

This one's for you, Shortie.

Without you, these books wouldn't have the depth, the flow... the snarkiness...

Without you, I probably would have stopped writing years ago.

Most importantly, without you this would be a lot less fun.

Thank you.

ALSO BY MATTHEW KEITH

WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT

THE RISE OF INDICIUM

THE FALL OF ASTRALIS

DREAMPIRE

SHIMMER

SWAY

UNTIL THEN DREAM AGAIN

OUTPOST

VOLUME ONE

MATTHEW KEITH

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

Copyright © 2016

Editor: Karen Bauer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system without the written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

PART I

RUN

Two Years  
After the Great Rains

1.

They inched forward cautiously, their thick-soled boots crunching noisily over the hard, dead earth. Justin counted three bodies under the net—human bodies. He tightened his grip on his shotgun, his heart racing.

This was the fourth and final trap of the day. The other three had been blessedly empty, and Justin would have been perfectly happy if this one had been too; scavenging food and supplies was dangerous enough without any added surprises. Out here there was always the danger of injury, dehydration, heat stroke... and that was on the good days—days when you were lucky enough not to come across another living soul.

But days like this one, days when these captured drifters were found tangled up in their nets, that's when scavenging became positively deadly.

Justin could hear his scav partner, Richard, breathing beside him—the labored sound of an overweight body flooded with adrenaline—and he lost focus for a moment, annoyed. How could anyone still be so fat after two years of barely scratching up enough food to survive?

Stay on task, he berated himself inwardly, stay focused.

No matter how much his obnoxious partner agitated him, they were a team. Out here it was just them. One wrong move, one moment of mistrust or doubt, and they could easily wind up dead.

"You think it'll hold?" Justin eyed the net, stopping a few feet away.

"Doesn't have to for long." Richard's reply was a muffled grunt, the bandana over the lower half of his face stifling the words.

Typical, Justin thought with an inward roll of his eyes. He respected and at times, he even liked his portly partner, but Richard never committed to anything unless he absolutely had to.

Richard was short, squat, and bald, like a passed-over linebacker who'd gotten old and too far out of shape. He was loud, obnoxious, and smelled pretty bad most of the time. He'd been Justin's scav partner for more than three years, and although there wasn't a day that passed when Justin didn't want to strangle his malodorous coworker for some foul-mouthed comment or general lack of decency, Richard was solid. Justin knew his partner had his back.

Turning in a slow circle, Justin scanned the horizon until his gaze landed back on the net and the bodies beneath it. "Only three," he noted. "There's always been more before."

Richard grunted again. Justin had no idea what it meant because he couldn't see Richard's face behind the bandana and the wide, tinted ski goggles he wore. Not that removing them would have helped—Richard's reply to almost everything was a grunt. Sometimes his grunts meant yes, sometimes no. Most of the time it simply meant he didn't want to answer.

Justin pulled his bandana down and lifted his goggles, wiping a dirt-coated sleeve across his sweaty face. The goggles kept fogging up, the moisture from his perspiration steaming the inside of the lens. They were unbearably hot, but a necessity against the harsh winds and heat. Two years ago, the Great Rains had killed nearly every living thing. As a result, what used to be the lush, green countryside of central Kentucky was now a barren, rocky wasteland, a scorching hot dustbowl under daily attack by an unrelenting sun, even during the winter months. It almost never rained, not anymore. When it did rain—not the poisonous, disease-ridden kind that had wiped out the planet, just plain old H2O—it only lasted for a few minutes. The ground soaked up the water so quickly and greedily that nothing ever had a chance to take root. Even the soil near the few lakes that remained was barren, the water so toxic that it killed any chance of creating life. What was left was hard, dry dirt that seemed to stretch on for an eternity.

No one could last more than an hour outside without a pair of goggles over their eyes, not with the hot, scorching winds that carried so much dust.

One of the bodies under the net shifted. Justin hastily covered his face again and swung his shotgun up.

Not that a shotgun would do much against these people—if they even were people.

Justin gave his partner a tense nod and they took a step forward, together.

Richard rolled his wide shoulders, the pack and the shovel strapped to his back rattling noisily. He leaned forward and peered down at the closest body. "Yeah, we got some," he reported grimly. "It's them." He took a deep, loud breath through his nose.

The things under the net were alive, awake and alert. Justin could see the rise and fall of their chests. Occasionally one or another of them moved an arm or leg, but they made absolutely no effort to escape.

They stared silently up at the sky, as if they'd been patiently waiting for Justin and Richard to arrive. They didn't beg or plead or curse their defiance, which was exactly what Justin and Richard expected. In fact, Justin would have been shocked to hear them speak at all. As far as anyone knew, these things—these people—no longer had the ability. But he was surprised that they weren't trying to attack or escape. In the past, the ones they caught had always struggled to get free.

"This is so messed up," Richard growled. "As if everything else wasn't enough, now we're dealing with these... what... I don't even know what to call them."

But he did know what to call them. So did Justin, and so did everyone back at Outpost, the small settlement where their group of survivors had banded together to form a community. No one actually wanted to say the words "zombie" or "vampire" but they were all thinking it.

Justin looked over his shoulder, back toward home. Of course he couldn't see it; he and Richard had already walked more than ten miles that morning. And even if he could see the city, he wouldn't be able to see Outpost. It was only a single block, walled off from the rest of the town. It was smack dab in the middle of what used to be Elizabethtown, Kentucky, a city that now looked exactly the same as anywhere else Justin had been since the Great Rains: vacant, the streets lined with the empty shells of houses and businesses that held nothing but death and disease.

When the Great Rains had fallen, it seemed as if the world and nearly everything it contained had been killed, humans included, maybe humans specifically. If their community was any indicator of the numbers, less than half of one percent of the world's population was still alive. No children had survived. They had sickened and then died, their immune systems unable to win the fight, no matter how their families tried to save them. To Justin, it seemed like the animals had lasted longest. In fact, for all he knew there were still plenty out there. Maybe they'd been smart enough to high-tail it away from the places people still lived. Certainly there was enough space for them now, and it wasn't like anyone did a lot of long-distance wilderness traveling to find out.

Humans, on the other hand, hadn't had a chance to run. There'd been nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from the storms.

The Great Rains had begun in the spring, a time of year when thunderstorms and tornadoes were common-place in Kentucky. No one thought anything of it when the clouds rolled in, not in this part of the country. The weather forecasters had barely blinked an eye.

Even when the storms expanded to cover the majority of the world's continents, still the weathermen and meteorologists were unfazed. A little excited, maybe—they called it an anomaly, a global version of 'the perfect storm.'

None of them could ever have suspected that what fell from those clouds carried within it one of the deadliest diseases known to man.

On the fourth day, when the rains still hadn't stopped and the World Health Organization officially declared an outbreak of Ebola in Chicago, everyone finally blinked.

By the morning of the fifth day, seven more major U.S. cities were added to the list. The day after that, every city in the world made the list.

Only six days to declare the global outbreak of a disease that typically took over a week to even begin showing symptoms. There was never a discussion of containment. There wasn't time. The human race was helpless, at the mercy of an indiscriminant, microbe-sized killer, and all they could do was pray while they waited for it to take its course. Every country wanted to blame some other country, calling it a terrorist attack of epic proportions. But with no one taking responsibility and so many millions of people sick or dead, there was never a single missile launched.

To say the world ended with a whimper would be a gross understatement. Hospitals were filled to capacity in a matter of days. Not that it really mattered—by the time they knew they were sick, most people were too weak to get to one and there was no one to take them because everyone they knew was sick too.

For Justin, who at the time had been nineteen and still living in his parent's basement apartment, the immediate shift from dependence to independence that the Great Rains forced on him was almost as hard as losing his mom and dad. He had done two semesters at college, but that had been the only time in his life he'd ever had to worry about taking care of himself, and he didn't like it. His mother had always told him that as far as she was concerned, he could live with them forever.

And that was exactly what he had planned to do. Live in their basement, play video games, and ignore the world. He made enough money working at the dollar store to cover spending cash for beer, junk food, and the occasional night out. His parents took care of the rest. Just before the world went to hell, they'd talked about making him pay rent, but he'd known that's all it was—just talk. They'd take care of him for as long as he let them.

Justin let out a quick puff of irony-filled air, and twisted his lips.

"Hey," Richard's gritty voice brought Justin back to the moment.

"This sucks," Justin sighed.

"Better than dealing with it on our front doorstep," Richard leaned over the net and lifted his bandana with two fingers, spitting on the nearest body. It didn't react.

Richard was right. Outpost wasn't much, just a small jumble of buildings that surrounded the old courthouse in the center of what had been the oldest part of town—the dead part, as people used to call it. 'Downtown is dying,' they'd say. 'Nobody goes there anymore.' Now it was the only place people lived at all.

Outpost wasn't paradise, not by a long stretch, but it was all they had and that made it worth protecting. No electricity, no running water, but lots of personal space if you wanted it because there weren't enough people to fill all the apartments and homes, even in that small area. The main thing was that it was safe, or at least as safe as any place could be. After the Great Rains there weren't a lot of places to go, and the ones that existed, well... Justin had heard stories. People, in general, weren't very welcoming anymore. Now, it was survival of the fittest. The human race had been forced to change and adapt to the new world, and they'd changed fast because they had to. Those that didn't adapt, died. Unfortunately, the fittest were usually the meanest, unafraid to do whatever it took to stay alive. Justin felt more than a little lucky to have found Outpost. The man in charge, Bill "Sarge" Anders, welcomed anyone who was willing to pitch in. He saw to it that as long as you contributed your fair share, you were taken care of.

When Anders had first begun assigning jobs, Justin was only too happy to volunteer for scav duty. Having only worked at the dollar store before the Great Rains, he didn't have any real skills to offer. He'd always been the solitary sort, never comfortable in crowds, so even though it was the most dangerous job in the community Justin felt lucky to have it because he spent the majority of every day with just one other person.

Until recently, that is. Until these strangers began showing up in the area. There hadn't been any drifters—the generic label they attached to people who wandered up to their front gate—in a long time. In fact, Justin was sure it had been over a year since they'd seen a new face. No one knew for sure what that meant, but it was generally accepted that it couldn't be good. Was the human race dying out completely? Were people just too afraid to venture out anymore? In Justin's hometown, which had been about twenty miles from Outpost, he hadn't seen a single other survivor. As far as he knew he was the only one. What did that make the odds? One in a hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? Maybe there was no one else anymore; maybe Outpost was all that was left.

There had been some talk of sending scouts to Louisville. If there were more people they were bound to be in places where there had been a larger population, but it got voted down at a community meeting. Too dangerous, everyone said. Even if they found people there, who knew if they would be friendly? It was already hard enough to scrounge up enough food to keep everyone fed. What if they found others who were even worse off for supplies than they were? Better to eke out a living at Outpost where they knew it was safe. If there was still a government somewhere, if the world was going to find a way to put itself back to rights, it would have by now. This was it, they'd said. This was the way it is.

But then, a little over a month ago, Justin and Richard had unexpectedly stumbled across fresh tracks—human tracks. Footprints in the dirt where there should have been none. Two days later, one of the scav patrols was attacked out near the old army base. Only one member of the patrol, Ruben, had made it back to Outpost alive. The story he told, no one believed, at least not at first.

Men with eyes like blackened steel had attacked Ruben and his partner, men who were inhumanly strong. They'd grabbed his partner, pulled him to the ground and held him while one of them knelt down and bit into his neck. After that, they'd grabbed him by the heel and pulled him away, dragging him through the dirt with one arm as if he weighed no more than a small child.

It was over so quickly, Ruben had told them, he almost couldn't believe it had happened at all.

Why hadn't they attacked Ruben too? That was the first question everyone had asked.

He didn't know. He just didn't know. He'd ran and ran, never looking back, until he thought his heart would burst and then he'd ran some more, not stopping until he was outside the walls of Outpost.

The story was so outlandish, and Ruben so distraught, that almost everyone in Outpost believed he'd simply gone mad. He wouldn't have been the first, and no one would have held it against him. Plenty had lost their mind trying to cope with all that had gone wrong with the world. For some, it was just too much; especially those who'd lost children. After a brief discussion, the majority of the community believed there was a good chance Ruben had been the one who killed his partner, so Anders had made the decision to put him under house arrest, at least until they could figure out the truth.

A few days later another scav patrol spotted a group of drifters and they too were attacked. Once again, just one man was taken while the other was ignored—exactly the way Ruben had described it. A third patrol spotted the drifters the day after that, but they weren't attacked at all. The drifters had come at them, the people in the patrol said. They'd come racing toward them, inhumanly fast, but suddenly something had made them turn back at the last moment. Something made them change their minds, and they left without a word or gesture.

That night in Outpost, Anders had convened an emergency community meeting and the decision was made to set up the nets—traps for these roaming, cannibalistic marauders. If any were caught and resisted, they were to be killed immediately. If they were willing to talk, they were to be bound and brought to Outpost for questioning. The nets were a crude and basic solution, but everyone agreed; the simpler the better. They had plenty of materials, this was not a problem. In the new world, if you wanted something you just had to know where to find it and have the guts to go out and get it. The problem was that of the one hundred and fifty-eight people who lived inside the walls of Outpost, only six of them were the least bit mechanically inclined. Most of the rest were products of the world the human race had worked so hard to create. Lawyers, accountants, businessmen—were all useless occupations now. Four to six years of college that had once been invaluable was now worthless, wasted time. Justin could only imagine how awful it must be for those people, now. In some ways, they were much worse off than him—at least Justin never really knew what it was like to have anything in the first place.

They set up the nets in a wide radius, their main focus centered in the areas where the drifters had previously been seen. Most of the scavs, including Justin, had wanted to stop making runs completely, at least until the drifters were either caught or went away, but they couldn't—without regular scav runs, Outpost would quickly run out of supplies and its people would starve.

If they had gardens, if they could grow something—anything—the scav runs wouldn't be so essential, but the earth's soil was dry and dead. They'd tried, and they were still trying. Outpost had a ten-person team dedicated to finding a way, but in two years they'd had no success, mainly because there simply wasn't enough water available to coax the soil back to life. The precious little that was gathered when it rained was survival water, carefully rationed among the people to keep them hydrated. Any they'd been able to coax to the surface from digging wells had been contaminated.

Of the three water towers in the area, two were already bone dry and the third had less than half its supply remaining. It was emergency water, and they couldn't risk using it for experiments that might not yield results.

Unless there was some sort of breakthrough, Outpost's scavs were the most vital component to the people's survival. And because it was the only job that already included the risk of venturing long distances beyond the community's walls, the responsibility of checking the nets had fallen to them.

It had been less than two weeks since the nets were first set up, and this was already Richard and Justin's fifth catch. As they'd been instructed by Anders, they'd tried to communicate with their prisoners the first couple of times, but the strange, black-eyed people never spoke, forcing them to follow "plan b"—which was when they got their first up-close look.

The drifters all had two small, round scars on the left side of their necks, presumably where they had been bitten. As to whether they were truly unable to talk, no one knew. Outpost's only doctor, who'd only been an EMT before the Great Rains, suggested that their vocal cords might have been damaged so severely when they were bitten they'd lost the ability to speak, but it was just a guess. No one knew anything about the attackers for sure, except that they were dangerous.

Up until now, the only form of communication the drifters had displayed was a fierce aggression toward Justin. As for Richard, they ignored him completely in their frenzy to reach his partner. Even trapped under the net they'd been vicious, their arms reaching out as if driven by a primal need.

Faced with the futility of trying to communicate with their captives, Richard and Justin went straight for extermination, and that's when they had found out just how hard it was to kill them. They'd shot them, stabbed them in the gut, chest, and throat, and still the things had kept right on fighting. The one and only thing that took the life out of them was decapitation. It was like they were on drugs.

Or, as if they were vampires.

But today Richard and Justin's captives lay docile under the net, their black eyes open and staring up toward the sky as if they were enjoying a sunny day at the beach.

And for Justin, their lack of aggression was far more unnerving than if they'd leapt at him and attacked. Today, it was like they were waiting for something.

"We gonna get this done?" Richard asked bluntly.

Richard was right. Time was wasting, their packs were still light and it was already past noon. There was plenty of work to be done after they dealt with these drifters. People were counting on them to bring back food.

They shrugged out of their packs and set them in the dirt, rummaging inside for the tools they needed. Richard came out with a small sledgehammer, Justin with four long, thick, iron spikes.

They worked silently, Justin holding the spikes while Richard pounded them into the dirt at the four compass points surrounding the net. It was hot, sweaty work, especially for someone like Richard whose fastest pace was never more than a casual stroll.

Through it all, never once did any of the drifters so much as turn their head.

Richard stood, wiping his dirty hands off on the thighs of his already-filthy jeans. "That one." He pointed at the drifter he'd spit on. "We'll start with that son of a bitch." He stepped up next to the net, dangerously within reach. If the drifter wanted to, it could easily snag his ankle and pull him down. "You want to tell us who you are? Huh?" Richard swung a short, brutal kick into the drifter's ribs. It didn't react. "Didn't think so."

Richard looked over his shoulder at Justin. It was hard to tell with his face covered, but it looked like he was grinning, possibly even enjoying himself. Justin frowned, unsurprised. Richard had a mean streak a mile wide, which was probably the main reason Anders had assigned him to scav duty; to keep him away from Outpost as much as possible.

Muttering under his breath, Justin dug back into his pack and pulled out four lengths of nylon rope. He twisted the end of one into a slipknot and passed it to Richard, who bent down next to their captive. After a brief moment of hesitation, he looped it around one of the drifter's wrists and pulled the knot savagely tight. He tensed, expecting some sort of violent reaction, but nothing happened. The drifter just laid there, still and serene. Silent.

"Don't make no sense," Richard told Justin. "Why ain't he fighting? He's got to know what's about to happen."

Richard was right; this was way out of the ordinary. Every one of the other drifters they'd caught in the past had fought like it had overdosed on drugs. But these three, it was like they just didn't care.

Justin didn't reply, because he was just as confused as his partner. Instead, he took his end of the rope and looped it around one of the stakes in the ground, pulling it tight and tying it off. The drifter's arm was now fully extended toward the stake, like it was pointing right at it.

Richard was still bent down over the net. "You playin' possum with me?" he hissed. He leaned forward, hovering over their captive's face so that he could look him in the eyes.

"He's staring right back at me," Richard said. "At least I think he is. It's hard to tell with those eyes. He could be staring at my feet and I wouldn't know it."

Justin was starting to get a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Richard wasn't being careful. He was too close, practically begging to be attacked.

"Don't get so close, man," Justin warned tersely. "Use your head, be careful."

"He ain't gonna do anything." Richard was angling his head this way and that, as if he was looking for something in the drifter's face. "Man," Richard said disgustedly, "I never got a good, up-close look at their necks before. You should see these little pucker-marks where they got bit. It's nasty as hell." Richard leaned even closer, now just a couple of feet away. "It's all red and swollen. I think there's even still holes..."

"Hey," Justin threw the end of another length of rope at Richard's back. "Cut it out. Let's get this done." Richard was foolishly endangering himself, doing it on purpose like he had something to prove. But that's how Richard was: big, dramatic acts and proclamations so that everyone knew he was "the man." The people at Outpost might tolerate him with a lot of eye-rolling behind his back and quips when they thought he wasn't listening, but this wasn't Outpost. It was just the two of them out here, and this wasn't the time.

Richard turned his head and Justin could tell even behind the bandana and goggles that he was leering.

"Scared?"

Yeah. Justin was scared! The drifters had always chased him. Attacked him.

Finally, Richard snorted and clambered to his feet. He grabbed the rope, and stepped back two paces to a safe distance, out of reach. The drifter remained docile on the ground, never making a move.

"You worry too much," Richard scoffed, and went to work tying the rope around the drifter's other wrist.

The two of them repeated the process on both the drifter's ankles. When they were done, the drifter lay flat on his back, spread-eagle in the dirt with four ropes each tied to a different stake.

Justin made a careful circuit around their captive, plucking each rope like a banjo string to be sure it was taut.

"We good?" Richard asked. He went back to his pack and slid his shovel out of its loop. He carried it back toward the drifter like a walking stick, sharply digging its point into the dirt with each step.

"Are we good?" Richard asked again when Justin didn't answer right away.

"Why aren't they doing anything?" Justin asked. "They always fought against us before."

"Who cares?"

"Just doesn't seem right this time. They didn't do anything to us. They haven't even moved, not really."

"Are you kidding me?" Richard's voice dripped with condescension. "They been trying to kill you—you—every time we come across them, and what? You feel bad now?" Richard took a firm grip on the shovel, high on its handle with both his hands, and shook his fat, bald head disgustedly. "Get your head straight. What we're doing, it's been voted on. You know the rules—once it's been voted, that's the way it is, like it or not."

It had been voted on, and Justin had been one of the first ones to raise his hand in favor of killing the drifters on sight. It had been an easy choice after so many violent attacks. But this time it seemed more like an execution, like they were doing it without just cause. What if this was a group who'd split off from the rest, a peaceful group? If they couldn't talk, then they had no way to explain themselves, no way to protest their innocence.

"You got anything else to say?" Richard demanded, the shovel still gripped in his meaty, gloved hands.

Justin had plenty to say, but he knew nothing he said would matter. There weren't a lot of rules at Outpost, but the ones that there were, were written in stone. Any topic deemed important enough to bring in front the community for a vote became one of those rules, and once a vote had been cast, that was it. It was the way it is. Bill Anders was a fair man, a good man, but he tolerated absolutely no argument when it came to the rules. You could follow them or not follow them, it was your choice. But if you weren't going to follow them, you'd be doing it outside the walls of Outpost.

"No," Justin answered. "I'm good."

Richard grunted and swung a leg over the drifter, standing above his chest with a foot on either side. Slowly, as if with great care, he brought the shovel down to rest on the drifter's throat, the point digging into the center of its Adam's apple. Justin was sure his partner was grinning.

Still, the drifter made no move. He looked straight up at Richard, directly into his eyes. There was no malice, no fear. His face was relaxed, reticent, almost pitying, as if he were offering Richard his forgiveness.

And Richard didn't like it. A low growl rose from his throat, an angry, primitive sound. His arms flexed and he hopped up, savagely landing with both feet onto the back end of the shovel. With a wet, crunching sound the point of shovel was buried deep into the drifter's throat, nearly severing it in half. Richard teetered briefly, almost losing his balance and falling, and then hopped off the shovel back to the ground.

"Damn," Richard chuckled darkly. "Still haven't gotten all the way through one yet."

Disgusted, Justin averted his gaze. Just another reason why Richard was probably one of the foulest men he'd ever met. How could anyone make a game of killing another human being, especially when there appeared to be so few of them left?

The drifter made thick, gagging sounds deep in his throat, choking as his life drained away, black blood oozing out into the sand, his body convulsing in small, spastic jerks. The other two drifters lay still. The next-closest one lay less than a dozen feet from his dying comrade watching Justin and Richard almost casually, with no emotion. There was no way he could be unaware he was to be next, but he didn't make a sound, didn't make a move.

Justin could barely stand to listen as the drifter gurgled out his final seconds of life. "You going to finish it?" he asked.

"What for? He'll be dead soon enough."

Justin turned away and began pulling the stakes from the ground. When he had them all, he grabbed the sledgehammer from the ground where Richard had tossed it and went to work pounding them in around the next drifter.

Richard leaned on his shovel, watching Justin work, content to do nothing if he wasn't asked.

By the time Justin had pounded the last stake in, he was sweating all the way through to his jacket. Annoyed, uncomfortable, and angry at Richard for not helping, he stomped over to the now fully-dead drifter and loosened the ropes from its wrists, flinging them one at a time at Richard as he did.

"Somebody's in a mood." The way Richard said it made Justin even angrier.

"Just tie them off," Justin replied.

Aside from the sound of Richard's wheezing over his enormous girth, they worked in silence until the second drifter was spread-eagle in the dirt and tethered to the ropes like the first one.

Richard picked his shovel back up and straddled the drifter.

"Well?" he asked, his voice falsely solicitous. "Nothing?"

Justin didn't know if Richard was talking to him or the drifter, but by then he was so mad that he didn't trust himself to answer, and truth be told, the one he was most mad at was himself. He knew the rules. Richard wasn't doing anything he shouldn't be doing, and yet Justin was still condemning him for it. In the new world, decisions could no longer be about what was right or good or just. They couldn't be about following your conscience. Not anymore. The Great Rains had washed away those sentiments, taking that part of humanity from the human race. Decisions were now about one thing, and one thing only: survival. Outpost had been created and was maintained with that one goal in mind, and these drifters represented a clear threat to everyone who lived behind its walls.

So why did he feel like they were making such a huge mistake?

"Nothing," Justin finally replied, and turned away. He heard Richard say something under his breath and then heard the squeak of leather gloves tightening around the shovel handle.

And then there was a distinct pause, an odd silence.

Was Richard that sadistic? Was he drawing out the moment before the kill?

"If you're going to use a shovel to cut off my head, I'd appreciate you getting it right the first time."

Not Richard's voice.

Justin spun around just as Richard sprang from his position over the drifter, landing flat on his ass. He scrambled frantically backward, like a crab in the sand, the shovel still held firmly in his grip.

"Was that—?" Justin asked.

Inside his goggles, Richard's eyes were wide and spooked.

"Yeah," Richard said. His voice was shaking.

Justin couldn't remember a time, not once in the years they'd been working together, that he'd seen Richard scared. But Richard was definitely scared now.

"Yeah," Richard repeated breathlessly. "It was. No scars, man. No neck scars. No bite marks." He dropped the shovel beside him, his gloves making a sound as they pulled away from the tightly-held shovel handle. He pointed at the bound drifter. "And his eyes are silver." He turned sharply to Justin. "They're silver, man."

Justin hurried over and grabbed his shotgun, hastily training the barrel directly between the eyes of the drifter. Not that it should make any difference—the guy was bound by his ankles and wrists. He wasn't going anywhere.

"You got him?" Richard asked, back on his feet now and edging toward Justin and the safety of his own weapon. "You sure you got him?"

"I got him," Justin assured him.

"What about the other one? Are they both freaks?"

What a question. The ones that had jet black eyes, what—they weren't freaks? At least this one could talk. Justin skirted around the perimeter of the net for a look at the third drifter. This one was a woman, with jet black hair and eyes to match. She blinked once as she stared up at him.

"Black eyes," Justin reported, his heart hammering. He quickly moved back around the net to stand near Richard.

The silver-eyed drifter watched him silently, one side of his face in the dirt.

"You gonna shoot him or what?" Richard demanded, heading for his own shotgun.

Justin stared back into the drifter's eyes, waiting, wondering. If the drifter could talk, why hadn't he said something sooner?

Richard had his shotgun now. Justin heard the distinct sound of the safety being clicked off.

"Wait," Justin said. He hadn't taken his eyes off the drifter, but he could feel Richard's eyes on him.

"What are you talking about? Wait for what?"

Richard grabbed his partner by the forearm and pulled, forcing Justin to turn and look at him. "Hey!"

"He can talk," Justin said. "He's not like the rest. This changes everything. We need to know about these people. We need to know where they come from, how many there are, why they're attacking us—"

"Why they're attacking us?" Richard parroted incredulously. "Because they want what we have! They want to take our stuff, our home, our people. Are you stupid?"

Justin clenched his jaw.

"The vote was clear, man." Richard raised his shotgun again. "We don't get to choose, that's the rules."

The drifter still stared, his face impassive. If you ignored his wrists and ankles tied to the stakes, he looked comfortable, at peace, like a guy who'd just happened to decide to lie down and rest in the dirt. Justin had to force himself to break away from the intensity of the drifter's gaze. He reached out and put a hand on the barrel of Richard's gun, gently pushing it down. Richard wrenched it away with an angry grunt.

"Richard," Justin spoke in a low, quiet voice. "The vote was clear. We talk first, kill second. Anders is going to want to talk to him. If they talk, we're supposed to bring him back."

"Yes," the drifter said from the ground.

His voice was calm, conversational, maybe even a little sarcastic. He sounded normal, like any other guy Justin had ever met, which, to Justin, only accentuated the oddness of the situation.

"That sounds like a fine idea," the silver-eyed drifter said. "Take me to the guy in charge. I want to talk to him."

2.

"I say we waste him." Richard's voice was practically a hiss. They'd stepped away from the net, out of earshot. "I say we waste both of them and not say a damn word to anyone about it except that we killed a few more."

Justin looked back at the net. The drifter lay complacently on his back, his head turned toward them. He was already shaking his head 'no' before he faced Richard again. "You know that's not what we were told to do. You know Anders would want to talk to him."

Richard made a loud, frustrated grunt and threw his hands in the air. "So what the hell do we do?" he demanded. "Just drag him back with us? It's like eight or nine miles to Outpost, and you know as well as I do that it ain't an easy hike, even on a good day. I ain't carrying him all that way, and I ain't arguing about it every time he wants to slow us down." Richard scowled toward the net. "Look at him! From the look on his face, you'd think it was us under that net. For all we know, he's just stalling us and waiting for some of his buddies to show up!"

"He might be," Justin conceded. The same thought had crossed his mind, too. "But like you said earlier, it's been voted on. We have to follow the rules or it all breaks down."

Richard kicked the dirt, childlike, and stomped a few steps away, his back to Justin. Obviously for him, following the rules only applied when he agreed. Justin almost said more, but he and Richard had spent a lot of time together and he knew if he waited Richard would give in.

"Fine," Richard finally said. He turned back around, scanning the horizon. "Fine," he said again, like he was convincing himself he really was agreeing. "Let's get this done, then. It's bad enough we're coming back with only half a load of provisions." He scowled as he re-tied the bandana around his face. "I'm telling you right now—I don't like this. This is a bad idea."

"We need to know," Justin said stubbornly. "We need to know who they are, what they are, what made them this way."

"They're freaking cannibals!" Richard shouted. "That's all we need to know!"

"Something made them made them this way. Your eyes don't just turn black and you don't suddenly decide to start biting people, even now, even after everything that's happened." Stubbornly, he repeated, "We need to know. We need to find out what happened to these people because if it happened to them, it could happen to us too."

Richard's only reply was to scowl and turn away again, still scanning around them with quick, nervous jerks of his head. Justin left him there to fume, knowing it was a waste of breath to reason with him. Even when Richard knew he was wrong, he still didn't back down.

"We're taking you with us," Justin told the drifter as he approached the net. "We're going to take you to where we live so you can talk to the one in charge."

The drifter didn't so much as blink his strange, silver eyes.

"Do you understand?" Justin couldn't help raising his voice, as if he were talking to someone who didn't speak English. "We're trusting you. But if you do anything, if you try to hurt us, we'll—"

"What about his girlfriend?" Richard interrupted.

Justin jumped, startled. Richard had come up behind him unnoticed.

The question was a good one. There was still one other drifter alive under the net, and they certainly couldn't just let her go. If there was a larger group somewhere nearby, she was bound to go back to them for help. Even if these three had been completely alone, she might follow after them and attack.

"We stake her down," Justin said finally. "We tie her up and leave her here."

"So she can tell which way we went when more of her freaky friends show up? No way!"

Justin blew out a breath, frustrated. Richard made a good point, but he just couldn't see killing her, not if she wasn't trying to hurt them. They might not be normal people anymore, but they were people—weren't they? The silver-eyed drifter still stared up at him. Justin wished he would say something again, offer some sort of assurance or reason why they should let the woman live.

But the drifter didn't say another word. He just waited down in the dirt, patient and silent.

"Freaky," Justin murmured, echoing Richard's sentiment.

Richard blew a venom-filled breath, surprising Justin when he said, "Alright, whatever. We'll stake her. But it's on you if she gets away, and it's on you if she follows us back."

Justin wasn't sure what he'd said or done to make Richard give in, but it was good enough for him. They went to work fastening the ropes around the female's ankles and wrists, tying her so tight that there was no way she could get loose on her own.

"If anything, it's a show of good faith that we aren't killing her," Justin said when they were finished, shrugging into his pack for the long walk back.

"Yeah," Richard agreed drily. "Absolutely. Nothing says we're the good guys like killing one guy, abducting another, and then tying the last one down and leaving her for the vultures."

Justin almost pointed out that they hadn't seen any birds for years, but Richard was already shoving the silver-eyed drifter in the back.

"Let's go," Richard ordered. "Move!"

They had looped a rope around the drifter's neck like a leash, the intent being to keep him as far ahead of them as possible without ever losing sight of him.

"Stay in front of us and don't slow down," Richard commanded. "And don't think for a second there aren't two shotguns pointed at your back."

Justin pulled his goggles down and settled them into place.

Things were about to change. He could feel it.

The Great Rains had already turned the world on its head and shaken it until it was barely recognizable, but somehow Justin was sure the rains had only been the beginning. These black-eyed drifters, they didn't just appear from nowhere. Whatever made them into what they were would surely find a way to make more. It didn't matter how many of them were trapped and killed by their scav teams—they'd keep coming. He was sure of it.

He lifted a booted foot to follow after Richard, but at that exact moment a gust of hot wind blew hard against him. It was strong enough to push him back a half-step, as if urging him not to follow them back to Outpost.

He closed his eyes and sighed. If that wasn't the world giving him a sign, nothing was. But he didn't believe in omens, he couldn't even if he wanted to. Maybe if the world hadn't become what it was, maybe if he'd had a chance to be a kid a little longer, but there was no room for that now. Now the world was harsh, real, and brutal. You pulled your weight, you didn't daydream, and you certainly didn't look for meaning in the way the wind blew.

Twenty-three years old. That's how old he was. At least, that's how old he thought he was. With no change in the seasons anymore, it was hard to mark the passage of time. At Outpost, there were those whose job it was to keep track of the calendar and chronicle the community's life. From them, Justin knew it was generally agreed that the Great Rains had occurred a little over two years ago.

Justin sighed. Twenty-three, twenty-two, twenty-four—what difference did it make? Commemorating another year of life almost seemed like an affront to all those who'd died, like bragging because he'd been 'one of the lucky ones.' Justin knew his parents would never want him to feel guilty for being alive, but he couldn't help feeling like he should have died with them.

Why him? Why had he survived and so many others died? Was he just the winner of a cosmic lottery? No omen or meanings there just luck. Or maybe unluck.

No one celebrated the passing of a year anymore. Birthdays used to be such a big deal in Justin's family, but thinking back on it now the tradition seemed so wasteful and self-serving. He and his sister had always had an entire day devoted to them, their very own special day. They'd looked forward to their birthdays even more than Christmas.

Now, instead celebrating each year, it was about getting through each day. Life had become like a twelve-step program. You took it one day at a time, because that's the best you could do.

Justin looked back at the black-eyed woman staked down in the dirt, bound so tightly she couldn't even bend an elbow.

That's how we cope, now, he thought. That's how we survive. One day at a time.

He lifted his foot to follow and waited, but this time the wind kept its opinion to itself.

* * *

They'd been walking south for over an hour, right down the center of Dixie Highway, the main road leading into Elizabethtown. It was a wide, five-lane stretch of cracked pavement covered with a thin, dry layer of dirt that was always in motion from the ceaseless winds that blew across it. Before the rains, this had been the most-used road in the county. Now, scavs from Outpost were the only people who used it.

At least, as far as they knew they were the only ones.

Most of the vehicles that had been abandoned after everyone died had been long-since pushed to the side and out of the way. Justin and Richard had been among those who'd pitched in so long ago with that back-breaking work, busting out windows and forcing the carcasses of long-abandoned vehicles into neutral just to push each one a few feet in order to open up the lanes. Back then, the hope had been that they were providing better access for emergency transport and personnel. That had been a long time ago, back when there'd still been some shred of collective optimism regarding the future of mankind.

The silver-eyed drifter hadn't lagged, hadn't complained, and hadn't spoken. He just kept going, changing direction when Richard told him to, and trudging onward when no instruction was given.

Richard never ceased scanning the horizon, constantly on guard for any sign of pursuit. Surprisingly, he'd stopped complaining about the decision to bring the drifter with them. If this had been any other walk home from a scav run Justin would have counted his blessings to have Richard quiet, but today it just made him nervous. If Richard wasn't bitching, it meant he truly believed they were in danger, and they still had over five miles left to go.

They walked in a single file line, the drifter in front, Justin bringing up the rear. Richard was between them holding the drifter's leash, his shotgun cradled in the crook of his left arm, the barrel pointed directly at their captive.

Dixie Highway. Justin hadn't been on this road since the day he left home. Just ahead, he knew the road would fork in two directions. Both ways ultimately led back to Outpost, and although he knew one way was shorter, Justin wanted nothing to do with it. He'd have happily walked another ten miles to avoid it.

"Hey," Justin called ahead to Richard, "let's take the long way."

Richard had already been heading for the shorter route. He gave a sharp jerk on the rope leash and the drifter obediently stopped moving.

"Why?" Richard's shoulders slumped and he didn't bother to turn around. The disdain in his voice made it clear what he thought of the idea, and Justin knew his partner's patience was already razor-thin. "That's almost a mile longer."

"Yeah I know it's longer, but..." Justin frowned. "Look, I'd rather just go the other way."

Richard turned and lifted his goggles, squinting against the sun. "Why?" he asked again flatly.

Because that's where my sister is.

Most of the people at Outpost liked to talk about their families. Justin figured it probably helped ease their pain to remember those they'd loved and lost. But that's not how it worked for him. Every time he thought about Gracie it only made him angry. Talking about her was even worse—it made him want to lash out and do stupid, impulsive things.

And in this new world, stupid and impulsive got you killed.

So he kept his pain private, kept her memory tucked away in the deepest part of his heart. It was only on the worst of nights that he allowed those memories to surface and when they did, the despair was worse than any other pain he'd felt since the Great Rains.

It would be far too easy to allow himself to wallow in those feelings, let them consume him, change him. He wasn't going to do that. Not today, not with all that was at stake. And besides, Gracie had made him promise.

"I just don't want to go that way," the words came out fast when he finally replied, and he knew he probably sounded angry or rude.

Richard was still squinting. He looked back at the drifter. Justin already knew the answer before Richard faced him again.

"I ain't risking my life out here any longer than I got to," Richard said flatly, and Justin knew there would be no changing his partner's mind for a second time today. "We're going my way." Without waiting for an answer, Richard began walking again. He shoved the drifter hard in the back with the heel of his hand. "Move!"

Justin felt a sudden rush of wild, irrational rage, but pushed it back down almost as quickly. He stood in the middle of the road, clenching and unclenching his fists, and forced himself to relax.

It wasn't Richard's fault. Richard didn't know anything about Gracie. How could he? No one knew, because Justin had never so much as spoken her name to anyone at Outpost.

Two Years Ago

When the Great Rains came, in the very first days when people started getting sick, Justin barely paid attention. He stayed cloistered in his dark basement bedroom, headphones on and video game console running. He had an awareness of what was happening outside; his parents watched the news, and the internet was flooded with images and videos of sick people. But that's as far as his involvement went—awareness. Justin wasn't going to let himself be personally affected by it, and why should he? Like every other catastrophe the world had ever faced, it would come and go and people would move on. "They" would take care of it, and he couldn't care less who "they" were, as long as "they" left him to do as he pleased.

But then his mom and dad had gotten sick, both of them on the exact same day.

He never saw them again after that; he just heard them through their bedroom door, a door they must have barricaded with the dresser or the bed to keep him and Gracie from coming in.

He couldn't see them, but he could hear them just fine. He heard his mother's awful retching and his father's deep, gurgling cough followed by an unending barrage of drier coughs.

From behind the closed door, his mom had insisted he take Gracie to his Aunt Pam's house in Elizabethtown. Just take her and go, don't worry about them. She and his father would follow once they got better. Aunt Pam would take care of him and Gracie until then. The important thing was that they get out of the house so they didn't get sick too. No questions, no arguing. Don't stay for another second, not while she and Dad were in the house and sick.

Gracie had been so scared by the awful noises coming from their parent's room that she hadn't even questioned it when Justin told her to pack a bag. She'd been eleven years old—young enough to still act like a child most of the time, but old enough to be stubborn and put up a good argument when she felt like it, which to Justin seemed like always.

But not that day. When he emerged from his room with two suitcases, one jammed full with his games and game console and the other half-full with his clothes, he found Gracie waiting at the front door with three suitcases of her own.

"Gracie..." Her suitcases weren't even zipped all the way closed because they were so full.

"Don't worry about it," she'd told him primly. "Aunt Pam won't want to do more laundry so it's good if I bring extra."

Justin was on the verge of arguing, but he figured his sister was right—Aunt Pam was the one who would have to worry about it, not him.

"You're carrying them to the car," he told her.

Gracie was already raising her voice to argue when he yanked open the front door, but the wave of sound and heat that assaulted them silenced her. Outside, it was worse than they ever could have imagined.

They lived just outside of town in a small neighborhood that was nothing more than a horseshoe-shaped connected at either end to the main road. It was a quiet street, a good place for kids to grow up where they could ride their bikes without fear of ever seeing enough traffic to make Mom and Dad worry.

But today it looked like a war zone.

The rain was so heavy it sounded like an entire brigade marching across the roof and hood of the car. The light outside was dim and tinged red from the clouds overhead, like nothing they'd ever seen before. Justin had looked out the window plenty of times over the past few days, but now that he was about to step out into it, it frightened him awfully.

Out in the street, garbage and personal belongings were scattered everywhere, like a giant trash bin full of people's stuff had been upended somewhere high above the clouds. There were even cars left in the road, doors wide open, abandoned.

Who just leaves their car in the middle of the road?

"Justin?"

He looked down at his sister. She had slipped her hand into his. He hadn't noticed. She moved closer, an instinctive desire for protection.

"Maybe we shouldn't go," she said, staring out at the rain.

Gracie's idea sounded just fine to Justin. There was no way they could take the car. They might get out of the driveway, but the road was so full of clutter, that's about as far as they'd get. It looked like the start of the apocalypse out there and it was almost twenty miles to Aunt Pam's house. How long would that even take if they tried to walk it? All day? A couple days?

He remembered whispering, "Don't be afraid," and wondering if he'd been talking to Gracie or himself, and that was when she coughed for the first time. Just two small, weak little coughs that could have been nothing more than a tickle in her throat, but it sent chills down his spine.

He'd looked back at his parent's closed bedroom door, and then down at Gracie. He didn't want to go outside.

Justin put down his bags and shut the front door resolutely.

"Are we gonna stay?" Gracie asked. "I wanna stay."

Justin held up a finger and headed for his parents' bedroom door.

"Are we staying?" Gracie demanded.

"Just hang on."

He put his ear to his parents' door. "Mom?" There was no sound from inside the room. "Mom?" He tried the door. The bolt held tight in the jamb. Whatever they'd wedged against it on the other side was solid. The door wasn't moving an inch.

"Are we staying?" Gracie demanded again. "Justin, I'm not gonna stand here all day!"

"Gracie, shut up!" Justin's heart was hammering. "Mom! Dad!" He was pounding on the door now, pushing his shoulder into it as hard as he could, but it wouldn't move no matter how hard he tried.

Gracie was still at the door, crying, her face crumpled and miserable. "Justin?"

Something in her small voice snapped him back into the moment, and Justin felt a cold wash of clarity. They had to go. Mom and Dad weren't answering. They might be dead. Gracie was coughing. She needed help. Someone needed to help her.

They had to go. And they had to go now.

As terrifying as it was outside, Justin was more frightened of being responsible for his sister's well-being. They had to get to Aunt Pam's. It didn't matter how, but they had to get there. She'd know what to do. She'd take over.

"Gracie, you can't take all that. There's too much." He went to the closet by the front door and squatted down, rummaging for an umbrella.

"Why?" Gracie asked.

"Because you're going to carry it. Pick one with rollers."

"Why—" Gracie coughed again and sniffled. "Why can't you carry it?"

"Because I'll have my own!" Justin's head was still in the closet and he was getting angry, impatient. "Just do what I tell you, Gracie!"

"You're not my boss! I'm not walking to Aunt Pam's, you idiot. Just call—"

"Gracie!" Justin drew his head out of the closet in a rage, but his anger evaporated when he saw his sister's tear-filled, red-rimmed eyes. "We have to do this," he said, softening his tone. "Mom and Dad..."

Mom and Dad what? What do you tell an eleven-year-old—that Mom and Dad are dead? He couldn't say it, not to her. He could barely even think it.

"Are they okay?"

"They're super sick," Justin turned to face her, still crouched down, eye-level with her. "And they don't want us to get sick too, so they want us to go. We gotta be tough."

Gracie snorted a big sniffle and coughed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "Okay," she said. "But we have to call when we get to Aunt Pam's."

Justin pressed his lips together and nodded. He didn't trust himself to answer and didn't want to lie, so he stood up and there they were: two umbrellas hanging neatly on coat hangers, just the way Mom always left them.

"Here," he handed one to Gracie. "And go get a coat."

"But it's so hot!"

"And pouring buckets," he reminded her. "Get your plastic one, it should be enough."

Twenty minutes and four minor arguments later, they opened the front door again.

Justin wore a backpack, into which he'd stuffed as many of his clothes as he could fit. The suitcase with his game console lay abandoned on his bedroom floor. Behind him, he pulled the one suitcase Gracie had chosen and held an umbrella in his remaining free hand.

The rain was so loud. It was overwhelming, a never-ending flood pouring from the sky that just kept coming and coming. Rain this heavy never kept up for long, but it had been coming down for five straight days and hadn't let up at all, not once.

Justin took a deep breath.

"Stay right next to me!" He had to yell for his voice to carry over the storm.

"Hold my hand!" Gracie yelled back.

But he couldn't hold her hand, not without letting go of her suitcase or the umbrella. In the end they each stepped onto the front porch together, each with an umbrella over their head, Gracie clutching the wrist of the hand he was using to pull her suitcase.

As soon as they stepped out from under the eave, the force of the rain nearly drove Gracie's umbrella from her hand. She gave a little shriek and jumped back. Water barreled straight down from the sky in a constant, unrelenting flow, pushing down on their umbrellas like a giant hand.

"Come on!" Justin yelled. "Come on!"

Gracie inched out again, holding her umbrella tighter this time.

They got one step away from the porch and Justin knew the umbrellas weren't going to be much help. The ground was soaked and rain had pooled in every hole, crack, and crevice possible. Everywhere else, the water flowed past in a torrent, on its way to one of those holes. His feet and ankles were soaked in seconds, and he knew the rest of him wouldn't be far behind.

But he didn't turn back. He couldn't. There was nothing to turn back to.

When they rounded the corner of the garage and the driveway came into view, Gracie's grip on his wrist tightened so hard that he nearly cried out until he, too, realized what she'd seen.

There, standing alone in the rain near their parent's SUV was Gracie's best friend, Briana. She had no umbrella and no coat. She stood forlornly next to a small pink suitcase, sobbing. Her face was an awful shade of pale, her eyes bloodshot and rimmed in red.

Gracie instinctively moved toward her friend, but Justin dropped her suitcase and grabbed her arm after he got a look at Briana's shirt.

She was wearing a pink University of Kentucky t-shirt, but it wasn't the leopard-print 'Go Cats!' emblazoned across the front of it that had caught his eye. It was the wide swath of vomit that ran down the front of her shirt.

Briana was already sick.

"What are you doing out here?" Justin yelled to her. "Briana, you should be home where it's dry!"

Briana opened her mouth to answer, but began crying instead.

"Bree?" Gracie had begun pulling against Justin's grip, getting angry. Briana had been her best friend for as long as he could remember. "Bree?"

"My mom and dad are dead!" Briana wailed forlornly. "And I don't feel good. I don't know what to do! I don't know where to go!" She barely got the last word out before she doubled over and began dry heaving.

Gracie redoubled her efforts, straining to get to her friend. "What's wrong with you?" she yelled at Justin. "She's sick!"

And that was exactly why Justin couldn't let his sister go. Gracie would never understand, not with Briana right there in front of her, in pain. Gracie would never accept that she could do nothing for her friend. She dropped her umbrella and started punching him with her free hand.

"Let me go!" Gracie screamed. She was beyond reason now. "Let me go! She's part of the squad! She's on my squad!"

She and Briana had both made it onto their middle school cheerleading squad that year. They were both die-hard cheerleaders now, practicing every day in the back yard.

Justin looked back at his house, at the darkened rectangle of his parent's bedroom window. His mom and dad were probably dead, too. Gracie was already coughing. He couldn't make it alone. He couldn't let Gracie die, too.

Briana heaved again, her knees buckling, and she dropped to the pavement.

Justin threw down his umbrella and spun Gracie by the shoulders, holding her as still as he was able. "She's sick!" he yelled as she struggled against him. "She's sick like Mom and Dad!"

But Gracie wasn't listening. "She's on the squad! She's on the squad!"

Setting his jaw, Justin scooped up his sister and threw her over his shoulder like a fireman. He grabbed the suitcase handle; all the while being punched and kicked by a sister who watched with horrified eyes as her best friend was left to die soaking wet and alone in their driveway.

Present Day

"Keep to the right."

Richard's coarse voice cut through Justin's memories of that awful day, snapping his attention back to the present.

Richard had a tight grip on the rope that had been tied around the silver-eyed drifter's neck. He was shaking it like the reins of a horse, forcing the drifter to stay on the road.

"Keep to the main road, freak!" Richard commanded. "You don't turn unless I tell you to turn!"

Justin squinted and winced. His eyes stung. They felt raw from the humidity and heat that had built up inside his goggles, the salt from his sweat burning into his skin every time he blinked.

He tucked his shotgun under one arm so that he could lift the goggles and let in some fresh air while silently berating himself for zoning out for such a long time.

How long had they been walking now?

They plodded single file down the center of the road. They didn't have far left to go, maybe two or three miles.

The drifter was in front, pushed ever-onward by Richard's never-ending flood of verbal abuse, which, as far as Justin could tell, the drifter was completely oblivious to.

Justin still brought up the rear. He was supposed to be guarding behind them, making sure that none of the drifter's friends had followed.

It wasn't like him to lose focus the way he had. Outside the walls of Outpost, anything could happen and you had to work had to minimize the risks you took. Even something as minor as falling in a pothole and twisting your ankle could become a serious issue. Add the fact that they were escorting a potentially dangerous person to the front gates, and he had been positively negligent. He resolutely pulled his goggles back over his eyes.

This road. It had to be this damnable road,

Somehow over the past two years he had managed to avoid going this way on any scav runs. He'd always known that one day he would be forced to face his past, but he'd always hoped it would be on his terms, when he was ready.

The road began to slope upward, and Justin knew they were getting close—close to the place where he'd left his sister.

The front windows of a Pizza Hut stared back at him as they passed, the black, broken, rectangular holes making Justin feel as if he were being watched, judged. He suppressed a shiver and fought back the natural urge to look away.

For a long time, buildings like that had scared the hell out of him. He had always imagined there were people inside, waiting for just the right moment to they jump out and rush him, take everything he had, and leave him alone in the street to watch as they ran off with his only hope, abandoning him to die.

Now, he never looked away. Not anymore. Not ever. Now, looking away was too much of a risk.

"Hey."

For the second time, Richard's voice snapped him back into the present.

Justin hadn't realized he'd stopped walking.

"What the hell's going on with you?" Richard asked.

"I..." Justin looked at the pizza joint and then at the road ahead. "I told you." He was surprised to hear a quiver in his voice. "We shouldn't have come this way." He shifted his eyes to Richard. "We have to stop. I have to stop."

"What?" Richard took a step toward Justin, jerking hard on the drifter's leash. "If you haven't noticed, we are stopped."

Justin didn't answer at first. He wiped a forearm across his forehead and readjusted his grip on his shotgun.

"Not here," Justin said, and began walking again. "Up ahead, over this hill, at the motel."

Two Years Ago

Gracie had been coughing nonstop for the past hour. Justin had carried her over his shoulder for over a mile before she'd finally stopped struggling and he'd felt it was safe enough to put her down.

The rain seemed like it would never end. It pounded down on them relentlessly. Justin couldn't remember ever feeling more wet or miserable in his life. His head ached, he was starving, and they hadn't seen a single soul since they'd abandoned Briana in their driveway.

When they crested the hill and the lights of the motel came into view, Justin nearly wept with relief.

"We're going to be okay, Gracie." He knelt down beside his sister, blinking the rain water from his eyes as best he could so that he could look at her. He took her hands in his. Despite the awful, muggy heat, her hands were ice cold. He rubbed them in his palms. "We're going to a place where you can rest."

Gracie's teeth were chattering. Her only answer was a numb nod, her head bobbing in rhythm to her shivers.

The door to the front office wasn't locked, but no one was inside. Justin didn't hesitate; he went around the desk and collected the keys to every room he could find.

Rooms 1 and 2 were locked tight with the deadbolt engaged from the other side, but room 3 opened right up. Justin made Gracie wait outside the door while he did a quick check inside the room and then ushered her in.

"Come on," he told her. "Let's get you into a dry set of clothes and into one of these beds."

But there weren't any dry clothes. The rain had long since soaked all the way through Gracie's suitcase. Everything they owned was sopping wet.

"How about a nice hot shower and a big, fluffy towel instead?"

Gracie was perched miserably at the end of the bed with her elbows in her lap and her head hanging down. She couldn't stop shaking.

"Come on." Justin gently pulled his sister to her feet and put an arm around her waist to help her into the bathroom. "Let's get you warm."

"I can do it myself—" Gracie choked and gagged on the last word, coughing all the way into the bathroom where she rushed to the toilet and began vomiting.

Justin awkwardly pulled her sopping-wet hair out of the way and rubbed her back, just like his mom had done for both of them so many times before.

Gracie was there a long time. When Justin finally got her back on her feet and turned on the water for the shower, her face was haggard, her eyes vacant with dark circles forming under them.

"Shower-bath," Gracie mumbled, sounding as if she were already half asleep. "I want a shower-bath."

Gracie loved taking a bath but she didn't like her head getting cold, so she liked leaving the shower running while she soaked in the tub. Every few minutes she'd pull the drain and let the water go down, repeating the process over and over until the hot water in the shower ran out. It was trademark Gracie—the best of both worlds whenever possible.

When Justin began helping her out of her clothes, she swatted him away, her movements clumsy and jerky like she'd been drinking. "I got it," she mumbled. "Perv. I got it."

Justin was only too happy to let her handle the rest herself and hastily backed out of the bathroom, leaving the door open just a crack.

But when Gracie let out a terrified shriek just a few minutes later, all thoughts of modesty were gone in an instant. He burst back into the bathroom to find her scrambling up out of a vomit-filled bathtub.

Heart hammering in his chest, scared to death, Justin wrapped his little sister in a towel and held her as she sobbed, not caring that she was probably infecting him with the same thing she had, which was probably the same thing his parents had died from. She was the only immediate family he had left. He couldn't lose her too. What would he tell Aunt Pam if he showed up at her house without Gracie?

He carefully scooped her up into his arms, cradling her to his chest, and laid her in one of the beds, gently tucking the covers around her on all sides.

"You'll feel better in the morning," he lied. "You just need to sleep. We'll go the rest of the way to Aunt Pam's in the morning and everything will be okay."

But it wouldn't be. There was no way for Justin to have known it that day, but Gracie never had a chance. Nearly a month from then, when the rains finally ceased their relentless downpour, there wouldn't be a child left alive on the entire planet. Their young bodies simply didn't have the strength to fight off the virus.

"Justin..." Gracie's voice was scratchy and slurred.

"I'm here, Gracie."

"You shouldn't have left Bree... promise... never leave..."

Justin slumped down on the bed across from his dying sister, put his face in his hands, and wept.

"I promise, Gracie."

Present Day

Justin stood in front of the motel room door, the tarnished copper number "3" at eye level. Although slightly crooked now, it was still attached in the center by a tiny nail. Maybe it had been crooked on the day he and his sister had come here. He couldn't remember. He reached up and straightened it.

"What the hell are we doing here?" Richard hadn't stopped scanning the horizon, especially back the way they had come from, in the direction of the net. He was doing it so much now that it almost like a nervous tick.

The silver-eyed drifter waited patiently, his hands clasped complacently in front of him as if he were exactly where he wanted to be.

"This is a bad idea, man," Richard was nervously shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to another, his stress reaching a new high. "We don't make pit stops," he said. "That's the deal. That's the gig. We don't stop for anything unless it's for food or supplies." He searched Justin's face. "And you know that."

"Richard," Justin replied quietly. "Please shut up."

Miraculously, Richard did shut up, probably out of shock. Of the two of them, Richard was definitely the dominant personality. Justin almost never told Richard what to do.

Justin pulled off his gloves and unzipped his jacket halfway, reaching inside. He lifted a chain from around his neck, one that had a key dangling from it.

Richard took a step back, confused now. "What...?"

Justin slid the key in the lock and turned it, letting the door creak open on rusty hinges.

She was still there, right where he'd left her after her shower-bath, lying in bed with the covers tucked in tight around her.

"Give me your shovel, Richard."

3.

"Move!"

Richard viciously shoved the silver-eyed drifter in the back with the barrel of his shotgun. It was the third time in less than ten minutes, and Justin knew Richard was on the verge of losing his temper completely.

The drifter kept slowing down, over and over again, and Richard had to keep prodding him to pick up the pace. They were close now, less than a mile from Outpost, and it was as if the silver-eyed man sensed it.

The drifter turned, but he didn't acknowledge Richard's brutish tactics. Instead, he looked past Richard, his gaze landing on Justin, who was a dozen or more paces back.

Justin's step faltered. The predominant emotion on the drifter's face wasn't anger or fear, but compassion. Justin looked back into the drifter's eyes, for a moment unable to turn away from such an intense gaze.

Richard hadn't said a word at the motel. He'd stoically watched as Justin dug a shallow grave in the dirt near the back wall. Justin had wanted to dig deeper, give his sister a more permanent resting place where she wouldn't be disturbed by man or animal, but the ground was just too hard, too unyielding. Justin had done the best he could, feeling as if he needed to hurry—the sun wouldn't remain in the sky for many more hours, and he definitely didn't want to be outside the walls of Outpost after dark.

When Justin was finished digging the hole, he'd broken pieces off the headboard from the motel room bed. Using a phone cord from the room, he'd tied them together in the shape of a cross and pushed them into the ground at the head of Gracie's grave. With nothing else to leave, he'd looped his necklace with the room key around the cross.

Justin had wanted to say something, but he'd been at a loss for words. What was there to say, after all? He didn't believe in God. How could anyone, after so much misery had been visited on the world? Marking Gracie's grave with a cross had just seemed like the right thing to do, an automatic gesture spurred on by the traditions left over from the way the world had been. He could just as easily have marked her grave with statue of Mickey Mouse. She'd probably have liked that better, too.

In the end, instead of saying a prayer, he simply said a silent goodbye to his baby sister.

"Alright, dammit!" Richard yanked hard on the rope, forcing the drifter to stop.

They were at the main intersection in Elizabethtown. Ahead and behind them, the road stretched relatively straight, past what used to be the commercial center of town. There were empty gas stations and big-box stores that had long-since been picked clean of everything inside, drug stores and restaurants—it was all here, all empty, and all coated in a thick layer of dirt.

The road that intersected, the one they were crossing over, sloped downward and away to the east and west. There had been a lake not far to the east before the Great Rains, but it had long-since dried up. Now it was just a shallow depression in the ground, unremarkable from any other part of the terrain except that there were no buildings there.

Richard stood underneath a darkened stoplight with both his feet planted solidly, his shotgun up to his shoulder.

"What's the problem?" Justin hurried forward, knowing how impulsive Richard could be.

"This piece of garbage has been purposely dragging his feet for almost a mile, now," Richard spat. "He's slowing us down on purpose. I know it. I'm done with this. This was a bad idea. He's dead weight, and he's going to get us killed."

The silver-eyed drifter had turned away, and didn't respond. It was as if he wasn't even aware that Richard had spoken.

"Hey," Justin said to the drifter. "Hey."

The drifter stood as still as a bird-dog, ignoring them both. He was tense, like he'd heard something, and was looking off to the east, in the direction where the lake had once been.

Justin wasn't terribly keen on getting too close to the drifter. Every one of the black-eyed ones they'd caught before had been inhumanly strong, and he had no desire to find out whether this drifter was the same way. But they couldn't stand out in the open like this, especially not now when they were so close to Outpost. If the drifter didn't get moving, Richard was bound to take matters into his own hands and that was bound to end badly.

"Hey," Richard raised his voice, speaking sharply, "we have to go."

He took a step toward the drifter, but Richard clamped a hand on his arm, his grip like a vice.

"I really don't think he's dangerous—" Justin started to say, but Richard squeezed his arm tighter and pulled him back.

"We got to go, man," Richard hissed. His voice was shaking. "We got to go now."

Justin turned to see his partner staring east, in the same direction as the drifter. Richard's face was pale, his jaw slack.

Justin already knew his partner had seen something awful before he turned to look.

In the distance, far away down the slope of the pavement, the shimmering haze from the hot sun slowly coalesced, revealing an awful sight that seemed to appear and solidify as he stared.

There had to be at least fifty of them—drifters, all sprinting straight for the intersection. Justin couldn't see their eyes, they were still over a mile away, but he didn't need to. He was sure every single one of them was pitch black.

"Screw this guy!" Richard threw down the rope leash and took off in a dead run for Outpost.

"Richard!"

Justin looked wildly back at the tide of drifters coming their way. There was no way they could fight them off. Even if they managed to kill or wound a few with the shotguns, there were far too many. Hiding wasn't an option, not with the silver-eyed drifter standing right next to them.

Richard had been right. They should have killed all three drifters while they were trapped under the net and been done with it. Now they'd led an entire army of zombies straight to Outpost's front gate.

"What are you?" Justin whispered to the silver-eyed drifter in horror, but he didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he sprinted after his partner.

Richard wasn't far ahead. He wasn't in good enough shape. The two of them went out on scav runs every single day, but they never actually ran. Richard was never shy about taking breaks, resting until he caught his breath. When they did move, it was typically at a maddeningly slow, steady pace. It drove Justin crazy sometimes because he knew they could finish their runs a lot quicker if they just picked up the pace, but Richard's argument was always that slower was smarter and safer, and although Justin knew Richard had an ulterior motive, it was hard for him to dispute.

In less than a minute Justin caught up with his partner, whose breath was already wheezing with each footfall.

"Come on, buddy," Justin encouraged. "I know this isn't easy for you, but you can do it! We're going to make it!"

Richard didn't answer. He probably couldn't. Sweat was already pouring in rivulets down his bald head. He looked sidelong at Justin through the lens of his goggles and dropped his chin, his short, thick arms pumping harder.

The hospital was just ahead on their right. They'd have to pass it on their way to Outpost. It was abandoned now, just a huge, sprawling complex of empty buildings that had been built in stages over decades and interconnected. Justin eyed his partner as they ran. Richard wasn't holding up very well, and there was still at least half a mile to go. Outpost's walls weren't even in sight yet.

If he diverted Richard into the hospital, maybe they could hide. In the face of Richard's labored breathing, it suddenly didn't seem like such a bad idea. It might be their only chance. The hospital was big enough that, if they were clever, quick, and silent, they could find a utility closet or restroom and hunker down. There, they could wait it out until the band of drifters was gone. They could last for days if they had to. There was still plenty of food in their packs from what they'd scavenged earlier in the morning.

"Richard," he panted. "I think... we should maybe..."

Richard turned his head. He might have been turning toward Justin, or maybe he'd been looking back for a moment. Maybe he was just too fat and too uncoordinated to keep up the pace for so long and that turn of his head was the straw that broke his back.

Whatever the reason, it proved to be his undoing. He tripped and belly-flopped onto the pavement, skidding like a penguin until he stopped, and lay there moaning.

Justin nearly tripped too as he lurched to a stop, his shotgun briefly getting tangled in his legs.

He grabbed Richard by his wrists and pulled, trying to yank him to his feet.

"Just go, man!" Richard was pulling away from him, trying to disentangle from Justin's grip. "There's no freaking way I'm going to make it."

"I'm not leaving you!" Justin yelled, still pulling on Richard's arms. "Get up!"

"Dammit, go!" Richard yelled angrily, his face red and bloated. "You have to tell everyone else. You have to warn them! They'll kill everyone!"

Justin hesitated. Richard was right.

"Go!" Richard yelled again.

You shouldn't have left Bree... promise... never leave...

Gracie's words echoed in Justin's head, and Briana's hopeless, pale face filled his mind, abandoned to her death because of his cowardice.

"Richard..." Justin choked. "I can't—"

And then suddenly the silver-eyed drifter was there. He grabbed Richard's gun and threw it to Justin all in one fluid motion. They locked eyes for a split-second and the drifter nodded.

Justin pulled the shotgun up to his shoulder as the drifter bent down, grabbed Richard, and threw him over his shoulder as if the fat man weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. He was already running for Outpost before Justin had a chance to speak.

Flabbergasted, Justin only allowed himself a moment's hesitation before rushing after them.

The drifter was on their side?

Justin could barely keep pace. Richard was flailing and struggling in the drifter's grip, and yet still the drifter was faster. Richard must not have been aware that he was being carried to Outpost. The way he was fighting against his savior, he must have believed he was being taken away like so many others had been before.

They were past the hospital's giant parking garage now and headed down a small hill. Just ahead, the road curved to the right and began a slow climb upward. Once that last hill was crested, Outpost would be in sight.

Justin chanced a look over his shoulder. His stomach lurched with renewed terror. Their pursuers had already rounded the corner at the intersection and were coming on fast. He put his head down and dug deep for the energy he'd need to stay ahead of them.

Out in front, Richard was in full panic-mode, yelling his head off at the drifter to put him down, thrashing hard in his grip.

"Richard! Stop fighting!" Justin wasn't sure if his voice had carried over the commotion of their hurried pace and Richard's hollering. It didn't appear to have, because Richard never ceased his racket. Justin would have tried again, but he was nearly out of breath. He had to conserve what he had left or he'd never make it to Outpost's gates.

They rounded the curve and the pavement began to slope back upward. It was grueling. If Justin thought his legs and lungs were burning before, now they were on fire as he literally waged an uphill battle against his exhausted body.

He could hear the mob getting closer now. Over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, he could hear dozens of hard footfalls slapping the pavement behind him.

The silver-eyed drifter kept up a relentless pace, tirelessly carrying a person who weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds.

Justin fell further and further behind with every stride. His chest heaved as he tried to get more air into his burning lungs. He was taking deep gulps, but it didn't feel like any air was getting in, just raw heat.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't keep up the pace.

Just then they crested the hill, and Justin saw the walls of Outpost.

Never had those rusted, haphazardly-constructed walls seemed so welcoming to him. They weren't pretty, but they were strong. He would be safe inside. Justin had been part of constructing them from the scraps of buildings surrounding Outpost. He knew they would hold up against the mass of former humanity pursuing them.

The homes and businesses ahead of him dwindled away into open space, giving Justin a clear view of the walls, and giving the guards at the gate a clear view of him.

Years ago, Anders had decided that not only would they locate their community in the old town center where every building was made of thick stone and brick, but they would also surround it with an enormous wall to keep them safe from those who would hurt them.

To build that wall, they'd used the lumber, bricks, and metal from the buildings immediately surrounding Outpost, slowly tearing them down to their foundation one at a time.

Anders had explained that tearing down the vacant buildings served two purposes: one, it provided the materials needed to build such an enormous wall and two, it opened up the surrounding landscape, giving them a clear line of sight so that no one and nothing could ever come up against them unseen.

Right then, with a horde of zombies chasing him down and his body ready to give out, Justin didn't care about those two reasons. He was just glad to know that the people at the gate would have no trouble spotting him.

"Hey!" Justin raised an arm above his head, waved, and almost stumbled. "Hey! Help!"

Richard was still squirming and writhing in the drifters grip, pounding on its back as he bounced on its shoulder.

"Richard!" Justin shouted, pointing. "We're almost there!"

Richard twisted around to look where they were going, saw the walls of Outpost, and started thrashing even harder.

It must finally have been too much, even for the silver-eyed drifter's immense strength. Richard twisted and punched hard enough that he broke free from the drifter's grasp and dropped to the pavement with a heavy thud, rolling to a stop.

"No!" Justin yelled, rushing to his partner's side.

The drifter was there too, trying to pull Richard to his feet, but Richard was so disoriented and so distrusting of the drifter that instead of accepting the help, he fought against it.

Justin looked over his shoulder. The horde would be on them in seconds.

The gate at Outpost cracked open and a small group of men were hesitantly filtering out. Safety, it was just a sprint away.

You shouldn't have left Bree... promise... never leave...

Justin could save himself. He could make a break for it, and he was sure he would make it to the gate, especially now that it was open.

Promise... never leave...

"I promise."

Justin set his jaw and threw down both shotguns.

"Help me," he asked the drifter, meeting its strange silver-eyed gaze. He reached under one of Richard's arms and pulled, straining against the weight. "Richard," he gasped, "you fat bastard, you have to stand up. We're almost there!"

Richard was still trying to bat away the drifter's hands.

"Let him help!" Justin yelled at Richard. "He's helping!"

Finally, Richard gave in and let the drifter help. When that happened, it was as if Richard suddenly weighed nothing and Justin fell backward.

He twisted around to see Richard hobbling toward Outpost with one arm thrown around the drifter's shoulder. They were already nearing the gate. One look back at the black-eyed army rushing toward him, and Justin knew there wasn't enough time for him to get back up, get moving, and make it to the gate.

As the first black-eyed drifter reached him and pinned him down, Justin felt a wash of peace flow through him.

He would be able to rest. Finally, he could stop.

He was pushed down onto his back, arms and legs held out in an ironically similar fashion to the way he and Richard staked out drifters before they beheaded them.

A man with long, black hair and silver eyes strode into view, his face blotted out by the sun overhead, his features in full shadow. Despite that, Justin could still clearly see his shining silver eyes, eyes which were exactly the same color as the drifter who was now entering Outpost.

The man knelt down beside him carefully, his movements unhurried and oddly tender.

As he felt the first needle-like jab into the skin of his neck, Justin twisted his head around for one last look into Outpost as the giant gate slammed closed. Richard was there, sprawled in the dirt just inside the wall.

Good, Justin thought, good.

As he slowly felt himself fade away, his last thoughts weren't of fear, but of peace.

I did it, Gracie. I didn't leave. I kept my promise.
PART II

SIEGE

1.

"Richard, you fat bastard, you have to stand up. We're almost there!"

Red-faced, straining, Justin was tugging on Richard's arm so hard it felt like he was going to yank it right from its socket, and Richard was yanking right back, using all his weight to pull in the opposite direction. He didn't want to be back on his feet, not if staying down meant he could keep the drifter from getting ahold of him again.

Until just moments ago, Richard had been slung over the drifter's shoulder as it ran for the relative safety of Outpost's walls, punching and kicking his "savior" in righteous fury the entire way. He'd managed to break free of its grip, but the thing was trying like hell to pick him back up again.

There was no way, no chance he was going to let that silver-eyed abomination carry him into Outpost like some kind of hero. He knew damn well what was happening here, even if Justin was too blind to see it—the drifter wanted to get into their community so it could let its black-eyed buddies in for a free-for-all—a human smorgasbord. All it would have to do is open the gates, let its bloodthirsty buddies in, and that would be the end for all the people Richard cared about. Throats bitten, every one of them turned into God-knows-what.

Richard was a blur of motion, kicking and punching his assailant every time it got too close. He risked a look past Justin and his heart skipped a beat. The small army of black-eyed pursuers was nearly upon them. He had mere seconds to make a decision, and unfortunately as far as he was concerned he had two choices: die now or die later. If he didn't do something quick, it wouldn't matter whether or not he kept the silver-eyed freak out of Outpost—not for him, anyway. Those black-eyed monsters would tear him limb from limb, especially seeing as Silver-Eyes had just watched him shovel the head off one of his friends. They'd probably do the same thing to him just to set an example.

"Oh hell, no," Richard grunted, and thrust out his hand.

Maybe a better man would stand his ground, stay where he was and go down fighting to protect the people inside. But Richard wasn't a better man and he'd never pretended to be. In fact, he firmly believed his selfishness was the reason he'd managed to survive this long. He wouldn't last ten seconds against that mob, and he knew it. Even if there weren't so many of them, those things were strong. Silver-Eyes had carried him over a mile like he was nothing more than a sack of potatoes, and he'd dealt with enough of the black-eyed ones to know they were just as strong, maybe stronger.

He'd just have to let the drifter into Outpost. He didn't want to, but it was definitely the better option because that option didn't involve getting his throat bit. It might be a risk to the rest of the community, but it was that or give himself up to the horde. He and Justin would just have to be sure they took control of the situation as soon as they were through the gates, make sure everyone knew the drifter wasn't on their side.

"Let him help!" Justin was yelling, still pulling at Richard, trying to get him on his feet. Justin slapped at Richard's hand, thinking he was still trying to push the drifter away. "He's helping!"

Richard nearly stopped everything just so he could tell Justin what an ignorant ass he was. Of course Justin would want to believe the drifter was one of the good guys. Ever the optimist, Justin had a way of always thinking the best of everyone else, even when it was clear they were taking advantage of him. He was young. He would learn. In time, he would see that his view of the world made him weak; vulnerable to situations exactly like the one they were in now. As a matter of fact, if it wasn't for Justin's bleeding heart perspective they wouldn't be in this mess. They'd have killed the drifter while it was trapped under the net and that would have been the end of it.

Justin was still yanking on Richard's arm, refusing to leave his side.

"I am letting him help," Richard growled, mostly to himself.

Frustrated that the drifter hadn't already gotten the hint, Richard reached out and grasped its outstretched hand. As soon as he got a solid grip, he was pulled to his feet as if he were light as a feather.

Justin, who'd been hauling on him with every ounce of his strength, fell backward onto the pavement from the abrupt shift in weight. Richard instinctively moved to help, but the drifter was already in motion, hauling him toward Outpost.

The gates weren't far—maybe twenty feet. With the drifter carrying most of his weight, they were inside in mere seconds. As soon as they cleared the gates, Richard jerked away and flung himself to the side. He rolled as he landed, twisting as quickly as his girth would allow so he could see behind him.

A single, horrific second passed before the gates were slammed completely shut and barred, his view of the outside abruptly cut off. But that one second was time enough. He and Justin had briefly locked eyes before the giant metal doors boomed closed, just long enough for his final vision to be of Justin's last moments of life.

Unable to process what had just happened, Richard scrambled forward on the concrete, but he stopped after only a few feet. There was nothing he could do. The sound of ragged, hoarse panting reached his ears and he turned toward it, only to realize the sound was coming from his own mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the memory away, but instead he saw it all again: a huge, black-haired drifter had been crouched down next to Justin, ready to bite into his neck.

Justin: who wouldn't leave a friend behind, could have made it to safety.

Justin: who always believed the best in everyone else.

Justin: who'd been Richard's only real friend in Outpost.

It was silent in those first seconds. The gate guards met his eyes grimly but quickly looked away again, uncomfortable. Behind him, Richard heard people running toward the gate, yelling orders. A few ran up and braced themselves against the giant doors.

Through it all, the silver-eyed drifter never moved in inch. He stood apart from the chaos around him, watching calmly as the scene unfolded around him, his face betraying absolutely no sign of emotion except perhaps curiosity.

Justin's face flashed through his mind again. Richard shuddered reflexively and blinked, working to get his bearings. He was still on the ground, no more than ten feet from the gate, lying on his belly. Propped up on his thick forearms, he could feel the pebbles from the ground digging into his elbows. Was Justin really gone? Dead? It had happened so fast, it didn't seem real. He shook his head, replaying the last ten minutes in his mind. Certainly, they'd been in serious danger, but between the two of them, if either one had had a better chance of making it to safety, it was Justin.

Richard's breath started coming in quick, loud bursts and his stomach clenched painfully. He wanted to curl into a ball and retch, but instead he let the pain fuel his rage. Turning his eyes upward, he glared at the drifter, venom in his eyes. The people closest to him backed away, whispering, all of them aware of his reputation as a hothead.

It was the drifter's fault, all of it. Everything that had happened could be rationalized a million different ways, but Richard knew—he knew—the silver-eyed freak had engineered the whole thing. All of it, start to finish, must have been planned right from the minute they had found him in the net. The drifter had dragged his feet the last mile of their hike, purposely letting his friends catch up. By dropping Richard right outside the gate, he'd forced Justin to stop, knowing their pursuers would never have reached them otherwise.

Richard could have made it without help. He was a big guy, but he could still run when he had to. He hadn't wanted anyone's help, and certainly hadn't asked for it.

The familiar burn of anger stoked in his gut, his fury building until it suffused his entire body and surpassed any reasonable thought. He tore his goggles from his face and half-rolled, half-staggered to his feet, flinging them to the side.

"You son of bitch," Richard growled coarsely. He reeled, light-headed from standing too quickly. Someone in the crowd moved to help, but he snarled and pushed them away.

No more help. Not from anyone.

The drifter was still staring off into space calmly, like he was listening to something in the distance. More likely, the freak was just pretending to ignore him.

Big mistake.

Richard had known the trip back to Outpost would go bad—he'd known it. He'd even said so. This wasn't his fault! Letting Justin talk him into bringing Silver-Eyes back with them had been a bad idea from the start, and now the only safe place left for him was under attack. If there was anyone or anything to blame, it was Justin's ideological sense of right and wrong that led to this mess. His moral obligations had gotten him killed.

It's been voted on. That had been Justin's reasoning.

Richard sneered. Well, sometimes you don't follow the damn rules. They have should have killed all three drifters when they found them. No questions asked.

The drifter was only a few feet away.

Seconds, not even a full minute—that was all that had passed since their mad dash for safety and the drifter didn't even look winded. They'd sprinted an entire mile, chased by a horde of God-knows-what, and he looked perfectly relaxed. It all fit together too neatly. The drifter had to have known his people were coming, long before Justin and Richard had realized it. He most certainly knew he could stay ahead of the pursuit, and that by saving either him or Justin it would lend him the perfect opportunity to slip into Outpost under the guise of being one of the good guys.

Liar! Freak! Murderer!

"You son of a bitch!" Richard repeated louder. The whole thing had been planned, he was sure of it. "You killed Justin!"

Richard rushed at the drifter, throwing his forearm up against its neck, but the drifter was like a block of stone, immovably strong. He didn't budge when Richard rammed into him. It was like rushing a statue instead of a person.

The drifter, a full foot taller than Richard, stared down impassively, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

Strong hands grabbed Richard from behind and pulled him back. He struggled, cursing, demanding he be released.

The drifter watched it all without comment. To Richard, he looked amused, almost goading.

"On the gates!" someone yelled near Richard's ear.

Richard twisted around, scowling. Harold, Outpost's watch captain, had him in an arm-lock. Harold was a big guy like Richard, but much taller, easily holding Richard in place. He was a solid, brave guy, well-respected by everyone in Outpost.

"Let me go, Harold," Richard demanded, but the watch captain held on tight.

"Spotters!" Harold shouted. "Man your posts! We need eyes out there, we need to know what's happening! Who's on duty? I want to know which sonuvabitch is supposed to be in the nest! Dammit, someone get up there now!"

"Let me go!" Richard finally jerked his arms free. He gave Harold a reproachful glare, but didn't make another move toward the drifter. "You have no business protecting this..." he pointed at the drifter and spat on the ground, "this thing. He is the reason we're all about to die!"

More people were arriving, and all of them heard what he said. A whispered hiss circulated, but was immediately cut short by Bill "Sarge" Anders' arrival.

"That's enough of that, Richard," Outpost's leader snapped. "You're scaring people. What the hell is going on? What happened?"

Anders was ex-military, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a cue ball shaved head in his mid-sixties. He still carried himself like a soldier; ramrod-straight back, head held high and proud. Being ex-military was no rarity in this area—Fort Knox was only a town away. Or rather... had been only a town away. Now it was just a deserted, barren wasteland like everywhere else. His military background inspired immediate respect, but that wasn't why he was in charge. The main reason so many people trusted and followed him was simply because he was a good man. He had an uncanny ability to make hard decisions seem acceptable, even preferable. He was a stern leader, but he never bent the rules, even for himself, and that put him above reproach.

Most of all, every person in Outpost in some small way owed their life to him. It was Anders who'd brought them all together. It was his vision that led to the walls being built, his sense of organization that gave everyone jobs and purpose.

"Justin is dead," Richard spat viciously, ignoring the horrified looks he received. He yanked his bandana down from his face and pointed an accusing finger at the drifter. "And this is the reason."

Anders briefly studied the drifter without comment.

"You," Anders turned to a gate guard decisively, pointing a finger. "Keep your weapon on our new arrival." He reached out and tapped his finger in the center of the guard's chest. "Point it right there. If he moves, shoot him."

The drifter looked mildly amused, but he didn't move.

"What is our situation?" Anders asked Harold.

"There is a small army outside the gate, sir," the watch captain replied shakily. "Must be at least fifty of those black-eyed things. They chased Richard in here, and..."

Harold's voice was shaking so hard now that it was getting tough to understand him. He, too, had once been in the army, and had even served a tour in the Gulf War, but that had been a long time ago. For the twelve years leading up to the Great Rains, he'd lived a quiet, peaceful life as owner and operator of the only pet store in town. He was a good man, and honest, which was probably why Anders had promoted him to one of the highest ranks in Outpost in spite of the fact that his days on active duty had long since passed.

"They..." Harold was continuing, "They got Justin, sir. They took him, bit him right outside the gate. Drug him off. We just barely got Richard and... and this..." he looked sidelong at the drifter, "... individual... inside before it was too late."

Anders paused expectantly. "That's it?" he asked sharply.

"It happened real fast, Sarge." Harold said apologetically, like he was afraid he'd made a mistake. "It all went down just a couple of minutes ago. We really haven't had a chance to do anything more." He looked up at the small look-out perch on top of the gate. "I've got Will up there in the nest right now." When he turned back, Anders was looking pointedly at the small walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

Hastily, Harold grabbed the walkie-talkie. "Will! Status report! What's happening out there?"

"Nothin'!" The small speaker from the walkie-talkie made the southern drawl sound tinny. "They ain't doing nothin' at all, Harry. They just standin' there!" Will, astonished, sounded as if he couldn't believe it himself.

"What do you mean, just standing there?" Harold looked apologetically at Anders. "Will, I need to know what they're doing exactly."

"Nothin'—I swear to ya! They ain't doin' a thing! They just standin' in a big long line right outside the gate, shoulder to shoulder, as God is my witness! That big guy with the long black hair? He's front and center, but he ain't movin' neither. None of them is. They just starin' up at the wall, like they's waitin' for us to make a move."

Harold depressed the call switch and brought the walkie-talkie up to his mouth, but decided against asking any more questions and released the button. He looked back at Anders, the obvious question in his eyes.

Anders cursed quietly under his breath. "Who is he?" he asked Richard, indicating the drifter.

"I don't know," Richard replied. "We found him in a net with two others. We already had the head off one and were about to do the same to him, but then we saw his eyes—silver eyes, not like the others. And he spoke. He said he'd only talk to our leader, and that's all he'd say."

"He spoke?" Anders asked sharply. "You're sure?"

"I was standing right above him, Sarge." Richard glared menacingly at the drifter. "I should've just let my shovel drop like I'd planned to, but..."

Richard frowned, looking away. He couldn't meet the Sarge's intense, expectant gaze. He'd been about to say, but Justin talked me out of it.

An awkward moment passed. Richard pursed his lips and shrugged.

Anders put a hand on his shoulder. "You did the right thing."

Had he done the right thing? He knew that question would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Anders stepped up to the drifter, facing him from less than a foot away, his back straight and unafraid. "Who are you?" he asked. "Why are your people attacking us?"

The drifter had been waiting placidly, his eyes averted as if he had no interest in what was happening around him. But when Anders spoke to him directly, he immediately looked up.

When he spoke, his voice was calm, matter of fact, possibly even a bit droll.

"As your man at the top of the gate said," he replied evenly. "They're not attacking. They're waiting."

2.

Richard had lived in Elizabethtown his whole life, and never had any desire to leave. Not many folks could say that about their hometown. Most were busy trying to figure why everything looked so much better wherever they weren't, but not Richard. Elizabethtown was all he'd ever known, and he was proud to say it was all he'd ever needed to know.

He'd grown up in a small house right in the middle of town with his mother. Although there'd always been one man or another living with them, to Richard it always felt like there was only him and his mom. She'd kicked his alcoholic father out when he was just four. After that, their home had turned into a wayward pit-stop for men who were always "the one" for the first three months his mother knew them, and then became "the worst decision of her life" for the six months after. Richard usually forgot their names before they were even out the door.

Richard's home life hadn't been happy. When his mother didn't have a man living with them, she spent all her spare time at the tavern trying to find one. It was an endless cycle for her, always searching for Mr. Right in the one place that bred the kind of men who were exactly like his father... and then wondering why those men never turned out to be what she was hoping. And Richard—even at such a young age—was well aware of it.

But just because his home life hadn't been happy, that didn't mean his childhood hadn't been. He'd spent most of his time away from the house, roaming the city, alone. Because they'd lived in the middle of town, and because his mother had always been more concerned with finding a new man than raising one, Richard enjoyed free rein to go anywhere he liked and do anything he pleased.

Throughout his preteen and teen years, Richard forged an unbreakable bond with his town that remained with him for the rest of his life. Elizabethtown took on a persona for him, its people and places all intermingling for him as one big collective; the old man at the dollar-and-cent store who always seemed to be working no matter what time or day it was, always cranky as hell but always tossing a couple extra hard candies in his bag no charge, the back alley of the one of the downtown restaurants where, if you climbed up on the dumpster, you had access to an entire block of interconnected roofs on Main Street, the huge park surrounding Freeman Lake with its endless acres of woods, the old cemetery that was gated and locked, but if you had the guts to jump its black, wrought-iron fence, you could read the names and dates on all the headstones, and even sneak inside some of the older, crumbling mausoleums. These were all Richard's special places, public and yet at the same time very private for him. All of Elizabethtown was his family, his home. 'The town' took care of him when his mother and father wouldn't, and was part of all his early life experiences. It, and the freedom with which he was given to explore it, molded him into the man he became, and as a result Richard loved his town more than anything or anyone else in his life.

The Great Rains had washed away every vestige of humanity. They had taken the life of nearly every person Richard had ever known. Gone—all of them in just a few short days.

But not his town.

No one at Outpost knew if any other pockets of civilization still existed, not anymore. There'd been stories of a few others, back when visitors still came to the gates. Those visitors would tell stories of the places they'd been, of other people trying to make a go of it. But when the visits stopped, the news stopped too.

Now, it had been over a year since any strangers had arrived in Outpost, so it wasn't unreasonable to assume that Elizabethtown was the only town with people still alive. For all he knew, they could be the last humans on the entire planet. Against all odds, Richard's town had endured. It still took care of him, even after all that had gone wrong. It was, and would always be, his safe harbor.

And now this thing, this silver-eyed freak, wanted to take it away from him.

Back at the gate, the drifter's pronouncement had set everyone on edge. When word came over the walkie-talkies that the black-eyed drifters had been spotted outside the rear gate too, hysteria began to spread through the community.

Wisely, Anders decided to bring the drifter to a more private location. It was clear they were under siege, but if what the silver-eyed drifter had said was true, their aggressors hadn't come to fight. They were waiting for something, wanted something. The drifter needed to be moved to a place where they could have a calm, productive dialogue, and that certainly wasn't going to happen in a crowd full of frightened people.

Without comment or complaint, the drifter had allowed himself to be led to the center of the community, to the old county courthouse where Anders had made his headquarters.

Back in the early 1900s, the courthouse had served as the sheriff's office, town hall, and jail—the governing center of a growing city. But as the years went by and the city became larger, each department outgrew itself one at a time until in the end the only thing the courthouse was used for was to store the county's records. Old file cabinets, banker boxes, and even reused copier paper boxes sat for years collecting dust in the basement. By the late 1990s, the building was more of a landmark than of any real use.

What had once been the most important building in the city had become one of the most obsolete, until the world had ended. Now, it had come full circle back to what it had once been—the center of a community. Every room had been cleared and restored to its former function.

The old jailor's office was in the basement, a plain, austere space, created for a single purpose: to keep bad people locked away from good people. It only took one bandit raid for Anders to decide restoring it was his number one priority. He told everyone in the community that it was better to have it and never need it than the other way around. They'd cleaned it up, made sure everything was in working order, and then shut the door behind them, hoping they'd never have to open it again.

Today, the drifter would be the jail cell's first detainee in over one hundred years.

Richard slouched arrogantly in the chair behind the jailor's desk like a sheriff from the old West. He kept his shotgun balanced on one leg, his finger poised on the trigger, both barrels pointed square in the center of the drifter's chest. Glaring in through the pitted, iron bars of the cell, he spat on the thick, wood-plank floor near his prisoner's feet, hoping for some sort of reaction.

The drifter didn't so much as twitch an eyelid.

That was fine. It didn't matter. The drifter would get his soon enough. Richard would make sure of it.

Having seen what Richard had done, Anders shot him a warning glance, but quickly went back to the tense, whispered debate he was having on the other side of the room.

Clearly Richard's opinion wasn't deemed important enough to be included in whatever was being discussed. Anders had asked him to join him in the courthouse, but Richard knew all the Sarge had really wanted him for was extra muscle. As soon as the cell door had been closed and locked, Richard had had been asked to keep the shotgun trained on their 'guest,' and then Anders had turned away and begun conferring with the two advisors who never seemed far behind him.

Richard's lip curled. As if the Sarge's "advisors" knew anything more about running a city than he did. Everyone in Outpost had been something else in their past life, their old careers long-since abandoned. Anders and the two others huddled around him were no different.

There was Lydia, who'd been a psychiatrist before everything went to hell. She was widely regarded as the most intelligent person in the community, but held no true leadership position. In fact, her official job title was "Assistant Physician," but Richard had never so much as seen her set foot in the infirmary. There was some whispering that she and Anders might be romantically involved, but no one knew for sure. Not that anyone would blame them—in this new world, you took love whenever and wherever it could be found, no matter who it was with.

And then there was Arnold.

Arnold Dorchman, who was the Sarge's second in command, though for the life of him Richard couldn't understand why. His upper curled and he fought the urge to spit on the floor again. Just the mere thought of Arnold put a bad taste in his mouth. If there was a photo next to the word "douchebag" in the dictionary, it would be of Arnold, his smug little gap-toothed face grinning out with the rapturous hubris of blissful ignorance.

Arnold was the runt son of a retired three-star general, a fifth-generation Army brat who, like Richard, had been born and raised in Elizabethtown. He couldn't be more than a couple inches over five feet, but walked like he was seven feet tall, and was proud as hell to remind anyone who'd listen that his family had served the U-S-of-A with distinction and pride for over a century. Though a couple years apart, he and Richard had been in high school together. For as long as Richard had known him, all Arnold had ever talked about was his family's history with the military, and it was annoying as hell. Even back in high school Arnold had been completely single-minded, so much that Richard had wanted to slap the shit out of the little bastard whenever he came within reaching distance.

And true to his calling, Arnold had signed up for the Army as soon as he was old enough—only he didn't serve with distinction and pride. Oh, he'd joined, sure enough. In high school he was a proud member of the ROTC, even got an early enlistment date. He was carted off to basic training just four days after their high school graduation.

But five short weeks later, Arnold was right back home. Pneumonia, his family had explained—but they only explained if they were asked. Their official story was that Arnold had come down with pneumonia in the fourth week of basic and had been sent home to recover. As soon as he was back on his feet again, they said, he was going back to finish his training.

Weeks went by, and then those weeks turned into a month. And then that month became a few months, and Arnold was still at home.

Something had happened to him at basic, and it wasn't pneumonia. There were whispers that Arnold had been court-martialed, that his father had been forced to step in and pull his son from a messy situation, but no one ever knew why or what for, or whether it was even true. All anyone in Elizabethtown knew for sure was that Arnold's career in the Army had ended before it even began.

His was a well-regarded, dignified family. No one asked questions out of respect for their legacy, but oh how they whispered about him. There was no denying that Arnold's "illness" had quietly thrown a thin layer of tarnish over their sterling reputation, and many of those who shared his last name began receiving sidelong, mistrustful glances. His father, who rarely bought his own drink at the local tavern, began to find himself sitting alone at the bar more and more often.

The worst part was that Arnold still strutted around town as if he still deserved the respect his family's name afforded, all five foot two inches of him. His horn-rimmed glasses, his crooked, stained teeth, and his greasy, brown hair only made it that much more difficult for anyone to tolerate the military surplus camouflage jacket he wore everywhere he went.

And somehow, despite of it being common knowledge in four counties that Arnold Dorchman was a douchebag, he'd managed to worm his way into the Sarge's confidence and was poised to take over operations of the community if anything were ever to happen to their leader. He strutted around Outpost with an old Colt .45 strapped to his waist like he was some sort of old west gunslinger, the holster nearly as long as the top half of his leg. If it weren't for the fact that he was actually in a real position of power, it would be comical, and the idea that anyone might someday have to follow that little grease-ball's lead was ludicrous.

If Richard had hated Arnold Dorchman before the Great Rains, he despised him now.

The silver-eyed drifter sat quietly in the jail cell, his face relaxed and expressionless. To Richard, he looked like he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Over in the opposite corner of the room, Arnold and Lydia were still embroiled in what appeared to be an intense debate with Outpost's leader. Arnold, in particular, appeared to strongly disagree with whatever Anders had decided, but that was nothing new. Lately, he had been trying more and more to assert his authority, loudly reiterating the Sarge's orders when it suited him, and quietly disputing anything he didn't agree with. He was generally ignored, most people put up with him out of loyalty to Anders, treating him with mild amusement, but day by day, little by little, Arnold was questioning the Sarge's decisions in public more often. He always did it deferentially, never with any overt malice, but it happened enough that it now surpassed respect.

To Richard, it appeared today was no different. What could they possibly be arguing about? In his eyes, it was crystal clear what needed to be done: they had to get what information they could out of the drifter and then get rid of him. Every second they allowed him to remain behind their walls was a risk. There was an army waiting out there!

Tired, sore, and sick of waiting, Richard pushed his chair back, letting it scrape across the floor with an obnoxious screech and the three of them jumped, startled. Scowling, Richard loudly thumped his feet up onto the desk one at a time, using the rude behavior to emphasize the way he felt about the time they were wasting.

Arnold frowned. "That's a hundred-year-old desk," he pointed out.

'Well, Arnie," Richard answered condescendingly, "seeing as it's been around so long, I'm pretty sure my boots won't make any difference today."

"Don't call me Arnie," Arnold bristled.

Both sides of Richard's mouth curved up into a malicious smirk.

"I mean it," Arnie insisted. He took a step forward, one hand on the grip of his holstered pistol. "This isn't high school anymore."

"Really, Arnie?" Richard taunted. "It isn't high school? Really, it's not?" He knew how he sounded, and he didn't care, anything to get under the little prick's skin.

"Enough!" Anders snapped. "We have enough to worry about already. We need to work together—and that includes the two of you!"

"Well, about that," Richard thumped his boots back down onto the floor and leaned forward. "Sounds like all the three of you been doing the past fifteen minutes is argue." He clambered to his feet, using the desk for support, hearing and feeling every bone in his body crack. "What's to discuss? Ask Silver-Eyes here whatever you need, then be done with it and I'll ask him one last question..." Richard threw a hard look into the cell. "Head or chest?"

Disgusted, Lydia shook her head and looked past Richard. "Has anyone even thought to offer the poor..." She blinked. "... man... some water?" She approached the cell cautiously, clearly afraid of getting too close. "Can I get you something?" she asked. "Do you drink water?"

"You want to waste our water on him?" Richard snorted. He looked at Anders for support. "Sarge—"

"Get him some damn water," Anders interrupted impatiently. When no one moved, he rounded on Arnold. "Well...?"

For a moment, the look on Arnold's face was pure, undisguised hatred. Richard tensed, certain that Arnold was on the brink of doing something stupid, but then the look was gone. Arnold gave a short, curt nod and left the room.

"Until we know," Anders pointed a cautionary finger at Richard, "until we're sure what he wants, he will be treated as our guest. No harm will come to him unless we decide he is a threat."

"As our..." Richard sputtered. Their 'guest' had been handcuffed and tossed in a jail cell! "You don't think that black-eyed zombie chain waiting outside our gate doesn't make it clear enough?"

"I think they want something from us," Anders replied evenly, "and I want to know what it is. I want to know if we can give it to them without anyone getting hurt."

"They want Outpost!" Richard argued, angry that Anders was being so calm. "You think they came here just to talk? If that was true, we'd already be out there talking to them, not waiting for them to attack!"

Lydia gave him another disapproving frown and took a step closer. "What is your name, please?" Her voice was relaxed, compassionate, as if she were only interested in the drifter's well-being.

Was she really trying to 'shrink' the drifter? Richard blew out a loud puff of breath and rolled his eyes.

The drifter made no reply whatsoever.

Anders pursed his lips. "If you want to live," he spoke slowly, articulately, so there could be no misunderstanding his words. "You will answer our questions."

Arnold was just stepping back into the room with a small plastic cup when the drifter calmly replied, "If you want to live, you will pay very close attention to what I have to say."

The drifter's voice was so matter-of-fact, so ordinary, that initially they were all at a loss for words. His manner of speaking was bland and dry, like nothing he said really mattered, or like he truly didn't care how anyone reacted to what he was saying. It wasn't that his tone was condescending, it was more like he was just disinterested, like he was playing a role; reading his lines obligatorily, but not acting them out.

Richard bristled and snapped his shotgun back up to his shoulder, but Arnold was quicker. He shocked everyone, rushing at the bars and angrily throwing the cup of water into the cell, soaking the drifter's front with the precious liquid. In one smooth motion, he pulled his pistol, cocked it, and pointed it at the drifter's head.

"If that wasn't a clear and direct threat," Arnold snarled, "then I never heard one." He looked over his shoulder at Anders. "Just say the word."

Richard gave Arnold a begrudging nod of approval. For the first time ever, he agreed with the pathetic little ego-maniac.

"Do you even know who you're speaking to?" Richard rattled his shotgun for emphasis. "Do you know the lengths this man has gone to just to keep us safe? The sacrifices he has made to maintain our community? Do you have any idea what any one of us would do to keep him safe?"

The drifter ignored them both, his unblinking eyes fixed on Anders. "As a matter of fact, I do know. I know you're a good man." The way he said it—it was like he really did know. He was so confident, so unafraid despite his current predicament. "Alice and Donny have told me a great deal about you," he added after a short pause.

No one in the room could have missed the sound of the Sarge's choked intake of breath. He reeled back, his right knee nearly buckling.

"How dare you," Anders whispered, his face ashen.

The drifter lifted his head and turned slightly to the left, as if he were listening for something. "Don't be such a Stubborn Stanley," he said after a few moments.

Richard looked back and forth between Anders and the drifter, incredulous, his finger on the trigger. What the hell was going on?!

"Out!" Spittle flew from the Sarge's lips. He spun, raking everyone in the room with blazing eyes. His face was red, every vein on his bald head clearly defined. "Everyone—out!" He rounded on the drifter. "And you—you can rot!"

"But, Bill..." Lydia tried to object.

"Out!"

3.

Anders was filling his second glass of bourbon when he was interrupted by a soft knock. He frowned at the closed door. Lydia. He didn't need to open it to know it was her.

"Please," Anders was surprised when he had to concentrate to keep his voice from cracking. "That will be all for today, thank you."

There was a heavy, prolonged silence. He waited, hoping she would just go away, feeling a little ridiculous when he realized he was holding his breath, the bottle still poised in mid-pour. He knew Lydia was just being a friend, but right now that wasn't what he needed. If he was forced to talk to someone he might crack, and he couldn't afford to be seen that way, not when their community was under attack.

Outpost was already hanging on by a thread, and had been for a long time. There just wasn't enough food nearby to support so many people, not anymore. The more time passed, the harder it was to find the supplies they needed. Every building within a ten-mile radius had been picked clean. The scavs kept extending their search radius further and further, and still the best they could ever find was the bare minimum. Added to that, there hadn't been any newcomers in the past year. Although there was a degree of safety in that, it also meant that when anyone died, the work they did died too. At one point, there'd been over twenty scavs on daily patrols. In those days, with that many out foraging, there had always been a surplus of food. But now they were down to only twelve.

Anders bowed his head, set the bottle down, and put a hand over his eyes.

Eleven. Justin was gone. They were down to eleven scavs.

The idea that the residents of Outpost might someday have to move on was becoming more and more likely. It was a huge risk for so many reasons, and Anders knew no one wanted to do it, but their alternative was to starve.

"Are you alright?" Lydia's muffled voice came from outside the door.

He could picture her out in the hallway, one hand on the doorknob, her face turned sideways with her ear pressed up against the wood. She was a good person, a kind soul, and he knew she only wanted to help. Normally, he would have appreciated it. She was smart; the clarity she was always able to bring to their discussions was invaluable. But this was different. There was no way she could help him with this, no peace of mind she could provide.

"Wake me immediately if anything changes outside the gate," he replied. "I just... I just need time to plan our next step."

There was another long pause, but eventually she softly replied, "Goodnight." He listened as her soft footfalls retreated down the hall and lifted the glass to his lips, taking another swallow of bourbon.

Don't be such a Stubborn Stanley.

Of all the things the drifter could have said...

His son, Donny, used to say that whenever he was trying to get his way, always with a laugh and a hug, always with that trademark smirk. He'd picked up the saying from some movie or another, back when he was just an innocent little boy, before he'd been forced to live with all the terrible things the Great Rains brought into the world.

But how could the drifter have known? It wasn't possible. Donny was dead. He and his mother had both died on the same day.

Anders took another drink.

Was the drifter trying to provoke him on purpose? Was he trying to incite Anders into making the first move so his black-eyed army would have a reason to attack? Why would they need one? Why would it matter? It wasn't like there was any law for them to abide by, and if the stories of their strength were true, it would be no contest. Outpost would fall.

One hundred and sixty-one people were depending on him to make the right decisions. Each and every one of them worked seven days a week, dawn until dusk. Scavs, guards, cooks, demo and construction crews, doctors. They were good people, all of them, and they relied on him to make decisions with a clear head, which was exactly why he'd left the jailor's office so abruptly. If he'd spent another moment with the drifter, there was no telling what he might have done.

Outpost was a heavy burden, sometimes too heavy. Anders worked hard to maintain an outward picture of calm and confidence. He knew the people who lived inside its walls trusted him implicitly, but not a day went by that he didn't feel an overwhelming need to just run away, to escape. To simply be Bill Anders, instead of Bill 'the Sarge' Anders.

Sarge. What a ridiculous fallacy that he was still called by that rank. Yes, he had served with pride in the United States Army for twenty-two years, earning the rank of first sergeant. He'd retired with an honorable discharge, but only after a prolonged battle in military court spurred on by an officer who'd taken an unhealthy liking to Alice. She'd firmly told the officer she wasn't interested, many times, but he must have believed he could change her mind. In the end, it had taken a particularly brutal beating from Anders to finally get it through to him. Unfortunately, that had been during his final weeks in the Army, something the officer no doubt knew and was banking on using to his advantage. Although in the end nothing had come of it, the court martial had arrived almost immediately. He'd always been proud of his time served, and proud that he'd achieved so much. But those last months had left an awful taste in his mouth. If he never had to be reminded of his time as a soldier again, that would have been fine with him.

It was that little bastard, Arnold.

Anders frowned, tossed back the remainder of the bourbon, and poured another glass.

He never should have allowed that little son of a bitch to begin calling him Sarge, not even in the beginning.

Hero worship, that's what it had been. Seemingly harmless, especially when there were so many other issues that were more important, but looking back now Anders knew he should have nipped it in the bud as soon as it started.

Arnold had been scared, had needed something, someone, to latch onto, someone that represented something familiar, and Anders had fit the bill almost too well. Certainly, there could have been no way to know that that Outpost would be where they would all end up, or that he would be the man responsible for the well-being of so many people. Their community had never been planned; its creation had been more of a reaction to the urgency of their situation.

Back in the first days after the rains had stopped was when he first found Arnold Dorchman. He and his family had emerged from their home gratefully, anxious to make the journey into town after so long without any other contact. They'd spent over a month huddled in their small country home, watching as the unending deluge of crimson-tinged water beat down on the fields surrounding them, flooding and killing everything in sight. At midnight on the fortieth day, the rain had stopped with a terrifying abruptness, as if someone had wrenched a faucet closed. The silence that followed had been deafening, so much that it had woken them from a sound sleep.

Radio and television broadcasts had been off the air for more than two weeks. The telephones had stopped working long before the radio had, and they'd been without power for the final eight days.

Twice in the forty-day period, Anders had ventured out in an attempt to reach their closest neighbor, a half-mile journey down the road, hoping to borrow food. He'd had no trouble getting there, but there had been no answer at the door and the house was locked tight. Not feeling right about breaking in to a friend's house, Anders had returned home empty-handed both times.

Scared, malnourished, and starved for news, the three of them eagerly piled into the pickup truck to go into town the morning after the rains stopped.

Their road, a long, winding stretch of pavement which only led to more farms, was wide open, clear of any debris or abandoned vehicles. And although the first leg of their journey was damp, dark, and tinged crimson from the rain, the worst appeared to be over.

That is, until they reached the outskirts of town.

Anders had stopped at the first abandoned vehicle they came upon, telling Donny and Alice to wait in the truck. It was parked right in the middle of the road. People might be inside, and they might need help. When he came back his face was pale, his jaw rigid, and he refused to answer their questions. After that, they didn't stop again, even if it meant driving in the ditch.

In town, it was worse. It was as if the entire population had attempted a mass exodus but only succeeded in hemming in each other in. Clothing and belongings were strewn everywhere, soaked and ruined from lying out in the rain for so long.

Hours later, after endless maneuvering around the cars and debris left in the wake of what must have been a city-wide panic, they still hadn't spotted a single living soul. Of the dead, they had seen plenty, and the smell—Anders remembered thinking he'd never rid his nostrils of that terrible stench. Cars were left everywhere, haphazardly parked along the side of the road, piled into telephone poles, slammed into other vehicles—most of them containing the corpses of the rotting dead. He did his best to shield his wife and son from the sight, but there had been so many and, even then, he'd known they'd need to face it anyway.

Alice and Donny had known about the virus, of course. Before all the news stations had stopped broadcasting, it was all that had been on TV. They already knew there had been mass-casualties.

But there was no one. Every time they turned off the truck, the silence was absolute and complete: no power lines buzzing, no hum of cars driving in the distance, no sound of voices—not even birds singing or insects chirping.

Not knowing where else to go, Anders had turned to the only entity he thought might be left—the US Army. If there were survivors from Elizabethtown or the neighboring city of Radcliff, they would have been evacuated to Fort Knox. Certainly, there had to be some military remaining.

It took the rest of the day to get there, but they made it and unfortunately, it was for nothing. They couldn't even get the pickup truck past the guard shack at the gate because of all the vehicles in the road, presumably left by desperate people in search of hope who, like Anders, realized with one look that even the United States military was powerless against such a deadly affliction.

Anders and his family had gotten out of the truck, exhausted and scared. They stood silently, their arms around each other, staring hollowly into the army base.

It was then that they first spotted Arnold—or rather, when Arnold first spotted them. He came running out from the guard shack, his eyes wild, hair poking out in every direction. He must have been sleeping when they'd arrived, but now he was wide awake and running full-speed toward them, arms waving, screaming his head off, begging them not to leave.

"Dad...?" Donny had begun inching his way back toward the truck door, afraid.

"Is that... Arnie?" Alice had asked, squinting. "Is that the Dorchman boy?"

By the time Arnold reached them he was gasping in giant gulps, sweat pouring down his face and mingling with grateful tears. He barreled into their small group like a long-lost relative, throwing his arms around their shoulders and thanking them over and over through wracking sobs.

It took a while to disentangle from Arnold's desperate embrace, and even longer to calm him down enough for his words to become intelligible, but when they were finally able to put him at arm's length he couldn't stop talking.

"Sergeant Anders, Mrs. Anders, oh thank God! I thought I was the only one! I thought there wasn't anyone else left! Oh, Sarge, thank you, sir!"

Anders, at the time, had opened his mouth to rebuke the use of the title, but Alice gave him a sharp look and an almost imperceptible shake of her head. He got the message: the young man is in shock. Don't muddle his head with contradictions that don't mean anything.

"They're dead!" Arnold had wailed. "They're all dead! I've been all over post, I spent the whole day. I yelled and I yelled, I tried to find someone, anyone that would answer me, but they're all gone. All of them! Piles of bodies in the buildings. Bodies all over the place, like some of them just dropped dead and gave up!"

"Arnold," Alice had said in a careful maternal tone, "you need to slow down. Just take it easy. We'll figure this out. They can't all be dead. We can't be the only ones."

She'd been right, but not like she thought. There were others, but just a precious few. They spent that night huddled together in the guard shack, going out the next morning to search the buildings inside the army base. They made as much noise as they could, yelling for others to come out if they were there. By the next evening, they had seven more who'd joined them. Most were just like Arnold; in a state of shock, dazed, unable to process that the world they knew no longer existed, and it was Anders, Alice, and Donny who felt compelled to care for them, to seek out and provide the basic necessities of life until they snapped out of it.

They left Fort Knox the following day in the Anders' truck, loading everyone in the back like a construction crew. They moved from home to home, business to business, shouting and honking the horn in search of survivors.

Four days later, their numbers had swelled to thirty-two people and five trucks, and they'd traveled less than five miles. Alice recognized that her husband, now openly referred to as 'the Sarge,' was already universally looked to for leadership.

That night, as they pulled back the covers of the bed in a stranger's empty home, Alice watched her exhausted husband, swaying as he leaned forward to unlace his boots. "Bill," she'd told him, "you can't keep this up. Not alone. It's only been a few days, and look at you. You're ready to keel over."

"We're all ready to keel over," he'd responded. "It's been a tough week."

"A tough week?" Her tone took on a hard edge, and Anders had known right away that his dismissive reply hadn't been received well. Alice supported him in every way, but when it came to his or Donny's well-being she drew the line, and no one—not even Anders himself—could tell her any different. "Now you listen here, Bill: you've got over thirty people all looking to one person to get them through this, and that person is you."

Anders played it smart and unlaced his boots a bit more slowly, keeping his head down.

"And not only that," Alice continued, her voice ratcheting up a notch, "but you know as well I do that there's going to be more of them. This is just the beginning. We found them in just a few days, imagine how many there'll be in a few weeks!"

"Alice—" But she didn't even give him a chance to sit up all the way before she laid back into him.

"Don't you 'Alice' me," she'd warned. "You're a good man, Bill Anders. Too good for your own good."

"Can't we just talk about this in the morning?" he'd asked, reaching for her hopefully.

"Oh no, you don't," she backed out of his reach. "You're going to wear yourself right down to the bone if you try to do this by yourself, and we didn't make it this far just to have you drop dead a few days after the rain stops."

Anders had held his tongue, knowing he didn't need to ask what she thought he should do, because she was going to tell him whether he wanted her to or not, which also meant he was going to do what she told him, whether he wanted to or not.

"There're two things this group needs," she held up a finger, ticking off her first point. "We need a destination, somewhere we can hole up and figure out what's happened." She held up a second finger. "And you need help. There needs to be a hierarchy to this group so you can delegate some of the daily responsibilities to other people."

Anders groaned and covered his eyes, knowing where she was going next.

"That Dorchman boy is young," Alice told him, "and more than a little odd, but he is fanatically loyal. And we know him."

Sort of, Anders wanted to add, but he kept his mouth shut.

"His family and ours have been a part of the same social circles for decades," Alice had reminded him. "That young man might not be playing with a full deck, but he worships the ground you walk on, and he's reliable. That goes a long way in my book."

Anders had flopped back onto his pillow, groaning, and promptly went to sleep.

And so it was decided. In the morning, Arnold had taken a small group and three trucks to scout for more survivors, while Anders and everyone else headed for the town square in Elizabethtown where they would set up a temporary outpost. It was the most logical place to wait. If the government were to come looking for survivors, they'd most easily be found if they were in the center of town.

Anders had never thought the town square would become their permanent home, nor would he have believed that Arnold would arrive two weeks later with over a hundred refugees, every single one of them looking to 'the Sarge' for leadership and direction. If not for his wife's level-headedness and ability to prioritize, everything would have fallen apart before it had a chance to begin. She had known that, more than anything else, the people who came to them were looking for a purpose, a reason to live, a need to feel useful. Every one of them had had their world torn to shreds, so the first thing she had told Anders to do was assign jobs. Keep them moving, she'd said. No matter which job you give them, make them believe it is vital to everyone else's survival. Make them believe in their own importance.

Alice had been right. There wasn't a single person who didn't launch into their job with an almost religious fervor, most even thanked him for putting them to work. They needed a focus, they needed a task—something to make them feel as if they were picking up the pieces again—and the Sarge had given it to them.

In the beginning it been easy; it had been all about food and shelter, and there had been an abundance of both. Most of the refugees moved into the businesses in the courthouse square, but a few opted for the comfort of homes in the surrounding neighborhoods.

Every building had contained groceries of some sort and although everyone recognized a need to ration what they had, no one believed that supplies would run out before some sort of order was established. Surely FEMA or some other government organization was already working hard to re-establish society. It was just a matter of time. "They" would come soon, and then everything could get back to normal.

But "they" didn't come.

Four months later, when the first bandits attacked and took everything of value, it finally sunk in: help might never arrive.

The bandits came in the middle of the day, a dozen dust-coated vehicles filled with hardened men and women who left no doubt that they would do whatever they had to do in order to get what they wanted. Brazenly, they drove right into the center of town and piled out, firing shots into the air as they shouted their demands.

Nearly everyone else had remained huddled in their homes, hidden from view, as Anders and Harold had loaded what meager supplies the community possessed into the bandits' trucks, both of them getting the stock of a shotgun to the side of the head for their trouble.

As the two of them lay bleeding from twin gashes in their foreheads, watching as the bandits' tail lights disappeared in a swirl of dust, Arnold had come running from around the corner of the courthouse, pistol in his hand.

"I got ya', Sarge," he said, taking Anders' elbow to help him back to his feet. "What happened—you okay? I would have come sooner if I'd known..."

Anders, too disoriented and in too much pain to bother calling Arnold out in such an obvious lie, had walked off without a word. Arnold had followed for a short distance, pestering him with panicked questions—who were they? What did they take? Do you think they'll be back? But eventually the rat-faced little man had given up and was left standing alone in the street.

Thankfully, no one was killed, but three young women who lived together in a home outside the city square were never seen again.

Outpost couldn't have been the first community the bandits invaded. They'd taken everything of value, including people, and moved onward with an efficiency that was clearly borne from experience. If those bandits were any indication of the kind of people that were out there, then they had to assume there was no longer any law, no rule of order.

That night, Anders held the very first community meeting in the main room of the courthouse.

"No one is coming." There was no other way to put it except straight to the point, not after what had happened that day. The bandits had taken it all. Every person who stood before him was there with an empty belly, their hunger only intensified by the knowledge that it would be mid-morning before the scavs would make it back with what meager provisions they could find.

"This is it," Anders had told them. "This is our home now, this is where we start over—right here and right now. No more waiting for help to arrive. We will support each other like friends, and we will protect each other like family."

He stood on the edge of the raised floor at the back of the room, the judge's bench directly behind him.

"Family," Anders repeated softly. "I know you've all lost people close to you. The children..." He bowed his head and cleared his throat, looking back up with determination. "Our future—our children—have been taken from us by the Great Rains, but that doesn't mean we can't start over. We cannot allow ourselves to give up, and we cannot expect anyone else to fight this fight for us!"

Arnold was down on the main floor, directly in front of Anders, nodding like a bobble-head doll. Anders had to fight against the urge to let his disdain show on his face, and it was good he did because Arnold's movement spurred others to do the same. Soon most of them were looking up at him hopefully, a glimmer of determination beginning to show in their eyes.

"But what if there is a government out there somewhere?" A short, fat, bald-headed man shouldered his way to the front of the room. "What if they're already putting things back together somewhere else, but we don't hear about it for months, even years, because we decided 'this is it?'"

"I'm sorry..." Anders squinted, "I don't know your name."

"Richard," the fat man had replied, shrugging like it didn't matter.

"Well, Richard," Anders replied, looking up to face the entire room. "That is a good question, and here is my answer: it is dangerous out there. That's not a scare-tactic to convince anyone to stay in Elizabethtown—it's a fact. One we know all too well after what happened today."

Richard's mouth had moved like he was chewing on a reply, but he stayed quiet.

"Anyone who disagrees with me is free to leave," Anders spoke loudly, so everyone in the room could hear him. "If you wish to go in search of a better place, or if you believe staying here is a mistake, no one will stop you. But if you stay..." Anders stepped up to the edge of the riser and raised his voice even louder. "If you stay, you will be expected to contribute. Everyone will pitch in and be a part of building a home that will provide us shelter, the ability to store food, and above all, safety."

He looked down at Richard and waited, but Richard looked away.

"We're going to build a wall around the block that this courthouse stands on," Anders had announced. "We're going to use metal and brick and lumber from the buildings around us. We'll tear down the homes and businesses closest to us to give us a line of sight against intruders like the ones who came here today. And once those walls are up," he'd paused there to give his words the weight they deserved, "no one will be permitted to live outside of them."

With the attack so fresh in everyone's minds, the vote was unanimous. Construction and demolition of the surrounding buildings began the next day.

No one in the community was an architect or engineer, but thankfully the wall was very basic—a giant square of supported metal and brick. The construction began with a great deal of trial and error, but by the end of the first year construction was complete.

Including the central courthouse, they had enclosed twenty-three buildings within the walls, all of which had been businesses and city-owned properties before the rains. Using materials and furnishings scavenged from surrounding homes, they divided those buildings into studio apartments roughly the size of dorm rooms, one for every citizen. The county clerk's office and courthouse were the only buildings left undivided, converted into a small infirmary and the community headquarters.

Also by the end of that first year, a routine had been established and, for the most part, everyone who lived in Outpost seemed to get along with each other. Of course there was the occasional disagreement or squabble—Richard wasn't the only hot-head who lived among them—but it was never anything that couldn't be mended by sobering up or bringing it in front of the Sarge for a non-biased verdict.

There were more bandit attacks, but now when they came Outpost was ready. There were forty-two guards working in twelve-hour shifts seven days a week, in constant rotation. The first time they fought off an attack it was chaotic. They barely held the bandits at bay but ultimately did prevail, and after that they drilled in their off time and sharpened their skills. What most had found was that the majority of the bandits really had no desire to harm anyone. When they came in groups like the first one had, it was easy to believe they attacked with a desire to kill, especially if they didn't get what they came for, but the truth was they were just trying to survive another day like everyone else and doing it the only way they knew how. It didn't take long for Anders to adopt a strategy of an immediate show of force, which generally scared off any invaders before a single shot was fired.

There were common travelers, too; those who wandered up to the gate in groups of twos and threes. They came often, at least one group every few days. Most were emaciated, half-dead. Some were on their way to somewhere else, firm destinations fixed in their minds—stories they'd heard of better places. Others were looking for a place exactly like Outpost. Anders welcomed any who wished to stay so long as they abided by two basic principles: first, you did your share, you pulled your weight. Everyone had a job in Outpost, and everyone pitched in. And second: rules were posted on the wall inside the main room of the courthouse for all to see. If a rule was established by a majority vote in a town meeting, you were obligated to abide by that rules whether you agreed with it or not.

Failure to pull your weight or follow the rules resulted in eviction. In two years, Anders was thankful that he'd never had to enforce that rule.

Things went on like that for a long time, years in fact, and Anders slowly came to believe that this was it—Outpost was where he would die, and life would be hard until that day. The world he'd once known and the life he and his family had once lived were gone forever. Even the homes that still stood were changed, now nothing more than dry, red-dust-coated shells to be scavenged through in the hope of finding one more undamaged can of corn, or one more intact piece of clothing.

And then, in the third year, the steady flow of wanderers to their gate slowed to a trickle, and soon stopped altogether. After so many so often, the change was abrupt. At the end of that year, there hadn't been a single traveler arrive at Outpost in over a month.

No one talked about it at first, but Anders could see the concern in people's eyes. What did it mean that no one was coming anymore? Was it unsafe? Had a new community, a better community, been established somewhere that they didn't know about? Should they send scouts to find out or was it now too unsafe to venture out? Had their decimated world finally killed off the handful of humans that were left?

If only they had known it was something much, much worse.

Anders took a big, deep gulp of bourbon and thumped the glass down on his desk. Reaching past it, he carefully lifted a picture frame with both hands.

In the photo, Alice and Donny stared back at him, both of them smiling with cheesy grins. It had been taken on the beach in Panama City. They were squinting into the bright sun, a cloudless blue sky overhead.

He remembered that day like it was yesterday. It had been during spring break in Donny's freshman year of high school. They'd rented a condo overlooking the beach and, like any teenaged boy, Donny had spent most of the day watching all the girls pass by in their bikinis. He'd begged his father to let him walk the beach on his own—don't be such a Stubborn Stanley, Dad—but instead they'd settled for a family stroll. Donny was in agony, pestering his parents the whole way, but it was good-natured pestering; Donny was a good kid, and knew his parents would never set him loose at age fifteen in a town full or hormone-crazed, liquor-addled teenagers.

They'd taken a lot of pictures that day, but this one had always been his favorite. It wasn't fancy, just a close-up of his family's faces with smiles that hadn't been put on just for the benefit of a good picture—real smiles, genuine smiles of happiness.

Anders gripped the frame tighter.

In the next room, he knew the silver-eyed drifter was waiting.

How could the drifter have known to say that?

The drifter said he'd been told Anders was a good man. The drifter had said Alice and Donny had told him.

Impossible.

He unscrewed the cap on the bourbon bottle again, but didn't pour. He left his hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle, the shape and contour of the glass that, of late, had become all too familiar.

Alice and Donny had been attacked by a small pack of the same kind of black-eyed drifters that were now gathered outside their gates. They'd been on the way back from an inspection of the roadies, the road crews responsible for clearing the abandoned vehicles from the roadways. In two years, they'd made outstanding progress. The roads were cleared all the way to the expressway, and they were now working north toward Louisville.

A lot of the people thought the roadies had a dangerous and meaningless job—if there was no one left, then why do it? And if there was anyone left, everyone already knew what kind of people they'd be. Why not commit that labor to jobs that were a direct benefit, like scavenging food?

But Anders knew the value of open roads. His time in the military had taught him that one of the most important assets for any campaign is open trade routes. If there were any other communities, maybe they could help each other. Outpost was at war, but their war wasn't with another group, city, or nation, it was with hunger, with dehydration, with the slow death that came without support from other human beings. If there were any others left, the safest bet was that they would be found in larger cities like Louisville.

Yes, a lot of people thought that clearing the roadways was a meaningless job, but to Anders it was very possibly the most important one of all.

On that day, Alice and Donny had asked to come along on the inspection, citing a case of cabin fever. Normally whenever anyone, including Anders, traveled outside of Outpost they went as a group or with guards—safety in numbers—but something about the way his wife and son had looked at him, something about the hopeful gleam in their eyes made him tell the guards to take the day off. That day, he would be spending some time alone with his family.

Donny, twenty years old by that time and every bit an adult by the new world's standards, was a member of the guard at the rear gate. Certainly he and Anders were capable of handling any trouble that might come their way.

Everything had gone fine with the inspection, and although it was a very long trip, they were in high spirits on their way back to Outpost, laughing and joking as they traveled, just happy to be a family, to be together, and to be alive.

But they were careless. They'd come down the same two-lane stretch of road less than two hours previous; it hadn't occurred to any of them to be concerned for their safety on the way back.

The drifters' attack was swift and silent. Alice and Donny were the clear targets. In fact, never once in the brief minutes between the attack and when Anders was left standing alone on the roadway did the drifters so much as glance his way.

They went straight for his wife and son, savagely tackling each one to the ground and holding them there as their leader—the same tall, black-haired monster waiting at Outpost's front gate today—bit into their throats until they lay motionless.

Anders had rushed them, his garbled, furious sobs playing counterpart to the sound of Alice and Donny's heels dragging across the pavement as their lifeless bodies were drug into the woods at the side of the road. He'd been relentless, throwing himself at them over and over, but they were immovable as stone, their black, emotionless eyes pools of indifference as they barred his path.

It was all over so fast, so soundlessly. One moment they were there, the next he was alone in the middle of the road.

Alice and Donny hadn't even had a chance to scream.

Anders had remained in that spot for hours, in shock. He simply couldn't comprehend that what had just happened was real. They were survivors. Alice and Donny were fighters. Against all odds, his wife and son had made it through the terrible plague brought on by the great rains, as had he. They'd endured terrible hardships, had fought through so many struggles. And now, in a matter of seconds, they'd been taken from him—as if everything since the day the rains had let up had been for nothing.

Anders' grip on the bourbon bottle tightened until his knuckles turned white.

It was not for nothing.

Those bastards outside his gate had killed his wife and son in front of him, and now they demanded he listen to them? They would use his son's words to sway his decision?

How could they have known?

What kind of game were they playing?

Anders poured another shot and glared at the wall, as if he could see into the next room and into the holding cell with its sole occupant.

It was not for nothing.

He refilled his glass, his son's voice echoing from the past.

"Don't be such a Stubborn Stanley."

4.

The narrow, wooden plank that served as the cell's only bench couldn't have been more than twelve inches wide; it was just an old, worn piece of wood bracketed to the brick wall and attached to two iron legs that were bolted into the concrete floor.

Hugo Manning wasn't a big guy, average-sized at best. Whoever the sadistic bastard was who'd installed this bench had to have known that even a smaller-than-average person would find it excruciatingly uncomfortable.

He sighed inwardly. Maybe that was the point. It was a jail cell, after all.

The natural slope of his spine only allowed about eight inches of space for his butt to rest on the wood, so he was forced to perch on it with his feet flat in front of him, his legs braced to keep his back pressed tight against the chipped brick wall.

For most people the bench's painful accommodations would have made it impossible to remain on it for very long, but Manning was strong. He'd been made that way the day he was changed, the day his eyes had turned to silver. He knew he could, and would, remain motionless for as long as it took Anders to regain his composure. If he had to, he would wait for days. It was important that Anders, and all his people, see Manning as confident, strong, and unshakable.

Especially since, inwardly, Manning was as frightened as he'd ever been in his life. If only Justin hadn't been a candidate, it would have made things so much easier for him once he got inside the community.

But Justin had been a candidate, and certainly by now Justin was already aware that he had become part of something far greater than Outpost, something far more important.

Unfortunately, his immense strength and clarity of purpose didn't make the bench any more comfortable, which made Manning that much more grateful to know there was a small army waiting for him outside the gate. There was no way Anders would wait very long, not with such a clear threat literally staring his people in the eyes.

Not that it mattered, of course. Manning knew he was on a fool's errand. The black-haired man outside the gates, Manning's leader, a man who called himself 'John Doe,' had given him a tremendous gift. With it, he would survive far longer, and he was grateful. But what John Doe believed Manning could accomplish here was flat-out unrealistic. There was no way anyone in this community would agree to accept the bite, let alone everyone.

Maybe if they knew the truth, if there was a way he could prove it to them, they might consider accepting—but even that was a very big maybe. And unfortunately, the only way to prove it was for them to first accept the bite. It was the only way they could be shown, the only way John Doe could communicate with them.

It was a big, vicious circle with the future of mankind at stake, and somehow Manning had been chosen as its savior. Somehow, he had to convince these people to willingly allow John Doe to sink his teeth into their throats and change them into silent, black-eyed super-humans.

For the thousandth time, Manning wondered; why him? It was ludicrous. He was a nobody, there was nothing special about him compared to the others waiting outside the gate. Why had John Doe chosen him for this task when there must be so many of his followers who were more persuasive, others with a stronger gift of gab? Of course, none of those followers could speak so... yeah. Maybe he was just 'the guy for the job' because no one else could do it.

Manning sighed. Certainly, he hadn't managed to create any allies yet. He glanced at Richard out of the corner of his eye, careful not to turn his head.

What a fat, angry, wasteful lump of flesh. Manning had met plenty like him over the years, especially after the rains—scared, insecure men with a desperate need to believe they still had some measure of control over their lives. They were only fooling themselves. The world had crumbled. There was nothing left to control, no need for anything except to survive, and yet still people like Richard convinced themselves there was. What a farce that he sat outside the cell as if he were truly guarding something. Did the lump actually believe Manning was staying on the bench as a result of his vigilance? If Manning wanted, he could pull the cell door from its iron hinges with his bare hands. It would almost be worth doing just to see the look on the fat bastard's face.

Richard was the perfect example of why Manning knew he could never accomplish what John Doe had sent him there to do. For Manning to succeed, the entire community would have to be selfless. They would have to place everyone else's lives before their own, have faith, and be willing to leave behind the existence they had created at this place, pitiful as it was.

And they would have to make that decision solely based on Manning's word, for no other reason than because some guy with silver eyes and army of back-eyed buddies asked them to.

Manning glanced at Richard again. Faith? From a guy like that?

Manning was no prophet. He was no Moses. He'd been a used car salesman for a little while after college, and he'd even failed at that! What was John Doe thinking? This was a waste of time, and now, more than ever, time was the world's most precious commodity.

He should just leave, explain to John Doe the absurdity of their situation. They could increase the army one or two at a time, the same as they'd been doing for months. It was slow, but at least it was progress. This would never work.

Manning looked again at the fat slob guarding him, at the shotgun in his lap. Would a gun even slow him down? Probably not. He'd seen plenty of John Doe's black-eyed followers shrug off bullet wounds as if they were no more than bee stings. Manning had no reason to believe he would be any different. Not that he really wanted to find out, of course.

He should leave. He should definitely leave. This was stupid.

Manning took a deep breath. He would have to be quick.

Wait. Be patient. Have faith. They will listen when they are ready to hear you. You will know when the time is right.

At the sound of John Doe's voice, Manning's spine went rigid. The only outward sign he gave that someone had spoken to him from within his mind was a slight clenching of his jaw, but inwardly, it set him on edge.

He would never, ever, become used to the idea that there was someone listening to his every thought, and that they could speak to him simply by thinking of him.

Manning could do it too—John Doe had imbued him with that ability, it had been part of the change—but he rarely used the talent. Instead, he generally remained silent, both mentally and verbally. It didn't seem right to go poking around in anyone else's mind, and he sure didn't want other people knowing every stray thought that popped into his.

'Be patient'—right, sure. Patience wasn't a problem. He could wait for as long as it took. And faith wasn't a problem either, at least not as far as it related to John Doe. Despite his own lack of self-confidence, Manning strongly believed in what John Doe was doing, and he believed in John Doe as an individual.

But faith in the people of Outpost? Faith that they would commit themselves to an unbelievable cause?

It was truly ironic that John Doe had more faith in humanity than Manning did.

Do not allow Martin's sacrifice to be in vain.

By degrees, Manning forced himself to relax.

Martin—of course John Doe would have to mention Martin.

Manning still couldn't believe one of their own had given his life to get him inside Outpost. He should have spoken up sooner. He should have done something to stop Richard from using that damn shovel. Martin hadn't sent a single thought before it happened, he'd just accepted his fate, accepted that his sacrifice was a contribution to John Doe's greater, more important cause.

But was it? To lose even one of their number was an incalculable loss. It was hard enough to find candidates—losing one, sacrificing one on purpose seemed counter to everything they were trying to accomplish. They'd been scouting for so long, searching for surviving humans. Communities the size of Outpost were nearly extinct. The world was just too brutal, too many people had decided the only way they could survive was to kill or steal from others. Generally when they found people they were in smaller, more manageable groups now, family-sized tribes. Most often just in pairs. Enough to eke out a survivor's existence without having to be responsible for anyone except one another.

A month ago when they'd stumbled across two scavs from Outpost and one of them turned out to be a candidate, John Doe had been elated to learn that there was a population cluster nearby. That day, he had immediately begun prepping Manning for the task ahead.

This could be it, John Doe had announced the same night. If there are enough candidates in that community, we will finally be able to depart. Our chance to save humanity has finally come.

Humanity.

Manning glanced at Richard again and clenched his jaw.

Was humanity even worth saving?

5.

Richard lurched awake, jerking fitfully as he was startled to alertness. His feet tumbled from the desktop and thumped painfully to the floor, needles of sensation radiating up toward his knees as the blood in his legs began to flow again.

Anders was back. His entrance must have been what had woken Richard. He was standing in front of the jailor's desk, his back to Richard, facing into the jail cell. On the desktop, an empty bourbon bottle lay on its side. It hadn't been there before Richard fell asleep.

"Sarge?" Richard asked, clearing his scratchy throat. "You okay?"

"Don't call me that," Anders replied in a quick, hollow, automatic voice.

Richard narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward to push himself to his feet, but his legs protested. Instead, he settled for sitting up straighter while he massaged the pain away.

"Sarge—?"

"You can go now," Anders cut him off abruptly. He didn't even turn when he spoke. His voice was empty, soulless. "Thank you for all your help today, Richard. I'm sorry about Justin. I know he was a good friend to you."

The words were kind, but they lacked the conviction that should have accompanied them. Something wasn't right. Was Anders drunk? He didn't sound like it.

Normally, Richard would be perfectly happy to leave the issues of Outpost to someone else. Any other time, he'd already be out the door and headed for the same kind of bottle Anders had apparently already drained. But Richard had heard what the drifter had said about the Sarge's wife and son, and Richard wasn't fool enough to think that the way Anders was acting wasn't a result of those words.

Everyone at Outpost had mourned when Alice and Donny were lost. Even now, a month after it had happened, there wasn't a single person in the community whose heart still didn't go out to the Sarge. For most of them, his sorrow was a reflection of the way they felt too.

The Anders family had been the bedrock of Outpost from the beginning. Not only had they been the ones who brought everyone together and created this safe haven, but they'd kept it that way. They were a living icon of faith for Outpost's people, a reason to believe in miracles. No one else in Outpost had a single relative or friend who'd survived the rains, and yet the Sarge's entire family had come through unscathed. Even if Alice hadn't been a mother to the community, even if Donny hadn't universally been thought of as a well-loved little brother, the fact that the Anders family seemed to carry God's blessing on their brow would have been enough reason to love them, to believe in their innate goodness.

They were exactly the kind of family Richard had always wished he were part of, and by being part of Outpost, he'd begun to feel as if he was.

This was why the man standing before him now, a man who was more of a father-figure to him than anyone else had ever been, wasn't going to face the drifter without someone there to protect him. There was no way in hell Richard was going to leave him alone.

"With respect, Sarge," the arms of the chairs creaked in loud protest as Richard lumbered to his feet. "I'd prefer to stay right here."

Almost imperceptibly, Anders swayed on his feet. Richard instinctively moved closer, lifting a hand to catch him, but it proved unnecessary. He inched his way around Anders, getting his first glimpse of his leader's face. The Sarge looked rough. Heavy, dark bags loomed under his bloodshot eyes. If Richard hadn't been right next to him, he might have wondered if Anders had heard him at all.

Inside the cell, the drifter remained on the bench, but he'd turned his head and was now staring up at Anders, a look of patient expectancy on his face.

Moments ticked by, and no one spoke. For Richard, it was almost too much to bear. He'd never been one to keep his mouth shut, and he believed that when words didn't speak loud enough, action was required.

"Who are you?" When Anders finally spoke, Richard jumped.

"My name is Hugo Manning, but everyone just calls me Manning." The drifter's reply was immediate, his tone conversational, as if the two of them were facing each other over a cup of morning coffee.

"Alright... Manning." The Sarge's voice was scratchy and tight, nearly a growl. "But that's not what I'm asking, and I think you know that. Who are you?"

"I'm no one," Manning replied with a wry twist to his lips. "I know it's probably hard to believe, but I'm just a really unlucky guy—a victim of circumstance."

Richard turned to Anders incredulously. Was that sarcasm he'd heard in the drifter's tone? Did this man, this thing, really believe he had some sort of upper hand here?

"Or maybe you're exactly the opposite," Anders replied evenly, unruffled by the drifter's demeanor. "It seems clear that you've come here with a purpose. You appear to be exactly where you want to be. That doesn't seem unlucky to me."

The drifter's only answer was to stare back with the same expectant look.

"What do you know about my family?" Anders asked.

"I don't know about your family," the drifter replied without hesitation. "I know your family. Present tense."

Richard felt Anders stiffen beside him, felt an overwhelming rush of rage radiate from him.

"That's impossible," Anders choked out. "My wife and son are dead. I watched them die. I watched your people kill them."

Again, the drifter didn't reply. He held the Sarge's gaze and blinked once, a slow, deliberate lowering of his eyelids. "Are you sure about that?" he finally asked.

Anders stepped right up against the bars. Richard put a restraining hand on his arm, but it was angrily pushed away.

"I will not let you bait me with false hope," Anders grated. "I saw them die. You think you can use their memory to barter for your people? No! I will not!" His voice turned dark. "Why are you here? How do you control those things, those zombies, outside our gate?"

"I don't control them," Manning replied, unruffled by the overt hostility, possibly even amused. "It's not like that."

"My guards would say otherwise," Anders snapped. "Your people ceased their attack as soon as you were brought inside, and they're out there waiting for something—what are they waiting for?"

"I don't control them," Manning repeated. Slowly, almost casually, he rose from the bench and faced Anders squarely. "That would be like saying you control everyone in Outpost. You don't."

The words hung in the air for a moment. Richard couldn't tell with those strange silver eyes, but he thought the drifter may have briefly glanced at him.

Richard couldn't take it anymore and was just about to say something when the drifter finally added, "What I mean by that is; you work together toward a common goal."

"And what's your goal?" Anders asked.

"Survival, of course," the drifter replied reasonably, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. "But our version of survival is a bit larger in scope than yours." He lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if he could hear the wind outside. "Our version involves more than just this small patch of earth—ours includes saving the entire human race."

Richard scoffed loudly and almost laughed. Who did this sanctimonious, silver-eyed scumbag think he was talking to? "Sarge, you're not going to listen to this crap, are you?"

"Then I ask again," Anders growled, ignoring Richard, "what are your friends outside my gate waiting for? And what does my wife and son have to do with that?"

"Your wife and son are out there with them—they're alive and well, and helping us," Manning replied matter-of-factly, holding the Sarge's gaze. "And as for those outside the gate—they're waiting for you to make your choice."

Anders gazed silently back at Manning, desperate hope in his eyes, and Richard knew right then that the only thing on his leader's mind was seeing his family again.

"Sarge," Richard carefully, a warning tone in his voice. "We can't trust this guy."

"What choice?" Anders' voice was nearly a whisper. "What choice would possibly make my wife and son abandon me?"

Manning sighed quietly, his expression softening.

"The choice on whether you'll help us save the world," Manning answered gently. "The choice to fight back against those who did this to our planet."
PART III

MORALITY

1.

Richard paced the small jailor's office, muttering at the floor.

So now what?

Anders had left him alone with the prisoner again, this time without any explanation or orders. Following the drifter's pronouncement regarding his family and the reason there was an army waiting outside, the Sarge had turned on his heel and silently left the room, his expression lost, vacant. Richard had called after him, but it had been a wasted effort. The Sarge's normally unbreakable façade was cracking. What lay beneath was a man on the brink of losing it, and that revelation scared the hell out of Richard.

Should he do anything about the drifter? Maybe go and get someone else, let them know Anders was having a meltdown? But who would he go to—Lydia? Her trust in Anders was absolute. She'd just tell him to relax, to have faith that the Sarge would bring them through this like he'd done with every other obstacle they'd faced. She'd pacify him and promise to have a talk with the Sarge—her remedy for everything—but all that would do is delay the issue and ultimately, not solve anything.

So that only left Arnold, and he sure as hell wasn't going to ask that little twit.

Richard growled to himself, frustrated. He wasn't a leader, he wasn't even a guard. It wasn't his place to make important decisions. He job was to go out and scrounge up food—that's it—and he liked it that way.

He got to one end of the room and gave Arnold's one-hundred-year-old desk a good solid kick before spinning to pace in the opposite direction.

Things were going from bad to worse, and fast.

What had Silver-Eyes called himself? Manning? What the hell kind of name was that for a guy who looked like he'd be more at home on the Enterprise than here on Earth?

Manning was way too calm, way too smug, like he was sure Outpost was already his for the taking. For all they knew, maybe it was. With an army at the front gate and Anders on the brink of punching a first-class ticket to Looney-Town, Richard was quickly losing faith that this would be their home for much longer.

If something wasn't done—and done soon—he'd be forced to take matters into his own hands, and his way wouldn't involve calm discussions about what the people attacking them wanted. Maybe that was just an even quicker way for them to lose what they had, but it was that or let his world crumble around him, and there was no way he was going to sit by and let it all go to hell, not when he could do something about it.

Not while Manning was locked in a cell, helpless, and no one around.

He thumbed the safety on his shotgun, thinking dark thoughts, flicking it on, then off, on, then off...

Stubborn Stanley. What was that supposed to mean, anyway? Whatever it was, it had completely unhinged the Sarge. His face had turned three different shades of pale before he'd bolted from the room, only to come back hours later looking like he'd seen a ghost.

Richard had tried to make sense of it, tried to put it all together, but couldn't. It was like the drifter had been speaking in code.

So—what? Manning wanted them to believe the Sarge's family was alive and well, waiting for him right outside the front gate? Why not just have them step forward and show themselves, then? In fact, if they were part of this "cause" Manning spoke of, why hadn't it been them who'd come inside to share the news? The entire community would have welcomed them with open arms.

No, Manning was lying—he had to be. The people who'd been taken by those monsters couldn't still be alive, it just wasn't possible. If it was, it meant Grant was alive too, and there was no way. Richard had seen that big, black-haired freak lean over his friend, seen the blood. People don't survive from wounds like that.

Nothing the drifter said made a lick of sense. Not that there was an abundance of sense in the world anymore, but this far surpassed anything they'd been forced deal with yet.

People with black eyes and super-human strength—it was a stretch for anyone to believe, but it was a fact—they were real. Anyone who doubted their existence only need only look outside.

But silent killers who multiplied their numbers by biting into people's throats like a zombie plague? That was pushing it too far. Someone sinks their teeth into your throat, you're done. End of story.

The only reason Anders was willing to consider that Manning was telling truth was because he missed his family—so much that he would throw away reason, common sense. Richard could understand the sentiment, but it was no excuse for making a decision that could lead to the eradication of the entire community. It wasn't like he didn't want to believe it, too—of course he did. He'd be ecstatic if their people were still alive, especially Grant, but there was no way he was going to be duped in accepting a fairy tale story, and he wasn't going to let anyone else be duped either—especially Anders.

Manning hadn't moved an inch. He still stood in the exact spot he'd been in when he was talking to Anders. He faced out toward Richard, a calm, peaceful look on his face, the kind of look people have when they're waiting for an elevator. That's how the drifter looked: patiently bored. And suddenly it made Richard very angry.

He brought his shotgun up at an angle and slammed the stock against an iron bar.

"You got something to say, Mr. Calm-and-Cool?" He slammed the shotgun down again. "Huh? You think you can turn this place upside down? You see this?" He showed the weapon to Manning, his knuckles white from gripping it so tightly. "We got lots of these. We're not scared of you and we're not scared of a fight! You hear me?"

Manning didn't react. He didn't even blink.

"Dammit!" Richard shouted. He turned away and kicked the desk again.

How much was the human race supposed to take? Hadn't enough been done to them already? Just surviving in this washed-out world was tough enough, now they had to deal with this crap? It wasn't right. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right...

"Are you crying, Richard?"

Richard jumped, startled, and spun to find Arnold lounging against the door frame with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face.

"What? No." Richard wiped his eyes furiously. "Screw you, I fell asleep."

Arnold moved into the room languidly, his smirk widening into a malicious grin, enjoying the moment.

"What do you want, Arnie?" Richard stood up straight and puffed out his chest. "Isn't there someone's ass you need to go kiss or something?"

Arnold's grin faded into a cold scowl. "Aww, whatsamatter Richard?"

His waspy little voice needled Richard so much, it was all he could do not to beat the hell out of little bastard just for sharing space with him.

"Feeling sorry for yourself again?" Arnold sneered. "Or are you just missing your boyfriend?"

That was it. Arnold could say anything he wanted about him, but he wasn't going to talk that way about Justin. Face burning, Richard clenched his fists and took an aggressive step forward.

"Oh no, no, no," Arnold danced back toward the door. He raised a finger and wagged it, his other hand moving to rest on the grip of his pistol.

Richard narrowed his eyes. "You ain't got the balls to use that thing," he spat. "You and I both know that's why you couldn't hack it in the Army. Just a little too light in the loafers, eh Arnie? No nuts, no guts."

But Richard didn't come any closer, and for Arnold that was victory enough.

"Anders sent me down here," Arnold changed the subject abruptly. "He said it's time for you to get some sleep, you been up for almost twenty-four hours straight. I'm taking over watch."

Richard frowned. Not that crashing out for a few hours didn't sound like heaven—he was dog-tired—but Arnold never did anything like this. It was common knowledge that Arnold was allergic to anything that resembled work or real responsibility. His "job" usually consisted of walking around Outpost and telling everyone else what they were doing wrong, following Anders like a lap dog, repeating everything the Sarge said. Arnold was the King of the Yes-Men—that had been his M.O. for years.

"What?" Arnold asked, angry, because he already knew what Richard was thinking.

"Well, Arnie, I'm just surprised. I'm not used to you contributing anything of real value."

Arnold's jaw clenched, but his voice remained even. "Anders is playing this one close to the chest. He doesn't want to involve anyone else. Not until he's made up his mind on this guy."

Richard pressed his lips together, glancing over his shoulder. "So you heard what Silver-Eyes said, then? Do you really think Alice and Donny might be out there? Still alive, I mean?" It wasn't like him to take Arnold into his confidence, but if not Arnold then who else? And besides, Arnold was offering to help... for once. In a conspiratorial tone, he said, "It was some pretty weird shit he pulled with that "Stubborn Stanley" thing. I mean, you were there, you heard it right? I never seen anything like it in my life."

Arnold chewed the inside of his lip, studying Richard through narrowed eyes. "Look," he said finally, "you want to get some sleep or not?"

Richard turned away from the jail cell, angry again. So much for trying to have a normal, friendly conversation with Arnold Dorchman. He should have known it would be a wasted effort.

"Fine," he grunted. "No need to be a dick about it. Have at it, he's all yours."

He snatched his shotgun from the desk and left the room, stopping at the door to fake a punch at Arnold's shoulder. Arnold flinched, and Richard left with a satisfied sneer.

________

Imbecile, Arnold thought disgustedly. In all the time he had known him, Richard hadn't changed one iota. He was still the same immature, juvenile bully with a chip on his shoulder, exactly the way he'd been since the day they met in middle school. Back then, Arnold had felt sorry for him, thinking maybe Richard was so foul because of a bad situation at home. He'd even taken the time to try and convince Richard to join the Army, to make something of his life. That had been a long time ago, but Arnold never forgot the way Richard had snubbed his efforts, even ridiculed him. "How 'bout you go fuck yourself and mind your own business?" That had been Richard's response. Even as a child, he'd been a rude and vulgar person. From that day, the two of them had shared an intense, common hatred for one another that had never once diminished in all their years of acquaintance.

Arnold shrugged at the empty doorway. It wasn't like he was losing any sleep over it. People like Richard always got what was coming to them, one way or another. Maybe Arnold would even be lucky enough to be there when it happened.

But first... he had more pressing concerns.

He tiptoed into the hallway, furtively looking both ways. Silently mouthing the numbers, he counted to sixty, listening for any sound that Richard might be coming back, or that anyone else was in the basement with him.

Satisfied that he was truly alone, Arnold stepped back into the jailor's office and closed the door. He engaged the deadbolt, happily whistling the opening notes to When Johnny Comes Marching Home, moving in time with the rhythm of the song.

He stepped over to the desk, picked up the cell key, and then drew his pistol, pointing it at the drifter, and disengaged the lock on the door, letting it slowly swing open.

Manning stayed where he was, watching impassively.

Arnold moved into the cell, gun pointed, still whistling. He let the final note of the song fade away with his breath and took a quick, deep gulp of air. "Door's open," he told Manning, beckoning with his free hand. "You're free."

Manning stared back, mute.

"Ohhh, that's right," Arnold flashed a quick, sarcastic, yellow-toothed smile. "You'll only talk to our leader. That's it, isn't it? Well, what if I said you're looking at the leader—you just don't know it yet? What then?" He raised the pistol, and touched the end of the barrel to Manning's forehead. "Huh? Speak up!"

Manning's head rocked back from the pressure of the gun, but he didn't react.

Arnold glanced quickly, furtively, back at the office door.

"Sit down," he told Manning coldly. "Now."

Smoothly, quietly, Manning did as he was told.

Smirking, Arnold squatted in front of him, his pistol still pointed in Manning's face, and leaned in close as if he were sharing a secret. "The Sarge ain't doing too well," he whispered. "A lot of people been thinking he's 'bout to go a little nuts, what with the way your people killed his wife and son. A man loses all that..." Arnold sighed theatrically. "...it's bound to change some things about him. And now you went and raised their ghosts, made it even worse." He waggled the pistol with his wrist. "He's ready to go off the deep end, I'm telling you." Letting the moment drag out, he added, "You really may want to consider who it is you're going to deal with..."

Manning may have been listening, or maybe not. Arnold couldn't tell. If he was, he wasn't reacting at all, and it made Arnold's blood boil.

"I'm the guy you got to go through," Arnold hissed venomously. He looked back one more time at the closed door. "Me. I'm the guy!"

Manning's face could have been chiseled from marble.

Arnold frowned, and his shoulders slumped. He got back to his feet, using his knee for leverage, as if his disappointment in Manning's decision to remain silent was a physical burden for him.

Maybe this was a waste of time, maybe he should just go get back and get Richard, make the fat tub of lard stand guard the rest of the night for being such a horse's ass.

Defeated, he looked down, his lower lip protruding petulantly.

Half-heartedly, he prodded Manning in the shoulder with the barrel of his pistol. When Manning didn't react, he did it again, a little harder.

2.

Lois liked working in the infirmary. The days were long, but she didn't mind, not really. Fourteen hours there was a lot better than twelve hours running scav or working the road crew. For a woman who never had an ounce of real medical training, she felt lucky the Sarge had assigned her to assist the head physician, especially when everyone knew it was supposed to be Lydia's job. It was easy, uncomplicated work. She got to stay inside every day, out of the sun, and for Lois, a pale, frumpy, middle-aged woman who'd never stepped foot on a treadmill in her life, that was a huge plus. Most days, her responsibilities entailed nothing more than sitting beside patients, keeping them company, reading to them or doing whatever else she could to make them more comfortable. On the really good days when the infirmary was empty, she just curled up in a chair and read one of the trashy romance novels she kept in her personal library, ignoring the rest of the world.

The very best part of her job, though—the absolute best part of all: Arnold came to visit every few days. He told everyone it was to check on the patients, because he believed it was part of his duty as second in command to offer hope for the people who most needed it, but Lois knew the real reason. Oh sure, he came for the patients too, just like he said—Arnold was such a saint—but she knew it was just an excuse. He came because he knew he would see her. There was chemistry between them, a sizzle in the air when they were close. Sometimes, when other people were in the room it was so obvious she was surprised they didn't comment on it. Maybe they were just jealous, or too embarrassed to say anything. In any case, Lois was far too polite to bring it up and make them uncomfortable.

Of course, there had never been anything untoward between the two of them. They'd never consummated the relationship—they'd never so much as kissed—but she knew it was just a matter of time. A stolen glance here, an accidental brush across the top of the hand there. It made all those hours spent among the sick and dying worth it a thousand times over.

Nobody—nobody—made her feel the way her Arnie did, which had been what made today an especially tough day. If Arnold would have come to visit, even for just a few minutes, it would have made her feel so much safer. Of course with the attack and Justin being killed, everyone in Outpost was probably having a tough day, Arnold included. She'd seen him at the gate, back when Richard and that monster had first come barreling through. It had taken all her courage not to run straight into Arnold's arms when Richard had tried to pick a fight with that drifter. She'd been so scared, and she knew Arnold would have protected her at all costs.

But Arnold had a job to do. He was second in command and couldn't be seen playing favorites. She would never put him in such an embarrassing position as that. If he could be so brave, she would be too, even if right now they couldn't be brave together. Certainly, Anders was relying on him to help get them past this crisis.

Under siege, it didn't seem real. Today had been the first time she'd ever seen one of the black-eyed drifters. She'd heard plenty of stories—everyone had after the first attacks. She'd even helped Doc Franklin treat some of the scavs for anxiety after their partners were killed. On and on they'd gone, filling her ears full of such horrible tales, and she'd prayed she would never have to see one for herself.

And now Outpost was surrounded by a whole army of them.

She'd spent the day on edge, as had everyone, tensely waiting for word on the captured drifter. What were they going to do with him? Why was he here? What did he want?

But even after the sun set there was no news. The courthouse doors remained closed, the building silent. Someone told her they thought they saw Arnold leaving sometime after dark, but it had been too dim for them to say who it was for sure. The whole community was walking on eggshells, just waiting, trading theories in whispers with frequent glances at the front gate. They knew the army was still out there, silently staring in at them as if awaiting the command to raze it to the ground.

Home now after a fourteen-hour day in the infirmary, Lois knew she should be sleeping but she was too worried, too wired. She'd be surprised if anyone else in Outpost didn't feel the exact same way. She lay there, eyes wide in the silent darkness, staring up at the ceiling hollowly.

Too tired to sleep, that's what her mother had always called it. Mom used to say the best way to fall asleep when you think you can't is to make up a story. Some people count sheep, but Mom said that was just plain silly. You start thinking about numbers and your brain wakes up. Instead, make up a story. Just make it up and let your mind play it like a movie in your head. All you have to do is get it started. After that, your body takes over on its own.

It was some of the best advice she'd ever gotten from a Mom who'd never given her much of anything but misery, and Lois had been using the trick most of her life. Lately, her made-up story had been especially good, always starting with some version of Arnold making a grand entrance into the infirmary and proposing, right in front of Doc Franklin, the patients—everyone. Even Anders was there sometimes, and he'd always be so happy for them, happy that Outpost would be in such loving, capable hands after he was gone. Most mornings she woke up with fresh hope and a smile on her face. Some mornings she even woke up to find that her mind had taken her body to places it was secretly longing for...

A sudden, loud knocking sent her bolt upright in bed, snapping her already wire-thin nerves taut.

"I'm coming," she called out, hastily tying the belt on her robe.

In response, whoever was on the other side of the door knocked again, louder, insistent.

What time was it? Surely no decent person would be so rude at such a late hour.

"I'm coming!" she repeated, louder, a hard edge to her tone. She yanked the door open to find a wide-eyed, pale-faced guard waiting in the hallway. He held a lantern in one hand, his other hand poised and ready to bang on her door again.

"Walt?" Lois asked, confused. "Shouldn't you be making your rounds?"

"You're needed back at the infirmary," he told her breathlessly. "It's an emergency."

"What?" Lois was just an assistant, why would they need her if it was an emergency? "But I just got home!" she objected.

"Hurry!" was all Walt told her before he ran off, the light of his lantern bobbing away down the hallway and around a corner. In moments, Lois was left alone, dumbfounded, standing in her dark doorway.

"I just got home..." Lois repeated softly to her empty room. Mechanically, she began changing into her scrubs, and then her breath caught.

What if it was Arnold? What if he'd been hurt? What if he was asking for her?

She was changed and out the door in less than a minute.

But as soon as she stepped outside, her bold rush was halted by the wide open, dark emptiness of the street. There was absolutely no one in sight. Presumably, anyone not on guard duty had locked themselves in their home in the futile hope that it would provide protection if the drifter army chose to attack.

She scanned the barren streets, paranoia and fear slowly taking hold. What if the prisoner had gotten loose? What if the drifter had attacked Arnold and was now out there in the darkness searching for a new victim.

Arnold. He might be hurt. He needed her.

She broke into a dead run, concern for her own safety forgotten as soon as Arnold's name resurfaced in her mind.

She didn't have far to go. After all, Outpost itself was only the size of a single city block. She rushed around a final corner and nearly fell on her face as she skidded to a stop, horrified. Even in the dim glow of the lantern light shining from the infirmary window, it would have been impossible to miss the thick trail of blood that ran from the courthouse door, across the street, and inside.

Icy dread gripped her heart. She didn't want to be here. She shouldn't be here. It was her job to make patients comfortable, not heal them. Where was Doc Franklin? There was so much blood—too much. Whoever had lost it wouldn't make it through the night, not without a transfusion. Even then they probably wouldn't make it.

Lois took a wide step over the threshold, taking care not to put a foot down in the thick, congealing swath of redness painting the concrete step. She used the wall for support and stepped gingerly into the building, following the blood trail and the sound of voices coming from Exam Room 2, only to be brought up short, even more horrified, when she spotted the victim.

"What is going on?" she demanded in a tight, clenched voice. "Why is he here?"

The silver-eyed drifter, the same drifter who'd brought an army of monsters to lay siege to their community, lay on a gurney, unconscious and covered from head to toe in blood. Anders, Lydia, and Arnold stood in a cluster around him, staring back at her with unabashed relief.

"Thank God you're here," Anders sighed, stepping around the gurney. He put a hand on her elbow and squeezed urgently. "He's hurt, Lois. Bad. We need your help in the worst way."

Lois studied the drifter's wrecked body and for a moment, she was speechless. "Why did you come and get me?" She didn't know the first thing about injuries like this. "There's so much blood... I don't..." She looked up wildly. "Where is Doc Franklin?"

"Doc Franklin can't know about this," Anders replied. "No one can—"

"Look," Lydia interrupted, her tone earnest. "Arnold says we can trust you. He says you're our best bet. But if you're not comfortable doing this, you don't have to. Just tell us now."

Lois turned to Arnold, his eyes melting her heart in an instant.

He had called her their best bet? She swallowed a sudden dryness in her throat.

"Are you sure he's even alive?" she asked hesitantly, purposely averting her gaze from Arnold's while at same time hoping the answer was no.

"Oh, he's alive alright," Arnold answered grimly. "Barely, but he's alive. Someone beat the hell out of him—bad—and shot him in the chest. Four times."

Lydia watched the slow rise and fall of the drifter's torso. "Pity," she murmured quietly. "They should have shot him four more times."

She raised her eyes to the small group, knowing she should feel horrified at what she'd just said, but the truth was she didn't—not even a little. This monster was the reason they were in this infirmary in the first place. No matter how you looked at it, no matter who had done this, it was the drifter's own fault.

You can't bring a bunch of zombies to lay siege to a place full of good people and expect a warm welcome, you just can't.

In the silence that followed, Arnold gave her a speculative look. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, a steely glint in his eyes.

Anders, however, wasn't amused. "Lois," he told her severely, "we have an army camped outside our gate, and this man may be our only link to them. He may be the only one who can send them back to wherever they came from."

The Sarge's gaze was like a vice, pinning her in place and holding her accountable.

Lois squirmed uncomfortably and looked away. She felt no pity for the drifter—she truly would have preferred for him to be dead. But she wasn't going to say that to Anders.

"Of course, Sarge," she murmured.

"I need us to be on the same page, Lois," he insisted, sensing her antipathy. "He needs to live. I need you to do everything in your power to make that happen."

"I will..." Lois took a breath and glanced at Arnold. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod and she stood up straight, facing Anders squarely. "I will absolutely do everything in my power to make that happen," she parroted back. The lie spilled out in a rush, and she knew how disingenuous she sounded. Quickly, she added, "I just... I feel a little out of my league." She lowered her eyes to the floor, trying to appear chastised, but her gaze stopped midway when it landed on the .45 strapped to Arnold's waist and the slight tinge of black that coated his right hand near the thumb and forefinger. Her eyes shot back up and she nearly yipped. Arnold had taken a step toward her. He was right there, close, staring back at her.

"You can do this, Lois," Anders told her, completely oblivious to the silent communication she and Arnold had shared. "I believe in you."

"Who did it?" Lois asked impulsively, ignoring the pep-talk, her eyes steady on Arnold. "Who beat him up?"

Arnold's eyes became hooded and he backed away. Lois was sure she saw the slightest trace of a smile play across his lips. "We think it was Rich—" he began.

"It doesn't matter who did it," Anders interrupted sharply. "Not right now, it doesn't." He gripped Lois by the shoulders and spun her, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "No matter how you feel about this man, Lois, you need to save him. Our lives may depend on it."

Lois swallowed, her throat dry and tight. "I..." she stammered. "I truly will do everything I can." She hated deceiving Anders. He was a kind, good man. But Arnold was her true love and it was obvious that he was the one responsible for this. She glanced at him again, briefly, and her heart fluttered in her chest.

"I promise," she told Anders. It was the first time she could ever remember lying to him.

"I'm sorry we had to wake you," Anders dropped his hands from her shoulders. "I know how exhausted you must be. It's just... we needed someone to handle this who we knew would keep quiet. If anyone else got wind of it there could be mass-hysteria. Or worse—those people waiting outside our gate might find out."

"Sarge," she replied, straightening her shoulders. "I won't let you down." She looked the three them in the eye and nodded at each one reassuringly, saving Arnold for last, hoping he got the implied message.

Apparently satisfied with her answer, Anders, Arnold, and Lydia helped her wheel the drifter into one of the waiting rooms closer to the back of the building, and then went to work on cleaning up the mess. There was so much blood, there could no trace of it when the sun rose or they'd be forced to tell the whole community what happened. Using rags and the pitifully meager amount of water available to them, they scrubbed the floor and street. In the last minutes before dawn, Outpost's leadership made a hasty retreat, presumably to figure out who'd hurt the drifter and what they were going to do about it.

Of course, they needn't have looked far—it was as plain as day to Lois. Arnold had given her a last look as he left the infirmary, and she knew the two of them would be talking soon.

Alone now with her dying patient, she went to work wiping away the blood to assess his injuries.

He'd been shot, that was clear. Four times, just like Arnold had said. The holes were in a close group, all high in the center of his chest. She rolled him on his side to check for exit wounds in his back, but there were none. That meant the bullets were still inside his body—more bad news for him.

How he was still alive was an absolute mystery. At least two of the slugs should have gone straight into his lungs and a third should certainly have pierced his heart.

Yet there he lay in a puddle of his own blood; unconscious, but breathing steadily.

She found no evidence of surface wounds, only lines of dried blood that looked like scabbing over cuts. She wiped them away with a wet towel to find clear, unblemished skin beneath.

Mystified, she settled down on a stool beside the gurney. Beaten and shot. That's what Arnold had said, and Lois was certain he was the one who'd done it so he would know. But aside from the bullet wounds, there wasn't a scratch or bruise on the drifter's body.

Even so, his injuries were mortal. No one could survive a pierced heart and a punctured lung. Maybe if she were a real doctor and they were in a real hospital—and maybe if she wasn't forced to work by lantern and candle light—there might be a chance to save him. But with the supplies they had and her limited skills, she would only do more damage if she started digging around in his chest.

Satisfied that she'd done all she could, Lois did the only thing that made sense: she rolled her stool back against the wall, laid her arm on the counter and her head on her arm, and drifted off to sleep, fully expecting to wake up next to a corpse.

3.

Manning's return to awareness came in a rush, as if the entire world had been crouching silently in the darkest corner of his blissful oblivion, waiting for just the right second to pounce. One moment there was nothing and the next, memory and sensation returned completely and absolutely.

He opened his eyes with a gasp, immediately squeezing them shut against the bright glow of a kerosene lantern.

Where was he?

Memories, snatches of his last remembered moments flashed through his mind. There'd been a gunshot, and before that, the pain of being beaten so badly he hadn't been able to get up from the jail cell floor.

And then more gunshots.

He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. Dry, cracked bits of skin flaked away.

No, not skin. He tasted copper—it was from the blood coating the inside of his mouth.

Twisting his head, he saw that he was on a gurney in a small, bare room. A narrow counter was mounted on one wall, a row of cabinets above it. A woman in hospital scrubs slouched on a stool near the door, snoring loudly with one arm draped across the counter, a leg tucked beneath her.

Manning closed his eyes, straining to remember who had hurt him, but he couldn't conjure up a face. All that came to him was the sound of a gun and the memory of extreme pain.

Gingerly, he probed his face with his fingertips expecting to find a lumpy mass of swollen flesh, but it was smooth. He couldn't find a single cut or scab. He slapped himself experimentally, a gentle tap on one cheek—it didn't hurt.

Manning closed his eyes and silently thanked John Doe. He'd seen others, the ones with black eyes, recover from wounds that should have killed them, but Manning knew he was different, weaker. His silver eyes signified that he wasn't like the others. John Doe had always told him they were stronger, always told him they were superior. Apparently, even as a lesser version of the super-human army John Doe was creating, he was still strong enough to recover from wounds that would have killed any normal person.

He felt his cheek again, wondering how long he'd been unconscious. He didn't have a beard, not even stubble...

Confused, he moved to sit up, but hesitated. His chest was bandaged. That meant he'd been out for at least a few hours, and it meant his wounds hadn't healed immediately. It was possible they still weren't healed. Whatever had been done to patch him up could easily be undone with one wrong move. For all he knew it was the only thing holding him together.

He glanced over at the woman and contemplated waking her up, if not for information then just to stop the awful, jarring sound of her snoring, but decided against it. It didn't matter what she told him. He had to see for himself how badly he was hurt.

Gripping the sides of the gurney, he pulled himself into a sitting position. In the process, his leg bumped a small plastic bowl of water and it went clattering to the floor, the sharp sound deafeningly loud in the small, bare room and the woman on the stool shot to her feet with a loud yip!

But it was nothing compared to the noise she made when she saw Manning sitting upright. The way she began wailing, anyone nearby might have thought he was twisting a knife in her gut.

Manning squinched his eyes shut, drawing back against the wall. How could one woman make such a terrible racket?! He stayed still, waiting for the woman's ballyhoo to end, knowing any movement might scare her even more.

By the time she finally ran out of breath, she was nearly bent double from the effort. She took a gulping lungful of air and lifted her head, gaping up at him as if she were sure he was going to attack her at any second, her eyes huge and round. The moment stretched out, just the two of them, silently staring back at one another.

And then the woman lunged to the side, flung the door open, and tore out of the room, screaming bloody murder all the way out of the building.

"What the hell...?" Manning muttered, staring past the open door and out into the empty hallway beyond. He was the one who'd been beaten and left lying in a hospital bed—shouldn't he be the one screaming his head off?

He waited, listening to see if anyone was coming back, but the building was still and silent. It wouldn't be like that for long, though. All that screaming had probably woken the whole community.

Carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the gurney and let them dangle, using the thin mattress for support.

Gunshots—he wished he could remember more, but it was all blank after that. In his mind, he could still hear their echo. Bam!... and then Bam! Bam! Bam! One shot, and then three more in rapid succession followed by a searing, burning pain in his chest.

Manning looked down at himself. He still wore the same shirt, his shirt, but now it was caked with dark, dried blood and there were four jagged holes in the front. He lifted a shaking hand but chickened out, too frightened to touch himself, too afraid of how badly it might hurt.

It had to have been Richard. He was the only one Manning could imagine would have the guts or motivation. The fat, angry man had been overly hostile since the moment they had laid eyes on one another, and it had only gotten worse after John Doe had claimed Richard's friend outside the gate.

Manning scratched his head, thinking. He should try and stand up, get out of Outpost, but really, what was the point? He wouldn't make it far with four bullet holes in his chest, his clothes covered in blood and tattered to shreds.

He'd known something like this would happen. He'd even warned John Doe—humans were self-destructive, instinctively distrustful, even more so now since the Great Rains.

The multiple shots that had been fired into his body were a perfect example of the way people reacted to the unknown—and he didn't blame them. He couldn't. In fact, he'd been just like them until very recently. People had to be extreme in the way they protected themselves now. The world tried to kill them a thousand different ways every single day. Savagery had simply become a matter of self-preservation.

Even so, Manning couldn't help feeling awful for having let this happen. Even if he healed completely, the people of Outpost would see him as even more of a freak, their mistrust would deepen.

He shouldn't have used that "Stubborn Stanley" line. He should have been more diplomatic instead of trying to force Anders' hand. By uttering those words he'd attempted nothing less than emotional blackmail, and true to the way Alice had described her husband, Anders had reacted the way any good man who'd had his life torn apart would. Now, building the trust he so desperately needed with Outpost's leader would be nearly impossible.

Of course, his failure didn't mean John Doe couldn't still succeed, but it did push back the timetable enormously, and time was something they had precious little of.

Manning took a deep, self-pity filled breath and prepared to reach out with his mind, to apologize. He'd mucked things up so badly. He believed in what John Doe was doing. He truly believed John Doe could save them all.

Now, John Doe's voice reverberated through his mind, surprising him with its insistence. Now is the time. Now they will listen.

Manning hadn't even had a chance to form his apology. John Doe had been with him all along, in his mind, waiting patiently. He should have known John Doe would never abandon him, and it only made it that much harder for Manning to reply.

No, they won't listen, Manning responded morosely. They see me as their enemy. I've failed, John Doe. I am so sorry.

And Manning meant it. In his life, John Doe was the only person he had ever shown any respect that wasn't out of circumstance or necessity. John Doe was special. Manning would have followed him to the end. In fact, in light of his current predicament he may already have.

John Doe— Manning began, intending to tell his leader what he meant to him, how he had given hope to so many, and how he shouldn't give up just because Manning had failed.

You believe you have failed, John sent back, but in truth the sacrifice you have made will result in our victory.

Manning didn't answer. He just shook his head, glad that John Doe couldn't see him.

Have faith, John Doe's words filled his mind. Your wounds are healed.

"What?!" Manning exclaimed aloud. He clutched at his chest and instinctively flinched, expecting pain, but there was none. Carefully, he felt for the bullet wounds he knew had been there, but there were no holes, no puckered flesh; not even dried blood on his skin.

Confused, Manning slumped back against the wall in relief, trying to understand how he could have healed so quickly. John Doe had made it a point to warn him that he was weaker. It was the reason he could never join their ranks and fight the enemy. He'd seen some of the stronger ones get hurt, and it took days—not hours—for them to fully heal.

But Manning felt fine. In fact, if not for the blood-soaked shirt he wore, he might have believed the whole thing had just been a dream.

"I don't understand..." he whispered aloud, lifting his shirt to look.

But at that moment, Anders and Lydia came rushing through the door, skidding to a panicked halt when they saw him. Lois, wild-eyed and frightened, lingered in the hallway behind them.

Anders looked pale, almost sickly; lack of sleep, no doubt.

"You..." he panted breathlessly, "you should not be up. You've been hurt." He held out a hand, as if to help Manning lie back down. "You're in the infirmary, Manning. You're safe. You need to rest."

"Sarge..." Lydia murmured, staring wide-eyed at Manning's chest.

"Please," Anders ignored Lydia, his hand still out, his focus all on Manning. "Please believe me when I say that what happened to you... it is not the kind of people we are. I never would have left you in that cell if—"

"Sarge," Lydia interrupted sharply.

Self-consciously, Manning lowered his shirt.

Now, John Doe demanded in Manning's mind. Now they will listen.

Manning didn't hesitate. "You have a chance to save the world!" he blurted, having to force himself not to wince as soon as it came out of his mouth. 'Nothing like just throwing it all out there,' he thought with an inward sigh.

Anders blinked, clearly at a loss for words, only managing to sputter out a confused, "What?" He looked at Lydia for help, and then back at Manning again. "What?"

"You have a chance to save the world," Manning repeated, this time more calmly. "You, your people. You can make a difference. You're needed. You can help change all this. You can save the world."

"What do you mean?" Lydia stepped closer. "What do you mean we can change all this?"

"Liar!" Lois spat from the hallway. She spun on her heel, the heavy sound of her footfalls echoing into the distance until they were cut off by the slam of a door.

"Uh..." Manning bit the inside of his lip.

"Don't worry about her," Lydia assured him. "She's just scared. We all are. Tell us what you mean."

"And what about my wife and son?" Anders interrupted, a desperate edge to his voice. "Last night, you said we have a choice to make. What choice?" He leaned in. "What does my family have to do with any of this? What did you do to them?"

Lydia put a hand on Anders' arm, silently urging him to relax.

Manning looked back and forth between the two of them, trying to decide which question should he answer first. Both went hand in hand, both ultimately led back to John Doe's purpose.

"Your family has joined our cause," Manning told Anders. "They are alive and in good health, good spirits—better, in fact, than they have ever been in their life."

Anders' face turned an ugly shade of red, mistrust fueling his anger. Manning realized it may have sounded as if he was saying they hadn't been happy before and quickly backpedaled.

"I know it's hard for you to believe," Manning told him hastily. "If I were in your shoes, I would be thinking the same thing. But please—look at me."

"I am looking at you," Anders glowered at him.

"No," Manning told him. "Look at me, man. Look at my eyes. Do you think I want to look this way? Do you believe anyone would voluntarily become like this? Hell no! But by becoming this, I have been given the chance to be part of something important, something more important than anything else that's ever happened in the history of this world. I would not give it back to be normal again, not ever. And I know your family feels the same way."

When Anders and Lydia didn't reply, he continued.

"Until recently, I was just like you," Manning told them. "I was..." Manning lowered his eyes respectfully, "I was like your wife and son. But John Doe found me, changed me, and he showed me the truth. He showed me why he's here, why he's changing so many others." He took a deep breath and leveled his gaze at them both, knowing they wouldn't believe what he was about to say—at least, not at first. "He wants to save our world, and I believe he can do it. But he can't do it alone. He needs help. That is the choice he wants you to make, and if you would allow me to speak to your people, to share my story, I will give to them all the chance to become a part of making our Earth whole again."

Anders and Lydia shared a look, and Manning knew exactly what they were thinking: this guy has drank the Kool-Aid.

"Manning," Anders responded carefully. "This John Doe—he is killing our people. Picking them off, one by one. He cannot possibly be the kind of man you're making him out to be."

"No," Manning protested, unsurprised. He had expected this reaction. "He's not killing them, he's recruiting them, but only those who are candidates, only those people who have a particular gene sequence. Haven't you noticed that only some of your people have been taken, and others are left untouched?"

Anders' lip twitched. "Are you saying my wife and son were chosen? That they were—what—preordained by this man? You say recruited—but what does that even mean? Are you implying that they were given a choice? They never would have chosen this!" His hands curled into fists.

"Yes! Yes, they did choose it!" Manning replied vehemently, but seeing Anders' expression, he hastily added, "Well, no... they weren't given a choice to be changed, but they were given a choice whether to stay with us or come home again." He took a deep breath. "They chose to join us. They both did. They recognize how important they are now. Important to you, important to all of us. Important to the planet."

"Lois is right," Anders growled. He pulled a pistol from his holster. "You're a liar."

"Sarge!" Lydia objected.

Anders pointed his gun at Manning's head.

"Bill!" Lydia yelled.

"Wait!" Manning scuttled back on the gurney, his hands out, back flat against the wall. A gunshot to the chest hadn't been fatal, but a gunshot to the head? It was one thing for skin to heal and grow back, but brains? Not gonna happen, not if he could prevent it. "I can prove it! How long have I been in this room? How long was I unconscious?"

"You..." Lydia halted her reply. She looked at Anders first, silently asking for his approval. He didn't lower his gun, but he gave her a reluctant nod. "Four hours. We found you in the basement of the courthouse, in the jail cell bleeding to death, and brought you here immediately."

Slowly, very slowly, Manning lifted his shirt again.

Anders leaned in, squinting, and Manning heard his breath catch.

"Your wife and son," Manning told him softly, "they can heal like this, too. Things aren't what they seem," Manning kept his shirt up. "None of this has been an accident—the Great Rains, Ebola, the chaos our world was thrown into and our resulting segregation from one another. It wasn't global warming or a biological weapon gone wrong, it was orchestrated. Engineered. Our clouds were seeded purposely. And from that seeding, the Rains fell." Anders looked up, their faces only inches apart. "It was all planned," Manning told him, "by aliens."

You could hear a pin drop in the room. As if with great care, Anders pivoted and slowly closed the door to the hallway, leaving his hand on the doorknob.

"By aliens," Anders repeated drily. He kept his back to Manning, his tone clearly conveying his disbelief.

"I know what it sounds like," Manning assured him. "I know how impossible this will be for you and your people to accept, but it's true." Slowly, he slid off the gurney. "Look at me," he urged. "You saw my wounds. I was shot in the chest. I should be dead, but here I stand fully healed, just hours later. Your people saw me carry that fat guy for over a mile and I wasn't even winded. Look at my eyes, man. If for no other reason, use that to suspend doubt, because they are, just in themselves, impossible."

"Who are you really?" Lydia whispered.

Manning finally dropped his shirt. "I told you, I'm nobody. I'm just like you, or anyone else in this community. I spend every day scared to death, just trying to survive, wishing I could wake up from this nightmare." He made a face and chuckled. "I used to work on the assembly line at Ford before the world ended. One guy in a long line of people just like me doing the same single job all day, every day, for eight hours. I was nobody then and I'm nobody now—just a glorified messenger."

"If you're just a messenger," Lydia asked, "then who is John Doe? Why doesn't he want us to know his real name?"

"He's the guy who can save us. I think he uses that name because he thinks it's easier for us to identify with him. I don't even know if we would be able to pronounce his real name. What I do know is that he is not from here—not from this planet. He came to help. He wants to save us."

"Why?" Lydia asked. "Why would he want to save us? Why would he care?"

Manning was about to answer, but Anders interrupted, "It doesn't matter. None of it does." He looked at Manning with a steely glint. "This man is lying. Either that, or the man who sent him is lying. My family would never abandon me. They cannot possibly be out there. This is a lie, and even if it weren't, it doesn't change today. It doesn't change our need to survive. Here. In this place, where we're safe."

"That," Manning pointed for emphasis, "is exactly what it changes. Because they're coming—the ones who seeded our clouds are coming. You can survive today, sure. You can survive tomorrow, maybe even for years to come. But they're on their way, and when they get here, that'll be the end."

"The end of what?" Lydia whispered.

Anders gaped at Lydia. "You're not actually buying into this?"

"We are not alone in the universe," Manning insisted. "I know it sounds like a bad scifi movie, but it's true! Until now, no one knew we were here. But someone—something—found us."

"Who?" Anders demanded. "Who found us? How could you possibly know this, and what does it have to do with the army outside my gate? Those are people, Manning. Human beings with some sort of disease, just like you. They aren't zombies, but they sure as hell aren't aliens either."

"You're more right than you know," Manning answered. "Those are people, but they're not humans anymore—they're more than that. They've been changed. Genetically enhanced by John Doe. And they do have a disease, a kind of virus—but this virus heals, strengthens."

"And they are all like you?" Anders looked pointedly at Manning's chest.

"Yes. Except they're better. I'm..." Manning looked down at the floor. "I don't have the right genes to be one of them. I won't be allowed to go with them when they leave to fight for our planet."

Suddenly, the door burst open and Richard stormed into the room, murder in his eyes. "What did you tell them?" he demanded of Manning. "You liar!"

Before anyone could react, Richard swung a right hook and connected with Manning's jaw. Manning's head jolted backward and his body followed, slamming down on the gurney, his head banging against the wall. Richard was already climbing on top of him to finish the job when Arnold came running into the room and, with Anders' and Lydia's help, pulled him back.

"Are you kidding me?" Manning shouted, trying to disentangle himself from the thin blanket that had somehow become wrapped around his upper torso in the short scuffle.

"I never touched the silver-eyed freak!" Richard raged. "I've been asleep for hours!"

"What is this?" Anders grated at Arnold. "Why is he here?"

Manning pushed himself back up, glaring at Richard and rubbing his jaw.

"I'm sorry, Sarge," Arnold grunted, struggling to restrain Richard. "He went a little nuts when I told him you thought he killed the..." Arnold glanced at Manning. "...Manning."

The disgusted look on Anders' face said it all. He grabbed the lapels of Richard's jacket and pulled him face to face.

"Son," he said through gritted teeth, "you will calm down, now. If you didn't attack this man, we will get to that. Right now, though, we have more important issues." With a steely look at Arnold, he said, "Close the damn door." Still holding onto Richard's jacket, he looked at Manning, "You've got about a minute before I let this guy go."

Arnold shut the door. The tiny room was now crowded so tight their shoulders were touching.

"Well?" Anders raised an eyebrow.

This was it. Manning knew this was his moment to convince them or be subjected to Richard's vigilante justice, and although he knew that even if they let the fat man loose he had nothing to fear except the pain of a beating, he wasn't stupid enough to ask for it. He closed his eyes, knowing that the people clustered around him were looking on like he was some sort of experiment gone wrong. He reached out with his mind, searching for Anders' wife. She was there, waiting, and she told him what to say.

"The day the rain stopped," Manning's eyes snapped open, finding Anders. "Alice—your wife—was scared. She put on a brave face, held it together for Donny's sake, but it was you who got her through it. You were her rock. You drove her and Donny into town. She'd never seen devastation like that before."

Anders straightened his spine and squinted.

"After an entire day of searching," Manning continued, "you still hadn't found anyone alive. And when you got to the Army base and she saw all those abandoned cars, Alice wanted to wail and weep and run from the truck. But you gave her strength, as you've always done."

Anders staggered back a step, bumping into Arnold. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "How?" he whispered. "How is this possible?"

"At the Army base, you were at the gate," Manning continued, and gave a small start. He looked at Arnold. "And that was when you came out. You were running, yelling, scared." Manning looked at each of them in turn, looking last at Anders. "That's how this all started. That's how Outpost began. With your family and Arnold."

"Sarge," Arnold objected scornfully. "This doesn't prove a thing. Everyone knows that it was us who started this place. Everyone's heard the story a thousand times."

Manning tilted his head to the side, listening to Alice's voice in his mind. "But no one has heard the way you wept that first night in Alice's arms," he told Arnold, "the way she comforted you and promised that she would keep you safe."

"You son of a—"

"Arnold!" The Sarge's voice was like a razor. Arnold froze in place.

"Alice wishes she could be here still," Manning continued, "she wishes she could be a part of Outpost, to be near you all, to share in your joys and heartaches," he looked at Anders. "To hold you again." Manning paused, feeling a little uncomfortable now, and cleared his throat. "But she can't. She's part of something bigger. Something more important. Both she and Donny now have the chance to help everyone in this world, not just Outpost, as well as generations to come."

"But what does any of this have to do with us?" Arnold demanded. "Nothing! It has nothing, that's what! Why is there an army outside our gate?"

"It has everything to do with you," Manning was beginning to like Arnold less and less by the minute. "Because they need you to join them. For those with the right genetic sequence, John Doe will lead them against those who did this to our world."

"That doesn't make any sense," Arnold spat. "Why would he do this for us? You say he is not from here. Why would he care?"

"Because the same thing happened to his world," Manning answered evenly. "They did it to his, they did it ours, and they'll continue doing it if they're not stopped."

4.

Arnold waited at the front of the court room with his back rigid, eyes focused straight ahead, and his hands folded over one another just like he'd been taught in basic training. Outwardly, he was sure he gave the appearance of self-control, discipline, and calm that his people needed right now. They needed to feel safer, and he was determined to be the one who provided that for them.

Inwardly, he couldn't care less if they were scared. In fact, it suited his purposes for them to feel that way. All he truly cared about was that they respected him, that they looked to him for guidance. And he knew they did. Those that didn't yet, would. They had to—who else was there? Anders?

Arnold almost chuckled out loud. That old bag of bones had lost all his bluster when his wife and son were killed. When it happened, it was like a gift from God to Arnold. Oh, Alice was sweet and nice and all, but so what? She was also condescending, always giving him advice, telling him how to act, how to dress, even correcting his grammar at times. Arnold had loved her dearly, probably more than anyone else in Outpost, but he could take care of himself just fine, thank you very much. He didn't need some old woman telling him the right way to treat people or how he should think. And Donny Anders? The revered son of Outpost's savior? The one everyone just assumed would take over when the Sarge got too old to do it himself?

What a load of crap.

What the drifters did to Alice and Donny would have happened sooner or later, one way or another. They'd just made it easier for Arnold.

People shuffled in through the big double doors at the far end of the room, quietly looking for a place to sit in the old, rickety wooden chairs that had probably been in the courthouse since the day it was built.

There wouldn't be room for everyone, there weren't enough chairs. People would have to stand.

Whatever.

Arnold had a guaranteed seat right at the front, so it didn't matter to him. Besides, this whole thing was just a ridiculous joke, a total waste of time. This Manning guy thought he was going to convince everyone in Outpost to let some guy—named John Doe, no less—bite into their throats and turn them into freaks like him? Not a chance. Arnold couldn't understand why Anders had even allowed it to get this far.

Just another reason why the old bastard needed to step aside.

"Hi Arnie."

At the sound of Lois's voice, Arnold swallowed back the bad taste in his mouth, the edges of his lips turning downward. She must have come in through the side door. If he'd seen her, he would have found a way to look busy. She was a nice person, but something just wasn't right about her. She was off in some way that he couldn't put his finger on.

And she liked to call him 'Arnie'. His frown deepened.

But Lois knew. She'd seen the powder burns on his hands. She knew he was the one who'd shot Manning and she hadn't said a word. She might be a little odd, but at least he knew he could trust her.

"Hello Lois," Arnold replied, forcing a polite smile. There was an awkward, silent pause after that, so he faced the front doors again, watching as people continued to look for seats, hoping Lois would do the same. But instead, she turned with him and followed his gaze.

The silence stretched on and on. Arnold looked at her out of the corner of his eye, careful not to turn his head. She was still staring out at the growing crowd, a blank look on her face.

"Crazy, huh?" she asked suddenly, and he jumped.

"What?" Arnold asked.

"All these people, all here to listen to that weird-looking guy." She looked up at him, wide-eyed. "He should be dead, you know. I mean, he should really be dead. You shot him like four times!"

Arnold shot a frantic look around the room and grabbed her arm, pulling her back near the wall.

"Lois—"

"I'm not dumb," she interrupted. "I'm not gonna tell."

Arnold blinked. 'I'm not gonna tell?' Were they back in grade school? Whatever, it didn't matter. What mattered was that she really didn't tell anyone, and that meant he would have to be nice to her.

Arnold had to work hard to force the smile back to his face. "Our secret?" he asked sweetly, raising a finger to his lips.

Lois blushed, and it finally clicked for Arnold—Lois was sweet on him! How had he never realized that before?

It was probably a good thing he hadn't. If he had, he probably would have made it very clear that there was no chance of them ever getting together and then where would he be today? Exiled, that's where, because she certainly wouldn't have kept a secret for him. She would have told Anders when she had realized he shot Manning and that would have been the end for him at Outpost.

"Our secret," Lois grinned. She looked around the room with her eyes, not moving her head, and whispered. "I better take my seat."

"Yeah," Arnold whispered back, mystified. "Yeah, you better." He watched her walk off, holding the spot on her arm where he'd been gripping it like a trophy.

Most people were seated now, others were milling around near the back of the room uncertainly. There was a lot of conversation, but it was subdued. Quiet.

Fear was the prevailing mood in the room. Everyone was afraid. They all knew why they were here. Most had probably heard the screaming last night, certainly enough of them had noticed the blood trail leading from this building to the infirmary. In Outpost, nothing remained a secret for long, it just wasn't possible. Their community was too small and tightly packed together.

Arnold's gaze swept over the room. A few people looked back, but most quickly looked away, uncomfortable. He didn't blame them. He knew he could be intimidating.

There was a short stir and heads turned as the side door opened. Everyone went silent as Anders and Richard led Manning into the room, each firmly gripping one of his biceps.

Arnold had to fight hard not to scowl at the sight. It should be him with Anders, not that fat tub of lard.

Everything had seemed so clear last night, so simple. Arnold was sure he knew exactly how everything would play out, and his plan would have killed three birds with one stone.

Richard would be locked up as soon as they found Manning bleeding on the jail cell floor, blamed for the shooting and exiled.

Manning would be dead, giving people no other choice but to fight off those black-eyed freaks outside the gate.

And Anders—he would have been seen as weak, incompetent, unable to manage an important situation like this one.

It would have been the perfect opening for Arnold to step in and lead his people to victory, just like his father had done in the Army, and his father's father, and every other man in his family. Finally, Arnold would be able prove himself.

But instead, everything had gone wrong and now—now the whole community was here, prepared to listen to what this freak of nature had to say, just because their precious leader had asked them to. It was incomprehensible to him.

But Arnold couldn't blame them completely. They were still his people. They looked to him for leadership and direction, and he wouldn't fail them. There was an army outside, after all, and people were scared. When people were scared, they made bad choices.

Arnold would just have to show them there was nothing to be afraid of. He would show them that they could fight back the monsters outside their gate and emerge even stronger than before.

And then they would finally see that he was the one who should have been leading Outpost all along.

5.

"Try anything stupid," Richard hissed in his ear, "and I'll put two rounds in the back of your head."

Manning turned ever-so-slightly, but Richard was right up close behind him. The smell of the fat man's malodorous breath forced him to quickly face forward again and stifle a reply lest he gag on the stench.

He and Richard waited at the door that led into the main room of the courthouse. Behind it, he could hear the sound of the people who had come to listen to what he had to say, or perhaps just out of curiosity—to get a look at him.

"You hear me, Silver-Eyes?" Richard growled.

'Nice,' Manning thought to himself. Now he'd even earned a nickname. Perfect.

"Answer him," Anders commanded, walking toward them.

"I came here to speak," Manning assured them. "That's it."

Anders reached for the door but hesitated, giving Manning a searching look. He must have found whatever he was looking for, because he turned the knob without another word and let the door open into the next room.

The courtroom was full, easily a hundred people were already packed into the room, and more were filtering in from the doors on the other side.

As the throng began to notice his entrance, the courtroom grew silent, every person now looking back at him with varying degrees of fear and revulsion in their eyes.

Manning had a sudden, irrational flashback to the day he'd been named employee of the month at the assembly plant. He'd shaken the plant manager's hand in front of the people who worked on his line—just twelve people. His throat had been so dry that day, he'd barely managed to squeak out a 'thank you' before hurrying back to the safety of his group.

This was not going to be easy for him. Manning reflexively took a deep, shuddering breath. He hated talking in front of groups, hated being the center of attention. Once again, he wondered what John Doe had been thinking when he chose him.

Anders and Richard guided him up a short set of steps into the witness box and sat him down on a hard, uncomfortable, wooden chair.

Anders gave him one last, hard look before taking his place at the judge's bench.

Richard stayed a moment longer, giving him a final squeeze on the arm, a warning.

"I won't be far away," Richard hissed a final warning in his ear and took up a position to the side of the witness box where Arnold was already standing, like a bailiff.

'Great,' Manning thought. With this setup, he already looked like a criminal.

A loud crack rang out and everyone froze.

Carefully, Anders lowered the judge's gavel and stood.

"This man is not on trial," Anders' voice boomed out, as if he'd read Manning's mind. "He has come here in good faith, claiming nothing but good intentions." At that, there was a low murmur from the room, but his raised voice cut right through it. "He claims that he, and those waiting outside our gate, wish us no harm." He paused, looking out over the crowd, meeting his people's eyes. "They wish for us to join them. That is why he has come to Outpost."

Anders paused to let his words sink in, or perhaps to allow for questions, but the murmurs had fallen silent.

"We will let him say his piece." There was no mistaking the warning implied in Anders' tone. "When he is done, we will adjourn until tomorrow. At that time, we will hold a vote. We will decide whether we believe him, and whether any of us are willing to join his people." He looked out over the room, his eyes heavy. "I know you're scared. I am too." He glanced at Manning. "I do not know if this man is who he claims to be, or if those who stand outside our gates are who he tells me they are."

Anders laid his hands flat on the judge's bench and leaned forward, his eyes weary. "In the past," he said, "I have given you my opinion before a vote is cast. I will not do so this time. This is a far too personal decision, far too important for each and every one of you."

Chairs squeaked as people shifted uneasily. Toward the back of the room, someone coughed.

"I have not decided for myself. I have not heard the entire story this man is about to tell," Anders continued. He took a deep breath. "But what he has told me is that the Great Rains were not an accident. They were an attack on our planet, and soon those same aggressors will arrive with the intention of pressing us into slavery. This man's claim is that his leader, the man waiting outside our gate, can save us, lead us in the fight against our aggressors—but only if enough of us join him."

Anders closed his eyes, his hands still flat on the bench. He stayed that way for quite some time. The seconds ticked by and people began to fidget, thinking he was done. Just as Arnold was about to call the session to order, Anders lifted his head again.

"It will not be without consequences," Anders told them. "If you join his people, if you decide you believe him and choose to go with them, you will be changed. Your eyes will turn black and, like many of our people who have already been taken, you will be bitten. In the throat."

The stunned silence that followed was interrupted by someone loudly clearing their throat. Manning met a woman's eyes in the front row and she hurriedly looked away, self-consciously putting a hand to the side of her neck.

Anders sat down and gave him a nod, indicating that the floor was his.

Manning couldn't help it—he bowed his head, shaking it with closed eyes. 'You've got to be kidding me "...you will be bitten. In the throat."' That was his introduction? On shaking legs, he stood, the old chair creaking as he rose from it. When he opened his eyes, a woman wearing a denim shirt in the front row gasped.

They were frightened?

"I know you're scared," Manning began, looking directly at the woman with the denim shirt. "I don't blame you. I would be too. In fact, if I were in your shoes right now and didn't know what I know, I might not even have bothered to hear me out. Before I was changed, I..." Manning sighed. "I only believed what was right in front of me."

Manning waited, expecting some sort of comment, but every eye in the room stayed on him, silent.

"Look," Manning opened the little gate and stepped out of the witness box. Richard bristled, and Arnold took a step forward as if to intercede, but Anders stopped them both with a gesture and gave Manning a nod.

"I'm just like you," Manning began.

Arnold made a loud noise of contempt.

"Well..." Manning conceded, glancing over his shoulder at the weasely little man, "maybe I'm not anymore, but I used to be." Manning spread his arms wide, a gesture meant to encompass the entirety of Outpost. "I know what this is like, trying to survive in a place like this. I have lived like you are living now. Like you, I lost everything in the Great Rains, everyone I loved. I was scared, alone, and didn't know what to do or where to go. I spent so much time just hoping, praying, that someone would come along and tell me."

Manning began pacing the small area in front of the judge's bench. "Before the Great Rains, I lived in a little town a lot like this one. But I wasn't as lucky as you. There wasn't someone like Bill Anders there to help pick up the pieces and bring people together. As far as I know, I was the only one in my town who survived."

He bowed his head, remembering those days; the gut-wrenching fear, the utter aloneness of it all. Family, friends, all were gone in a matter of days and in the worst way possible. On television, religious leaders had called it "God's will". Their last, choked breaths had no doubt ended in rapturous prayer, believing that the End Times had finally come, that Ebola was God's modern-day way of rapturing his people home to heaven. Others, those whose "religion" was politics and anger, spat their defiance at countries like North Korea and Iran, believing in their pride and arrogance that mankind was capable of creating a global pandemic of this scale.

But it hadn't been God's will, and it certainly hadn't been any human being's doing.

The attack had come from far, far away, the race who'd done it not all that different from humans: self-serving, their motivations entirely mired in greed, only concerned with one thing—the continuation of their lifestyle through the enslavement of what they perceived as a lesser race.

"You all remember where you were when the Rains finally stopped," Manning's voice echoed throughout the silent courtroom. "Do you remember how that felt? You were scared and alone, but most of all, if you were anything like me, you were angry. Maybe you were mad at God, maybe at the government—maybe you were just mad at your family for not having survived with you. Maybe you were angry at yourself for having survived at all." Manning took a deep breath. "It wasn't their fault. None of them. And it wasn't yours."

Manning could feel it—the mood of his audience was changing, the hostility slowly draining from the room, and it bolstered his courage.

"I didn't know where else to go," Manning stopped pacing and faced the room squarely. "So I headed for Detroit. I figured if there were still people alive, a big city would be a good place to start looking—and I was right. I found a small section of the city where a group of people had banded together. It wasn't as good as this place, there wasn't the same shared community that you people have, more like co-existence than cooperation, but it was better than being alone. It was basically safe." Manning gave a short chuckle. "Detroit was the safest place I could find. Crazy, right?"

No one laughed with him.

"I was..." Manning sighed. "I guess I was what you people call a scav. I went out every day with my partner, Stan. He was the closest thing I had to a best friend in Detroit, if there was such a thing. No one planned to stay there very long, so no one got too close with anyone else. People left all the time, usually in the middle of the night without a word."

Manning looked down at his feet.

"We were always so scared," he said. "Everyone was. People got in fights all the time, usually over 'stuff', arguing about what was theirs and what wasn't, and because there was no law to keep them in check sometimes it got real ugly. Stan and me, I guess we never actually said we had each other's backs, but it was an understanding. We knew."

Manning slowly moved back to the witness stand and sat on the outside edge of the rail, all eyes watching his every move. The truth was, he needed a moment to collect himself. This was the first time he'd ever shared his story and he was surprised at the depth of feelings being brought to surface while telling it. Stan was still okay—in fact he was better than okay—he was outside Outpost's gate right now with John Doe. But their friendship would never be the same again. It couldn't. Stan had been a candidate, and Manning wasn't, which meant that Stan would be going with John Doe to save Earth, and Manning wouldn't. There was nothing that could ever change that.

Loudly, Arnold coughed into his hand and Manning was jerked from his reverie.

"Sorry," Manning said softly.

"Sorry for wasting our time with this bull crap," Arnold responded hotly, "or sorry for bringing an army to attack us?"

"Arnold..." Anders warned.

"Well this is ridiculous! I don't care where he came from, I don't care about his," Arnold made air quotes, "struggles. Big deal. We all struggle. That's the way it is. I want to know when he's going to send all those zombies away from our gate, and that's all I want to know!"

"Everything I'm telling you..." Manning began.

"What does it have to do with us?" Arnold had raised his voice and was practically shouting now.

"Arnold!" Anders pounded his gavel once for emphasis.

Arnold flinched involuntarily at the sound and slowly raised his eyes to the judge's bench. For a moment, Manning was sure the little man was going to speak out against his leader. His face was red, blotched, ugly, and angry. What had he gotten himself into?

And then the look was gone as quickly as it came.

"You are absolutely correct, Sarge," Arnold said, his voice now as bland as his expression. "My apologies. Innocent until proven guilty, of course."

Anders and Arnold held each other's gaze for a few more moments until Arnold turned away, the movement casual, almost as if he no longer had any interest in the confrontation.

Anders' upper lip twitched once. "You may continue," he told Manning.

Manning nodded, glancing at Arnold as he turned back to face the courtroom, and saw the barest hint of a smirk. The damage had been done to Manning's story, and Arnold knew it. Any momentum Manning may have had toward gaining people's trust was now gone.

"Manning?" Anders prompted.

Manning blinked and cleared his throat. He hadn't realized he had been standing silent for so long. He narrowed his eyes at Arnold and then glanced at Richard, wondering which of them was actually worse.

"There was never a shortage of gas for cars," Manning continued, as if he'd never been interrupted, "not for as long as I lived there, anyway. Even on my last day in Detroit, which I guess was about six months ago, there was still gas to be found if you were willing to do the work to get it. Because of that, Stan and I were able to search longer distances than you people do, so we always came back with food."

Manning looked out over the room. "That last day was the day we found John Doe. We were always on the lookout for other people, of course we were. Same as it is everywhere now, you had to be careful because you never knew what kind of people you'd be dealing with. There were enough nomads roaming through our area that it wasn't all that odd to see strangers on the horizon. Generally, we'd just let them go their way and we'd go ours. We'd give them a wide berth and they'd do the same for us. But Stan and me, we got careless that day. We crested a hill, and there they were: four of them, standing right in the middle of the road. Two women and two men. One of the guys was like nothing I'd ever seen—except maybe at a heavy metal concert. He was big, practically a giant, with long black hair."

Manning paused before saying, "It was John Doe. The same guy that's standing outside your gate right now."

The woman in the plaid shirt shifted uncomfortably in her seat. A few people nervously looked over their shoulder, like they were worried that the black-haired giant might burst into the room at any second.

"Stan and me," Manning continued, "well, our first thought was to just drive around them and be on our way, but there were the women and the way they all just stood staring at us without moving... we thought maybe they needed help. They looked like they were lost or something. We decided to offer to bring them back to the city with us, and let them figure it out from there. But as soon as we were out of the car, they came at us. They were fast, so fast. I never saw anything like it. And that's when I noticed their eyes—black as night. They went for Stan—only him—and wrestled him to the ground until he was splayed on the pavement. None of them paid any attention to me. John Doe, he just stood back and watched. As for me, I freaked out. I jumped back in the car, jammed on the gas, and swerved around them. I watched in my rear view mirror as John Doe bent over Stan and bit right into his throat. Blood everywhere."

At least a dozen hands went up, covering horrified faces.

"If I was freaking out before that," Manning nodded, meeting the horrified eyes in the crowd. "I went really went ape-shit then. But I didn't make it far. I was so spazzed that I drove right off the road and into a ditch, smashed my head on the steering wheel, and knocked myself out cold. When I came to, I was lying in the dirt, surrounded by people with black eyes—and one of them was Stan. I thought it was nightmare. It had to be. Things like that just don't happen. But then, it doesn't rain red death every day for over a month, either, does it?"

Manning had his audience back again. Some were even listening with a tiny degree of sympathy in their eyes. He took a deep breath and folded his hands in front of him, lowering his eyes.

From a few feet away, Arnold made a disgusted sound, but Manning ignored it.

"I had no idea where I was," Manning spoke without raising his head. "I didn't know how I'd gotten there. I wasn't hurt, hadn't been bitten. I asked them what they wanted, I begged Stan to help me, but he wouldn't answer—none of them would. At the time, I didn't know that none of them could. I got up and none of them stopped me so I ran away, but I only got a few steps before I heard Stan's voice, telling me it was okay. He promised no one would hurt me, and said I needed to stay. It was important, he said, that I hear what John Doe had to tell me. Very, very important. He said I was important now, too."

Manning looked out at the rapt faces. "Stan was my friend. I'd been trusting him with my life for a long time. So I stopped. I turned to face him and saw his eyes, the scar on his throat. He told me what happened to him had been necessary, that it was the only way he would be able to help save the world. I wanted to yell at him, to tell him to listen to himself, that he was crazy, but that's when I realized I wasn't hearing him with my ears. His lips weren't moving. He was speaking to me in my mind. And that's when I blacked out."

Outside, a heavy gust of hot wind blew hard against the courthouse and shook the building, but no one so much as glanced up.

"When I woke up again I was in a building, on a bed, with an IV in my arm," Manning said. "Stan was there, right there beside me. I wasn't hurt. In fact, I felt good—strong. I told Stan about it and he acted unsurprised. He told me I had to stay, that I was in the safest place I could possibly be. Again, he told me I was special, told me John Doe had chosen me for something important and if I was patient, I would see that it was worth waiting for."

"And you just took his word for it?" Arnold interrupted. "This guy who you've known so long gets bit in the throat, survives, his eyes turn black, you wake up with a tube in your arm, and you just—what? Take his word? Take it on faith?"

"I was scared," Manning admitted. "I didn't know where I was, not anymore. If I tried to leave, I figured they would just drag me back and do what they'd done to Stan. So, yes, I stayed. What would you have done?"

Arnold's only reply was to cross his arms and give a contemptuous snort.

"I think I went a little insane that first week," Manning continued. "But Stan stayed by my side the entire time, never left. I slept a lot, but every time I woke up I felt a little better than the time before. Whatever John Doe was pumping into my blood, it was already beginning to work. I kept getting stronger, and I was beginning to hear more than just Stan in my head. Not only that, but I was able to speak back—in my mind—and talk to people even when they weren't near. By the end of that week, my eyes had already changed to the silver color you see now. I don't know why they're like that. I don't know why they changed at all. I can't see any better or worse, my eyes can't do anything more than they could before. John Doe never commented on it, so it must be normal, just a side-effect."

"You didn't find out why they changed?" Arnold interrupted again.Anders leaned forward and lifted his gavel.

Richard surprised Manning by growling, "What was he going to do, Arnie? Google it? Call a doctor and describe his symptoms?" Richard made a sound of disgust and muttered, "Idiot..."

"Well, he—" Arnold bristled.

"Continue," Anders told Manning through gritted teeth.

"So there I am," Manning said, "scared and thinking maybe I'm going a little crazy when John Doe finally speaks to me, in my mind, and it soothes me. Just his voice was enough to calm me down, make me believe I was going to be okay and that he was a good guy. That's how he is. There is just... something. You know because he is in your head and he can't hide anything from you, not when you and he are linked in such a strong way. He tells me he's their leader, and that he's not from here. He came to save us because our planet is under attack. Some of us have a special gene that allows us to evolve into something that makes us valuable to the people who sent the rains. He said when we evolve, our eyes turn black and we lose the ability to speak, but we become strong, fast, and live for a very long time."

"So," someone yelled from the back. "This John Doe wants to create a master race? Change us all into something else?"

"No," Manning replied. "No—that is exactly what he is fighting against! The society that made him what he is... he hates it. He doesn't want to be a part of it. It's a society of slaves, of combined races who've been taken from their home worlds in order to serve a Master race, a race whose society cannot function without slave labor. These Masters have everything and do nothing."

"This doesn't make sense!" a man standing near the back door yelled. "Why would they kill most of us with Ebola if they were coming to enslave us? Why would they kill us if making us their slaves is the reason they came here?"

"Because the disease they seeded our clouds with wipes out everyone who isn't strong enough to be converted," Manning answered. "The disease does the majority of their work for them, so that when they arrive on a planet they don't have to sift through billions of us to find the ones they can take."

"Strong enough to be converted into what?" Richard asked.

"Into the kind of people that are standing outside your gates right now," Manning replied. "Genetically altered humans who are strong and silent—the perfect working-class people. John Doe comes from a world that was attacked, one that was destroyed by disease and its people pressed into bondage. They did it exactly the same way to his world as they did ours, and they'll do it to others. But we can stop them."

Manning took a step forward and looked out over the room. "That is the reason I am here. John Doe can't speak to you. You wouldn't be able to hear him unless you were changed, so he sent me instead." Manning paused. "He needs you. He needs help. John Doe wants to use the same gene-altering technology against them that they use for creating slaves. Strong workers are also strong fighters. With enough of us altered, we could fight against them. We could save our world! John Doe came here to build an army. Not only could we save ourselves, but we could save our children and children's children, as well as countless others on planets we don't even know exist!"

In the stunned silence that followed Manning's words, the side door boomed closed.

No one had noticed Arnold stalk out the room until he was already gone.

At first no one moved, but then, one by one, people rose from their seats and silently walked out.

None of them looked optimistic.

6.

It was late. Judging from the stars, Anders guessed it was close to three in the morning.

The narrow steel rungs of the ladder were cold against his hands, an almost alien feeling after bearing up against a scalding hot sun all day long.

The guard posted in the nest had heard someone coming, but did a double take when he realized who it was.

"Sir," the guard stammered in confusion. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything is fine, Don," Anders answered. "I just wanted to get a look for myself and I know it's about time for you to take a break."

"I..." Don blinked. "Thank you."

There was an awkward pause and then Don reached down to pick up his rifle and strap it to his back for the climb down.

"Leave that," Anders told him softly. "I didn't bring one."

"Uh..." Guards were responsible for their weapons. They were never supposed to let anyone else touch them.

"It's okay, Don. I'll still be here when you come back, and so will your rifle."

Don only hesitated a moment longer.

"Yes sir," he said, and swung onto the ladder, climbing into the darkness below and out of sight.

Anders took a deep breath of the cool air and faced out into the night, toward Elizabethtown and the people he knew were waiting in the darkness below him.

John Doe.

The leader of any group is the key. Without a leader, the group will lose focus. Without focus, the group will disperse.

Maybe Manning truly believed everything he had said today.

Maybe John Doe truly believed everything he told Manning.

The chance that any of it was actually true, though, was not a gamble Anders was willing to take with his people. More likely, John Doe was a casualty of the Great Rains, someone who'd lost his sanity and was so convinced of a reality he'd created that he was able to bring others to believe it.

Anders lifted Don's rifle to his shoulder and pressed the button on the scope to enable the night vision.

With a vise-like grip on the rifle's stock, he angled it down until his view rested directly in front of the front gate. Slowly, he raised the barrel until he found his target—the row of people standing outside Outpost.

John Doe was easy to pick out. The man truly was a giant among men, and with the long, black hair there could be no doubt it was him.

Anders adjusted the rifle's focus, bringing John Doe's face into plain view, and gave a start. John Doe was looking directly back at him his silver, unblinking eyes glowing in the darkness.

Just as surely as Anders knew John Doe was staring back at him, he was also certain that John Doe knew why he was there. And yet, John Doe did not move. Why?

Anders stared down through the scope, studying the man whose forehead he was about to put a bullet through. John Doe certainly was extraordinary, his features gaunt, his cheekbones sharply defined with no facial hair whatsoever.

With slow deliberation, the Sarge moved his right index finger up to click off the rifle's safety and then moved it back down to gently rest on the trigger.

Slowly, he let out a calming breath and began to pull his finger back.
PART IV

DIVISION

1.

The courthouse was packed, loud and turbulent. Unlike the day before, people weren't entering quietly. Today they were aggressive, their fear kindled by yesterday's news, their reaction more primal.

Lydia stood on the riser directly in front of the judge's bench, as apprehensive as anyone else in the room, her fear steadily growing as she looked on from her central vantage point. She watched George Sanders shove Sandy Cecil hard in the middle of the back, so hard that Sandy stumbled and almost fell. Sandy had been walking in front of George and had said something over her shoulder, something he obviously hadn't agreed with. His response had been immediate and angry. Sandy had spun to confront him and now they were nose-to-nose, shouting, their words lost in the din of a room filled with so many other raised voices.

Sick to her stomach, Lydia felt a sudden desire to run away, to find somewhere far away from everyone else. Just hide, and wait for Outpost's crisis to end. She could do that—she could just bury her head and hope—if she chose to. She didn't have to be up here on this riser taking responsibility for everyone else. After all, she wasn't officially part of Outpost's leadership, just someone whose opinion the Sarge valued. Lord knows Arnold had reminded her of it enough.

But then who else would step up? Arnold didn't care about anyone else; all he cared about was whether or not other people respected him. Certainly not Richard—he was even more self-centered and crude than Arnold.

George and Sandy, two of the most calm, thoughtful people Lydia had ever known, continued their shouting match unabated, others around them now joining in. George had been a writer before the Great Rains. Sandy had worked as a focus counselor at a community center. Neither of them was rude or aggressive, it just wasn't in their nature. But like everyone else they were scared, cornered by an army of monsters who wouldn't let them out of their own front gate, and now they were lashing out the only way they could: at each other.

And they weren't the only ones. Everywhere, individuals and groups were arguing, shouting, shoving.

This was not the Outpost Lydia knew and loved. Outpost was a community, a true fellowship. It, and its people, had transcended what communities had been like before the Great Rains. Back then, where you lived was just a place to stay until you found somewhere better. But not Outpost, it was a true home, a place none of them ever intended to leave. Granted, Outpost was that way out of necessity, but it had made the people who lived there less like neighbors and more like family. Lydia knew each and every one of them. They'd worked side-by-side for years, persevered in the worst of circumstances, and had done it by sharing each other's burdens. Every one of them was, deep down, a good person. Already, she felt herself growing nostalgic for the way it had been just a few days ago. Life wasn't easy, each day was a struggle to remain strong and optimistic, but the way they did it was with the help of each other. Even people like Richard—who could be as coarse and foul-mouthed as a drunken sailor—was someone she counted as a friend.

And it was all disintegrating here in this courtroom. In the space of a single day, the community Anders and his family had so very carefully built and nurtured was ripping itself apart right before her eyes.

Where was he? Lydia looked at the empty judge's bench. Why wasn't Anders here yet?

Midway between where Lydia stood and the side door, Arnold and Richard also waited on the riser, watching as the chaos in the room intensified. Richard was scowling, nervous, his bald head covered in droplets of sweat. Even from where she stood, Lydia could see the white-knuckled grip he kept on his shotgun. Richard might be coarse and abrasive, but he wasn't stupid. He recognized how volatile their situation was becoming. He knew how easily it could escalate into something much worse. Arnold, on the other hand, looked as calm and cool as she'd ever seen the rat-faced little prick.

Lydia frowned distastefully. She definitely did not count him as one of her friends at Outpost.

Arnold was watching the crowd too, but he appeared relaxed, perhaps even a little pleased. He stood in his usual pose; his back straight, his hands clasped behind him as if he were at parade rest. What a joke. Everyone knew he'd somehow managed to weasel out of the Army, but he still took every opportunity to give the impression that he had done his tour honorably and was military through-and-through. It was despicable. He was nodding ever-so-slightly as he surveyed the room, as if the ensuing chaos was of his own making, a tiny smirk on his lips.

Something loud crashed to the floor in the back. From the same direction, someone began shouting. Seconds later, another voice could be heard shouting back and then something else broke, followed by a loud cry of pain.

Lydia glanced desperately at the side door, wishing Anders would show up. Things were getting out of hand. She cast an appealing look at Arnold, but he just raised an eyebrow and shrugged. He gave a silent chuckle and turned away to watch their community unravel itself.

Fucker, she thought venomously. So much for "good" people!

Someone had to do something.

"Everyone!" Lydia raised her arms above her head and waved them, shouting as loud as she was able. "Everyone! If you would all just take a seat and quiet down, we can get started!"

By the last word she was yelling so loudly that her throat was raw. People went on shouting, arguing, and shoving, completely ignoring her. Lydia looked at Richard for support, but his only answer was a slow, wide-eyed shake of his head. Of course the lazy bastard wasn't going to do anything. Lydia ground her teeth and swallowed back a curse.

"Everyone!" she shouted again, but dropped her arms when she heard someone from the back yell, "Slut!" Someone else hollered, "Whore!" Several people in crowd heard the slurs and immediately turned to look at her.

Stunned and horrified, Lydia retreated back against the wall, as far from everyone as she could. She knew exactly what they meant. They were talking about her and Anders, and the belief of everyone in Outpost that they were a couple. She'd never bothered to dispute the rumor, only because she'd always believed it was just harmless gossip. And besides, it couldn't be further from the truth.

These people were her friends, her neighbors. Is that what they really thought of her?

Instinctively, Lydia sought out the one face she knew would be sympathetic, the one person she had no doubt would be concerned for her: Jodi—barely old enough to be called a woman by the old world's standards. She probably would have been in her second year of college right now if not for the Great Rains. Lydia scanned the crowd and found Jodi pushing her way to reach the front, her heart in her eyes.

Lydia nearly went limp with relief. Thank God, she thought.

They'd fought the night before, badly. So badly that Lydia was afraid she might have driven Jodi away for good. It had been the same argument they'd had since their relationship began—Lydia's lack of courage to make public the way they felt for one another, and the fact that she was so damn worried about how everyone else would view them.

But then, wasn't this situation exactly the kind of thing she had always girded herself—and Jodi—against? Wasn't this precisely the type of reaction she'd always been afraid of? The words they were yelling would almost certainly be worse than slut and whore if people knew Lydia had fallen in love with a girl half her age.

As for Jodi, she didn't care if people knew. She wasn't ashamed of who she was, and she refused to allow Lydia to make her feel that she should be. She'd asked, even begged at one point, for Lydia to be brave, to just be herself so they could be together openly and honestly. Jodi's view was; let the community talk. So what. They'd found each other and they were in love. Screw everyone else if they couldn't accept it.

But Jodi was young, and despite the hardships of Outpost she still had a youthful enthusiasm that hadn't been squashed out by age or the responsibilities that came with it. She was one of Outpost's tailors, her job was simple and straightforward. People didn't look to her for answers like they did with Lydia, so it didn't matter if people trusted her.

From the floor in front of the riser, Jodi smiled up at her. It was the same impish, cheerful smile that had drawn Lydia to her in the first place. Lydia could bask in it for days, because Jodi's smile took her back to the times in her life when she wasn't afraid, didn't feel the weight of the world crushing her, suffocating her.

With the wiggle of a finger and a toss of her head, Jodi beckoned her down from the riser. Let's get out of here. But Lydia couldn't, there was just no way. Not with so much going wrong already. She glanced around nervously, worried that someone had seen the gesture.

By the time she looked back in Jodi's direction, Jodi had already turned her back on her and melted into the crowd, and Lydia knew she'd hurt her again.

Jodi just didn't get it. Lydia couldn't just declare herself a lesbian, and especially not one who was sleeping with someone so young. With a scenario like that people would lose faith in the leadership of Outpost, and then where would they be? People would see her as a joke, and then a liar for not speaking up in the first place. And because she was so involved in most of Outpost's bigger decisions, it could undermine the Sarge's credibility. It would be just plain selfish for her to say anything.

Lydia hadn't kept the secret for her own sake, it was for Outpost, for everyone else's safety and wellbeing.

At least that's what she told herself.

A loud, piercing whistle broke though the din, and Lydia jumped.

"People!" Arnold shouted, throwing his arms dramatically over his head. "People, listen to me!"

Amazingly, Arnold's high-pitched, nasally voice cut through the noise in the room. Slowly, people quieted, but Lydia knew it was just temporary. The air still charged with fear and adrenaline, she could feel it. The smallest spark would set it off again.

Richard grabbed Arnold by the shoulder and pulled him close. He said something through clenched teeth, something Lydia couldn't hear. Arnold shot him a look of malice and wrenched free of the fat man's grip.

"We can't last like this," Arnold stepped up to the edge of the riser. "That army outside... it isn't letting anyone out. That means no scav runs, and no scav runs means no food. And you all know there wasn't much of a surplus to begin with!"

Appalled, Lydia hurried over to him. "What are you doing?" she hissed in Arnold's ear. "You're going to make it worse!"

Arnold shrugged her away like a fly. "Go away, Lydia," he told her.

"Where is Anders?" someone shouted.

"Good question," Arnold replied, pointing at the person like they were on a game show. He held both hands out, palms up, and glanced at the side door. "Maybe we should start without him? Obviously he must have more important things to do than be here for this vote."

Arnold backed slowly toward the judge's bench, almost like he was sneaking even though he was in plain sight of everyone. He got to the small set of steps and stopped with one foot raised, as if he were waiting for encouragement from the crowd to climb into the big chair. When he didn't get it, he turned around and leaned an elbow up against the outside rail instead, trying hard to look as if that's where he'd planned to go in the first place. To Lydia, he looked like an absolute imbecile.

"I know you're afraid," Arnold's elbow slipped and he winced as his funny bone banged against the rail. "I know things seem really messed up right now." He pressed his lips together, rubbing his elbow, eyes watering. Someone down in the crowd snickered. "I am too! But we can't fight! Not with each other! Our strength—Outpost's strength—has always been in our people, in the way we work together! If we lose that, we lose everything!"

Lydia rolled her eyes. But she had to give him credit—the room was now so quiet that when Lois, the pudgy woman who worked in the infirmary, let out a loud sigh of admiration, nearly everyone turned to stare at her. A few chuckled.

Arnold stepped away from the rail, still rubbing his elbow, bolstered by the reaction in the room. He blinked once, a slow, deliberate closing and opening of his eyes, and smiled, prominently showing his stained and crooked teeth.

"I can help," Arnold said. He took another step toward the crowd and held out his arms, that big, gap-toothed smile still plastered on his face like he was some sort of televangelist ready to embrace his flock of fools. He only got one step before someone snorted—loudly—and that was all it took for him to lose his audience.

The room grew loud again—louder, even, than it was before Arnold had begun talking.

"Hey!" Arnold's smile vanished. His face grew ugly and indignant. He waved his arms angrily. "Listen to me!" He stretched up on his toes and kept waving, but was ignored. "People! I can help!"

Lois pushed her way to the front, a stricken look on her face. She reached for Arnold, but he recoiled, looking down at her with open disdain before turning his back on her.

Lydia watched as Lois fled for the exit, crestfallen. The big woman shouldered furiously through the crowd, tears streaming down her cheeks. Richard, who'd moved to the side door as soon as the crowd began to get unruly again, watched in bewilderment as she flung herself through it and fled past a very surprised Anders, who was just arriving.

Seeing the Sarge in the doorway, Arnold's scowl deepened. He stepped off the riser and moved down into the crowd, taking people by the elbow and leaning in close, speaking into their ear.

Automatically, Lydia moved to join Anders, but something about the way he looked, something in his eyes, made her stop. He scanned the room disappointedly, still unnoticed by the majority of the people, and his sad eyes landed on her. He gave her a tired, thin-lipped nod.

Never, not even when he had first lost his family, had Lydia seen him look so worn down, so old. She nodded back, suddenly feeling very sad, and tried to muster up a smile for him, knowing it must look more like a wince.

It's the beginning of the end.

The thought came unbidden into Lydia's mind, but as soon as it was there she knew she was right. She turned back, looking for Jodi, yearning to be near someone who would comfort her, tell her everything was going to be alright even if it wasn't, but of course Jodi wasn't there. Not this time.

They were hanging on by a thread. Outpost might be a special place, but unfortunately that didn't make its people any different than anywhere else. They were just as tired, just as lonely, and certainly just as angry as everyone else that had survived the Great Rains. Arnold had been right when he'd said the only thing that had kept this community going so long was the fact that they had each other. Now, this John Doe was at their front gate asking them to give up the only thing they had left.

Out on the courtroom floor, Lydia watched a man shove another man in the shoulder with the heel of his hand. Just a few feet away, a woman was pointing a finger in another woman's face, both of them shouting.

No work was being done, no food was being scavenged, no walls were being fortified—and there was an army waiting outside the gate.

Yes, it is the beginning of the end.

Over by the side door, Anders had placed a hand on Richard's shoulder and was speaking to him, too softly for Lydia to hear. Richard paused, clearly surprised, and didn't reply. He looked back at the Sarge as if he were seeing his leader for the very first time, his look almost tender... if Richard could ever truly look that way. He nodded once, decisively, and led the way to the judge's bench.

As Anders moved across the riser, a slow ripple of silence swept through the room. Down in the crowd, Arnold watched, his eyes hooded.

Anders climbed up to his seat behind the bench and sat down heavily, lacing his fingers together on the desk. In the ensuing silence he sighed, a heavy, sad sound that carried through the room.

"Last night," he began, his voice raw and scratchy, "I considered leaving Outpost forever."

Lydia, who'd been facing the courtroom, spun to look up at Anders in shock. Were things already that far gone?

"But I couldn't," Anders admitted. "Not when I know how most of you are feeling. You're frightened for your life. We all are, and have been since the Rains fell. After all you've endured, now you're faced with a moral choice that, no matter what you decide, will feel like the wrong one."

Anders paused, looking squarely into his people's eyes.

"It can't feel fair," he said, "and it isn't. You are entitled to your rage."

He paused again, turning a steely gaze on his second in command. At first Arnold met his look squarely, even defiantly, but Anders didn't let up. Finally, Arnold sniffed and looked away.

"But being angry and afraid does not give us the excuse to make poor decisions." Anders stood and leaned down, fists planted on his desk, his eyes still on Arnold. "Now, more than ever, our actions have to be deliberate. We can't afford to be petty. We can't allow ourselves to be selfish. I know my path. It's clear what I need to do, and I will share that with you. But first, would anyone else like to speak?"

Arnold's mouth was already open before Anders finished speaking, but Harold, the head guardsman, beat him to it. "Sarge," Harold said, "this community has never been so divided. We want to do the right thing, but I know I speak for the majority of us when I say I don't trust that silver-eyed drifter. I don't believe him, and I don't believe that the silver-eyed giant who took Justin is here to save us. It just doesn't add up."

"Yeah," Arnold pushed his way back up front and clambered back onto the riser, stumbling once before he got all the way to his feet. "Are we going to base our decision on a stranger's say-so? It's ridiculous!"

Anders pointedly ignored Arnold. "Manning," he reminded Harold. "The drifter's name is Manning."

"With all due respect," Harold glanced briefly at Arnold, looking uncomfortable to be a part of what was clearly becoming a public dispute. "Why is... Manning... still inside our walls? Why haven't we cut him loose, or... something?"

Anders glanced at Arnold, at the gun he wore on his hip. Lydia couldn't help but notice Arnold's face flush an ugly shade of crimson. Arnold lifted his head and sneered arrogantly at Anders.

"I agree with Harold!"

Lydia spun, shocked, recognizing Jodi's voice.

"I think Manning is a liar, too!" Jodi stated in loud, clear voice. "And I think Arnold is right! Aren't we going to decide if we even believe the drifter's ridiculous story? That's the first thing we should do! Because if no one believes him, there is no reason to take this any further!"

Lydia shot Jodi a warning look, but Jodi turned a blind eye to it.

Of all people, Jodi was going to side with Arnold? She'd always been young and opinionated, never afraid to speak her mind. Certainly, it was what had drawn Lydia to her from the start. But she had to know Lydia would be on Anders' side of things.

Was she siding with Arnold solely because Lydia wasn't?

This wasn't a situation where speaking up was going to help. If too many people spoke too loud, the room would disintegrate back into chaos and they'd be right back at square one.

As if Lydia had spoken aloud, another woman, bolstered by Jodi's courage, stepped forward. "I think he's a liar and a manipulator, and I think he just wants to take what's ours the easiest way he can!"

Lydia almost groaned aloud. It was already beginning.

"But obviously," Arnold sang out, smugly spinning to face Anders, "you've already made up your mind!"

It was true. Anders had said as much. It was his right to have an opinion of his own, but the way Arnold said it made it sound like a rule had been broken, like his choice would be an insult to everyone in Outpost. The crowd began to murmur and shuffle about.

Lydia scowled at Arnold. She had half a mind to put the little bastard in a headlock, drag him out of the room, and beat the shit out of him just to shut him up. Quietly, she inched up close. "I know what you're trying to do," she hissed near his ear. "And I won't let you. It won't work. Everyone loves him."

"It's not your choice," he hissed back snidely, grinning. "It's theirs. I'm not doing anything they aren't already doing. I'm not saying anything they're not already thinking. Maybe they loved him once, but look at him now. He hasn't been the same since Alice and Donny died. He's done. He's been done. And you," he gave her a last look and a dismissive sniff, "you're a nurse. Just a tourist invited in by our leadership who should never have been let in at all. Your opinion never counted."

Arnold took two arrogant steps away from her, nose in the air. Lydia fumed, fists clenched, never wanting to hurt anyone so badly in her life as she did at that moment.

Meanwhile, people were nodding in reaction to what Arnold had said. The room was beginning to fill with chatter, the buzz threatening to engulf the room in chaos all over again, but before it could Anders rapped his gavel on his desk and stood.

"Last night!" he shouted, his voice loud and demanding, carrying over the din. Gradually, it quieted. "Last night," Anders repeated, "I climbed up to the nest at the main gate, and I zeroed the scope of my rifle in on John Doe's head."

A murmur rippled through the room. Lydia heard the word, "Why?" whispered before she realized it was she who had said it.

"It was my intention to kill him," Anders continued, "to end this and be done with it. I know what this is doing to us. I didn't have to come here today to see it. I knew already. It was my thought that by severing the flock from their shepherd, they would lose heart." He sighed heavily and sat again, staring down at his desk. "He was in my sights." Anders was speaking softly now, as if to himself, but the room was so quiet no one missed a word. "My finger was on the trigger." He looked up. "And the second before I was going to end his life, my wife and son stepped in front of him to block the shot."

A collective gasp went up from the crowd.

"How can you be sure?" Arnold immediately countered. "You couldn't possibly have been able to see. It was dark..."

But Anders' steely gaze stopped him cold. "My wife and son are out there," he said. "They have black eyes and scars on their necks—but they are there, and they are alive, just as Manning said they would be... and I want to join them."

The courtroom was silent as a grave. Most everyone was looking down at the floor. Lydia looked out over the sea of bowed heads, wondering if it was lost hope they were feeling, or a rekindling of hope for the future of the world. As Anders had already said; they were faced with an impossible choice. It would easy to feel despair or to hope, depending on the way their situation was viewed.

Lydia still didn't know which it was she was feeling.

One thing she now knew: Manning had been telling the truth. No one from Outpost had been killed, only changed—and that changed everything.

Susan Granger, a woman who worked with Jodi as a tailor, lifted her head. "Did you see Alan?"

Alan had been on the road crew, the third person in the community who'd been taken.

"What about Lindsay?"

"Was Lance out there?"

Lydia looked back at Anders, meeting Richard's eyes along the way, and saw a frantic glimmer of hope in them. Justin, she realized. Richard was thinking of Justin, hoping he was still alive.

"I only saw Donny and Alice," Anders replied heavily. "I'm sorry. I wish I could say that I saw everyone else, but I didn't."

"So you're leaving?" Arnold asked, the corners of his lips curling upward. "Just like that? You're leaving us to figure this out on our own?"

"No, Arnold," Anders replied flatly, a hint of impatience finally entering his voice. "I'm not, not unless the vote goes my way."

"But you said..."

"I said I want to join them," Anders clarified. "But I will abide by the vote of the community. We have rules in place, and I intend to follow those rules."

"Can't we just decide for ourselves?" Susan Granger called out. "I mean, it doesn't seem fair if we use a majority, not with something like this. The ones who don't want to go, can't they just stay behind?"

"We can certainly make that part of the vote," Anders conceded. "We can do anything we want. But before we decide anything, I urge all of you to remember what this is about. This is not about you, and it's not about the man outside our gate. It's about our survival as a race. It's about our world and our way of life—giving it a chance to continue. The way things are right now, I think we can all agree the future looks bleak. This man, John Doe, he doesn't care about us, that's not why he's here. He wants vengeance on the people who did the same thing to his planet. He knows it will keep happening unless he does something about it." Anders pressed his lips together, his eyes grim. "As for me, I believe he is on the right path, and if he will have me I will join him."

"But why us?" someone yelled out from the back. "Why Outpost? Why do we have to be the ones that go with him? There must be other places with people. What about Louisville? We've never went there—there has to be more people there than here!"

Lydia surprised herself when she spoke up. "Don't you think anyone, anywhere else, is going to ask the same question?"

"Someone else will do it," another person yelled out, sounding just as confident as Lydia did. "Someone has to do it. Things like this always get done, eventually. We don't have to if we don't want to."

"Maybe..." Lydia replied. "But what if they don't?"

"I want to know why that silver-eyed freak is still here," Jodi spoke up louder than before. "What about Harold's first question! Manning delivered his message—so why isn't he gone?"

Although her words were directed more at Anders, Jodi was staring right at Lydia as she spoke, a clear challenge in her eyes. Lydia bit her lip, fighting back a desire to cry. She wasn't twenty years old anymore. If Jodi couldn't understand why Lydia couldn't be what she wanted, then so be it. There was nothing she could do about it.

"Manning isn't eligible to go with John Doe and the others," Anders reminded them, the exchange between Lydia and Jodi having gone completely unnoticed. "He doesn't have the right genes. John Doe did something else to him, something... I don't know... less than what he did to the others." He paused before adding, "He's expressed a desire to stay here, to contribute to our community after John Doe and his people are gone."

"So now we have to vote on that too?" Arnold challenged. "What else haven't you told us yet?"

Lydia shook her head. The little bastard was finally making a public play for the Sarge's position. Arnold may not have stated his intentions yet, but it was clear what he was trying to do.

"Look," Anders replied, a note of warning entering his voice. "John Doe can't do this with just a few of us, and not all of us are eligible. To even join his army, your body has to already be made a certain way. A lot of people have to volunteer to make this work, because a lot of them can't be accepted even if they want to go." He scowled down at Arnold. "So yes, Arnold, if we vote to support John Doe, the remaining people will need help after they're gone. Someone like Manning would be a great asset." He frowned down at Arnold, his disappointment unmistakable. "And yes," he said to the room at large, "we can tell John Doe to move on, to find another community and hope that they will agree to help him. But what if they say no? And what if the community after them says no? What if no one agrees to go with him and these invaders come while the whole world sits, hoping 'someone else' will volunteer?"

There was a heavy silence following his words. Anders was right, and they all knew it. It was possible that other, braver people would choose to help John Doe. But maybe not. And if not, there would be no government or military to point the finger of blame at. Outpost would only have itself to blame.

"But what about the ones who can't go?" It was the same person from the back who'd called out last time, Lydia recognized the voice. "If they can't go, that means they're weaker than the ones who can, right? So then what are we left with? John Doe will take all our strongest people and leave the rest to fend for themselves. One bandit strike and we'll all die! Then what? If there's no one left to save, what's the point of going at all?"

"Manning himself told us he doesn't know when the invaders will come," Arnold was practically grinning now, pleased that there were so many people who disagreed with Anders. "For all we know it could be years, decades. What if all that time goes by and they decide never to come at all? What if going with John Doe makes them come?"

With each question, Anders' eyes became a little hollower, a little emptier. Lydia could feel his disappointment from where she stood. The people he had worked so hard to keep safe were now turning their backs on the very foundation of what Outpost stood for: survival. It was a safe haven in a time of absolute crisis. Now, when the stakes were so much higher and it was everyone else's turn to step up, his people were backing away, scared and unwilling to see the bigger picture.

"We aren't ready," Anders finally said, his words as heavy as his expression. "We are divided. Let's take another night to think on it. Tomorrow, first thing, we vote."

He rapped his gavel once and left the judge's bench.

2.

Lois hummed as she swept, moving the broom with quick, sure strokes. Everything was going to be perfect, just perfect. If only she'd been able to find a mop. The concrete floor of Outpost's food stores building was as pockmarked as a teenage boy's cheeks. There was no way she'd get all this dirt up with just a beat-up old broom.

With a last practiced flick, she swiped clean the last section of the wide, open area she'd created. This was where Arnold would stand—right in the exact center. This was where he would be accepted as Outpost's new leader. Everybody knew that's what was going to happen. They just needed to make it official.

Lois turned slowly, nodding as she inspected the circle of empty food crates she'd arranged upside-down on the floor. It was perfect. A perfect circle and the perfect setting for Arnold to deliver his message of hope.

But what if there weren't enough crates? Lois's brow furrowed. What if some people chose to stand instead of sitting on the crates? A mild bout of panic washed over her, her heart skipping a beat. What if people stood on the crates? Arnold was not a tall man. He needed to be seen as strong.

She hurried into the back of the building, searching frantically for something bigger to use for him to stand on. There wasn't much there anymore, she'd already used every empty crate she could find. Shelves lined the walls, shelves that should be filled with food, but were nearly empty. Outpost had always rationed the food carefully, but Lois, like most everyone else, had generally assumed Anders was just being overcautious. When she'd come into the building tonight and seen how bare the shelves really were, it had been a terrible shock.

Arnold couldn't have picked a better time, or a better place, to hold a secret meeting. He'd hardly need to say a word—the empty shelves would do most of the talking for him.

Moving even deeper into the back of the building, Lois nudged the few boxes that were still on the floor with her toe, hoping to find one strong enough for Arnold to stand on.

How much time did she have left? Reflexively, she lifted her arm, but it was too dark to see her watch. Arnold had asked everyone to gather at ten o'clock; it had to be close to that by now. She really needed to hurry. If people came in and only saw things half set up, it would be a poor reflection on Arnold. No sir, she thought to herself. I'm not going to let that happen!

"A secret meeting," she'd overheard someone whisper.

Of course, Arnold hadn't told her about the meeting, but she understood. He was busy. His main concern was, and had to remain, saving Outpost. Certainly, Anders wasn't going to do it, not after what he'd told everyone today. When she'd tried to support him earlier in the courtroom, she'd thought the disgust in Arnold's eyes had been directed at her but of course it hadn't been. Once she'd calmed down, she'd realized his look had been one of disappointment, and that it had been directed at everyone else—not her. He wanted so badly to help his people, to save them, and they just wouldn't listen. Even now, hours later, her heart ached to think about the way he cared so much for everyone else.

Still, she couldn't help wishing he would have recognized how her feelings had been hurt. She'd even waited outside the courthouse, hoping Arnold would come rushing out to reassure her, but even while she waited she'd known she was just being silly. He couldn't be expected to worry about just one person's feelings at a time like this, even if it was her.

Her toe bumped up against a small box, heavy and full. It wasn't very big, but it might work. She lifted the lid and found the inside stuffed with rolls of "I Voted!" stickers.

Lois wanted to laugh. These stickers were relics now, left over from a time when there was a government that upheld laws and customs all fragilely bound by traditions that were followed simply because that was 'how it is.' Laws filled with rules that were easier to just follow than to try and change for the better. They'd lived in a country on autopilot, the vast multitude of its citizens allowing a tiny minority to decide who was most fit to make the most important decisions. Unfortunately, those they entrusted their values to were generally men and women whose only true commitment was to their own agenda and the job they were fighting to retain.

Back then, these stickers had been nothing more than a PR stunt by that minority to get others involved, a little something extra to remind them that they should care about what happened around them.

Now, in Outpost, the vote was the law, and everyone participated. No stickers needed, not anymore, because everyone was immediately and personally affected by every decision. It was just such a shame that it had taken a global catastrophe to achieve the kind of involvement that had been a pipe dream before.

Inspired, Lois impulsively decided the stickers might be better used for Arnold's cause than as a footstool. She lugged them up to the front door and dropped them on the floor, delighted to find a half dozen pallets propped up against the wall just a few feet away.

Perfect, she thought. Just perfect.

She dragged two of the pallets into the center of the circle of crates and stacked them one on top of the other. Sweaty and out of breath, she took a short break. Mopping her head with a forearm, she turned and surveyed her work again. The pallets rested squarely in the center of the circle of crates, each crate spaced at an even interval from the next. Very neat, very tidy—orderly. Her mother would definitely have approved.

Mother.

Lois's satisfaction was slowly replaced by ugly memories, her expression gradually fading into a flat scowl.

Mother would have approved—the bitch.

Lois stalked to the nearest crate and gave it a savage kick, her foot breaking one of its thin wooden panels. With a thin-lipped grin, she lashed out and sent a second crate clattering across the concrete floor.

Now her circle was perfect—a perfect mess, and that was exactly the way it was going to stay.

All her life, Lois had been forced to keep things neat, organized, and perfect. That had been Mother's favorite word: perfect.

Perfect had been the dominant theme of Lois's childhood and teenage years, living with a mother who suffered from acute obsessive-compulsive disorder, her condition so pronounced, so all-consuming, that it had eventually driven Lois' father to abandon them both. Mother had been devastated when he left. Dad had been the only man she'd ever loved, and she swore he was the only man she ever would love. In the wake of his abandonment, she fell into a deep, irreversible depression.

Lois never knew exactly when it began, but Mother began fighting her sadness with food—lots of it. By the time Lois recognized that it was yet another manifestation of Mother's mental illness, it was too late. During the first six months after Lois's father left, Lois's junior year in high school, Mother gained over one hundred pounds. By the time Lois graduated, Mother could no longer walk and had to attend the ceremony in a motorized chair.

Lois had been in the top ten percent of her class. Her aptitude for science had earned her scholarships from nearly every state university, her future practically assured. At the very least, she'd earned a ticket out of her hometown with independence as the ultimate destination.

But she couldn't leave Mother. Lois was old enough by then to understand that Mother would only get worse if she left. Mother would see it as abandonment from the last person on earth who loved her.

Left alone, Mother would almost certainly die.

So Lois put her life on hold and stayed. Mother, now unable to work as a result of her obesity, began collecting disability. Lois also received a small stipend from the government as Mother's designated caregiver, and that was what the two of them lived on.

Mother always promised she'd change, and with Lois's help she would beat her addiction and move on. She would forget Lois's father and find new meaning for her life.

But she never did. Mother only got worse, and finally the day came that she was unable to get out of the bed they'd set up for her in the downstairs living room. And although Mother herself was huge and unkempt, her obsessive-compulsive disorder never waned. From her living room vantage point, she directed Lois with a yardstick, pointing at the items she wanted cleaned, what and how to keep the house spotless, everything in its rightful place, fiercely defending her need—and Lois' obligation—for the house to remain pristine. "Your father might come back!" she would fret. "He can't come home to a pigsty!" Lois, too, bore a significant portion of Mother's scrutiny. Her outfits never matched well enough, her clothes always too wrinkled, her hair mussed...

Months went by, and then the months turned into years. The scholarship opportunities were retracted, and with their finite income, Lois became trapped in the life of Mother's caretaker.

And then the Great Rains fell.

Mother succumbed to Ebola fast. Her already-overwrought body simply had no chance of fighting the disease, and she died less than a week after the rains started.

That day, Lois stood over Mother's corpse filled with a strange mixture of guilt and exultant joy. She was free, finally and truly free to do anything, to be anything. It was over.

But only a month later when the rains finally ceased, Lois had already begun to feel a keen ache, a yearning need to fill the empty space Mother had occupied in her life. Lois had never been alone, never made any decisions for herself. Every decision that had ever affected her had always been made in the interest of helping someone who needed her.

She didn't feel complete without it. She needed someone to need her.

But of course when she emerged from her home, half-starved and nearly mad from sharing space so long with Mother's huge, stinking, rotting corpse, there was no one for her to care for—no one at all. She wandered through the empty, wet streets, her shock fading to numbness as the number of dead bodies she encountered reached well into the hundreds.

Lois would have died quickly on those streets, possibly even taken her own life. She knew that now. But two days after leaving her home, the unmistakable sound of a horn honking—Arnold's horn—reached her ears and she knew her prayers had been answered.

"Lois?"

Arnold stood just inside the front door, confused.

"What is all this?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

Lois's heart began doing backflips. She craned up on her tiptoes and looked past Arnold, into the street outside. Were they really all alone, just the two of them? She felt her cheeks flush.

"Lois?" Arnold prompted impatiently. "I have something important happening here tonight. Whatever this is, I need you to clean it up. Right now."

"I..." Lois was tongue-tied. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. He was supposed to see what she'd done for him and... and...

What? Fall into her arms like a child? How could she be so ridiculous? Of course not! She'd caught him completely unawares. How could he be grateful if he didn't know this was all for him in the first place?

Arnold put his hands on his hips impatiently.

"The... pallets," Lois stammered, pointing over her shoulder. "I stacked them so you could have something to stand on." Arnold's look was so piercing, so direct. Her knees were getting wobbly. "I stacked them right in the center," she finished, adding lamely, "exactly in the center."

Arnold blinked. His expression slowly became softer, more inquisitive. "You did this for me?" he asked.

"And the stickers!" Lois blurted, lurching for the small box on the floor by his feet. She pulled one of the little red, white, and blue ovals off its backing and held it up for Arnold to see. "For the people who come." She stuck it on her, realizing too late that she was putting it right on one of her breasts and now Arnold was staring down at it. She paled and nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to take a step back. She ripped the sticker off her shirt and held it up instead, keeping her eyes down so he wouldn't see her mortification. "So you know who is on your side tomorrow at the vote," she mumbled.

Arnold didn't answer right away. Lois kept her eyes down, embarrassed, knowing Arnold must be looking at her like the slut she'd just made herself out to be. What was she thinking, putting that sticker right on her boob? May as well have just torn her top right off! Hussy. Tramp. That's what Mother would have said.

"Lois."

To her surprise, Arnold's voice didn't sound scornful or disgusted. In fact, he sounded downright kind.

Slowly, hopefully, Lois looked up just as Jack Weingate's coarse voice interrupted the moment.

"Guess this must be the place," Jack said by way of greeting.

Lois nearly shrieked in frustration.

No! She wanted to throw herself at the newcomer and shoo him away, but what would she say? That he was ruining what might have turned into the greatest moment of her life?

Even if she had, it wouldn't have mattered; Arnold had already turned and was shaking Jack's hand.

"Glad you made it," Arnold was saying.

Lois made a face.

"Lois?" Arnold gave her a quick glance. "Maybe Jack would like a sticker?"

Instant gratitude welled up, nearly overpowering her ability to speak. Lois bent down and yanked a strip out of the box, stray stickers fluttering to the floor.

"Jack," she realized she was panting, suddenly out of breath. She pulled a fresh sticker free and moved to place it on Jack's chest, but changed her mind at the last second and instead awkwardly held it out between two fingers.

"Uh, thanks," Jack told her. He pulled it free with an audible snick.

"Just go ahead and get comfortable if you want," Arnold told him. "Have a seat. You're the first one here. We set up crates for everyone to sit on—if you want."

We. Lois beamed. He said "we" set up the crates. Me and him.

The next fifteen minutes were some of the best she'd spent since the Great Rains. No, Lois thought, even before the Great Rains. Long before that. She stood at the door and handed out stickers as people filtered in. Arnold stood right behind her, shaking hands, greeting everyone, asking them to please take a seat.

They were a team, she and Arnold, and a darn good one. Every now and again, Lois could feel him behind her, looking at her, and she absolutely knew he was smiling.

Lois and Arnold... finally. No—Arnold and Lois!

When the last person came through the door, Lois closed it tight so that Arnold could take his place in the center of the circle without interruption. He climbed atop the pallets carefully, missing his footing more than once as his feet slipped between the boards. In the end, he had to settle for a teetering stance with his arms held out for balance.

"Thank you all for coming." he began, trying to ignore the fact that he might fall at any second. "I won't keep you long, I know it's late. And besides, I think you all know why I asked you here."

A few of the people gathered around him nodded grimly, but the rest looked uncomfortable, at best. Some exchanged sheepish glances, while others looked downright angry.

"The Sarge is old," Arnold said bluntly. "When he lost Alice and Donny, he lost focus. We've all seen it. Nothing has been the same since."

Lois' pride for Arnold soared. What a way to begin; direct, to the point. No one could mistake the fact that he was a true leader, unafraid and unapologetic.

Unfortunately, not everyone agreed with her. More than a dozen people silently peeled away from the circle and left.

Arnold watched them go dispassionately, nodding when the door closed behind them. "We all love the Sarge," he told the ones that remained. "But this Manning is bad news. We can't trust him. Anders is putting blind faith in the fact that he saw people he thought were his wife and son, but by his own admission it was late, and very dark when he saw them. It could have been anyone!"

More people turned away, some of them throwing the stickers Lois had given them on the floor. Harold, the head guardsman, was among them. "You should be ashamed," he told Arnold.

Arnold remained impassive, letting them go without any argument. Lois nearly stuck her tongue out at their backs.

"We have to use Manning for collateral," he said to those who remained, his voice now dark and hard. "Either his army leaves us in peace, or we kill him. We tell them that, and we do it if they don't go away! We do it right out where they can see us! And then, we fight! We are the ones behind walls. We are the ones with a stockpile of weapons and five times as many people as them! We can do it!"

Less than half as many people remained as when the meeting had started, but there were still more than fifty of them, more than enough to throw off the Sarge's plans.

"Those of you who are with me, I'll announce our intentions tomorrow," Arnold told them grimly. "I'll expect your support. After that, Anders—and everyone else—will have no choice but to follow."

Lois expected applause or cheering—something. But the group that remained stayed quiet, grim. Was she the only one excited by all this? Most of the people shuffled out nervously, silently. A select few came and spoke quietly to Arnold.

Lois watched him, proud that she had been able to play a part in putting Outpost on the right path. Unobtrusively, so as not to disturb their discussion, she slipped out the door and into the night, but stopped cold when she spotted Anders and Richard across the street, watching as each person exited the building.

Lois met the Sarge's eyes briefly and then looked down at her feet, scurrying away into the night with a tiny smirk.

3.

"Aren't we gonna do something?" Richard asked. "You're not gonna say anything? I mean, shouldn't we at least go in there and let Arnie know we know what the little weasel is up to?"

"No," Anders replied. He stared across the street, his brooding eyes lost in the darkness. "It's not Arnold we need to be concerned with, it's everyone else. If no one gives him any support, he'll be finished before he can begin. A public conflict would only validate his cause. Being here, letting ourselves be seen, is more than enough."

Richard snorted. "If it was up to me, I'd already be in there beating the hell of that little rat-bastard." He shifted from one sore foot to the next.

"Are you so anxious to destroy our community?" Anders asked quietly.

Richard watched as Lois, the pudgy lady from the infirmary, emerged from the building and scurried away. He knew the Sarge was asking a rhetorical question, but the truth was their community was already unraveling. Arnold was in there trying to rally people to go against their leader, and was getting away with it. It wasn't right. He was a little scumbag weasel who'd lived his whole life in the shadow of people greater than him and he'd resented every second of it.

"Sarge, that little punk is in there trying to oust you. He's a conniving, manipulative little shit. That's bad enough in itself, but the thing we should be even more worried about is that he's got 'Little-Man Syndrome.' He thinks he needs to prove that he's better than he is, and that's gonna make him say things and do things that any level-headed person wouldn't do. He's not in this for Outpost—he's in it for himself."

Anders looked genuinely surprised when he turned to face him, possibly even pleased. "You are absolutely correct," he said. "But even so, we will deal with Arnold in the morning."

"Sarge—"

"Let the people decide," Anders interrupted, a hint of irritation finally entering his voice. "If they're even half as intuitive as you, they'll see Arnold for what he is."

Richard blew out a frustrated breath. He felt like the Sarge was patronizing him, and he didn't like it. The world had already gone to hell on him once. Now it looked like it was going to happen all over again, except this time it was completely avoidable.

In the past forty-eight hours, Richard had considered packing up his meager belongings and quietly slipping out the back gate more than once. If John Doe was really only interested in those with a particular set of genes, then Richard must not have what he was looking for. If he did, Grant wouldn't have been the only one snatched up on their wild flight back to Outpost's gate. Manning claimed that John Doe didn't want to hurt anyone, that his only purpose was to save the world, so even if Richard got caught trying to leave, John Doe's army would probably just let him go. If not... well, at this point what would it really be that different from their current predicament? Outpost was getting more dangerous by the second.

"Come on," Anders said abruptly. "Let's go talk to Manning."

Richard stayed where he was, weighing his options. Anders slipped off into the darkness, never once looking back to see if Richard followed. Maybe he even knew what Richard was thinking and was giving him his chance.

He should go. Right now. This was the time, that pivotal moment when Richard could take his life into his own hands and never again have to concern himself with anyone else. He'd been a scav for so long, he would have no trouble providing for himself. Hell, doing it for just himself would be like a vacation compared to the last three years.

Muffled laughter came from inside the food stores building—Arnold and his new gang of troublemakers.

Was he really considering abandoning his town and letting Arnold Dorchman have it?

With an irritated growl, Richard lumbered into motion. "Wait up," he grumbled, knowing Anders couldn't hear him.

He caught up with the Sarge in the courthouse basement, right outside the jailor's office. Inside, they found Manning waiting on the narrow jail cell bench in his usual pose; relaxed, confident, possibly a little bored.

The guard on post jumped out of his chair, startled by their unexpected arrival. "Sir..." he stammered in greeting.

"You can go home, John," Anders told him.

Clearly relieved, John left in a hurry.

Anders rolled the chair out into the middle of the floor facing the cell. With no other chairs in the room, Richard hoisted his rump up onto the desk with his shotgun across his lap.

Manning remained motionless, staring at the wall on the far side of the cell.

"I need you to help me understand," Anders told him, settling into the chair, elbows on his knees. "Why aren't you trying harder to convince my people? Your story is extraordinary, unbelievable to most. If it is true," he leaned forward, "and I believe it is, which makes the stakes as high as they could possibly be. This is your planet, too, Manning. Why aren't you doing more to make us believe you?"

Manning stood but he didn't approach the bars, only turned so that he was looking Anders.

"I do care," Manning replied, his tone earnest. "I care about all of it. I especially care about the people out there with John Doe. I know them all now, intimately. They're in my head, and I'm in theirs. The bond that we've forged—it's indescribable."

"But everything you've said so far, the way you've presented your case," Anders objected. "You're so casual, like you're just relaying a story, like it's something that's already happened instead of telling it like it's something that's happening right now. There's no urgency in your words. You haven't helped your cause at all."

"What he's saying," Richard interrupted, "is that unless you're a complete imbecile, you have to be aware that not a single person believes a word you're saying because everything you're telling them is straight outta the Crazyville Chronicles—and you haven't done much to make them think otherwise. It makes your story stink of bullshit. You need to do something. You need to figure this out. You came to us. Make us believe you!"

Anders put two fingers to the bridge of his nose and pinched. Richard knew he'd spoken more bluntly than Anders would like, but the time for being polite was long past. Their whole community was completely turned on its head.

"I am well aware of the way your people have reacted," Manning replied blandly.

"So... do something!" Richard gaped at him.

"And what would you have me do?" Manning asked. His tone was mild, calm, and irritating as hell to Richard. "I can't force your people to see what is right in front of them, and I wouldn't even if I could. You think I don't know that I've come here and asked them to make an impossible choice? If they're chosen by John Doe, they will be giving up everything they know to fight an enemy greater than they are. Many of them, possibly all of them, will die. I cannot, I will not, convince them to make that sacrifice. Even if John Doe forbid me to do it, I still wouldn't. Your people have to make this choice on their own."

"They're not afraid to make a sacrifice," Richard replied hotly. "None of us are. What do you think we've been doing since the Great Rains? You don't get it—they think you're a liar. They think you just want Outpost for yourself."

"But I am telling the truth," Manning objected calmly. "And that's the problem. I don't know any other way to approach your people except with the truth. It should be plain to see. After all, it's staring them in the face when they look over your gate."

"So prove it! Show them something—"

"It doesn't matter," Anders interrupted tiredly, his eyes still pinched closed. "In the end, it won't matter. Even after they realize you're telling the truth, even after you're gone, it won't end there. This choice has brought out the best and worst in our people. Those who would rally to help you, those we might consider selfless today, will hold the decisions of their neighbors against them tomorrow. No matter whether they believe you, no matter if they choose to support John Doe, Outpost will remain divided after you're gone."

Richard lowered his head, letting his shoulders slump. He hadn't thought that far ahead. Anders was right. In his mind, once this vote was finally cast, that would be the end of it. The community would make their decision and abide by it, the same way they'd done since Outpost began.

But that wasn't true. Things were already too far out of control. It wasn't just Arnold. Others had rallied to him, and they could never take that back. They would never choose to support John Doe because they didn't want the burden that his cause represented. And for those who did want to go, they would forever see those who didn't as selfish cowards.

The idea of leaving Outpost once again rose in Richard's mind, sounding even better than it had the last time. He could leave tonight. He could go anywhere.

"I am truly sorry," Manning told them. "I told you when I first got here; I'm just a really unlucky guy—a victim of circumstance. You seem like good people, and I don't take any pleasure in being the one who brought this decision to you. That's the reason why I'd prefer to stay in Outpost once John Doe has gone. If your people make the decision to support him, that is. I want to help undo the damage I've caused."

"If that is even possible..." Anders mumbled, more to himself than to either of them.

They lapsed into a contemplative silence that lasted the remainder of the night. Anders never made any move to get up from his chair, and although Richard knew he could leave at any time—and probably should—he stayed.

Hours later, the sound of the key in the jail cell lock pulled Richard from a dead sleep. Stiff, sore, and irritable, he slid off the desk onto numb feet, feeling even more tired than when he'd fallen asleep with his chin on his chest.

"You can come out now," Anders told Manning.

"What time is it?" Richard stretched, his back cracking in countermelody to his gravelly voice.

"Time to go," Anders replied. "Time to vote."

They were a quiet, somber group as they climbed the steps to the main level of the courthouse, Richard berating himself the whole way for still being in Outpost at all. Foolish, just foolish. He had allowed sentimentality for a town override common sense. And really—Outpost wasn't even a town. Perhaps it was the only habitable part of Elizabethtown that was left, but that didn't mean Richard should still think of it as his hometown. It was a jumble of buildings with a wall around it, nothing more. He needed to get that through his head.

The three of them paused outside the courtroom door. It was eerily quiet in the hallway, so much so that Richard stepped up to the door and turned his head sideways to listen.

"Are you sure this is the right time?" he asked. "I don't think anyone is in there."

"They're in there," Anders replied knowingly. He took a deep breath. "Open it."

Richard turned the door handle, but as soon as it moved, the door was yanked inward.

"Where have you been?" Lydia hissed at them.

Richard blinked, not knowing how to answer. Lydia made a sound somewhere between a snort and a growl and turned to Anders.

"It's bad," she told him. "The community has never been more divided and that little fucker Arnold is doing everything he can to keep it that way." Her jaw clenched as she continued her update. "He's not going to stop, Bill. He wants you gone. Passive-aggressive may have been his style before, but not anymore. The gloves are off, way off."

Past Lydia, Richard spotted Arnold at the other end of the riser. Even from a distance, Richard couldn't have missed the weasely gleam in his eyes. Arnold really thought he had a chance at leading Outpost, believed that people would actually follow him—the little twit's arrogance never ceased to amaze.

Richard tightened his grip on his shotgun and gave Anders a hard look. All the Sarge had to do is say the word.

On the courthouse floor, two very clear groups had assembled, a wide aisle dividing them. Arnold stood arrogantly in front of the far group, arms folded across his chest, his foot fidgeting as if he were fighting the urge to give in to his excitement.

"I can have him gone in less than a minute," Richard offered.

"Richard!" Lydia gasped, sounding appalled. But then she paused, raising her eyebrows at Anders.

"No," Anders answered. "You'd just be giving people a reason to believe he was right."

Grumbling under his breath, Richard led Manning out onto the center of the riser.

"Nice of you to show up," Arnold greeted them sarcastically.

Richard did a double take. Did that little shit just say that? Even Anders looked surprised.

"You little punk!" Richard shot back. "Show some respect, Arnie!"

"That's enough," Anders put a hand on Richard's shoulder. He moved to the center of the riser and faced the people. "We all know why we're here."

"Yeah, we do," Arnold answered, his tone aggressive and rude. "We're here so you can turn that freak over to us." He kept one hand on his holstered pistol, and used the other to point at Manning. "One way or another, he's not staying in Outpost another day. We're giving his friends a choice: they can take him and leave us alone, or they can all die. Him first."

Richard wanted to laugh. Who did Arnold think he was? Wyatt Earp? No one in Outpost—no one—had ever taken him seriously, and now all of a sudden he believed he could take on an army of super-humans?

But then, the room was clearly divided. No one had spoken in support of Arnold, not yet, but they hadn't said anything against him either. Were people really ready to follow him? How? Why? He was an imbecile!

"We vote," Anders replied stubbornly. "As we always have. And we uphold our decision, together."

"We already voted, Bill," Arnold answered. He plucked at his shirt proudly, at a tiny oval sticker on his chest. "We voted last night."

Down in the crowd, Richard saw that at least half of the people standing on Arnold's side had the same stickers on their shirts. A few of them self-consciously covered them with a hand.

But Anders had seen them, and his disappointment was unmistakable. He sighed. "This is not the way Outpost runs." He suddenly sounded tired, like he wasn't really in the argument.

No. Richard wasn't going to let the Sarge give up. No way.

"We vote!" Richard shouted, stepping up to edge of the riser, and his cry was taken up by people on his side of the room.

"Yes! We vote!"

"We always vote!"

"You don't speak for us, Arnold!" someone shouted from the crowd.

"This is a community!" someone else shouted angrily.

Finally, Richard thought. Finally some guts from people other than himself.

"And you think he speaks for you?" Arnold shouted back, pointing at Anders. "He's going to get us all killed!"

"He is our leader!"

Richard took an aggressive step toward him and Arnold flinched, but it only made Arnold angrier.

"Then I call for a different vote—I say we vote for a new leader!" Arnold turned desperately toward the people standing on his side of the room, his hands held out to the side. "Who's with me?"

Down in the main section of the courtroom, people were beginning to talk. It was just a low rumble right now, but it was gaining in volume.

"Now is not the time!" Lydia shouted. "Have you forgotten the army waiting outside our gate? We address that first, we survive! Then we can decide if we need to change leaders!"

"That army is exactly why we need a change!" Arnold shouted back.

A few shouts of "Yes!" came from Arnold's side of the room, and the volume grew as people began hurling arguments and insults at each other.

"Don't we have a say?"

"We all have a say!"

Anders lifted his arms above his head. "People!" he shouted, but it was getting too loud, too fast. "People!" he shouted again.

And then someone on Anders' side of the room, someone way in the back, threw a chair. It arced overhead, sailing nearly half the length of the room before slamming into someone on Arnold's side of the room. The explosive crash knocked Bobby Olson, the youngest resident of Outpost, to the floor along with three others.

It was like a pin had been pulled from a grenade.

The people on Arnold's side of the room surged toward the others in a mass, bellowing out their anger. The other side of the room surged right back at them, roaring in defiance—

BOOM!

The courthouse was suddenly silent. Stray splinters of wood and plaster rained down from the ceiling as a trail of smoke curled up from the barrel of Richard's shotgun. He stepped up to the edge of the riser and racked another round into the chamber.

"Out!" Arnold's sharp voice cut through the silence. He pointed frantically toward the big double doors. "Everyone out! He's crazy! He'll shoot us all!" He hopped down from the riser and pushed through the crowd. "Follow me! Come on! Follow me!" he yelled over and over. "To the food stores!"

Of the hundred-plus people that were in the room, only about thirty made any move to join him, but Richard knew it was enough for Arnold to continue his fight.

This wasn't what was supposed to happen. He'd only wanted to make everyone stop fighting. Richard looked desperately back at Anders, but the Sarge had his eyes locked on the double doors, watching as his community splintered, a dozen people at a time.

"Lydia," Richard appealed, but she wasn't listening either. She was staring down at a young woman, her eyes wide and her mouth open. The young woman—Jane, wasn't it? Richard couldn't remember—had one hand outstretched, a clear invitation for Lydia to join her, but Lydia shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks, and the young woman turned away, the last one out the courthouse doors.

The last one to join Arnold's rebellion.

4.

Dull, predawn light filtered in through worn wooden shutters, bathing the interior of the courthouse in muted half-shadows. It was very early, the sun still just a faint glow beneath the horizon, the prelude to the inevitability of another scorching day.

It wouldn't be long before the sun was up, and then what?

Anders looked across a floor littered with the huddled shapes of sleeping people. It would get hot in here quickly, especially with all the doors and windows shut tight. No one, himself included, would be able to spend much time in the humid, stuffy air that so many people trapped in a closed room would create, not with their nerves already stretched razor-thin.

It had been a long, uncertain night.

In the wake of Richard's impulsive shotgun blast, Anders had spent the next four hours assuring everyone who hadn't fled that he would find a way to make peace. He'd then fielded a barrage of questions, all of which were nearly impossible to answer because Arnold and his group were so much of a wild card now. Never, ever, would Anders have believed Arnold would take things so far.

Some of the talk had grown ugly, specifically in regard to Arnold and Manning.

Richard and many others wanted to see Arnold exiled. In light of all that Arnold had done it was hard for Anders to argue against it, but he hated to think of anyone being forced to survive alone, not if there was some other alternative. For someone like Arnold, it would be a death sentence.

Another group flat-out agreed with Arnold's solution: use Manning as collateral to make the army of drifters leave. Anders knew it was only out of respect for him and their general dislike of Arnold that they remained in the courthouse.

All through the morning and into the early afternoon, he continued to argue for the bigger picture, encouraging everyone to do the right thing. They had to think about the future, not just what was right in front of them. Yes, it was frightening to consider the possibility of joining John Doe. No one wanted to go to war, and certainly no one wanted to volunteer to get bitten in the throat. But what would happen if they did nothing? Their inaction could mean the end of the human race.

Anders kept thinking about Donny—about what his future would have been if John Doe had never come. The truth was, there would have been no future. Even if an alien invasion never happened, what about food? Nothing had been grown since the Great Rains. Nothing could grow. Humanity wouldn't last much longer unless a way was found. Soon, there would be nothing left to scavenge and when that happened it would be the end, period.

If not for the future of the human race, Anders had argued, do it for those you'll be leaving behind. Do it to save the person standing next to you.

But fear and mistrust had won out. In the end, no one seemed particularly optimistic about their choices and a huge divide still existed. Anders' only consolation was that people were at least talking, trying to find a solution they all could live with—the way Outpost was supposed to work.

Promising that they would reconvene in the morning and this time they would vote come hell or high water, Anders had finally declared the meeting adjourned.

His intention had been to find Arnold, speak with him one-on-one and force him to see reason. Somehow Arnold's view had become so distorted that he believed they were enemies. Anders had to find a way to change Arnold's mind. He'd watched as his people had headed for the exit, all of them whispering quietly with one another.

Things were bad. It was nearly inconceivable how much had changed in the space of just a few short days. But then—maybe things hadn't changed. Maybe this situation had been simmering for a long time, just waiting for a catalyst to bring it forward. Certainly, Arnold's distorted view hadn't evolved that quickly.

His wife and son were out there. He needed to get to them, but there was no way he could leave Outpost in such a mess. Alice would never forgive him. She had loved this place as much as he did, maybe more. No, he had to make things right inside these walls first, and then he could go to them.

Anders was prepared to do what he had to in order to bring the people of Outpost back together, and he would, but nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.

The front door had only been open a moment before a deafeningly loud shotgun blast blew out a huge chunk around the door handle. In the hysteria that followed, Anders leapt down from the riser and shouted for everyone to get down, but the truth was he just as dumbfounded as everyone else and had no idea what to do.

Were they under attack? By whom? Arnold?

Anders took quick stock of the people in the room. No one had been shot, no one had even been hurt. Amid the shrieks and general chaos, the hundred-plus people had ducked and scuttled for the closest wall.

"Give us the drifter!" Arnold's slight lisp had carried clearly through the still-open door, arrogant and full of bluster.

Angry now, Anders made a move toward the door, but Harold had yanked him back.

"No!" the guard captain had hissed. "I'll go."

Before Anders could argue, Richard scuttled forward and hissed, "Go!" to Harold.

Harold hadn't hesitated. His back to the wall, he'd inched forward until he could crane his head around one of the front windows.

"Sweet Jesus!" he'd gasped, squinting through the dirty glass pane. "They built a barricade, Sarge! A pretty damn big one. How did we not hear that! Bunch of scrap wood and metal. It's propped up maybe a couple dozen feet from the base of the front steps, right out in the center of the street." He looked back over his shoulder. "Looks like every person who followed him earlier is behind that barricade—and they got guns. I can see their barrels plain as day."

Arnold certainly hadn't wasted any time. To think he'd organized so many people so quickly sobered Anders's opinion of him instantly. The worst thing he'd figured Arnold would do is hold another meeting, maybe give out some more stickers. But this...

This was civil rebellion. A siege within their siege.

Richard had half-crawled, half-rolled to a window and peeked out. "Son of a..." he muttered. His gravelly tone carried clearly throughout the silent room. He thumbed two more shells into his shotgun. "What an idiot. He's standing there, right out in the open. I swear to God, Sarge, just give me a thumbs-up. Just a nod, that's all I need."

"Richard!" Lydia whispered, appalled.

"Everyone stay low," Anders had ignored Richard, hoping it was just his typical bluster. "Keep your heads down. I don't think Arnold really wants to hurt anyone, but let's not take the chance."

"Send him out!" Arnold shouted shrilly. "No one leaves until you hand him over!"

"Are you kidding me?" Richard had demanded angrily.

Anders met Richard's eyes briefly, fighting back a surge of anger. Did he really think it would be okay to fire on his own people? And what if he missed? What if Arnold wasn't just bluffing? All-out war in the streets? All that would do is make it even harder for Anders to get to his family. No—he wouldn't take that chance.

"Bullshit," Richard growled. He racked a round into the chamber and took a knee at the window closest to the front door.

"That's not the way, Richard," Anders had warned tersely. "That can only end badly."

"You can't be serious!" Richard objected. "We're talking about Arnold! The little bastard probably doesn't even know how to load that pistol he's been carrying around!"

But Anders knew better. Arnold had a mean streak. A hidden, buried rage he'd tucked deep inside. Anders had seen it on more than one occasion, times when Arnold would let his façade slip. Arnold's almost comical physical appearance, the fact that most folks dismissed him like an annoying little brother—all of it contributed to a self-loathing that fed a simmering anger, one that had been building for a very long time. Longer, even, than Outpost.

"Arnold!" Anders had shouted. "This is ridiculous! We don't have to do this. Let's figure this out. Come inside and we'll talk. Just me and you. We'll sit down and make a decision we both can live with."

"Don't patronize me!" Arnold's reply was immediate. Anders could practically hear the spit flying from his lips. "You're done making decisions! I want the drifter!" After a slight pause, he amended, "We want the drifter! Right now!"

Manning was still on the riser, standing where Richard had led him. He stared back calmly, his look strangely trusting. Anders nearly went to him, but what was there to say? Even if Manning wanted to go out there, Anders wouldn't allow it.

"Arnold!" Anders moved toward a window. "Let everyone else leave. You're scaring them. This disagreement is between you and me. We can figure this out."

"My disagreement is with anyone who lets that freak stay another second in Outpost!"

With a decisive kick, Harold slammed the front door closed with a heavy, booted foot. Several of his guards jumped up and slapped the inside window shutters closed.

"I've heard enough," Harold growled. "Richard is right. Arnold needs to go away, one way or the other."

Anders wiped a tired hand across his eyes. So that's it. All that he'd believed Outpost to be—had it been nothing more than a fantasy? Was Outpost just a temporary home for people who had no other place to go? He'd believed they were a community—more than that, in fact. He'd believed they'd formed a family.

No. Anders had set his jaw, resolute. He still believed it. And you don't turn your back on family, even when they've done things to hurt you.

A soft hand was placed on his elbow, and Anders turned, startled, to stare directly into Manning's strange silver gaze.

"In the darkest of times," Manning told him, "that is when truly good men shine and show the way for others."

Anders drew back, surprised. "Uh. That is kind of you to say," he replied. "But I'm not that man, not anymore. I was a good man, back before my family was taken. Now I'm just as lost and broken as anyone else."

"It wasn't me who said it," Manning had told him candidly. "I was only repeating what John Doe asked me to." Manning took a small step closer. "He believes in you, Bill."

Anders squinted. John Doe may believe in me, he thought. But I don't.

A muffled thump against the front door drew his attention away.

"I think Arnold's trying to get your attention again," Harold had reported drily, flinching when something hard banged against the window near his face.

"Take Manning back downstairs," Anders told Harold. "Just in case Arnold finds a way in. And set two of your men at the rear exit."

Harold had responded with a quick nod, but not before giving him a flat look. Anders knew what it meant—Harold couldn't care less if anything happened to Manning.

"You think that's wise?" Richard had lumbered up next to him. "Harold doesn't trust Manning. He said so himself."

Instead of answering, Anders drug a chair over to the window where Harold had been. He sunk down into it, staring out at the people he'd thought were his friends, his family. The same people who were now aiming guns at him.

He was still slumped in the same chair when the sun's first rays pierced the slats of the window shutters.

Sometime during the night, Richard and Lydia had pulled up chairs of their own and were slumped on either side, their heads lolled to one side as they slept on.

It would be hot soon, very hot. It wouldn't take long for the courthouse to become like an oven.

Richard coughed in his sleep and shifted, his stomach rumbling loudly.

Food.

There were too many of them trapped in here, and no food at all. Every scrap, every morsel, was kept in the food stores building for the safety of the community. They wouldn't even make it through today without somebody trying to abandon the building. No matter how good his people's intentions might be, when it came down to starving or giving up Manning, they'd give up Manning without a second thought. And who could blame them?

Anders stared out past the barricades, toward the front gate. Alice and Donny were out there, waiting for him. What a strange feeling it was to know they were so close, but not be able to go to them, especially after believing for so long they had been killed.

What would they be like? Could their family be reunited, or were they so different now that they would be strangers?

It didn't matter. They were out there, that's what mattered, and one way or another he was going to get to them.

"What are you thinking about?" Lydia's tired voice broke Anders from his reverie, and he looked over at her guiltily. "Alice," she realized. She reached out and squeezed his arm tenderly. "Are you sure it was them you saw?"

"I'm sure," Anders replied instantly. He looked in her eyes, waiting for her to dispute him, expecting it. Instead, she turned her eyes out the window and they lapsed back into silence.

That wasn't like her. Normally he couldn't get Lydia to stop talking. She was always there, always ready to support him. She'd been his rock ever since Alice and Donny had been taken, helping him through the toughest decisions when he couldn't his own clarity or focus.

She'd been silent for nearly the entire day yesterday too, Anders realized. Ever since her girlfriend had left with Arnold.

Jodi.

He knew Lydia thought the relationship was a secret, but Anders had known about it for a long time. He'd never pressed; it was her business, after all. If she'd wanted to share it with him, she would have. In the meantime, he'd always been glad that she had found someone who made her happy, even if she felt embarrassed at who it was.

But now it looked like their relationship was another casualty of John Doe's arrival at Outpost.

Anders closed his eyes and bowed his head. Why was he here? Why was he right here, right now, still waiting inside this courthouse? What was the point? The people waiting here with him wouldn't last. The truth was they were waiting for him to do something, but he didn't have any answers that didn't involve getting them hurt or killed.

Arnold's solution might very well be the best one they had. Maybe this John Doe person was a liar. Maybe Manning was exactly what Arnold thought him to be: a decoy to lull Outpost into believing John Doe's story so he could take over the city and all its people without ever having to lift a hand.

But that didn't make sense. John Doe and his army were strong. There were a lot of them. Manning himself had taken three bullets, and he claimed to be weaker than all the others. If John Doe wanted Outpost, wouldn't he have simply come in and taken it?

All Anders cared about was his family. Now that he knew they were alive, he wanted to be with them. What had started as elation was now turning into a poignant ache. He needed to be with them. What kind of husband and father put other people's needs over his own wife and son?

Let Arnold have the rest. Let the people decide. If Arnold's way was what they wanted to do, if they elected Arnold to take his place, so be it. He would leave. Gladly.

Anders stretched out his leg and nudged Richard with his foot. "Bring me the drifter," he told him.

Richard lurched awake with a snort. He blinked and scratched the thick stubble on his neck. "Don't you mean Manning?" he grunted sarcastically.

"No, I mean the drifter."

5.

"We're coming out!" Anders called out. "We want to talk!"

Richard ground his teeth, hating that Anders was bargaining with Arnold at all. Just knowing he was feeding the little bastard's ego infuriated him. But so what? It didn't matter what Anders said today. The first chance he got, Richard was going to make sure Arnold never made problems for Outpost again.

What scared him the most was how weird the Sarge was acting. Richard had never seen him this way. It was like he was distracted, like he wasn't really connected to what was happening around him. What the hell else could possibly take precedence over the situation they were in right now? Even Lydia had noticed it. She'd pulled Richard aside late that night and asked him not to leave Anders' side. He needed them, she said.

He needed them? They needed him!

"There is nothing to talk about!" Arnold's high-pitched lisp only heightened Richard's irritation. "Give us the drifter!"

"Arnold, dammit!" Richard interrupted. He couldn't help it. Anders had warned him to be civil, but Arnold was a jackass. He didn't deserve civility. "We're coming out! Don't do anything stupid!" Like taking a shot at us, he thought silently.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Arnold?" Lydia yelled. She was right by his shoulder, standing protectively beside Anders. "Put the guns down!"

"Wait here, Sarge," Richard warned. "Let me go out first."

But he only had the door open a crack when a young, female voice cried out, "Lydia?!"

Lydia went rigid, both hands coming up to cover a sharp intake of breath.

"Who...?" Richard asked.

Lydia only shook her head, eyes wide and scared.

Harold shrugged, clearly just as confused.

When Lydia maintained her silence, Richard growled, "Stay put," and let himself out onto the front steps.

A girl with spiked, black hair popped up from behind the barricade, her eyes wide and hopeful. Richard squinted. She was the one who'd called out for Lydia? Who was she? He couldn't remember. Jane? Jennifer? He'd never paid her much attention. Hands were reaching up from behind the barricade, trying to pull her down out of sight, but she angrily pushed them away.

"Jodi, stay where you are!" Lydia had moved to the door and peeked her head around it.

"I'm sorry!" Jodi called back. "I'm so sorry! Please believe me!"

"It's okay, honey!" Lydia's voice cracked.

Richard glared back inside at her. Was she crying? What the hell was going on? He looked back and forth between Lydia and Jodi, and finally it clicked.

"Are you kidding me?" he blurted out. "You two think you need to do this now?"

But he may as well not have even spoken.

"I was scared," Lydia stepped out from the behind the door, timidly at first, but then she squared her shoulders and stood up straight. "I thought everyone would hate me. I always said I was protecting Outpost, but I was just protecting myself. I shouldn't have done that to you. You deserve better!"

"Just hearing you say that," Jodi called out, "just knowing you care—"

"You have got to be shitting me!" Richard exploded. "Get her back inside!" he shouted at Harold.

"Shut her up!" Arnold snapped at nearly the exact same moment. Two of his men forcefully pulled Jodi down behind the barricade.

Anders stepped out onto the steps and put a hand on Lydia's shoulder. He leaned in close and said something quiet in her ear.

Lydia looked past him, into the courthouse where Manning stood framed in the doorway. Her eyes grew wide. "No!" she told Anders. "Why would you even consider that?"

"You're going to give him to Arnold?" Richard asked, appalled. "You're not serious!" When he only got a flat stare in reply, he stepped up, only inches from Anders's face. "You are not going to do this," he hissed. "This is our home. You are not going to give it to him."

"Richard, there is no other way," Anders took him by the shoulders. "We just don't have time. There is an army waiting at our gate. We haven't sent out scav teams in days. If we don't do something quick everyone will starve no matter whose side they're on, and we can't do anything about them if we're fighting amongst ourselves."

"Arnold is nothing!" Richard shouted. "He's nobody—and everyone knows it!"

"Richard, it's not about him or me. It's about them." Anders pointed out at the flimsy barricades and the people who were crouched behind them.

Most of them, Richard had thought were his friends until yesterday. Through the courthouse windows, Richard saw faces pressed up against the glass. He knew they could hear every word.

"This is a bad idea," Richard fumed. He turned to Anders, feeling somewhat defeated.

Anders put a hand on his shoulder and nodded.

"I have to do this," Anders told him, but it was Manning who replied from just inside the door.

"I trust you," Manning said.

"Sarge—" Richard tried one last time. "We could save them. If it's about them, if it's really about them, let's really save them. All of them. Even that little fucker Arnold."

Anders's only reply was a thin-lipped smile a quick squeeze on Richard's shoulder.

What was that supposed to mean?

Anders turned away, ducking his head around the door to ask Harold to join them.

Inside, Manning stared back at Richard expressionlessly.

"What are you looking at, freak?" Richard put his back to him, uncomfortable, turning away under the pretense of keeping an eye on Arnold and his ragtag bunch.

Harold emerged from the courthouse and he and Richard took up a position together at the front of the courthouse steps.

"Barrels up," Harold ordered. He lifted his shotgun, pointing it into the sky. Richard reluctantly followed suit.

"You sure this is the best idea?" Richard asked tersely. "I don't see anyone behind the barricade putting their guns away."

"My boys inside are ready," Harold answered. He turned his head and called out, "If Arnold so much as farts—kill him."

Inside, Richard heard the unmistakable sound of weapons being cocked in reply.

"That's far enough!" Arnold yelled to them. "Send the drifter out, the rest of you stay where you are!"

"You think we're stupid?" Richard yelled back. "Not until your people all stand up and put their guns down!"

"Give us the freak!" Arnold yelled back. "This isn't a discussion!"

"Arnie!" Richard yelled. "Get your head out of your ass!"

"Enough!" Anders stepped forward, his hands up. "Arnold, we'll do it your way."

"What!?" Richard sputtered.

"If this is what Outpost wants," Anders answered, his voice loud and steady. "Then let us decide here and now. I will abide by a majority vote."

"Bill, no!" Lydia stepped out of the courthouse, eyes wide. "You can't do this!"

"Lydia!" Jodi came sprinting out from behind the barricade, a gun in her hand.

"Jodi, no, get back!" Lydia lurched into motion, but it was already too late.

A shotgun blast sounded from inside the courthouse, followed by the crash of a shattered window.

As if she'd run into a brick wall, Jodi stopped midstride. She stumbled, catching herself with one foot.

"No!" Lydia wailed. She leapt forward, but Anders had already wrapped an arm around her waist and was pulling her back. He lifted her off her feet, dragging her back as she struggled to get free of his grip.

Down on the cobblestone street, a street that used to be the center of a quiet, peaceful, southern town in central Kentucky, Jodi's shirt blossomed red, the stain spreading slowly at first and then faster and faster as her life's blood pumped from her chest. Jodi tried to take another step, but it was too much. Her body gave out. She fell to her knees, the sound of cartilage cracking on stone clearly audible even from the top of the steps.

Into the stunned silence, Lydia screamed in inhuman rage. Richard spun just in time to see her wrench Anders's gun from the holster on his hip. She was already firing before he had a chance to dive to the side.

Richard landed in a jumble, frantically feeling all over his body for bullet holes, but he was okay. Lydia hadn't hit him.

But Arnold's people were now firing back, and Harold's people were firing back at them—and Richard was dead smack in the center of the crossfire.

"Get her inside!" he yelled at Anders. "Both of you get inside! Now!"

Harold was on the ground just a few feet away, shooting back, not really aiming at anyone, doing everything he could to keep them from having a chance to aim at him.

Anders was wrestling with Lydia and had finally gotten his gun back. He wrapped her in his arms and turned, shielding her with his back as he wrestled her toward the door, but she was struggling so hard they fell.

"Help them!" Harold hollered at Richard. "Help him get her inside."

"What about—"

"I'm right behind you! Just go!"

Guns were still going off on both sides. Richard didn't want to get up, but he couldn't stay where he was and Anders and Lydia were sitting ducks. He scrambled over to them. He couldn't see Anders's face, but he could see Lydia's. She was sobbing uncontrollably, irrational, pinned down on her back by Anders.

"Lydia, I know you're upset but you have to get up!" Richard yelled. "You have to get inside!"

"I..." Lydia choked out. "I can't!"

"You have to! I'm sorry, but Jodi is gone! There is nothing you can do, not right now!"

"I can't!" Lydia wailed. "He's not moving! Richard, he's not moving!"

A cold chill ran down Richard's spine.

Surely Lydia had meant to say she. He grabbed Anders's arm and pulled, but the Sarge didn't budge.

"Come on, Sarge, let's get her inside." He yanked again, but the Sarge just laid there, dead weight.

Richard swallowed back the dryness in his throat.

"Sarge?" He grabbed Anders' shoulder and pulled, but his hand slipped. He lost his center of balance and sprawled backward, landing on his butt.

Guns continued to fire, Harold continued to yell for them to get their asses inside, and Lydia continued to wail.

But Richard didn't hear any of it.

He held up his hand, now coated with the Sarge's thick, red blood.
PART V

SACRIFICE
1.

Arnold had fantasized for years about the day he finally took control of Outpost, and it sure as heck had never been as complicated as this. In those fantasies, his rise to power was always met with grateful relief accompanied by cheering, a parade around the courthouse square, and congratulatory thumps on the back as he climbed the steps to give his acceptance speech. Never in his wildest imaginings would he have believed he would have to fight so hard to be given what should already have been his.

Alone now, pacing near the front gate after having fled the condemnation of all those still crouched behind the barricade, he pounded his fist against his thigh with every step, cursing under his breath.

If everyone had just followed him, just listened to him at his secret meeting.

Almost every person in the community had been there, so it wasn't like they hadn't been given a chance to hear his plan. All they had to do was listen and follow his lead. He would have taken care of the rest. If only they'd just done that, he'd have made sure they all were taken care of, protected. Well, except Richard and Lydia, of course. Those two would never be included in anything again, not if he had his way.

As for the people who'd decided not to come to the food stores that night—and especially those who had come but hadn't been willing to listen—the blame for Anders' death lay squarely on their shoulders, not his. And now, because of the way things had happened, because of what other people had done, it all looked like Arnold's fault.

He sullenly kicked at a loose chunk of gravel, sending a volley of pebbles clattering across the pock-marked, dirt-covered pavement.

Why couldn't everyone see that he would be a better leader than Anders had ever been? It was plain as day, and had been for a long time. Sure, Anders might have accomplished great things right after the Great Rains. He'd saved so many people, brought them together, taught them how to survive. He'd kept them safe when they might otherwise have died, no one could dispute it.

But Anders had been fading for years, slowly losing any true vision for Outpost's future. Even before his wife and son were taken, it was clear the old man was giving up hope. The tasks everyone had been doing for so long: clearing the roads, tearing down buildings, scavenging food—it was the work of a community on autopilot, a daily grind with no promise for the future. Literally, a dead end job. Times were changing, and Outpost needed to change with them. They needed to improvise, overcome, adapt. Anders' big plan had been to just move to a new city, start over. How stupid was that? What would they do when they ran out of places to scavenge food at the new place? Because they would. Just keep moving all the time, over and over?

Arnold sneered. Survival of the fittest, that's what it came down to. The strongest would survive and the rest would fall, as nature intended. If some of those who fell were neighbors or friends, well, so be it. More for the rest.

He'd waited too long, that was the real issue. Arnold was sure that if he'd made his bid for control before Manning or John Doe had ever arrived it would have been a smooth, peaceful transition.

But he hadn't. He'd remained in the Sarge's shadow partly out of gratitude—the old man had saved his life, after all—but mostly it had been out of respect for Alice.

Arnold stopped pacing long enough to suck in a deep, shuddering breath; the mere thought of her sent a shooting pang of loss and loneliness straight through his heart.

Alice had been like a mother to him, a true beacon of goodness in a world that had gone bad. His allegiance to the Sarge had really been an allegiance to her, because if Alice had ever recognized his true aspirations, if she'd ever had an inkling of the contempt he held for her husband, he knew it would have broken her heart. And he could never bear the thought that she had held anything but affection for him.

But Alice was gone now. She was gone forever, and so was Anders. There was no one left to hold him back—not anymore.

No one except that silver-eyed freak, that is. Somehow, Manning had convinced Lydia, Anders, and everyone holed up in the courthouse that the earth's salvation could come through an intergalactic battle with an alien race.

What a load of crap! Their planet was wrecked as a result of an attack from outer space? How stupid did Manning believe they were? Arnold had seen through the lies from the start. Manning wasn't there to help them, he was there to take away the only things they had left: their home, their safety, their freedom. Oh, he was different, no doubt. Something had changed him, made him into some sort of super-human. No normal person could survive point blank gunshots like he had, but that still didn't mean he was telling the truth. It didn't mean he and his band of thieving miscreants didn't see Outpost as a nice little place to call home. And it sure as hell didn't mean Arnold was going to let them take it, or any of the people who lived there.

Now, with Anders gone and Arnold left hiding behind his barricade in the courthouse square, the situation was even more dangerous than when Manning had first arrived. There was no one left in charge, and that meant it was going to get messier. Arnold was well aware what came along with an absence of leadership. Maybe the army hadn't been able to see just how much of an asset he could be, but that didn't mean he hadn't studied all the textbooks, learned all the military terms. This was a power vacuum. And once a vacuum is created it has to be filled, otherwise the result is chaos—chaos like what happened today. The longer Outpost's citizens didn't recognize him as their true leader, the worse it would get.

What infuriated Arnold most of all was that he shouldn't even have to ask for control. He was second-in-command. He had been since the day Outpost was created. Everybody knew it! You follow the chain of command. That's what you do, or the whole system breaks down. And that meant he ran Outpost now. They had to listen to him, those were the rules! It was common sense!

He should just order his people to engage. Richard, Lydia, Harold—they'd never expect a full frontal assault. They'd surrender before it even began. And if they didn't....

Arnold squinted into space, grinning peevishly as he imagined the scene, especially when he thought of Richard.

But then what? Maybe they'd fear him after that—and that was good—but they needed to respect him too, and to gain respect a leader must first establish trust. But how could he ever do that if they wouldn't even come out of the courthouse?

Couldn't they see he was doing this all for them?

"Stupid, stupid, stupid people!" Arnold kept muttering over and over.

It was that drifter's fault. All of it, every bit.

If Manning had never come to Outpost, Anders would have ceded control to Arnold in a matter of months, probably even weeks. Now everything was spiraling out of control, and all Arnold had was a tiny, ragtag army to help him put things back on track.

"Army"—ha! They could hardly be called more than a detail crouched fearfully behind a couple sheets of flimsy steel. And he knew what they were thinking; every one of them was wondering whether they'd made a mistake. They were doubting him.

He had to do something, show them what kind of leader he was, and reassure them. And it had to be something big. Something undeniable.

He clenched the grip of his holstered pistol in one hand, squeezing it and releasing it, squeezing it and releasing it. His other hand was balled into fist, still punching himself in the leg over and over as he stalked in front of the gate, humming in time to a Sousa march that played an endless loop in his head.

Something undeniable... a public spectacle.

For the people holed up in the courthouse, he had no choice but to punish them. He would make it his first order of business. They were the ones who shot first, after all. The girl who'd been shot, whoever she'd been, should still be alive. Someone had to be held accountable for her death.

Yes, order would be established. There would be a court martial, a trial, all presided over by him as judge—and executioner if need be.

And the Sarge's death?

Anders had made his own bed. If he'd just handed over the drifter right from the start, none of this would have happened. Arnold would have brokered a deal to save the drifter's life and Outpost would have been left in peace. End of story.

He continued muttering—stupid, stupid, stupid people—punching himself harder and harder for every step he took, sharp jolts of pain coursing through his leg with each jab of his bony fist.

He smiled grimly. Pain was good.

Pain kept him clear, made him strong. He stopped pacing just long enough to pull back one flannel sleeve and looked down at the rows of small, puckered scars lining the inside of his forearm. Two had only just recently scabbed over.

Reassured, he rolled his sleeve back down. Yes, he was strong—stronger than anyone else inside the walls. And good thing, because he'd have to be when this was finally over. There would be a lot of rebuilding to do, both materially and emotionally.

A gust of hot air swirled down from outside the gate, lifting a thin film of dirt that blew directly into his eyes.

Goggles. Where were his goggles? Someone should have made sure he was wearing them before he left the barricade. Why wasn't anyone looking out for his well-being? Why was he the only one who cared enough to make sure other people were okay, too?

Selfish and lazy, the lot of them. And stupid. Stupid enough to believe in aliens.

Scowling, teary-eyed from the dirt, Arnold wiped the stinging grit away and made a sudden rush at the gate, punching the reinforced, pitted steel as hard as he could. Pain rushed up through his wrist and into his forearm, leaving his whole right arm deliciously numb and tingling. A small bead of blood formed on two of his knuckles, slowly spreading until it dripped down his fingers.

His jaw clenched and he bared his teeth, exulting in the pain.

"Pain is just a feeling." That's what his father had always told him. "You feel angry, you feel lonely, you feel sad; just feelings. And you can ignore feelings. When you master that skill, you can master anything."

If only his father could see him today, Arnold knew how proud he would have finally made him.

He laid a palm flat on the steel. Those things were out there, just on the other side of the gate. An army of black-eyed monsters no more than a couple dozen feet from where he stood right now, waiting to take away what was rightfully his.

He pulled back and punched the wall again, harder.

Another knuckle split open.

"You hear that?" he screamed at the gate. "I'm not afraid of you! You don't scare me! You can't have my city! You can't have it!"

"Arnold?"

He whipped around, nearly falling as he yanked out his pistol, fumbling clumsily as he tried to keep his throbbing, bleeding hand from dropping it in the dirt. Lois stood just a few feet behind him, wild-eyed and frightened.

"I'm sorry," she held out a palliative hand, took a step back.

The way she was looking at him—it was like she didn't trust him, didn't believe in him. He didn't like it. He squared his shoulders and straightened his back, trying like hell to force his tremulous hand to remain still as he raised his gun and pointed it directly at the center of her chest.

"I didn't mean to startle you," her voice was shaking. "I—"

"You what?" Arnold asked viciously. "Came to spy on me? Came to tell me I should give up? Well I'm not going to do that. None of us are going to do that!" He punctuated the last four words with jabs of his pistol.

"Arnold, no!" Lois had both her hands up now.

Like a criminal caught red-handed, Arnold thought disgustedly. Just as guilty as everyone else in this damned place. Working against me—all of them!

"I just wanted to make sure you're okay! I was worried! I'm still worried! All this, everything that's happened today, it isn't your fault! Anders and Jodi... you're just trying to help, trying to make Outpost better and everyone keeps messing it up for you! You just care too much, that's what it is!"

"Who is Jodi?" Arnold asked, angry and confused. Was she trying to trick him?

"She..." Lois blinked. "It doesn't matter. The point is, I'm here for you, and I'd do anything to help."

Lois' voice was shaking so badly that Arnold finally realized why she was acting so funny. She was scared; scared of him. He hadn't meant to do that. He should have known—his mother had always told him how he dominated everyone around him. He finally relaxed, letting his shoulder sag and his arms drop to his sides and took a deep, shuddering breath, the ache in his knuckles becoming more pronounced as his rage subsided. He fumbled with his pistol, holstering it, feeling a little ashamed of the way he had acted, flexing his fingers to make sure nothing was broken.

"You're hurt," Lois gasped. She took a hesitant step forward. "I can help," she offered. When Arnold didn't answer, she took another small step. "I can wrap it up. Maybe find something for the pain." She bit her bottom lip. "I could take you to the infirmary, make it feel better..." She closed the last remaining distance between them and gently took his hand with both of hers, careful not to hold it too tight.

At first Arnold flinched, not because she was hurting him, but because he was so unaccustomed to having anyone touch him. No one had ever wanted to be close to him, not even his parents. They had maintained a strict and disciplined physical distance, their rigid code of conduct and the value they placed on their reputation preventing them from showing any outward signs of affection, even in the privacy of their own home. The Dorchmans were a strong, military people. There was no room for touchy-feely emotions in a family like theirs.

Even through high school, even when he wished he could be like everyone else around him, Arnold had maintained that same physical, invisible barrier between him and his classmates. It wasn't that he didn't want to be closer to them, to form stronger relationships—especially with the girls—he just didn't know how. The idea of sharing any kind of intimacy was just too frightening to contemplate. If his father found out, Arnold didn't know what would happen. Even worse, if Arnold said or did something to make his classmates belittle him, and then his father found out...

The Dorchmans were proud. Arnold was proud. He was destined to be a great leader, just like his father had been, and his grandfather, and his grandfather's father. It was his calling, it was expected of him, and he couldn't afford to put himself in a situation where that future might be compromised.

Lois was still holding his injured hand, gently probing it with careful fingers.

"I don't think there is any permanent damage," she told him, her voice small and breathy. "You have to be more careful, Arnold." She looked up from his hand, smiling through her eyelashes. "We need you far too much right now."

Arnold tried to think of something to say back, but his mind was completely blank. He wished she'd look away, just for a few seconds so he could collect his thoughts, but her eyes held him spellbound. She was so close, her face just inches from his. There was a growing warmth in his belly and on the back of his neck, an unfamiliar and frightening sensation that left him feeling breathless.

Lois' probing became more like a massage. Gradually, slowly, she lifted his hand higher, gently pulling him closer to her until she was hugging his entire forearm, holding it against her very warm, very soft, and very ample bosom.

"Do you think we should go to the infirmary?" she asked quietly.

Arnold swallowed noisily. Was she...? She was trying to seduce him? She was, wasn't she? That's what she was doing, he was sure of it!

His mind was stalled. He couldn't think. He was beginning to panic, and he didn't like it. Beads of sweat burst from his forehead and his heart was pounding in his chest. All he could think about was how close he was to her, how soft and warm she must be, and how it made him feel. He shouldn't be thinking about this kind of thing, this wasn't going to help him put Outpost back on track.

And then it hit him. She was doing this on purpose. Sure, she might really like him—why wouldn't she? She might even really want him, but that's not why she was coming on so strong. She was doing this because she didn't believe he was strong enough to win this fight. She might even believe she was protecting him by distracting him.

What was her plan? That if she slept with him, maybe she could draw his focus away from the barricade and then everyone inside the courthouse could come out?

Arnold wrenched his hand away, his face red and ugly. Lois gasped, confused and startled.

"Did they send you here?" he demanded. "Who was it? Tell me! Who told you to do this?"

"Arnold, what?"

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, so angry now that spittle flew from his lips.

"You're not going to stop me!" he yelled. "No one is going to stop me! Outpost is mine, you got that? Mine!"

"Arnold, you're hurting me!" Lois choked out.

He gave her a vicious shove, pushing her away.

Lois landed hard on her tailbone and cried out, scuttling backward on the dirty pavement, tears tracking down her cheeks. She looked so ugly down on the ground like that, like a big fat dog that'd done something wrong and knew it needed to be punished.

Arnold took an aggressive step toward her and she scuttled back farther, eyes wide in unfettered fear. He tightened his grip on his pistol, the roaring in his mind obliterating any rational thought. She was just like all the rest. Needy, conniving, manipulative people who thought they knew better than him. Slowly, he raised his pistol, looking down the barrel at her.

"Arnold..." she whimpered. And then she twisted around and leapt to her feet, running back toward the barricade.

Arnold sneered. He watched her go, letting the roar in his ears slowly subside.

Good, he thought contemptuously. Run. Run away, just like every other coward in this damned place.

Good riddance.

Arnold smiled thinly. It had always been this way for him, and it always would be. No one had ever believed in him. They thought because he was small in size that he was small in stature, too.

They'd soon find out otherwise. They'd see that he was bigger than all the rest of them combined.

BOOM!

Arnold leapt backward, away from the gate. He tripped over his own feet and landed in the same spot Lois had been just moments before.

He stared up at the gate, mouth hanging open. Was his mind playing tricks on him?

Someone—something?—had just hit the other side of the gate, hard. He lay there propped up on elbows, holding his breath, listening, afraid to make a sound.

He didn't have to wait long.

BOOM!

Arnold scrambled backward, crablike until he could spin and get his feet underneath him. He pointed his pistol behind him and half-stumbled, half-ran back toward the courthouse square.

BOOM!

2.

We have made a terrible, awful mistake.

Manning sent the thought desperately, praying John Doe would understand. Leaderless and under attack by its own people, Outpost was on the verge of imploding. Only an hour ago neighbor had fired upon neighbor, gunshots echoing through the normally-peaceful streets. A community that had found a way to live in harmony, even in the horrific circumstances created by the Great Rains, had crumbled overnight.

And Manning knew it was his fault. If he'd never come here, never forced such an awful decision on this struggling group of survivors, Anders would still be alive, their community intact. They had found a way to combat disease, starvation, and loneliness; in spite of all the world had thrown at them, they'd persevered. Only to be brought down by their one unconquerable and ever-present enemy: fear.

It had been nothing more than simple fear of the unknown that had brought them to this. Fear that all of their suffering to this point had been for nothing, and fear that their suffering might only have been a precursor of what was yet to come. Most of all, fear of a terrible choice they couldn't make without awful regret, no matter what their final decision.

We have to leave them in peace, Manning pressed. We can find other people to help us, others who will see the nobility of our cause.

Standing alone near the tall windows that looked out into the courthouse square, no one had any idea of the heated discussion raging in Manning's mind. Anyone watching him would have assumed he was just daydreaming or perhaps deep in thought.

Finding another community is no longer an option, John Doe sent the thought back firmly. Nobility is not a factor. We do not need altruistic people, we just need people. People who possess the gene. As long as they have the gene, we need them. We are out of time.

Out of time?

What do you mean? How could John Doe possibly know if that was true? Had there been some sort of message from the invaders? Instinctively, Manning looked upward, as if he could see through the ceiling and into the heavens. Are they coming? Are they already on their way? Manning began to panic as scenarios played out in his mind. Are we too late?

Calm yourself—I have their ship, John Doe reminded him. I have stolen something of value to them. I have no doubt they have been tracking it since the moment they realized I escaped.

John Doe had never mentioned this before, there never seemed to be any hurry, just urgency. His estimation of when the attack might come had always been vague.

I don't understand, Manning replied carefully, afraid of giving offense. He had never questioned John Doe's word before. To his knowledge, no one had. John Doe was beyond reproach. The sacrifice he was making on behalf of their world was far more than humanity deserved—case in point: Outpost's current state. I thought we had more time.

Our remaining time is unknown. John Doe's response was tentative, but firm. It is possible the ship is of no consequence to them. They may have other worlds to annihilate, worlds more important to their cause. The thought of a society so cold, so calculating, ran a chill down Manning's spine. But possibly not.

John Doe was right. Of course he was. Forcing the people of Outpost to settle their dispute, however bloody it might get, was a far lesser risk than gambling that they could find another community of this size, let alone that it wouldn't react to John Doe's arrival the same way the people of Outpost had, or worse.

I understand, Manning thought obediently.

Do you? John Doe responded, his aggressive tone taking Manning by surprise. They are leaderless, and we are under a time constraint. They need someone to show them the way. It must be done quickly, so it must be you. You must convince them to join us.

Manning blanched. But... what if they choose not to? They haven't even voted—

We are out of time, John Doe snapped back impatiently. Do you not understand? It must be now!

Manning recoiled inwardly, feeling a lack of inner calm for the first time since becoming what John Doe had made him. Even when the guns had been going off, he had felt no fear, no anxiety. Knowing he was with John Doe, part of that vision, had always been the umbrella under which he took solace.

He was upsetting John Doe with his questions, the one person who could save them all. He could, in fact, feel the attention of every member of John Doe's army now and they, too, were aggravated.

Or perhaps aggravated wasn't the word. Agitated? Disappointed? Anxious? There was no hostility or anger. The feeling was more of a general intensification, like they had all turned to look at him at the same time, or as if they had something they wanted to say or wanted to share, but were waiting. But for what?

Manning opened his mind, casting out his thoughts and inviting them in. He had nothing to hide. He wanted them to understand that he was truly doing everything he could to help achieve their goal. But he was met with an unsettling silence. He could sense them just out of reach of his thoughts, purposely keeping their distance.

This was not normal. In fact, this had never happened before. Normally he knew exactly what any one of them was thinking just by turning his focus on them. They were always with him, always part of his thoughts. Until now, he hadn't thought it possible for them to be separated. But this... this was different. Their connection had changed.

Manning focused harder. He wanted to send an apology, let them all know he would not fail, they could count on him. But a sudden, hard wall of blackness came down, immediate and complete. He was cut off, every one of John Doe's followers gone at the same exact moment.

They had turned their backs on him.

The citizens of Outpost must be convinced, John Doe's voice echoed sharply in his mind. If they are not, I will have no choice but to force them.

Force them? Was he saying he would attack Outpost? John Doe had already shown a willingness to take candidates against their will, one at a time in the wilderness. Would he really invade the community and risk people's lives in a battle? Was their situation really that desperate?

John Doe, you can count on—

"Manning?"

Yes? Manning thought back obediently.

"Manning!" Richard repeated urgently. Aloud.

Manning shook his head, disoriented for a moment as he adjusted to aural communication, the feeling like vertigo.

"Are you okay, man?" Richard laid a meaty hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Don't go all freaky on me, not now. We have enough to worry about without you going off the deep end. Not that you're not already pretty damn weird..."

Manning glanced down at Richard's thick fingers, inches away from his eyes, lying on his upper arm like dirt-tipped sausages. He was sure the foul, filthy man's grubby hands would leave stains on his shirt and still, he was oddly grateful. It was the first time anyone had made any physical contact with him in a very long time.

"I'm fine," he murmured.

"You don't look fine," Richard grunted dubiously, dropping his hand.

Manning watched the hand fall and turned away, ignoring Richard's implied question. "We need a plan," he said instead.

He scanned the room, taking a good hard look around for the first time since the shoot-out.

Outpost's people were scattered about the room in small groups. Some were huddled on the floor, others stood near the back wall. Every one of them met his gaze with miserable, angry eyes full of silent accusation.

Manning had no doubt they blamed him for all that had happened.

Would it make any difference if he pled his case again, explained that he was just a messenger and only wanted to help?

Unlikely. After all, it had been his plea in this very room that had set off the spark to cause all this.

What they needed was a leader, someone to put their situation into perspective, someone to tell them what to do next. John Doe said it had to be him, but how could that ever be? These people had no reason to trust him, and certainly no reason to follow him. Since his arrival things had only gone from bad to worse.

Lydia was the most obvious candidate, she was the only one left who'd been part of Outpost's small group of leaders. Unfortunately, she hadn't moved or spoken since the shooting. She crouched alone near the splintered front door, hovering over the curtain-draped body of Anders, her head bowed. Jodi's bullet-riddled body still laying outside, in plain view between the courthouse steps and Arnold's barricade. Even in the face of Lydia's anguished protests, not a single person from either side had been willing to risk their life to retrieve it.

"Really?" Richard was answering sarcastically. "We need a plan? You think?! Somebody needs to do something, that's for damn sure, and they better do it quick. Problem is, I don't see anyone here willing to step up."

Manning stared back at Richard and raised an eyebrow.

"Me?!" Richard snorted. "No way, man—not a chance! Are you kidding?" He flung an angry hand out at the room. "I got enough to worry about, I don't need these people whining and bitching at me. Let someone else do it!"

Richard's outburst was pretty much the response Manning had expected. He nodded his head in Lydia's direction and Richard snorted again. The big man was probably right; she was a basket case, completely unresponsive to everyone around her. During the gunfight, she'd stood openly on the courthouse steps as shots whizzed around her. Manning had been forced to drag her back inside against her will as she kicked and screamed at him, shouting the entire time that she wouldn't leave Jodi. The only move she'd made since had been to crawl a few feet across the floor and huddle beside Anders' body.

She would recover eventually—she had to if she was going to survive in this broken world—but it wasn't likely to be soon, and Manning didn't have time to wait her out.

"Where is Harold?" Manning asked, knowing he was running out of options.

"Said he'd be right back," Richard answered dismissively. "Said he was going to make sure we had guards at all the entry points and check that all the windows were bolted. Honestly, I think he just needed to get out of the room, get away from all these people for a while. It's not like it's bursting with goodwill in here." He twisted his lips. "I can relate. I'm getting cabin fever, bad. And I'm freaking starving."

Richard made a good point. There was no way they would last cooped up in this room for very long. They had to find a way out soon, and not just because John Doe's timetable had been moved up. These people had another day in them, maybe two, max. After that, they would surrender to Arnold just to get some food in their bellies.

"No one is going anywhere," Manning told Richard firmly. "We can't let that happen. John Doe needs them. They can make a difference."

Richard blinked and squinted. "Now hold on there, pal. I know you believe in what your boss is doing and all, but even if we kick Arnold's ass right out the back gate, people might still decide against going with your guy to fight aliens. You have to give us a chance to hold a vote. We've always voted. If you try and change that, well... that'll be bad news, I can promise you. You want to stay in Outpost after this is all over, you better get used to the way we do things right now."

"They have to join him, Richard," Manning urged. "For the sake of humanity, they have to go with John Doe."

"Humanity?" Richard grunted, amused. "Take a look at yourself, man. You really think you're going to convince them you're doing this for the sake of humanity?"

But he was. It was exactly why he was helping John Doe. It was what had given him the courage and strength of purpose after all that had happened to the world. Without it, he knew he would have lost hope, given up. The world needed hope more than ever, and right now John Doe was their only hope. Why was that so hard for others to see?

And yet still, Richard's question hit home for him in a way he had never considered. Was he human anymore? What about all the people outside the gates with John Doe—were they? Manning didn't know. He and all the rest of them had been changed, but surely that didn't mean they no longer had a right call themselves human. Earth was still their home—this is where they came from, no matter what they were now.

"Yeah," Richard grunted into Manning's prolonged silence. "Good luck with that."

Maybe Richard was right.

Certainly, as he scanned the faces of those hiding in the courthouse with him, Manning knew they didn't see him as one of them. He was an outsider, both in appearance and allegiance. They might all agree with the way he felt about Arnold, but it was abundantly clear they did not share his belief that John Doe should be helped.

He turned to look back out the window, putting his forehead against the smudged glass. He had never wanted this responsibility, never wanted to be an emissary for John Doe. All he'd ever wanted was to be part of the fight. To join in the battle against earth's oppressors. He didn't want to be a leader, he wanted to be one among many. It was wrong that John Doe had put this responsibility solely on his shoulders. Certainly, there had to be someone else in their ranks better suited.

And then he stopped mid-turmoil, realizing the dual standard he had set for himself.

Wasn't this exactly the same sentiment Outpost's people had voiced, the same sentiment that he'd condemned them for? 'Let someone else do it. Surely there is someone else.'

Here he was, pointing a finger at these people for not having the fortitude to commit to a cause greater than themselves, and all the while he was doing the very same thing.

Manning couldn't join the fight. John Doe had made it very clear—Manning was different. He had silver eyes, not black, and that meant he wasn't strong enough to go.

Well maybe he couldn't go, couldn't fight by their side. But he could speak. He could contribute by convincing more people to join them.

"I need you to help me," Manning turned back to Richard, standing straight. "I need to gather everyone together. I need to speak with them."

"Yeah..." Richard drawled. "About that... I don't think..."

"Now. Immediately," Manning interrupted. He spun on his heel, pausing only long enough to say, "Find Harold and ask him to bring all his men back to this room."

Richard curled his upper lip. Looking mildly amused, he said, "Okay boss." He gave a sloppy, sarcastic salute and stomped away.

Manning didn't wait—he couldn't stall another second. If John Doe was nervous about their remaining time, then he needed to worry about it too.

"Everyone!" he shouted. He raised his arms above his head and the already-silent room went still, tense. "Please gather around."

Manning quickly strode to the riser and hopped up onto it, his arms still raised.

"Everyone, please listen!" he shouted.

Hesitantly, a few moved toward him. A few more followed their lead, but at least half the room remained where they were, practically ignoring him as they stared out the windows.

"I have to speak to you, it's important!" he shouted toward those who still hadn't moved. A few glanced up and scowled, one even flipped a negligent hand at him and turned away.

He wasn't going to give up, dammit. He would not fail John Doe.

"I can help us all," he pushed. "I can—"

A ripple went through the people gathered at the front of the room, loud enough to interrupt him. Those standing closest to the windows pointed out into the street, grabbing the sleeves of those closest to them.

A dull roar was building, the sound of raised voices. At first he thought maybe Arnold's people had begun fighting amongst themselves, but then a sharp voice cut through, high and keen above the rest. A voice filled with intensity, fear, and most of all, rage.

"They're coming!"

It was Arnold, Manning didn't even need to look out the window to know it was him. No one else in Outpost possessed the same high-pitched, grating voice. Shouts rang back from out in the square, sounding just as confused as Manning felt.

"Take cover!" Arnold yelled. "They're coming!"

Manning leapt off the riser and ran to a window. Who was coming?

"Who does he mean?" someone standing next to him at the window echoed Manning's thoughts.

Out in the square, Arnold sprinted into view, his short, spindly arms pumping wildly. He skidded to a halt in front of the courthouse steps and glared venomously upward, scanning the faces in the windows. He gulped in a huge, loud lungful of air, his entire body covered in sweat.

"You better stop them right now!" he croaked, his voice hoarse. His eyes continued to sweep the windows, searching. "Stop your people, Manning. Stop them, or I swear to God I'll open fire on the entire building! I'll burn it to the ground and kill every single person inside—I'll do it!"

"You think he's got the nuts to do it?" Richard asked, startling him. Manning hadn't noticed that the big, stinky man had joined him at the window.

When no answer came from inside the courthouse, Arnold stalked to his barricade and pulled a shotgun out from behind it, cocking it and pointing it at the closest window.

Inside, people shrieked and flung themselves on the floor, scrambling toward the back of the room.

"What is he talking about, Manning?" Richard's voice was tense, angry. "What are your people doing?"

What were his people doing? Manning cast his thoughts out again, trying to connect with them, but the block was still there, like a wall of blackness between him and them.

John Doe!? He sent the thought out in a panic. What are you doing? Are you attacking Outpost?

Was this really happening? Was John Doe really doing this?

"Hey!" Richard grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, his face angry and accusing. "You better answer me right now!" he demanded. "What the hell have you done? I saved your life, man!"

Without waiting for John Doe's answer, Manning twisted out of Richard's grip and rushed to the front door, wrenching it open.

"Stop!" he yelled, and raised his hands over his head. "Please stop! It doesn't have to be like this. I swear to you, I don't know anything about an attack! We can figure this out, we can make a deal! Whatever has happened, tell me what it is and I'll fix it."

Manning's last words were obliterated by the explosive sound of both barrels of Arnold's shotgun. In the silent stillness that followed, it took Manning several seconds to comprehend that he was no longer standing in front of the big double doors. He blinked a few times, realizing he was lying in a crumpled heap, wedged between the railing and the wall, his left arm and chest a blackened, scorched mass.

And in a rush, the memory of when he'd been shot in the jail cell crashed back, flooding his mind—Arnold.

This was wasn't the first time Arnold had shot him, and this time Arnold wasn't bothering to hide it.

Manning groaned, lifting a shaking hand to the hideous wound in his chest. It hurt like hell and although he knew he might be in some minor form of shock, he felt strangely calm because this time, he knew he had nothing to be afraid of. When Arnold had opened fire on him in the jail cell he'd blacked out in sheer terror, certain he was going to die. Prior to that, John Doe had never told him he was strong enough to withstand that kind of attack. But now—now he knew all he had to do was wait.

He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, mustering the fortitude to get to his feet again. Every move hurt, but he would be okay. In fact, he could already feel his body working to repair itself.

Manning flung a hand up and grasped one of the railing posts, pulling himself to his knees. There was a chorus of gasps, both from inside the courthouse and out in the street.

Yeah, yeah, yeah... get an eyeful, people, Manning thought. Look at the freak. Now you know. And now he knew there was no turning back.

Arnold was fidgeting with anticipation at the base of the steps, the shotgun still up against his shoulder. "You see?" he called out, turning his head to address the people behind the barricade, practically dancing from foot to foot. "This man, this Manning, wants us to believe he's here to save us, but he isn't even one of us! Why isn't he dead? I shot him in the chest! I'll tell you why—he's not human! He's one of them!"

Racking another shell into the chamber, Arnold fired again, hitting Manning in upper thigh and hip this time. Manning cried out and lost his grip on the rail. He fell face-first, spilling down the steps in a slow, broken slide, and landed in a tangled mess on the dirt-coated cobblestones below.

Coughing out a pain-wracked breath, Manning struggled to find the strength to rise again, but it wasn't there yet, he didn't have it. He was in agony, most of his body now riddled with bullet wounds, blood seeping in rivulets and running away in the cracks of the cobblestones. He put one shaking hand flat on the ground, then the other, like he was attempting a push-up. He only got a couple of inches before his body failed him and he fell back onto the street with a wet flop.

He lay there, the dull thud of Arnold's boot treads echoing in his ears as he came nearer and nearer, finally stopping next to his head. With the last of what he had left in him, Manning rolled over onto his back and squinted up.

"Call them off," Arnold gritted through clenched teeth. "Tell them to go away. Now."

He couldn't see Arnold's face, only the silhouette of his head in front of the blazing sun. A black oval surrounded by an orange and red-tinted backdrop.

"Tell them!" Arnold shouted. "Or I swear I'll find an axe right now and finish this!"

Where was John Doe? Had he sacrificed him? Was he truly going to force his will on these people and let Manning pay the price?

Do it. Manning thought morosely. I'm done.

He wanted to tell Arnold that he'd be doing him a service, but Manning couldn't get his mouth to form the words. He coughed again, spitting a gobbet of blood down the side of his face.

Sneering, Arnold lifted a booted foot and placed it directly on one of the bullet wounds in Manning's chest.

Manning gasped, his back arching as spasms of pain shot through him.

"I know damn well you can tell them what I want without talking," Arnold spat. "And I know you're not as hurt as you're making it look, so tell them! Tell them in your head right now!"

But he was hurt that bad, and he didn't know what Arnold was talking about. He wanted to say so, wanted to object, but it was too much. He couldn't move, couldn't think. All he could focus on was the pain. He hurt so badly. Every part of his body felt as if it were its own gaping wound, each one worse than the next.

Manning closed his eyes, trying to will his body to let go, praying for it to end.

But Arnold had other plans. He ground his boot down even harder than the last time and Manning's eyes flew back open, his mouth open in a wordless scream.

"Outpost is mine!" Arnold hissed through gritted teeth. He leaned down, so close that Manning could now see every shade of brown staining his torturer's teeth. Arnold's eyes were wide and feverish, devoid of any rational thought. Spittle flew from his lips as he shouted, "Everyone in Outpost is mine! Everything in Outpost is mine! I earned this! And you are not going to take it away from me!" He stood back up and lifted his shotgun over his head, holding it aloft with one hand like some sort of conquering hero. "Bring me an axe!" he demanded of no one in particular. "Bring me an axe!!!"

Suddenly, a big, dark shadow passed over Manning, followed by a cry of pain and the sound of Arnold's shotgun skidding across the cobblestones.

And then Arnold was gone.

For a moment, Manning was left staring blankly up at an empty, red-tinged sky and its relentless sun.

"Manning?"

Lydia's voice.

Manning turned to find her kneeling in the street next to him, eerily similar to the way she'd been kneeling over Anders' body in the courthouse.

"I..." he rasped, unable to stop a gurgling cough from rising in his throat.

"Shhhh," she admonished, smoothing a strand of hair from his brow. "Don't try to talk. It's okay. We're here. We're with you."

We?

He craned his neck. From the courthouse, coming down the steps and into the street, the citizens of Outpost were coming to his aid, surrounding him, protecting him.

Manning sighed softly, and closed his eyes.

3.

Lydia choked back a sob, surprised to feel tears fill her already-raw and red eyes. She swiped at them with the back of her hand, angry for letting herself cry again. How could she possibly have any tears left? Her gaze slid across the courthouse square where Jodi's body still lay abandoned, baking on the hot cobblestones.

"Is he...?" Richard's coarse voice was like a sandpaper whip to her senses.

It had been Richard who'd forced her out of the murky despair she'd been floating in since Anders and Jodi were killed. He'd shoved her out of the way as he'd rushed to Manning's aid, sprinting headlong down the courthouse steps faster than she would ever have believed his girth would allow. He'd barreled into Arnold like a freight train and now the two of them were down on the pavement, Richard straddling Arnold like a playground bully, the little man squirming and cursing beneath him.

Without looking down, almost casually, Richard swung a backhanded slap across Arnold's temple, his knuckles thumping loudly on the indignant little man's skull and Arnold could do nothing, both his arms firmly pinned beneath Richard's heavy knees.

"Well?" Richard asked Lydia, as if Arnold had been nothing more than an inconsequential interruption.

She didn't know if Manning was okay. In truth, she was afraid to find out because if he wasn't... then what? What would they all do?

She pursed her lips and she shook her head. Let someone else check. She'd had enough. No person should have to endure the kind of loss she'd endured. Anders had been like a big brother to her. And Jodi... why did it have to happen now? Why did it have to happen right after Lydia had finally found the courage to let everyone else know how she felt, who she really was?

Richard's eyes narrowed and Lydia winced, sure he was about to lay into her, but at that moment Harold burst through the front row of the crowd, eyes blazing. Lydia had never been so happy to see the guard captain.

"What the hell is going on?" Harold demanded. Arnold struggled anew, but Harold only briefly took notice of him before dismissing him just as quickly. "How did this happen?"

"He..." Lydia looked down at Manning, placing a hand on his brow. "He tried to save us," she whispered.

"This little piece of shit is what happened," Richard growled, poking Arnold in the chest with a fat finger.

Arnold began struggling furiously, livid beneath his captor. He tried to speak up, but Richard cuffed him again—much harder, this time—and Arnold finally lost consciousness, his head thumping against the pavement.

"While you were securing the exits," Richard told Harold, "Arnold came screaming into the square threatening to burn down the courthouse and everyone in it. When Manning came outside to try and work out a deal, our little buddy here opened fire."

Harold looked down, his face grim as he took in the extent of Manning's wounds.

A long moment of silence stretched out. Every person standing in the street was well aware that with Manning's death, their lives could take a drastic turn for the worse.

"He said they were coming," someone near the back of the crowd said. "That's what Arnold said. He was yelling, said we needed to take cover. Does that mean those things are inside the walls?"

All heads turned toward the front gate, everyone looking, listening... scared.

Eventually, all eyes turned back on Lydia.

"I think..." What did they want her to say? She didn't know! She'd been locked inside the courthouse just like the rest of them! "I don't think they've come through the gates. We've seen how they move, they're fast, and it's only a little ways from here to the gate. I think they'd be here by now. And we'd be able to hear them. That many feet..."

She trailed off, knowing how she sounded. She was rambling, grasping for an answer.

Bluntly, Richard asked, "Is he dead or not?"

"He couldn't possibly be," she whispered automatically, wishing right away that she hadn't. No one else knew that Manning had been shot once before except Richard, Arnold and Lois. Lydia scanned the crowd. If Lois was anywhere near, she wasn't close enough to see, so that meant she couldn't have heard Lydia whisper and Arnold was still pinned underneath Richard, unconscious.

"Lydia?" Richard prompted.

Rattled by his intensity, she turned away. But did it really matter if they all knew? If Manning wasn't going to die this time either, everyone would know how he healed soon enough.

Lifting her shaking hands to cover her nose and mouth, Lydia leaned over to put an ear near Manning's mouth, trading the gesture for a reply. She didn't want to lie, not if she didn't have to, but she also didn't want to admit to the whole community that she'd kept a secret from them, either.

She was right next to Manning's face when his eyes flew open and she jolted back, nearly falling over.

"Oh thank God," Lydia gasped, nearly swooning in relief. Steeling herself, she moved back in to help him up.

"He needs help," she said. She grabbed one of his arms, but the weight was too much. "Help him!" she demanded of the expectant crowd. When there were no volunteers, she rounded on Harold. "Help me!" she shouted. "We can't let him die!"

"Lydia, even if he's not gone yet," Harold told her, "he will be. No one can survive that many bullets."

"He can," she told him fiercely. "So just help me!"

Hearing her, Manning groaned and reached up with his free hand, clutching her sleeve, trying to pull himself up. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely.

A chorus of gasps went up from the people around them.

"What the hell..." Harold asked in a strangled voice. His eyes scanned the bullet holes riddling Manning's body. He let out an abrupt, choking sound and jerked back, nearly knocking over the person behind him. "How is this possible?" he whispered.

Lydia answered with a grunt as she clambered into a low squat and slung one of Manning's arms around her shoulders, trying to push with her legs to get him onto his feet.

"Lydia, you're going to hurt him worse," Harold cautioned.

She ignored the warning and kept pushing until Manning was up, standing on wobbly legs and clutching her shoulders like a lifeline. Eye-level with Harold now, she met his disbelieving glare with a level stare of her own.

"You knew about this already?" he asked incredulously.

Manning mumbled and tried shifting his center of balance to get his legs more firmly planted, but they gave out. Lydia was nearly brought to her knees by the weight, and this time Harold slid in to grab Manning's other arm.

"It happened once before," she said once they had him stabilized. "Someone shot him the first night he was here, when he was locked in the basement jail cell."

Without even realizing she was doing it, she glanced down at Arnold when she said it and gave a small start. It was all so clear now. When it had happened, she'd been sure Richard was the one to blame. He'd had been so angry about Justin, so vehemently opposed to anything Manning said, but it had been Arnold all along. All of it, every bit stemmed from his desire to wrest control of Outpost away from Anders.

If Harold saw her look, he didn't comment.

Richard didn't say anything either, but he watched her shrewdly from his spot on Arnold's chest, the glint in his eye the only outward display of satisfaction he felt knowing she'd realized he'd been innocent. He shifted his weight, finding a more comfortable perch on Arnold, seeming perfectly content to stay right where he was. To Lydia, he even looked a little happy, like Buddha.

Manning was still swaying, but had already visibly improved; his head had stopped lolling, and his eyes were more focused and clear.

"Don't come in!" He half-mumbled, half-shouted the words and coughed, leaving a thin coating of blood on his lips. "Stay where you are! I can talk to them. They're good people..."

"What the hell is he talking about?" Richard grunted from the ground. Arnold squirmed and tried to say something, but only got a single syllable out. This time Richard thumped a meaty fist straight down onto the bridge of Arnold's nose. Arnold cried out, thrashing under Richard as blood came pouring out, running all down his cheeks. "Shut the hell up," Richard muttered. He raised his fist again and Arnold froze, silent and afraid.

"Who the hell is he talking to?" Harold asked, pointedly ignoring what was happening on the ground.

"Best guess is he's talking to that black-haired son of a bitch camping outside our gates," Lydia answered. "The one that calls himself John Doe. Remember, they talk to each other in their heads."

"Help me," Manning mumbled, "please." It took Lydia a minute to realize he was talking to her now. "Help me up the steps."

Lydia glanced up. There were no more than a dozen steps, but for someone hurt as badly as Manning, they seemed impossibly high. "You need to rest," she told him. "We need to take you somewhere with a bed—the infirmary..."

"No!" Manning rasped. "No time! You have to let me speak! You have to give me a chance! It might be your last chance!"

"Seriously... what the hell is he talking about?" Richard asked again. He leaned forward, tense, like he had forgotten all about Arnold and was about to make a run for it.

"John Doe," Manning answered this time, his voice getting stronger by the second. "He says he's out of time. He says the earth is out of time. Outpost is the planet's only hope, but if he comes in... and if your people see it as an attack..."

Manning didn't need to finish for them to understand why he was so concerned. If John Doe's army entered Outpost by force, there would be more fighting, more blood. Outpost's people weren't warriors; they were a ragtag group of survivors. There was only one way a battle against John Doe's army of super-humans could end.

"Get him up on the steps!" Richard suddenly shouted. "Move! Go!"

Lydia and Harold struggled on either side, dragging Manning back to the courthouse and manhandled him to the top of the steps. There, they propped him up against the chipped brick wall of the building, one hand on a railing, where he heaved and panted, looking worse now than when he'd been lying in a puddle of his own blood.

"Manning?" Lydia got in front of him, one cautionary hand still braced on his chest. She leaned in close and peered into his glazed, unfocused eyes. "Manning!" She slapped him sharply on the cheek.

"You really think hitting him is going to help?" Harold asked drily. "He really doesn't look good."

"We have to do something, he has to snap out of it," Lydia was getting more nervous by the second. "You heard what he said—they're coming. We don't have time to be gentle. He can take it."

"If we're under attack..." Harold's voice turned dark. He stood up straight, his mouth set in a grim line. "Make no mistake, we will fight to the last man."

Inwardly, Lydia groaned. The last thing Outpost needed was for Harold to go commando on an invading army. If John Doe and his army were anything like Manning, there would no stopping them, no matter how many guns were used.

"Harold, that is not the way and you know it!" Lydia jabbed a finger at Manning. "We need him! He doesn't want them to attack any more than we do! Haven't you been listening to what he's saying?"

"She's right..." Manning groaned. "Please... I just need to talk. I just need for your people to listen to me. Just one more time..."

"So we either agree to join his nutcase cause, or we're forced into it against our will, is that it?" Harold asked.

"Harold, please!" Lydia pointed down into the street. Jodi's body lay there, a stark reminder of just how high the stakes were. "Is that what you want for everyone?"

Agitated, Harold finally growled, the noise passing for reluctant agreement. He put two fingers in his mouth, whistling shrilly, the sound cutting through the hot, dusty air. As heads turned and the crowd silenced, Harold took three steps back and pushed Lydia in front of him.

"Alright... you wanted it, you got it. It's your show now."

If she'd have thought punching him would help, she would have.

Her show? She had no idea what to say! "I..." she stammered. Beside her, Manning gasped. She realized she still had hold of one of his arms, and had unintentionally begun squeezing it out of nervousness. "You're going to have to help him stay on his feet," she told Harold. "I can't do both. Help me bring him up to the edge of the steps."

Harold took up his position on the other side of Manning again and the three of them moved to the front of the steps together.

"I don't..." Lydia looked at Manning, hoping he would say something. "I don't know what to say," she whispered.

And she didn't. Anders had always included her in the big decisions for Outpost, always asked her opinion, but their discussions had always been in private, always in limited company; she and Arnold, and Alice and Donny when they'd still been alive. Until now, Anders had always been the voice of the people.

"You can do this," Manning told her. His voice, though still weak, was sounding better again. "I'm feeling stronger. You start. I'll help."

Lydia took a deep breath, thinking, you damn well better... She swallowed the dryness in her throat and looked up.

"We're broken," she finally blurted out, and was met with blank stares.

Obviously, she reprimanded herself.

"I guess that's plain to see." Reflexively, Lydia glanced over her shoulder, just inside the door of the courthouse, where she knew Anders' body lay. "We... we have to stop fighting. This isn't us. We're all neighbors. More than that, we're friends—like family. We care about one another, and we're better than this. We're..."

She was at a loss for words. She tried to take a step back, but her arm was wrapped in Manning's. She was stuck.

"Look," she cleared her throat. "There have been a lot of people who've come to our gate, and most of them are still here today. We've always done that—taken in anyone who needed our help. Because that's what we do. We help people. We help each other. The ones who didn't stay, the ones that thought they could find a better place, we gave them what food or water we could spare and wished them well—and meant it. Because that's who we are, and what we do. Maybe some of us, sometimes, thought we shouldn't have been so kind, we've definitely seen our share of bad people..."

Lydia would never forget that first year, when bandits had come and tried to take Outpost by force. It had been a wakeup call and in a way, everyone who lived there owed those first few anarchistic marauders a debt of gratitude for opening their eyes to the kind of world that now existed. Thank God those attackers hadn't been stronger, or Outpost would be theirs today. And thank God the Sarge had been a good enough man to remain compassionate even after they were attacked.

"Bad people..." Lydia repeated distastefully, shaking her head. "My point is, that's not who we are. We help each other, we even help strangers. That's how we've survived—by taking care of our neighbors. I take care of you, and you take care of me. And now..." she faltered, realizing what she was about to say, realizing what it meant.

There would be no turning back once she uttered these words. By saying them, she might be inviting the same fate for herself as Anders. She looked over her shoulder one last time, fortifying her resolve with his memory. If he had believed Manning, she would too. She had always trusted his judgment before, and he had never been wrong.

"Now," she straightened her back, raising her voice. "Now we've got the chance to do more than just help our neighbor. This..." She looked at Manning. "This man is giving us the opportunity to take care of the planet." She swallowed, looking into as many eyes as would look back into hers. "We're dying here," she told them. "We've managed to survive this long, but how much longer do we have? We all know what we're up against. Starvation. Disease. Injury."

Down in the street, Arnold moaned and came to. When he realized Richard was still holding him down he started thrashing anew, but apparently Richard had had enough. He savagely grabbed Arnold by the throat and yanked him to his feet, clutching Arnold's neck so tightly that Arnold was forced to stand on his tip-toes to keep from choking.

"And this guy," Richard shouted, his voice harsh. "The one who some of you thought you should follow, doesn't care about any of that. He just wants control. He wants to control us." He pulled Arnold close, snarling at him, their faces mere inches apart. "You'd let our people die just to get what you want," he accused. "You'd go to war with those black-eyed super-freaks just to prove you're not afraid. Well I'm afraid!" Richard yelled. Arnold blanched, squinting, trying to pull away in the wake of Richard's fury. "We're all afraid!"

With a grunt and heave, Richard thrust Arnold away, sending the beak-nosed little man skidding on his elbows across the gravelly pavement.

Indignant and bloody, Arnold clambered to his feet, showing his teeth like a cornered mutt. "Are you just going to let this happen?" he demanded of everyone. "Are you really going to side with them and not me? Well, let me tell you—"

Richard roared and took a step toward him, and that was all it took. Arnold shrieked, turned tail, and ran. The entire community followed his retreat, silent, until his limping, loping gait took him out of sight. No one moved to follow him, no one spoke in his defense.

Standing apart from everyone else, Richard sighed, his shoulders slumped. Exhaustion had finally taken its toll.

He turned to face them. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I..." Richard looked down at his feet and wiped a tired hand across his face. Finally, he simply repeated, "I'm sorry." He took a deep breath, as if he was waiting for someone to answer, but when no one did he must have realized there was no one to grant him forgiveness. In the past, this would have been the kind of moment when Anders would have stepped in and taken over, imparting the kind of undeniable wisdom that he always seemed to have ready for every situation.

But now Anders was gone and Arnold had finally shown his true colors. Outpost was at a precipice; they could go on, but to do that they would need to establish a new leader for themselves or else the kind of division they'd just experienced would become a regular thing, eventually tearing them apart.

And right here, right now, the entire population was waiting, gathered together in an expectant group with Richard standing apart from them all, facing them as if he were preparing to do exactly what Anders would have done if he were still here.

Lydia saw Richard's mouth twist distastefully and she could practically read his thoughts. As if his day hadn't been lousy enough already; that's what he was thinking. He muttered a curse, presumably for Arnold, a promise that if the two of them ever crossed paths again there would be hell to pay.

What did they expect him to say? It wasn't like Richard had ever given anyone a reason to think highly of him, so why were they all looking at him like he'd suddenly become their friend and savior? Lydia almost stepped forward and spoke for him—almost. But instead, he surprised her by speaking first.

"Look," Richard said gruffly, his tone conveying how uncomfortable he felt. "I don't know if that guy outside our gate can save us. You're just going to have to make up your own mind about that. Honestly, after hearing everything Manning's told us, I don't even think he knows if John Doe can do it—I think he just has faith in the guy. But you know what?"

Richard paused, chewing the inside of his cheek and twisting his lips like he'd tasted something foul.

"Maybe that's the point," he said finally. "Faith. Maybe that's what we need, because Lydia was right when she said we're good people, and I think—I hope—there's a bunch more like us all over the world. I think we're worth saving, and if that's true, then going with John Doe is worth trying. Because if we're worth saving, and if there are others like us, then... shouldn't that be enough? We've been living on borrowed time, and we all know it. This is the first glimmer of hope we've had since the Great Rains. We need to take it."

Richard's words were met with a silence that stretched on and on. Lydia knew he'd struck a chord, because it was the blatant truth. That, and it had to be in part from the shock of hearing such genuine words from someone who normally used more expletives than adjectives.

Finally, Harold cleared his throat. "He's right," he said. "We have to do this. If our world can be saved, if we can be saved, if our future children can be saved, how can we not?"

"Richard is right!" Manning croaked out. He dropped his arm from around Lydia's shoulders, still clinging to Harold for support. "I don't know if John Doe can save us. I don't think he even knows. But that's not what's important. What's important is that he's willing to try! I'm willing to try with him, and you should be too! He's offering us a chance to fight back, but that's not all!"

With his free hand, Manning ripped away the tattered remains of his shirt to expose his torso, the torn shreds of his blood-soaked shirt fluttering in the wind. Murmurs rippled through the crowd in a wave.

"You all saw that man shoot me," Manning said. Carefully, he pulled away from Harold to stand on his own. "I know I look different. I know it scares you—it would scare me too. But whatever I am now, I am still a human being at my core. I am not an alien. This planet is my home, just like all those people out there waiting with John Doe!" Manning's voice was strong now. "And just like all of you! Yes, I was changed. But look how I was changed!"

With the shreds of his shirt, he furiously wiped at the blood covering his chest and stomach. He cleaned it away, revealing fresh, pink flesh beneath—flesh already well on its way to repairing itself.

"I don't know how this is possible," he told them. "I don't know what John Doe did to make me this way, but I'll tell you this—" Each and every person was now hanging on his every word. "I am much less afraid of facing the future than I was before I met him. And you could be too. If you have the gene and allow him to change you, you will be strong. You won't get sick. You will heal so quickly it will be nearly impossible to kill you. He can give that to you, and all he asks in return is that you help him help you. Help him fight to save your own planet."

Richard pushed his way through the gathering until he was standing directly in front of Manning and lifted his hand, his palm up. With glad relief, Manning took Richard's hand in his and it was as if a dam broke for everyone standing in the street. People began nodding, some even pledging their support out loud.

John Doe, Manning reached out with his mind, they will join us. The people of Outpost will agree.

If she hadn't been standing so close to Manning, Lydia would never have heard Richard's quiet threat. "If you're lying, I'll cut your fucking head off myself."

4.

It took everything William Farrelly had not to bolt as he waited for Outpost's massive gate to swing open. The loud, creaking pivots squealed in protest as a small group of his fellow guardsmen turned the crank, the sound seeming as if it would never end. He'd heard that same sound a hundred times—in truth, probably closer to a thousand—but it had never sounded so frightening, so ominous, as it did today.

Twenty yards outside the gate the black-eyed army waited to enter, and although Will had raised his fist along with everyone else in the courthouse square in support of joining John Doe's crusade, he couldn't suppress the cold shiver of fear that ran down his spine when his eyes landed on the giant man who now held all of their fates in his hands.

"Richard," Will whispered without turning his head, afraid that he might attract the giant's notice. "Ya think we mighta made us a mistake?"

"What I think," Richard grunted back, his voice a surly grumble, "is it's a little late for worrying about that now." He lifted his goggles and squinted into the distance, scanning the silent line of black-eyed drifters.

"Do ya see Justin out there? Or Ruben?" Will asked, squinting alongside him. "I mean, it'd sure make me feel a whole heap-load better if I could just..."

"Shut up, Will," Richard rumbled, "just, please—shut the hell up."

Will glanced at the man next to him, realizing Richard was just as nervous as he was. He could feel the tension practically oozing from him.

As soon as the gate stopped moving, John Doe began walking toward them. Without a glance for his people, he strode toward Outpost alone; bold and unafraid.

He was an awesome sight, dressed from head to toe in tight, form-fitting black leather that covered every inch of his body. His black hair cascaded down around his narrow features, lending his face a hollow, gaunt look that was only accentuated by the same strange silver eyes that Manning had. He crossed the distance in silence, the creak of his ankle-high, buckled leather boots reaching Will's ears.

Manning met him at the gate, the two of them sharing a brief moment face to face for before Manning gave a tense nod and turned to face the crowd.

"John Doe thanks you for your courage," he announced loudly. "He has no interest in making this a spectacle. He's aware that the transformation process is likely to make you uncomfortable, so he's suggested that he move this somewhere more private. We'll form a single-file line outside the infirmary. There, he'll determine one at a time if you're a candidate."

"I sure hope I'm not one of his candidates," Will fretted, but Richard didn't respond. He was still zeroed in on John Doe's people, searching them down the line. "What do ya see?" Will watched Richard's eyes, tried to follow his gaze. "What you lookin' for, Rich?"

"If everyone will just stay in a line like you are now and move to the infirmary," Manning continued, "we can begin immediately."

Suddenly Will was no longer nervous—he was flat-out scared. "What if it hurts?" he asked, wishing Richard would turn and look at him, say something, anything to reassure him. "Do you think it'll hurt?" he pressed, but Richard ignored, engrossed in scanning the drifters outside the gate.

Up and down the line, people were asking the same kinds of questions in hushed whispers, the patriotism and camaraderie that had infused them back at the courthouse steps quickly becoming replaced by the immediate reality of what it would mean for them if they were chosen.

Manning spread his hands wide and smiled, a gesture no doubt meant to calm the obvious tension, but with his strange silver eyes, the smile had the exact opposite effect.

"Shall we?" Manning gestured.

With small, hesitant steps, the line turned and began moving toward the infirmary.

"Richard," Will tried again as the people nearest them began shuffling away.

Without looking at him, Richard grunted, "Sorry, Will," and stepped out of line, marching purposefully toward Manning and John Doe.

'Sorry, Will?' Sorry for what?!

Will took a short, hesitant step to follow Richard, but stopped. The last thing he wanted to do was get face-to-face with that black-haired giant any sooner than he had to.

"Will." The person behind nudged his elbow. "We're falling behind."

Biting his bottom lip, scared to death, Will reluctantly fell into step behind everyone else.

Maybe he was worrying about nothing. Maybe he wasn't a candidate for John Doe's army. He probably wasn't...

________

Even if it was only for a minute, Richard needed to find Justin, needed to tell him how sorry he was, how it should have been him who didn't make it to the gate.

Maybe it didn't matter, not anymore. Now that every person in Outpost who carried the gene would be leaving with John Doe, it was a moot point. Whether it had happened outside the gate a few days ago or in the infirmary today, Justin would have ended up where he is right now anyway.

But that wasn't what really mattered. That wasn't why Richard was so hell bent on finding his ex-partner. It wasn't the fact that Justin was with John Doe now, it was how it had happened when it had happened. It shouldn't have gone down that way. Justin was nearly a decade younger than Richard, like a kid brother, and Richard should have watched out for him, not the other way around.

"Manning!" Richard called out, huffing as he picked up the pace when he saw John Doe and Manning turning to follow the crowd.

Manning turned. When he saw who it was he glanced briefly back at John Doe and they both stopped, allowing Richard to catch up.

"Hey," Richard panted once he got close enough. "Thanks for waiting, I..."

The words caught as he made the mistake of looking straight at John Doe. His throat constricted, a visceral and unintentional reaction to being in the giant man's presence.

This was supposed to be their savior? There was nothing in his appearance or demeanor that leant him an aura of goodness or nobility. In fact, everything about him screamed exactly the opposite, his mere presence exuding an intensity that rang of hostility.

"Yes, Richard?"

Manning's calm, normal voice snapped Richard back to coherent thought. He sounded so relaxed, so comfortable, it was incongruous in the presence of such a... presence.

"Uh..." Richard forced himself to only look at Manning, having to fight to keep his eyes from sliding back toward John Doe. "I was just wondering... I mean..." His voice was shaking. He cleared his throat to calm himself. "I was looking out there but I didn't see Justin and I was thinking, well I was hoping I guess..." Say it, you coward! "Hoping I could say goodbye."

Manning smiled kindly and put a hand on Richard's shoulder, giving him an understanding nod, but when he turned to look at John Doe, his face fell and Richard knew the answer even before John Doe strode away without a backward glance.

"Richard, I'm so sorry," was all Manning offered before hurrying after John Doe.

________

Lois scrubbed furiously, wiping the already-spotless counter with short, savage jabs of a dry rag, pushing down so hard that the tips of her fingers burnt from the friction. The infirmary was spotless, as always, but she had to do something to take her mind off how stupid she'd been.

Scowling, disgusted with herself, she scrubbed even harder, blistering her fingertips raw. It was no less than she deserved. What had she been thinking? What was wrong with her? Arnold had been right—as always—to rebuke her. Of all times, of all days, she had picked today to try and bring their relationship to the next level?

He'd seen right through her, known she wasn't just trying to bring him to her bed, but also to protect him, keep him away from the courthouse and all the guns. His anger had been justified. What right did she have to undermine his credibility as a leader? He couldn't just disappear when things got tough, that's not how it works when you're in charge. She had to get that through her big, dumb head if she was ever going to be a good first lady to him.

So now what? She had to do something to make this right. Arnold was out there fighting the toughest battle of his life, doing it for everyone else, and here she was worrying about herself. Somehow, she had to redeem herself in his eyes. The time they'd shared in the courthouse, the meeting in the food stores and the way they'd worked so well as a team; things had been going far too good for them lately. She couldn't lose that momentum.

One thing was for sure: she couldn't hide out here in the infirmary and expect it to get better. She was just being stupid again.

Standing resolutely, she straightened her back and tugged at her clothes.

Time to go stand by your man, Lois. Time to show him what a good strong, woman you are.

She marched out into the hallway, only to be brought up short by the sound of the front door thumping open.

Heart soaring, she nearly skipped down the hall, knowing there could only be one person in all of Outpost who would come see her in the midst of their crisis, one man who would take the time to make sure she was okay.

"Arnold!" she called out joyously. "Oh my God, Arnold! You were right and I'm so sorry—"

She rounded the last corner and recoiled, suddenly face-to-face with the silver-eyed monster who should already be dead by Arnold's own hand. And worse—standing behind him was an even worse monster; the black-haired giant who'd laid siege to Outpost.

How had the second one gotten past the gate? And why were the two of them standing in her infirmary? If the drifter wasn't still hiding in the courthouse, he should be in Arnold's custody—or better yet, dead.

"Where is Arnold?" she whispered hoarsely.

"Lois," Manning said hesitantly. He sounded just as confused as she was. "That is your name, right? What are you doing here?"

"I work here!" she cried out indignantly, retreating slowly until her back bumped up against the wall. "Where is Arnold?" she demanded again, her voice ratcheting up a notch.

Manning shot a quick glance over his shoulder. "Lois, we're glad you're here," he told her, his voice taking on a soothing tone. "Since you work here, you could be a great help to us. But first we need to test you—"

"Where is Arnold?" she shrieked, nearly incoherent. She didn't care if she made them angry, wasn't concerned for her own safety. If they weren't answering her question it could only mean one thing. "Where is he?!"

Manning glanced over his shoulder again, as if looking for guidance from John Doe. As his head turned, so did his body, and Lois caught a glimpse of John Doe pulling something small, something metallic and shiny, from the depths of his black jacket.

At first she was sure it was a gun, but it couldn't be. It was too wide, too flat. She squinted down, at the same time flattening her back against the wall in an effort to be as far from them as possible. The object in John Doe's hand, it was somehow familiar to her. She risked a look down the hallway, back the way she'd come. She'd have to make a run for it. No way were they doing any tests on her—not a chance.

Manning lifted a hand, palm up. "Lois," he said, "It's nothing to be frightened of. Everyone—"

Oh sure, she'd heard that before a thousand times. "You tell me where—" she began, one finger pointed accusingly at Manning, but at that moment John Doe shifted the object in his hand and she froze.

Stamped into the metal just above his grip were the letters 'K L E I.' There may have been more, but if there were his hand was covering them.

Aliens that wrote in English?

"Liar!" she screamed, now truly frightened for her life. "Liar!" she screamed again and flung the only thing she had at them—the dirty rag she'd been cleaning with—and fled for the back of the infirmary. She didn't dare look back as she slammed the back door open, squinting as the bright sunlight momentarily blinded her.

She raised her arms to block her eyes, but was grabbed from behind before she could raise them all the way. A hand clamped tightly over her mouth, and an arm wrapped around her neck in a choke hold.

The back door boomed closed. She struggled, using her large girth to her advantage, thrashing against her assailant with her arms, legs, and any other part of her body that was unencumbered, was free.

Finally, the back of her head connected with her attacker and she was free. She spun around as he cried out, drewing her leg back to give a good solid kick where it counted only to find Arnold on his knees nursing a bloody nose, one hand outstretched.

"Lois, please!" he begged.

"Arnold," she panted, confused. "What are you doing here?"

"We have to go," he clambered to his feet, stumbling some. She grabbed his elbow to steady him. "It isn't safe," he told her. "We have to leave Outpost now."

She gaped at him, not knowing how to reply, a million questions dancing through her mind.

"Will you come with me?" he asked, one hand held out in entreaty.

"Oh Arnold," she gushed, her concerns gone in an instant. In that moment the silver-eyed monster, the black-haired giant with the strange, lettered device—all of it vanished. None of it mattered anymore. Arnold had come for her, to save her. And now, in return, she would have the chance to save him. "Yes!" she nearly shouted, fighting back tears of rapture. "Yes, I will come with you!"

5.

Manning stood at the front gate with Richard, Lydia, and Harold, watching as John Doe led his newly-swelled army away from Outpost, taking with him the hope and heart of the community, and perhaps the entire planet.

Godspeed, John Doe, Manning sent the thought, unable to shake a profound sense of loss. He had shared so much with John Doe and his followers for so long. Every thought, every emotion; they knew more about him than anyone who'd ever been in his life, even his family. I am pleased to have played a part in helping you achieve this outcome. My only wish is that I was strong enough to join the fight, to stay by your side.

He bowed his head, listening for John Doe's reply, but it was Richard's coarse voice that answered instead.

"Well?" Richard grunted. "Now what?"

Manning didn't answer. He didn't want to, not yet. He wasn't ready to leave behind the gift of connection, the intensity of it. If there was even one more thought to hear, he didn't want to miss it.

So he ignored Richard and waited.

And waited.

"Hey," Richard stepped in front of him. Although the big man's physical presence had no bearing on Manning's ability to hear John Doe, it annoyed him, felt like an intrusion. Richard bent his knees and peered up into Manning's eyes. "Seriously—what do we do now? It's over right? We can move on?"

It was indeed over. Manning could scarcely believe it himself. He'd only known John Doe a short time, but it had felt like an eternity. They shared a special bond, the likes of which he had never before experienced. Something about the two of them was... Manning couldn't define it... simpatico. There was a sameness they shared. Like brothers.

So why wasn't John Doe answering him? Manning knew John Doe was aware of their bond, he felt that John Doe felt it and he knew John Doe could hear him.

Still looking down, in his peripheral vision he saw Richard look past him and shrug at Harold and Lydia.

"Yes," Manning finally replied. "Yes, we can move on."

Outpost was safe now. Everyone still living within its walls was safe. The person who had represented their greatest internal threat, Arnold, was gone; fled for his life, no doubt.

Manning knew he should feel a sense of accomplishment, pride.

So why did he feel such a sense of unease? So incomplete?

"We need food," Richard said bluntly. "Like... we need it right now. Your buddy kept us trapped in here way too long. We'll be lucky if we can scrounge enough from the food stores for even one more meal, and that's with more than half our people gone."

John Doe and his army were nearly out of sight, passing the last bend in the road and heading up the hill toward the intersection where Manning, Richard, and Justin had begun their wild flight toward Outpost's gate when this all began. And now Justin was with them, headed back the way they'd come, presumably toward John Doe's ship—a ship Manning would never see.

"Sir," Harold cleared his throat, "we also need to decide what to do about Arnold. We need to know whether or not we should go after him. He could get hurt out there."

"Or worse—he might hurt one of us out of spite," Richard grunted.

The last of John Doe's followers disappear over the hill. A pit opened in Manning's stomach, like the wind had been knocked out of him. He focused inward, trying to find some sense of closure. It was done. He'd swayed the opinion of an entire community and although blood had been spilled it could have been much, much worse. The army he'd helped build was headed for what might perhaps be the most important battle in the history of the planet. If not for him, John Doe might never have found the troops he needed, might have still been trying to recruit enough people when the aliens came. He'd done well.

And still... still... something bothered him. Something big.

"Sir?" Harold asked again.

Was Harold talking to him? No one had ever called him "sir" before, not for any reason.

"Don't call me that..." Manning murmured. "Call me Manning, or Hugo." Behind him, he heard Harold's layers of thick, protective clothing rustle like an unasked question. "I don't have..."

Manning wanted to say he had no idea, that Harold should ask somebody who had more experience, a better grasp of the way Outpost worked, but when he finally turned and looked up he found the entire community staring back at him. Forty-three men and women, that's how many were left. Lydia had taken a count.

Of those forty-three remaining, every one of them was waiting for him to tell them what to do. The message was clear: Outpost was his now.

And he didn't want it.

He took a short, reflexive step back. This wasn't what he'd signed up for. Yes, he had expressed a desire to stay, to be part of the community and help rebuild it, but he had no desire to lead them.

A soft hand on his arm made him flinch.

"It's okay," Lydia told him. "These are good people, and we'll help you. Me, Richard, Harold... we're not going anywhere. We love this place and would do anything to protect it." Manning swallowed loudly, still facing the crowd. "But we're not like Anders," Lydia continued. "We're not as strong, smart, or decisive as he was. Like you are."

Manning wanted to roll his eyes, but what was the point? Strong—what did that even mean? Strong compared to what? Compared to who?

He might be strong compared to them, but so what? He wasn't from here. A coward like him didn't deserve to be in charge. All he'd ever done since the Great Rains was run—first, to Detroit because he knew there would be others there to help him survive, then running from John Doe, crashing his car like a buffoon in a desperate attempt to get away. And finally, running from his responsibility to help John Doe save the world.

No, a coward like him didn't deserve to be the leader of anyone.

"She's right," Richard slapped him soundly on the shoulder. "You may be one of the freakiest freaks I've ever met, but you're a good man, Hugo Manning, and I'll follow your lead."

Manning was shaking his head, the refusal already on his lips, but Harold quickly spoke up.

"As will I," the guard captain said. "I'm with you, Hugo."

"As will I," one of his guards echoed, and soon every person in Outpost was voicing the same sentiment.

"We're going to be okay," Lydia assured him, her hand still on his arm. "You're going to do great."

Shit, Manning groaned silently.

# # #

Be sure to leave a review!

Outpost, Book Two now available!

Sneak Peek at Volume 2

John Doe, they will join us. The people of Outpost will agree.

Randal sneered and scoffed out loud as Manning's telepathic message reached him.

'John Doe'—what a ridiculous alias, and even more ridiculous that someone as powerful and intelligent as Hugo Manning would believe someone from another planet would choose it. But then, that was the point, wasn't it? In a time when there was already so much outrage, an outrageous story was easily believable—at least that was the logic used by the leaders of the New Republic.

So far, they'd never been wrong. Outpost was the eighth settlement Randal had used this story on, and it hadn't failed yet. There had been close calls, much like what had happened with this community, but in the end every town made 'the right choice.' Every citizen agreed to join John Doe's army, their outrage at an unseen enemy from an alien world always overcoming their fear of becoming a black-eyed monster.

Randal's lip curled. If they only knew.

His name was not John Doe. He was not from another planet. And there was no impending alien invasion. He was an alpha; an evolved human so far up the evolutionary ladder that even the genetically enhanced, black-eyed betas were cavemen compared to him.

The rest of the human race—those whose gene structure prevented them from any chance of evolving into anything more than what they were—were ignorant, every last one of them. But then he shouldn't be surprised. After all, they were sub-humans, easily and necessarily manipulated. They simply could never possess the mental fortitude to comprehend that the world was now a better place. Although many alphas at first had seen the Great Rains as a catastrophe, an accident of historic proportions—and it had been an accident—they'd quickly changed their minds once they realized the benefit of a world-reset.

The meek may have inherited the Earth, but that didn't mean they had to remain meek; they could grow, evolve, which is exactly what Dr. Sergei Kleinfelter's serum had enabled them to do.

The Great Rains, horrific tragedy though they were, had taken the next step on behalf of the world: they'd culled humanity. Originally designed as a test to see how strong the immune system of those with the Kleinfelter gene was, no one could have predicted the speed with which the seeded clouds had expanded and multiplied. The clouds were supposed to have been contained in an enormous atmospheric chamber built on a remote, hundred-acre plot of land high in the Smoky Mountains near Gatlinburg, but something had gone wrong. Somewhere in the enormous structure, there had been a breach. The toxins had escaped and when they did, they multiplied infinitely, expanding and creating a network of cloud cover that became worldwide in matter of hours.

Dr. Sergei Kleinfelter's research might have been to blame for the apocalypse, but in the end it had been a blessing, a gift of inevitable fate, and the fact that it had been unintentional made it that much easier for those who survived to move on to the next chapter, which before the Great Rains would have been unthinkable.

Those survivors, the leaders of the New Republic, now had one purpose: the repopulation of the planet.

Only one half of one percent of the world's population had survived, but that wasn't the main issue facing them. One half of one percent was still thirty-five million people; more than enough to start over.

The New Republic's goal to evolve the human race meant it was mandatory for every human who possessed the Kleinfelter Gene to receive the serum. The side-effect didn't show up right away. But the ramifications were huge. The problem—silver-eyed alpha or black-eyed beta—every single one who received the serum became sterile afterward. Not a single child had been conceived by any evolved beta- or alpha-human to date.

And that was another reason why Randal's job as slaver was so vital. Not only did he search out, convert, and bring back every beta he found, but he also alerted a second team—the Acquisition Team—to come and take control of whatever community he'd just left. It was their job to make sure every sub-human female was captured and sent to Nashville—now the sub-human capital of the world—for insemination. There, they would live out their lives in the dorms and birthing houses, doing their duty to propagate the human race, and to provide Dr. Kleinfelter a constant, steady flow of new test subjects.

The taking of Outpost had been close to failing, though. Perhaps too close, because of Manning.

Manning was the first alpha human Randal had ever harvested in the wild. Of course, he was aware there was always the possibility of finding one. Even though his official role as Slaver for the New Republic was to round up and inject anyone who carried the Kleinfelter Genome, finding silver-eyed alphas was priority one. There were so few of them, and the world was a big place. If they were going to rule the planet, they needed to find more.

For the alphas have inherited the Earth, Randal recited silently.

The problem had been that the small, hand-held bio-scanner/injector Randal used didn't have the capability to differentiate between alpha and beta carriers of the gene; it could only alert him that the gene was present. The scanner's one hundred yard scanning range made his job very easy for the times he needed to maintain the element of surprise, but the indicator was just a simple green light/red light display.

Randal would have followed protocol, abandoned his small catch of black-eyed betas and brought Manning directly to the leadership, but by the time he realized Manning carried the alpha gene, it was too late. By then Outpost had already been found and marked, and because of its size Randal was under strict orders to bring back every one of its citizens who could be converted.

He chuckled. It had certainly been a shock when Manning had awoken for the first time and stared back at him with his silver eyes. For a brief moment, he'd panicked, nearly losing control of the betas bound to his will. What a stroke of genius from the leadership that he make Manning a part of the taking of Outpost—an unwitting participant in the lie that would lead to their voluntary surrender and subsequent indenturing of whatever sub-humans remained afterward. And a good thing they'd made that early decision. Manning possessed far too much of a conscience to ever willingly become part of the slave trade. Manning wouldn't see that the ends justified the means. He was too connected to those he still saw as his equal, still too conditioned by the standards and ethics of the old world. There was no way he would truly understand until he had a chance to speak with the Leadership, to tour New Gatlinburg and see the society Dr. Kleinfelter was building. Only then would he understand that, like Randal, he was now a king among kings, and all others were beholden to them.

Randal rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, sighing contentedly. What a fortunate man he was—truly, a winner of the genetic lottery. He could have ended up one of the thousands of black-eyed beta-humans, forced to live a life of toil and testing, traded from alpha to alpha, sometimes on nothing more than a simple whim.

Yes, Randal had a job, but he chose it. He was a slaver for the New Republic not because he'd been assigned to the position, but because he enjoyed it, enjoyed the freedom his work afforded. Aside from the short periods of time he spent in New Gatlinburg dropping off groups of betas he'd captured and converted, there was never anyone looking over his shoulder, and no one other than himself that he was responsible for. True, it might be argued he was responsible for the betas he took, but it was such a minor thing; they didn't need to eat, and they literally didn't move unless he gave them permission.

Still, even after stealing their free will, the betas were some of the luckiest humans left on the planet. At least they would live. Dr. Kleinfelter's serum afforded many assets, altering them into something so much better than they'd been. Superhuman strength, near miraculous healing, and communication through telepathy were chief among those assets, but those assets came at a price.

The injection, administered at the top of the spine where it met the brain stem, had the unfortunate side-effect of disintegrating the recipient's vocal cords. Unfortunate for the betas, anyway. For alphas like Randal, it was a gift. A bonus to his already dominant control of what he knew was a lesser species of human. Not only did it render them mute, it also left them vulnerable to the alphas' ability to control their minds.

If only the sub-humans—humans who should have died in the Great Rains, those who weren't born with the Kleinfelter Gene—could be controlled in the same way, life would be so much easier for a slaver like Randal. But alas, without the telepathic link, control could not be achieved. Those humans, those who were now 'the old normal,' were too far down on the evolutionary ladder, and were only about as useful to alphas and their agenda as tits on a boar.

His next steps would have to be careful ones. He couldn't reveal the truth, couldn't take Manning back with him, not yet. If Manning knew what was in store for them he might actually consider retaliating and that would be a problem, especially if he realized the extent of his new power.

Randal felt a momentary tug from one of the betas, a pang of animosity aimed his way. Without turning he lashed out, mentally latching onto the mind of the one who'd had the audacity to think for itself. He forced his will on it, squeezing with his mind until he felt the beta writhing in pain, silently begging for his forgiveness. Only then did he let up, but not completely. The offending beta—Alice? Ahhh... of course it was her, obviously she would still hold some vestige of loyalty to her dead husband.

Perhaps she even held Randal responsible for his death? She would learn. They all would.

Mentally shrugging as Outpost's front gate laboriously swung open, Randal sent out a command to his army to remain where they were. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his hand around his bioscan injector, the feel of the worn metal handle reassuring in his grip.

His wait was over. Today they would finally leave this wasted place, and when they did he would have more than tripled the number of betas under his control.

The leadership would be well pleased when he arrived with this latest herd.

About the Author

Matthew Keith is originally from Michigan and now lives in Kentucky with his wife, two children, and their dog Elvis.

In his lifetime, Matthew has been author and a restaurateur. He is an amateur musician, sings and plays bass (badly) in a garage band, and writes music in his spare time.

