seen a real Pill Alpha before? So much fuss over little pills."

Continuing to rummage through the large suitcase, she unearthed several small metal boxes and what appeared to be some kind of remote control device, at least it looked similar to those used for high- end entertainment centers. Puzzled, after some consideration, she tossed them into her satchel too.

"What, no gun today? Oh, here is something. Daddy! A Derringer? I guess Esther is the muscle end of the family, though I bet The Belinda has a total arsenal, if I know you at all. Pretty well stocked, is it?" Marie did not wait for a reply, but she got one anyway.

"Your father told me you were a lying whore, but he didn't mention you were a thief as well!" Esther yelled, as Marie's father kicked her shin to shut her up.

Marie just smiled at her, a smile like glacial ice warmed by a winter moon in Antarctica.

Her father spoke again, ever the diplomat. "Marie this will be very difficult for you to understand, but everything you see happening with the Pill G Psychos is according to plan."

"Really, Dad? It seemed pretty much all chaos to me," Marie said.

"No, Marie, it isn't. What you see happening is inevitable, but we are just controlling it instead of it happening naturally. The exploding population growth coupled with dwindling resources could only have led to one thing-Peak Everything, The Zero Sum Game. This way, there is a controlled, massive population reduction with enough resources left over for us to pick up the pieces. We are going to build a new society, a new world, finally freed from all the parasitical dregs who kept the human race from greatness. I mean, come on Marie, did you really think that Provision 3313 was just for a reality TV show? It was all part of our plan."

"We. Us. Who are you talking about, Dad?"

"Can't you see? Us. Me. Who do you think wrote 3313? I did. None of the rest of them has a real brain, and everything I did, I did for you. That is why you being here is so perfect. You see, it was getting back to me that you were telling some pretty nasty stories about me, which could have prevented me from getting a promotion to one of the top managers of the impending New World Order I'm talking about. It killed me to do it, but I set you up at The Brew House to silence you long enough to get promoted and move up high enough to be able to help you. Don't you see? I got your friends to turn on you and call you a drunk and a liar. It's all in the record. You were defused. That's all I wanted."

Her father was getting excited now. "Whatever differences we've had, you're my daughter. I want you to live forever too. This is how I am making it happen. There is enough Pill Alpha in that jar for the two of us for ten years and there is plenty more on The Belinda and stashed elsewhere, all over the world. Also, we have no problem making more. We just said we couldn't as a cover story so we could keep people from getting it. Pill G Psychosis will cleanse the earth, and when it's gone far enough, we will just eradicate every last Pill G Psycho and start over. Please, even if you don't love me, even if you hate me, please love yourself enough to join us."

"You seem pretty confident you can win. From what I've seen, this Zombie epidemic is out of control. Your New World Order is turning into a Zombie World Order fast. I think your experiment or whatever has gone completely haywire. Outsmarted yourself this time? Had to happen someday," Marie spoke in uncharacteristically derisive tones, watching her father's face carefully.

"There's where you are wrong, Marie. We can control the Psychos. Those little metal boxes you stole, you have no idea what they are for," he ranted, oblivious to Esther's protests. "Just turn one of those boxes on and every Psycho in ten miles will come running. We plan on using those boxes to clean up every last Zombie as soon as we have decided things have gone far enough. You want to know the beauty of the whole plan? We passed Pill G instead of Pill Alpha only here, in the East Coast power centers. We can wipe out our most powerful opposition, and then just blame the whole thing on Gaultier. We already tortured a videotaped confession out of him. We'll stop it as soon as all our enemies are dead."

Marie looked deep into her father's eyes, and knew he was telling the truth. Against all reason, against all of her past experience with him, she knew he wasn't lying, and the realization shook her to the core. The senselessness and pain of her life stun her, and for a fleeting moment she indulged in an emotion alien to her nature-self-pity. What fracture in the universe had made her pull this maniac for a father? Why her? The worst part was a creeping pity for this twisted wreck in front of her. All this time, in his own little universe, he had meant well. He had done the best he could with what he had.

Marie got up and walked to the edge of the roof.

For an hour, Marie sat in silent meditation, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the skyscraper, looking at the tattered city. For a while, she studied the small metal boxes and their remote controller, seeking to understand the functionality of them. Finally, she took one box and the remote and put the rest back in her bag. She rose and tossed her satchel into the helicopter, got in, and turned on the engine to let it rev up a little. She hurried to the door of the roof stairwell, opened the door and peered into the gloom for a couple of seconds, listening intently. She disappeared into the black stairwell for a few minutes and then reemerged. Taking a loose cinderblock, she used it to prop open the stairwell door.

She spoke to the two handcuffed and bound figures in loud but gentle tones.

"Esther, you are right, it is my word against yours, and I don't have the heart to shoot you, although for your sake I wish I did. I learned heartlessness from your boss, I guess. You'll have the opportunity to state your case in just a few minutes. Dad, I just want you to know in the short time we have left together that I will have no real reason to think of you anymore, but if I do, I will always remember you the way you are right now. I do appreciate your offering to drop all charges against me and my friends though. Let's just say we settled this one out of court."

Marie set the metal box she was holding down near her father and Esther.

Marie was suddenly hurrying, moving quickly. She turned her back, undid the helicopter's moorings, and jumped into the warmed-up helicopter. She could be seen pointing the remote control at the box. As the first Zombies mounted the stairs and emerged onto the roof, she lifted off, as The Creep and Esther pulled away from each other, screaming while desperately trying to pull their wrists out of the handcuffs. She couldn't have heard her father's last words from this high up, over the din of the propellers, but a lip reader might have known what they were. His face was tilted in the direction of the helicopter, staring at her, and she imagined he might have been screaming her name.

Marie hovered until it was over. She waited until she was pretty sure that there wasn't enough left of them to reanimate (is that a word that Phil would have used? What a character), and then started choppering over Manhattan. At least, she was pretty sure that was why she watched the whole thing while hovering above the rooftop, just from practical considerations.

From this high up, New York City probably didn't look as bad as it was, but it looked awfully bad anyway. Small fires burned, in buildings and on the ground, and everywhere were signs of destruction. Some of the roofs contained people waving for help. She waved back. She was feeling pretty free, actually. She felt no strong temptation to return to earth, and could not think of an oasis of calm anywhere even if she had. Soaring across the city, Marie felt an emotion she had savored but little of-unmarred bliss.

Suddenly, she remembered her long forgotten goals. They had all been supposed to head for The Cloisters and have a group therapy in the herbal garden. Marie decided this was as good a plan as any, and in the spirit of having absolutely nothing better to do, she choppered up the length of Manhattan towards the museum, situated just north of the George Washington Bridge, waving to all who waved to her.

Marie had lived her life in fear for a long time, and mastering it had made her strong. However, her anger and hatred toward her father had also provided her with much of her impetus--with him dead, or at best having the most minimal existence as a severely handicapped Zombie, she felt strangely bereft of motivation. She felt better, but her emotional life had for so long been one of scorched oblivion she literally could no longer hear what some might have termed the better angels of her nature.

# Chapter Thirteen: Truck Stop Battle

The convoy jumped off about 45 minutes before the horde hit. By that time, a considerable store of food, water, military and civilian supplies had been accumulated. One part of the roof was to be kept generally clear as it was big enough to land choppers on. Stacks of 50 caliber rounds were pyramided to the sky, and a Guardsman quickly showed Jen, Jorge, and Keisha how to reload the bullets into the belts for automatic fire. Jerry was given a sniper rifle and several crates of ammo. Al swiftly had helped familiarize the newcomers with the basic requirements for the small mortars to be used, and the basics of reloading weapons as well.

In addition to his own guns, Dan was given a couple of good deer rifles with excellent scopes, and several thousand rounds since none of the Guardsmen used such small ammunition in their weapons. It was given to Dan to understand that he was to go after the "low hanging fruit", the Zombies who managed to get through the initial wall of fire The Captain had planned for them, and those that drifted away from the main firing area. Dan did not take it personally that he did not "rate" a sniper rifle. He had seen Jerry in action and found no shame in deferring to him in this regard.

The plan was pretty simple. Highway 80 was clearly visible from the roof of the truck stop. As the hordes traversed it, the group would simply rain whatever artillery, rifle, and small arms down on them they could muster. The light and noise was sure to draw many away from the main mass, if it was not all diverted. The Captain was in contact with The Pennsylvania National Guard, who was bringing up several divisions to set up a defense at The Water Gap. Regular Army troops were also en route, coordinating with The Air Force and Marines. The Captain had been pushing a last ditch defense of The Gap for two days, and his logic had finally won some converts to his ideas. They just needed some time to dig in, and that was what he intended to get them.

Al found David wandering around the truck stop parking lot with some chain link fence. He was reinforcing the metal cage of the two bulldozers the trucks had left behind, weaving a complicated web of interlocking bicycle locks he had taken from the truck stop gift shop. No one had suggested he do this, but when Al saw what he was planning he immediately saw the sense to it. David had refueled both bulldozers and stocked the enclosed cabs with a couple of five gallon drums of diesel fuel, food and water. When David sensed Al approaching he looked up.

"I don't really shoot, but I can drive a bulldozer a little. On the westward side we don't really have to worry as much because the building is built on a small hill, but I think if there are enough of these things we'll need to keep them from stacking up against the other three sides, because they'll climb up if we don't. Plus, this will give me something to do. I worked a little construction, but they never let me drive the bulldozer much. I wasn't in the Union. This'll be fun."

Al did not know what to make of him, but since he agreed it was a good idea to have two dozers working, he helped David crawl into the cab and then did his best to make it more Zombie-Proof.

"Do you need anything?" was all he asked.

"How about some cigarettes?" David replied. "The bulldozer driver I worked with chain-smoked when he was driving. His name was Hector. I'm going to pretend I'm him. Maybe cigarettes would help."

"Sure, let me run and get you a couple of packs. You should have a Walkie Talkie and a gun that packs some wallop, too. I think you are going to be very useful here, but you know you will be all alone in here, don't you? Everybody else but us will be up on the roof."

"You worry about your job sonny, let me worry about mine. See, I sound just like Hector."

"Yeah, funny. Listen, David, the best I can do is to tell you that you can drive for about eight hours I think, with the amount of fuel you have. Top off your fuel tank as soon as you use enough so you won't be driving around with the fuel exposed. Zombies have a tendency to spread small fires." As David had already ascertained, the gas cap for the bulldozer was in the cab, right behind the seat. "If you run out, or you need to try to get out, call in and everybody will give you some cover fire and they'll throw a rope ladder over the side of the wall. That's all I can think of. You have guts, my friend."

David said nothing as Al walked away. Impassively smoking a cigarette, he was doing his best Hector impersonation. Unfortunately, since nobody here had ever met Hector, it was a wasted effort.

The last of the gear was getting hauled up. Al was grateful now that the rest had stayed and were so willing to help. The soldiers would be able to focus on fighting as a lot of necessary odd jobs were performed by The Celtics and their friends.

The Captain stepped up for some final instructions. "The Zombies should be appearing over the eastern horizon within ten minutes. Everybody finish up, and chop that stairwell down that leads to the roof. They will eventually get inside the truck stop, but if the stairs are gone they might not be able to make it to the roof for a long time, if ever," barked The Captain. The National Guard didn't need or want a speech-they knew what was at stake. The plan was better than any of them could have come up with on short notice, and The Captain's command of tactics were already held in high regard by these men and women. It was he who had implemented the roving jeep idea that had stopped the first wave. Also, they were extremely grateful that most of the civilians were gone. All of them had either seen the aftermath or actual events involving Zombies and the unprepared, and they had no wish to see it again. Al's idea had proven to be a strong morale builder.

"Let them come to us," cried The Captain, when the hills began to seem to shimmer and move from all of the Zombies advancing towards them. The main contingent was walking west up Highway 80, though a mass had already veered off towards the truck stop. The mortar squad starting firing, aiming so their shells would blast right in front of the pack moving down I-80. All fire would be concentrated on the lead Zombies so the whole horde of them would shift to attack the truck stop.

Al and David could see each other behind their makeshift chain link barricades, and when Al started his bulldozer, David followed suit. They represented an integral part of this operation, since the truck stop roof simply wasn't high enough to prevent Zombies from stacking up and providing a rampart of dead bodies for the rest to climb up on. The 50 caliber guns mounted on the roof would prevent most of the bodies from getting closer than fifty yards, but even the few who made it through would start to accumulate. The Captain had shown Al some satellite footage of the approaching mass, and it had scared the hell out of him. The actual fighting was not particularly terrifying though. David had a good attitude for these proceedings, good in the sense that the true warrior must see himself as already dead.

Weirdly, this did begin to resemble a construction job, a project. The Celtics assigned themselves to keeping as many Zombies as possible off the bulldozers, since in sufficient numbers they were extremely strong and capable of toppling a bulldozer, especially a bulldozer balancing its way through drifts of bodies. Al also had a Colt 45 pistol, which he could use as needed. David had one as well, though Al didn't even know if he had ever shot a gun before. Jerry and Dan were also providing some cover fire for the big bulldozers. The Captain had a good logistical awareness, and he had already seen how effective the bulldozers could be, so he did not begrudge the firepower. The Celtics and their friends had actually given the Guard another major morale boost-not being abandoned for dead by these survival minded strangers gave them a sort of secret hope, and The Captain sensed this. He knew their best chance for success was to work slowly and methodically, and that any kind of despair or panic would result in failure of their primary mission. What complicated matters was survival alone would not constitute victory, and death would not constitute defeat, if they were able to destroy enough of these things so the rest could be stopped at The Water Gap.

So the battle commenced, and while it seemed one-sided, like a slaughter, everyone there knew the second the tide turned the Zombies would be merciless and terrible. The mortars exploded rhythmically in front of the advancing horde along the highway, and this diverted most towards the truck stop, while the remainder was considerably slowed down. Sniper fire also focused on the westward leaders, punishing those members who were not already being drawn inexorably to the tiny truck stop. Within fifty yards of the building, Zombie bodies began to create a wall around the northern, southern, and eastern sides of the complex. The 50's would have been enough, but they required reloading and cooling off eventually. The guns were mounted two to each side but the westward hillside, which was deemed to require only one, but eventually the plan to keep one gun on each side firing while the other cooled off would falter, as the cycle went out of synch. This was when The Celtics would run to the side of the wall thus rendered vulnerable, and supplement with small arms, assault weapons, or shotguns. Jen and Jorge were quickly becoming experts at reloading, and when a Guard's rifle jammed or one needed a break, they had begun to step into the breach as well, learning marksmanship as they went. Then, Al and David would rumble in, pushing the bodies away from the wall, creating piles within the natural containment barrier being formed by the 50 caliber guns.

"I don't want to risk it yet, because there's no need, but at some point we could start setting the piles on fire," The Captain yelled into his Walkie Talkie. Al agreed, knowing what he meant. The dozers had a lot of fuel still in them, so any fires might spread to the bulldozers themselves. It was pointless to risk that until it was a last resort. The current system seemed to be working.

Indeed, the system was working well, and they could easily have handled another fifty thousand Zombies with these methods, but the problem was simply the sheer numbers of them. The South American Fire Ant analogy again came to mind--if the Zombie attack had been sped up in time release photography, it would have looked like ocean waves attacking a sandcastle.

Surprisingly, helicopter deliveries of ammunition and supplies started coming in with increasing regularity. The Captain smiled. About ten miles away someone was watching them from the high mountains of The Delaware Water Gap, and they must have decided to get behind this operation. The hammer had been delayed, and the people in charge there must have figured out why.

With steady ammunition, hot coffee, and some extremely motivated assistance, this looked like a success already for The Guard, even though it was still desperate. They were buying time, and not looking ahead to when their own time ran out.

The day wore on. Al and David had full tanks again, but their spare cans of diesel fuel were empty. They had about four hours left, but the Zombies did not show signs of abating. A few Marine helicopters appeared, and rained down 50 caliber fire on the fresh waves approaching the truck stop, but they hardly seemed to make a dent, and had to leave after an hour or so as their ammunition was depleted. Still, it was heartening to know that the small National Guard unit had some allies, and there was a noticeable decrease in the speed of the approaching Zombies, as they now had to traverse through piles of strewn bodies to get closer to the truck stop perimeter.

Al was already planning their escape from the bulldozers. He figured that once their fuel ran out, the flamethrowers could be brought into play, and they could flee to the truck stop walls through a shield of flames and covering fire. If the bodies stacked up as Al feared they would without the bulldozers to push them from the wall, Al figured the flamethrowers could also eliminate this threat as well. He wanted to put this off as long as possible, since although the truck stop was made of cinder blocks, there were many flammable components to the building, and he feared seeing the Zombies attacking using themselves as mobile torches, as he had witnessed several times in Afghanistan.

Over the hours, the novelty of fear wore off, and was replaced by the bone chilling tedium of slaughtering those which had been human but had somehow fallen from grace. Keisha and Dante sat on a couple of crates of bullets and surveyed the gothic splendor of the Zombie Army marching over the fallen.

"This is some off the hook surrealistic shit," Dante reflected. "I'm looking back on all the times I ever sat around feeling sorry for myself, or getting obsessed over some triviality, and I can't help but kind of loathe that person. I wish I never had to see this, but I can't help thinking there might be some good in all of it, at least for me."

Keisha was smoking one of Al's Luckys, and looking at the smoke, as if grateful for any kind of obstructive haze. "I know what you mean, in the sense that this puts things into a larger perspective, if that is what you mean, but I'm not feeling it. This isn't real to me, though I know it's real, but it's so crazy that I can't make any kind of sane comparison to my previous life."

"Maybe you just haven't lived long enough," chuckled Dante.

The two watched the pair of bulldozers circling. Over the hours, David had become more proficient, but Al was still the better driver. They were the only immediate distraction from the monotony. After finishing her smoke and taking a swig of hot coffee, Keisha picked a shotgun she had grown fond of and started taking pot shots at the Zombies lumbering near the bulldozers. She was getting better, and she had been halfway decent from the beginning. One commodity that wasn't running low was 12 gauge shells, thanks to the helicopter deliveries. There were crates of them stacked in a corner, hulking ominously, as if their very presence was a prediction that in the end, it would all come down to shotguns in a roof fight.

"Look at these two. I have to hand it to David, he pictured what was going to happen pretty well. We would have been overrun by now if it wasn't for them, I think, or at least we'd be watching bodies starting to stack up closer and closer." Dante looked worried. "They have to be running low on fuel by now, and once they are out, it's only a matter of time."

"We could lower them some cans of diesel with a rope, and then just have everybody rain their fire all around the bulldozers so they could open the chain link long enough to take the cans in?" Keisha suggested.

"That's actually a really good idea, but they have to be getting tired as well. I mean, I'm up. All I'm doing is walking around doing some odd jobs, loading guns, making coffee, doing some shooting when somebody needs a breather, but they are out there, man. They could get toppled if they stop, and these things are just a few feet from them, trying to get in. They are only safe as they long as their cab doesn't get compromised. They have to be getting exhausted," replied Dante. "I heard The Captain talking, and he says the best thing would be to bring them in about an hour before it starts getting dark, and then just fight all night and then get choppered out first thing in the morning. He's been talking to the PA National Guard, and they say they are just about set up, so they won't need us to take the heat off anymore. There's just too many of these things for us to handle anyway. At some point, we'll start being in the way."

"How so?" Keisha wondered.

"They are lining up some heavy artillery, and we will be in the line of fire. They are going to light up everything for miles."

"Bye bye trees," Keisha said shortly, looking around at the mountains.

"The trees provide cover for the Zombies, I think is the logic."

"What's David's deal?" Keisha said suddenly, changing the topic. "He was Mr. Apathy, and then he volunteered for the most dangerous job."

"He's got issues," Dante replied shortly. "He tried to kill himself a couple of times. He drinks a lot, so they tried him in rehab."

"Well, what's his deal, I mean, why is he screwed up?" Keisha pressed.

"Why are any of us screwed up?" asked Dante philosophically.

"True, but why do you suppose David is, in particular?" Keisha persisted.

"I'm not sure, and I don't trust rehab rumors, but he might have lost a child."

"What do you mean "lost"?" Keisha asked.

"I mean he had a kid that died of cancer or something, and that pushed him over the edge. Listen, you didn't hear this from me, and I'm not even sure if it's true."

"Who told you this?" Keisha wanted to know.

"One of the counselors told me some stuff," Dante replied.

Keisha speechlessly watched David relentlessly pushing Zombie bodies away from the wall with the bulldozer, chain smoking and wearing an immovable frown, both of which were uncharacteristic for him. She might have formulated an extremely profound response, one that summed up and encapsulated their entire experience in one pithy slogan. She might have, except for a sudden and unexpected occurrence.

Jets flew overhead, extremely low and fast, and in their wake huge vents of flame seemed to open up wherever they had passed. In the tumult, she heard The Captain scream, and she heard in his voice the first sign of the fear he had seemed invulnerable to.

"Those Air Force idiots! Did they just drop napalm a hundred yards away from us?" The Captain was yelling, suddenly uncertain, as what had been a relatively tidy battlefield ignited into flames, as shrieking Zombies scuttled hither and thither in blazes, igniting everything they touched.

Al's voice sounded over the mike. "Give us some cover fire and throw over the rope ladder, we're coming in." As Al ran to help drag David out of his bulldozer, everyone on the roof rained down bullets all around them. Keisha grabbed the unsecured end of the rope ladder and prepared to toss it over the second the Al and David got close enough to the wall. When they got there, Al forced David to start climbing first, while he blasted away with his Colt. Just as Al started climbing, a flaming Zombie ran through the bullets and put Al in what could be best described as a bear hug. Keisha fought nausea as the smell of burning flesh rode through the air, and as she watched Al writhing and contorting in silent agony as the napalm covered Zombie locked him in a death grip.

They had to restrain David from climbing back down to get him. There wasn't much left to save by that point anyway.

The Air Force jets roared by in exultation, seemingly oblivious to everything but the mass of flames and burning Zombies that for them signified success.

The truck stop caught on fire, but it didn't matter. A line of helicopters came flying in with true military precision, picking up the survivors and flying back to the base set up on the high cliffs of The Water Gap. As the last of the helicopters took off, The Captain looked back at his burning victory. No Zombie had ever set foot on the roof, or ever would, as the unused ordinance ignited in one grand explosion.

On the helicopter's radio, he could hear fragments of chatter as The Air Force took credit for stopping the Zombies. A bulldozer stopped the Zombies, The Captain thought. A bulldozer driven by some guy named Al.

When The Captain tried to get a positive I.D. on Al so he could get him a posthumous medal, there was no record of him in any military or civilian database. The only photo they had for the facial recognition software was a cell phone picture Keisha had taken of him, standing by the bus and smoking a cigarette. This still should have triggered dozens of hits, or it would have for anyone who had grown up in The States, as Al almost certainly had. Even the rehab had nothing. Al had paid in cash, apparently with a fake I.D.

The Intelligence Officer searching for the information told The Captain that it happened very infrequently but some people still fell through the cracks in our society, especially with all this mayhem, people like illegal aliens and other unregistered foreign nationals. Could he have been a foreign spy, sent to undermine confidence in our government, the Intelligence Officer wondered? As for being military, had anyone seen Al so much as fire a gun?

Saying anything was possible, The Captain snapped a very formal salute and got the hell away from him before he did something that would have landed him in the stockade. He told Jerry about it, who he had known for years.

"Up to this very second, I'd been hoping Al was lying or wrong about Afghanistan. Now I know he wasn't. We would have fragged that Intelligence punk in Nam," was all Jerry said.

# Chapter Fourteen: Zombie Therapy In The Cloisters

The next day, a young girl watched as a large helicopter appeared out of the afternoon sky. She sat calmly, as if she had been expecting someone. There was a chill in the air, and her coatless shoulders shivered a little as the propellers created a cold breeze.

The large helicopter descended low enough over the herbal garden to allow David egress down a rope ladder, but high enough to avoid damaging the trees in the walled compound that was open to the sky at this point. David got out, and walked toward the heavy glass that encased the museum proper. The inner door was unlocked. Two armed men descended with him and began sweeping the place for residual Zombies.

Marie was sitting in a courtyard, smiling at them as they came perilously close to shooting her.

"Sorry, I must have given you a start. You must have seen my helicopter parked on the roof. It's been so quiet here I completely lost track of time." She had apparently been staring into the pool of water next to her. "There were a couple of those things. I wasn't able to move them after I shot them. Maybe you big strong men could chuck them over the wall or something?"

The armed men looked at her as if she were an alien goddess materialized in this silent oasis. They complied with her wishes as best they could by stacking the bodies in a small room in the basement. They were afraid to open the door of the museum, since the helicopter had already attracted dozens of Zombies who were staggering through Fort Tryon Park to see what the commotion was all about.

"Are you here for your personal goals? I don't know if that contest is still ongoing. If it is, I have probably been disqualified by now," Marie giggled, a sound which seemed a little demented coming from her in this place.

"The contest is over, as far as I know. They're all dead at the rehab, I think. I am here for my personal goal, because I promised Al I would complete it," David said, speaking casually, as if Marie's presence and demeanor were entirely explicable to him.

"Chatterbox Al? By this I am being ironic, since Al never talked. I liked him. How is he, anyway?" Marie seemed genuinely interested.

"He's dead. He got burned alive saving my life," said David, matter of factly. "What have you been up to?"

"Keeping busy. I got here yesterday, and I spent the first eight hours cleaning out the place, if you know what I mean. Since then it's been pretty quiet here."

"It's The Cloisters, after all," observed David, "One of the quietest places in New York City."

"Oh, have you been here? I never really heard of it before. Did you take one of those tours or something?" Marie asked.

"I used to come here quite a bit. I used to live in this neighborhood. They knew this at the rehab, which is probably why they assigned me the goal they did. The fact that they probably did it for ratings for their stupid show sickens me, but Al once told me I should complete the game, if I could, so here I am."

"What is your goal, anyway? You can tell me now, I guess," Marie said, "After all, all the rule makers are dead, and we're here anyway."

David looked uncertain, but seemed to relent. "Follow me. I'll show you. It won't take long."

David and Marie walked through the courtyard and down a flight of stone steps to another, smaller open area surrounded by a low stone fence. The interior portion of the courtyard was exposed to the sun, and brightly lit. It was filled with small bushes festooned with berries, and small flowering trees. In keeping with the museum's theme, all the trees and shrubs were of the sort associated with the Medieval Era of history, giving the space an antique and unchanging quality. Marie and David sat in metal chairs at a table overlooking the courtyard. Neither spoke. Small birds chattered and flew through the bushes. Suddenly, David was overcome with sadness.

He rummaged through his satchel, and produced a plastic bag with a large cookie in it. He took the cookie out and crumbled up a quarter of it onto the stone ledge and waited. Within moments, a small wood finch flew onto the ledge and began to inspect the cookie crumbs briefly before beginning to make dainty little pecks at them. The small bird was soon joined by its friends, who began making a festive meal out of this unexpected cookie party. Chattering and arguing, the tiny birds had soon devoured the entire cookie. Marie watched in fascination as David produced two more cookies from his bag.

"Would you like a piece of this cookie? It's the last one," David asked her, after he had fed most of the other two to the birds. Marie shook her head.

"I'd rather watch them eat it," she said softly.

When the last cookie crumb was eaten, the last of the tiny creatures flew away. Marie looked at David, who said chokingly, "If you feed them regularly, they start to remember you." He put his hands in front of his face as tears streamed from his eyes. Soundlessly, he wept.

After a very long time, Marie spoke. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No, I'm extremely sorry about this. I didn't think I would still feel anything, or I would have done this alone." David smiled brusquely. "When my daughter was alive, we used to come here. She would sleep in the courtyard you were in, in her stroller. Then we'd come here when she woke up, and I would buy cookies and she would watch me feed the birds. She was too little to even eat cookies."

"What happened?" Marie asked.

"Cancer. It runs on my side of the family, so I guess you could say I killed her. A slow and agonizing death, and she was brave to the very end."

"You shouldn't blame yourself. Now, I guess you could say I killed my father, but it was quick and merciful in comparison. He wasn't brave at the end, but then again, he was a coward his whole life. I mean, I did kill him, but I'm not sorry. In fact, I'm pretty cool with it. I killed his girlfriend, or bodyguard, or whatever she was too. Funny thing? I feel worse about her, and I know that has to sound sick. She might have just temporarily fallen for his line of crap. He was a very plausible person, you know."

Marie got up. "Listen, I'm sorry you're such a mess, but my dad never took me for walks in a stroller to feed birds. He was this vile specimen who made tons of money impoverishing the Third World through shady loans and a lot of other heinous stuff I just found out about. He was important, as the world sees importance, but he was only important to me as this monster who hurt me whenever he thought he could get away with it. All he ever taught me was hate, and now he's gone, and what am I left with? I have nothing left to hate. You lost your daughter. I already knew that. Just about everybody at that rehab did. You're the one who was there because you kept trying to check out, but kept getting miraculously caught in-process. Well, here we are, surrounded by Zombies in New York City. Miracles are a disappearing commodity." Marie paused, and then continued on with her uncharacteristic tirade.

"Between the two of us though, you are probably worse off. Hatred never made me happy, but you were in love, so your loss leaves you more bereft. You actually lost something, while I lost the absence of something."

David did not react emotionally to any of this. In fact, Marie's speech seemed to have galvanized him somehow. He seemed calmer. "How'd you kill your dad?" he asked finally, by way of conversation.

"Technically, I didn't. I handcuffed him to a fence with his girlfriend and let the Zombies have them."

"He had it coming though, right?" David asked, as if from far away.

"Yeah. It was sort of self-defense," Marie answered.

"The best defense is a good offense," David quipped.

Marie sniggered.

"Nowadays, Zombies might have got him anyway," David added.

"No doubt," Marie responded sagely. "That was your personal goal, to feed the birds? Gerard is a world class sonofabitch to have made that one up for you."

"I don't know. It's weird, but I feel better. Not less suicidal, but I feel like I finally said good-bye. Amiko might have made most of the goals up anyway. She's supposedly the pioneer for this program, Dante told me. He talked to one of the counselors a lot."

"I'm afraid to ask, but how is Dante?"

"I'm not sure. I came here because Al told me to, and I wanted to respect his advice. Dante and Gregor loaded up a Suburban with food, water, and fuel and just took off driving. They'd seen enough. Gregor kept talking about finding an old abandoned warehouse and fortifying it. He kind of sounded like the villains in the old Batman TV show."

They both sat in silence for some moments. Finally, David spoke.

"Marie...what was your personal goal?"

Marie laughed a little. "I never even checked. I knew our group goal was to come here, so I just came by inertia. Plus, the museum sounded interesting. Let me look." Marie opened a small envelope she pulled from her satchel and read out loud.

"Your lucky numbers are 6, 17, 12, and 11. You should avoid people born in The Year of the Pig and the Dragon. Although whatever you decide to do is fine, because you are fine, you should probably learn to forgive yourself. Making friends is risky, but Life without risk is impossible anyway. Signed, Amiko. I keep forgetting about her."

"That was odd. She wrote you a fortune cookie," David laughed despite everything.

"Yeah, and she said she was Japanese. Maybe she thinks we think they are all alike, because Japanese restaurants don't even have fortune cookies." Marie was cracking up. "Could she possibly have known that I wasn't even going to look at this until now, and her goal was just her and Gerard's idea of a prank?"

They got up and walked up to the herb garden, looking out across the expanse of lawn in front of the museum, beyond the tree line, towards the sun setting over The Palisades and the eerily silent George Washington Bridge. They stared for a long time. As they were about to turn away, a commotion on the lawn attracted their attention.

Through the windows they could see four figures jogging with bold desperation directly towards them and the museum. They appeared out of the far tree line with the last rays of the setting sun. Three had shotguns, and the shortest one appeared to have two revolvers. They seemed to have evolved a system where two would shoot while the other two would reload while all jogged. They were a highly effective team, but they were heading for big trouble, as more Zombies were being attracted to the gunshots announcing their presence.

Squinting, Marie said, "I do not believe this. That can't be the rest of The Steelers. Signal them," she commanded, "See if you can give them some covering fire too." Marie pulled out her policeman's revolver and fired twice in the air. "Plus, there's something I can do to help." Marie pulled the small remote control out of her pocket and pointed it towards the far end of the park. Instantly, most of the Zombies peeled off toward the far end, leaving just a few of the nearest in hot pursuit.

David fired a couple of shotgun blasts in the air as well. Hearing the noise, the four figures started running faster. David and Marie started pointing and signaling to a nearby entrance through the stone walls, and Gwen, Joe, George, and a man David and Marie had never seen nodded as they ran, and headed straight for the door.

"It's The Steelers! Yeah Team!" Marie shouted. "They made it!"

So they had, for the most part. With the soldiers, Marie and David firing from the door to keep the most persistent Zombies off, The Steelers and their new friend were able to handle the closest ones on their own. They made it through the gateway, bolting through the doors as fast as Marie had ever seen anyone move in her life. A few Zombies tried to follow, but the soldiers laid down heavy fire enabling Marie and David to slam the door shut.

"Man, are we glad to see you," Gwen said, as the Joe, George and the man they were with nodded vigorously. She had changed dramatically in a few brief days, physically and mentally it seemed. Gwen had suddenly gained some confidence. She looked like an Apache with a headband around her forehead to keep her hair out of her eyes so she could shoot. All of them were essentially dressed in rags, and they smelled like sweat and gun smoke.

"Afraid to ask, but how about Charlie?" said Marie hesitatingly. Gwen looked glum.

"Could we talk about that later?" She asked this as if beseeching some great kindness. "If you knew, you really would be afraid to ask. This is Isaiah, one of my oldest and best friends, by the way."

The group shared a moment of deep understanding that transcended the need for more introductions.

The soldiers broke the silence. They had finished policing the Museum, and had no desire to stay there now that the Zombie anthill had been awakened.

"We're done. We were going to request extraction. We don't recommend you all stay here either, especially at night."

"Where are you going? I could give you a lift, if you don't mind climbing onto the roof," Marie volunteered. "I have about half a tank left, which gives me an easy hundred mile range even if we all ride in my chopper. I'd like to get refueled when we drop you off, though, if I could."

The Steelers were washing their faces in the pool of water in the courtyard while the Zombies gathered around the museum like a cloud. Looking at them in the deepening gloom, David spoke.

"This would have been a nice place to ride this thing out, but it still would have become a trap before too long. Marie, we got to know this guy, Jerry, and he said he has supplies for ten people for six months. He is really cool, and says he's got this kind of survivalist shelter in his basement, and it's really big. If you want to, you all could go there with me. We could use a couple more guns, not to mention a helicopter."

"I really have nothing planned. It sounds good actually, especially if we could pick up some supplies on the way. Maybe we could land on a super market roof or something. If you'd rather, we could take Daddy's yacht out, The Belinda. It's supposed to be huge, though I've never seen it."

Scrubbing her face and body almost raw, Gwen looked up. "Oh sorry, Marie, I forgot to ask. How was your dad? Was he surprised to see you?"

Marie smiled broadly. She was a different person than she had been in the minibus on the way. "I've seen him worse, actually, although he is really torn up about this whole thing. I think he would have joined me, but he just couldn't get away from his new girlfriend."

Despite himself, David guffawed. Gwen and Isaiah looked uncertain, but then smiled and nodded their heads understandingly.

As the helicopter lifted off, heading west into New Jersey and the setting sun, Gwen looked out of the window at the rapidly dwindling isle of Manhattan. She couldn't help but be amazed at the changes the passage of just a few days had wrought in them all. Isaiah was a brave and loyal friend. She was shocked at how quickly they had bonded, and was amazed when she thought of her former life and how superficial it seemed to her now. The last few days had taught her how foolish she had been to sacrifice her need for meaning for a sense of security which had been proven to be laughably false anyway. She had learned so much, she sighed to herself, and wondered if Isaiah felt the same way.

Looking at Marie and David, she was again overwhelmed by the sea change in them. David conversed freely, joking and laughing in a real, healthy way. Marie had been like a sea of anger contained by a giant dam, but now the anger had just magically disappeared somehow. It probably just took seeing all this havoc to remind her of her true priorities, Gwen thought sagely. Watching them together, they seemed closer than friends, more like a father and a daughter who been reunited after a lifetime apart.

The helicopter, driven by Marie's steady hand, headed for the military base. Whatever fate awaited them, Gwen was glad she had found true friends.

# Epilogue

Gerard bounced a basketball in the nearly empty auditorium. These last few weeks had been spiritually dead ones for him. Through monitoring the various teams as they had attempted to carry out their goals, he had learned that the goals of Provision 3313 had been radically different than he had been led to believe. Nobody likes to be used, but Gerard still hadn't decided what, if anything, he could do about it. The rehab was surrounded by Zombies. The skeleton crew that remained was under siege, and they were all virtual prisoners.

The sound of the basketball ricocheted off the walls, leaving only a sonic memory of an echo. Amiko appeared at the door, and beckoned him to her.

"You need to see this," she said, in an uncharacteristically morose tone. Behind her was a large wall full of security monitors. The center screened was focused on the front of the heavy steel front gate, which was still intact after much battering.

"It's Dante and Gregor," Amiko said softly.

"In the end, we all come home at last," Gerard said, softly, almost to himself.

The two figures stood sadly, almost wistfully at the gate. Zombies walked towards them, but walked away as if uninterested. With their heads low, they looked like supplicants at the castle of a feudal lord.

"They were good, at the end. I heard about how they stuck by their team. They might have made it, maybe, if the world had not turned so crazy." Amiko was close to tears.

"They would have made it," Gerard responded. They watched them on the monitors for maybe a minute more, and then he picked up a CB radio lying on the small black desk, put on some earphones, and pressed a button on the transmitter's leather face.

"Reggie, do you see those two in front of the north gate? Silver Nets jacket, black coat, just standing there? Give them a clean out, would you? They were good people."

As these words echoed, Dante and Gregor looked up, their faces contorted in horrible snarls, moments before high velocity sniper rounds tore through their brains and rendered them unto sweet oblivion.

"Hey, just another sober day, alright?" Amiko said, slowly, and with great feeling.

End of Book One

# About The Author:

### If you enjoyed this book, please read DEAD TO RIGHTS and THE LAZARUS LAW, the remaining two books in the series. Someday, there will be a Part Four if Divine Providence wills it.

If you've made it this far, you might be curious about the origins of the books you may have just spent at least a few hours reading. It is suggested to insert an "About The Author" section by most experts, and I like them myself, so here goes.

The book was inspired by 9-11 and the Fukushima nuclear reactor disaster.

# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

The Guns America Blog provided some useful information for these books. I said I would acknowledge this, so I just did.

Thanks to everyone who encouraged this effort.

Also, I have a new book called

### QUICK AND THE GRATEFUL UNDEAD.

