

THE HAND THAT FEEDS

A Prequel to the Decaying World Saga

By

Michael W. Garza

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including

photocopying, recording or by any information and retrieval

system, without the written permission of the author, except

where permitted by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are the product of the author's imagination or

are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,

locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Michael W. Garza

All rights reserved.

Proofread by Karen Robinson of

INDIE Books Gone Wild.

Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too.

They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.

-Stephen King

Also by Michael Garza

The Decaying World Saga

The Hand That Feeds

The Last Infection

Tribes of Decay

Season of Decay

Cult of the Elder Mythos

The Elder Unearthed

(A collection of tales)

Vision of the Elder

NeverHaven

Children of the Mark

Rise of the Elder

Drums in the Abyss

The Shadow Gate Chronicles

The Last Shadow Gate

A Veil of Shadows

1

Evansville Kansas...

Alex's lungs burnt in desperation as he vomited a powerful rush of the rotten, black mulch. Unable to control his body, he felt a warm rush of his bowels releasing as he struggled for consciousness. In a fit of madness, he pushed with his arms, finding only enough strength to lift his head. Pain wracked his ten-year-old body.

He heaved with another powerful purge, the force of the motion giving him enough movement to flip himself over on his back. He coughed and gagged on the spewing sludge. The stench clung to him, filling the pores of his skin. He lost the strength to move and lay in the darkness trying to catch his breath, as a slow burn rose from his feet, up his legs, and into his thighs. Terrified and alone, he cried in between violent purges, calling out for his mother.

Alex fought against the pain. His feet were numb, and the burning sensation sent writhing throbs into his spine. It reached his waist, and he felt like his skin was on fire. He dug his fingers into the ground and turned over.

He dragged through thick muck, struggling with every inch. Shrouded in darkness and guided by his memory, he pulled over piles of bones buried in the ground. By luck, he reached the chamber's edge below the tunnel entrance. It took every ounce of strength he could muster to get to his feet.

His fingernails bent and split as he fought against his body to get up into the tunnel. The climb ahead felt impossible. In near blinding madness, he wept, his face buried in the dirt. The heat was in his chest, and his lungs cooked with every breath. He was sure he would never see his parents again, and the pain of it crushed his will.

There was no sense of time down in the hole. Alex lost his grasp of reality as the maddening heat worked its way into his neck and face. He pulled his way into the first chamber without the use of his legs. The final burrow remained, and the smell of fresh air hit him with a powerful reaction.

Alex pulled by instinct as the heat consumed his face and stole his sight. Visions filled his mind of death and decay. He pulled free as the burning took control, and he screamed wildly in the night. He rolled on his back and howled like an animal baying at the moon. The guttural growls coming from him carried in the air, and desperate ears heard his cries.

♦

Angela Mason was consumed by her own madness. Her son was missing, and she waited with a frantic hope as her husband, John, searched the surrounding farmland. She heard Alex's voice like an eagle picking out its young's first cries for food.

"Alex," she said, screaming. She ran from the back door out into the yard. Hysterically, she scanned the moonlit grass. "John, for God's sake, I can hear him."

She ran out into the grass and found her son. He was covered in a vile mixture of vomit and mud. She collapsed to her knees and grabbed his head. His breathing was shallow and his stare wild.

"I have you, sweetheart," she said as tears streamed down her face. "I'll never let you go."

♦

John Mason kicked open the back door and carried his son into the house. His arms and legs hung limp, dangling lifeless and unresponsive. Horrible cries filled the home as Angela was consumed by agonizing grief. She burst into the house behind her husband.

"God, no," she said. "Please, not my baby."

John laid his son on the dining room table, and Angela wiped frantically at the black ooze covering the boy's face and chest. The smell was awful, enough to cause John to gag.

"Watch him," he said.

John ran into the kitchen and grabbed the old phone hung on the wall. His wife was still screaming in the background as he tried to remember Doctor Taylor's phone number. He knew calling 911 was what he should do, but Dr. Taylor could get to the house a lot faster.

"Oh, God."

"Shut the hell up," John said in frustration. He looked at the phone numbers and had a sudden epiphany. "Just let me freaking think." He dialed the number and waited.

One ring, two rings, three rings...

"Hello."

"Dr. Taylor, something's happened to Alex."

"John, John Mason?"

"Yeah, Doc, there's something really wrong. He's barely breathing. Can you get over here?"

"I'm on my way."

John hung up the phone and walked back to the dining room table. Angela was inconsolable. She looked helpless trying to rub the ooze off Alex's skin. She held onto a rag covered with the black muck, but her effort was having little effect.

"He's going to be okay," she said in a faint voice.

"I know," John said.

"He's going to be okay," she repeated as she climbed up on the table and pulled Alex in between her legs.

John felt useless. He stared at his son's chest and watched it slowly rise and then fall. He felt like curling up on the ground. There was nothing either of them could do but wait for Dr. Taylor. Angela got down off the table and dragged Alex toward the edge. Her eyes bulged as she stared at John.

"Grab his feet," she said.

"Honey, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to get this mess off him."

"I don't think we should move him."

Angela's face flushed red with rage. "Grab his damn feet," she said.

John grabbed the boy's legs at the ankles. They lifted him from the table, and his body hung limp in the space between the parents. John focused on the boy's chest, praying each time he gasped for breath. Angela's eyes were wild. She moved in jittery steps as if the processing of what was going on hadn't caught up with her thoughts. They carried him into the bathroom, and Angela struggled to flick on the lights. She balanced Alex's head and shoulders on her lap as she sat on the edge of the tub and turned on the water.

John watched his wife's lips. She was talking to herself, her mouth moving silently as she went about her task. Her hands shook violently as she tried to turn the knobs. Water burst from the spout a moment later, and she ripped Alex from John's grasp. She fell back into the tub with the boy on top of her.

"Good God, Angela," John said, reaching for her.

She growled at him, pulling Alex's head up to her chest. "Give me the towel," she said.

John did as he was told. He sat on the toilet and watched Angela wipe feverously at the black smears on their son. When she was done, she picked Alex up and carried him across the bathroom floor. Water covered the tiles as their soaked clothes dripped with her every step.

It was over an hour before the doorbell rang, and John rushed to the living room. Dr. Taylor let himself in and met John at the end of the hall. John's face was filled with dread, and the doctor did not bother with pleasantries.

"Where is he?"

John turned to discover Angela was not behind him. He rushed back down the hall and found her sitting on the edge of Alex's bed. The boy was underneath the covers. The bed was drenched.

The look on Dr. Taylor's face spoke volumes. He approached the bed in a series of cautious steps and peered at Alex with bated breath. The black ooze left the boy's skin darker than normal. The covers were pulled up to his chin, and the boy was shaking underneath.

The doctor sat on the edge of the bed. His silver hair was disheveled and out of place. He'd dressed in a hurry, and the undershirt revealed a bulging waistline normally covered by a crisp suit. He set a small, leather bag down on the floor between his feet and rummaged through it for a moment, retrieving his stethoscope. He leaned over Alex and pulled the covers down to his waist. John stepped through the bedroom doorway and closer to the bed, glancing at his wife, then at Alex.

Dr. Taylor checked Alex's pulse at the wrist and then listened to his breathing. His expression was difficult to read. He felt Alex's throat and then shined a small pen light in his eyes. He rubbed his hand along the edge of his chin and sat back, looking at Angela.

"His pulse is slow but steady."

"What about his breathing?" she asked. "He's going to be all right, isn't he?" Her voice was controlled but anxious. "He's going to be all right," she said quietly.

Dr. Taylor glanced at John before answering. "I need to know what happened," he said.

Angela did her best to explain the events surrounding Alex's disappearance. John heard little of his wife's recounting. His mind was focused on the look Dr. Taylor gave him. He knew it had little to do with Alex.

Dr. Taylor was a counselor of sorts to Angela. She'd suffered from severe depression for over a decade. The only thing that kept her on the better side of sane was Alex. They didn't have the money for good insurance, and Dr. Taylor was the best help John could get for her. She'd made progress after Alex was born, although she had her good and bad days. John didn't want to consider what might happen to her mind if something happened to their son. Silently, John bet Dr. Taylor was thinking that very same thing.

"So you don't know where this dark substance came from?" Dr. Taylor asked.

Angela shook her head.

"I'd like to get a sample of it and take a blood sample as well."

"We can't pay for any tests, Doc," John said.

Angela scowled at him.

"Don't worry, we'll figure something out," Dr. Taylor said.

He removed a pair of plastic surgical gloves from his bag and a small kit. It took him a few minutes to get what he needed. When he was finished, Dr. Taylor covered Alex with the blankets and put his equipment away. He pulled off his gloves and patted Angela's hands.

"You can get a little of that black stuff out of the tub," John said.

Dr. Taylor nodded. He gave Angela a warm smile and then followed John out into the hallway and to the bathroom. Both men kept quiet while the doctor scooped up as much as he could of the black liquid around the tub drain. Once he had everything he needed, the two men headed for the front door. They stood outside on the porch, their breath circling around their heads as they exhaled into the cold night air. John kept his hands in his pockets, not sure if he really wanted to know what Dr. Taylor thought.

"Alex needs to be in a hospital."

John nodded. He'd seen that one coming.

"I have no way of knowing what that boy ingested," Dr. Taylor said. "It could be anything. I saw traces of it in his mouth. He's not responding like he should."

"You sure as hell didn't make that known in there."

"I didn't want to in front of..." Dr. Taylor looked through the window in the front of the house and lowered his voice. "I didn't want to upset Angela any more than she already was."

"I can't afford a hospital bill, Doc. Hell, we can barely pay the mortgage now."

"Would you rather be homeless or childless?"

John's gaze fell to the ground.

Dr. Taylor took a deep breath. His cheeks were cherry red from the cold. "I apologize. I shouldn't have said that."

"You're just being honest," John said.

Dr. Taylor thought for a moment. "Let's do this. You stay close to Alex. Watch him. I'll run some tests and once we have the results, we'll make a decision then."

"Do you think he'll be all right?" John asked.

"Just watch him. Call immediately if anything changes."

Dr. Taylor started to walk to his car. He got halfway across the yard and turned back to John. "And Angela..."

John nodded. "I know. I'll keep an eye on her."

He gave John a half-hearted smile and waved. John waited until the doctor pulled out of the driveway before going back in the house. He tried to shake off the cold as the heat hit him walking through the living room. He had never been any good at making decisions. Not even the few years he served in the U.S. Army after high school did much for his confidence. Angela took care of most of the major issues in the house. When she went through one of her spells, he was practically paralyzed; with no other family to depend on, she was his only support.

He crept down the hall and reached Alex's door. Angela had moved herself around the bed and gotten under the covers. She'd wrapped her body around Alex and had his head resting on her stomach. She never looked up at John even as he stepped into the room.

"Dr. Taylor's going to run some tests," he said.

Angela didn't respond.

"He wants us to keep an eye on Alex and call him if anything changes."

Still nothing.

"I'm going to go out to the—"

Angela started to speak. John could see her lips moving but couldn't hear her whispers. It took him a moment to pick out the words through the room's haunting silence.

"Nothing's going to happen to you," she said. Her eyes stared at the wall across from the bed with no recognition of her surroundings. "Nothing's going to happen to you." She rubbed Alex's hair across his forehead. "Nothing's going to happen to you."

John backed out of the room.

"Nothing's going to happen to you."

The look on Angela's face brought a sudden rush of fear to John. Alex had to be all right, or he would lose both of them for sure.

2

John sat up in a daze. His memory was fuzzy, but he recognized the living room. He'd fallen asleep on the couch in an awkward position, and there was a terrible pain in his lower back. He rubbed his hands over his face and tried to shake the cobwebs from his mind. A sudden recollection washed over him, and his mind focused on Alex. He froze in place, then tossed his legs off the side of the couch and waited. He stared at the television screen and listened to the sounds of the house; the silence was haunting.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the dining room table was still a mess. A thin line of light breeched the curtains over the window by the back door. There were smudge marks covering the tabletop, and the black ooze that had covered Alex now stained the wood. John got to his feet and walked toward the hall.

He reached Alex's bedroom door and felt along the wall for the hall light. The sudden illumination forced him to close his eyes and then try to strain to see into the bedroom. The small bed was covered in blankets and a large lump revealed something hidden somewhere beneath. Hesitantly, he tiptoed in. In the light from the hall, he could see the blanket slowly rise and then fall. He heard the sound of deep, labored breaths. Angela's long, black hair was visible around the edges of the blanket.

He moved around the bed toward the rear wall. Cold air seeped in through the edge of the open window. John saw the smaller impression of Alex's body. He lay close to his mother, covered by the blanket. John was anxious. He wanted to see his son breathing but was terrified to pull back the blanket and look. It took him several moments, standing frozen in the shadows of the bedroom, before he found the courage. Slowly, he took hold of the blanket and eased it back. Alex's hair was matted to his face; patches of ooze clung to the strands of hair like bubblegum. John held his breath.

He waited for Alex to move, looking for a rise from his pajama top. A second felt like an hour when the boy's chest didn't move. John's hand shook and the blanket moved. Angela shifted and the material pulled away from his grip. Instinctively, he tried to grab it but grabbed Alex's shirt instead and felt a thick residue stick to the palm of his hand. He let the shirt go and then saw the material shift as Alex took a small breath. John couldn't settle his nerves as he pulled the blanket back in place and left the room.

The clock read 5:37, and the living room was filled with early morning light. John stood in the middle of the room getting dressed. The nametag on his dark blue shirt read Jon. The shirt belonged to someone who'd worked at the car repair shop the year before he started. The name was close enough for him. He slipped on his boots and made sure his lunch was packed. He was putting on his jacket when Angela's voice startled him.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I have to work."

"What about Alex?"

Angela was a mess. She was wearing the clothes from the night before. Makeup was smeared across her cheeks and she looked like she'd been beaten.

"You're going to just leave him here?" she asked.

John took a long breath. The last thing he wanted was to get her worked up. He hadn't been comfortable with the idea of leaving her alone, but he didn't want to lose his job either.

"Baby, I got to work."

Her expression was blank. She looked at the front bay window as if they weren't in the middle of a conversation.

"Are you going to be all right?" he asked. She didn't answer. He picked up his lunch bag and headed toward the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

He backed out of the drive and turned onto the long dirt road leading to the interstate. He cracked the window and let the smoke from his cigarette out into the cool morning air. The violet hue on the horizon was lighting the open landscape, but John was lost in his thoughts. The dread of the situation weighed heavily on his shoulders. Alex looked horrifying. The vision of his small, frail body barely breathing clung to his mind.

He felt a tear swell in his eye and then roll down his cheek. He thought about his son as if he were already dead. John turned on the radio and let the music fill the cabin of his truck. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt and took another long drag of his cigarette. He couldn't imagine being at work all day, waiting for some frantic phone call from Angela, but he also couldn't stay in the house another moment. He didn't know what to do. The family was already on the brink. He'd pretended not to notice when Angela started drinking again, and neither one of them wanted to talk about the mounting bills. John was closer to the edge than he ever thought one person could reach without going over.

♦

The sun had risen by the time John reached work. The shop was already open as he pulled in behind the building. He tried to regain his composure by taking several deep breaths. He wasn't one to share his feelings and wanted to keep his problems to himself.

"You watch the game last night?"

John looked over and saw Mike Anderson getting out of his car; his signature ponytail hung over his shoulder.

"No, I missed it."

"Man, you're kidding me," Mike said. "You missed a hell of a game."

John waited for Mike, and the two headed in together. From the moment he got onto the shop floor, he was busy. He wanted to forget about everything going on at home and threw himself at every available job. There was plenty to do and more than enough to keep his mind occupied. By the time he got a moment to check the clock, it was past noon.

He ate his lunch quickly, sitting on a bench outside the shop. The afternoon sky was clear and blue. The air was cool, but the sun made it tolerable. He got back to work after rushing through his sandwich, and an hour after lunch, his boss, Mark Jacobs, motioned for him from behind the glass between the shop floor and his office. Mark pointed to the phone and then back out at John. A sudden rush of anxiety washed over him, and his hands shook as his thoughts turned to his family. He stumbled across the shop floor to the phone on the wall. Sweat built on his brow as the panic grew in his chest. Slowly, he picked up the receiver and pulled it to his ear as if it might bite him.

"Hello."

John heard a click as Mark hung up the other line.

"John?"

He breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized the doctor's voice.

"Dr. Taylor, this is John."

A deep breath followed a long silence. John prepared himself for the worst.

"I've done some blood work on the samples I took from Alex," Dr. Taylor said.

There was another long pause, as if Dr. Taylor was reading something, waiting for this minute to finish.

"Yes," John said.

"I...I'm not really sure what any of this means."

John waited for the doctor to explain the comment.

"Alex seems to be infected with some unknown compound on a cellular level. It's not like anything I've even seen."

"What does that mean, Doctor?"

"I know it's not what you want to hear, John, but that boy needs to be in a hospital." Dr. Taylor's tone was more determined. "We'll figure out the cost later. Don't get caught up on that. I have real concerns for Alex's health."

"I...um...I..."

"Don't think about it, John," Dr. Taylor said. "Go home and get Alex to Ardville Memorial Hospital. Get him there today. I'll call ahead and make arrangements."

John was nodding his head but couldn't bring himself to speak.

"Don't think about it. Just get in your truck and go get your boy."

John didn't say goodbye. He could still hear Dr. Taylor talking as he hung up the phone. He looked back at Mark's window. He wasn't the type of boss who thought highly of employees leaving early. Mark wasn't in his office. John made a careful, although hurried, calculation that he would be better off trying to sneak out than to ask for permission to leave. He'd done it before. John called out across the first bay.

"Mike."

He saw stained pant legs underneath the old Chevy. Mike rolled out and spotted John.

"What's a matter, buddy?" Mike asked. "You don't look so good."

"I got to go," John said.

"Everything all right?"

"No."

Whatever Mike saw in John's eyes was enough information.

"Go ahead," Mike said, as he leaned around the front tires and looked back at Mark's office. "I'll cover for you. Just don't let anyone see you pulling out of the parking lot."

John didn't respond. It took a moment for his mind to catch up with the conversation. "Just go," Mike said.

John heard Mike and started to move. He slipped out through the bay door and headed around the building. A moment later, he was in his truck and driving. The drive home was a blur. He tried to focus on what he needed to do but found his thoughts drifting. Something in Dr. Taylor's voice told him it was even worse than he was letting on. The lights and sounds of the small town gave way to open fields and sloping lowlands. Sunlight reflected off the hood of the old truck. John kept the windows down as he tried to read between everything the doctor had said.

"It's too important," John said to himself. "We'll get through this."

He turned on the radio and tried to clear his head. The music had little effect, but he kept it on. The drive took longer than usual, and by the time he could see the outline of his house on the horizon, over an hour had passed. John tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. His heart was racing as he tried to anticipate what might happen at the hospital.

In one sudden moment, all of that changed. Angela burst out the front door and fell to her knees on the lawn. Her face was streaked with tears as she frantically screamed. John's heart sank. He couldn't hear her, but he already knew what she was saying. The truck pulled into the driveway and John jumped out. The shrill of Angela's voice was bloodcurdling.

"No!"

John ran to her. He fell down in front of her and tried to put his arms around her. Angela punched and pushed at him as she continued to scream.

"God, please." She looked at John as if for the first time. "My baby's gone. My baby's dead."

John felt sick as his soul tore in two. He let Angela go and sat motionless as they knelt on the front lawn in agony. John wept as the sound of a mother's desperate pleas roared up to the heavens.

3

John watched as if looking at the world through someone else's eyes. He picked Angela off the ground and carried her into the house. She screamed and wailed like a banshee, the pain in her voice unmistakable. He felt nothing, having disconnected from his feelings, unable to accept what his wife had said. His son couldn't be dead. He was only a boy. Little boys didn't die; little boys had long lives ahead of them.

Crumpled on the living room floor like broken furniture, John and Angela cried. They sat for hours, at times inconsolable. Their nerves were like raw wires and their senses corrupted by the anguish. There was nothing in life for them to compare the feelings. John felt sick; the thought of his son was like a punch in the gut. The wave of pain was inescapable, and he was drowning in it.

It was late in the night when he came to. Angela was lying on the floor beside him. At some point, they'd both fallen asleep. He brushed the hair from her eyes and watched her deep, slow breaths for a moment. He tried not to think about anything else. Alex was in the other room, but John didn't have the heart to look. There wasn't a light on in the house, and the darkness in the living room was complete.

He allowed his eyes to adjust and then came to his feet. He took the small blanket off the arm of the couch and covered Angela. He would try and let her sleep as long as she could. The concern for her mental state was something else he didn't want to think about.

He stumbled across the dining room into the kitchen and pulled at the refrigerator door. He poured himself a glass of water and stood in the glow of the refrigerator light for several minutes. His mind was swimming as he tried to figure out what he should do without having to think about it at the same time. He went back into the living room and stood frozen, looking at the floor. The blanket was lying on the carpet, but Angela was missing. John put the glass down and examined the front door; the lock was still in place. He eyed the dark hallway.

He walked to the edge of the hall with hesitant steps, his ears picked up a quick shuffle from somewhere farther down, and then everything was silent. He plunged slowly into the darkness with the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, the rising of his breath like a windstorm. A thin slice of moonlight outlined the open edge of Alex's door. He was almost unwilling to go any closer. He could hear her breathing. John forced himself to take a step, and then another.

He pressed his hand against the doorframe and peered inside. The lone window was open, and a breeze pushed the drapes aside. There was a distinct, large mass atop the small twin bed. John felt repulsed although he couldn't explain why. The boy was dead. He imagined the feel of his cold skin against her and his ridged limbs. He nearly vomited. He pushed himself away with one last look and backed out into the hall.

♦

Angela woke early in the morning. John watched her come into their room, her face void of emotion. She looked close enough to count among the dead. He hadn't slept, lying there in the night trying to pass the time. He didn't know what to say to her. She used the bathroom and started to leave. John felt he had to say something.

"We need to call Dr. Taylor."

His voice was loud after the long silence.

"No," she said.

"But we need..."

John stopped when she kept walking. He heard her go back into Alex's room and shut the door. He forced himself to get out of bed. He took a shower and put on some clean clothes. After a call into work to say he wouldn't be in, he stood at the end of the hall looking at the closed door. Sunlight crept across the floor, leaving a long shadow on one side of the hall. Something about Angela's eyes scared him. He wanted to call Dr. Taylor anyway but didn't. John tried Alex's doorknob and found it locked. He knocked lightly and called out to his wife.

"Angela."

Silence.

"Baby."

Nothing.

"We need to talk about this." He waited for several minutes and hoped he wouldn't have to bust through the door. "This isn't going to make anything better."

"Just go away," she said. "This will never be better."

"That's not what I meant." He knocked on the door with increasing force. "Open the door so we can talk."

He stopped and heard the bed squeak, followed by steps in his direction. The knob turned and the door swung open. John leaned back as a swift, awful smell hit his nose.

"Come out here, Angela," he said. "He's gone, baby, and there's nothing we can do about it."

A terrible scowl covered her face. "God wouldn't do this," she said. "He wouldn't take my baby."

"Come here." He grabbed her arm. "Let's talk in the living room." He didn't want to step in Alex's room ever again. He was taken by surprise when she pulled away from him. Both arms swung widely, and her fist caught him on the jaw. He stumbled back and had to use the wall to keep from falling.

"You won't take away my baby," she said.

She hit him two more times before he could get out of arm's reach.

"That's enough," he said and then turned for the kitchen. "We can't do anything."

John heard Angela's footsteps running down the hall. He'd reached the dining room when the impact hit him in the back. Flung forward, John crashed onto the floor with a violent slam. He gasped for air and tried to clear the daze from his head. One strike after another, Angela punched him in the back of the head. He forced himself off the ground, and she flipped over on her back.

"You're crazy," he said, yelling.

"No one's coming to take my baby." Angela ran into the kitchen with John close behind. "No one." He wasn't fast enough to stop her, and by the time he caught up, she had the phone receiver in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. They eyed one another like fierce combatants, standing a few feet apart.

"Put the knife down," John said, trying to calm his voice. He didn't recognize the insane rage in his wife's stare.

"No one's going to take my baby," she said.

"All right, no one's going to take him. Just put the knife down."

The standoff lasted a few minutes before Angela dropped the phone. The hard, plastic receiver bounced off the linoleum floor, dangling by the coiled cord. Her posture relaxed, but she didn't put the knife down.

"We need to talk about this," John said.

"They'll come in here," she said, her voice shaking. "They'll come in here and put their filthy hands on my baby." She started to cry. "They'll put him in a bag, John. They'll put my baby in a bag."

She set the knife down on the counter. John took two steps and wrapped his arms around her. He grabbed the knife with one hand and slid it into the sink. He let her cry for a while until her body went limp in his arms.

♦

They lay on the kitchen floor for an hour. John decided to stay close to Angela. He didn't want to let her out of his sight. In her state, there was no telling what she would do.

Angela was calm. She'd stopped crying although she didn't say much. She had a blank stare on her face, her eyes locked on the phone receiver still dangling from the cord. John decided he would try to make some progress.

"Dr. Taylor would never do anything to hurt Alex." He waited for some type of reply but got nothing. "You know that, don't you?"

Angela slowly nodded.

"He'll treat Alex as if he were his own son." Even as John said the words, he didn't really believe them. Dr. Taylor was a good man, but the truth was, the doctor had little to do with the dead. He knew he would have to get Angela out of the house when the ambulance came.

"He will?"

The words crept from Angela's mouth in a whisper.

John hugged her. "He will," he said.

He tried to get up and stand Angela up with him. She was wobbly but managed to stay on her feet. Her stare was still on the phone, her mouth hanging open. A long line of spit dangled from her bottom lip.

"Why don't you go back to Alex's room," John said. He wasn't sure if it was the best idea, but he didn't want her listening while he explained to Dr. Taylor what had happened.

She nodded and shuffled out of the kitchen.

"I'll be back there in a second," he said.

Angela said something, but he couldn't make it out. John stood next to the sink as he tried to think of what he would say. He tried to come to the words, Alex is dead _._ Tears filled his sunken eyes. _Maybe I should check on her,_ he thought, and then he shook his head. He knew he was stalling. He took a deep breath, crossed the kitchen, hung up the receiver, and waited. He was mad at himself for stalling.

He gaped at the phone as if it might shock him. He picked up the receiver and studied the numbers. There was a faint glow from the pale, green light beneath the numbered buttons. The continuous sound coming from the earpiece was somewhat soothing. He knew what to dial. The finality of the call was what stung the most. Once he told anyone, it was all over. He would have to accept that his son was dead. They would come as Angela had said, and they would put his boy in a bag.

He pushed the first number and then forced himself to continue. His hand shook. He could see the phone cord jittering. He pressed the last number, there was a silent moment, and then the ring. He held the phone to his ear and waited. Part of him hoped no one would answer. He closed his eyes, one ring, two rings, three rings, and then a noticeable click.

"Hello."

John didn't say anything.

"Hello?"

He recognized Dr. Taylor's voice.

"Is there anyone there?"

"Dr. Taylor..." John didn't recognize his own voice.

"Yes. Who is this?" Dr. Taylor sounded aggravated.

John couldn't bring himself to say the words. He felt the phone shake against his ear. "...Dr. Taylor."

John could here Angela screaming for him in the background.

"John, come here!"

"Dr. Taylor—" he said, trying to continue.

"John, John Mason, is that you?" Dr. Taylor's tone took a serious turn. "Is everything all right?"

"John," Angela said. "For the love of God, come here." Her voice was more frantic than ever before.

"Dr. Taylor, we need you to come to the house," John said.

"What's the matter, John?" Dr. Taylor asked, obviously concerned. "Did something happen to Alex—"

John hung up the phone. In a daze, he ran down the hall to the rear of the house. He stood in Alex's open doorway looking in. Angela gazed up at him from the edge of the boy's bed. Her eyes bulged in the sockets, her stare wild and crazed as she spoke in a murmur.

"He's moving."

4

John wasn't sure he'd heard his wife correctly. The words ran through his mind for a moment until he deciphered them clearly: he's moving _._ He was sure his wife had lost her mind. He walked toward Alex's bed with lead feet. Light from the window shined brightly in a square patch in the middle of the room. John had to remind himself to breathe with every other step.

Angela was sitting on the edge of the bed looking at the comforter squished up near the pillow. She turned her head slowly toward him. The look on her face was a maddening picture of bewilderment. John had a strong desire to go back out into the hall. He tried to clear his throat and found it sore and dry. The sound of his cough filled the small room like a blaring horn. Angela looked down at the comforter, and he followed her stare.

He was a few steps from the bed when he saw it for himself. Something moved. John froze; he felt his blood rush through his veins. Angela's head shot toward him as if to say, "I told you." Something moved again under the comforter, and John saw it for sure. His mind raced with possibilities as he searched the room for the dog. For a moment, he believed this was some cruel joke, but he found Rex sitting under the window. He was also fixated on the little bed. Angela moved first, reaching for the comforter with one shaking hand.

"No."

With two short strides, John reached her. He grabbed her hand and pulled it away. He knew something wasn't right. Angela's mind was too far gone to make any rational connections. She snapped her hand away from his grasp.

John stood beside the bed and eyed the edge of the comforter. He reached out for it and took a firm hold. He felt it pull away from him, and he yanked it back with one pull. Alex's body lay in the fetal position. His feet and hands were a dirty yellow, the rest of him covered in fireman pajamas. The boy's face was toward the wall, and John could only see his cheek and neck. He watched his son's chest long enough to see he wasn't breathing. He turned his attention to the comforter, and then Alex's head moved. John took a step back.

"I told you, I told you," Angela said.

She got up on her knees and moved closer to Alex's feet, as John moved back to the end of the bed. The only thing he could grasp was that Dr. Taylor was on the way. Angela moved again, this time faster than he could react. She grabbed Alex's pajama bottoms and rolled him over. The boy's body turned, and John looked at his son's face. His deep yellow color was ghoulish.

Alex moved again; this time his head turned toward the door. John jumped back until he was sitting next to Angela at the end of the bed. He watched Alex's chest for a long time and was sure it never once rose or fell.

"He's not breathing," he said.

"You saw him move," Angela said.

Wild surprise filled her eyes. "If he's not breathing, then he's not..."

John stopped as a sound rose from the other end of the bed. Alex's lips parted and a low guttural moan came from within him. The sound continued for several seconds but then died away. His mouth remained open. John didn't continue trying to convince Angela that Alex couldn't possibly be alive. He got up and moved around to the side of the bed where Alex's head was facing. He got down on his knees and leveled his face with his son's. John moved his face closer to the bed, studying Alex. Beneath the yellow skin, dark lines had formed like tiny rivers of blood running the length of his cheeks and forehead.

There was an awful smell coming from Alex's opened mouth. It reeked of decay. The stench hit John in the face, and he nearly toppled backwards. He had to fight to hold down what little food he had in his stomach. John steadied himself with one hand on the floor and covered his nose and mouth with the other. He leaned in toward Alex, catching sight of the boy's tongue and discovered it was black as night. Something dark covered the edges of his teeth, which looked to be eating away at the enamel.

"What the hell is that stuff?" John asked.

He was a nose length away, studying the boy's face, and his heart stopped as Alex's eyelids flickered once and then opened. John sprang to his feet. He could see Angela jumping up and down on the end of the bed, but his brain couldn't register her mindless ranting. Alex hadn't moved, but his eyes were open. John's stare locked on the boy's eyes. The dark spheres were void of color, empty of any signs of real life. John slowly backed away, still unable to speak. He reached the doorway before he found the courage to pull his hand away from his mouth.

"Get out," he heard himself say. He didn't know why he'd said it, but he never meant anything more in his life. "Get out now."

Angela yelled at him, cursing in more ways than he ever believed she knew how. She was still jumping on the bed when Alex moved again. This time the boy sat up. The movement caused her to go silent. The boy reached for his mother, grabbing her around the leg. John ran for the bed as Angela reached down for Alex, her face consumed with a mother's agony. In her blind love, she did not see Alex's mouth opening wide as he pulled her leg closer. John threw one arm around her waist and pulled her from the bed.

He held his wife in the air and looked back at Alex. The boy slid to the foot of the bed as he tried to hold on to Angela's limb. He reached out for his mother as she dangled in front of him. The black pit of his mouth was open, and the vile moan spewed out like a growl. His soulless eyes remained fixated on his mother as he grabbed her shirt. John pulled her farther away, and as he did, he got a slap across the face for his trouble.

"Put me down," Angela said, screaming at the top of her lungs. "Alex needs me."

She kicked and punched, hitting John several times on the face and the top of his head. John pulled at her until he was practically dragging her across the floor. By the time he reached the doorway, Alex had lunged forward and fallen off the bed. His face hit the wooden boards, and his hands flailed about trying to push up.

John let go of his wife with one hand in an attempt to grab the door. He found the knob and felt a painful scratch on his cheek. Angela dug her nails in his skin and pulled with all her strength. She got free, pushing herself back toward Alex on her hands and knees.

She was only a few feet away before John got to her again. He gave up on the niceties and grabbed a handful of hair. Once he got her on her back, he pulled her away. Alex lunged out for her and grabbed one of her feet. She continued to scream at John even as the boy pulled up toward her and tried to bite her toes. John didn't think; he reacted. He dropped Angela's head onto the floor and stepped over her. He sent a solid kick to Alex's face, the boy's neck snapped back violently, and he lost his grip on his mother. John grabbed another handful of hair as Angela tried to get to her feet.

She reached for everything within her arm's length. Toys flung across the room and the bookcase toppled over, but John didn't stop. He reached the doorway, grabbed Angela with both hands, and flung her down the hall. He grabbed the door, and the last thing he saw before he slammed it shut was his son picking himself up off the floor.

♦

John kept Angela's hands pinned to the floor. He'd pulled her out into the living room and gotten on top of her. She was rabid, screaming and thrashing with strength far beyond her thin frame. He struggled to keep her down.

"There's something wrong with him," he said.

Angela didn't pay attention to what he was saying. She was hell-bent on getting back to her boy. Her mind was broken; John could see it in her eyes. He wasn't sure she would ever come back from this.

"That's not Alex in there," he said.

He wasn't sure he knew what he was saying either. John had looked into Alex's eyes and saw the hollow void within the sunken darkness. There was no life within him. He didn't know what it was, but he was sure it wasn't his son.

He stayed on top of her for nearly an hour. She kicked and screamed the entire time until her strength finally gave out. Soaked in sweat, she collapsed beneath him as if she'd been possessed, and the demon finally left her body. Spit lined her cheeks and chin as a strip of fresh blood ran from her cracked lips.

"You have to listen to me," John said. "That's not our boy in there. Whatever that stuff was he got into, it did something to him."

Angela turned her head and looked up at him, but she didn't say anything. She looked weak as if her will to live was gone. She struggled to say something but froze with her eyes wide open. For a moment, John thought she had gone into shock, but then he heard it. There was a low whimper coming from the hall. It took a second for it to register, but then it hit him.

"Rex?"

The moment the name left his mouth, the whimpering stopped. There was a loud single yelp, followed by a terrible silence. John rolled off Angela and sat on the floor looking down the hall. The hallway was dark and foreboding with Alex's door closed.

Angela sat up, her eyes focused with John's. The silence continued for several minutes and then a new sound arose. Long, slow scratches came one after another from the inside of Alex's door. John had no desire to see what was making the noise, but he wasn't sure how long he could keep Angela away. Calling the police seemed like the wrong thing to do, but he wasn't sure what other choice he had.

"Let's just have a look," Angela said in a calm voice.

John studied her face. She was, in fact, too calm. She'd pulled her hair back and wiped her face off. He had to be careful with her, he knew. When she was out of it, she was capable of terrible things.

"John, we can do this," she said. "We'll do it together. We have to check; he's our baby."

He recognized her manipulation. Angela always got her way. One way or another, he would do what she wanted. All he wanted was for her to be okay. He couldn't lose both of them.

They crept down the hall on their hands and knees. The scratching grew louder. Two distinct shadows formed in the space beneath the bedroom door. Alex was standing there and both John and Angela knew it.

They reached the end of the hall and stopped. Angela looked over at him with pleading eyes. John's mind screamed at him to back away, and he had to force himself to reach for the doorknob. He felt the cold metal with his fingers and paused. The scratching on the other side of the door stopped before he turned the knob.

John froze. He and Angela sat at the door for several agonizing minutes, listening for anything. John could hear his heart beating over everything else. The next sound they heard was something hitting the ground. It was far enough from the door not to break the light underneath. A moment later, something slid across the floor. John held his breath until it came to a stop.

Angela reached for the doorknob, wrapped her hand over John's, and turned. Hesitantly, they pushed. A rush of stench engulfed them as the door opened. Angela turned away; John had to put his hand over his nose to keep from gagging. He kept his eyes on the room, waiting for anything to move. Both of them stepped through the doorway, and the sight of blood smeared on the hardwood floor struck them. Small handprints dotted the maroon colored mess.

Chunks of dark brown fur clung to the floorboards. A hacking gag from Angela pulled John's eyes to the corner of the room directly across from the door. There on the floor lay the remains of Rex. There was little left to identify the animal. All that remained was a mix of blood and exposed organs dotted by patches of soaked fur.

"My God," John said.

The smell intensified once he could see the remains of the dog. Nauseous, his head spun as the aroma of death filled his senses. He wanted to get back out into the hallway as quickly as he could. He couldn't fathom what was happening to his son, and the only thing he knew for sure was that the thing that awoke on Alex's bed wasn't a boy, it was a monster. He felt his legs shaking beneath him, and he couldn't make them stop.

His concentration was broken. A new sound crept across the bedroom floor and grabbed him. John recognized it at once. The low, guttural growl was the same as it had been when Alex lay on his bed. John felt Angela's fingernails dig into his arm. He looked down at her hand and back up at her face. She wasn't looking at him. Her face was pale and her eyes widened beyond their limits.

John found himself unwilling to look. He knew she'd found where Alex was, and John wasn't sure he wanted to know. He was more willing to leave the room and never open the door again. Slowly, he forced himself to follow her stare. He turned on his heels and gazed back at the small bed. It took him a moment to see them. John was drawn down to the dark space underneath the bed. What he found there would haunt him every time he closed his eyes. Looking back at them, watching every move from within the darkness, were the soulless eyes of his son.

5

John realized he was holding his breath. Slowly, he let it out and took a step toward the door. He felt Angela grab his hand and pull. She was looking at him; he could see her from the corner of his eye.

"What?" he asked.

"We can't leave," she said.

"Like hell we can't. Didn't you see Rex?"

"That's your son down there, damn you."

John could argue the point, but hearing it made him think. It was the most inopportune time, but his mind was flooded with memories. He remembered holding Alex for the first time in the hospital. He remembered how small his hands were when he pushed his thumb into the center of his palm. In that moment, John remembered it all.

"Alex?" John said.

Angela's grip tightened. "Alex," she said.

John felt paralyzed. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. He couldn't find the strength to move. Nothing made sense. "Alex, please, it's daddy..."

He went quiet as a sound came from underneath the bed. A hissing noise grew louder for several seconds but then died away. A sudden movement from underneath the bed caused John and Angela to jump. Alex's hand reached out from the dark space and into the light. The skin was thin and grey. Dark lines crisscrossed over the top of his hand, running down each frail and boney finger. His nails were caked in something John couldn't guess, but the stains on the tips of the fingers were clearly blood.

Alex's other hand lurched from underneath the bed, clawing at the floorboards. The hissing noise returned as John saw his son's face pull out into the light. The color of his cheeks was more blue than grey. The jaundice-like glow was gone, but the dark veins were more prominent in his forehead and neck.

John felt Angela's hand pushing against his back, but he held his ground. He gave her a shove in return with his elbow and then planted his feet firmly. He did not intend to move closer to the bed until he better understood what was going on. He was horrified by Alex's appearance, but as far as he could tell, Angela wasn't affected by it at all.

"Hey, baby," she said as she got down on her hands and knees, looking into Alex's eyes for some sign of her son. As she tried to move closer, she was crying. John put his hand on her back to stop her, and he was forced to step in front of her.

John got within a few feet of the bed before Alex lunged forward. He made it a foot away from his father and then collapsed on the floor with his hands outstretched. John didn't react quickly enough, and if Alex would have had the strength, he would have had his legs. The boy lay motionless on the ground, and the hissing turned to a growl. His exposed arms looked battered and bruised. Angela reached out and stroked his hair before John could stop her. Alex didn't move.

"He's dying," she said.

That's an understatement, John thought.

"Do something," she said.

John crept to his right so he could keep an eye on Alex's face. He saw the outline of blood on the boy's ear and the side of his head. There was a dark brown clump stuck to his hair. It took John a few seconds to realize it was Rex's fur. Now, closer to the bed, John could see the rest of the dog's remains underneath. He could also see Alex wasn't breathing. Even so, the boy's fingers moved every couple of seconds.

"I think he's..." John thought about what he was saying. "I think he's hungry?"

"So, I'll go get him a sandwich," Angela said, and then she jumped up.

"I don't think so," John said, and she stopped at the door. "I don't think a sandwich will do it."

"What does he need?" she asked.

John looked over at the bloody pile in the corner of the room but didn't answer. Angela took a deep breath and held it for a moment.

"He's our baby, John," she said and then released the breath. "We can't let him die."

John didn't know how to tell her that Alex was already dead. He really didn't know how to tell himself. His mind couldn't piece together how his son died and then came back. Whatever it was that brought him back scared the hell out of John. He knew he wasn't thinking clearly, but he considered his options. He'd been pulled into Angela's world of madness, and although he knew this world was a debilitating place to be absorbed in, it was easy to focus on his son and nothing else.

"Meat," he said.

Angela looked at him with a terrified expression.

John couldn't believe what he was saying. "Meat," he repeated. He looked at the remains of the dog and then over at his wife. "He wants meat."

♦

They tried everything. Angela brought the meat from the kitchen while John waited in Alex's room. It was plain to see that whatever it was that kept Alex moving was fading fast. He placed in front of the boy's face everything Angela found. She brought the ground beef first. It seemed like the logical choice. He'd heard her banging around in the kitchen as she tried to get out the frying pan.

"Don't bother cooking it," he'd said.

She didn't question him. A moment later, a full pound of ground beef lay in front of Alex's face. He moved slightly, only once, as the smell of the beef hit him and then lay still. Angela cleaned the refrigerator out. She brought in everything from hot dogs to boloney. Alex reacted twice more, both times trying to nip at John's hands when he got too close. The mountain of meat stacked on the floor reeked.

John got back to his feet, out of ideas. He staggered around to the end of the bed, crouched down, and located Alex's legs. Cautiously, he reached in between the rails of the footboard. His hands wrapped around the exposed skin on Alex's leg, and he wanted to pull back. The skin was as rough as sandpaper and cold to the touch. The repulsion of his son was a difficult emotion to swallow. He tried not to think about anything more than the task at hand. John took a firm hold of the legs and then pulled as far as he could.

After a few attempts, he got Alex out from under the bed. He managed to stay away from the boy's face at all costs. He loved his son without question, but he feared him enough to keep his distance as best he could. When it was done, Alex lay sprawled out in the center of the bedroom floor on his stomach, his arms and legs spread away from his body. Throughout it all, he never moved.

The smell of the warming meat mixing with the funk of the dog's remains made the room unbearable. The stench stung John's eyes as he stepped over Alex. He considered trying to put what was left of Rex in a bag, but he didn't want to leave Angela alone in the room for any amount of time if he could help it. She had moved closer to the doorway and from time to time, John heard her gagging. He worried that whatever was in her stomach might soon add to the mess on the floor.

"I want to get him up on the bed," he said.

Angela looked at him.

"Stay where you are," he said.

He studied the situation for a minute and then set his mind on what he would do. Alex was nearly in line with the bed the way he was lying. He moved in close to the boy, in one quick motion pushed his hands underneath Alex's chest and stomach, and lifted him. He stood up and flung the boy toward the bed, spinning him in the process. Alex landed awkwardly but stayed atop the mattress. His limbs flung around as if they were no longer attached underneath the skin. His neck snapped hard as his head moved toward the window and then back toward John. When he stopped, the boy's eyes were open, staring at his father.

Angela gasped from the door. John waited for movement and was rewarded with a spasm. Alex's arm shook and moved down by his side. His mouth opened and his tongue flopped out like a dog. A gurgling sound rose from his lungs as if he was trying to speak in some language his parent's didn't understand. The stench from the boy's lungs filled the room, saturating John like a burst of flames, and he was forced to turn away as his eyes watered.

John turned back to find Angela crying again. He crossed the room and grabbed her. She buried her face in his shirt and cried louder. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed with all her might. John struggled to take a breath.

"It's not fair," she said.

He could barely make out what she was saying.

"We can't lose him twice."

He stroked her hair and tried to calm her, but there was little he could do. In the end, he settled for holding onto her until she got it all out. She looked up at him with swollen, red eyes. He had never seen such agony up close.

"I don't know what to do," he said.

He tried to think of anything to fight off the pain, but his thoughts were cut in two by the sound of the doorbell. Angela's expression changed. She looked like they were doing something wrong and she didn't want anyone to know. John tried to move past her, but she wouldn't let go.

"It has to be Dr. Taylor," he said.

"We can't tell him, John."

John pulled himself free and headed for the door. Angela ran after him but didn't try to stop him. She sat down on the couch and tried to fix her hair as fast as she could. John wasn't sure why she was trying to play it so cool. He never had time to consider her actions. He reached the front door as the bell rang for the third time. He took a deep breath, let it out, and then opened the door.

Dr. Taylor burst through the door as if he expected to find the house on fire. "Is everything all right?" He scanned the living room and what he could see of the dining room before bringing his attention to Angela. "Good heavens," he said, "are you all right?"

Angela tried to smile and nod at the same time. Her attempt to keep herself together was fading quickly.

"You'd better sit down," John said as he grabbed Dr. Taylor by the elbow and ushered him toward the couch. "There's a lot we have to talk about." He realized he'd manhandled the doctor a little more than he intended.

Dr. Taylor eyed them both suspiciously as he sat. He was waiting to hear about Alex's condition and didn't appear to be willing to wait much longer.

"This isn't going to make much sense to you," John said.

"John, maybe we should—"

John waved Angela off before she got started. "Dr. Taylor," he said as he sat in the chair next to the couch and leaned closer to the doctor. "Just hear me out."

♦

Dr. Taylor listened to John without saying a word. Even when the story pushed past the boundaries of modern medicine, he didn't interrupt. John couldn't tell what the doctor was thinking, but he guessed he was thinking of a good mental hospital to admit him to. John was having a little trouble believing the story after hearing it out loud. Once he was finished, John sat back in the chair and stared out the living room window. He'd noticed Angela's growing agitation as the story went on. She'd leaned back on the couch before he'd finished and refused to look at him or the doctor. They waited for Dr. Taylor to gather his thoughts.

"Well," Dr. Taylor said, "it's important to remember that both of you are going through a very difficult time."

"I'm not crazy, Doctor," John said, although he wasn't sure he believed it.

"I'm not saying that." Dr. Taylor put up his hands in defense. "A traumatic experience can have dramatic effects on the mind. The loss of a child is—"

"Alex is not dead," Angela said as she jumped off the couch. "He's not dead."

John came to his feet and grabbed her. He forced her to sit back down, taking a seat next to her and keeping one arm around her shoulders. Dr. Taylor sat frozen for a time, shocked by the sudden outburst. When he did move again, he set his satchel on the floor at his feet and began rummaging through it.

"Hold her still."

John couldn't see what Dr. Taylor was doing, but he had a good idea. He grabbed one of Angela's arms and put all his weight against her body. They fell down on the couch, and he pinned her there while keeping one arm stretched out as she screamed at him. He held her as still as he could, while the doctor leaned in and plunged a syringe into her vein. Whatever it was, it worked quickly. Angela stopped fighting after only a few minutes and fell silent. John stood up and saw she was still awake.

"Will that knock her out?" he asked.

"No." The doctor put the syringe away. "It will make her passive."

John sat back down in the chair.

"John, I'm not going to beat around the bush here," Dr. Taylor said. "I believe you're becoming wrapped up in Angela's sickness. This is not unprecedented. There are numerous examples of perfectly sane people being drug down into a psychosis type state by simply having close contact with a troubled mind."

"Dr. Taylor, I'm not—"

"You can't see it," Dr. Taylor said. "You're just as affected by this loss. It's only that Angela does not have the ability to come out of it by herself."

John had heard enough. He got to his feet and was surprised to see Dr. Taylor react as if he might have to defend himself.

"Come with me," John said. "Go see Alex for yourself."

Dr. Taylor hesitated. He looked over at Angela for a moment. She seemed more aware than a few minutes before. "You're going to be all right," he said to her.

Angela smiled at him and then sat up. The doctor turned to John, and her smile changed to a scowling glare.

"Let us go then," Dr. Taylor said.

John led him down the hall. He heard Angela get up off the couch, but she didn't follow them. John opened the door to Alex's room and then moved out of the way. Dr. Taylor stepped in the bedroom and slid his hand over his nose. The stench in the room had festered, and the result was nearly unbearable. Dr. Taylor put his bag on the ground and pulled out a few items. He dabbed something under his nose that resembled Vaseline, and it allowed him to breathe freely. He approached the side of Alex's bed with cautious steps. Dr. Taylor looked silently at John, unable to describe Alex's condition. He held the end of his stethoscope in one hand, and as he leaned toward Alex, the boy shook violently. The doctor pulled the end of Alex's shirt up, revealing a dark blue patchwork of skin.

John saw Angela step into the room. She was trying to be quiet, but before he could figure out why, it was too late. She got directly behind the doctor and shoved him as hard as she could. He ended up sprawled on top of Alex with his hands and feet hanging off opposite sides of the bed.

"What in the hell?" Dr. Taylor said.

John nearly laughed at the sight of him. He didn't know why Angela pushed him, but it struck his funny bone for a second. The laugh came to a terrifying stop as Alex grabbed the doctor. The boy leaned his head forward and bit into his shoulder, pulling back a chunk of bloody shirt and meat. Dreadful shock consumed John. Alex bit into the doctor again, this time reaching up to his neck. Angela grabbed John's hand and pulled him away from the bed. They were standing at the doorway before John knew what was happening. Angela's face was filled with glee, smiling from ear to ear. John couldn't speak. She closed the door and Dr. Taylor's screams came to a haunting stop.

6

John sat at the end of the hallway with his back against the wall and his head in his hands. Dr. Taylor's screams didn't last long. The sounds coming from Alex's room were unbearable, and there was little John could do to escape it. He knew what his son was doing, but his mind couldn't comprehend it.

Angela sat on the couch in silence. She appeared to be far more in control of herself than John was managing. She sat cross-legged, rocking slightly from side to side. John was surprised when she picked up the remote control and turned on the television.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked. He pushed himself up and stumbled into the living room. He felt sick and thought he might throw up. "What the hell are you doing?"

Angela was ignoring him. She clicked the remote and turned the channel. John's courage failed him and his temper faded. The last thing he wanted to do was fight with her.

"Why don't you sit down?" she said, giving him a stern glance. He couldn't resist once her demanding personality reappeared. "We're going to have to hide the remains." She said it as if she was asking him to take out the trash.

He stared at her blankly, not knowing how to reply.

"I bet we could put it under the house in the storm cellar," she said. "We'll have to put it in trash bags to keep the smell down."

He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to reminder her that the _it_ she was talking about was Dr. Taylor, but he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"We can't do this," he said.

"We can't do what exactly?" she asked as her head snapped around. "We can't keep our son alive?"

John tried to defend himself. "That's not what I'm saying."

"You would rather your son die?" she asked.

"This is murder."

John's words stopped Angela in her tracks. She studied his face for several uncomfortable seconds. She was working through it the way she always did. He'd never had the guts to stand up for himself, and she knew it.

"That's right, John," she said. "It's murder." She leaned over toward him until their faces were only an inch apart. "Are you going to call the cops?"

John didn't answer. He knew he should do exactly that. No matter how bad he felt about Alex, he knew this was wrong.

"Go ahead." She leaned back against the couch. "But don't forget you're just as much to blame. You didn't do anything to stop it."

He could have pulled Dr. Taylor off the bed. He could have done something, but he didn't. John didn't do anything to save him. Angela didn't look back at him. She continued through the channels until she found the show she was looking for.

John sat in silence as long as he could; he got up and went to the kitchen without saying another word. He leaned against the counter, staring at the phone. His mind filled with terrible scenes. He could see Alex grab the doctor. Visions of what happened once the door closed were too terrible to think about, but he couldn't force them away.

John couldn't pick up the phone. He knew he should call the police, but Angela's warning haunted him. The guilt of what he'd done tore at his stomach as the fear of what would happen to him and Angela tormented his mind. He could feel Angela's eyes on him. She knew she was in control, but he could sense her fear. Angela had things the way she wanted them, and she didn't want him messing it up. He thought about what she was truly capable of for a second.

"John."

Angela's voice cut through his thoughts like a dull knife. He ran into the living room expecting the worse. He found her standing at the entrance to the hall. She wasn't moving and had her hand up to stop him. It took him a moment to hear the noise. He recognized the scratching at once. It was coming from Alex's room. Angela's eyes were impossibly wide as she turned to look at him.

"We have to go in there," she said.

"I'm not going in there," John said without thinking.

"It's your son, John, and he needs you."

She moved out of the way. It was apparent she meant for him to go alone. John rubbed his hand across his face and sweat dripped to the floor as he tried to gather the courage to move. He stepped past his wife and into the darkness of the hall. The scratching sounds were constant, and for a second, he was hopeful there was some normal explanation. His stomach sank when he studied the light under the door. He could see clearly the shadow of two feet standing behind it.

"Hurry up," Angela said.

"I'm going."

John waved his hand behind him to brush her off. He stood outside the door listening. The scratching never stopped. Under the door, he saw wood shavings gathering. The shavings moved slightly with each scratch as the pieces fell to the floor. Panic crept into the back of his mind as he reached for the knob. He knew he had to be quick. Alex couldn't run as far as he could tell, and John figured if he could get away from the door, he should be able to keep him at bay.

The sequence of events that followed came from some disturbing comedy. John turned the knob and pushed the door open as hard as he could. He heard the sound of something collapsing on the floor. John stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and ran for the bed. He wasn't prepared for the sight of Dr. Taylor's body. At first glance, it was difficult to tell what he was looking at. The blood was overwhelming, covering every inch of the bed. The comforter lay on the floor soaked through with a deep red.

John saw a hand and then a foot. The two were close together at the end of the bed, neither connected to the rest of the body. The exposed bones were pushed through the skin in places and picked clean of muscle. The horror of the sight didn't register until he realized the doctor's body was facing up.

Dr. Taylor's face was immortalized in a vicious yell, his mouth still wide open. Lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling as blood drained from bites along the side of his face. John reached the edge of the bed when he saw the worst of it. One side of the doctor's neck was missing; the exposed esophagus looked like plastic lying beneath the torn skin.

John moved around the bed near the lone window before looking back toward the door. Alex was already on his feet. John saw his wretched son lumbering toward him. The boy's remaining clothes were soaked through with blood. His mouth hung open, revealing pieces of flesh. John didn't have time to think. He leaned down and pushed with both hands at the other side of the bed. His finger dug into something soft and warm, but he didn't want to look. The bed gave way and slid across the floor with ease.

Alex didn't react to the bed, even as it slammed into his thighs. John pinned the boy against the far wall and stepped away. Alex reached out for him, and a low moan erupted from his mouth as the bits of soft tissue fell. His fingers dug into the doctor's remains still spread out on the bed as he tried to get a hand on his father.

John pulled at the bed sheet until it gave way. It slipped off and Dr. Taylor's body came with it. It hit the floor and the mass fell apart as his intestines spilled over onto the hardwood. John moved quickly, wrapping everything up with each corner of the sheet. The bed started to move, and he was forced to hold it in place with his foot. Alex's movements became frantic as he lashed out as if full of life. His face was consumed by the dark lines beneath his skin, his soulless eyes black as night. John couldn't take it any longer. He reached for the door and pulled. Angela's face pushing into the opening nearly caused his heart to stop.

"Hi, baby."

John realized she was talking to Alex. Even as he turned his outstretched hands toward her, she stepped in his direction. John moved in front of her and pulled the sheet behind him. He forced her out into the hall, bringing Dr. Taylor's remains with him. He closed the door and leaned against it. He heard the bed push across the floor and, a moment later, felt pounding on the other side of the door. The moan was replaced by an indescribable growl that was neither animal nor human. John stepped away and prepared for the door to come down. He reached the middle of the hall before the pounding stopped.

♦

John pulled the bloody sheet like a load of wet laundry. He reached the end of the hall and had to stop. He looked back at the long streaks of blood on the floor and felt like he might cry. His mind had no answers for what was happening. In spite of everything, Angela scared him most. She was back on the couch, watching television as if nothing had happened. He saw the excitement on her face when she came into Alex's room. She'd looked at Alex like he was reaching out to give her a hug. John knew her mind was a fragile thing; he'd lived through many episodes where he thought he might lose her for good, but this was beyond imagination.

He continued dragging the remains of Dr. Taylor through the dining room, out the back door, and into the backyard. Blood covered everything along the way. John knew what he was doing was wrong but fought with himself over the justification. _I can't let my son go_ , he thought. John continued the thought over and over until it stuck. He would lose Angela without Alex. He couldn't give up his entire family.

He reached the side of the house, let the sheet go, and studied the lock holding the storm cellar doors closed. It took him a while to remember the combination. It unlocked when he slid in the number to Alex's birthday. "You did good," he said, looking down at Dr. Taylor's exposed remains. "You helped someone today." John smiled for the first time in a while. Somehow, it was beginning to make sense. Most parents would do anything for their children. Most men would do anything for their family.

"This is no different."

He felt better. He could feel the doubt somewhere in his mind, but it was losing its grip on him fast. He pulled the storm cellar doors open and looked down inside. There was a narrow set of stairs leading into the darkness under the house. John grabbed the edge of the sheet and pulled as he stepped cautiously down one step at a time.

John was consumed by the darkness. He waved his hand around looking for the light's pull string and heard something bounce down the stairs. Fear crept over him in an instant. He felt the dirty string hit against his hand and then swing away. Frantically, he let go of the sheet and reached out with both hands.

Like a stumbling blind man, John felt defenseless. The string hit him in the face, and he nearly ripped it off, pulling as hard as he could. The single lightbulb came to life and washed the room with a pale, yellow glow. John spun around, expecting something to lunge at him. He found Dr. Taylor's remains lying open and still. John's eyes ran the length of the stairs up toward the opening.

The blood touched each stair, but there was no sign of anything hunting him in the dark. It took him a few minutes to catch his breath. He stared at Dr. Taylor and realized what had happened. The doctor's head was no longer attached. It lay on the cold dirt floor a few feet away. The remaining pieces of the neck had torn away as he pulled the body down the stairs, and it rolled off by itself.

John decided not to spend any more time down in the cellar than he had to. He pushed the body up against the back wall and tossed the edges of the sheet over the top. He grabbed Dr. Taylor's decapitated head, threw it in the general direction of the body, and then pulled the light string on his way to the stairs. He went back in the house and headed for the kitchen. The television was on, but Angela was missing. He peered down the hall and found the door to Alex's room closed. The front door to the house was locked and deadbolted.

He reached the kitchen sink, turned on the hot water, and let it run. His hands were covered in blood. He reached under the sink and pulled out the bottle of extra strength cleaning gel he used for really tough stains. It took him a while, but he managed to get the blood off his skin and out from under his fingernails.

He wiped his hands dry and then pulled a beer from the fridge. He heard the sound of water running in the back of the house and headed to the hall with a beer in hand. John realized the blood on the floor and in the hall was gone. He found a mop leaning against the wall near his bedroom door. The bucket of water beside it was stained crimson. He took a long drink from his beer and then proceeded to his bedroom.

He could tell the water was coming from the master bath. John stepped into his bedroom and found Angela's clothes in a pile on the floor at the foot of the bed. He downed the rest of his beer and put the bottle on the nightstand. He peeked in through the bathroom door and saw Angela lying in the tub with her head back against the edge. Her eyes met his and she smiled. The anger was missing from her face. She looked relaxed as if everything in the world was okay.

"You looking for something?" she asked.

Angela bit her bottom lip in the way that drove John crazy. He pushed open the door and smiled back at her.

"Maybe," he said.

"I'm so proud of you, baby."

"How so?"

"You did it," she said. "You really did it. You proved to me that you would do anything for your family."

Angela's voice was soft and inviting. John could sense the pride in her. His chest swelled. He hadn't felt this from her for longer than he could remember.

"That's all I ever wanted from you," she said. "That's all we ever wanted."

She pulled one foot from underneath the water and laid it up on the edge of the bathtub. She gave him a look filled with desire. John walked to the tub and pushed off his boots with his feet. He looked down at his clothes, and the amount of blood startled him.

"Don't," she said and then threw her other leg up on the far side of the tub, exposing herself. "Just get in here."

The moment John pulled his stare away from the blood, the horror was gone. He looked into Angela's eyes and forgot about everything else. He took her hand and stepped in the warm water. Angela pulled him down on top of her, and with the slightest ease, made him forget about all his troubles.

7

John lay in bed listening to the sound of his heart. He couldn't sleep. The last time he looked, the clock on the nightstand read 3:42 am. His eyes started burning half an hour ago, but he knew it didn't matter. Moonlight cascaded in through the bedroom window and lit up the opposite wall. He watched the open doorway until his mind played tricks on him. He'd seen movement in the hall several times, but he knew nothing was really there.

He turned his head and looked at Angela. She was sleeping soundly beside him as she had been since the moment her head hit the pillow. He watched her chest rise in slow, perfect rhythm. He thought she looked peaceful.

They'd made love for the first time in over a year. From the moment he'd stepped in the bath, John saw the side of Angela he fell in love with. Everything felt right and he didn't want to ruin it. He would have to quiet the nagging thoughts dancing in his head.

He decided that he'd been in the bed long enough and slowly moved Angela's hand from his chest and slid out from under the covers. The wood floor was cold against his feet. He found his slippers under the bed, threw on his robe, and headed down the hall. His heart beat loudly in his ears as he neared Alex's room. Only a foot away, he paused and the silence brought a smile to his face. He pictured his boy sleeping soundly as he headed for the living room.

John went into the kitchen and eyed the canisters atop the refrigerator. He reached up and fished his hand around until he found what he was looking for. From a hidden spot behind the flour container appeared a half-empty pack of cigarettes. John looked in the torn opening in the top of the pack and found the small lighter.

He went to the back door and did his best to open it quietly. Once out back, he got far enough away from the house to be safe and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it and took a long, slow drag. The feeling was euphoric. John had officially quit smoking three months ago. Since then, he'd kept the habit down to breaks at work and the occasional late night slip into the backyard. Angela hated smoking and threatened to leave him if he didn't give it up. He figured under the circumstances, he could smoke all he wanted.

He stood looking out across the back of the property. Moonlight illuminated the tree line in the distance. Angela said she'd found Alex back there covered in the black ooze. John considered walking out there but decided against it. If he was going to have a look, he thought it best to wait until sunrise. He took another long drag and held the smoke in his lungs. There was a silence all around him as the wind died away. It was then that he heard a light clicking sound from behind him. He turned and looked at the back door expecting to see it slowly moving, but he found it shut.

He approached the door tentatively, noticing the sound had stopped. John was a foot from the rear of the house when it started again and then stopped. He was sure it was coming from the edge of the house, and he kept close to the wall as he walked. The sound started again, this time at a slow rhythmic pace. The closer John came to the edge of the house, the more he recognized the sound. At the midway point, he stopped, peering farther down the rear of the house at the lone window on the corner.

The light from the end of his cigarette lit up a small portion of his face as he took a drag. He leaned out from the back of the house to sneak a look at the widow. Shadows kept the moonlight away, swallowing the area in darkness. The tapping continued.

John took one last puff of his cigarette and then flicked it out in the grass. His eyes stayed locked on the edge of the window, but he didn't move any closer. The tapping grew louder as he took a step forward. There was a new sound joining in with the first. Low, but constant, there was a rising hum. Another step and John was close enough to touch the windowsill. He steadied himself and then moved out in front of the glass. He saw a hand first, the blackened fingers tapping along the glass in search of freedom. He leaned in and Alex's face slammed against the window, a moan erupting from his mouth as he tried to get hold of his father.

John felt his heart stop as he leapt back. He came down awkward on his foot, twisting his ankle. He landed on his back with a painful thud, his elbows sinking in the mud. All the while, Alex's dark figure pounded on the glass trying to get out. Terrified, John rolled onto his hands and knees. He sloshed through the grass, working his way toward the back door. He was sure the glass would give way and Alex would get out into the yard. John gasped for breath as he reached the back door. A sudden awareness of silence held him still. The pounding and deathly moan stopped. Alex was out of sight and all that remained was a light tapping of a child's fingers against the window.

♦

Angela shot up in bed as the pounding started. The sunlight from the bedroom window caused her eyes to slam shut. It took her a few seconds to wake herself up. She squinted as her eyes adjusted, and then she realized the pounding stopped. She tried to get her bearings. It was obvious John was already up. She slid on her slippers and looked out the window. She smiled as she stretched, interested in figuring out what her husband was up to.

A sudden jolt ran up her back as the pounding returned. She spun around and focused on Alex's door. From her position at the window, she could only see the doorknob. She watched the door as the pounding continued. The noise stopped and she realized she was holding her breath. Fear raced through her mind when she considered what John might have done. Her heart beat faster as she walked toward Alex's room. The pounding started again as she reached for the doorknob and hesitated.

The pounding stopped and she put her ear up against the cold wood. There was nothing but silence, and then she picked out the sounds of something shuffling across the floor. The sounds drew near. The pounding started again and as she pulled away, something hit hard against the inside of the door. She screamed and backed away, her heart in her throat.

"Angela."

She heard John call her name from the rear of the house.

"Angela, is that you?"

She moved down the hall and into the living room. She pulled open the back door and stepped outside. John stood at the edge of the house near a stack of old wood two-by-fours. He had his hammer in one hand and few nails in the other. He'd already hammered three pieces of wood over Alex's window.

"I thought I'd better cover this up," he said.

He smiled at her and went back to work. He hoisted another board in place and began pounding away. Angela watched him work. He had his shirt off, and she leered at his bare chest as it glistened in the morning sun. She made him something to eat once the work was done, and they sat down at the dining table. John ate his sandwich in four giant bites. Angela watched him with a smile painted on her face. She wanted something from him but was waiting for the right time to ask. John didn't give in. He ate his chips in silence, washed it all down, and then picked up after himself.

"You know...," Angela said after waiting as long as she could. "Alex seems to be moving around much better."

John didn't respond. She hadn't gotten to the point yet. She used this tactic most of the time.

"It's like he got his strength back, you know," she said.

"I'd say so." John headed for the couch. "He scared the hell out of me this morning."

"How so?"

"I was out back and he came at that window," he said.

"Why were you out back?" she asked, sitting down next to him.

John shuddered and then changed the subject. "What are you getting at?" he asked.

"Well—"

Angela was interrupted by a phone ring. John looked at the kitchen with a confused expression. It was as if he'd forgotten there were other people in the world besides her and him. He made it to the kitchen by the fourth ring, picked up the receiver, and in an unsteady voice, spoke.

"Hello."

John held silent for a moment. Angela could see him standing in the entrance to the kitchen, his shoulders stiffening as a high-pitched voice came over the phone.

"Oh, hi, Penny."

Angela's eyes narrowed. Penny was Doctor Taylor's assistant.

"No, no we haven't seen the doctor."

Angela got up off the couch and walked closer. She leaned in toward John to listen.

"Well, that's strange," Penny said. "I haven't heard from him, so I came in his office for a look. The only thing I found was a scribbled note with your name on it."

John didn't say anything for a moment.

"Oh yeah." His voice went in and out as he spoke. He cleared his throat. "I called him last night. I completely forgot."

Angela grabbed a firm hold of the back of his arm. He tried to pull away from her but couldn't. She glared at him, but he couldn't see her face.

"So you did talk with him then?" Penny asked.

"Yes, I called to tell him how Alex was doing."

Penny was quiet long enough for it to be uncomfortable.

"Doctor Taylor asked us to check in with him from time to time," John said.

"Yeah..." Penny hesitated. "I guess that sounds like Dr. Taylor. He didn't come over for a visit?"

"No," John said.

There was a long pause as Penny waited for more. Angela wanted him to get off the phone. She hoped Penny would give up and let him off the hook.

Penny finally spoke up. "So how is Alex?"

"Alex?" John's mind seemed to go blank.

Angela tightened her grip on the back of his arm, and he snatched it away.

"Alex's doing better."

John stepped into the kitchen. Angela leaned against the entrance and smiled at him. She tilted her head to the side and pouted, waving him back to her.

"Yes, much better," he said and then shook his head at her.

Penny's voice was loud enough so Angela could still hear her.

"Oh, that's great to hear. I know Dr. Taylor was really worried. You know it's not like him to miss a day at the office without calling in."

John swore under his breath and then mouthed to Angela that he forgot to call into work. "Yeah, that is strange, but I have to go, Penny," he said. "Thanks for calling."

Penny was still talking when he hung up the phone.

"Well, that was rude," Angela said.

"I have to get to work," he said. He tried to push past her, but she didn't budge. "Baby, I have to go." He checked his watch. "I'm already going to be late."

Angela put her arm around his neck and pulled herself toward him. She made him put his arms around her waist. "Are you trying to get away from us?" Her question was playful enough, but she wanted an answer.

"No, of course not."

She kissed him and then put her hand on the back of his head and held his lips to hers for a long time. "I didn't get to finish what I was saying," she said when she finally let him go.

"Can't it wait?" John asked and then checked his watch again.

She wasn't going to let him go until she got out what she wanted to say. "I'm so happy to have our family back together," she said. "I don't know what I would do if we lost our boy." John's eyes squinted, and she knew he understood what she was saying. "You're the provider of this family."

"Yes, and that's why I have to get to work," he said. "I have to—"

Angela's expression hardened. "Alex got better because of Doctor Taylor," she said.

John slowly nodded. "I know."

"Alex had to have it," she said in a hauntingly simplistic way. A sound emanated from the hall before she could continue. Light from the boarded windows in Alex's room highlighted the shadow of his feet underneath the door. "John." She decided to make her demands crystal clear. "He has to eat."

8

Angela loved the red dress. She'd bought it for her and John's first anniversary. It made her feel sexy, maybe even a little easy. John loved the red dress too. He strictly forbade her from leaving the house when she put it on. She caressed his ego and he gave in. There wasn't anything Angela couldn't get him to do with a little caressing. Her heels were high and she wore her lipstick thick.

Eight o'clock came around and she was ready to go. She assured John one last time that they were making the right decision. With a harsh glare, he agreed and gave the truck keys to her. He watched her leave, and she knew he wouldn't be able to get the picture out of his mind for hours.

Finally alone, Angela found a radio station she liked, turned the volume as loud as it would go, and drove off. She didn't think about what she was doing, at least not in the form of right or wrong. She was a mother and she would do whatever it took to take care of her son. Ashville was forty-two miles from the Mason family home. It was what counted for a big city to the people in the heart of Kansas. Angela spent many Friday nights of her youth either trying to get into a bar on Williams Street or being tossed out of one. The Dusty Bottom was a particular favorite of hers, and when she finally pulled into the parking lot, she was ready.

The lot was packed thick with trucks. The particular type of men who frequented the watering hole was partial to big trucks, leather boots, and cowboy hats. Most of these men weren't what you would consider Rhodes scholars, and that was precisely what Angela was looking for. Her dress drew plenty of attention, and by the time she reached the entrance, there was a small pack of men following. She pretended not to notice the onlookers as she headed for the bouncer. He eyed her up and down, smiling, and then offered a nod of his hat before he let her cut to the front of the line.

Angela reached the bar and picked out three potential candidates, based mostly on ease and relative looks of stupidity. The music was loud and made it impossible to hear anything lower than a yell. She found a spot at the bar, leaned up against the sticky wooden surface, and waited. It took less than two minutes before the first man strolled up to her. He hadn't been in her initial count, but from the look of him, he should've been. He leaned against the bar and a rush of Stetson cologne and sweat engulfed her. She recognized his face but couldn't place the name; lucky for her, he was more than willing to fill in the blanks.

"I know you, don't I?" he asked, the twang in his voice thick.

Angela looked him up and down, admiring his choice in boots and the brown stain of dried sweat around the edges of his hat.

"Greg, Greg Hunter," he said.

The name brought Angela back a few years, but she knew him at once. They had gone to high school together. She even remembered a heated petting session under the football bleachers in their junior year. She smiled; this would be easier than she thought.

"How could I forget you, Greg?" she said.

He smiled a wide-toothed grin and then ordered a round of shots for the both of them. It didn't take him long to start reminiscing about their high school years. Greg turned out to be a historian of sorts, at least in the town's lowliest of information. He had dirt on nearly every person they'd gone to school with, and from the sounds of it, that included Angela and John.

"I heard you had to go up to the hospital in Manassas a while back," he said.

He threw back another shooter and then motioned to the bartender to bring another round. Angela was surprised by the comment. She'd tried to keep her visit to the psych ward as hush as possible. Her sister didn't even know about it. She finished off her drink as she tried to think of a response.

"You went to that mental hospital?" Greg asked.

Angela let out a big laugh. "No, my son had some problems during birth," she said. "They wanted to take him up there, not me." Greg smiled, but she could see he was deciding if he was going to believe it or not. "He lost oxygen during birth and it affected his brain," she said. "They wanted to run some tests on him, that's all."

She watched Greg's shoulders relax, and she knew he'd bought it.

"He okay now?" he asked, uncomfortable with the conversation.

"He's great," Angela said. "Everything's great."

Greg pulled out the charm from then on, moving farther down the bar every ten minutes. By midnight, they were practically standing on top of one another. Greg bought more rounds than either of them could count. He was on to the slurring and smiles stage, while Angela struggled to maintain herself.

She poured several drinks onto the floor when Greg wasn't paying attention. Even so, she'd had to finish off more alcohol than she'd had in a long time. She wasn't responsible for keeping the conversation going; Greg was more than willing to carry on with his opinions of everyone they'd ever known. Angela looked at her watch and considered moving the plan along. Greg caught her checking the time and took the opportunity to grab her hand and pull her close enough that their sides were touching.

"You're not going to call it a night, are you?" His eyes fell to her chest, and he didn't appear to have the ability to hide it. "We still got a lot of catching up to do."

"Why heavens no," she said. "But you know," she looked over at the entrance, "we sure could talk a lot easier somewhere else."

Greg's smile made him look ridiculous. Angela held back a laugh.

"Where did you have in mind?" he asked.

"Why not my house?" she said.

Greg's eyes found a moment of clarity and he looked up at her face. "Your house? What about John?"

"Don't you worry about him," she said and then put the palm of her hand on his chest. "He won't bother us."

Greg looked stumped. He appeared to be calculating the pros and cons of the decision but got lost somewhere in the process. Finally, he nodded. "Let's go," he said with a grin. "I'll follow you."

♦

John was losing his mind. He paced back and forth in the living room, stopping every couple of turns to peer out the window. Angela told him to try to watch television, but that didn't last very long. She'd been gone for five hours, and he considered calling the bar.

He'd been against her plan, but she worked him over as she always did. He couldn't stand against her and she knew it. She'd always worn the pants in the family, a trait handed down from his father, something Angela always picked at him about. John swore under his breath, took another look at the living room window, and then continued pacing.

"I can't do this," he said.

He adjusted the grip on the hammer he was holding.

"There's no way."

He stopped moving and looked down at the clawed end. Angela told him the clawed end would work the best. He shook his head and tossed the hammer onto the couch.

"What the hell are we doing?"

John couldn't see Alex's door from the living room, but he'd heard the scratching. He didn't know why the boy scratched. John wondered if it was a sign that he needed to eat. Angela said that had to be it, but John had his doubts. He's trying to communicate with us, she'd said. Are you going to turn your back on him now, when he needs you most?

"Shut the hell up," John said.

He picked the hammer up off the couch and as he did, a beam of headlights slid across the back wall. John dropped down to the ground and froze. He listened and waited. The truck shut off and the sound of a second vehicle coming to a stop hit him like a ton of bricks. He knew she'd done it. There was someone with her, and she meant to follow through with the plan. John wanted to run out of the house, but he didn't have time.

The key hit the front door lock before Angela's voice reached John's ears. He turned on his heels and, as fast as he could move, ran down the hall and into his bedroom. He stood on one side of the doorway with his heart pounding in his ears. Sweat ran down his face as he adjusted his hold on the hammer. He heard a man's voice, followed by Angela's.

"I like it."

"It's home," she said.

"Well, why don't you show me the rest of the house?" the man said.

John felt sick. He could hear them kissing. He heard his wife moan like she did with him.

"You want to see the bedroom?" she asked.

John was sure his heart was going to explode.

"Hell yes," the man said, slurring his words.

John poked his head around the side of the doorframe. The light from the living room shined down the dark hall onto Alex's door. The small turn leading into his bedroom blocked the view. The shadow of two figures filled the light in the hall, and John jerked his head back and wrapped both hands around the hammer.

"I always knew you wanted a piece of me," the man said.

"Then you need to give it to me," Angela said.

Her voice was deep and slow, almost a whisper. John was getting angrier by the second. He could hear them rubbing on one another, and then he heard the sound of clothes falling to the floor.

"Come on, let's go in here," the man said.

The tone of Angela's voice changed. "No, don't touch it," she said in a frantic response.

"Don't go getting angry with me," the man said. "What the hell's the matter anyway?"

"Come on, damn it," Angela said.

John could tell she was talking to him and not the man in the hall.

"Oh, I'll be coming," the man said.

John could hear them push and pull at one another.

"Get off me," she said now, sounding scared.

John prepared himself. He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. He was about to step out into the hall when Angela's voice stopped him.

"Just wait," she said. Her tone was more relaxed, coaxing.

"Forget it," the man said.

John could tell he was farther away.

"I don't get it," the man said. "You bring me back here. You give me the signs, then go and turn all Ms. Prissy on me."

John risked a glance out in the hall and didn't like what he saw. Angela was standing by herself, her back against Alex's door. She was naked except for her heels. The man was back at the entrance to the hallway in the living room. John could tell by the look on her face that she'd seen him. He was stunned by her and couldn't help but stare. He stood there mesmerized by her body, despite everything going on.

"I'm sorry," Angela said.

The shadow of the man moved in the hall and caused John to pull back. He heard him take a few steps and then stop.

"It's just that it's been a long time for me," she said.

John could tell she was back in control of the situation and she knew it.

"Is that right?" the man asked.

"You have to be gentle," she said.

"Oh, I can be gentle."

The man continued down the hall, and then a second later, the sound of lustful kisses filled the enclosed space. John was angrier than before, and seeing his naked wife made the situation worse. In his head, he could see the man rubbing his dirty hands over her body.

"I want to go in here," the man said.

Angela hesitated. "My bedroom's right down here," she said.

"I don't want to go in there," the man said, sounding clearer than he had before.

"This is my son's room," she said.

"He in there?"

"No, but—"

"Then who the hell cares?" the man said. "You can wash the sheets before he gets home."

John knew he had to act. The man wasn't going to be swayed into the bedroom. John readied himself again, holding the hammer firm. The sound of Alex's door opening filled the hall. John panicked as he took a step out. He couldn't see Alex's door or the man. Angela was in the doorway, her butt covered by the man's hands. John crossed the distance in two steps, but froze when he heard a noise from within the room. The moan was loud and angry and the sound of it made John shake with fear.

"What the hell is that?"

John heard the man's question and the panic in his voice. Angela was trying to pull away from him, but the man clamped on to her and wouldn't let go.

"What the hell's in here?"

John couldn't will himself to move. The moaning turned to a snarl like a wild dog. Angela pulled herself away and grabbed John. She tried to get the hammer from his hand, but he wouldn't let go.

"What is this?" the man asked. "Get off me."

Angela stopped as the man screamed. She leaned toward the door and then pushed John with all her might. John stumbled back and lost his balance. He hit the ground with a solid smack, and the hammer slid across the floor under the bed.

"Damn it."

John lifted his head and saw the man step out of Alex's room, slamming the door behind him. Angela was standing in front of him, blocking the way.

"Get him," she said.

"Get who?"

John knew she was screaming for him. He flipped over on his hands and knees and reached under the bed.

"Get the hell out of my way."

John heard Angela cry out followed by a loud slam against the wall.

"I don't know what the hell your problem is. Give me those," the man said.

"Damn it, get him."

"Your freaking dog bit me," the man said. "You are crazy. I bet you did get put up in that hospital."

John heard the front door open and then close. He still couldn't find the hammer. Angela running into the room interrupted the sound of a truck engine revving.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked.

"I lost the damn hammer," John said.

Angela pulled at him to get up. "He's getting away."

He got to his feet and headed back down the hall, but once he reached the front door, he still didn't have a plan. He pulled the door open in time to see a truck backing down the driveway. In a plume of smoke, the tires spun out as it pulled away.

"Go get him," Angela said, pushing past him and out the door. "What are you waiting for?"

John turned to face her. She was still naked.

"What do you want me to do? He's gone."

Angela eyed him coldly and stomped her heel on the ground. "You're going to fix this," she said. "You're going to fix this or we're finished." She didn't give him time to respond before she turned around, headed back in the house, and slammed the door behind her.

9

John sat out on the front porch for several hours. He wanted a drink but wasn't willing to go back in the house to get it. He knew what was coming. Angela hadn't gotten what she wanted and there was going to be hell to pay. He tried to rationalize it as long as he could. She was only doing what was best for their son. It was John's responsibility to take care of the man once she got him in the house, and he didn't do that.

It was hard for John to understand how they'd gotten to this point. Love was a crazy thing, and he kept telling himself this was all an extension of that craziness. He strolled up and down the driveway stuck in his thoughts. Angela had looked out the living room window several times, but he hadn't seen her in over an hour. He was hoping to wait her out before going in. He planned to sneak in and try to hold off the fury until the morning. She was bound to calm down by then.

The cold was beginning to get to him. His t-shirt and jeans did little to keep him warm. He rubbed his hands over his arms and eyed the living room for movement. He waited as long as he could before deciding it was safe.

John worked his way around to the rear of the house and tried the back door. The knob turned with ease, and he slipped inside quickly. A wall of heat hit him in the face as he entered. He hadn't realized how cold it was. He saw no sign of Angela heading for the kitchen with swift, silent steps. Within a few seconds, he had a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and his last pack of cigarettes in the other. He stepped past the kitchen table without looking around, opened the back door, and popped outside.

A few minutes later, the cold was no longer an issue. He took several long swigs from the bottle and lit up a second cigarette before the first one was out. He spent another hour in the back of the house, and by the time he came in, his concern for his wife's mood was all but gone. The back door popped open, and he tossed the empty bottle of Jack on the ground before he stepped through.

"You found your nerve?"

John's head shot up, and he found Angela standing at the entrance to the hallway. She'd covered up in one of his old work shirts, but it didn't leave a lot to the imagination. He found he had plenty of liquid courage. "I wasn't looking for nerve." He tossed the pack of cigarettes on the table.

"I thought you quit?"

"I started back," he said and headed into the kitchen.

Angela stayed in the hall as he turned on the kitchen faucet. He took a few minutes to clean his hands and rub some cold water on his face and through his hair. John knew she was watching him, but he didn't sense the anger he'd assumed he was going to get.

"I know, I know," he said as he stepped out of the kitchen and leaned against the entryway. "I messed up."

Angela eyed him long enough for it to be uncomfortable and then smiled. She crossed the dining room slowly, not turning her head. Her eyes were focused as something worked its way through her mind. She came to a stop a few feet from him, leaning back against the dining room table. "You sure did," she said. "You acted like a coward." She didn't say the words any different, but the last phrase cut hard at John. She was still smiling.

"I couldn't do it," he said. "It's not like we're talking about pulling a cow in the house and—"

"Yes, it is," she said, her voice taking on a deeper note as she pushed off the table and took a long step toward him. "That's exactly what it's like. If you had to eat and the only thing that would satisfy you was some stupid cow..." Her smile widened. "...would you have a problem bringing it to the slaughter?"

John knew she was trapping him, but he fell right into it anyway.

"No," he said.

"This is the same thing," she insisted, then took another step toward him and placed her hand on his belt. "Your son needs to eat. We brought a cow in for the slaughter, and all you had to do was make the finishing cut."

John pursed his lips. His head was a mess. Any time he could get away from Angela for an extended period, the weight of what was happening in his house came to the forefront. However, when she got hold of him, his strength didn't stand a chance.

"I said I messed up," he said. "When the moment came, I couldn't do it."

He shook his head, disgusted with himself. No matter what was going on in his life, he couldn't stand to disappoint his wife. She'd had a powerful control over him for as long as he could remember. Angela abruptly turned away and walked back down the hall. John hesitated and then followed after her. She stopped in front of Alex's door and held her ear against the wood. Like a mother cat, she slowly scratched at the door. She continued the act until a haunting mimic could be heard clearly from the other side.

"Do you want to tell him?" she asked without looking at John. "Do you want to tell your son he's going to have to suffer because you were a coward?"

She didn't wait for an answer. Angela pulled her face away, kissed her hand, and held it up lovingly to the door. She walked toward her bedroom with a smile in place.

John sighed heavily as his shoulders slouched. "But, babe..." Angela didn't respond. He was close to where she wanted him. A small push would put things back in the right direction. "Babe," he said, calling after her as he stepped into their bedroom.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she said. "He's gone now." She motioned out at the hall. John stood in the doorway defeated. She sat down on the bed and looked up at him. Her eyes shifted as if trying to think of some way to fix the problem. "What do you think we should do?" she asked. "It's not like I enjoy letting the creep rub up against me." She leaned back on the bed resting on her elbows; the edge of her shirt rode up far enough to prove she hadn't put on anything underneath.

John looked on without bothering to hide what he was doing. The Jack Daniels in his system was beginning to have its way with his mind. He found it difficult to keep up with the importance of the conversation. All he knew was he didn't want Angela mad at him. He thought back to the events following their bath together as he stumbled into the room. He edged closer to the bed, and her expression changed. She didn't have to say it, but he knew at once that he wasn't welcome to see anything else underneath the shirt.

"He was all over me," she said and then frowned. "It's not like I want another man to run his hands over my skin."

John felt the comment stick in his head. "What do you want me to do?" he asked after a long pause.

Angela smiled again. She leaned back farther and dropped on her back. The edge of her shirt rose up above her waist. "I want you to fix the problem," she said. "If it makes you feel better," she paused, "I want you to bring your son another cow for the slaughter."

John didn't react. In his current state, it took a few seconds for the impact of what she was saying to hit him. When the reality hit, it showed through in his eyes. Angela's smile never faded.

"What?" she asked. "Don't you think you should be the provider?"

John shifted uncomfortably.

"If you want," Angela stretched her arms across the bed, "I guess I could go offer myself up to another man again."

John shook his head. He looked determined in his response. "I can do it," he said.

"Are you sure?"

John nodded. "I said I can do it."

Angela slid across the bed and sat up on her knees. She pulled the shirt off over her head and threw it on the floor. "It will have to be soon. Our son needs it."

John nodded.

"All right then," she said. "Why don't you come over here? We can talk about where you're going to go tomorrow."

John took a step toward the bed and then stopped. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," she said. "Alex is not going to wait any longer."

John took another step and then sat on the bed.

"Don't be upset." She slid her arms over his shoulders. "I'll make everything okay."

♦

Angela laid out a plan as if John couldn't figure it out for himself. It was his turn to go on the hunt, and he had to produce. She made it clear that Alex couldn't wait any longer. He awoke that morning to find Angela not in the bed. A quick search of the house came up empty. The truck was still in the driveway, and John thought perhaps she'd lost it and ran out the back door, never to return. It was a gentle hum; however, which revealed the truth.

He followed the tune until he was sure it was coming from Alex's room. He knew his wife's voice at once, but the idea that she'd gone inside alone was something he couldn't fathom. He called to her from the door, but she wouldn't answer. The courage to turn the knob on his son's door took a while to pull together. John pushed the door with the strength of a child's breath, but as he did, a lullaby called to him with an instantly stronger volume. An abominable tone was added in between the notes. John opened the door fully to take in his family in one sight.

Angela had managed to pin Alex against the wall with his bed. The boy's grotesque hands lashed at his mother's face, sensing her living flesh. John stood in silence, mortified by what he saw. Alex's skin was pale, mixed with a light violet hue. All along his arms, patches of deep bruising centered on exposed wounds. Rips in the skin revealed gray and brown muscle underneath. Dried blood dotted his clothes with a large ringed stain around his neck.

The boy's head turned toward his father as he hissed and bit at the air in his direction. His arms lashed wildly as he clawed at the bed pinning him below the waist. The guttural sounds emitting from him were horrifying, reminding John of a dying animal lying on the side of the road. John forced himself to look away, and he stepped back out into the hall.

He went to the kitchen and waited. He tried to make himself a cup of coffee but found he couldn't keep his hands from shaking long enough to finish the task. He settled for standing at the sink and looking out the small window at the backyard. Sunlight crept across the wide grass as the sparkling dew evaporated.

It was another half hour before he heard Angela close Alex's door. She was still humming to herself when she came into the kitchen looking for him. John stayed at the sink but turned to face her. He found her wide smile somehow frightening. He didn't move when she kissed him and turned her attention to finishing the pot of coffee.

"I hope you slept well," she said.

"Good enough, I guess."

She put the paper filter in place and measured out the grounds. "You're going to need the strength," she said, then leaned past him and filled the coffee pot with water. "You'll be up late tonight."

John didn't respond. He watched her pour the water in the machine and then turn it on. She finally turned her attention on him when the small red light came on.

"Thought about where you might go?" she asked.

He didn't want to admit it, but the truth was, he had thought about it. Angela didn't give him a chance to respond.

"I was thinking you should head to Victorville," she said.

"Victorville? That's an hour away."

"I know, but we can't very well go to the same places. Don't you think someone might notice if a lot of people start disappearing?" she asked. "It won't take very long for someone to piece together that every time one of us shows up somewhere, our dates don't come back."

She had a point.

"How am I supposed to convince someone to drive all the way back here with me?" John asked.

Angela's eyes narrowed for a moment. Her smile faded into a slight grin. "What's a matter, you don't think you still have what it takes to pull in the ladies?" she asked.

John felt a tug at his ego. "I didn't say that," he said. "I've got plenty of moves."

Angela laughed aloud. "Okay, babe, I'm sure you've got moves." She tried to stop laughing. "No one said you have to bring home a bikini model, but if you did," she smiled again, "I'd be impressed."

They waited in silence for the coffee to brew. Angela poured two cups and gave one to John. He took it, and then she slapped him on the hip playfully and started to walk away.

"Let's go," she said.

"Where?"

"I want to pick out an outfit for you. You need to get on the road."

"It's eight in the morning," John said.

Angela stopped and put one hand on her hip. She spoke slowly as if explaining something to a child. "There's no reason you can't try and get a full blown drunk. They start early." She headed back into the living room, but before John could catch up with her, she popped her head back into the kitchen to finish her thought. "And make sure you bring a hammer with you. There's no reason the lucky girl will have to want to come home with you."

10

Victorville was far enough away that John figured he might as well be traveling to the moon. He felt lucky that the highway was clear. Nearly every day an accident backed up traffic for miles. John didn't like the long drive. It gave him too much time to think about what he was doing. Part of him wanted to do as Angela had instructed, but there was another part, hidden deep in the back of his mind, that wanted to drive right past the Victorville exit and not look back.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the small bag on the floorboard of the truck. The metal head of the hammer reflected the sunlight from the passenger side window. John felt it calling to him, begging him to look at it. He didn't want to look. He knew what it was for, and for the moment, he didn't want to decide if he'd be able to use it when the time came.

He turned on the radio and raised the volume as loud as it would go. The music blared from the crappy factory speakers, but the bass pounded against him like a tidal wave. The music was enough to distract him for the moment, although the constant wall of noise was painful to his ears. John kept the music up until he could see the sign he was looking for: Victorville 5 miles _._ He counted off the distance, watching his mileage, and then took the off ramp heading north.

It wasn't long before he found himself in traffic. The street opened up to rows of shops, stores, and houses. The sidewalks were filled with people all going about their morning routines. John found a parking spot in front of a donut shop and killed the engine. He headed in and ordered a regular glazed doughnut and a cup of coffee. He paid for his order and then headed back outside and stood near the truck, placing his cup of coffee and doughnut on the hood. He unwrapped his breakfast and looked up one side of the street and down the other, noting two bars, one at either end of the main strip.

The bar farther up the street in the direction he'd ridden in town had its door open. John finished his doughnut and sipped on the coffee. He watched the bar for twenty minutes but never saw anyone come in or out. He tossed his coffee in the trash near the edge of the sidewalk and got back in the truck.

He nervously tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he ran through possible scenarios. He imagined he would need to keep the truck close to the front door of the bar but also out of sight. There was no way for him to predict how he would get someone in the truck, but if his charm didn't work, he knew he couldn't show up at home empty-handed. More determined, he started the truck, backed out onto the main street and headed toward the bar.

The traffic had cleared which allowed him to creep along. He passed the entrance to the bar and saw a small dirt area on the side of the building between it and the next store. There was another truck parked in the furthest corner of the dirt lot, but there was plenty of room. John pulled in and parked his truck midway between the road and the other vehicle, turned off the engine, and waited. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror and did his best to fix his hair. He even flashed a quick smile before pulling on the door handle and hopping out.

He could hear music before he turned the corner and located the bar's entrance. The sign above the door read Johnny's Place, and John thought it was appropriate. He stepped through a thick darkness cloaking the entry way and it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. A cloud of smoke festered permanently along the ceiling. A large table close to the bathroom door at the rear of the bar held the culprits. Two men sat at the table huddled over tall glasses of beer, lines of smoke rising from an ashtray so filled with cigarette butts that it appeared impossible to fit another one in.

John counted eight patrons, not including the bartender. It was a small number but high for so early in the day. The giant man behind the bar smiled at John from under a poorly trimmed mustache that hid his upper lip. His sleeveless shirt and assortment of jailhouse tattoos spoke volumes about his background.

"What'll you have?" he asked in a barking, smoker's tone.

"Draft," John said, pointing at the only arm on the beer dispenser. "And give me two shots of whiskey."

The bartender smiled at the order. Apparently, he liked the type of guy who was willing to get wasted before noon. He brought back the shots and beer and stood back. John didn't hesitate, tackling the whiskey first in quick secession, and then he took a long drink of his beer.

"Let's do it again," John said before his glass reached the bar.

He had six shots of whiskey in him within ten minutes and was working on his second beer. Satisfied with his level of liquid courage, he got comfortable on the barstool and settled in. The bartender went back to washing glasses, and John took in the remainder of the patrons. A quick scan of the room, using the wide mirror behind the bar, revealed two women among an assortment of men. One woman was sitting in between two men at a table across from the bar, which John quickly crossed off as a possibility, leaving him with the lone woman at the end of the bar. He'd seen her when he walked in but hoped he would have other choices. Her pudgy, round face was hovering over the rim of her glass, but her eyes were already on him. She smiled at him, and he instinctively tried to look away. He reminded himself that he didn't have to be in a hurry and then hoped time would reveal another opportunity.

♦

Nancy was as annoying to listen to as she was to look at. John sat at the other end of the bar for four hours drinking before he gave in. Much to his dismay, no one came in, and as his vision blurred, he figured he would have to make do with what he had. From the moment he slid down the bar and asked to sit next to her, Nancy was all over him. Her grocery store perfume mixed with the smell of stale cigarettes made him want to throw up. To her credit, Nancy had a wonderful, sexy voice. John assumed this was what all those phone sex ladies really looked like on the other end of the line. He found that if he glanced in the opposite direction when she was talking to him, he could stand to be near her.

"You look like the type of man who would like to have a good cook at home," she said.

It was the third time she'd said it, as much as John could keep track. He guessed from the look of her from the bar down, she'd been involved in cooking big meals most of her life. "I bet you can cook a lot," he said, trying not to laugh. He was drunk and he knew it. He'd tried to pace himself an hour ago but soon realized he was too far-gone to do anything about it. "So what time does this place pick up?"

Nancy's bulbous head pulled back from the rim of her glass and eyed him cautiously. "You looking for someone?" she asked.

John smiled and shook his head. "No, sweetie, I found somebody," he said. "I want to know what time the party starts." He was still holding on to the hope that he could find another woman. Nancy had tried to kiss him twice, and he couldn't bring himself to go through with it.

"We can get the party started any time you want," she said. She swiveled her hips on the bar stool and managed to catch one of John's legs in between hers. She squeezed and her mouth parted, revealing the gapped toothed smile he was trying to avoid. "You know what I mean?"

John couldn't respond. He was drunk, but he wasn't that drunk. He didn't want to lose Nancy, but at this point, that seemed impossible. He decided to give himself another few hours, and then he would have to settle for what he had.

♦

Nancy whispered in John's ear, and the smell of beer and pretzels was overpowering. "Why don't we get out of here?" she asked.

Another two hours passed and John's luck was on the rise. He'd stopped drinking and could now at least see the entrance to the bar from across the room. There had been several new arrivals and as of half an hour ago, it included a small group of women who looked like they'd come from work.

"I have to take a leak," he said. He had to unlatch himself from Nancy's legs to get up, and his concern grew when she tried to get up with him. Worried she might follow him into the bathroom, he had to lay down the law. "Wait here, damn it, or I won't be coming back."

Nancy didn't mind being talked to like a dog. John turned his attention elsewhere. There'd been several more arrivals in the past few minutes, and he needed a good look at the landscape. He stood at the entrance to the bathroom and scanned the tables. The volume of the music had increased over the past hour and taken a distinctively soft rock turn.

He knew the three girls from work were out of the question. They were a far better upgrade from Nancy, but they'd come together and would be too risky. The bar was filling up fast, and he needed to settle on someone quick. He took his turn in the bathroom and then came out ready for one last try.

He ignored the tables and the dance floor. There were a good number of couples and after work get-togethers enjoying the music and drinks, but none of them could be of use to him. One last scan of the bar brought him to a lone figure at the opposite end from his awaiting Nancy. To John's pleasant surprise, this woman was a tall brunette who looked far too good to be alone. He waited unusually long near the bathroom door watching her. After several minutes, he figured she was either alone or still waiting on someone. Either way, with Nancy in his back pocket, he figured he might as well take a chance.

"Mind if I buy you a drink?" he asked as he forced himself between the woman and the man standing next to her. He thought it was a corny approach but didn't have much else to start with.

"You serious?" she asked, flipping her long hair back behind her ears. She had a pretty face, but up close, it was easy to see the years had been hard. Even so, John was attracted to her. "You see a girl by herself and figure you got a chance."

John could see she wasn't the type to play around.

"That's exactly what I thought," he said.

Her face held hard as stone for a moment and then softened until she was laughing. "Well, hell, at least you're honest," she said. "I'll take that. Jack and Coke for me. I'm Stacy."

John shook her hand and then ordered her drink and another for himself. The drinks came quick and he was amazed by his ability to flirt. Stacy had little trouble keeping up with him, and the two finished off several drinks as they went back and forth about life. John was forced to create on the fly, settling on the story that he was in Victorville delivering parts.

"You know that girl?" Stacy asked, looking down the bar toward the bathrooms.

John followed her gaze to find Nancy staring at him with an evil eye. "No," he said and looked away.

"She's been eyeing you for the longest. I would swear you owe her money or something."

John downed another drink and decided he'd pushed his luck as long as he could. He figured Stacy was giving him about as many signs as he was going to get. He could tell from the short summary of her ex-husbands that she wasn't the prim and proper type. "You want to get out of here?" he asked.

Stacy's grin widened. She took a long drink and looked John in the face. "You been working up the courage to ask me that?"

John nodded.

"All right then, let's take this party somewhere else," she said and hopped off the barstool.

John grabbed her hand and weaved through the crowd toward the door. He felt pride swelling in his chest. It had been a long time since he was on the hunt and now he was filled with testosterone and liquid courage. What he hadn't quite figured out was what he was going to do with Stacy once he got her home.

♦

It took a good deal of work, but John convinced Stacy to come back to his house. She showed signs of obvious concern, pointing out that she only lived ten minutes away. John was persistent and eventually won, but Stacy kept quiet as they pulled out onto the highway. They were several miles down the road before the booze in her system calmed her nerve. John felt her put her hand on his leg as she slid across the seat. He could barely keep his eyes on the road and it only took him a few minutes to realize he was far too drunk to drive.

He spent much of the time focusing on the road, although Stacy made it difficult for him. Apparently, she wasn't willing to wait until they got back to his house before moving the party along. She reached for his zipper, and John knew he had to do something. He had a vision of Angela stuck firm in his mind, and he knew she wouldn't approve, even if he was bringing home a cow for the slaughter.

"Hold on now," he said, pulling Stacy's hand away from his crotch. She glared at him and slid across the cab. "Don't get pissed," he said, trying to recover. "I can't drive with you doing that. Hell, I can barely see the road now."

Stacy's stare stayed cold for a while, but she gave in another few miles down the road. "All right then," she said, sliding back over next to him. "I'll give you a break." She slid her hand over his leg but left it there. "If you can't handle the strain now, I'll have to make you strain more later."

He didn't have to look at her to know she was smiling at him. The thought of Angela had changed his feelings about the situation. The pride he'd felt about getting Stacy to come home with him was gone. Now he was left with sickness in his gut. Stacy seemed content to wait. She turned on the radio and laid her head on John's shoulder as if they'd made this drive home a hundred times before. John's mind raced with each passing mile. He thought about the hammer in his bag and how committed Angela was to the plan.

He turned off the highway, and his heart thumped wildly in his chest. Stacy hadn't shifted in a while and he guessed she'd fallen asleep. He did his best not to wake her, even as he turned off onto the dirt road leading to the house. The gravity of the moment collapsed on him full force when he saw that the lights in the living room were still on.

"She's up."

He cringed as the words escaped his lips.

"Who's up?" Stacy asked. She picked her head up off his shoulder and tried to find herself in the rearview mirror.

"My dog," he said. "I figured she'd be asleep, but I thought I saw her in the bay window."

"Don't tell me your house is going to smell like some old dog?"

"No, Angela's harmless," he said.

"Angela?" Stacy shot him a sideways glance. "You named your dog Angela? Let me guess, an old girlfriend?"

John hesitated and then said, "Something like that."

They pulled into the driveway and John turned off the headlights. He got as close to the far side of the driveway as he could so they couldn't see into the living room. The engine went dead, and he sat frozen with his hands on the steering wheel.

"What are you waiting for?" Stacy asked. She opened the door and stepped out. "I'm tired of waiting. Aren't you going to offer me a drink?"

John got out slowly. "Sure thing, hold on for a sec." He slid over and dipped down on the floorboard.

"Sure is a nice house," Stacy said, looking across the yard. "Not many neighbors."

John felt the cold metal head of the hammer with his fingers. He pulled it up, out of the bag, and tucked it under his shirt, behind his belt. "No, we're pretty far apart around here," he said as he popped back up. He opened the door, jumped out, and then headed for the carport door.

"Come on, it's getting cold out here."

"All right, hold your horses," John said as he fumbled with his keys.

They stood outside at the door as John worked through the ring of keys. The problem wasn't that he couldn't find the house key, but more that he couldn't keep his hands from shaking. He knew he was about to pass the point of no return. Still shaking, he managed to get the key in the lock and open the door. He let Stacy into the living room, then quickly closed the door and locked it. His hands were shaking beyond control. He reached for the hammer under his shirt, but as his fingers felt it, he couldn't bring himself to pull it out.

"I hope you're ready for this," Stacy said.

John lifted his head to look at her and saw Angela running out from the kitchen. She smashed a glass on the side of Stacy's head before he could react. Stacy fell to the ground, letting out a cry. John stood frozen as Angela grabbed Stacy by the hair and picked up her head off the floor.

"Give me the hammer," Angela said.

John fumbled with his shirt and then managed to get the tool out. He held it out for Angela as Stacy hopped up on her feet. She grabbed at Angela's hand and swung her arm. One stray fist caught Angela in the jaw on a backswing. Angela fell backwards into John and the two of them slammed into the door as Stacy stood up.

"What the hell's a matter with you?" Stacy asked.

Angela pushed off John and lunged forward, snatching the hammer in the process. She swung and hit Stacy in the neck. Stacy crumpled to the side, falling over the couch. She cried and screamed at the same time.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

Stacy stared at John, looking up from the floor as Angela came over the side of the couch with the hammer held high. Stacy rolled to her right as the head of the hammer slipped past her head by an inch. John steadied himself and stepped toward Stacy as she got to her feet and stood face to face with Angela. Stacy yelled and then jumped into her.

"Get away from me, you bitch."

Her advance caught Angela off guard. Stacy hit her square in the gut, the blow lifting her off the ground. Angela's back slammed into the couch, and it was the only thing keeping her on her feet. John grabbed Stacy's hand and tried to pull her off; as he did, Angela smashed the hammer twice on her spine. Stacy dropped down to a knee but tried to launch herself toward the front door. John got his other hand around her wrist and pulled her back with a violent tug.

"You're not going anywhere," Angela said.

Stacy looked back at Angela with terror in her eyes. Angela sent Stacy to the floor with one quick blow. The hammer hit her flush on the forehead, and her eyes slammed closed at the moment of impact.

"Pick her up," Angela said.

John did as he was told, grabbing Stacy under the arms. He dragged her down the hallway, laying her down at the foot of Alex's door. There was blood in her hair and a fresh stream running out of her left ear. Her chest rose slowly.

"Oh, my baby boy, have we got something for you," Angela said.

She didn't hesitate, opening the boy's door. Instinctually, John leapt back, nearly falling over Stacy's body. Angela flipped on the lights and scanned the room. A wave of putrid aroma broke into the hall, and John gagged on the awful smell. He covered his mouth and was amazed to see Angela seemingly unaffected.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said and stepped in farther.

She was out of the doorway and John found Alex lying on the floor across the room, against the far wall. The boy's skin resembled an old frail man. A layer of gray skin lumped in the creases along his arms like cardboard soaked through with water and left out in the sun. Dark bloodstains covered his top and bottoms, the childish design on the material lost somewhere underneath. Alex reached out with gnarled fingers toward his mother, but he lacked the strength to get to his feet. A vile, guttural moan crept from his gaping mouth as his arms waved back and forth.

"Mama's got something for you."

Angela reached down and grabbed Stacy by the hair. John took in the vision of his wife dragging the body across the floor with one hand and holding the bloody hammer in the other. The scene scared the hell out of him and the smile on her face filled him with revulsion. Angela pushed Stacy toward Alex and stood back to watch. From the doorway, John could see Alex dragging himself forward, finally grabbing Stacy with both hands. It was difficult to watch as Alex took the first bite. John turned away only to look back as the boy's rotted teeth pulled a chuck of the woman's bicep.

Stacy's eyes sprang open, and she tried to push herself away. Alex's grip was ferocious as he leaned in and bit into her throat. Blood spewed from the opening like a releasing dam, soaking her shirt in seconds. She cried in agony until Angela kicked her in the face. John moved away from the door and stood in the hall. The light was off and the darkness wrapped itself around him. He saw the shadow of his wife before she stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her. John couldn't bring himself to look her in the face, but he could hear her laughing at him. He managed to meet her eyes.

Angela stared back at him through the dark hallway. She was breathing heavy. She adjusted her grip on the hammer and wiped the sweat from her brow. The back of her hand left a long streak of blood across her forehead and cheek. "Well, I'm impressed," she said in between deep breaths. "She was cute."

11

John did his best to clean up the mess. Equipped with rubber dishwashing gloves and a mask that covered his mouth and nose that he found under the sink, he went to work on Alex's leftovers. Angela was more than happy to help, holding the nightstand against the boy to keep him back. Alex's appearance did not improve, although he regained a great deal of energy from his meal.

"Come on now, sweetheart, let daddy work."

John could hear his wife carrying on, but he couldn't understand it. He allowed himself to let this happen, but somewhere in his mind, he knew the truth of it.

"Now don't snap at momma," she said.

John looked up in time to see Alex lunge his head over the top of the table trying to take a bite out of her cheek. Angela didn't move a muscle, not even when the boy's gnarly teeth came within an inch of her skin.

"Just hold on," she said.

John focused on his duty. The corpse in the room didn't worsen the stench, but somehow the mixture of Alex's rotting tissue and Stacy's perfume made it almost too much to bear. He laid one of Alex's blankets over Stacy's body and kicked a half-eaten leg underneath. His last sight was of her exposed skull through the missing pieces of her face and neck. John used another blanket and rolled the body over, wrapping the remains within. He tied up the ends with a square knot and prepared himself to move.

"I'm ready," he said.

Angela looked over her shoulder but didn't respond.

"I said I'm—"

"I heard you," she said. "I'll come out when I'm ready."

John ignored her and pulled one end of the blankets, letting Stacy's legs drag across the floor. He knew he would have to be quick, feeling the underside of the blanket already soaking through. Several long steps later brought him to the back door. He put the blanket down for a minute to catch his breath. He noted small lines of blood on the dining room floor, which prompted him to get into the backyard quickly. He dragged the body around the house and unlocked the storm cellar doors. It wasn't until the smell from under the house hit his nose that he remembered there was already a body hidden down underneath.

He held still for a moment, lost in thought. He believed he knew what his son was, but he never considered until that moment that Alex could produce others. Slowly, he poked his head down into the darkness with one foot on the top stair and a hand on the edge of the doorframe. The smell was bad, but not as rough as the boy's room.

He waited for several minutes until the muscles in his legs ached. He took another step down and looked around as best as he could with the incoming moonlight cascading down through the doorway. He could make out a lump of material against the far wall; apparently Dr. Taylor hadn't moved. Satisfied with what he found, John pulled Stacy's body down under the house. He let her go on the cold dirt and gathered his strength. His back was already aching and he thought it was as good a time as any to smoke a cigarette. He lit up and thought about everything he had to go through to get Angela not to bother him about returning to his habit. John laughed at himself and blew out a puff of smoke above his head.

"All right, missy," he said, as he crouched down and shoved his hands under the center of the rolled blankets. "It's time you go to your final resting place."

He lifted the body off the ground with one good pull and tossed it on top of the doctor's remains. He examined the growing pile and took a long drag of his cigarette. The covered sheets made it easy to ignore what was underneath, but the pictures of what he'd seen were impossible to erase from his mind. John finished his smoke and tossed the butt on the ground, stamping it out with his foot.

He headed back up the stairs and stepped out into the cool night air. It was late and his eyes were beginning to burn. He hoped Angela was finished with her visit with Alex. He considered if it came to it, would she feed herself to the boy, even worse, she might consider offering him up for a meal.

"Hey, you."

John heard Angela's voice, but he couldn't see her until he got closer to the back door. He found her leaning against the doorframe with something in her hand.

"Hey, you," he said.

For some reason he couldn't explain, he was hesitant to walk up to her.

"I'm proud of you," she said. "You really do love us."

He took a few steps closer. She was holding a bottle, the moonlight reflecting off the smooth surface.

"Of course I do," he said.

Angela held the bottle out and John got a whiff of the liquor he'd grown to love.

"Go ahead," she said, "you earned it."

John took the bottle and tossed back a long drink. The burn in his throat felt good, and he continued to drink as long as he could. Angela left the doorway and closed the distance between them. She ran her hands along his waist and pulled out the cigarette pack from his back pocket. She removed a cigarette and popped it in her mouth. The flame came to life with a flick of her thumb on the cheap gas station lighter. She lit the cigarette and took several deep puffs. Once satisfied with the light, she smiled and handed it over to him.

"I'd say you've earned a lot of things tonight," she said. She grabbed John's belt and pulled him toward the back door. "Now let's go see if I can't take care of that."

♦

It had been a week since John had brought Stacy to the house. Angela was particularly happy with him, but he wasn't fooled. He knew the feeding was a temporary fix. He was lying underneath the Ford F-150 and found it difficult to focus on the task at hand. He'd returned to work that following Monday. Something told him Angela was expecting him to go out over the weekend and bring someone home, and he wasn't sure he could do it again.

"You fall asleep under there?"

John heard Mike Anderson call after him and then felt the kick on one of his boots. He tried to put a smile in place as he rolled himself out from under the truck and found Mike standing over him.

"Just thinking about the weekend, I guess," John said.

"I heard that," Mike said. "I need a bath and a beer, not necessarily in that order."

John sat up and slid the cart out from under him. He got to his feet and wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve.

"You want to go get a beer before you head home?" Mike asked.

John checked the clock on the wall. It was nearly five, and he did a quick calculation on what time he could get home if he headed over to Charlie's for a drink. He had much more sinister things to consider but decided the distraction might be good for him. Angela's new attitude came with a lot more freedom for him, something he'd never had before.

"Hell yeah, that sounds good," John said.

He and Mike didn't spend much time together outside the shop, but he was the closest thing John had to a friend. They'd shared beers after work a few times before, and Angela made it known that it wasn't going to happen again. John was relying on his new power in the house, hoping it would get her to cut him some slack. Mike helped him finish the F-150, and they were headed for the door by five.

Charlie's was a popular place on weekday evenings, mainly for those who spent more time talking about their wives than spending time with them. Every patron had dirty hands as if it was a requirement for entry. John and Mike gave a couple of high-fives on the way in followed by a few head nods. John felt himself relax, not thinking about anything other than cold suds and a small bowl of peanuts. They found a spot at the bar and took a seat, the noise level already requiring something close to a yell in order to communicate.

"What's eating you?"

John heard Mike's question but found himself laughing. The phrase was particularly fitting, he thought.

"I mean, hell," Mike said, "you're not your normal rosy self."

Mike laughed and took a long drink of his beer. John shook his head and gave a measured response.

"There's a lot going on at home," he said. Boy is that a freaking understatement, he thought.

"You and Angela doing all right?" Mike asked in a hesitant tone as if he wasn't sure he should have.

John couldn't remember how much Mike knew about Angela's past with the hospital and her treatments. "We're working on it," he said. His response didn't really answer the question, but between men, it was good enough.

"How's your boy?" Mike asked.

John's head snapped around at the sound of the question like it was an insult. He gave Mike an awkward stare. "He's sick."

"Hell, both little Jenny and my boy, Will, are sick every other week," Mike said. He took another drink of his beer. "I swear they plan that stuff or something. Just when one of them is getting better, the other one starts coughing or throwing up."

John nodded, but he wasn't really listening.

"You wait until you have another," Mike said. "You'll see." He waved at the bartender and asked for two more beers. He gave John a quick glance to see if he'd protest and then asked for a shot for himself. "Come on, let's get to it," he said when the drinks arrived. He pulled a crumpled twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and laid it on the bar. "This one is on me." He pushed the shot glass toward John. "Come on, man, you look like you could use it."

John didn't hesitate. He finished the rest of his first beer and then took the shot as soon as the empty glass hit the bar. "Wow, that's got a kick to it," he said.

"That's what you need," Mike said.

The number of patrons in the bar doubled within a thirty-minute span as the after-work crowd filled in. People milled about waiting for someone to give up a chair and someone turned on the jukebox. John finished his second beer and then paid for another round. He was focused on his drink when he noticed the sudden change in expression on Mike's face. He was looking past John with vigorous interest. John turned and scanned the room. He found the crowd swollen beyond the number of seats and it was difficult to make out any one thing.

"Look at that," Mike said.

He pointed his finger over John's shoulder and guided him toward the entrance. John saw a man in the doorway, and frantic hand movements highlighted his excited expression. He was hollering and pointing back outside. Several people followed him out after an animated exchange of words.

John slid off the barstool. "Let's go check it out," he said. He did his best to get down the rest of the beer before heading through the sea of people.

They reached the door and found a crowd gathered outside. John looked back once to make sure Mike was with him and then plunged into the gathering. All around them people were talking and the wave of conversations revolved around the police and an attack. The crowd moved farther down the road toward red and blue flashing police lights. John pushed through the crowd and made it out front. The first vision to hit him was a police car pulled up on the sidewalk. An officer stood near the trunk of the car and another out in front of the vehicle. The officer near the trunk yelled into his radio.

"You need to get someone down here; nothing's working on this guy."

The officer's arm was soaked with blood and there was a tear in the blue material below the elbow. The other officer had his gun drawn and pointed at someone on the sidewalk. He was shouting, but John couldn't make out what he was saying. John got ahead of the other onlookers, stopping a few feet from the police car before the first gun shot went off.

He heard the shot and instinctually ducked down. There were frenzied screams behind him, as people ran back in the direction of the bar. John focused on the cops as a taller figure lunged at the officer in front of the car. Two more shots to the chest pushed the assailant back but didn't take him down.

The mass of people scattered from one side of the street to the other. Screams and yells called out as everyone tried to get as far back as possible and still keep an eye on what was going on. John couldn't help himself, caught in the moment. He crouched low to the ground and moved toward the police car until he felt the heat of the exhaust against his leg. The bleeding officer near the rear of the car was still yelling into his radio.

"I need medical assistance at the corner of Bradford and Main."

The wound on the cop's arm looked bad. The skin was torn open and lay exposed to the elements. John moved around the side of the car and peered over the hood. The cop with the gun was within arm's reach. The cop's eyes were filled with terror as the man on the sidewalk took both shots and then continued toward him. John turned his attention to the attacker and his stomach turned. The blank expression and mindless walk sent a shiver of recognition down his spine.

"Get down on the ground," the cop said.

He fired another round, this one hitting the attacker in the center of the chest. Blood exploded out the attacker's back as the bullet drove through him. The cop backed away as he realized the shots were having little effect. He crossed the street in a hurry and looked for his partner, as he kept the attacker in the corner of his eye. The attacker lumbered out into the street, but John's eyes focused in on the headlights behind the figure.

The echo of screeching tires filled the street as a vehicle tried to come to a sudden stop. The front grill of the work truck plowed into the attacker before it rolled over his body. The vehicle came to a stop and the street fell deathly quiet. The shock of the moment held everyone still before anyone gathered the courage to peek out from whatever they were hiding behind. John stepped out from behind the police car and found the remains of the attacker. The body was folded over on itself and the impact left a foot long streak of blood on the pavement. The head was crushed, chunks of brain mashed into unrecognizable paste.

"Are you all right?"

The sound of the cop's voice pulled John from the mess. The cop had his weapon drawn, but he was calling back to his partner.

"Where the hell is our backup?"

John was going to investigate further while he still had the time, but a sudden firm grip around his wrist held him still.

"What the hell?" Mike asked, pulling at John to follow him back around the police car. "I don't want to see that."

John hesitated. Part of him wanted to see if the crumpled body would get up. He finally decided against it when the sound of sirens from approaching police cars echoed around the turn at the end of the road. "You're right," he said. "I need to get home."

♦

It was dark when the truck pulled into the driveway. John filled with dread. He'd seen something on the attacker's face that instantly resonated with him. He knew what a zombie was; he'd seen enough movies growing up and read enough comics to know. However, it was the realization that Alex could somehow spread his disease that brought the whole thing crashing down on him.

He saw Angela look out the living room window and then disappear back inside. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, but it was obvious the future of their happy little family would have to be reevaluated. He turned off the engine, hopped out of the truck, and reached the driveway door before he heard the television. It wasn't until he stepped through the doorway and saw Angela's wide-eyed expression that he noticed what the newscaster was reporting.

"...the attacker has been identified as Greg Hunter. Police have begun a full investigation. Officers on scene reported that Mr. Hunter appeared to be suffering from some delusional state. Witness accounts of the shooting paint a chilling scene."

John sat down on the couch beside Angela as a man appeared on the screen.

"That guy was wacked out on something. I saw him take a bite out of one of the cops when they tried to put the cuffs on him."

The scene pulled away and the camera focused on a local news reporter standing near a group of police officers. The older blonde was unsure if the camera was still on her.

"Tracy, the scene here is packed with onlookers as the police try and keep the area clear. I talked to several people who claim to know Mr. Hunter, and they say he's been missing for a few weeks."

John shifted uncomfortably as the picture of Mr. Hunter appeared in the corner of the screen. He knew at once that Mr. Hunter was the man Angela had brought home for Alex's feeding.

"Police were willing to confirm that Mr. Hunter was wanted for questioning in a domestic disturbance report filed four days ago. They will not elaborate on the specifics of that incident however..."

John looked at Angela and shook his head. She pulled her eyes off the news long enough to read his expression.

"Alex bit that guy," he said.

She didn't respond, turning back to the television.

"I saw him, Angela," he said. "I was right there when that truck hit him. He had that same damn look in his eyes."

Angela picked up the television remote from the couch and turned it off. She got up without looking at John and headed toward the hallway. Frustrated, he nearly growled before he called after her.

"Do you know what this means?" he asked.

Calmly, she stopped at the hallway entrance and glanced back at him. "Yes," she said. "From now on, we can't let anyone get away." She disappeared down the hall.

12

John pulled into work behind the shop and parked his truck. His mind was flooded with Angela's lack of concern. He had a nervous twitch in his hands and couldn't keep himself focused on anything. The realization of who the attacker in the street had been opened up a terrible realm of possibilities. What if Greg had got to someone else before yesterday, he thought. How could they control the spread of this thing?

John sat frozen in his truck, staring out the windshield but was unable to really see anything. It was another half hour before he could get his head right and several more minutes before he opened the door and got out. By the time he reached the shop floor, the bay was alive with movement. There was a calming effect within the shop, and John tried to absorb it. The sound of tools working and the smells of engine oil and grease were familiar to him. He glanced at the clock on the wall and realized he couldn't waste any more time. He punched in his time card and went to work. He heard the sound of Mike's voice long before he could see him. Mike was going on about what they'd seen the day before and was looking for John to back up his story.

"There he is, hey, John."

John looked out from underneath the hood of a car and saw Mike fast approaching with David Hill close behind.

"Watch, you'll see," Mike said. "Ask him." Mike urged David ahead of him.

John knew where this was going and wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. "Yes, we watched a guy get shot right out in the street, then he was hit by a truck."

David didn't get a chance to ask his question, but it was obvious from the look on his face that John had hit the nail on the head.

"I freaking told you," Mike said over David's shoulder. "It was on the news. Who could make that up?"

John tried to get back to work. Mike and David continued to argue over small details about the incident, but it ended with Mike vindicated. John saw him standing beside the car and figured he wouldn't go away until he came out from under the hood and gave him a chance to vent. "So I take it he didn't believe you?"

Mike shook his head. "Nope, I swear man, what is it with people these days? It's like you have to prove everything you say."

John didn't respond. He waited through an uncomfortable few minutes of silence before he leaned back in under the hood. Mike didn't budge, but he figured he'd give up eventually.

"Did you catch the news?"

John sighed, then put his wrench down and stood back up.

"I saw it as soon as I got home."

"What did Angela say?" Mike asked. "Did you tell her you were right there when it happened?"

John nodded.

"Did she freak out?" Mike asked, now more excited. "I tell you, Sandra nearly lost her mind. She's all into those crime solver shows on TV."

John continued to nod.

"Did you see the picture of that guy? I think I've seen him before." Mike thought about it for a second as if the idea just came to him. "Did you recognize him?"

John felt uncomfortable. He knew Mike was harmless, but the questioning was beginning to dig a little too far.

"No, never saw him."

"Yeah, well, it figures. They said he's from out of town. They say the cops were looking for him. I hope they keep the story going. I want to find out what happened."

John responded as little as possible until Mike finally gave up. They got back to work, and John ran over the possibilities of what the cops could find out about Greg. He tried to work through it in his head like one of those crime scene shows Mike was talking about. He knew from the news report that there were charges of domestic abuse surrounding Greg, which meant two things: first, he was married or at least living with someone, and second, that person had to have suffered some type of abuse.

He tried to think of how the infection would have spread. It wasn't a far leap to guess that Greg took time to die and then come back as Alex had done. John realized his hands were shaking again and now there was little he could do to stop them. He had to set his wrench down to keep from dropping it. His mind swarmed with visions of the streets filled with hideous undead creatures, and he'd played a part in it.

He scanned the bay area and looked from one car to the next. Each had someone working on it, all of them concentrating with deep focus, trying to solve whatever issue the car was brought in for. John felt sweat running down his back, and as he swept his sleeve across his forehead, he felt the dampness thick on the material. He nearly felt his heart stop as one of the three massive roll up doors came to life; the sound vibrated throughout the shop as sunlight crept into the bay.

John had to settle his nerves. He forced his legs to move, crossed the bay, and stood at the new opening taking in the fresh air. The sunlight felt good on his face. He closed his eyes and felt the wind blow across the front of the shop. He held himself upright, leaning against the roll up door's frame with one hand.

A sound from out in the street caught his attention. It was low at first but growing quickly as it approached. He looked up one side of the street and down the other as far as he could see. Traffic was not particularly heavy, but he could tell by the passersby that they heard something as well. He took a few steps out into the customer parking lot and cocked his head to one side. The sound was loud enough to make out, and he was sure it was a siren. He was out near the sidewalk after several long strides where he saw cars pulling over to the side of the road.

Several of the other guys in the shop gathered near the opened bay door. John's attention was drawn toward Main Street when a police car pulled around the corner, several blocks away. The sound of the siren intensified by the second as one police car after another turned down the street. By the time the first car drove past John, there was four more right behind it. They were moving so fast that the other cars on the road barely had time to get out of the way. Most of the guys in the shop had moved out closer to the street, and John discovered Mike standing next to him, the exhilaration glowing on his face.

"I swear we haven't had this much excitement in years."

John kept his eyes on the police cars as the first one turned off two blocks down from the shop. "I wonder where they're going," he said. "What's down there?"

Mike thought about it for a second. "The courthouse?"

John kept watching.

Mike guessed again. "The DMV?"

John soured as he considered the possibilities; one he knew somehow to be the answer. "The hospital." He looked back at some of the other faces and didn't see the concern he was feeling. He realized there was no need for them to be concerned; they had no idea what was going on at his house. He looked for some support from Mike but found little; like the crowd, he too was losing interest.

"Come on, John, we better get back in there," Mike said as he started toward the shop. "We'll be able to find out what all the fuss was about on the news."

Hesitantly, John returned to the bay floor. He knew his paranoia was getting the best of him, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He settled under the hood of the car he was working on and tried to get back to what he was doing. He forced himself to keep at his task for another hour.

The shop settled down and most of the floor was alive again with people moving from one vehicle to the next. John was able to get his mind in the right place when two distinct gunshots pulled everyone's attention back outside. Several people rushed to the rollup doors, but John hesitated. They all stood in silence, each one looking for the cause of the sound. Someone pointed up the street and everyone followed his direction. The crowd shrank back as two more shots echoed from that direction.

John walked out to the front of the shop and found everyone's eyes locked on a police car coming down Main Street. It was swerving badly from one side of the road to the other. The vehicle's siren was off, but the lights were still going. The crowd watched in stunned silence as the car slammed into another vehicle, but then kept going. It barreled down the road until it swerved over the sidewalk and plunged into the gas station directly across the street from the shop. Everyone stood still for a moment amazed by what they'd seen. Several seconds passed before a group started across the street, John included.

It wasn't until they got halfway across the street that John saw a struggle going on inside the police car. The driver had pushed his back up against the steering wheel, and someone in the rear seat was trying to climb into the front. None of the others paid attention until the cop fired his pistol. The figure in the rear of the car plopped back against the seat but kept moving. John reached the car with two other men by his side. The car had knocked over one of the fuel dispensers, and the smell consumed the immediate area. John didn't realize fuel was leaking across the lot until he was standing in it.

"Get the door."

One of the men pulled on the driver's side handle and managed to get it open.

"What the hell?"

John had already caught sight of the figure in the backseat before he heard the question. Whatever it was, he instantly compared to Alex. The gruesome thing's flesh had been peeled away, revealing fully exposed teeth and partially melted eyeballs. John grabbed the cop by the hand and pulled. He heard the dreadful, guttural moan from the backseat and caught sight of it lunging forward. He jumped back, pulling the cop with him. The two fell hard on the ground with John taking most of the impact.

"Close the door," the cop said.

One of the men did as he was told, but then he stumbled back as the creature clawed at the window. The cop got to his feet and kept his eyes trained on the car. His arms were covered with deep scratches and his uniform was soaked with blood.

"Get back."

John stood up and watched as the cop fired several rounds into the car. Three shots hit the creature in the head, the impact sending it into the passenger seat. There was another body slumped over in the seat, its head resting against the glove compartment. The creature fell on top of the body and instantly started to feed.

"No," the cop said, firing the rest of his clip.

"What is that thing?" one of the other guys asked.

The cop reloaded his pistol, never taking his eyes off the car. "It's a freaking zombie," he said. "A freaking zombie." He raised his pistol and took aim.

John had never said the word aloud, and he never thought he would hear anyone else say it.

"You might want to step away," the cop said as started walking toward the car. "I won't become one of you."

It took half a second for John to realize where the cop was aiming, and another to realize the last statement was meant for the flesh eater in the car. He was able to turn and run before the next round struck the fuel beneath the car. The explosion that followed engulfed the vehicle, the cop, and everyone else within twenty feet. John felt a wave of heat burn across his back from the erupting fireball. The force picked him up off the ground and tossed him several feet out into the street. He hit the pavement on his back, and his head snapped with violent force. The heat from the fire washed over his face and he tried to move, but his mind went blank, followed by a flood of pure black.

♦

Dim light crept through John's eyelids. He blinked hard and tried to remember where he was. His head was throbbing and there was a constant shot of pain in his back he couldn't account for. An intense heat on his face offered no more clues. All at once, the memory of the events surrounding the explosion crashed down on him and he tried to sit up. He felt a hand on his shoulder urging him to stay down. Mike's voice called out to him before he opened his eyes.

"Don't move just yet. The EMT said she needs to take a closer look at you when she gets back."

John waited for Mike to remove his hand from his shoulder, and then he quickly sat up.

"You're a terrible patient."

John squeezed the back of his neck and tried to open his eyes. The light made his head throb worse, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open.

"How long have I been out?" John asked.

"It's been about two hours."

"Two hours?"

"You were in and out."

"What happened?" John could see he was lying on the shop floor, and from what he could tell, most of the other guys were standing outside in the parking lot. He couldn't see what they were looking at, but he guessed the remains of the police car were quite a sight. "They got the fire out?"

"Yeah, hell of a thing too," Mike said. "At first, they wanted us to get as far away as we could in case the whole gas station blew, but they got a reserve firetruck on scene pretty fast and those boys went to work on it."

John shook his head as he found it difficult to pay attention. "What about the cops?" he asked.

"What about them?"

"Didn't you hear what that cop said before he blew the car up?" John's eyes focused on Mike. "Didn't you hear what he said that thing in the back of the car was?"

"No, man, I didn't go over there with you. You're the one that wanted to be a hero, damn lucky too."

"What about Allen?" John asked, remembering the name of one of the guys who ran across the street.

Mike stared at the ground and shook his head. "That's why you don't run off and try and be a hero," he said. "He didn't make it. None of them did, just you."

John put his face in his hands and rubbed his temples. He wasn't sure of his legs, but he pushed himself off the ground and came to his feet.

Mike reached out and grabbed his arm. "What the hell are you doing? You need to sit back down."

"I got to get out of here," John said. "I'll be fine once I get home." He could see Mike was trying to think of something to say to stop him, but he beat him to the punch. "I'll be fine." He headed for the rear shop door before Mike could respond.

♦

John made the drive home in record time. He knew the police had more to worry about than speeders, and he took full advantage of it. He pulled into the driveway and the clock in the dash said it was only three o'clock. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been home so early on a workday. The house looked quiet from the outside, but he noticed the carport door was slightly ajar. He popped open the door and stepped out, but something caused him to hesitate. He reached in the bed of the truck without thinking and pulled out a long wrench from the toolbox. He approached the carport slowly as if expecting someone to jump out at any moment.

"Angela?" He got close to the door and stopped, waiting for an answer. "Angela?"

John waited as long as he could, and then he crept toward the door. He peered in through the thin crack and saw part of the living room and into the dining room. There was no sign of movement, so he pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped in. The first thing he noticed was a smear of blood on the floor at the entrance to the hall. He held a firm grip on the wrench as he moved toward the dining room, his eyes focused on the hallway. The light was out in the hall, hiding the view of anything past the entryway. John neared the couch and heard footsteps. Slow at first, the steps stopped within the hall, and he made out someone in the darkness.

"John?" Angela's voice was clear as she stepped out into the light. "What are you doing home?"

John relaxed his grip on the wrench. "Jesus, Angela, you scared the hell out of me." She didn't say anything, and he noticed she was carrying a pair of men's dress shoes. He looked again at the blood on the floor and then back at the shoes. "What did you do?"

Angela hesitated. She glanced down at the shoes and then sheepishly smiled as her gaze returned to John. "You know how we're a few months behind on the mortgage?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that bank thought it would be a good idea to send someone—"

"Mr. Howard?" John stormed across the room and snatched the shoes out of her hand.

"Don't be a baby, John," she said as she stomped her foot. "Have you been watching the news?"

"Me?" John asked. "Have you been watching the news? I freaking nearly died today in a fire." Angela's face relaxed, as she grew concerned. "I was right there when that cop blew up his car, and do you know what I saw in the backseat?"

"Awe, baby, come here," she said and threw her arms around him. "Are you all right? Sit down." She went into the kitchen, poured a drink, and brought it back to the table. "That fire's all over the news."

John drank the entire cup in one gulp.

"They're quarantining the hospital," she said.

"Damn right they should," he said. "This is our fault, Angela."

She squeezed on his shoulders and massaged his neck. "We can't worry about that now," she said. "We have to think about our family."

"I know."

He lacked the energy to argue with her and gave in quickly. Angela returned to the kitchen and poured him another drink, handed it to him, and headed for the hall. Once she disappeared in the darkness, he heard her call for him.

"I need you to give me a hand. Mr. Howard was a hardy eater."

13

Mr. Howard was a mess. John helped Angela get Alex cornered behind the bed before focusing on the body. He was a large man with most of the weight in his stomach and hips. He lay on his back with his torn shirt exposing his gut. Alex had eaten directly into the stomach and pulled most of the entrails out onto the floor. There was blood everywhere and John doubted it would ever come up.

Alex's face was clean compared to the carnage on the floor. It appeared the boy got most of the man's guts down without spilling any on him. John couldn't bear to look at his son any longer than a glance. The boy's dark gray skin was an abomination, and there were tears along his neck and chest. It looked like a cat had clawed into him and the wounds refused to heal.

Above all else, it was Alex's eyes that his father could not stand to look at. Stained in a vile yellow tint, they stared back at the world with ravenous frenzy. Alex reached out from behind his bed, trying in vain to reach his mother. Although her tender smile looked back at him, his desire for her flesh was undeniable. John grabbed Mr. Howard by the ankles and dragged him toward the door. He realized quickly that he would have to put all his strength into getting the man into the storm cellar.

"Don't stain my carpet."

John heard his wife but didn't look up to confirm what she'd said. He swallowed his response and dropped Mr. Howard's feet. He ripped the lone remaining bedspread off the mattress and laid it out on the ground, and then he rolled the body over with one good push. He pulled the body out into the hall before Angela could offer any more advice.

The bedspread helped with the man's girth as it slid painlessly over the wood floor. John made quick work of getting the body over the edge of the living room carpet and back onto the wood in the dining room before reaching the back door. The difficulty began in the backyard. John was feeling the impact of the explosion, and his muscles gave in faster than he hoped. The sun was still up and there was no way he could stop with Mr. Howard's bloody corpse lying in the grass. It took every ounce of strength he had left to get the body to the side of the house, but that was when the noises started. John knew he'd heard a knock but couldn't figure out where it was coming from until he stopped moving. His mind figured it out a split second before he was willing to accept it. He stared dumbfounded at the storm cellar doors.

"What the hell?"

His face tensed as several thoughts rolled around in his head. A moment later, he gazed at the doors as if he'd seen a ghost. John took a few steps closer and leaned over the doors. There were distinct intermittent knocks followed by something dragging across the ground.

He was sure whatever was making the noise wasn't against the doors, and as he reached out for the lock, he remembered the cat he'd found before. A few seconds later, he pulled back one of the doors and let the remaining light flood in. The sound stopped for only a second and then continued, this time at a faster pace. John forgot about Mr. Howard's body as he took a step down into the cellar. He knew the cord for the light was in the center of the room, but his thumping heart refused to let him go any farther. He looked back at Mr. Howard and considered going back to the house for the flashlight.

He glanced down into the cellar in time to see a pair of filthy hands reaching out for his leg. From out of the darkness, Stacy's mutilated body lunged up the stairs, her mouth open wide as her hands wrapped around John's boot. By instinct, he kicked her in the face with his free foot as she tried to bite into his leg. He jumped back up on the grass as her disfigured body climbed up the stairs after him. In the same guttural tone as Alex, she growled, her sunken eyes locked on him. The exposed muscle on her face and neck appeared to move as maggots feasted on the rotting soft tissue.

"Angela!"

He turned to run but stumbled over Mr. Howard's outstretched legs and fell flat on his face. By the time he rolled over on his back, Stacy climbed out of the open storm cellar on her hands and knees. She hissed at him like an animal, and he got a look at her body in the light. Alex had eaten into her thigh and the opening was a dark shade of blue. The bone in her leg was exposed as the remainder of her tattered pants swung from side to side. She got to her feet and lumbered toward him. John backed away like a spider on his hands and feet, yelling in horror.

"Angela," he said as he managed to flip around and get up. Stacy's arms locked out straight in front of her as she walked toward him. He ran for his life around the back of the house, pulled open the back door, and smashed into Angela as she tried to get out. "She's walking," he said.

She swiped at her mouth, sure John had busted open her lip. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He didn't explain, pushing past her into the house. He stormed into the kitchen and grabbed the first thing he saw. He ran back to the door with a butcher knife in his hands and saw Angela through the open doorway. She was standing motionless in the backyard looking in the direction of the storm cellar. He burst through the back door and turned to find Stacy coming toward him, now only a few feet away.

"Get back," he said, pushing Angela away.

He slashed his knife back and forth like a sword. The second strike caught Stacy's hand, severing two fingers. The digits fell to the ground with little effect. She closed in on him with another step and grabbed him by the shoulder and arm.

They fought one another and Stacy's strength overwhelmed him. She lunged forward, mouth open wide. John pulled back, escaping her bite, inches from his exposed neck. The open wounds on her face revealed the decaying muscles within her jaw. A bulbous, black tongue filled her mouth, the tip bitten off.

John raised his leg, wedging his knee into her sternum. He felt a burn on his arm as her nails dug into his skin as he tried to pull free. From the corner of his eye, he saw Angela standing motionless a few feet away. She watched like a statue, seemingly unaffected by the brutality of the attack. John worked his arm free with one last push, losing a long stretch of skin for his effort. Blood ran down his forearm as he brought the knife down as hard as he could manage. The blade cut into Stacy's throat with ease, slicing effortlessly through skin, muscle, and tissue. He tried to push the knife through her neck but felt the blade dig into bone.

Her head flung from side to side uncontrollably as she tried to bite John's arm. He was quick to pull his hand back and attack again. He pushed his leg against her chest and forced her away. She brought her arms up toward him, and he plunged the knife directly into her face, the tip catching her in the eye. The eyeball burst on impact, spewing its innards down the front of Stacy's face. John jabbed the palm of his hand against the end of the handle and forced the blade deeper into the eye socket and into her brain. Stacy made one last rasping moan and then went silent, her body collapsing to the ground. John wasted little time. Using both feet, he smashed the heels of his boots on her head until the skull burst open like a melon. The substance of her brain splattering across the grass was blackened and bloody. He continued to stomp until there was little left to recognize; then he stood with his hands on his knees, gasping for air. Angela hadn't moved, watching him without much concern.

"Thanks for the help," he said between breaths.

"What did you want me to do?"

"Anything would have been nice. What if that thing would of bit me?"

Angela looked down at the trampled mess of Stacy's face and then back at John. "Then I guess I would have had to get food for two instead of one."

She calmly strolled back into the house, and John didn't know what to say. He looked around and caught sight of Mr. Howard lying on the ground on the side of the house. It didn't take him long to decide what needed to be done. He pulled the knife free from what was left of Stacy's face and headed for Mr. Howard.

♦

John couldn't sleep. He'd removed Mr. Howard's head, pulled both bodies back down under the house, and then came in to find Angela in bed. He hid Mr. Howard's car in the woods behind the house, took a shower, and ate. Now he was finding it impossible to sleep next to his wife. There was something about the way she ignored his safety that truly terrified him.

The pain in his arm was unbearable. He rubbed his fingers along the bandage and felt it soaked through. Part of him wondered if Stacy could have infected him with her nails. He slipped out from under the covers, and his mind went over all of the zombie movies he'd ever seen. If his memory served him well, someone could only be infected by a bite.

He closed the bathroom door, flicked on the light, and held his eyes shut for a few seconds to allow them to adjust. A look in the mirror revealed the bloody bandage, its top a deep wine color. He pulled back the material and felt the sticky substance tug at his skin and hair. He wasn't sure why a bite would be the only way to catch whatever the hell infected Stacy since he was sure no one had bitten Alex. Paranoid that he'd come in such close contact with her, John stared into the mirror, convinced he might change at any moment. He examined his eyes for a while and then held his hand over his heart. The simple feeling of his heartbeat calmed him down.

A few hours later, he made his way through the pitch-black house into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. He tried not to think about Mr. Howard or Stacy, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw her open mouth lunging toward him. He checked his bandage again and then poured himself a cup o' Joe before the machine was finished. He sat in the living room and sipped on his coffee, staring blankly at the television screen, feeling content to finish off the pot if need be.

John kept up the drinking until the numbers on the clock above the television read 4:22. Satisfied he had enough caffeine in him to get through the morning, he didn't bother waking Angela before stepping out the front door. He hopped in his truck, threw on the dirty shirt lying on the seat of the cab, and pulled out of the driveway. He left the driver's side window down and felt a cool rush of the wind against his face. He turned the music up loud on the truck's old radio and sped along the small road as fast as he could. He reached the highway, and going off the clock on his dashboard, he figured he would reach work with time to spare. Once he crossed into Evansville, a long line of orange and violet glowed along the horizon.

He turned down the radio as the first row of buildings came into view. He couldn't remember being in town so early and had to check the ring of keys in his pocket to make sure he could get into the shop if no one else was in. Silence overtook the interior of the cab as he was drawn to a sudden feeling of being alone. The sidewalks were empty and showed no sign of early morning traffic. He made the first few turns into the center of town and the scene didn't change. His paranoia was heightened as he tried to convince himself that the lack of people was normal.

"You've never been in this early," he said to himself, and the sound of his voice startled him. "Get a grip, man."

John pulled onto Main Street and found the blackened shell of the police car still sitting in front of the gas station across from the shop. He pulled closer and took in the remains of the event. Yellow and black police tape wrapped around the entire building, but there were few signs that anything else had been done to the area. He turned into the front of the shop's lot and pulled around to the rear parking area. He parked in his usual spot, grabbed his keys, and stepped out with his mind still searching through the hazy memory of yesterday's events.

He made it to the employee entrance door with his mind still wandering. A quick check of the keys produced the shop key and a few pushes and turns later, the door opened. He closed the door behind him and fumbled along the wall until he found the lights. The shop floor was eerily quiet as he made his way over to the old Ford truck whose brakes he was supposed to replace. An hour went by before he realized he was still alone. There was usually a radio playing somewhere on the floor, and the morning's silence was hard to ignore. John pushed himself out from under the truck and wiped his hands on his jeans. He got to his feet and peered over at the manager's office.

The office door was closed and the lights were off. He felt a disturbing concern creep into the back of his mind. He looked at the clock and was sure there should be a few of the early guys in by now. Shadows across the shop floor played havoc on his mind. The main lights were off, and he had managed to turn on only a few of the lights above his and the adjacent vehicle.

He walked toward the office, keeping one eye on the back door. He was hopeful someone would pop in at any moment, but the closer he got to the office, the more concerned he grew. Only a few feet away, he looked out into the main storefront and found the lights off. There was little doubt in his mind that Carrie Ann should have had the store open by now.

He pulled on the office door and found it gave way easily. Uncomfortably, he stepped inside the office and flicked on the lights. Everything was in its proper place, which calmed him, but there were few clues as to why he was still alone. He switched on the radio and adjusted the volume out on the shop floor. He stepped back onto the floor, closed the door behind him, and decided to get back to work.

The music flooded the bay area and provided a comfortable cover from the silence. John was able to push aside his fear and focus on the brake job he'd yet to finish. He slid under the truck and hummed along to the old rock classic echoing around the shop. By the time the song was over, he was lost in his task. The morning DJ's voice cut in as the song faded out.

"This is Mark in the morning and that was 'Sweet Emotions' by Aerosmith. I'm sure most of you are getting out of bed right now, so I want to remind you of the emergency alert we've been passing along all morning."

John's hand froze in place as a sudden sensation of horror rushed over him. He focused his attention on the radio, sure he was about to get the answer to why he was still alone.

"Captain Travis Vickers of the Kansas State Police released a public announcement at four o'clock this morning for radio and television stations within the area. There is an apparent outbreak of what they are calling an Ebola type virus within the area of Evansville in Norwich County. The state police have been working on setting up a cordon of the affected area and local residents are warned to stay in their homes and wait for further instructions. Now, I know what you're thinking..."

John slid out from under the truck, wrench still in hand. He got to his feet and looked around the shop as if it were his first time seeing it. The DJ continued to give his opinion about the outbreak, but John had heard all he needed to hear. He ran through his options, trying to understand how he'd made it past the cordon in the first place. He knew he had to get home. He guessed he hadn't been stopped because his house was already inside the affected area.

"Oh crap."

The words slid out of his mouth in a whisper. He was scared and viewed the shadows in the shop with renewed concern. He headed for the back door with determined steps, deciding to leave the radio on and get to his truck as fast as he could. He laid the rest of his tools on the hood of a car near the rear of the shop and stumbled as he looked over his shoulder. He eyed the glass window between the shop and front store. The light from outside dimly illuminated the storefront, but there was enough light for his mind to see movements within the long shadows. Once he was close enough to the back door to reach out and grab the handle, he saw something moving out front. He tried to watch the way behind him and the way ahead at the same time. He fumbled with the door handle before getting a good hold. He turned the knob, but something held him still. His muscles tensed as he slid his face forward and put his ear to the door. The sounds of the DJ's voice echoed in his head as he tried to focus on something else.

The radio broke into another song as John held still. The beat of the music washed across the walls of the shop and nearly blocked out everything else. He started to move, but a new sound reached his ears. It was so slight at first that he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it. His senses fiercely aware, John heard something scratch across the outside of the door.

He jerked back as his heart leapt into his throat. His shaking hand reached out and locked the door handle as he back away. His eyes focused on the slit beneath the door. He got down on his hands and knees and then edged forward, focusing on the light shining through underneath.

John held his breath and leaned down, placing his eye as close to the floor as his head would allow. The dim light of a cloud-covered day provided a grey view beyond. The black asphalt was first in sight followed by a few unrecognizable pieces of trash strewn about the parking lot. John struggled to see the wheels of his truck but could not.

He laid flat on the floor for a better view but could see little more from his new position. He stared out at the parking lot for several minutes, counting his thumping heart with every beat. His mind raced through the information the DJ relayed but failed to come any closer to understanding what he could do. He felt the hair on his neck rise as he decided he would have to make a run for it. He placed his hands on the ground to get up as a shadow moved across the door slit, and something bumped slightly against the door as it did. John held his breath and slid his face toward the edge. It moved again and stopped directly in front of the door.

John knew what he saw was a shoe, and the spots of dried blood across the side were obvious. He heard a sound slither under the door like a whisper. It was unmistakable for him, and the pounding drums on the radio did little to subdue the knot forming in his gut. He had heard that guttural moan before in his son's bedroom and in the dark space beneath his house. That same moan now awaited him on the other side of the door.

14

John lay in silence on the cold shop floor. He was holding his breath, listening intently to the sounds outside the door. The shuffling feet moved, and he lost sight of the blood-stained shoes. He didn't move or breathe for several minutes until finally his lungs could take it no longer.

He gasped for breath and felt his heart thump wildly. He knew at once that the lack of people in town had nothing to do with the time. Everything that happened to Alex was now spreading across the city. The creature he saw in the cop car was a terrible reminder of what was probably lurking outside.

A quick check of the shop left John with two choices. He could risk trying to get back to his truck to go home or stay where he was and hope someone would come and find him. He wasn't much for waiting. He figured the government's response would drag on, leaving him stranded for much longer than he could stand, not to mention Angela.

He found a crow bar and held it firm in one hand, and then he slid a hammer through his front belt loop and considered himself as ready as he was going to be. He fished the keys to his truck out of his pocket and held them in his free hand, and then he found himself trying to gather the courage to open the door. _I know what to expect_ , he thought. The memory of his fight with Stacy wasn't helping his nerves. He shook his head with determination and grabbed the door handle, hoping his U.S. Army training would come back to him if he needed it. He opened the door and stepped out without thinking it through.

His defensive stance kept him balanced as he scanned the parking lot. He half expected to come face to face with some lumbering corpse but found the lot empty and quiet. John took a step but thought quickly enough to catch the door before it closed. He slid a brick with his foot and propped the door open, and then he eyed his truck for another minute before moving toward it. The coast was clear, but he heard the all-too-familiar moaning coming from around the other side of the building. He picked up speed and was halfway across the lot before a sudden shout froze him in place.

"Hey, man!"

John spun around and found a lone figure on the roof of the shop yelling down at him. "What are you doing up there?"

"Trying to get down."

John took another quick scan of the parking lot. "Then get down and hurry up." He started back toward the truck but only got another few steps.

"Have you seen these...things?"

John knew time was limited and didn't feel having a conversation was an appropriate use of it. He spun around with a set of directions in mind. "Jump down onto the lower roof and I'll help you the rest of the way." He motioned toward the top of the store connected to the shop. "And hurry."

John kept his keyring around his middle finger and made a fist. The moaning grew louder and his stomach knotted as he deliberately walked back toward the shop's side door. By the time he reached the door, the man on the roof was on top of the store waiting.

"You have to jump," John said. "We don't have time for anything else."

The volume of the moaning was powerful and drawing closer. John knew they had a minute or two at best. He got a good look at the man for the first time and saw a familiar fear in his wide-eyed glare. He was measuring the eight foot leap down onto the parking lot but obviously aware of the nearing sounds.

"Just do it," John said.

The man yelled and jumped. John realized at the last second that he was jumping down toward him. Unable to dodge out of the way, John took the weight of the man and fell flat on his back. The clang of the crowbar rolling across the parking lot was the only sound capable of piercing the moans. The man rolled over, and John saw the first of them moving around the side of the store. The death in their eyes was overwhelming, striking an instant terror that John found all too familiar. He struggled to get to his feet, searching the ground for his crowbar.

"Oh my God."

The man cried out and then screamed as he grabbed at John. John pushed him away in time to pick up his crowbar. He saw another group of figures moving around the other side of the shop, some at a much faster pace than the others.

"You have to get me out of here."

John tried to ignore the man and considered leaving him behind. He took a few steps back and saw the true size of the situation. Figures littered the street beside the shop, more than he could count. Blood-stained hospital gowns covered most of the walking dead, some in more decay than the others. The random nakedness was disturbing. There was no end to the amount of missing flesh, dangling eyes, and half-eaten faces. The horror of it was more than the man could take, but John tried to keep his wits about him. The man grabbed his arm and pulled at him as he glared at the other group of dead coming around the far side of the shop.

"Where the hell did they all come from so fast?" John asked.

The man pulled John back toward the shop's side door. "We have to get inside."

"That's a death trap," John said. "We have to get out of here."

The man pulled at John's arm as hard as he could. Fed up, John raised the crowbar up above his head. The man cowed away, clawing at John's free hand. He fell to the ground, pulling at John's keys, and they slipped off his finger.

"Give them to me or I'll bash your head in," John said.

The dead were all around them. Those in front reached out toward the men as they struggled with one another. John knew there was no time to waste. He swung the crowbar and hit the man on the shoulder. The dead closed in, but John knew without the keys, he was done for sure. He stood at the man's feet offering one last chance.

"Give me my keys now."

The man screamed like a woman, his eyes on the stumbling naked corpse only a few feet away.

"Enough."

John swung the crowbar and hit the man on the side of the head. His head split open as he slumped back onto the parking lot pavement. Blood spurted from the wound and covered his face and neck as his eyes rolled back in his head. John reached for the keys and struggled to pull them free. He could sense the dead nearly on top of him but knew he had to have the keys. He pried at the man's fingers, bending them back until they nearly snapped.

The smell of rotted meat filled John's senses, and he expected to feel their hands clawing at him. His attention was on the keys, and he didn't see the man's eyes regain focus. One hard push sent the exposed crowbar back into John's face. His sight went blank and a moment later, he realized he was lying on his back without the keys to his truck or the crowbar. He sat up in time to see the man, his head and chest now covered in blood, rushing into the side door of the shop and closing it behind him. The pain in John's head was nothing compared to the sudden fear in his heart. The dead were all around him, the sounds of their nefarious need for flesh bearing down on him. He jumped to his feet and felt the world spin around him. He staggered as he backed away from the first attacker. The filthy hands of the dead man reeked of decay. Blood stained his chest from numerous bites in his skin.

A quick look revealed at least ten more dead moving toward him. John had few options. He would have to make a run for it without his keys. There was only one direction he could go. He spun around, took three long strides, and leapt up into the bed of his truck. The extent of the dead struck him. An uncountable number of the recently deceased lurched across the parking lot, the road to the north of the shop, and the main street beyond. John jumped up on top of the truck's cab as a dozen of them gathered around the vehicle.

Outstretched hands reached out for John as the dead wailed, trying to get hold of him. He eyed the six-foot brick wall around the edge of the parking lot and tried to gauge the distance. He took one step onto the hood of the truck and pushed off with all his strength. He crossed the open space between the truck and the wall and hit the top of the bricks with a solid thud against his stomach.

He pushed up the rest of the way and stood on top of the wall, and then he looked down on the other side at an empty alleyway. He wasted little time jumping down. He recognized the housing tract by the standard model of houses, but his mind was moving too fast to remember how to get back out to the main street. He took a moment to listen for any sounds he could recognize. Unable to make out anything over the constant moan of the dead behind the wall, John turned to the north and ran. He picked the first backyard he could see into and pushed open the gate. He ran up to the back patio and searched for any signs of life.

"Is there anyone in there?" He banged on the back door as hard as he could. "I need to get in. They're coming." He continued to pound his fist on the door. A quick look revealed a wide window at the back of the house covered over with drapes. "Come on, damn it." He banged his forehead on the door and stood there trying to decide what to do next when a low voice called out to him.

"Go away."

"What...hey, open up," John said.

"Get off my porch."

"What the hell's wrong with you? I need help. Let me in."

"I have a gun in here." There was a long uncomfortable silence as two people whispered back and forth on the other side of the door. "I'll shoot you through the door. Get off my patio."

John instinctively held his hands up and backed away. He was shocked by the threat but wasn't sure he wouldn't do the exact same thing. He knew what caused the virus, but no one else did. He headed back through the gate and into the alleyway. He considered trying the next house but didn't hold out much hope for a different result. He studied the houses and his eyes fixed on an awkward movement at the far end of the alley. A figure stepped out into the open, looked back at John, and then moved back behind a fence. The figure reemerged a minute later crouched down on one knee. John could see it was a man and not one of the dead. The two appeared to come to the same conclusion at the same time. John started running toward him as the man came to his feet and nervously waited. He approached and realized the figure was barely a man at all. The baby face and shoulder length hair reminded John of a bass player in a local band more than anything else.

"Hey, man, you all right?" John asked.

The young man studied John closely. "I'm Brian," he said.

John shook his hand and did his own study for open wounds. "John."

"What the hell is all this?" Brian asked. "I got up this morning and everything was fine. I was standing in my kitchen eating cereal and I saw my neighbor in our backyard with blood all over his shirt." He wiped at his eyes with his hand and John thought he might break down. "He tried to bite me. I've known that guy all my life and he tried to freaking bite me. I had to defend myself."

John nodded and looked behind them to make sure the coast was clear. "I get it," he said. "You did what you had to. You don't have to justify yourself to me. I've done things." They looked into each other's eyes and silently settled the conversation. "The question is what are we going to do now? I have to get home to my wife and son. Where's your family?"

Brian shrugged. "My mom works at the hospital. She wasn't home when I got up this morning. My dad lives out in Martinsville."

John wasn't sure if Brian knew how bad it was at the hospital, but he decided not to get into it. "We need weapons and a car."

Brian hesitated, looked over his shoulder, and then eyed John as if he hadn't heard what he said.

"You still with me?" John asked, not sure if Brian had seen too much for his own good. He reached out and shook him on the shoulder. "You have to keep it together."

Brian's expression shifted, and he focused. "I heard you," he said. "My mom took her car to work. I don't have my own."

John considered their options and decided to keep moving. He didn't want a tagalong but knew having someone might come in handy if he ran into trouble. "Let's head back toward Main Street, try and see if we can get around that main group of them."

"Group of what?" Brian asked.

"You mean you haven't..." John stopped. He wasn't sure how to explain what was happening, but a second later, he didn't have to. Three figures stepped out around the housing tract wall in the direction of the street in front of the houses. It took only a glance for John to know what was coming. "I don't know how to tell you this," he said as he grabbed Brian's arm, "but your neighbor wasn't crazy."

"How can you know that?"

John spun Brian around to face the front of the house. "He was already dead."

"What?" Brian asked. "Hey, there's someone else..." His words trailed off as the figures came forward like slow, clumsy animals, their mouths opening and emitting a terrible sound. Brian took a slow step backwards as John readied himself to run. "There's something not right about them." Brian took another step back as the figures closed the distance.

John glanced back in the direction he'd come and found the way still clear. The morning sunlight hit the new arrivals on the face, and their predicament was plain to see. It was obvious one was a man, the other two women. The remains of the females were left open for the world to see. They each appeared to have been attacked by a group, the evidence in the numerous bite marks along their exposed chests. One woman was missing a breast, leaving a vile hole where it had been. The wound was an awful purple color, and the stains of blood soaked the remains of a shirt, now only over one arm, and some tattered cloth that had been a skirt.

The man was in better shape by comparison. His dark blue suit and off-white tie was still pressed and ready. His face on the other hand was beyond recognition. The skin had been pulled from the bone, leaving behind most of the exposed skull. Pieces of muscle and tissue flapped between the jaw bones as his mouth opened, revealing a half-eaten tongue.

"This isn't happening," Brian said.

John wasn't going to wait to see if he snapped out of it. He offered one last try before running. "Just run."

Brian hesitated for a second longer and then managed to bring himself back to reality. John wasn't willing to wait. He'd already passed the location on the wall where he'd jumped over from the shop's parking lot. He glanced down the side of the houses as he went by, checking for any movement along the street. His attention was focused elsewhere, so he didn't notice the figures coming toward him from the far end of the alley until he was only a few yards away.

He reached the opposite end of the block and found himself in the same situation as when he started, confronted by the walking dead. He counted half a dozen dead and heard more coming before spinning around. He ran back in the direction he'd come, spotting Brian sprinting directly toward him. The younger man's face was consumed by a lost expression, his eyes glossed over as if somewhere else altogether.

"We have to make for one of the houses," John said. Brian didn't appear to hear him. John had to stop to make sure they wouldn't run into one another. "Brian, hold up." He held his hands out in defense, ready to take the force of Brian if he didn't stop. The younger man pulled up before impact.

"What do you mean dead?"

John heard his question, but it took a second for him to process the last pieces of the conversation they'd had. "Dead," he said. "They're all dead, walking dead to be exact."

Brian blinked.

"I don't know how else to explain it," John said. "We don't have time to go into much more detail than that." He looked over Brian's shoulder and discovered the three zombies had followed him and brought company with them. All told, John counted at least twenty between the two groups coming from either end of the alley. "We have to get into one of these houses."

He pulled open the gated entrance to the backyard of the house he already tried to get into. He knew there was someone home and he hoped if they got inside, the dead would wander off looking for flesh somewhere else. They stepped up onto the back porch and pounded on the door.

"Come on, I know you're in there," John said.

Brian kept his eyes on the dead. The two groups were nearing one another, both sides closer to the back gate. He whimpered like a dog, unable to piece together a cry for help. John heard him but kept at the task.

"You can't leave us out here to die. Open the damn door," he said.

The muffled answer came from the same voice as before. "Get off my patio. I told you—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," John said. "You have a gun and you'll shoot me through the door. You might as well pull the trigger." He kicked the door as hard as he could. "Cause if you don't let me in, I'm going to die out here anyway."

The mass of dead pushed into the back gate like walking into a wall. Their arms reached out toward the porch trying to force through. The collective sound of their longing to feed rose like a choir of death. The poles holding the gate and surrounding fence bent in from the combined strength of the dead. Brian slammed into John's back as he tried to push his way into the house.

"They're coming through."

"Open the damn door or you're going to have these things crawling through your windows," John said.

There was a loud snap as the wooden gate gave way. The dead poured into the backyard like a tidal wave. At least two dozen walking corpses pushed through, aiming directly for the porch and the two men hopelessly cornered. Brian pushed at John with all his strength, resulting in John's head smashing into the door. He felt the blood trickle down his face from a cut on his forehead. The two men yelled at the top of their lungs as they kicked and banged on the door. The roaring moans drowned out the sounds of the attack on the door as the first of the dead reached the porch stairs.

John couldn't bring himself to turn around. He knew they would be on him in seconds and there was nothing he could do to stop them from tearing him apart. He closed his eyes and waited. He never heard the door unlock, and when it swung open, he was not prepared, falling forward onto a hardwood floor. Brian fell on top of him, knocking the wind out of him. John rolled to his left and forced Brian onto the floor. A shotgun blast erupted above them as they tried to roll out of the open doorway.

John jumped up to his feet as the door shut and the moaning of the dead was reduced to a muffled echo. He pulled Brian up by the collar of his shirt and was met by their apparent savior. The owner of the home was a short, rotund man with a long, pouty face. He wore the slacks of a businessman but the plain white tank top of someone who likes to sit around the house in their underwear. The homeowner didn't say a word. He raised the Remington shotgun, placing the end of the barrel directly in front of John's face and pumped it once.

John put his hands up in defense and, in the most gracious voice he could muster, said, "Thank you?"

15

John wasn't sure if he was allowed to move. The homeowner kept the barrel of the shotgun aimed at his face. Brian was still on the ground in a similar unmoving, defensive position. The sounds of the dead on the patio continued to rise. John saw several household items nailed over the window next to the door.

"Are you going to shoot me?" John asked.

The short man's eyes narrowed. He held the shotgun in place for another minute and then slowly lowered it. "You led them here."

"That's not his fault," Brian said from the floor.

The homeowner took a step back, swinging the shotgun toward Brian and then back to John. A figure stepped out into the center hallway toward the front of the house. The homeowner looked and then snarled. "I said stay upstairs."

John didn't risk trying to get another look.

"We'll just get out of here," Brian said. "We'll go out the front and be on our way."

"You can't," the homeowner said. "There's more out front...followed me up to the door this morning when I went out to get the paper."

"Dan," a female voice called out from the hall. "Are you okay?"

"Just go upstairs for God's sake," he said. "I swear woman—"

"How many shells you got for that gun?" John asked.

Dan eyed him curiously. "Enough."

"If you could give us some cover fire, we could probably get out the front." John slowly let down his hands. "You have a car?"

"You ask a lot of questions," Dan said. "I'm not wasting any rounds."

"Then we'll take our chances," Brian said as he got himself off the floor.

Dan shook his head. "I think you're going to stay right here until we know exactly what's going on." He kept the shotgun leveled.

"Haven't you been watching the news?" John asked. "It's a viral outbreak."

Dan chuckled under his breath. "That's what the government wants us to believe."

John didn't like his tone. There was something hidden in his words that reeked of conspiracy theory. "Are you saying you're not going to let us leave?"

Dan raised the barrel higher and smiled. "Not until I'm satisfied. If the world's going to hell in a handbasket, I want to keep all of my options open."

John thought about rushing him, but he wasn't sure he could get his hands on the barrel of the gun before he pulled the trigger. Dan motioned the shotgun toward the hall and John and Brian obeyed. John walked first as Brian shuffled his feet behind him. They reached the stairs and discovered the woman who'd called out was gone.

"Upstairs," Dan said.

John did as he was told and midway up the staircase, he caught a glimpse of at least two heads peeking out at him from a cracked door on the second floor. The moment they made eye contact, the door slammed closed. He reached the second floor and came to a stop. "What do you want me to do now?" The frustration came through in his voice. "This is ridiculous."

"Go around the railing to your left," Dan said. "The room at the end of the hall." He directed them into a small bedroom, and the décor acknowledged there was a little girl in the house they had not yet seen. Dan motioned his eyes at the lone window. "Look."

John approached the window and looked down over the front yard. Their predicament became instantly clear. He counted at least ten walking corpses milling around the front door and bay window. A scan out over the neighborhood revealed how widespread the problem had become. Down several streets in the housing tract, the all-too-familiar lumbering walk of the dead was apparent. The sound of broken glass pulled his attention to a neighboring house, but he couldn't see far enough out the window to be sure where it was coming from. The shrill of a woman's scream came next, and it continued for several minutes, until everything was silent.

"Going outside isn't the best idea," Dan said.

John pulled his head back inside the window and turned to face the homeowner. "That should be my decision to make. You really think this is the beginning of the end?" He risked a step closer to Dan. "The police will be in here in no time and all this will be under control. Do you really want to go to jail over something like this?" He stopped himself, trying not to come across too offensive. "All I'm trying to say is we should be working together. I have a wife and kid. They need me to get back home."

Brian sat down on the bed and the fear in his eyes spoke volumes. John knew he wouldn't be able to count on him if the situation came to a fight. He decided he would take the first chance he had to get control of the situation; Brian was on his own. Dan eyed John over a long time, and for a moment John thought the conspiracy theorist might be considering his idea. Dan finally moved, digging around in his back pocket. Any hope at reaching the homeowner ended when he removed a set of handcuffs and tossed them on the bed.

"One on your wrist and one on his."

John grimaced as he headed for the bed. "That's not exactly what I had in mind."

♦

Dan kept them on the bed for another hour. Now, handcuffed to one another, John had to consider how he could use Brian to his advantage. He needed to get back to Angela, and he wasn't sure what she might do if he didn't make it home soon. For the moment, he was busy trying to figure out how crazy Dan really was. John was hoping that at some point he would give up on the idea of keeping two grown men as prisoners and that the world in fact wasn't about to end.

"You're not going to shoot us," John said.

Dan smiled but didn't reply.

"I'm hungry," Brian said.

"He's got a point," John said. "We need to eat."

Dan looked down the hall at something out of view and waited several seconds before turning his attention back to them. John couldn't see what was going on in the hall from his vantage point on the bed, but he could hear shuffling feet followed by someone heading down the stairs. Another few minutes went by and the footsteps returned. This time, a sudden outstretched hand through the doorway followed them. The new arrival remained out of view, but the hand was holding a plate with two sandwiches.

Dan took the plate, and the hand and its owner quickly disappeared. He threw the plate and the sandwiches landed in John's lap. Brian didn't wait for an invite. John took a bite and tasted the peanut butter as he eyed the front window. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he stood up and in the process pulled Brian with him.

"Enough of this," he said. "Just shoot me." He took several steps toward Dan, egging him on.

Dan raised the barrel and aimed it at John's head.

"Not me, man," Brian said, trying to pull his cuffed hand as far away from John as he could.

"I don't trust you," Dan said. "You might be infected."

"That's not how it works," John said, allowing his frustration to get the best of him. "Get that gun out of my face and take these damn cuffs off me."

"Sit down," Dan said.

"Go to hell."

"Sit down now."

"Dad?" the voice of a little girl called out from down the hall.

Dan shifted his gaze for a moment and gave John the opening he needed. He sent his fist into the side of Dan's face with all the pent-up frustration he could gather. The barrel of the shotgun swung wide from the impact and went off inches from John's face. The explosion sent a vicious ringing through his ears, but he managed to grab the barrel and pushed it back toward Dan's head. John was surprised when Brian came around him and kicked Dan in the stomach. The homeowner fell back, and as he lost his balance, his grip on the shotgun loosened.

"Give me the damn gun," John said.

Dan grabbed hold with both hands and refused to let go. He surprised John with a knee between the legs. John hit the floor but managed to keep one hand on the gun. Dan tried to force the barrel down on him, but a jab into his ribs from Brian kept him from succeeding.

John couldn't gather his breath, the knee to his manhood having done its job. He tried to get off the floor as Brian and Dan fought over the top of him. Brian got another sharp jab through Dan's defense, which caught him on the bridge of his nose. Blood erupted from his nose like a faucet and Dan fell back, hitting the floor with a solid thud. Dan was dazed but too close to the shotgun to test his reaction time; instead, John got to his feet and pulled Brian back out into the hall.

A quick look back revealed Dan already sitting up, shotgun in hand, leaving John a second to react. He leapt over the banister with one jump, and his shoulder was nearly pulled out of socket as the handcuff went tight. Brian bore his weight as he dangled over the stairs. A moment later, Brian did the only thing he could do, and the two hit the stairs with a painful impact. Their arms and legs intertwined as they rolled the rest of the way down. Brian was up to his feet first and dragged John out of the way. They were out of view from the staircase and safe for the moment.

John ran toward the back door and into the adjoining kitchen. He pulled open the counter drawers and found a butcher knife. Brian armed himself with a kitchen mallet hanging above the stove, and the two held still in the center of the kitchen. Dan's footsteps echoed throughout the house as he ran from the front room toward one in the back. A door opened and slammed shut. A muffled argument ensued, but John could not make out much else.

"Let's just get out of here," Brian said.

"You want to stay bracelet twins forever?" John pulled their wrists up for a reminder. "Besides, I want that gun."

"It's not worth getting shot over."

John had a hard time arguing Brian's point. He figured they could get out of the handcuffs some other way if they had too, but he wasn't so sure they'd get another shot at a gun. He was thinking more for himself than anything else. He would have to get Alex and Angela out of the cordoned-off area somehow, and having a gun might be the only way. Brian was about to speak, but he froze when the sound of the door opening echoed down the stairs. Slow footsteps crept toward the top step and then stopped. John forced Brian to walk toward the hall and stopped near the bottom stair outside of view from up above.

"We want to get out of here," John said.

"I have a gun," Dan replied.

"Don't you think we know that? Give us the handcuff key, and we'll be on our way." Dan didn't move. All three men stood in silence for several uncomfortable minutes until John urged on the situation. "Look, I'll open the damn doors and let these things in. You want to try and keep them from chewing on your family?"

Brian gave him a terrified expression.

"Just the key then?" Dan asked. "And you'll go?"

"That's all we want." John edged along the wall until he could see the end of Dan's boots. He was tapping his foot as he worked the deal around in his mind.

"How do I know you won't un-cuff yourselves and leave the doors open anyway?"

John started to yell back but realized he didn't have a good answer. He settled on the best idea he had. "You'll have to trust us?" He knew it wouldn't work when he said it, but he thought he would try it anyway.

Dan's laughter filled the staircase. "Why don't you stick your hands out from down there and I'll shoot the chain," he said between laughs.

John took one long step out behind the cover of the wall and caught Dan with the shotgun aimed at the ceiling. "Fine, you asked for it." He grabbed the butcher knife by the blade and flung it as hard as he could. The blade rotated perfectly and sliced into Dan's stomach, above his waist. John stepped back and readied himself to run back to the kitchen. He heard Dan stumble and curse from up above. A loud crash followed as Dan screamed out in a mixture of pain and anger.

"What did you do that fo—"

Brian's question trailed off as he watched the shotgun slide down the stairs, hit the laminate hall floor, and come to a stop.

John smiled. "Any more questions?" He asked another question before Brian could answer, this one loud enough for everyone to hear. "Are you going to throw down the handcuff key now, or am I going to have to come up after it?"

They heard Dan's deep, panting breaths, and for a second they thought he might be unconscious.

"You threw a knife at me," Dan said as if just discovering the fact. "I'm bleeding all over the place."

"What did you want me to do?" John asked. "We want to get the hell out of here, and I'd prefer to do it unchained." He eyed the shotgun and guessed three long steps could get him to it, but something kept him from running out to get it.

"I'm going to die up here."

John swore under his breath and then bolted out from his cover. Brian ran with him and reached for the shotgun first. Gunfire erupted from the stairs and before John knew what was happening, Brian was on the ground, blood splattered across his shirt from a wound in his arm. John snatched the shotgun off the ground and pull himself back, dragging Brian into the hallway with him. John pushed his back against the wall and readied the gun as he tried to figure out what happened. Dan's coughing laughter was a clear indicator.

"That's not my only gun."

"Clearly," John said.

Brian grabbed the wall with his good hand and picked himself up. Blood smeared the off-white paint as he slumped up against it. "Let's get out of here."

John racked the shotgun, making sure to catch the expended rounds. He got to seven before it emptied. He reloaded and then gave an unsatisfied look to Brian. "We still need the damn key."

"Why don't you come up here and get it," Dan said and then laughed harder.

John started toward the back door. "You want to play that way, fine." He stopped a few feet from the door and then turned toward the small adjoining living room and found inspiration. He and Brian stacked the couch and loveseat on top of one another in front of the walkway leading into the living room. They went back to the hall when they were done and John called out one last attempt at reconciliation. "This is it," he said, "either you throw down the key or your family is going to become dinner."

"Go to hell."

John pulled Brian back toward the living room and readied himself. Brian's strength was giving out, and John knew it would be the next problem he'd have to solve. "Hold your hand still." Brian held his cuffed hand straight out in front of him and John brought the shotgun to bear, placing the barrel on the link between their wrists.

"You sure about his?" Brian asked.

"Nope." John pulled the trigger and the shot ripped his shoulder back. He nearly dropped the gun, but he was pleasantly surprised to find he was no longer part of a set. With one problem solved, he maneuvered himself by the back door. "When I open this door, we're going to get back in the living room as fast as possible and slide the couches in front of the opening."

"Wait," Brian said, "why are we doing this again?"

John was growing impatient, but he knew he needed Brian's help for this to work.

"The dead will come in here," he said, pointing at the door. "They won't be able to get to us, so I'm hoping that will lead them down the hall and up the stairs."

"But they'll get those people."

John frowned. "Would you rather they get us?"

Brian kept quiet and positioned himself on the other side of the couch. John grabbed the door handle with one hand and held onto the shotgun with the other. He watched the thin line of light under the door and when the light cleared, he turned the knob and swung the door open. Not waiting to see what awaited him outside, he ran into the living room and helped Brian push the stacked couches in place.

The dead came through the door, pouring in with a wave of putrid smell and familiar moans. The first of them pushed up against the couches trying to reach around. Brian stood close, making sure the barricade didn't move. In a matter of seconds, rotting arms reached for him from every small opening.

"They're not going down the hall."

John paid little attention to Brian's discovery, instead focusing on their escape. He laid the shotgun down and pulled open the drapes over the rear window. The last of the dead on the porch were pushing their way into the house. He picked up the lamp in the corner of the living room and bashed out the window. John waited until the last corpse disappeared inside, picked up his shotgun, and prepared to jump. He heard the sound of pistol fire on the second floor and knew the dead had found the hall and the stairs.

"We can't just let them die up there," Brian said.

"To hell with them. I'm getting out of here, and if you had half a brain, you'd follow me out." He put a boot on the edge of the windowsill and pulled himself up with his free hand. He leaned forward to jump and a scream stopped him. He turned to find Brian trying to get away from the couches and two pairs of hands grabbing onto his shirt. "Damn it."

John got down from the window and rushed toward Brian. He grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled, but the dead would not be denied. With the help of John's strength, a lifeless corpse pulled itself over the stacked couches and latched onto Brian's neck with both hands. It bit into his face before John could react. Brian screamed wildly as the zombie bit his ear off. John knew Brian was gone but couldn't bear to let him end up like the mass of walking dead spilling into the house.

Another of the dead climbed over the couches to join in the feast and John aimed the shotgun at Brian's head and pulled the trigger. Brian's face was reduced to unidentifiable muscle and bone. John readied himself in the window and jumped. He landed in the backyard and rolled to a stop. He took one last look at the house as the sounds of a terrible death echoed from an upstairs bedroom. He turned his attention on his escape and dashed through the gate and back down the alley with the shotgun at the ready.

16

John ran until his sides hurt. He got out of the housing tract without any sign of the dead. He guessed they were converging on Dan's house. A scan of the street outside of the tract revealed the west end littered with rotting figures. He'd forgotten about the mindless mob at the gas station. It appeared they'd lost his scent when he went over the wall and returned to wandering around the area for a meal.

John crossed the street and took a knee behind a station wagon. He looked through the car's interior for keys but found none. He turned his attention on the two-story apartment building behind him. He had to get a vehicle if he hoped to survive, but the idea of storming into one of the apartments wasn't appealing. There was a good chance the occupants wouldn't be open to receiving new guests, or worse, were already part of the infected.

He got up to a crouching position and looked through the car's windshield for a better view of the street. He counted more than a dozen dead to the west and another dozen farther down the road to the east. He forced himself to keep moving, heading north through an alley between the apartment buildings. The street beyond was a narrow one-way with cars along one side of the road but no sign of movement. The other side of the street was the start of the business district; most of the shops were small and locally owned.

John skimmed through the signs and focused on Ted's Hardware. There were only a few rounds remaining for the shotgun, and he would have to have something else to depend on. He crossed the street and approached the hardware store's front door. He smashed the glass with the butt of his shotgun and stepped inside. A quick inventory brought a smile to his face. He grabbed a leather tool belt and strapped it around his waist. Once he finished his shopping spree, nearly everything hanging from the belt could be used as a weapon in some fashion.

John secured the last clawed hammer in place, and then eyed the back door. He'd heard a sound from the rear of the building when he came in but didn't react. He was sure he'd heard it again. He eyed the door and froze in the center aisle. He raised the shotgun slowly, training the barrel on the door. He watched the knob in the hope it would turn. The dead could not open doors, as far as he could tell, so he hoped whatever he heard could walk and talk.

It took several minutes of silence before his mind couldn't take it any longer. He took one hesitant step forward then another. He was close enough to touch the knob when the sound returned. He froze again; close enough to tell it was not the shifting feet he'd heard outside the shop but something moving an object aside. The door was unlocked and gave way after a hard push. The old hinges screeched awful and the dark room behind offered no hint of safety. John pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped back. The light from the front of the store revealed only a few dirty tables near the entrance but left the deepest part of the room hidden.

"Is anybody in there?"

He waited for a few seconds and then decided to leave the space alone. He figured messing around in a dark storeroom wouldn't bring anything but trouble. He backed away and looked over his shoulder to make sure the sidewalk was clear outside the front of the store. He only made it a few steps before another rummaging sound came from the back room. He stopped, this time bringing the shotgun up and ready to fire.

"I'm going to start shooting into the wall if I don't hear someone."

He cocked his shotgun for an audible effect, took one long stride toward the door, and prepared himself to fire. The scream that met him caught him off guard. He felt his finger pull on the trigger by instinct as a short figure stepped out of the darkness. It took quick mental willpower to keep from firing at the small boy who appeared in the doorway with his hands up.

"Don't shoot me, mister."

John eyed the boy over the top of his gun and figured he couldn't be more than ten or eleven. The boy's face was streaked with tears and he wore ragged clothes caked in dried mud that showed signs of a struggle. A blotch of blood on his shirt made John nervous. His dirty blond hair was matted to his face.

"You been hurt?" John asked. He tried to sound concerned but didn't lower his weapon.

"I'm all right," the boy said.

John scanned the front of the store as he lowered his gun. He eyed the boy, and part of him knew he should try to get the kid to a safer location, but another part wanted nothing to do with the trouble. He was struck with an idea of taking the boy in case Alex needed nourishment. The thought clung to him like a scene from a dirty movie. "Go hide back in that store room," he said. "Lock the door from the inside, and somebody will come along for you."

"You're somebody," the boy said.

John wiped his forehead with his hand. He was itching to leave and didn't want to be cornered in the store if he could help it.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Mathew," he said. "Mathew Roberts."

"Any relation to Pastor Roberts?"

"He's my father," Mathew said.

John grinned. "I bet he's writing up a hell of a sermon about all this."

The boy nodded, but his blank expression showed he didn't get the joke. His rail thin arms hung at his sides like pipe cleaners.

"Well, Mathew—"

"Matt," he said. "Nobody calls me Mathew."

"All right, Matt," John said. "How did you get yourself hidden inside the storeroom?"

"My dad owns this store," Matt said. "He owns a bunch of stores in town."

"Well, the good Lord does provide, doesn't he? I suppose your father's congregation gives a good deal of its money to ensure his well-being?"

Matt shrugged.

"You didn't answer my question," John said. "What are you doing here?"

"My dad sent me down here for nails and screws to board up the house."

"He sent his kid out in this?" John shook his head. "What a hero." He looked hard at the boy. "I'm not your hero." He looked back at the front of the store again and then started toward the door. "You can follow me, but as soon as I can drop you off with someone else, you have to go." He looked for confirmation, and Matt nodded. "Take this." He handed him a hammer, and the boy looked at it as if unable to imagine what John expected him to do with it. "You have to hit them in the head." Matt swallowed hard. "Don't hesitate if the time comes. They won't. Now stay close or you'll get left behind."

They started for the front of the building at a quick pace, and John felt Matt grab his tool belt. They reached the broken glass door and saw two decomposing corpses moving toward the storefront. John took the shotgun with one hand and pulled out a hammer from his belt. The way east looked clear and he had an idea. If he'd learned anything, he understood that running away was always a better choice than fighting.

"Come on, kid, let's run for it."

They dashed out onto the sidewalk and ran east. John heard the insatiable lust for flesh from the dead the moment they came out into the open. The moans of the dead grew louder as if joined by some awful symphony. John ducked into the alleyway adjacent to the hardware store with Matt close by. They hesitatingly maneuvered between several large dumpsters and broke out into a wide rear street between the stores on the front side and those facing the street to the north. The dead littered the end of the road to the west.

"Where are the police?" John swore under his breath. "Cops are never around when you need them but won't go away when you don't."

"Is someone going to come and save us?" Matt asked.

"I don't know. I haven't seen any sign of it yet."

The boy started to cry.

"Come on, don't do that," John said. "I don't have time for this." He got down on one knee. "Here, wipe your eyes." He offered Matt the sleeve of his shirt. Matt stared at the bloodstains and settled for his own sleeve. The boy managed to get his emotions under control for the moment. John eyed the alley directly across the street and then forced Matt toward it. "Quick now," he said as Matt tugged on his belt.

They were between two one-story buildings a moment later. There was a low echo in the alleyway, one John recognized. He readied his gun as the moaning grew. The road at the end of the alley was clear, but the view revealed little beyond a few feet in any direction. John felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he anticipated what was about to round the corner. He took another few hesitant steps and did not expect what he saw.

He saw its sad, pathetic face first. It was a dog, a German Shepherd to be exact. The dog walked with a limp on its hind legs and its coat was covered in blood. John watched the poor thing gasp for breath with its tongue hung out the side of its mouth. The animal had seen its share of trouble for the day and looked to be lucky to be alive, although it didn't appear as if it would stay that way very long.

"I'm guessing the dead don't care much where their meat comes from," John said.

"Ewe."

"Trust me, boy, that's far from the grossest thing you're going to see in the days ahead."

Matt didn't respond. The boy kept half hidden behind John with one eye focused on the way ahead. The dog stopped in the center of the street, looking down the alley at the new arrivals.

"The last thing we need is to have that thing lead the dead right to—" John didn't get to finish before Matt called out.

"Come here, boy, come here."

"What's wrong with you?" John slapped him on the head with the palm of his hand. "Get," he said to the dog. "Get out of here."

The dog stood frozen for a second, considering which order to follow, and then looked back in the direction he'd come. It barked twice at something out of view and then ran off as best as its injured legs would allow.

"Don't you ever—"

John didn't have time to finish before a line of dead shambled into view. The first few continued down the street after the dog, but some of the followers turned off into the alley. John took a step back and nearly fell over the boy.

"Wait," Matt said.

John looked back and found two more dead lurching toward them from the other end of the alley. He readied the gun and took aim. A quick glance told him there were at least four figures ahead, which left the two behind a better choice. He hated to use the rounds but liked it better than getting eaten.

"Look there."

John followed Matt's hand to a ladder attached to the side of the building. He grabbed the boy by the collar and hoisted him off his feet. Matt was on the ladder a second later, climbing as fast as his limbs would move. The dead closed in, now close enough for the smell to hit John in the face like an uppercut. He jumped on the ladder and started to climb. His head slammed into Matt's butt as he tried to get up as high as he could. The first hand grabbed John's boot and pulled. John screamed and kicked as another hand grabbed hold.

"Go," John said.

Matt was crying and yelling as he reached the top rung and tried to pull himself up out of the way. "Come on," he said as he reached down for John's hand.

John kicked with both legs as they were pulled from the ladder. The rising sound of the dead enveloped the alleyway. They pulled on him as he tried desperately to get away. He knew he would have to let the shotgun drop if he hoped to survive. The moment he released his grip on the gun, he felt it yanked away. He looked up at the roof and saw Matt pull the gun up and take aim at the alley below.

The first shot hit between the eyes, and the decaying corpse's head exploded like a rotten melon, sending pieces of skull and brains in every direction. John felt one of his legs go free and he pulled up on the ladder with both hands. He heard the second shot but didn't look for the result. He didn't waste any time climbing up the rest of the way.

"You saved me," he said, bent over trying to catch his breath. "Hell of a shot, kid." He took the shotgun from Matt and checked his rounds. "Three left." He swore under his breath, realizing that pretty soon it would be reduced to a club. He peered over the side of the building and saw the dead gathering around the end of the ladder. They waved their arms trying to reach up at them, their jaws taking bites out of the air.

"At least they can't climb," Matt said.

"Isn't that the truth?" John scanned the rooftop. "Let's see what we've gotten ourselves into."

They walked the edge of the roof from one side to the other and found a disturbing trend. It appeared the dog had acted as a beacon for the dead. They'd gathered around all four sides of the building, and from the look of it, there were more on the way.

"How are we going to get down?" Matt asked.

John heard the boy's question but didn't have an answer. The only other thing on the roof was a small air conditioning unit. He studied the device for a few minutes, before deciding it wouldn't be useful. He looked out at the surrounding townscape as the sun broke from behind the dark grey clouds and light washed over the roof. To the northwest, the buildings grew in size. The few office buildings the town had were located at the heart of the business section. The pale white face of the hospital loomed in the distance beyond the tallest of the structures. John shook his head as if finally answering Matt, but his eyes found something moving in the distance.

"What is that?"

Matt tried to follow his hand as John pointed toward the tallest of the buildings, aiming his finger at the highest point.

"You see that?"

"I don't see..." Matt hesitated as he stared. "Is that somebody waving?"

John kept his eyes trained on the small moving figure. "I think it is."

"Are we going to go there?"

John looked over the side of the building. "We have to figure out how to get down first."

Matt made a startling discovery. "There's more coming."

Most of the dead were gathered near the ladder on the side of the store, but there was a growing number on the street at the rear and the alley on the opposite side. To make matters worse, it appeared the excited sounds of the dead were attracting more in-kind. John eyed the roof of the adjoining building. At the storefront, a tall sign was held in place by a makeshift prop. Several long boards lay scattered on the roof behind the sign.

"If we could get over to that roof," he said, "I bet we could drop down in the far alley and have a clear shot out of here."

Matt examined the distance of the open space between the two buildings. "I can't jump that."

"Neither can I," John said, "but I bet we could place those boards over the alley and I could walk across."

"That's great, but the boards are over there," Matt said. "How are we supposed to get them?"

John eyed the space over the alley, trying to ignore the growing number of dead milling between the two buildings. He turned his eyes on Matt.

"How much do you weigh?"

Matt's face squinched. "Why?"

John laid the shotgun down on the roof and grabbed Matt by the wrist. "Trust me." He grabbed his other wrist. "Hold on."

Matt tried to object, but before he could get out the words, John lifted him off the ground. The two spun around like a top with Matt's body rising higher with each turn. John gauged the distance to the other roof as best he could and when he was as sure as he could be, he released the boy. Matt tried to hold onto John but didn't have the strength. He flew over the top of the alleyway like a sack of potatoes. The first part of John's plan appeared to work; however, he hadn't considered the landing. Matt hit the adjacent roof with a flat thud and lay motionless.

"You all right?" John asked.

Another minute of silence was followed by a groan.

"What's a matter with you?" Matt asked.

John shrugged. "You wouldn't have done it if I asked," he said. "You all right?"

Matt pushed up on his knees and dusted himself off. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and found a fresh blotch of blood.

"I busted my lip."

"You'll live," John said. "Grab those boards and bring them over to the side of the building." Matt did as he was told, and a few minutes later, John was across. He patted the boy on the back and smiled. "You did good," he said and then peered over the edge of the store. The dead had been drawn to the encounter in the alley beneath the ladder. The alley on the other side of the building was clear. "When we hit the ground we're going that way." He pointed out the route.

"Are we going to find those people in the tall building?"

"We'll see."

John didn't have a strong desire to find more people. He wanted to get home, and he kept hold of the idea that if Alex needed to feed, Matt would do fine. John jumped first and hit the concrete and tried to keep from falling over. The impact sent a shock up his spine, but he managed to stay upright.

Matt waited for the signal and then jumped down. John tried to keep him from slamming into the alleyway but failed. The boy hit hard and the pain in his legs kept him on the ground for a few uncomfortable minutes. John was glad the boy was at least smart enough to keep himself quiet. Once Matt was able to get to his feet, he grabbed John's work belt and asked for the other hammer. They started at a fast walk with eyes and ears ready for anything. The street was clear so John gave Matt a nod, and then they headed off toward the center of town.

17

The dead littered the streets, the smell filling the dark crevices of every street and building. Clouds rolled in from the east and blocked out the afternoon's sunlight. In a veil of grey, the remaining survivors kept hidden in the hopes the onslaught would soon be over. John moved from one hidden location to the next. He never let Matt rest for very long at their stops behind cars, against the side of buildings, or down behind a hedgerow. They headed for the tallest apartment building in town. John had seen a figure waving its arms near the top floor and decided he would find out what they had to offer.

His mind was still on his family. He guessed they could survive well enough throughout the day, but his hope was to get home by sundown. He would take Matt with him if need be, but that would depend on what they found in the apartment building. The town was going to hell quick, and John figured he would be best served getting his family as far away as he could before the cavalry rode in to save the day.

The center of town loomed ahead. The half dozen buildings were composed mostly of businesses, except for the tallest of them all. John brought Matt to a stop behind a long work truck. He slid his eyes up to the driver's side window, checked for keys, and then scouted out the road ahead.

"You see anything?" Matt asked.

They'd managed to avoid any directed contact with the dead since getting off the roof. John nodded. He kept his eyes trained on a gathering across the street near another parked car. The driver's side door was open and a body lay partly on the street. He couldn't tell if it was a man or woman because the dead were swarming, crawling over the vehicle to get a piece of the driver. They chewed on the body on their hands and knees, pulling long bits of intestines from an exposed chest. Blood ran off the victim, gathering in a puddle against the curb. The legs twitched and moved as teeth bit into a thigh, ripping open the skin.

"We have to move now," John said.

The dead did not see them go, locked in on their feast. Matt hid his eyes, holding onto John's belt for guidance. They reached the far side of the street and hid down behind a row of bushes at the front of a bank. The dead were hidden from view by the other side of a vehicle, but the sounds of their feast was everywhere.

"How are we going to get over there?" Matt asked.

John put a finger to his lips. "Whisper."

The front door to the apartment high rise was one block down. The problem was that the vehicle and the corpse buffet were directly in the way. John motioned for Matt to stay put. He kept close to the ground and moved along the bank's exterior toward the street behind them. He reached the edge of the building and slid his face out so he could see. The street heading east would be the best option to approach the apartment from the other side. The problem with the plan was at least ten shambling figures were moving on the street, and another half dozen were pushing their way into a van parked near the far end of the road.

The roads east of the bank made up the center of the town's business district. On a normal day, the area would be the busiest location, and today was no different. John couldn't count the number of figures, but their slow walk gave a hint at the growing count of dead now roaming out in the open. He crept back toward the bushes and got down on his knees behind Matt. The dead near the vehicle were still eating, but he couldn't imagine the meal lasting much longer.

"We're going to have to run for it."

Matt's head snapped around, his eyes wide as saucers. "Run where?"

"For the apartment."

The boy's voice rose dangerously loud. "What about them?"

John placed his hand on his shoulder. He could see the growing terror in his eyes. "We can't go around," he said. "Unless we risk going back the way we came, we have to make a run for it." He checked to make sure the way ahead was still clear. "And we're going to have to go now." He didn't let the conversation continue. He stood up with one strong pull, bringing Matt to his feet with him.

They were running before Matt could object. Once out from behind cover, it was too late to turn back. They reached the sidewalk in a few long strides. The munching dead didn't notice the movement until John and Matt were already out in the street. John didn't look back, but he heard their moaning call as they took notice of the fresh meat. He tried not to let Matt focus on the mass of dead farther down the street in the hopes they would reach the apartment doors before they found themselves surrounded.

"Get in there."

They reached the open double doors, stepping through smashed glass scattered on the ground. Matt burst through first and was met by the reaching hands of a figure pinned beneath a couch laid across the main stairs. The disfigured face stared back at the boy with a single eye. The bludgeoned, bloodedly mess of his other eye socket stained the blue-grey skin on his cheek. Its back was broken, one leg lying bent over on his side, the other lost somewhere underneath the couch.

A groan gasped from its blacked mouth as Matt leapt backwards into John as he crossed the doorway. John raised his shotgun to fire but thought better of it. He scanned the foyer and found both side doors barricaded. He leaned over the couch, avoiding the dead man's flailing arms.

"We have to go up."

Matt scooted around him, being careful to avoid the outstretched hands, and climbed up and over the couch. John waited until he was safely on the stairs and then adjusted his grip on the shotgun. He held the barrel and bashed in the pinned corpse's head with the butt of the gun. It took two hits to crack the skull, then a third to splatter its brains on the foyer floor. John jumped over the couch and took up the lead. He kept close to the outer wall of the stairwell with hesitant steps. They reached the second floor landing, and he used the drapes strewn on the floor to wipe off the muck from his shotgun.

"How far up do we have to go?" Matt asked.

"Not sure. I think the person we saw was waving from the top floor."

"Can't we use the elevator?"

"Don't be stupid. We don't want to trap ourselves anywhere we can't run away from."

Matt shrugged and then nodded. John eyed the four doors on the second floor landing. The closed doors showed no signs of damage. A long hallway extended away from the stairs with doors running along both sides.

"There could be survivors in all of them," John said.

"You think they'll come out?"

"Not likely, probably scared to death like everyone else."

They started toward the ascending stairs when movement drew their attention back to the hall. A single figure walked toward them, moving slowly. John was on guard as the figure drew closer. He knew they had to run, which was highlighted by several figures rounding the corner at the far end of the hall.

John turned to look for Matt but found the boy already halfway up the next set of stairs. He caught up with him in a few long, climbing strides. By the time they reached the third floor landing, the sound of the dead echoed clearly up the staircase. John took one look at the third floor hall, and the view revealed more trouble.

Several bodies lay in contorted positions on the hallway carpet, each lying in a pool of blood. The largest of these was a man, and by the look of the others, they had been a family. The body of a child lay the furthest from the landing. Two figures crouched over the woman's body on their hands and knees, each taking turns devouring pieces of her innards. In unison, the dead looked up at the new arrivals and started to rise.

"They're everywhere," Matt said.

John grabbed his collar as he headed up the next staircase. "Hold on," he said as he slowed their pace. "We don't want to run into more trouble than we can get away from." He eyed the dead as they got to their feet and started toward the stairs. The sounds of the zombies from the second floor grew louder as the grunts and moans combined throughout the third floor landing. John took one step at a time, eyeing the fourth floor landing over the banister before he reached the top of the stairs. "Come on."

He found Matt was already standing on the stair directly below him. The walking dead reached the bottom and struggled stiffly up after them. John and Matt continued in a slow but steady pace up four more flights. Each floor had its own hall crawling with the dead. Most of them were focused on the apartment doors, no doubt smelling the living flesh hidden somewhere within. John moved on, trying not to attract attention. Once they neared the top floor, he cursed for entering the building in the first place.

"One more," he said between deep breaths.

He could hear Matt panting heavily behind him. The boy fell behind, rounding the landing on the floor below.

"You said that two floors ago," Matt said.

"Just motivation. Would you rather stay a while where you're at and see who comes up behind you?"

Matt didn't complain anymore. He took a deep breath and then hit the stairs. He was running when John reached the top floor landing and nearly slammed into him from behind.

"Hey, watch out," Matt said. "I almost fell back over the—"

Matt lost his words as he noticed John holding up his hands. A look to the right over the banister revealed several people behind a makeshift barricade covering the entire hallway. They were well armed and currently aiming directly at John.

"You injured?"

John could barely see the man who asked. He was dark skinned and spoke with an accent that placed him as an outsider. His stained, buttoned shirt and torn suit coat looked to be fancier than the day-to-day business in town.

"I asked you a question," he said.

John counted at least six others, and there was movement down the hall behind them. "No," he said.

"Put the gun down on the floor and step away from it."

"You've got to be kidding me," John said as his eyes slid back toward Matt and then returned to the barrels pointed in his direction. "I've got a kid here."

Matt took another step up and his head cleared the top of the banister. He smiled and waved. The speaker among the group eyed the boy, and the tightness in his face loosened.

"We need to be sure," he said.

John placed the gun on the ground and stepped away from it. He spun around slowly and let the group inspect him. Matt came up to the landing and stood facing the barricade.

"Walk toward me slowly, keeping your hands up."

John did as he was told and Matt followed closely. They stopped a foot away from the barricade and the speaker lowered his barrel.

"We saw a person in the window waving," John said. "I thought someone needed help."

"Not all of us agree about attracting attention," the man said. He eyed a woman near the end of the barricade. "I'm guessing you have followers?"

John nodded.

"Get your gun and come in."

There was a loud screeching as three of the men forced open the barricade. John could see shopping carts, dressers, and a kitchen table among other things. The speaker stepped into the hall and waited until they were inside before he moved any farther. The barricade closed and the growing sound of the dead echoed up the stairs from a floor below.

"The name's Sean."

John shook his hand. "I'm John and this is Matt."

"Helen Wright."

John turned to find the lone female offering her hand. She was a tall woman with a natural beauty to her face. The strain of the moment was apparent in her eyes, and John couldn't help but think that he'd seen her before.

"Just you and your boy?" she asked.

"He's not my son," John said.

"Come on, I'll get you two some food." She led them off, ignoring the clear aggravation on Sean's face as well as a few hard stares from the other men. "They don't want to share what we have," Helen said when they were out of earshot. "I think Sean is some kind of ex-military. He seems to think we need to be prepared to stay here for a while."

"Won't they need help?" John asked, looking back at the barricade.

Helen shook her head. "We've found as long as you can get far enough away from the dead, they seem to lose track of you."

"They smell us?" Matt asked.

"Not sure really." She stopped and bent down close to Matt's face. She smiled and wiped some dried blood off his cheek. "You're going to be okay."

Matt forced a smile and then looked around her at John. Helen followed the boy's gaze.

"Won't he?" she asked.

John shrugged. "I'm not in the habit of making promises."

Helen started again, this time taking Matt's hand. John studied the doors in the hall and counted a total of twelve on each side. They were nearing the end of the hallway and only the last two doors were open. A few heads poked out from either door and then disappeared back inside.

"We've got a watch set up on the roof," Helen said.

"Watching for what?" John asked.

"Help."

"What kind of help?"

"Any kind we can get."

"Good luck with that." They reached the open doors and stopped. "Not sure we can depend on anything right now."

Helen's eyes narrowed. John saw children over her shoulder; several were on a couch watching television. Their eyes were on him.

"You don't know that," she said.

John shook his head. "You're all going to starve up here."

She quickly turned her attention back to Matt. "Why don't you go in there with the others and they'll get you something to eat." Matt nodded and disappeared into the apartment with the other children. Helen focused on John when Matt was out of sight. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What?"

"Don't you think I'm freaking out? We all have to hold on to something and the children even more so." She reached back and pulled the door until it closed to a crack. "The government will help."

"All I'm saying is that we don't know what's really going on." For a split second, John felt guilty for knowing what started the event. "I don't want to fill anyone's head with a rosy ending, that's all."

"There's got to be some kind of help coming, doesn't there?"

John could see the desperation on her face. He looked back at the end of the hall near the stairs. Sean was backing away from the barricade and the other men were following. "I guess you're right," he said. "Have you tried to reach the outside world and get an update?" What he really wanted to find out was if he could use a phone to get hold of Angela, but he didn't feel it was time to make demands.

"Phone lines are down." She took a deep breath and wiped her bangs from her eyes. "The internet's down. Cell phones won't connect. Hell, we don't even have power in the building."

For the first time, John realized the only light in the hall was coming from skylights in the ceiling and the lone bank of windows along the landing behind the staircase. "What about the TV?"

"Running off a small generator we found in one of the apartments. There's no cable signal either; it's just playing a DVD."

"Not a good use of that," he said. "Radio?"

She shook her head. "The only thing we can pick up is an emergency broadcast that replays over and over again."

He looked up through the skylight directly above him. "It's going to get dark soon."

"There's not much we can do about that," she said. "Come on." She started for the end of the hallway. "I'll take you up to see the watch."

They reached the end of the hall and she motioned toward a ladder. The late afternoon light shone around the edges of a half-open hatch in the ceiling. Helen went up first, pushed open the hatch, and pulled herself the rest of the way up. John followed her, and as he pulled up into the open, a cool wind brushed across his face.

He got up on the roof and stretched his legs. He scanned his surroundings and was surprised by the flat, open surface. He'd expected more fixtures and air conditioning units, but instead, he found a clear view from one side to the other. There was a woman stationed in the far corner, looking out over the side of the building and a man in the corner closest to the hatchway.

"I first saw you and Matt over there," Helen said, motioning toward the woman's corner of the building. "I lost sight of you when you crossed between the buildings. I didn't see you again until you were on top of that small store. By then, I'd already moved back down to the apartments."

"Have you seen other survivors?"

"We've spotted a few, but you're the first to show up." She started toward the edge of the building. "I guess most people want to stay hunkered down where they are."

"What about help?"

"Nothing yet." She reached the edge of the building and looked up at the clouds. "I thought there would be helicopters or something," she said. "You know, like in the movies."

John kept still and eyed the building's edge from several feet away.

"You don't like heights?" she asked.

"Not particularly."

She chuckled and then turned her attention on the streets far below. "I hope help comes soon."

"You could always make a run for it," he said. "All I need is a set of keys and I'm in the first car that can get me home. It wasn't that bad on the streets. The boy and I didn't have much trouble until we got in the building. We got stuck on the roof of that store because we got ourselves cornered."

Helen's cheeks flashed with surprise followed by confusion. "I'm surprised you made it here."

"How so?"

"Maybe you're right about the edge of town, but..." She thought about it and then motioned down at the street below. "Look for yourself."

John approached the edge of the building. He looked down on Main Street and his eyes widened as the hair on the back of his next stood erect. The straggling dead near the hardware store had not painted an accurate picture of the outbreak. He stared down on a flooded street packed with the walking dead, stretching in every direction as far as he could see. He swallowed hard.

"Oh hell."

18

John felt himself nod off and his eyes sprang open. The cloud-covered sky was black as night and the cool breeze atop the roof of the apartment building was now a freezing chill. He remembered volunteering to take a turn at watch but couldn't remember how long he'd been at his post. He scanned the roof and saw the outline of Red Anderson. He'd introduced himself when he took over watch on the opposite corner of the building but hadn't said much since. John checked his watch and discovered it was three in the morning. He rubbed his eyes as pain writhed across his face.

He was surprised he'd been left alone at all. Sean had visited him several times. John guessed he was making sure he wasn't suffering any effects of a hidden bite, but apparently, he'd satisfied his curiosity. The entire group gave John an uneasy feeling. Although Helen wanted to help others, the rest of them appeared to be quite content with keeping the food and relative safety they had to themselves.

Moonlight broke through the clouds and pulled his attention out over the surrounding streets. Most of the windows were shrouded in the blackness, but sporadic candlelight flickered like stars in an endless night sky. John had tried to count them but found the number low enough to be disheartening. He hadn't considered the extent of the outbreak and didn't want to now. The only other light came from the glow of a large fire a few blocks away to the south. The surrounding buildings blocked the flames, but the size of the glow gave a good indication to the extent of the fire. John was glad for the darkness. The loss of electricity blanketed the streets below in black, and although he knew the dead were down there, he didn't have to look at them.

"You, John?"

He snapped his head up to find a portly figure heading in his direction. He'd heard the man climbing out of the roof hatch but wasn't sure if it was his replacement or not.

"Yep," John said.

"Sean said you can sleep in apartment 824."

John nodded and made for the hatch. He climbed down to the hallway and found the cold followed him. The building was little more than a barricade from the wind without the electricity. Several of the apartment doors were open. The glow of candlelight radiated out into the hall. John buried his hands in his pockets and started reading the door numbers.

"You're in there." John looked over to find Helen's head sticking out of a doorway. "Your boy's already in there."

"He's not my boy."

"Sorry."

He found the door cracked open. He pushed the knob and the moonlight revealed a man and woman sleeping on a mattress on the floor on one side of the living room. Two small children lay in between the couple; each looked up at him as the door opened.

"I think you're set up in the master bedroom," Helen said behind him.

"What about food?" he asked.

Helen slid back in her door and disappeared only to reappear a few seconds later with a wrapped sandwich. "It's not much, but it will keep you from starving."

"Thanks."

"Sean says you can stay."

The comment struck John oddly. He hadn't been under the impression that the group was considering throwing him out.

"I got to get home," he said.

"How you going to do that?"

John leaned against the doorframe and looked at her. He wasn't sure why she was so interested in him. "First, I'm going to try and get a few hours of sleep, then I'm going to try and find the safest way to get through town and out toward my house." He turned his back on her. "And I'm going to hope like hell my family is still safe and waiting for me." Even when he said it, the words sounded hollow. He couldn't feel the words or the emotion that was supposed to be behind them, but it felt like the right thing to say.

The room was dark and instantly John felt his awareness heighten. He told himself he was safe, but he couldn't figure out how to let his guard down. Someone lying in the living room shifted and the small sound echoed in his mind. The drapes were pulled tight, but a small sliver of light broke through the material where it met the floor. John gave his eyes a moment to adjust and slowly crept in the direction of the hallway.

The apartment was small; he counted three doors in the narrow hall. He guessed two were bedrooms and the lone door at the end was a small bathroom. Both bedroom doors were open and neither contained a full bed. The first room had a mattress on the floor and the couple lying on it looked to be holding one another tightly. John walked past without making much noise and found Matt waiting for him in the second room.

"Where you been?" Matt asked.

"Shhh."

"Where you been?"

John sat down on the edge of the bed and realized it was only a box spring.

"Not too comfortable," Matt said, guessing his discovery.

John slid his boots off and laid the shotgun down on the floor. He unwrapped the sandwich and gave it a smell. He took a bite, hoping the boy would let him go to sleep without much chatter. "You going to let me sleep?"

Matt clammed up, leaned back on the bed, and rolled away from John. There was a series of noises coming from the front room of the apartment. John listened for a moment and shut the bedroom door.

"Don't wake me," he said and then leaned back and fell into a nightmare-plagued slumber.

♦

The light from the window broke away from the crack beneath the heavy drapes, and John ignored it as long as he could before bothering to sit up. The apartment was quiet and for a moment, he forgot where he was. He rubbed his hands over his face and stretched. His shoulders popped as he reached for the sky, and he thought about lying back down.

His sleep was anything but peaceful. Alex had gotten out, John remembered as much of his nightmare as he could. The boy had eaten his mother and was somewhere on the loose. John had searched for him, but a pack of the dead overran him. He knew he had to get home soon. The nightmare was a representation of his fears. Alex had nothing to eat and John didn't know what Angela was capable of doing. The trick, he knew, was figuring out how to get home without becoming someone's lunch.

He got to his feet and found his gun. The apartment was empty. He rummaged through the kitchen, but the cupboards were bare. There was something in the fridge, inside a small piece of Tupperware, but the fuzzy white surface warned him against opening it. He stepped out of the apartment and surveyed the scene. The main hall of the floor was alive with movement. Two men, including his watch replacement from the night before, were making their way toward the barricade. At the other end of the hall, a few kids kicked a ball back and forth.

"Thought you might need some extra sleep; you looked pretty wretched this morning."

John recognized Helen's voice and turned to find her stepping out of an apartment a few doors away.

"What time is it?"

Helen checked her watch. "3:45."

"PM?"

She laughed. "You needed it. Don't worry; you'll have a chance to pay the others back. I'm sure Sean will get you on a watch rotation."

"You sure have settled into a routine pretty quick," he said. "This all started a few days ago. Not sure if it represents the end of the world or anything."

Her smile faded. "It's what we got right now."

John wasn't sure if she'd got his point, but he didn't care to push it. His mind was made up. "I won't be able to pay that sleep back." He started toward the barricade.

"You still plan on leaving?"

"Nothing's changed."

Sean watched John approach the staircase with an obvious untrusting eye.

"I appreciate the group taking me in," John said, deciding a gracious approach would probably work best. "But I need to get home to my family."

"You can do whatever you like," Sean said and then turned his back on John and focused his attention on shifting the barricade. "No one's holding you here."

"Well—"

"I wouldn't advise going down that way," Sean said, cutting him off as he motioned toward the stairs. "Your arrival drew them in. They made some awful racket down there."

"Are you saying I can't get down the stairs?"

Sean eyed the shotgun. "How many rounds you got left in that?"

"Three."

"I wouldn't put money on it."

John shrugged. "You got any other ideas?"

"Maybe." He started walking back down the hall. "Come with me."

They reached the end of the hall without talking. John assumed Sean would explain himself when he felt he needed to. They passed the last open apartments, and Matt joined them after ignoring a shooing from John. Sean headed up to the roof and John and Matt followed.

"Right there." John followed Sean's index finger to a narrow handrail on the edge of the roof. "Emergency fire escape."

John walked over to investigate and heard the tapping of Matt's shoes behind him. The view over the side was enough to force him to pull his head back for a second. He wouldn't say he was afraid of heights, but he definitely avoided them if he could. A few deep breaths later and he poked his head back out over the side. The escape was composed of a series of ladders and thin landings coinciding with every floor. The rusty railing appeared never to have been used. The one positive note was the small number of dead on the narrow street between the apartment building and the bank across the street.

"It'll be your best bet," Sean said.

John looked back at him and nodded. He wasn't sure if the man was honestly trying to help him or trying to get rid of him as fast as he could. Helen's head popped up from the opening in the hall below as he tried to calculate his next move.

"You're serious then?" she asked.

"I told you I need to get home," he said. "My wife's probably going crazy right now."

She pointed to Matt. "What about him?"

John stared at the boy. He knew he'd have to make that decision eventually but tried to put it off until now. There was no doubt Alex would need to feed, and Matt would suffice. The boy looked up at John and smiled, his eyes filling with a desire to go. John shook his head and got down on a knee as Matt's smile faded.

"You'll be safer here," John said. "This is closer to home for you and if..." He clenched his teeth. "When help arrives, they'll get you back to your family."

Matt didn't say anything. He nodded and stared at the ground.

"Head east first," Sean said. "Less dead in that area, so you've got a better chance."

"I don't suppose you could spare some food?" John asked.

Sean hesitated and then walked over to a corner roof post and asked the man on watch for his lunch bag. "Here." He tossed the bag, and John caught it. "You better get going. You don't want to be out in the open when the sun goes down."

John pulled two sandwiches from the bag, stuffed them in his pockets, grabbed the railing, and looked back at Matt. He smiled at the boy and started over the side. Helen hesitated and then approached the edge of the building.

"Here take these," she said, holding out a set of keys. "It's my old camper truck. Only problem is," she looked toward the far corner of the building, "it's about four blocks south of here."

"On Main Street?" John asked.

"Sorry."

"What does it look like?"

"Trust me," she said. "You can't miss it. Look for the old beat up truck with a camper on the back."

John nodded, slid the keys in his pocket, and continued climbing. He'd lost sight of the rooftop when he heard her parting words.

"Good luck."

He adjusted his grip on the shotgun and dropped down on the first landing. The metal grate gave a worrisome sound when it took his full weight, and for a second, he wondered if the entire thing might collapse. He looked down at the street and saw he had a long way to go. The height was enough to force him to turn back toward the wall.

"Nice bricks," he said to himself.

The descent continued for much longer than he hoped. He was in a hurry to reach the street, but to his surprise, his so-so fear of heights reemerged with a vengeance. He was sweating by the time he reached the landing closest to the ground. He figured he could drop to the sidewalk without hurting himself and quickly discovered he would have to do just that. He studied the hole in the landing where the last ladder should have been attached and found the metal forcibly removed.

"Would have been nice to know," he said, yelling.

John studied the street as far as he could see to the west and east. The road was noticeably void of any undead. It appeared something on Main Street had drawn their attention, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know why they gathered in such a small space. He needed a vehicle to get home and the keys in his pocket were his only promising lead.

The impact of the drop from the fire escape was worse than he expected. The distance didn't appear far while standing on the bottom platform, but the pain in his legs and back told him otherwise. John managed to keep a grip on his shotgun, and to his credit, he yelped only once. He got to his feet and scanned the street for any signs of movement but found none. He prepared himself to move east with a plan to get as far away from Main Street as he could and then cover the four blocks south. He hoped he could come back west and reach Helen's camper truck without much of a run in with the undead mass. He was set to move out, but a muffled scream called his attention to the chaos in the west.

"Not your problem," he told himself. He wanted to get away as fast as he could but found himself crossing the street to get a better look. "Not your problem," he said with less force.

John worked his way west between two cars, checking each for keys along the way. Hiding along the sidewalk, he reached the furthest point he could go without stepping out into the open. The sound of the dead was everywhere and part of him fought to keep from even looking at the way ahead. Another muffled scream gave him the strength to raise his eyes over the hood of a car for a look.

In an instant, the crowded streets made sense. A long row of vehicles lined the far side of Main Street. A mass of walking dead pushed back and forth in a sea of bodies that numbered in the hundreds. They were focused on two vehicles parked close to one another, each containing a woman trapped and terrified.

John couldn't make out much about either of the women, but he guessed they'd found the cars unlocked or they would still be standing outside. They no doubt climbed in overcome, only to realize their mistake when it was too late. He watched as long as he could but knew there was nothing he could do for them. Even if there was something he could do, he wasn't sure he would bother taking the risk. He turned to leave, but something he didn't expect to see caused him to freeze.

"Is that a cop?"

He heard himself ask the question but wasn't sure he believed his eyes. The car was several blocks away moving fast in his direction. The color of the vehicle was difficult to make out, but the flashing red and blue lights on its roof were a clear giveaway. The vehicle neared, swerving twice to plow over figures in the road.

John stepped out into the street, waving his hands above his head. He placed the shotgun on the ground but kept one foot on top of it. The vehicle approached, and he confirmed it was indeed a police car. The lights flashed on and off as it closed, never slowing. It wasn't until the vehicle was a block away that John's concern forced him to look back in the direction of Main Street.

Apparently, the oncoming vehicle, not to mention John's waving, drew a lot of attention. To his horror, a large mass of the undead had broken away from the women trapped in the cars and were now heading in his direction. John turned back to the police car and discovered it barreling toward him. The lights flashed and the driver swerved again, but it didn't slow down. The vehicle sped up and John heard the engine roar as the driver hit the gas. He grabbed his gun as he tried to dive out of the way, but the car was right on top of him.

19

John dove to avoid the police car's grill from smashing into his midsection. He hit the street pavement and rolled, managing to grab his gun. His elbows ground across the cement and scraped a thin layer of skin off as they went. Blood ran down his arms as he got back on his feet. The police car came to a sudden, screeching halt. Long uneven lines of the dead were on the move, making their way down from Main Street. Their disfigured walking corpses covered the street from one side to the other, leaving John no possible escape except for the east end. He forgot all about the trapped women in the cars and turned to run.

The moment he took his eyes off the police car, he heard the power-breaking screech of the tires. The car slammed into reverse and rushed past him, stopping a few car lengths away in the middle of the road. John got his first good look at the driver. The wide brim of the officer's Mounty-styled hat was frayed in several places. John thought the mirrored glasses were cliché, but the toothpick the officer rolled between his teeth was something straight out of a movie. The officer stared at John for a time, revving his engine. John risked a glance back at the dead, trying to calculate how long he could participate in the stare down. Finally, the driver's side window rolled down and the officer stuck his head out.

"You need a ride, boy?"

John didn't like the tone of his question, but he wasn't sure he could turn down the offer. From the looks of it, there was shifting movement at the next intersection. If the dead got around him, John knew three rounds weren't likely to get him home. The officer rolled up his window and continued to rev the engine. John swore, ran around the car, opened the door, and jumped in.

"Put your seatbelt on, boy," the officer said as he slid the car into drive. "It's the law."

The car lurched forward before John could grab his seatbelt. He was thrown back against the seat as the officer drove into the first row of figures as if he was trying to hit as many as he could. He gave a loud holler as the first body smacked against the hood and then rolled up and over the car. John managed to get his buckle fastened as the officer turned onto Main Street.

"Right there," John said, pointing at the women in the two parked cars. "They're trapped right..." he fell silent as the officer drove past without so much as a glance.

"Shut up," he said.

The officer slammed into a large group of the dead, and the car came to an abrupt stop. John shot forward and felt the wind rush from his lungs. A second later, his head jerked back as the car went in reverse. The officer swerved the vehicle to the left, let out an excited cry, and drove up on the sidewalk. It was at that moment that John's concern for the officer and his intent came to a head.

Officer Green, as the nametag above his right shirt pocket identified him, was a particularly slim man. The only problem with the standard issue blue, button-down shirt was that it no longer appeared to fit. In fact, two of the buttons near his stomach were missing, showing through to a dirty t-shirt underneath. On closer inspection, John noted Officer Green was not wearing shoes and the jeans he had on were stained with blood.

"What are you looking at?"

John's eyes sprang up to find the officer's mirrored glasses peering over at him.

"You been hurt?" John heard himself ask. He adjusted his grip on his shotgun and tried to determine if he could get the barrel turned toward the driver's seat if needed.

"Why you asking?" Officer Green asked. He reached between his legs with his free hand and pulled out a .45. "You worried about me?"

John didn't answer. He focused on the road, trying to keep Officer Green in his peripherals. It was clear to him that Officer Green was not a cop. The wounds on the officer's arms, which looked like bite marks, concerned John most. "I'm trying to get to my truck," he said. "It should be up here somewhere. It has a camper on the back."

"I don't think so," Officer Green said.

John was certain he was cursed. He saw the camper first, its beat-up cover more rust than anything else. There was faded green paint on the truck, and it wasn't much to look at. He felt the keys press against his thigh from inside his pocket. The side street was crawling with the dead, but the sidewalk closest to the truck was clear.

"I can get out here."

"Are you deaf?" Officer Green asked. "You'll get out when I say you can get out." His head snapped toward the window and jerked back toward John awkwardly. He smiled, revealing a row of teeth covered in grit and blood. He aimed his pistol at John and closed his lips over his teeth. "Zombie meat doesn't taste so good," he said. "I've tried it."

"You were bitten," John said.

"Sure was, but I managed to keep the old heart beating." He thumped his chest with his fist. "I reckon I'm too damn strong to be taken down like these morons."

"You're going to turn into one of those morons."

Officer Green scowled like a hungry animal. "The hell you say." He popped John in the mouth with the pistol.

John's vision blurred as the heat and pain of the strike filled his face. He tried to react, but another hit sent him into unconsciousness.

♦

John blinked twice and then tried to cover his eyes from the last of the sunlight. He discovered that his hands would not participate and, in fact, he could not move his legs either. His hands were bound and the fingers on his left hand numb. He opened his eyes and realized he was lying on the ground between the police car and the exterior of a building.

"Look who woke up." John heard the voice, but it took him a second to remember whom it belonged to. Officer Green leaned his face down close. "You still worried about me?"

"Where the hell am I?" John asked.

"I don't think you're in any particular position to ask questions." Officer Green stepped over John and reached into the police car through the driver's side window. He pulled out a boot knife and then scanned the area beyond the car. "You were right about one thing," He looked back at John. "I'm changing."

John looked toward his feet and saw buildings in the distance. They were somewhere in town, but it was impossible to tell where. There were several walking dead beyond the car, all moving in their direction.

"Thing is, it doesn't bother me," Officer Green said and then raised his .45 and fired. "I don't mind so much." He fired again. "When the world goes to crap, I'll be the one left standing."

"What the hell are you talking about?" John asked. "You're infected and it's only a matter of time before you end up like them." He tried to roll over and get his hands underneath his butt. Officer Green kicked him in the ribs; he curled up into a ball as the pain in his side nearly made him throw up.

"You don't know what you're talking about, boy. I'm going to be the first of a new breed." He coughed and then hunched over as he gagged. After a few violent spasms, he spat out a wad of blood and brown puss.

John kept his knees close to his chest as he tried to protect his side from another kick. "What are you going to do with me?"

Officer Green wiped the blood off his lips with his shirtsleeve and then got down on a knee near John's face. "That's easy; I'm going to eat you."

"What the hell?" John pulled himself up onto his knees, pushing off the ground with his hands. "I thought you weren't one of them?"

"I'm not," Officer Green said and then shot an approaching walking corpse in the face. "They're mindless creatures. Me, I know what I'm doing. Now get back down on the ground or I'll slit your throat like a pig."

He pushed John over with the heel of his foot before he had a chance to comply. John landed on his back with his hands firmly stuck behind him. Officer Green stood over him, and John made a quick decision for one last stand.

"I like it rare," Officer Green said as he slid the .45 in his hip holster and pulled a knife from his belt.

John brought his knees up as hard as he could manage. The move caught Officer Green off guard, smacking him square in the groin. He leaned forward as his breath rushed out of him from the impact. John lifted his back off the ground and caught Officer Green on the nose with a head butt. He fell back as John rolled over onto his side and then up on his knees.

John tugged at the bindings on his wrist and felt them come loose. Officer Green rolled over on his back and moaned as blood ran down his face from his nose. He reached for his pistol and John kneed him in the gut, nearly losing his balance in the process. Officer Green rolled over several times until he slammed into the side of the building. His .45 fell out of the holster and lay in the grass midway between the building and the police car.

A quick scan told John they were a few blocks from Main Street and south of the apartment building where he'd left Matt. He pulled his hands apart as hard as he could, but the bindings wouldn't give. Officer Green struggled to move as blood gushed down his face. There was movement on the street in both directions, but John didn't need to look to know what was coming. He wanted to get free, kill Officer Green if he could, and then take the police car for himself. The first step in his newfound plan came to fruition when the bindings on his wrists gave way and his hands were free. He reached for the .45 as Officer Green rolled toward it.

Their hands reached the gun at the same time. John smashed the heel of his boot on Officer Green's forearm. Officer Green screamed in pain as the bones in his arm cracked under the pressure. He grabbed John's boot with his free hand and pulled with his remaining strength. John lost his balance as soon as his knee buckled, and the result left both men lying on the ground wrestling over control of the gun. The one good arm of Officer Green was no match for John and the upper hand was lost. John pulled the gun away and staggered to get to his feet.

In both directions, the dead were on the move, all heading toward John. Several undead were close, having pulled themselves out of nearby cars and buildings. In a panic, John fired six rounds, only two finding their mark. He gnashed his teeth when he pulled the trigger and the gun stopped firing.

"Stupid ass," Officer Green said.

John reached in the window of the police car and felt for the keys. He found an empty slot and reached toward the passenger side, grabbing his shotgun. He aimed it first at Officer Green, which managed to wipe the smile off his face, but John had to focus on more immediate threats. The dead had found them and they were closing in from all sides.

Two figures walked around the trunk of the police car and staggered toward John. Both walking corpses wore the blood soaked remains of suits. One was split open at the stomach, his guts hanging out like shirttails bouncing against his legs as he walked. The other was missing his lower jaw. His swollen tongue dangled down below the torn skin, tapping against his neck.

"Give me the damn keys," John demanded.

Officer Green was already up on his knees, cradling his arm with his good hand. "Go to hell. You broke my arm."

John aimed his shotgun, zeroing in on the jawless corpse. He pulled the trigger and the blast blew its head clean off. The body dropped to the ground, and John turned his aim on the disemboweled. Another trigger pull and the dead ceased to move. "I've got one round left," he said, turning to Officer Green as he got to his feet. "Either you give me the keys or I'll blow your head off and take them."

"You're going to use your last round on me?" he asked with a smile.

"If I have to."

"I don't believe you, boy," he said. "I don't think you'll waste your last shot on a car that doesn't run." He took two long strides toward John.

"Don't give me that crap." John took a glance to his left and right; it was obvious they would have the dead on top of them in seconds. "We're both going to die. Just get in the car."

Officer Green pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them on the ground. "You think I pulled up on the side of the road in the middle of all this because I thought it had a nice view?"

"You're serious?"

"I would have taken you to a cozy out of the way spot and hmm."

John shivered. He considered shooting Officer Green anyway, but now he was out of time. He felt the impression of the keys in his front pocket and knew Helen's camper truck was only a few blocks away. He brought his shotgun up with both hands and smacked Officer Green in the nose with the butt. Blood splattered from the impact, and he fell to the ground. John jumped up on the hood of the police car and surveyed the land. The dead were all around them, the largest crowd coming from the west.

"The gunfire draws them in," Officer Green explained.

John turned back to find him smiling. "You son of a bitch."

The dead moved around the back of the police car and focused in on Officer Green. John looked down at him unapologetically. He leapt onto the road and ran, reaching the sidewalk before the screaming started. The dead climbed onto Officer Green like a swarm of ants. His blood-curdling cries echoed off the cold exterior walls of the surrounding buildings.

John kept moving. The streets were dotted with the dead, but there was plenty of open ground to move. He had the shotgun at the ready but knew full well that he didn't want to use it. He wanted to save his last round until there were no other options.

He approached Main Street and the echoes changed. The murmuring groans of the dead increased and his recollection of the street ahead told him it would be infested. He slowed his pace as he approached, keeping one eye on the mass of dead slowly trailing after him. The street was alive with movement to the east. People were running faster than the dead were. John guessed someone else had attempted to save the women trapped in the cars, but he couldn't be sure. He thought perhaps the distraction would pull most of the dead in that direction, but as he found the location of Helen's camper truck, his half-hearted enthusiasm lost steam. The dead lumbered around the truck, most focused on the closed glass doors of the adjacent grocery store. John could see movement inside the store as someone neared the glass, then backed away as the dead closed in and tried to enter.

To reach the truck, he would have to cover about a hundred yards. The walking corpses coming up from the rear gave him no more time to plan. If he was going to go, he would have to do it now. John dug into his pocket and pulled out the keys. He held them tight in his palm, took one last breath, and dared himself to go.

20

The sky was darkening as a billowy sheet of clouds rolled in from the south. It was late afternoon and the town would soon be cloaked in darkness. The warmth of the day was gone, replaced by an unseasonably cold wind. The streets would be unusable once night set in and anyone caught outside left to running blindly for their lives.

John's plan was holding up. The largest mass of the dead was farther up Main Street, and those closest to Helen's camper truck were focused on the people trapped in the grocery store next to it. His lungs burned as he pushed himself to the edge of his endurance. The distance between his starting point and the camper truck was wider than he'd guessed. He could hear the sound of the walking dead following him from the police car and the flesh sandwich that used to be Officer Green. He would soon be surrounded and if he couldn't get to the truck, he would need a Plan B.

The need for a backup plan came when he was within a stone's throw of the truck. His momentum took him several feet forward, even as his mind screamed at him to turn around. He wasn't sure what they were until they started coming toward him. They weren't dogs anymore nor did they appear to be among the dead. The stains of blood around their mouths were a clear indicator of what they were looking for, and the bite marks along the sides of their body's revealed the damage they'd taken.

John turned in a loose semi-circle, stuffed the keys back in his pocket, and headed west on Main Street. The dead coming off the road behind him were gaining ground, but at the moment, they were the least of his problems. The dogs were barking and were closing in. He'd seen three of them walk out from behind the other side of the truck but couldn't be sure if there were any more.

It didn't take long to realize he wasn't going to be able to run away. There was movement up ahead and he knew if he was going to save himself, he would have to do it quickly. The first thing that caught his eye was a blinking sign above a storefront along the near side of the street. He ran to the door and tried the knob and then pounded on the door with his fist when the knob wouldn't turn. He heard sounds from inside, but the door did not give way. The fast-approaching dogs left him with a single choice.

John jumped straight up and grabbed the pole holding the store's namesake. He swung back and forth building momentum, but the first of the dogs reached him before he got the thrust he needed. It leapt up with its mouth open and teeth exposed. John's swing brought him backward and the two collided as his heel caught the animal on the side of the head. The dog yelped and fell as John took one last swing, throwing his legs up on the overhang above the door.

The dogs nipped at his back as they stood under him, jumping one after another. John struggled with his grip. His muscles were in no shape to hold his weight, stretched out between the overhang and the sign. He arched his back as he felt one of the dogs graze his shirt. His arms shook and he knew it was now or never.

There was a moment when he thought he was going to let go, but he summoned up the remainder of his strength and pushed against the sign. He got up on his heels, arched his body, then let go of the signpost with one hand and stretched out for the drain. He balanced himself with his feet firmly planted atop the overhang and his hands planted on the signpost and the drain. He pushed off once more and grabbed the drain with both hands.

John stood on top of the overhang looking down at the dogs. The close-up view was a terrible sight. Sores covered their bodies, and he wondered if that was what Officer Green looked like underneath his clothes. Their barks were deep and unnatural and their breaths labored. John turned his concern toward the figures on Main Street. The dead following him from the police car were still headed his way, and now there was a new set of figures approaching from the opposite direction. He would be stuck if he didn't act soon. He focused on the roof of the two-story building. The steep climb would be a difficult one and John couldn't be sure he would find safety on the other side.

He knew he couldn't make a run for it. The dogs would catch him for sure. He'd dropped his shotgun when he jumped for the pole and as he watched the dogs step over it on the sidewalk, he wasn't sure if the one round left inside was worth the trouble. The dead drew nearer, and in a few moments, he'd be trapped. He felt this was the end; all he could do was wait and watch. His mind flashed with visions of Angela and Alex as he looked down at the dogs growling up at him.

"Man's best friend, my ass."

He watched them watching him, their bloated purple tongues hanging out of their mouths as they gasped for breath. He hoped they might fall over dead at any moment. His wish was not granted, but as he watched, something else happened that he hadn't considered. The dogs' attention shifted between him and the approaching dead. It hit John as the dogs whimpered.

"You're not dead yet," he said. "You're just as afraid of them as I am."

He thought of Officer Green again. He was surely infected and that had caused his madness, but he was still living. Like John, Officer Green had been a target of the dead, and John was beginning to understand that the dogs were no different. He called down as the dogs' heads turned between him and the undead.

"What are you going to do, Fido? They'll be on top of you soon."

It didn't take long before the nervous canines' attention shifted. John readied himself, crouching down close to the top of the overhang. It was when the dead were within a car's length away that the dogs' fear overtook them and they sprinted off the way they'd come. John took the moment to move, jumping down to the sidewalk. He tried to roll out of the impact but slipped and took most of the force with his shoulder.

He grabbed the shotgun off the ground as fast as he could and jumped up on a car parked a few feet away. Mobs of the dead were close, already at the front door to the store. A sea of rotting corpses focused on him. The way behind him offered a better chance at escape. He leapt off the trunk of the car onto the hood of a truck parked behind it. The moans of the dead echoed off the storefronts as they reached for him. There were several around the truck and more closing from all sides. He hopped up on the top of the cab and then into the truck's bed. The dead moved like starving children, arms stretched out with little sense of organization.

John saw an opening and took it. He jumped over a pair of waving arms and hit hard on the sidewalk but stayed on his feet. He headed full speed into a narrow alley between two small businesses. The alley came to an abrupt end at the rear of the buildings at a wider walkway heading east and west. John had his heart set on the camper, and as he started to his right, there was a small glimmer of hope that he might reach it. He jogged until the walkway ended, then leaned against the wall and peeked out.

There was a large parking lot between him and the grocery store. He could see the camper truck and thankfully nothing else around it. Sounds of the dead trying to get into the grocery store were clear, but the street and the opposite sidewalk appeared safe. He peered back in the direction he'd come and saw several figures crowding the walkway and moving in his direction.

"They don't give up."

He surveyed the parking lot for a way across that would provide the most cover. There were enough cars in the lot to keep him hidden until the last fifty feet. Movement in two vehicles caught his eye, but he tried not to lose focus. There were dead inside, that was easy to see. One car contained a severely overweight woman. Her skin was purple and black, her cheeks stained with dried blood. She pawed at the front windshield trying to reach out for John, but she was incapable of opening the door from the inside. The second vehicle was a truck. A man and woman crawled over one another trying to get out. The long gashes on their faces gave a clear indication of their fate.

John made his first move, dashing out between two cars. He crouched down near the front wheel and listened. He'd gotten so used to the sounds of the dead that he forgot it was a clear sign of their approach. He heard the echoes of those drawing near from the way he'd come, but all else was quiet.

He made two more moves and stopped again. The muffled howls of the overweight woman banging against her door were close. She'd seen him running and was now trying to get into the backseat of her car to get closer. John tried to ignore her, but her face pressed against the driver's side window made it difficult.

He slid his eyes along the bumper of an old beat-up VW bug and peered out at the street. He swore under his breath as a dog stepped into view on the sidewalk. It looked over the first row of parked cars, its tail wagging nervously. John waited as long as he could and then decided to go back the way he came and work around to the rear of the parking lot. Once he reached his starting point, two very important problems became obvious. First, the dead that followed him behind the businesses were dangerously close, and second, all of the ducking and crawling had worn him out. He didn't know if he'd have the strength to run if his plan didn't work.

He was midway around the back of the lot when he heard the distinct sound of a car window breaking. He stood up far enough to see over the cars and found the noisemakers almost immediately. The two lovebirds trapped inside the truck near the center of the lot had succeeded in finding an escape. Apparently, the sight of John was too much to keep them contained. The situation quickly deteriorated as the dog at the front of the lot started toward the cars.

"What next?"

It didn't take long for John to get his answer. He heard their moans first and knew before he looked that the shambling group of the dead who'd followed him down the walkway behind the businesses were now at the parking lot's edge. John held still, keeping his focus on the dog. In enough open space, he figured he could outrun the dead, but recent experience told him he couldn't say the same for man's best friend.

John made a run for it when he thought the dog was distracted, but the immediate barking told him he hadn't been fast enough. He stepped out into the row between the cars and found the canine running directly at him. The speed of the animal was terrifying. It fixed on John as if he were the last meal on earth. John knew at once that he would have to make a stand. He brought his shotgun up to fire and took aim. It wasn't until the dog was a car's length away that he changed his mind.

He grabbed the shotgun barrel and swung as the dog leapt at him. The butt of the weapon hit the dog with such force that its neck snapped. The animal's momentum carried it forward, but the angle threw off the impact. The dog slammed into a car parked at John's side and fell onto the pavement motionless.

"I'm guessing you won't be quiet for long."

John suspected the full brunt of the infection would take hold now that the dog was dead, but he wasn't going to stay around long enough to find out. The lovebirds had crawled out the broken window of the truck and gotten to their feet. The rest of the undead were working their way across the parking lot in between the cars. There was no way of knowing if the other dogs were waiting near the entrance to the grocery store, but John had little hope of getting home any other way. If he was going to see his wife and son again, it would be from the front seat of Helen's camper truck. He adjusted his hold on the shotgun and started forward. It wasn't until he reached the front of the grocery store that the mystery of the remaining dogs became clear.

He saw them from the corner of his eye but didn't need a double take to know the dogs were coming. There were more in the pack than the original three. They started barking the moment John came into view. The noise also attracted the attention of the walking dead who'd been preoccupied with the survivors stuck inside the grocery store.

To John's surprise, he made it around to the driver's side door without incident; however, a problem arose when he tried to get the keys out of his pocket. He fumbled for a precious few seconds when the sound of the dogs coming around the front end of the truck forced him to move again. Once he managed to get the keys out, he was near the rear of the truck and the dogs were gaining on him. The dead were closing in on one side and the dogs were coming around the other side.

John climbed up the ladder hanging off the back of the camper. He reached the top as the first dog rounded the rear of the truck. Apparently, their need to feed had outgrown their fear of the walking dead. John surveyed his surroundings as the dogs gathered and began leaping up at him.

The parking lot was crawling with the dead, all headed in his direction. He figured by the time the dogs were frightened enough to run away, he'd be surrounded. He had the shotgun in one hand and the truck keys in the other, trying to come up with a plan. His concentration was broken as two of the dogs came into view in the front of the truck. They eyed him, growled, and then in unison, crouched and jumped up onto the hood. They barked as they gauged the distance between the hood and the top of the cab.

"Oh crap."

John didn't have time to plan. He reacted out of fear as the dogs jumped up and over the cab and onto the roof of the camper. John leapt as the dog's paws touched down, coasting over their outstretched snapping jaws. The second his boots slammed onto the hood, he jumped again and landed on the road.

John smacked his leg on the pavement, making a bloody mess of his knee. He managed to get up to his feet and run for the door as he screamed in pain. The dead closed in from all sides and the dogs ran for him as he groped the keys, got the door open, and leaped in at the last possible moment. He slammed the door as a dog dove past the window.

The dead pressed against the glass clawing at him, trying to get in. John put the key in the ignition and closed his eyes. He turned the key and the engine came to life. He slammed on the gas and plowed into several bodies in the way. One figure torn in two and splattered blood across the hood.

John trembled with fear as his heart pounded in his chest. He held the gas down and roared up Main Street watching the growing mass of dead in the mirror. The road ahead was littered with them, but for the first time in a while, he felt safe. Night crept across the sky, and he refocused on his wife and son, not knowing if they would still be home when he finally returned.

21

The old camper truck pulled off the highway and onto a familiar dirt road. John wasn't sure if his hands were shaking from the truck's beat-up shocks or the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He was five miles from home, and he knew the road like the back of his hand. His eyes burned and his face ached as he tried to gather himself.

The bloodstain on his leg reminded him of how bad it was going to hurt when he tried to walk on it again. He didn't know if the sudden lack of pain was a good sign or a bad one. He kept focused on Angela and Alex. They'd been alone for over a day, and he was terrified at what might have happened. If someone showed up at the house to check for infected, Angela wouldn't be able to do anything about it. The thought encouraged him to step on the gas.

In the darkness, he sped down the road leaving a veil of dust behind. The moon was full in the sky and lit the surrounding fields for a mile in every direction. John saw dots of light in the distance and focused his attention. He neared and saw the outline of the Davis house and the long driveway leading to the front door. They'd known the Davis family for years, but they only spoke in passing. There were two Davis boys around Alex's age. They all went to the same school but didn't spend much time together outside of the long bus ride into town. John didn't see any movement from the house as he passed, and he guessed the worst.

He would have to get Angela and Alex as far away from the affected area as possible. An idea had come to him on the drive home, and he was refining it as best he could. There was an old hunting trail about a quarter mile up from his driveway. He'd followed it once a few years back looking for fertile hunting ground. Several beers later and no deer in sight, he realized he'd driven over an hour north of the house. John was willing to bet the road would take him right up to the Kansas, Nebraska border without ever crossing a major road.

The thought of getting away caused him to go faster, pushing the old camper truck to its limit. The endless fields blurred by on either side of the truck as the moonlight highlighted distant trees. It was under the moon's light that two silhouetted figures drew John's focus from the road. Erratic movements traveling west across the field caused him to slow down and turn off his headlights. He brought the truck to a stop and stepped out onto the dirt road. There were people in the field, but it was impossible to tell what they were doing.

He pulled the shotgun from the front seat and put the keys in his pocket. He looked up the road and watched the darkness for signs of oncoming light but found none. Satisfied, he slowly made his way across the field. He gauged the figures' pace and angled to meet them as directly in line with the truck as he could manage. He neared the pair and slowed his pace.

There was something wrong about the shadows, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Something connected the two figures together that he couldn't make out. They stopped, apparently waiting for him and he heard them for the first time. A raspy moan started low and rose as the figures held still. The one out front sporadically reached out at the open space in front of it. John knew the sounds of the walking dead but could not understand why it walked away from him. He kept silent until he was close, watching the figures under the moonlight as the one in the back shifted uncomfortably. Holding on to something long somehow connected it to the figure in front. It took only a few seconds of silence for the figure to get impatient enough to speak.

"What do you want?"

John nearly fell over as the sudden wave of sound rang in his ears. He hadn't expected the outburst and, much more, hadn't expected to recognize it.

"Angela?"

"John?"

He ran toward her and as he did, the moonlight revealed the figures to be his wife and son. What he could not figure out in the darkness turned out to be an elaborate leash. Angela held on to one end of a mop stick, the other end secured around Alex's neck with a rope. The boy tried to reach back for John as he approached, but the contraption held him in place. John embraced his wife, but as he did, the wind turned. The smell of the dead engulfed him, and he looked at his son's decomposing face and cringed. Alex reached for his father, his head held tight in place by the rope around his neck.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked.

Angela punched him in the side. "Where the hell have you been? There's something wrong with him. He needs to eat and you left us all alone."

"What about the last meal? That was only a few days ago."

"I don't know." She adjusted her grip on the pole. "He needs to eat. Something's happening and he has to have more."

John looked into her eyes and saw wildness.

"Where are you going?"

She looked to the west, and he followed her gaze to the dots of light on the only object standing out in the dark. He looked back at her and knew at once.

"The Davis house?"

"Your son has to eat, John," she said.

John felt defeated. He'd spent so much energy trying to reach his family that he lacked the will to go on now that he'd found them. He looked at his son's withering body and then sat down on the ground and stared up at the moon. He rested the butt of the shotgun on the dirt and laid his head against the barrel.

"What are you doing?" Angela asked. "I can't do this on my own. Don't be weak now when we need you most."

John didn't respond. He watched Alex with dying eyes. His heart sank as once again the reality of their situation landed square on his shoulders.

"Get your ass up," she said.

John came to his feet and started walking back toward the road.

"Come on," he said.

"I asked you what you were doing."

"What do you want me to do?"

Alex lunged toward his father. His gnarled fingers nearly grabbed John's shirt. Angela didn't stop cursing until they were close enough to the road to see the camper truck.

"We'll put him in the back," he said.

He walked around the truck and opened the camper door. Angela struggled to force Alex to move. He thrashed against the pole and it took a good shove from John's foot to get the boy in the back of the truck. Angela forced him to the front of the camper and John shut the door. The end of the mop pole stuck out a small window in the back door, keeping Alex from turning around.

"Where did you get this from?" Angela asked.

"Oh, me, I'm fine," John said. "I've only been gone for a few days, but thanks for worrying about me."

"Oh, baby." Angela put her hands on his waist. "You know I missed you. I knew you'd come back for us." She kissed him. "We never doubted you for a second." She kissed him again and disappeared around the other side of the truck.

John heard the passenger door open and then slam shut. He shook his head and went around to the driver's side. A minute later, the truck was on the road and driving back in the direction he'd come. He kept the headlights off as they neared the Davis house. By the moonlight, he found the driveway, marked by a lone mailbox. He pulled off the road toward the house and slowed the truck to a crawl.

"You think they're in there?" Angela asked.

John brought the truck to a stop and studied the windows. The light was coming from the first floor bay window, and the rest of the house was pitch-black. "I don't know." He opened the door and stepped out, straining to see into the dimly lit living room. He watched in silence, ignoring Angela's impatient eyes. "I don't see anyone."

"Where else would they be?"

"How am I supposed to know?" John looked around for any other signs of life but found none.

"Let's have a look."

He looked back at his wife and frowned. "I'm not taking you in there."

"Why not?"

"What if they have a gun?"

Angela wouldn't be denied. "We're going in," she said, "and remember that shotgun of yours isn't going to be any good as far as your son is concerned." She pointed at his weapon. " _They_ have to be _alive_."

John looked back at her with hate in his eyes. He'd been able to avoid thinking about what they were trying to do, but she enjoyed throwing it in his face. He pulled the shotgun off the seat of the truck and looked back at the house. "Get Alex out of the back."

♦

"Stay close," John said but then thought about it for a second. "But not too close."

Angela held on to the pole with one hand and the end of the rope wrapped around Alex's neck with the other. The boy's dark eyes did not reflect the moonlight as he stared at his father with wanting desperation. His mouth hung open as the stench of death reeked about him. His limbs swayed in slow-ridged movements.

John kept the shotgun at the ready as he drew near the front door. He dropped down to a knee and took another long look at the front of the house. The living room was in clear view, and he focused in on the television. The set was on and he knew at once that the Davis family was home. A sudden movement in an upstairs window drew his attention, but he found nothing beyond drapes blowing in the wind.

"They're here," he said.

"You're sure?"

"Just keep close to the front door until I clear out the bottom of the house."

John tried the door and found it locked. A strong kick splintered the wood and another solid hit burst it open. He took a step inside with the shotgun close to his face. He eyed a hallway near the stairs on his left and then the dining room on the other side of the front room. The only sound in the house came from a news reporter on the television. John crossed the living room and flipped the television off. He listened for any sounds with his shotgun aimed at the stairs. A high-pitched voice interrupted his concentration from outside the front door.

"Is it safe?" Angela asked.

"Shhh," John said.

"Well, we're not going to stay out here all night."

"Shut up."

Angela fell silent, but John knew he would have to pay later for his words. He walked back to the door and motioned for her to maneuver Alex toward the dining room. John led the way and a quick search revealed the dining room opened up into the kitchen. He signaled Angela to stop and force Alex on the other side of the dining room table. The boy's moans rose in volume, but John knew there was nothing he could do about it. It was obvious to him that his son's appearance was deteriorating rapidly. His gaunt, pale face was covered in thin blue veins. His blackened tongue hung from the side of his mouth like a dog dying of thirst.

"Stay here," John said, "no matter what you hear."

He took a step into the kitchen and let the barrel of his gun sweep with his eyes. The light from the living room was enough to keep him from being blind, but not much else. He focused on the lone spot near the back door hidden from his view. As he stepped out to his left and found the back door, he hoped he wouldn't have to use his last shell.

A quick turn brought the gun around to the central hall and a view of the front door. John moved down the hall keeping the gun aimed at the stairs. He reached the center of the house when the first signs of life came from a low but distinct creaking board somewhere up on the second floor. John came to a stop and moved his head far enough to see the landing at the top of the stairs.

A deathly silence fell over the house, and John held his breath. Time ticked by painfully slow until his lungs burned. He heard his heart beating in his ears, and just before he couldn't hold it any longer, another sound came to him. Two steps echoed in the silence like an elephant stomp in the jungle. A deep breath burst from John's lips when his lungs could take it no longer. He knew someone was upstairs and he had to bring them down one way or another. He wasn't sure how he was going to get it done without killing anyone.

The bottom step creaked and John cringed the moment his foot hit it. He was no fool. Owning a gun was a rite of passage for most people in this part of the state. There was a good chance the shotgun in his hands wasn't the only firearm in the house. The second stair wasn't much better than the first, and he gave up any thoughts of sneaking up on someone. At the midway point, he heard muffled conversation from somewhere in the lightless dark overhead. He could see the upstairs hallway and knew at once that he wouldn't be able to see anything once he reached the landing. Darkness covered the entire upstairs and he guessed Mr. Davis kept it that way for a reason.

There were only four steps to go when he heard the click. It took him a second to place the sound, but he managed to pull his head down by the time the gun went off. Angela screamed several times from downstairs, but John's ears were ringing. He couldn't tell where the shot came from in the hall but knew from the sizable hole in the wall where his head had been only a second before, that the wielder of that gun could see him very well.

John was stuck. There was a good chance he would get his head blown off if he tried to reach the top stair, and he figured he'd get much of the same if he tried to return to his wife empty handed. In the end, he settled on a bluff. He readied his hand to catch the lone unused round as he made a loud and distinct pump of the shotgun. He caught the round midair and quickly reloaded. A few seconds later, his plan showed promise when a door closed somewhere on the upstairs hallway.

He took a hesitant step up and crouched as low as could manage. His eyes adjusted slightly to the darkness, revealing two doors on either side of the upstairs hall. He made sure each of the doors was shut before stepping up the rest of the way. The moment his feet hit the top stair, he pressed his back against the wall and tried to eye both directions at once. Sweat built on his forehead as he waited for one of the doors to open. John realized he'd have to risk too much moving down the hall without knowing which room the Davises were in, so he settled for a chance of courtesy.

"Come on, Mr. Davis, we can work this out."

22

John wiped the sweat from his face and tried to see farther down the hall. He knew Mr. Davis had a gun. He adjusted his grip on the shotgun and cursed at himself. The lone remaining round wouldn't help him if it turned to a gunfight. He'd tried a few times to get Mr. Davis to talk with no success.

"What about it? We can wait this out all night."

John was bluffing and from the looks of Alex, the boy needed to be fed and soon. He couldn't imagine what would happen to him since he was already dead, but he guessed he'd lose him for good. John felt a mixture of emotions about losing his son for a second time. He knew Angela couldn't mentally handle it, which left him with few choices.

He looked at the doors along the hall, leaning his head out as far as he could go. The bullet hole in the wall told him that Mr. Davis was to his right. He guessed there was little chance of getting down the hall in that direction. He was trying to come up with something when Angela called out in a less than encouraging way.

"What the hell are you doing up there?"

John couldn't see her, but he could make out an outline of her shadow at the bottom of the stairs. He didn't answer in the hope she'd go away.

"Don't just sit there," she said.

He tried to shout and whisper at the same time. "Give me a second. I'm trying not to get shot here."

"But—"

John didn't let her finish, he'd heard enough. He ran to his left and tried the first door he came to. The knob turned and he leapt inside, slamming it closed behind him. A shot went off in the hall as he hit the floor. He scanned the small room and found himself alone. Angela was still yelling up after him, but the door kept most of the words muffled.

He came to his feet and found a small bed in the center of the room and a dresser pushed against the wall closest to the door. There was little else of use, but he set his sights on the window. He crossed the room and raised the windowpane, looking down over the front yard. Angela's voice was clearer with the window open. She was arguing with him, but he couldn't figure out why she was mad. He focused on the edge of the roof outside and ignored his wife as best he could.

He looked back at the door and quickly considered his options. He couldn't get down the hall in one piece, which left him to risk his chances outside. He held onto the shotgun with one hand, stuck a leg out the window and tried his footing. Once outside, he surveyed the rest of the roof and spotted two additional windows on the front side of the house. His estimation told him both windows were beyond the staircase, but he wasn't sure where Mr. Davis was hiding. He took careful steps and eyed the front yard two stories down as he sidestepped along the roof. He neared the first window, and the sounds of muted conversation became clearer.

"You think you got him?" Mrs. Davis asked.

"How should I know," Mr. Davis said.

John stopped where he was and tried to keep himself balanced. The shingles on the roof were in poor shape and his boots slid. He placed the butt of his shotgun on the roof in front of him for stability.

"You going to go out there?" Mrs. Davis asked.

"Why don't you go out there and have a look around?" Mr. Davis said.

"I'm pretty sure that was John Mason from down the road," Mrs. Davis said. "I can hear his wife still going on downstairs."

John had blocked the sound of Angela's voice out of his head.

"So you want me to thank them for the fruit cake last Christmas?" Mr. Davis asked.

"I just mean—"

"Enough," Mr. Davis said. "You saw that damn thing they pulled out of the back of the truck. I don't care who they are. If they brought one of those things in here, then they aren't friends of mine."

John had little chance of getting in the room without taking a round in the chest. He was at a terrible disadvantage with only one shell left. He decided to focus on the farthest window, hoping he could work his way back down the hall. If he was quiet enough, he might be able to sneak up on the Davises.

He steadied himself and took his weight off the shotgun. He moved up around the second window with slow, purposeful steps. The old roof was better off than he thought, and he managed to get around the window with little trouble. John knew the Davises had children and part of him hoped they would not be hiding out in the room he was going to climb into. He wanted to feed his son and, at this point, could convince himself to do just about anything to make that happen; however, sacrificing another child was currently beyond his capability. He doubted Angela would say the same.

Another few strides brought him to the third window, and to his surprise, it was wide open. He steadied himself and in two quick moves, he slipped into the bedroom with his shotgun at the ready. He was happy to find the space empty. John headed for the door and then stopped at the sound of quiet conversation. He stood in the center of the room listening as the voices rose slightly and then faded to nothing. He was sure it was not the voices he'd heard before; in fact, he was sure the voices were somewhere inside the room he was standing in.

He gazed at the bed and then got down on a knee and looked underneath. The bed was clear and he thought for a moment he was still hearing Angela yelling outside. He refocused on the door but was drawn back to the room when the whispering returned. He cocked his head to the side and followed the sound to the closet door in the corner of the room. A long step pulled him within an arm's reach and the voices cleared.

"You check."

"No, you check."

John knew what he'd found even before he saw them. The Davis boys had hidden themselves away in the closet. John's stomach turned as he considered his options. He readjusted his grip on his shotgun and reached for the closet door. The doorknob turned with ease, but he had to pull hard to get it to open. Moonlight flooded in through the lone window in the room, revealing the closet's interior. John hesitantly poked at a pile of laundry on the floor with the barrel of his gun and a single jab brought a response.

"Don't hurt us."

John peered at the clothes and found two sets of eyes looking back at him from underneath. He brought the shotgun up to his face and aimed. The eyes gaped back at him, never moving although the clothes shook. John thought of his son and the unstoppable need he had to eat. He would need the kids alive.

"You're going to keep your mouths shut," he said, "and do exactly as I say."

The clothes slipped to the side as one of the boys pushed his head out from underneath. John saw the youngest of the Davis family in the dim light. He guessed the boy to be about eight, but he couldn't remember either of their names. The boy's pale face recoiled in fear as he poked at his brother. The two boys got to their feet inside the closet, huddling close to one another. The older of the two was a skinny thing and his knees knocked together as he tried to keep from trembling. They looked at John as if he was the devil, and for a brief moment, he remembered Alex. John remembered the curious and playful boy he'd loved since the moment he first laid eyes on him.

"What do you want?" the younger of the two asked.

John started to speak but found the words stuck in his throat. He motioned toward the window with his gun but couldn't give the orders. He tried to focus the barrel back on the boys but couldn't bring himself to do it. Finally, he aimed the barrel at the room's door and shut the closet.

"Stay down," he said. "Don't come out until someone comes and gets you."

He reached the room's door a moment later and quietly turned the knob. He slid his head along the doorframe, positioned a single eye in the small open space, and looked out at the hall. He discovered two doors, one he knew to be Mr. Davis's hiding spot, the other he guessed to be a hall closet. John edged out into the hall slowly, risking one last glance at the closet door. He guessed the boys were terrified enough to hold still for quite some time. He took slow steps with his back against the wall, focused on Mr. Davis's door, and kept his gun at the ready.

Sweat rolled off his forehead and on down the lines in his face. Every noise echoed throughout the hall and John swore Mr. Davis was going to pop out at any moment. A few steps brought the first door within reach, but he still wasn't sure what it was he was going to do. He would have to make a decision and make it soon.

His heart weighed on him. He could scoop up one or both of the boys and head back out onto the roof. Even now as he readjusted his grip on the shotgun, he couldn't imagine going through with it. The Davis boys and his memory of his own son were, however, the end of his conflict. Either Mr. or Mrs. Davis would take care of Alex's problem, and it would get him back in the good graces of his wife. The trick would be getting his hands on one of the Davises and then keeping them alive long enough to get out of the house. The situation thrusted forward before he had time to consider a plan of action.

John's foot touched the floor in front of the slightly ajar hall closet, and the door to the room near the stairs sprang open. Mr. Davis took a step out into the hall, keeping half his body concealed within the room. In the pale light, John saw the sure outline of a pistol raised chest high. He plunged into the closet as Mr. Davis fired, and the round buzzed past his head and into the far end of the hall. The high-pitched screams of the two boys in the far room were echoed by Mrs. Davis's shriek somewhere behind her husband.

John stepped back out into the hall and brought his shotgun to bear. Mr. Davis tried to recover, but John was too fast. The reverberation of the shotgun firing made the pistol sound like a popgun. The round hit Mr. Davis in the arm and spun him around like a top. The old man slammed into the door and fell back into the room.

John took a long stride before the reality of his situation came back to him. He was out of rounds, reducing his shotgun to a well-balanced club. His first reaction was to rush into the bedroom and catch Mr. Davis while he was down, but he hadn't expected Mrs. Davis to be carrying a pistol of her own. She grasped the small gun with both hands and stood over her bleeding husband, catching John dead in her sights. He watched Mrs. Davis close her eyes as she pulled the trigger. He fell to the floor as the gun went off, missing him by inches.

"Leave us alone."

Mrs. Davis moved farther out into the hall as she pressed the attack. Tears streamed down her face as she ran awkwardly, holding the gun out in front of her. John stumbled to get to his feet and dashed for the boy's room. The gun went off behind him, and he was hit with a barrage of splintered wood as the round lodged into the wall.

"You stay away from my children."

John pushed into the room as Mrs. Davis fired two rounds into the door behind him with no signs of slowing. He had the presence of mind to slam the door closed and felt the impact as the door struck Mrs. Davis square in the face. She hit the floor and the pistol went off again.

John hesitated, and then he heard a new sound that changed his mind from rushing toward the window. Mrs. Davis had apparently decided to put a round through the door, which would have been a good idea with John standing directly behind it. Her idea and noticeable strength came to an abrupt end when she pulled the trigger and heard only a loud click. She tried again in vain to get the gun to fire.

John pulled the door open and stood over a terrified Mrs. Davis, still lying on the floor. She pulled the trigger several times with no result and screamed as John leaned over her and punched her twice in the face. The first hit split her lip and the second nearly knocked out a tooth. She continued to scream but managed to kick John in the gut. He doubled over as she scrambled to get on her feet.

"Get over here," he said.

He decided she'd be the one he would take. He came to that conclusion quickly, mostly because he figured she'd be easier to carry but also to make up for the swift kick he'd received moments earlier. He grabbed at her as she started to run back down the hall. In her frantic state, she seemed incapable of choosing between running for safety and turning back for her children.

She turned toward John and swung the pistol like a billy club. He saw the pistol grip but couldn't get out of the way fast enough. The hit caught him on the jaw, and in one blinding moment, his face felt like it caught fire. The next second, he was lying on his back in the middle of the hall and Mrs. Davis was already past him.

John shook his head trying to get his vision straight. He heard the door of the boys' room slam closed and another door screeching open behind him. He struggled to get to his feet and stumbled to turn around. He found himself face to face with Mr. Davis. The old man's shoulder was covered in blood, and his eyes were filled with desperation. He focused on the pistol in Mr. Davis's hand, and it was only then that he realized he'd dropped his shotgun on the floor. John stood defenseless without as much as his gun to use as a club. The two men stood silently staring at one another until Mr. Davis spoke.

"How could you?" he asked.

John didn't have an answer. He figured whether he spoke or not, he was a dead man.

"It's the hard times that make the man," Mr. Davis said. "What kind of monsters are we if we turn on one another?"

John felt like the old man was reading him his last rites.

Mr. Davis raised the pistol and pointed the barrel at John's forehead. "You come in my home and attack my family. There's no place in this world for a man the likes of you."

John closed his eyes, but the next sound he heard wasn't what he expected. In her unmistakable tone, Angela's impatient voice filled the hall, carrying up the stairs.

"What's taking you so long?"

The slight hesitation was all John needed. Mr. Davis glanced back at the stairs and received a fist to the face for his trouble. The old man's nose crushed against his cheek as a splatter of blood covered his face. John grabbed the gun and pushed Mr. Davis to the ground. The two men wrestled for control of the weapon, knowing either one of them would be dead if they lost the fight.

The wrestling match rolled across the hall. John slammed Mr. Davis against the wall several times, but the old man never gave up. For his own brand of attack, Mr. Davis kicked John in the shins every chance he got, even once managing a knee to the groin. John felt his shoulder roll over the shotgun and decided to make a move. In one quick motion, he let go of the pistol, grabbed the shotgun and got up to his feet. Mr. Davis was still on the ground when John brought the shotgun down over his head like an axe. The first swing missed as he rolled out of the way, but as he tried to aim the pistol up at John, he left himself vulnerable. The second swing of the shotgun hit Mr. Davis on his forearm and the bones cracked at the moment of impact.

Mr. Davis screamed but kept the pistol in his good hand. John brought the shotgun around for another swing as the revolver went off. The shot lit up the dim hallway for a brief second and then died away. John froze in place, the shotgun over his shoulder. He'd felt the burn in his side and knew he was hit but didn't know how bad.

Mr. Davis was up on one knee, cradling his broken arm and trying to keep the pistol aimed at John. Silence filled the hall as John backed away. The pain in his side intensified and part of him thought he was done for. He reached the top of the stairs before Mr. Davis moved again. He let the shotgun go and heard it topple end over end down the stairs behind him. Mr. Davis took aim, but before he could squeeze off the finishing round, John felt his feet slide out from under him.

John yelled every time his body slammed into a stair. He came out of a roll and landed at the bottom of the staircase lying flat on his back. His vision blurred, but he could see Angela near him. She had the mop pole and leash contraption attached to Alex and, for the moment, appeared genuinely concerned for her husband. The sentiment didn't last long.

"So get back up there," she said.

It took a moment, but John discovered he wasn't about to die. There was very little blood on his side and he figured he'd escaped with a flesh wound. He got to his feet, ignoring Angela as best he could. She was carrying on about Alex's needs when he decided he'd had enough. He found the shotgun near the bottom of the stairs and made sure Mr. Davis wasn't following him down, and then he turned and aimed the barrel at Angela.

"Go get in the truck."

Angela's eyes widened more than he thought possible. John knew the gun wasn't loaded, but he also knew Angela had no idea. Her tone changed sharply.

"But, baby?"

He thought how bizarre it was that pointing a gun at her face had become an acceptable option during a domestic dispute. He held a single finger up as a point of emphasis.

"Get. In. The. Truck."

She pouted and stomped a foot but did as she was told. A combination of pushing on the pole forced against the back of Alex's head and pulling on the leash around his throat maneuvered the staggering boy out the front door. His grossly decomposing face locked in a long moan as he passed his father. John took one last look at the dark and empty staircase and then followed them out.

23

Angela sat silent in the passenger seat of the beat-up camper truck. John had been stern with her, and she'd turned to the silent treatment to make him feel bad. The old trick wasn't going to work. He wanted to scream at her, but he kept his eyes focused on the road. The turn off to their house was close, and he didn't want to miss it.

He didn't need her to tell him that Alex still needed to eat. Whatever kept the boy's body going was losing its strength and only the refreshment of fresh tissue would give him what he needed. Angela crossed her arms and looked coldly at her husband. John glanced at her but did not respond. It was another ten minutes before she gave up the attitude and took a different approach.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you," she said, then slid across the seat and pulled close to him. Her hand found its way to the inside of his thigh. "I get so crazy sometimes. I know you're trying to help, but now what are we going to do?"

John was surprised at how quickly she'd gone back to the Angela he loved. Her voice was soft and in some way arousing. His mind shifted, feeling sorry for snapping at her. He was just as concerned for their son.

"I'm trying to figure that out," he said. "I know he has to eat, so don't say it."

They sat in silence the rest of the way home. The truck turned onto the long driveway, and John felt relieved. Some part of him expected the government to be waiting at his doorstep with guns at the ready. The house was dark, but the door off the side of the house was open.

The truck came to a stop, and Angela slid across the seat and popped open the door without a word. She walked to the rear of the camper and began fiddling with the door. John didn't help. He got out, stood at the open doorway, and listened for anything out of the ordinary. Angela managed to get Alex out of the camper and used the pole and leash device to get him in the house. John watched his son cross the living room and could barely stand what he saw. The boy stared at his father with lifeless eyes until he was forced down the hall.

"We're going to have to get out of here," John said when Angela returned to the living room. "He's never going to be safe here."

"We can hide here," she said as she sat down on the couch. "We'll close the drapes and lock ourselves in."

John shook his head. "Won't work." He sat down beside her. "You haven't seen what I saw the last few days. This thing is out of control. The government is going to have to do something."

"You think they'll come after Alex?"

"Yes."

Angela laid her head on his shoulder. "You have to protect us."

"I've been thinking about this for a while." He looked out the front window at the moonlit yard. "The old hunting trail."

"What about it?"

"I've taken that road north for hours. I bet we could get into Nebraska before we crossed a highway."

"But John..."

"I know." He looked back at her. "He's got to eat." The camper would provide the perfect transportation and if his estimation about the hunting trail was correct, they might actually get away. However, he didn't know how he was going to get Alex fed soon enough to keep him moving. Angela's mood could go downhill quickly, so he refocused her attention. "I want you to go to the bedroom." He stood up with her in the center of the living room. "Pack a bag for me and you. Take only what we need." Before she could question him, he spun her around and pushed her off toward the hall.

John headed for the kitchen and started fixing sandwiches for the trip. He didn't know how long it would be before they got to safety, and he wasn't ready to try and figure out what he was going to feed to Alex. Peanut butter was the only thing left in the cupboard. He made four sandwiches before he realized the rest of the house was silent. Something about the stillness scared him. He poked his head out into the living room but saw nothing. The only light on in the house was over the dining room table.

He approached the hall still holding onto the butter knife he'd used to make the sandwiches. His concern heightened when he realized Angela hadn't turned on the bedroom light. He reached the corner of the hall and peered into the bedroom. Moonlight from the window outlined Angela sitting on the end of the bed.

"What's a matter?" he asked, but she didn't respond. "You okay?"

He neared the door and noticed her whimpering cry. John reached the opened doorway and flicked on the bedroom light. Angela was staring at the floor, tears running down her cheeks. It wasn't until he was a few feet away that he realized she was holding a screwdriver.

"Hey?"

Angela didn't answer.

"What's the matter?"

She looked up at him. Her eyes were distant and somehow darker.

John took a step back. "I was thinking we might leave in the morning. We could use the sleep." He looked over at the clock on the dresser. "It's only a couple of hours, but we can still get out of here before the sun comes up."

Her eyes focused on him as if seeing him for the first time. "He's going to have to eat, John."

"I thought I..." His voice trailed off.

She shifted her weight forward but didn't stand up. "Families sacrifice all the time," she said. "It's a part of being a good parent."

John took another step back. "I know that."

"Then you know one of us has to make a sacrifice."

He wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement.

"How do we decide who has to make it?" Angela asked.

John wasn't one hundred percent sure what she was asking, but he had a growing notion. He backed away and felt his heel hit the door. He keyed onto the screwdriver in her hand and readied himself.

"We haven't gotten to that yet," he said.

Angela's eyes narrowed. "I thought you said you would do anything for this family."

John hesitated. "I will."

"Good."

There was a long tense moment of silence and then Angela got to her feet. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

John kept his eyes on the screwdriver. "I asked you to pack a few bags. Chances are we won't be coming back." She took a step toward him, and he fought the urge to run. "We can still leave tonight if you think it's best." A bead of sweat rolled down from his forehead to his cheek.

"What about getting some sleep?" she asked. "Don't you need the rest?"

"That was more for you."

"I can watch the house while you sleep," she said.

"I'm fine."

Angela went silent, eyeing John as she adjusted her grip on the screwdriver. Her shoulders tensed and she widened her stance. John considered making a preemptive move, but as he did, a set of headlights flashed through the bedroom. Angela spun around and ran to the window.

"What was that?" she asked.

John ran after her. "Don't open the drapes."

They looked out through a small slit between the drapes at a lone vehicle. It pulled off the main road onto the driveway and then stopped before continuing up to the house. The headlights switched off.

"That can't be good," John said.

"What do they want?"

John headed for the hall. "I don't know, but this may solve our feeding problem."

He ran to the kitchen, doing his best to avoid the light over the dining room table, and found a steak knife in the drawer by the sink. He slid his face along the kitchen doorway, focusing on the front bay window. The car was facing the house at the end of the driveway but had not moved. Angela was standing at the end of the hall looking across the dining room at him. He could see fear in her eyes, something far different from what he'd seen only moments before in the bedroom. He motioned for her to stay still, got down on his hands and knees, and crawled into the living room.

He passed the couch and fell prone as the headlights came on. He crawled forward, this time on his stomach, reaching the bay window. He laid the knife down on the carpet and pushed his back against the wall adjacent to the window. Time passed slowly and to his surprise Angela stayed put.

It was several minutes before the headlights turned off again. John took the opportunity to get a better look. He moved his face along the windowsill until he could see the front yard. The car was perfectly silhouetted at the end of the driveway, and he counted three figures. The two in the front seat were having a heated discussion while another sat quietly in the backseat.

"Who is it?"

John's head snapped back. He turned around and found Angela poking out from behind the couch.

"How am I supposed to know?"

"What are they doing?" she asked.

He turned his attention back on the car. "Looks like they're talking," he said.

"That's it?"

"You're welcome to go out and ask them."

Angela didn't respond.

John watched the car as the argument inside continued until the driver's side door opened and someone got out. The passengers soon followed and all three met at the rear of the vehicle. The trunk popped open and John lost sight of them. "I think they're coming," he said, spinning around. His mind filled with panic as he looked up. The front door was locked, but a scan of the door to the carport revealed it was still open. "Quick."

Angela crawled over as fast as she could move, slammed it closed, and locked it. John turned back to the driveway and watched all three figures look out from around the trunk.

"Damn it, they heard you."

She crawled back behind the couch. "Sorry."

The trunk shut and the figures walked toward the house shoulder to shoulder, each wearing suits covering their entire body.

"They are definitely coming."

John pushed away from the window and crawled across the floor. He found himself on his hands and knees behind the couch staring at Angela. He moved around her so he could get a better look at the front door. A loan shadow passed in front of the bay window followed soon after by a knock at the door.

"Are we going to answer it?" Angela asked.

"Are you serious?"

"What if they're part of the government response?"

"Of course they're part of the government response," John said. "You want to let them in to inspect the house?"

Angela's stare hardened. "We need them, John."

He knew she wasn't referring to their support. "I saw three of them," he said. "We can't let anyone get away." He didn't wait for a response. He crawled into the hall and into the bathroom. There was another knock at the door, this time with force. John unlocked the bathroom window and tried to push it open quietly. He poked his head out and scanned the backyard.

"What am I supposed to do?"

Angela's sudden question caused him to slam his head against the windowsill. He rubbed it and tried not to scream. "Just hide." He stepped up on the edge of the tub as the first words came from the new arrivals.

"We would like to have a word with you." The man's voice was muffled through the door but loud enough so John could hear it from the back of the house. "We represent the Federal Emergency Management Agency."

John got half of his body out through the window and tossed the knife into the grass. He reached for the ground and dropped down the rest of the way. A moment later, he was kneeling in the grass with the knife in hand. The sound of intentionally light footsteps came from the carport side of the house, and he realized why he'd seen only one figure pass in front of the bay window. He ran around to the far side of the house and stopped at the doors to the storm cellar. He couldn't hear footsteps, but the new, demanding voice of the man at the front door echoed around the property.

"We're not going to leave," he said. "Open the door. We just want to talk with you for a few minutes."

John moved to the edge of the house, crouched down as low as he could and leaned out. The front porch light was out, but he could clearly see the lone figure. He was wearing a hazmat suit, like something John had seen in his army training. His head was covered and there was a clear material over his face that allowed him to see. John moved around the corner of the house and kept the front hedgerow between him and the lone figure. The man pounded on the door with his fist and then leaned back to look at the darkness under the carport on the opposite side of the house.

"Try the side door," the man said.

John saw someone move from within the carport that he hadn't seen a moment before. The figured disappeared, leaving John's focus on the man at the front door. John knew there were at least three of them and his only chance was to take them on one at a time. The banging on the door under the carport was clear and so was the response.

"Leave us the hell alone."

John heard his wife's voice and cringed. Any hope that the men would give up and drive away was now lost. He assured himself that the knife was ready and prepared to rush the front door. Angela's plea reinvigorated the man on the porch.

"Open the damn door," he said. "We have the authority of the United States government and I will pull this house down around you if I have to."

John started to come to his feet with a rushing approach in mind when a sudden sound from around the house froze him in place. The noise was subtle, but in the silence of the surrounding farmland, it was enough to get his attention. He pulled back and ran toward the rear of the house. Once he cleared the corner, he discovered the third government man only visible from the waist down; the rest of him was inside the house climbing through the bathroom window.

John reached him as he tried to pull his legs through the window and grabbed his feet. One quick yank pulled him out to his chest and another dropped him on the ground. The man rolled over and went for a gun holstered under his arm, and John reacted with a fist to the nose. The first hit on the plastic hood covering his face knocked his head back, and then the second sprayed blood over his cheeks. John put the blade to his throat and the struggle came to an abrupt end.

"Yell and I'll slit your throat." He ran his free hand along the man's side and pulled out a revolver. John took a step back and aimed the gun. "Get up on your knees and face the house."

Hesitantly, the man did as he was told. In the dim moonlight, it was difficult to read his face, but he was obviously stalling. Once the man was in position, John hit him on the back of the head as hard as he could with the pistol grip, and he fell to the ground in a motionless heap. John dragged him farther out into the yard and rushed back to the house, heading toward the carport. He rounded the rear corner and came face to face with another government man coming from the other direction.

John reacted first and managed to hit the man in his face shield with his revolver. He fell and landed on his back. The moonlight revealed a gun in his hand and John had little time to react as the man brought the weapon to bear. John pulled the trigger and a moment later, the man lay motionless on the ground, a bullet hole in the center of his chest.

"Mike?"

The sound of the man's voice at the front door kept John's mind on the moment.

"Mike."

The voice drew closer. John ran back around the house, jumped over the unconscious man out behind the bathroom window and turned the corner on the opposite side of the house.

"Damn it." The man's voice flushed with frustration. "Jerry?"

John heard someone running into the backyard and guessed he'd found the unconscious man. The yard went still and there was no sound of movement from either side of the house. John readied the revolver and tried to calm his nerves. He took a step toward the backyard and a flash of light pulled his attention to the front of the house. He took cover behind the front corner of the house and peered out toward the road. The light was coming fast and moving in pairs. John swore under his breath and spun around; he was going to have to act fast. Reinforcements were on the way.

24

Two cars came to a stop on the road in front of the driveway, their headlights highlighting the parked car. The car doors opened and in the dark, three figures stood near the driveway entrance. They talked quietly among themselves before one called out.

"Marcus, are you here?"

John didn't wait for the response. He headed around the back of the house with his revolver held high. He turned the corner and came to an abrupt stop. The remaining government man and the unconscious agent were gone. Someone yelled near the carport.

"They're in the house and at least one of them is out here with a gun."

The situation had quickly gone from bad to worse. John ran to the end of the house near the carport and hesitantly peeked around. A man in a protective suit stood in front of the house. John rummaged through the dead agent's suit and found another gun, this one a 9mm automatic. He dashed to the bathroom window and crawled in. He landed in the bathtub and looked up to find Angela standing over him with the screwdriver in hand. He put his hands up in defense.

"Hold on."

"What do they want?" she asked.

"What do you think they want?" John got out of the tub and brushed her out of the way. "They have to know about Alex. I bet they stopped at the Davis house and got the story about our little visit."

She flung herself on him and put her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest. "Oh, John, you won't let them take our baby."

He tried to look past her and out into the living room at the bay window. He patted her on the back and stroked her hair. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "I won't let them," he said. She smiled and kissed him. John slid her out of the way and crouched down. He kept a gun in both hands. "Get out in the hallway and keep your head down," he said as he stepped across the hall and reached the end. He heard her feet shuffle down the hall as he leaned out for a look at the living room. The headlights from the cars lit up the room, but he couldn't see anyone outside.

"We know you have an infected person in there."

The voice came across unnaturally loud. John recognized the sound of the bullhorn; however, as best as he could tell, the speaker wasn't the agent in the plastic suit. He got a glimpse of a break in the headlights and took the opportunity to fire. His shot shattered the largest pane of glass in the bay window and brought most of the adjacent pieces down with it. There was a lot of yelling outside the house and a moment later, John got his response. He ducked back into the hallway as the front of the house lit up with a violent burst of gunfire.

Shots tore through the front wall as splinters of wood blew off the door. John heard an automatic weapon between the small arms fire in an attack that lasted a full minute. He lay balled up on the floor with his hands over his ears, his guns on the ground near his feet, when the shooting finally stopped. The ringing in his head was constant, and he could barely hear himself breathe. He got up to his knees trembling and tried to gather his nerve.

"You all right?" he asked.

Angela was sitting against Alex's door with her arms wrapped around her knees, her legs pulled close to her chest. She didn't answer but managed a frightened nod. John picked up his guns and leaned out to get a look at the scene. The entire living room was shot to hell. The television was full of holes and the bay window was gone. Small pieces of fluff that used to be contained inside the couch and loveseat covered most of the living room floor.

He waited several minutes before making a move. He didn't care much about the damage to the house because he knew if they hoped to survive, they would have to make a run for it anyway. The headlights from out front gave him an idea. A shadow passed in front of the cars, and John aimed and then fired. The shadow moved erratically and then fell to the ground.

"Damn it."

The cry told John he'd hit his target. The result was another heavy thrashing of the front of the house. This time the government agents fired for several minutes, took time to reload, and fired again. John waited for the onslaught to stop and then duck walked down the hall to Angela. She had her face buried between her chest and knees.

"Check on Alex," he said. The sound of her son's name brought a quick response of recognition. Her eyes were wild, but she agreed with a nod. "I'm going to see if I can get a better look from the bedroom."

John continued his awkward walk past the turn in the hall and headed toward the bedroom. He reached the midpoint of the hall when he heard Alex's door open and Angela begin sobbing uncontrollably. He could see the far bedroom wall had not escaped the damage of the hail of bullets, but he knew he had to keep Angela in check if they hoped to survive. He reached Alex's room and found Angela kneeling over the boy's decaying body. There was movement in the boy's hands, but the power that animated his corpse was losing its hold. Even in Alex's slumbered state, his hands reached for his mother. His groans were reduced to a whimper and his feverish appetite lost with his strength.

"He's dying," she said.

John didn't have time to explain to her how strange a comment it was. "Stay here with him, but keep down," he said and then headed back out into the hallway. "If they come through the door, I'm not going to be able to hold them off." He reached the end of the hall and walked to his bedroom. From a crouched position, he made out the agents around the cars, each in a hidden, defensive position. He counted four men and as best as he could remember, that left one somewhere out of sight. One of the men ran toward the house, and John lost him from the window.

"The house is surrounded."

John heard them and understood where the other man went. The chances of ever getting out of the house were growing dimmer by the minute. He darted back through the house and reached the back door. Not taking the time to think about what he was doing, he flung the door open and jumped out into the backyard.

Gunfire erupted the second he broke away from the house. Lights flashed on his left and right as small arms fire echoed off the house. John's heart beat wildly in his throat as he desperately tried to control the fear consuming his mind. He fired at both ends of the house unable to focus his sights on any one target.

The firefight lasted for another few seconds before everything fell silent. John was on his knees in the grass facing the rear of the house. He could see shapes moving on either side of the house and figured both men were still alive. He fell forward lying in the grass and waited. His chance came moments later when the figure near the carport took a step out behind the house. His attention was on the open back door, and he was making a straight line for it. John took aim as best he could in the dark and pulled the trigger three times. The first shot hit the house, the second directly into the man's leg, and the final trigger pull ended with a dull click.

John left the gun lying in the grass as he rolled away from his position. He took aim at the man with his 9mm as he tried to limp his way back to the side of the house. He saw, from the corner of his eye, the second man step out, and John instinctively pulled his face toward the ground and wrapped his arms around his head. The man fired several times, covering his companion's escape. The shots flew wild, but one found its mark, grazing John along his shoulder. The night lit up from constant fire as they shot back and forth at one another. John's arm felt like it was on fire as warm blood soaked through his shirt. He felt the strength in his arm going but managed to keep his gun level.

Neither government agent kept their aim well enough to hit anything. John watched both men disappear and then waited in the grass, listening to the silence until the subtle sounds of heated conversation echoed around the house. Convinced it was safe enough to move, John struggled to get to his feet and rushed for the rear of the house. He let his back slam against the wall beside the open bathroom window. He heard the light whimpering of his wife nearby.

"I'm okay," he said.

"John?"

"Stay in the hallway and keep your head down." He paused. "First close this damn window."

She said something between sobs, but he couldn't make it out.

"Just close the window."

He didn't wait to see if she would do it. He slid his back along the wall, reached the edge of the house opposite the carport, and listened. The wind picked up and he swore he heard someone step on a twig, but after several tense seconds, he told himself it was all in his head. He took a quick peek and rushed around the corner of the house with the gun at the ready and found nothing there but the dying bushes near the storm cellar doors. He could hear them now, gathered near the front of the house.

"That son of a bitch shot me," one man said.

"Stop your belly aching," another said.

They continued to talk but lower than John could make out. The fear in his heart kept him from looking around the corner, sure he would catch a bullet directly in the face. Not certain what he could do outside, he headed around to the back of the house and, as he expected, found the bathroom window still wide open. He tucked the gun in his pocket and pulled himself up.

John was suspended with half of his body through the window when the screams started. The shrieks that he identified at once to be Angela were followed quickly by a barrage of punches. She'd struck him several times in the back of the head before he could get a word out.

"It's me," he said, hollering. "Stop hitting me."

Angela let two more fists fly before she recognized the voice enough to stop. "What the hell are you doing climbing through the window?"

John stood up and brushed himself off. "I live here, remember?" He peered out into the living room from the bathroom doorway to take in the destruction. "At least I used to."

"Don't leave me in here."

He brushed her off with a wave of his hand and looked down the hall at Alex's room. The door was ajar and instantly he felt a shiver run up his spine. The low light in the house only reached the middle of the hall and left the rest cloaked in darkness. He listened to the men outside arguing whether they should kick in the door, but he couldn't pull himself from the hall.

He stepped out onto the hardwood floor at a deathly slow pace focused on Alex's room. His hands shook as he reached out ahead of his steps, anticipating the bedroom doorknob. Thoughts of his decomposing son grabbing him filled his mind, but he did not stop. A few steps away and the sound of the low guttural moans crept out through the open door.

His fingers wrapped around the cold knob and John could see into the room. His eyes went to the floor as a slow but steady movement drew his attention. The light from the cracks in the window revealed the boy lying face down, arms stretched out as he tried to move. His death-speak increased as his father became visible, and he reached out with one hand and tried to drag his body toward the door.

John slid the door closed but kept his hand on the knob. For a moment, he forgot about the men outside and his wife looking out through the bathroom door behind him. He was struck by the fear he'd lost in the past few days, and the epidemic of the walking dead weighed on him like never before. He was not afraid for himself, but more so afraid of what he might do in the days ahead.

"John." Angela's voice was calm and measured. "What do we do?"

He took a slow, deep breath before turning around. Removing the gun from his pocket, he checked the clip.

"We have to get out of here," he said.

"How do we do that?"

He headed toward the end of the hall, stopped for a second to kiss her, and then positioned himself against the wall. "We have to get rid of them first. Go and lie down in the bathtub and don't get up until I come and get you."

She tried to ask another question, but the look he gave her froze her dead in her tracks. Angela closed the bathroom door and John heard her pull back the shower curtain. He peeked out from the hall and keyed in on an ongoing conversation outside.

"Try them again," one man said.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

John could see shadows moving near the door but nothing else. He focused on something near the camper truck in the driveway. The man behind the truck was tall enough to reach up and touch the top of the camper without trying. He was holding something to the side of his face.

"There's no damn signal anywhere out here," the tall man said.

"Keep trying," another man replied.

John knew his only chance of getting away depended on getting out of the current predicament. If he meant to take the old hunting trail into Nebraska, he would have to do it without anyone ever knowing. He took aim at the end of the camper and waited. The tall figure swayed in and out of sight as he worked at getting reception on the cell phone. John held his aim and waited until the tall man took a step away from the truck, and then he fired.

The bullet flew straight and true, and in the second that followed the shot, the tall man stumbled once and fell to the ground. A long minute of stunned silence followed. John stood at the edge of the hall not sure how to react. A sudden explosion of gunfire gave him the direction he needed. The house shook under an onslaught of bullets, and John imagined he would discover most of the walls gone.

The shooting stopped, and John picked himself up off the floor. He risked a look at the front door and found it wasn't far off from what he imagined. The door itself was gone, missing from the middle to its top. The front wall was still in place, but there wasn't much holding it together.

He could see out into the yard and thought they might burst in at any moment. He couldn't remember how many rounds he had left in his gun, but he planned to unload the rest on the first silhouette he saw, but the silhouette never came. John kept close to the floor and waddled away from the hall until he was behind the remains of the loveseat. He rose up until his eyes were even with the sizeable hole through the cushions and saw clearly out through the shattered bay window. The cars on the road were alive with activity. The remaining government men were throwing someone in the backseat, and before John could grasp what he'd done, they started the engine and peeled off down the road, leaving the other two cars behind.

John waited in the silence, his eyes darting between the holes in the couch, trying to see in every direction at once. "Did they really leave?" he asked himself. It was another several minutes before he dared to stand up and skulk toward the remains of the bay window. There was little to see in the front yard. The cars left behind sat silent, one on the road in front of the house and the other mid-way down the driveway.

John jumped out through the remains of the window and landed solid on the broken glass atop the small patio. He held his gun out like a bank robber and did a quick search of the exterior. Except for the blood on the driveway behind the camper truck, there wasn't much to examine. He decided the time was now or never. He leapt back through the bay window into the living room and headed for the hall. He tried the bathroom door but found it locked. He heard Angela fumbling around inside, and he tried the knob again with force.

"Honey, it's me," he said. "Open the door; we have a lot to do and not much time to get it done."

25

There were another two hours left of darkness, and John knew they would have to be gone by the time the sun came up. He figured, with all the damage he'd done to the government agents, they probably had less time than that. There was no denying that they would be back in force. John leaned against the back of the camper truck and lit his last cigarette. He took a long drag and took pleasure from the feeling in his lungs. The addiction was something he'd tried to break many times but failed. The truth was, he deserved a cigarette, and for the moment, he was going to enjoy it.

Angela was moving frantically in the house, and he didn't have the strength to deal with her at the moment. She'd been carrying on about how Alex was never going to make it up into Nebraska. The boy needed to feed, that was easy to see. She said it was John's fault for not figuring out a way to keep one of those agents alive long enough to sustain the boy.

John smoked the cigarette down to the filter before considering whether to go back in the house. He pulled open what was left of the front door and listened to the chaos from the back bedroom. The house was dark except for the light from the master bedroom. Angela was crying and talking to herself, whispering at times mixed between screams. John turned the corner in the hall and saw his wife piling clothes on top of a bag on the bed.

"What am I supposed to do?" she asked as she pushed down on the top of the bag trying to get it closed enough to zip it shut. "He can't make it." She threw her head down on the top of the bag and cried.

John tiptoed in behind her and looked around for his bag. His stuff was on the floor, and she'd not attempted to pack it.

"You have to keep it together," he said.

Angela snapped up and spun around. Her eyes were wide as if caught in oncoming headlights. She had a feral look on her face and her stare was blank for several seconds.

"We're going to make a run for it just like we talked about," John said. "We'll use the camper for Alex and hopefully we can get outside of the cordoned area."

She studied him as if this was the first time she'd heard the plan. Her eyes were red and her cheeks stained with lines of black eye makeup. She looked back down at her hands before glancing over her shoulder at the bag.

John wasn't sure what she was doing. "We're going to have to go now," he said.

"Have you seen him?" she asked as her eyes met his. "He's going to die."

He wanted to remind her that their son was already dead, but he didn't. Her face was hard as he approached her slowly. He put his hands on her shoulders and tried to pull her toward him. She resisted.

"We don't have any other choice," he said.

She pushed him away and he stumbled back against the wall. "There are always choices," she said in a distant voice. Angela walked out of the room and down the hall.

John started throwing his clothes in the other bag on the floor. He heard Alex's bedroom door open and he stopped, looking back in time to see Angela step into the boy's room and close the door behind her. He went about his work quickly, deciding to pick up as much of the clothes as he could and shove it into the bag without looking. He managed to zip it shut and throw the bag up on the bed.

It took five paces to reach Alex's door. John stopped and listened. The sounds within were confusing at first. Angela was humming, a song he didn't recognize, but the sound that followed her tune took him another minute to figure out. He turned the knob and slowly cracked the door. Angela was on her knees with Alex spread out on the floor reaching out for her. The boy's mouth was open and from the dark orifice, his death moan harmonized with his mother's tune.

Angela reached down and rubbed Alex's head. She slipped her hand across his face and strands of hair pulled away from the skin with each pass of her fingers. The grey, dead flesh moved like clay under her touch, tearing in small splits across the top of his forehead. The boy continued to claw for her, but he lacked the strength to get hold.

John rushed back to his bedroom, grabbed both bags, went out into the front yard, and tossed them in the truck's cab. He fumbled through his pockets and found the key to the camper door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. The inside was in shambles but salvageable. He went back in the house and made for the kitchen. Several minutes later, he emerged with a paper bag full of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and the better part of a gallon of milk.

He laid the food down on the dining room table and recovered Alex's makeshift muzzle from the living room floor. He headed toward the hall prepared to do whatever he had to do to get Alex in the back of the camper. He reached the entrance to the hall and froze in his tracks. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as his eyes found a lone figure slithering on the ground toward him. The light from the living room revealed only enough of the hall to show an outline, but John knew what it was.

Alex's door was wide open and the dark room beyond was frightening. It was the boy, John knew, crawling across the floor. John held the pole connected to the makeshift muzzle out in front of him. Alex was moving slowly, but he was moving, creeping across the floor like a spider with its legs broken. John called his wife and waited.

"Angela?"

Silence filled the house like a veil of smoke. His fear heightened, and he started back toward the kitchen. His mind was set on getting a weapon; he'd left his gun in the truck. He turned away from the hall and was shocked by Angela standing in the kitchen doorway. Her eyes were dark and the look on her face was one he'd never seen. She was blocking the way, and in her hand, she held a hammer. They did not speak until she took a step forward.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"We both know Alex can't survive much longer."

"We'll deal with it," he said.

"I won't put his life in danger," she responded and then took another step. "He's a growing boy, John, and every growing boy has to eat."

He took a step back, but the moans of his dead son crawling toward him caused him to stop. "What the hell do you think you're going to do about it?"

Angela held the hammer up to her shoulder and smiled. "Use your imagination."

She moved quicker than John had ever seen, closing on him in a few strides. He put his hands up in defense, dropping the muzzle, and his mind froze by what was happening. The first swing was hard and the claw end of the hammer stuck into his shoulder with solid impact. John screamed before the reality caught up with him. He stumbled backwards as Angela raised the hammer for another strike. John tripped over his feet and landed on his backside as she brought the hammer down in a vicious arch. He threw himself back, and it missed him by an inch, slamming into the hardwood floor.

"Hold still, damn it," she said. "Can't you do anything right?"

John got up on his hands and feet but came to an abrupt stop when he felt the cold dead hand of his son reach out and grab his arm.

"Don't fight it, John," Angela said.

She rushed forward for a swing at his head. John let himself fall back and roll at the same time. His move yanked his arm away from Alex before he could take a chunk out of it and brought a leg up to catch Angela square in the stomach. She folded over like a chair as the air was forced from her lungs. The hammer slid across the dining room floor as she fell on top of him.

They wrestled with one another as Alex swiped at them each time they neared, never managing to get any skin. The boy laid prone on the floor, the stains of torn skin and blackened blood smeared on the hallway behind him. He lacked the strength to pull himself forward, but the feeding lust brought a climax of desire to his decayed face.

"Get off me," John said.

One good elbow to the face broke him free. He got up on his hands and knees as Angela fell off him. He crawled across the floor and grabbed the hammer. She was on his back before he could turn around, her weight slamming him to the floor. She grabbed a handful of his hair and smashed his face against the hardwood. Twice more and John felt blood spurt from a gash over his right eye.

He clutched the hammer and swung it over his head. He missed several times but finally felt a solid strike. Angela let go of his hair, and he used the moment to force himself up. She attempted to hang on, but he felt her fall back. He got up to his knees and then to his feet. The shots to his head, courtesy of the hardwood floors, left him dizzy. He grabbed the back of a dining room chair to keep himself upright. Angela was down but moving. He had time to wipe the blood from his face before she ran toward him. He maneuvered around the table and shifted from side to side as she tried to come after him.

"This is crazy," he said, "look what you did to me."

"It's not crazy," she said. "This is love." Her eyes went toward Alex and back to him. "We are responsible for him. You were supposed to provide for us."

She jumped up on the table and stood there looking down at him with a wild, untamed stare. John was awestruck by the madness on her face. She growled some unintelligible ramble and held her arms out from her body. She leapt like an animal reaching for its prey. Her body struck John with full force, and they fell backwards, catching the rear of the couch and flipping over onto the living room floor. John was on top of her by chance and used all his strength to keep her arms pressed against the floor. The blood from the cut over his eye ran down his face and dripped onto hers.

"Just wait a damn minute," he said.

Angela fought for a few seconds and appeared to give up for a time. He wanted to reason with her. He wanted to tell her there was a way this was going to work out, but if there truly was, he couldn't figure out how they would do it. He looked into her eyes and found nothing of the woman he was in love with looking back at him. The dark pools staring at him were void of any emotion he could name.

"I don't know what we're going to do about Alex," he said and shook his head, refusing to look back at her eyes. "I don't know what I'm going to do about any of this. Everything's out of control." He could hear Alex moaning but couldn't see him. "My boy's gone; my wife's freaking lost her mind..."

Angela roared like an animal beneath him and then turned her hips and snatched an arm free. She sliced into his cheek with her fingernails and tried to push her way into his mouth, through his skin. John punched her in the face as hard as he could. His knuckles smashed into her jaw, and he felt her body go limp for a split second.

She managed to shake it off, carried on by her adrenaline and rage. She drove the palm of her free hand into his chin and snapped his head back. John's teeth smacked against one another with the impact of a car crash. He lost his balance and fell over, and Angela took advantage, scrambling to her feet. John gathered his bearings and leapt over the couch as she ran for the kitchen. He avoided Alex by inches, snapped up the hammer off the floor, and turned in time to see her reappear holding a knife.

"All right, bitch," he said as his stare hardened. "If this is what you want, come get it."

On cue, they ran toward one another both hollering at the top of their lungs. Angela took a swipe at him, the blade missing his mid-section by a hair. John let her hand go by and brought the hammer down as hard as he could. The metal mallet hit her wrist, and the bones snapped instantly. Her face soured in the blink of an eye, as she dropped to her knees trying to cradle her arm and hold onto the knife at the same time.

She fumbled with the knife as it slipped from her hand and slid across the floor. John's anger swelled in his chest as the fury of what she'd done fueled his actions. He grabbed a handful of hair and shoved his knee into her face. Angela gurgled as blood gushed from her nose. He pulled her off the ground with strength he did not know he possessed.

Eye to eye, they glared at one another, John through blinding hate and Angela from behind maddening pain. He shook her violently and her head snapped back. She tried to yell, but the blood from her broken nose drowned out the sound as it flowed down the back of her throat. Her arms swung like mangled flesh as her legs flailed.

"This is what you wanted," he said, screaming in her face. "You want to feed the boy, don't you?" Blood ran down over her teeth from her gapping mouth. John jammed his fist in her stomach and the impact thrust her body in the air. The blood exploded from her mouth, covering his face. He held her as she hung like dead weight, gasping for air. "You know what? I'm going to give you what you want."

He swung her around and tossed her to the floor. She landed like a sack of bricks, slapping her head against the wood in the process. Her eyes rolled back as she desperately tried to keep herself from blacking out. It wasn't until Alex wrapped both hands around her arm that she realized what was happening.

John's rage quickly subsided as he watched his undead son grab his wife. Her screams were buried beneath his rotting body as he pressed himself on top of her. She kicked her legs and reached for John as Alex opened his mouth wide. John instinctively took a step forward but then stopped himself. The first bite tore into her cheek and the next went into her throat.

♦

It was nearly dawn. The horizon was pale blue and the night's sky was losing its grip. The morning air was cold and gusts of wind brought shivers. There was an eerie silence across the open field beyond the Mason house and the usual morning sounds of wildlife were missing.

John watched the horizon from outside his front door. He knew the government would return, this time with enough firepower to level the house and everything in it. He planned to be long gone before it came to that. The hunting trail was still the best bet and that was where he would go. He turned away from the sunrise and went back into the house. The living room was unrecognizable, resembling a scene from an eighties slasher film. He stepped over the remains of the coffee table and headed to his bedroom.

He made one last check around the house, ending in the dining room. He pulled the cigarette lighter from his pocket and crouched down to the floor. The pile in the middle of the room consisted of the remains of the dining room table, the clothes in Alex's closet, and whatever paper he could find in the house. He lit the paper around the edges of the pile and stood back to make sure the flames caught. He pulled a burning shirt from the center of the pile and headed for the door, dropping the shirt on the couch on the way out. A few seconds later, he was in the camper truck and the engine roared to life.

He pulled off the driveway and headed around the house, and the truck shifted on the bumpy ground. The hunting trail was a narrow dirt road and most of the trip would be as turbulent or worse. He heard the pounding coming from the camper as the weight shifted. John thought about Benkelman, Nebraska. It was the first town he'd reach after he crossed the state line. Benkelman was a farming community far off the beaten path. The folks there lived on large plots of land, distant from one another. They were big families built on hard work. Big families were what John was looking for. He turned the truck toward the overgrown path behind the house and knew the big families of Benkelman were what he needed because now he had two mouths to feed.

THE END

A preview of

THE LAST INFECTION

A Prequel to the Decaying World Saga

By

Michael W. Garza

1

There was fear in the little girl's eyes. Alicen was eight years old and at the moment, the only thing she wanted was not to be eaten. Her older brother Jake had one arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. The two kids were held up underneath a truck, their eyes focused on several pairs of feet moving in their direction.

Alicen and Jake's parents were close, but not close enough to help. The parking garage had several floors, but the Bradley family only made it to the second story before their pursuers caught up to them. The news had called the growing mobs the infected. Alicen and Jake heard terrible things from school and their friends. Some called the infected vampires because they wanted blood. Others called them biters because they chewed through your skin. Jake didn't know what to think. He only wished he hadn't heard all the stories that were stuck in his head.

"Don't let them get me," Alicen whispered.

Jake gave her as serious a look as he could muster and then shook his head. Both kids risked a glance underneath the blue SUV parked three stalls over. Their parents' pleading eyes stared back at them, shifting from the nearing pack of feet back to their children. Their mother was crying with both hands wrapped over her mouth trying to keep the noise from escaping. The horror on her face told the kids all they needed to know.

"I want Mama," Alicen said.

"Hold on," Jake said. "I told you we have to hide first." He spoke so low, he had to move his lips against her ears before she could hear him. "Please stay quiet."

There was nothing in Jake's twelve years that prepared him for what was happening. He'd spent the last few weeks terrified, held up in his family home as his parents tried to figure out what to do. The man on the news promised they'd find a cure and this would all be over soon. That was three weeks ago. A few days later, the news and every other channel went black. The family stayed in the house for a week without going outside.

"They're getting closer."

The horror in his sister's words pulled Jake's attention back to the advancing pack of people. He was thankful to only be able to see them from the knees down. The infected had an awful look about them, and they made unnatural lurching motions with their arms that scared the heck out of him. He hoped they would give up and move on thinking the family had gone farther up in the parking garage. As far as he knew, the infected couldn't smell any better than anyone else.

Jake counted about a dozen before he stopped. The erratic steps would have given away their nature, but the sporadic growls were an unmistakable sign of what they were. The group moved in a pack, first around a car, then down the lane. They were coming directly toward the kids. The anguish in their parents' eyes spoke volumes, but there was nothing they could do.

Jake felt Alicen shake and the violence of it rocked him. He urged her to bury her face in her hands. He didn't want her to see what was coming. He'd witnessed an attack with his dad at the grocery store, and the vision of that onslaught clung to him. Two men beat a woman as she tried to get in her car, and then before his dad could turn him away, they tore into her, biting at her neck. It scared him more when his dad wouldn't talk about it on the drive home. That was the first time he ever saw his father cry.

The pack was drawing closer and their guttural sounds grew louder. They were only a few cars away when Alicen raised her head. She looked first at Jake and then over at the nearing group. The shock in her eyes was evident, but Jake couldn't move fast enough to stop the yelp before it escaped her mouth. The infected stopped all at once and then, in an excited urge, raced forward.

The kids heard their mother scream, but it didn't stop Jake from reacting. A moment later, he was out from under the truck, pulling Alicen with him. He heard his father call him, but the full sight of the horde of infected rushing toward him froze his mind with fear. He didn't know what he was doing or where he was going, but he was running. He clutched his sister's hand with all his might and ignored her pulls to break free.

The two kids dashed between cars and trucks, breaking out into an open driveway as they passed rows of parked vehicles. A ravaging mad score of shrieks and bloodthirsty screeches echoed across the parking garage as the infected neared. Jake's heart beat wildly in his chest. He thought the organ might burst from his body at any moment. He heard Alicen's panting breath behind him and the weight of her resistance told him she couldn't keep up for much longer.

He searched frantically for any sign of help but found nothing. He dared not look at their pursuers even as the sound of their shoes smacking the pavement echoed all around them. Alicen cried out with an anguish of dread, inhuman to his ears. He felt his heart seize up as the terror of the moment consumed him all at once. The sound of his father's voice came over the noise in a rush.

"Over here."

There was an abrupt end to the trailing chorus of death. Jake risked a look over his shoulder without stopping to focus on what was going on. He saw a glimpse of his father, jumping up and down several rows away. He was yelling at the top of his lungs, saying things Jake would have been grounded the rest of his life for repeating.

Jake couldn't see his mother, but he could hear her cries. She was still calling out to her children, begging them to get away. His last sight was the full vision of the infected closing in behind him. The faces of the plague-ridden were as twisted and evil as their twitching limbs. Lifeless gray skin clung to their bodies, hanging over their bones. The bloodstains of their heinous acts covered the remnants of the clothes they wore, which was the only hint to who they were before they lost themselves to the madness. The front of the pack charged for the kids, hollering in some vile call, while the rest turned back for the parents.

"Run, Alicen, run."

The kids darted between two cars as the infected leapt over the vehicles after them. Outstretched hands swiped at Jake's head as he urged Alicen to move faster. The volume of screams swallowed them as the mob closed in. Alicen yelled and cried as terror consumed her. Jake was reduced to dragging her until the strength in his arm gave out. He stepped into an open driveway when Alicen's hand jerked free from his grip.

"Jake!"

The boy turned back and found several bodies diving over a parked car to get at the little girl. One of them had her by the hair, his body lying across the hood of the vehicle. Sheer panic urged Jake to run, but he found his courage and moved back toward his sister. He grabbed her arm as the first few infected hit the ground and got to their feet.

It was a female among them who had a hand around the back of Alicen's neck. Only a patchwork of hair remained of the woman's once long-flowing locks. Gouges in her head revealed bloody wounds and fragments of skull. Her mouth was open, showing teeth stained in an amber hue. Her free hand clawed at the little girl's neck, drawing blood as she leaned in to bite.

Jake pulled back and threw the first punch of his life he'd ever thrown in anger. His fist caught the woman on the bridge of her nose as she leaned in, and it split the decaying dull skin open in an awful gash. The hit was enough to release her grip, and Jake smashed his hand down on the remaining clutched hand and then pulled his sister away. The rest of the infected mob was on them as he turned to run.

The kids dashed down the last open driveway between the cars with their pursuers close behind. The edge wall of the parking structure was directly ahead and coming fast. The concrete barricade rose several feet from the floor, leaving the rest of the way up to the ceiling open to the outside air. The moon loomed large in the distance, its light revealing the outline of adjacent buildings. A cool wind whisked through the opening as a reminder of the long cold winter ahead.

A flash of movement pulled the kids' attention from the outside view. Their parents were running for their lives on the adjacent driveway between the parked cars. Jake could see his mother was bleeding. Scarlet spots stained her shirt as a fresh flow poured down the side of her head. The boy cried as the weight of the moment pressed on his young mind. His dad urged him to continue running as he slowed, trying to keep his wife moving.

The kids reached the edge of the parking structure, and Jake forced his sister to climb. The infected closed in as he pushed on her backside to get her up on the thin ledge of the barricade. He grabbed the edge, once she was steady, and then he jumped and pulled himself up the rest of the way. He sat down on the ledge and discovered the infected only a few feet away. The full ferociousness of their gnashing teeth and ripping clutches froze him stiff.

It was a final yell from his father that shook Jake free. The man rushed between the cars and leapt at the infected, throwing himself at them. The infected turned their attention on him, ripping into his skin. Jake used the time bought from his father's sacrifice to act. He peered over the edge into a dark alleyway, then grabbed his sister and pushed. The girl's shrill scream echoed all the way down until she landed in a dumpster two stories below.

Jake never looked back for his parents. He knew he would never see them again. He angled himself, slipping his legs over the edge, and then pushed off. A rush of cold washed over him as the sensation of falling hit the pit of his stomach. The impact was hard, but he couldn't find anything broken.

A quick search revealed Alicen already out in the alleyway. Jake jumped out and grabbed her hand. The girl's eyes were swollen and red. Jake pulled her close and forced her to look at him.

"Stay close to me, you hear?" The little girl nodded and tightened her grip on his hand. "No matter what, you never let go."

The kids started off toward the street, forced to listen to their parents' dying screams echoing from up above.

2

The shifting movement was a dead giveaway. The sunlight only reached the nooks and crannies of the long-abandoned mall. There was never enough light. Staying inside for too long would only ensure an untimely demise. They would either get to you or you'd starved to death; one of them was a sure thing. You had to keep moving, and at the moment, Chris was trying to do precisely that.

He swore under his breath. He'd let down his guard and fallen asleep in what was a sporting goods store before the infection. The mistake left him trapped with only one way out into the rest of the mall. The quad outside the entryway was crawling with a group of infected. He'd counted two dozen, but more were coming. Their quick twitching movements identified their infliction at once.

Chris adjusted his grip on his newly acquired aluminum bat as he readied himself to move. Experience told him waiting was not an option. In time, they would figure out how to get into the store, and he wouldn't survive against a mob of that size. His only chance was to get out in the open, and by the sounds of their growing howls, his window of opportunity was shrinking.

The main entrance was a suicidal choice and he knew it. He'd survived this long by thinking outside the box, and his next move needed originality. Chris slid the bat between the pull strings on his backpack and tied it off. He pulled the backpack into place and grabbed the base of the clothing stand he was currently hiding behind. The remaining assortment of Colorado Rockies apparel was the only thing keeping him hidden.

In one quick motion, the clothing stand came off the ground. Chris rushed forward, trying to keep the metal stand level long enough to accomplish the task he had in mind. He rushed the tall window farthest from the store's entrance, and with one final thrust, he pushed it toward the glass. Chris felt the impact through a fierce vibration in his hands, and the blow nearly knocked him off his feet. To his shocked horror, the window splintered but didn't break. The sound, however, drew all of the attention of the infected in the quad directly toward him.

"Crap."

Chris didn't consider his options. He managed to lift the stand up and rush forward. The metal tip hit the center of the pane of glass, this time breaking through with a resounding crash. He dropped his makeshift lance, dashed through window, and picked up speed as he headed toward the escalators beyond the quad. The erupting sound of bloodcurdling cries echoed across the long vacant shopping center as the infected rushed after him.

Chris risked a look over his shoulder and discovered his initial head count was woefully low. The mob rushed after him in a loose gaggle, their sole focus on his beating heart. The clothing that once defined their place in life now clung in various states of disrepair, most stained with blood that hinted at a hellacious end. It was the blood they craved, that much everyone was sure, but it was the why and the how that was never answered before the breakdown came.

The infected were fast, not like the zombies they became after death. The speed made them truly terrifying. Chris could outrun a horde of undead, but the infected was a whole other matter. The infected were still technically alive, and they retained their physical attributes as long as they fed. If the government discovered how or why the transformation happened, it never made it out into the public before everything went dark.

Flipped tables and broken chairs littered the food court. The smell of rotted produce permeated everything. The cages covering the food stalls were bent and battered from when the first of the rioters broke in. The stench of the dead was all around. Similar gathering places had been a feeding ground for the first of the infected when the breakout started. Those who could still control themselves in the first stages of the disease willingly sought out the blood of others.

Chris dodged the clutter as his eyes swept across the way ahead. He would have to make it to the first floor, and the escalator he'd climbed upon his arrival was the closest option. He didn't know what would be waiting for him at the bottom. The sounds reverberating through the open space told him all he needed to know about his pursuers. They were gaining on him.

He would have been furious with himself if he had the time to think about it. He'd survived on his own for eight long months and most of that time with little or no help from anyone else. No one made it that long by making mistakes. The only reason he was in the mall in the first place was thanks to a habit he'd been forced to kick. At least he thought he'd kicked it.

The guy who used to manage the sporting goods store turned Chris on to a dealer. Why in the hell he thought the guy would still be held up in the store was beyond him. Addiction was a funny thing. He'd run out of smack three months after everything went to hell. Detoxing alone in the basement of an apartment building was enough to make him want to die. Now that he was clean, dying was something he wanted to avoid.

His legs cramped and his lungs burned. He hadn't eaten much in two days and the strain on his body was showing in his strength. Long shadows of the infected reached out along the walls around him. They were close now and he didn't have the energy to push himself to move faster. Their panting breath replaced the sounds of their blood lustful shrieks. They were right on top of him and he knew it.

The way ahead parted and a glimpse at freedom revealed itself. The escalator had long lost the power to move, but it offered a chance to reach the first floor. The hint of escape was short lived as a powerful grip took hold of his backpack. Chris was nearly brought to a standstill.

He made one last attempt to get away and drove his feet into the ground. Chris spun his body, sliding his arms out of the backpack straps as he turned. He managed to catch the bat midair and then pull free. He was running again, the sight of the infected fresh in his mind. There were more of them than he had ever seen at once and his heart raced as panic took full control of his mind.

Chris took a giant leap and landed on the divider between the escalators. A few unsteady steps forced him to sit and try to slide the rest of the way down. He reached the midway point when the figures at the bottom of the escalators came into view. Their arms slashed violently in every direction as their senses picked up on him. There were two infected, both women, made obvious by their exposed chests. Gashes from ripping fingers left an opening in one's mid-section and the other looked to have lost most of the tissue around her jaw.

They ran directly at him. Chris reached the bottom and leapt from the base of the escalator's divider. His momentum angled him over the outstretched hands of his welcoming party, but the fall beyond slammed him into a bench. The impact knocked the wind out of him, but he had the presence of mind to keep moving. A strong grip took hold of his shirt from behind, and instinctually, he turned, swinging the bat with vicious intent. A quick smash broke the limb at the forearm, but the jawless woman took little notice of the pain. Her eyes were covered with the haunting jaundice shade of the infection, and she would not be denied her meal.

A deafening roar of bloody desire raced down the escalator as the crowd of trailing infected poured downstairs. Chris brushed the broken arm aside and sent his heel to the center of the woman's chest. He made contact between her exposed breasts and the bone buckled. Her howls were reduced to gargling drool as she collapsed. The second woman stepped on her fallen companion's face as she lunged at Chris. He caught her with her feet off the ground, hitting her square in the nose with his fist. Blood splattered as her face was reduced to a broken mess.

Chris focused on the corridor leading away from the atrium. A breeze hit him in the face, promising a way out. He reached another descending set of stairs before he realized where he was. The main exit to the mall, as best he could remember, was not far away, and the sounds of the throng chasing after him didn't give a moment to spare.

He started for the exit as the wave of infected reached the top of the stairs behind him. He kept his bat at the ready until he reached the boarded glass doors. Chris wiggled his way between the barricaded exits and then edged underneath the chain lock he'd avoided on the way in. The sunlight hit him full force as the heat of a clear Denver day engulfed him. The massive parking lot beyond the entrance was riddled with lifeless cars.

Chris caught a sound in the air in between the howls of the infected rushing for the doors behind him. The moans of the walking dead were clear to his trained ears. Any infected not disposed of properly would end up among the scattered shambles moving toward the mall entrance in between the rows of vehicles. They moved with slow purposeful steps. Their wretched wails brought with it an engrained terror. Chris kept moving. He'd survived the morning, but there was no promise he'd live to see tomorrow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael W. Garza often finds himself wondering where his inspiration will come from next and in what form his imagination will bring it to life. The outcomes regularly surprise him, and it's always his ambition to amaze those curious enough to follow him and take in those results. He hopes everyone will find something that frightens, surprises, or simply astonishes them.
