“ Dead Tideis a fast-paced journey full of zombie mayhem, in which ordinary people encounter the most gruesome monsters, both living and dead. Any fan of zombie fiction should enjoy this page-turning romp.”

—Dr. Kim Paffenroth, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Gospel of the Living Dead, Dying to Live and Dying to Live: Life Sentence

“A militant zombie novel that, like all good zombie novels, bares the predatory nature of mankind. [ Dead Tideis] a wonderfully brutal debut for Library of the Living Dead.”

—D.L. Snell, author of Roses of Blood on Barbwire Vines

STEPHEN A. NORTH

AUTHOR

Also by Stephen North:

Beneath the Mask

ISBN 978-1425925888

A novel published by arrangement with the author.

©2008, 2009 Stephen A. North. All Rights Reserved. ISBN-10: 144864304X ISBN-13: 9781448643042 LCCN: 2008908234

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

HOW LONG IS THIS ZOMBIE THING GOING TO LAST?

It has exploded across the board—from movies to fiction to comics to video games and beyond—and the zombie renaissance has shown no signs of waning, even in a market inundated with the undead. Like the world in Romero’s quintessential films, the world of horror is overcome by the walking dead.

So what gives? Your garden-variety zombie, it would seem, is just a shambling corpse that devours flesh until the inevitable bullet to the brain. A one-trick pony with little potential, right? Wrong. The modern zombie fan and the modern zombie storyteller both know what Romero knew back then—that the zombie is so, so much more. It’s about more than a monster. It’s about a world that the monster lives in, and the grim reflection that Man sees upon looking into its face. Whether set a century after the outbreak, as in my novel Empire, or right at the beginning of the end—there are universal themes that beg to be explored, and there are endless directions in which an undead yarn can go.

Stephen North’s tale of a Florida peninsula overrun by the undead shows us the best and worst of mankind, both before and after the nightmare catastrophe. It’s not just about the radical behavior that a zombie outbreak precipitates; it’s about people’s ugliness in the world before. And it’s about how dramatically persons on both sides of the moral divide can change in what may be their final hours.

From its unique setting to its parade of memorable characters, Stephen North’s Dead Tide gives us what the best of zombie lore gives us: a cross-section of humanity from the perspective of the author. And that’s just one reason why neither this novel or the greater zombie phenomenon is going to simply fade away.

See, this zombie thing will last as long as there are great stories and great storytellers. You hold an example of both in your hands.

FOR A NUMBER OF REASONS he finds it difficult to see, but chief among them is the protective mask over his face. Fortunately it is the newest model, a fairly sleek piece of rubber with large binocular lenses. Even so, he can feel a film of sweat forming on his forehead and cheeks.

As the helicopter drops lower, the haze hanging over the small town becomes apparent. The northern side of the town is enveloped in roiling smoke and flame. The chopper banks right and circles clockwise in toward a parking lot that is the landing zone.

“Get ready Jacobs,” the pilot says over the headset.

Jacobs takes off the headset and puts his helmet on quickly. The other men around him are already tense and poised, ready to go. The chopper settles, hovering about a foot off the ground and men begin to jump to the asphalt from the open doors on either side. Jacobs is last and the chopper is pulling up even as he jumps. He lands fine, and quickly takes a knee, with his M-4 carbine held up to his cheek. He activates the laser sight.

Roughly fifty yards away are a line of storefronts. From left to right they are: a Chinese restaurant, a liquor store, a grocery store, a pawnshop, and a beauty parlour. Some cars off to his left are still parked in orderly rows, but not those near the front of the grocery store. Two cars and a pickup are locked together burning just ten feet from the store’s entrance. Jacobs can smell gasoline. Broken bodies and shattered glass litter the ground. A state trooper’s cruiser is parked on the sidewalk at the entrance to a liquor store. No sign of the trooper.

Jacobs glances to his left, and activates his mike. “Headcount!” Each of the five men sound off over the headset. Right now, each is in position in a circle perimeter with roughly ten meters between each man, all facing outwards to cover each other.
“Listen up. We’re going to leapfrog up to the store’s entrance. Booth, Hicks and Lepski will go first. Shell, Watson and I will follow. Got it?”1

“Yes sir!”
“Then move it!”
Shell and Watson move up on either side of him. A second or two later, the other three men sprint toward a camper with a horse trailer. They cover the twenty or so yards without incident. Booth kneels at the rear of the trailer, Hicks at the middle in between the trailer and camper, and Lepski at the front of the camper.
“Go,” Jacobs orders, and his men comply, scrambling to follow him as he sprints left of the trailer toward a scorched yellow minivan.
Somebody with an automatic weapon opens up, firing several bursts that tear up the asphalt all around him. A shot whines past and another tears a gouge across his right thigh. Breath rasping, he makes the final few steps and falls near the rear of the van. Shell and Watson drop beside him a moment later.
“You hit, Sarge?” Shell asks, leaning over him. He too is breathing hard.
“Just creased along the thigh. I’m more pissed off than hurt.”
“Yeah, who the hell is shooting at us?”
“Not sure, but it sounded like a Thompson.”
Watson looks up. “You mean that World War Two submachine gun?”
“Yes. Did either of you see where the shooter was?”
“I think it came from the liquor store, Sarge,” Watson answers. “You want me to put some stink on him?” He hefts his light machine gun like a toy.
Jacobs shakes his head and laughs. Putting some stink on someone has been the big joke lately. “Be ready in a moment to do just that.” He then keys his mike. “Booth, you and the others be ready to lay down cover fire for me and Shell. We’re going to rush the storefront. Think we got a shooter over at the liquor store. Copy? Over.”
“Roger,” Booth replies. “Whenever you are ready, Sergeant, we are too. Out.”
“Ready Shell? Let’s go!”
Gunfire erupts and the tinted glass windows and door of the liquor store shatter. Someone leans around the police cruiser. Before Jacobs can fire, several rounds hit the guy and knock him flat on his back. Jacobs keeps running. The crease stings with every step but is manageable.

2

Suddenly the fire slacks off, and he and Shell run past the guy near the cruiser. Sure enough there is a Thompson in his hand, and bullets have literally riddled his body.

Just some crazy fuck trying to stay alive.

His boots crunch on the broken glass as he hits the remains of the door at a sprint.
His boots slip in a big puddle just inside the door, and someone just inside grabs his protective jacket and the suspender for his ammo pouch as he falls backwards. A snarling, snapping nightmare straddles him. The carbine is lost. Where is Shell? Can’t see, but he has one hand on the thing’s throat and the other struggling with its ripping fingers. He can feel his equipment belt coming apart. The thing lunges and his hand on its throat can’t stop it. His mask almost comes loose with the impact of the thing’s face.
Oh Jesus, it’s chewing on my mask!
So weak. No energy to fight much longer.
A shot rings out, deafeningly loud. The weight of the thing falls away.
“Fuck Sarge, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t draw my pistol quick enough. I couldn’t use the Ronson here, or I’d toasted you both.”
“No problem Shell, I think I’m all right. But this mask has to go. I can’t see a stinking thing.”
“That woman was chewing on it. Probably saved your life.”
The suction is too great for a moment, and the rubber resists, but it comes free bringing almost immediate relief to his sweaty face. Vision returns.
He looks at the mask in his gloved hand. The eyepieces are smeared with blood that is still dripping.
“You said woman?”
Shell nods. “Yeah, it was a woman all right, and if she wasn’t trying to bite your face off, I might’ve been tempted to leave you two alone.”
Jacobs lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t go there Shell, I’m warning you. Now where is my carbine?”
“Have a look yourself, Sarge. Look at her…”
Jacobs turns fully toward Shell, and before he can stop himself, grabs the man by the throat. The other man’s eyes are wide behind the lenses of his mask. “Get moving, Private! Back outside!” He gives the man a push backwards.

3

“Sure thing, Sarge,” Shell says over his shoulder.

Once the other man is gone, Jacobs gives in and looks at the body. She is wearing a light green jogging outfit and tennis shoes. Her hair is long, and a light brown with blonde highlights. His rifle is right beside her.

Wonder what her face looks like? What color are her eyes ? A distant shout snaps him back.
Why am I looking at a dead woman?
Because there is no chance they’ll look back. This one isn’t going

to recoil in fear, hatred, or disgust. No restraining orders. No shouting or screaming.
No nothing.
He feels a tear course down his cheek, and a long shudder wracks his body.
He picks up the rifle, checks it over, then heads for the exit.
Once outside he finds his men behind nearby cars, spread out once again in a circle perimeter, covering all approaches.
Shell stands up. “Are we going to clear the buildings, Sarge?”
Jacobs can see most of the others looking over at him, waiting for an answer.
“No, we’re not, Shell. You are going to burn them.”
“But there may be healthy people still trapped in there. What if some people are still alive? I can’t kill innocents.”
Jacobs lifts his carbine up a bit, and the red dot of the laser sight plays across the asphalt at Shell’s feet. “You heard my order, Shell. I’m getting impatient.”
It is impossible to read the man’s expression behind the mask, but he nods, then steps forward from behind the cover of the minivan. He aims the nozzle of the flamethrower and slowly squeezes the release and ignition triggers, which requires both hands, one on each pistol grip.
There is a roar as Shell directs a jet of the burning fuel up and onto the roofs of the stores.
They’ll thank me later, Jacobs thinks.

4

T HE SMELL OF DEATH AND DECAY would always be with him. No amount of scrubbing or sterilizing dulls it, just familiarity. He only notices the smell when he opens a door. It is so familiar now that he barely perceives it.

He pushes his mop and bucket along a gleaming white tiled corridor and tries to ignore the squealing of the wheels.
This bucket will be thrown away at the end of this shift, he decides.
There is a double door just ahead. A sign to the left of the doors reads: Decedent Storage and Investigations. He holds one of the doors open with his body, and pulls the bucket through. His boss, one of the technicians, stands just a few feet away inside.
“Ah there you are Blank. Table six has a spill… Bastard had a colostomy bag and I didn’t know it. The thing burst all over… Hop to it! Dr. Bastrov will be in soon.”
“It’s Blake,” he answers, hoping none of his irritation shows, keeping his eyes cast downward. He is a small man after all, and his boss is a hulking behemoth, grossly fat but still strong. Christ, he must go three or four hundred pounds… I’d only be in trouble if he caught me.
The man grins broadly, and smacks his own forehead in mock reproof. “That’s right, how could I forget, Blank—Blake?” The grin fades. “Better get your ass in there and clean up or…”
Blake can see a slick of blood, feces and probably urine forming a coagulating stain around a gleaming autopsy table. The corpse is still there, but none of the coroner’s staff is present—just his boss and buddy, good ‘ole Joss ‘the Hoss’ Hawkins. He resumes pushing his bucket toward the table. He’s not my buddy, the bastard hates me.
“I’m going for a cigarette boy, so when you’re finished here I want you to start on the men’s room on the first floor. Got me?”
The urge to sketch a salute is strong, but he forces it down. “Sure thing, boss,” he says and dips the mop into the hot soapy water. Hawkins brushes past him and through the door. Blake can’t help but stand there by the puddle a moment, trying to collect himself. He pushes the mop into the putrid mess, smearing it.

5

There is a violent thud, and he whirls thinking Hawkins is up to something.
No one is there. He finds himself looking at the three tiered rows of storage drawers for Decedents, each one a polished metal sliding tray and most of them containing a piece of dead meat.
What the hell? Is Hawkins playing a joke?
Three or four thuds come from a number of drawers. The pounding comes quicker, and then there is a metallic clatter from behind him. He spins back around, tensing, mop held before him defensively.
He lets out a long drawn-out sigh. “Good Lord, you gave me a fright Doctor.”
The doctor looks at him, and he realizes he’s never seen this sort of expression on her face before: a mix of fear and puzzlement. One elegant eyebrow is arched as she tilts her head toward the noise. Even now, he finds himself captivated by her. Her long, lustrous chestnut hair is up in a ponytail, but the bangs have come free and frame the pale oval of her face.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
He shrugs.
“Call Tech Hawkins right now,” she says. “This better not be some kind of joke.”
“Right away, ma’am,” he says. “I’ll page him.”

THE INTERIOR OF THE CAB IS DARK, except for the dash lights from his radio. The windows are down. His fingers beat a light tattoo on his door in time with Barry White’s Can’t get enough of your love baby. His eyes fall on the cellophane wrapped package on the seat beside him. Not yet, he thinks.

It’s almost closing time for the bars over at Baywalk. He takes a deep breath. I don’t need a cigarette. Trying to quit this time has really been a bitch. Forty-two years old and running out of time to stop bad

6

habits. Too bad now that he’s trying, the game is lost. Too bad… Welcome to the world of the divorced. Why did he have to lose everything to realize he needed to change?

Well, at least now that he’s stopped drinking, the smoking won’t be such a big deal. How clean do I have to be? Of course, giving up distractions is easy when nothing matters anymore.

He looks up at the photo still clipped to his sun visor: His wife is smiling, (but isn’t that a hint of despair in her eyes?) and their three boys, all rambunctious tow heads. And of course, his own face in the picture: a bloated caricature of the way he remembers himself. There is a jowl under his chin, and his cheeks are puffy. Who is that fat man? He hates pictures of himself for this reason. He isn’t the man he wants to be and hasn’t been for years.

A sudden rap of metal on glass startles him up out of his reverie . Damn! I was almost asleep there… The sound repeats and he looks over. A man is leaning down and looking at him through the glass of the passenger window. There is a ring on the hand he’s pounding the window with.

“Hey, settle down,” Graham says, raising his voice. “It’s not locked, you idiot!”
The guy looks loopy and slack-jawed. Was that me before I sobered?
The guy’s hand hits the glass again. Graham thinks about simply pulling away, but business has been slow tonight—real slow. This guy looks like middle fifties and is wearing a nice tailored suit. If he treats the guy right, maybe he’ll be generous.
“Hold on a second, sir! Here I come. I’ll open the door for you.” Graham bales out of the car fast. The guy seems a little slow on the uptake. He looks bewildered and a line of drool hangs from his chin.
It’s hard to judge because of the suit, but the guy probably isn’t muscle big. He’s fat big—probably some hotshot VIP. He snarls something when Graham puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m just trying to help you sir, so if you’ll…” Good Lord does he smell awful.
A big meaty paw—the one with the ring—grabs his left hand away from the shoulder. Graham gives up the hold and tries to back away and yank his hand free. The guy holds on and is… gibbering? Is that the word? What the hell have I got myself into? Maybe I should be calling for help…
In desperation Graham punches a short right jab toward the guy’s solar plexus but it deflects off the guy’s other arm. He feels fingers close around his throat. Graham hears himself sob, then choke as the fingers squeeze.

7

Oh shit! Don’t let me die here!
He’d yell but he can’t breathe. He falls backwards with the guy on top of him. Graham’s skull does a double tap on the concrete sidewalk, and as he fades out he realizes it may be for the best.

TALASKI LEANS BACK IN HIS CHAIR, aims half-heartedly for a trash barrel. He tosses a small aerosol can and it goes in with a barely noticeable clatter. In the room the voices are loud, some seeking to overpower the others. He lets them wash over him, only half-listening. “What’s up Peppers? You don’t look so good,” or “Say Tanner, where’s that twenty you owe me?”

“Hey Dodd, what’s that aroma?” says Yates.
“What do you mean?” snarls Dodd with his eyes narrowed to slits. “You go fishing or something before coming to work?” asks Yates.

He grins while pinching his nostrils closed. “Smells like rotten shrimp.” “I don’t smell anything, do you Talaski?” says Dodd, turning toward
the man sitting behind him. Talaski shrugs. “Might just be your natural
body odor. Is that the uniform you wore yesterday?”
“Okay people that’s enough.” The shift sergeant, Patterson, looks at
his clipboard and frowns. “Three call-outs and Powell’s on vacation.
The lieutenant tells me we’ve had some freaky shit going on all day on
top of that. Looks like it’s shaping up to be a great night, boys and girls.” This elicits a few groans from the assembled police officers. “And shut your stinkin’ yap, Talaski. You, Williams and Dodd will
have your usual sections plus those of our sick fellow officers. Yates will
take Powell’s area. Talaski has a ride-along this evening. Try not to scare
him off. Anybody got any questions?”
“I’ve got one, Sergeant,” says Talaski, raising a hand.
Patterson rolls his eyes. “Save it, Ski, my sense of humor is already
shot for the day. Let’s get moving people.”
Talaski heads toward the door, following the crowd.

8

“Ski, wait up,” he hears Yates say. Officer Jacques Yates, a FrenchCanadian by birth, is a friend. They both slow down. “I can’t believe Dodd couldn’t smell it. You used almost a whole can of that fish spray on his pants, didn’t you? One of these days he’ll catch you, Nick, and then…”

Talaski raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “What makes you think he’ll catch me before he catches you? I’m smarter than you, Frenchie, remember?”

“Oh, what do you know? Luck plays an equal role along with intelligence.”
“How can I argue with logic like that?”
“So you got a ride-along… Have fun!”
Ride-alongs are almost always troublesome. But not this time... “He’s a friend. It shouldn’t be too bad. Maybe I’ll see you later, Jock.”
“Yeah, I’ll look for you.”

T HERE IS SOMETHING FOREBODING about the design of the St. Petersburg Police Station. The resemblance to a fortress seems to be more than coincidental. Keller can almost picture a pencil-necked architect saying, “We were looking for a severe, but functional design,” in a thin reedy voice. Maybe they were looking for intimidating? If that is the case, they succeeded as far as he is concerned.

He crosses 1st Avenue North and walks up the short flight of steps to the entrance to Building One. Just before he enters he glances over at Building Two and its keycard entrance. Security is the watchword here. He notices a smoker’s cage attached to Building One in the breezeway between the two buildings, then he enters the lobby. Off to his right is a large L-shaped desk with civilian employees and a waiting area with a bench and a lot of empty space.

He walks over to the desk. A young woman with pale blonde hair glances up from a stack of paperwork. She smiles at him and says, “How

9

can I help you sir?” She has a Dutch boy haircut, pouty lips and observant green eyes. Altogether a potent package.

He finds himself smiling back. “I’m Matt Keller, the ride-along with Officer Talaski tonight.”
“I’m jealous,” she says. “I’ll be stuck here all night.”
“Maybe I can tell you about it later?” he says, and gives her a cocky smile.
She looks straight into his eyes, and a nervous little smile comes and goes. “I think I’d like that Matt. I’m Amy.”
“Pleased to meet you Amy.”
“Just take a seat out there, Matt, and I’m sure Officer Talaski will be along any time now.”
A door opens just to the left of the desk. It has a card reader slot for access. A voice booms out, “You ready Matt?” His friend, Nick Talaski, is standing there.
Keller grins. “I’d rather stay here and talk to Amy, but I told you I’d go…” He looks up and Amy is blushing.
“Don’t scare this one away, Nick,” she says. “He might be a keeper.”
“You say that now, but his charm wears thin pretty quick.”
“Okay, let’s go Nick, before you embarrass me any more than you already have,” says Keller, noticing the impish grin on Talaski’s face. He knows this is going to be bad. Instinctively, he tries to hurry—
“Man, did you just crap yourself?” asks Talaski in an all too loud voice. “That stench brings tears to my eyes.” He waves his hand dramatically.
Keller looks back once and sees Amy trying to frown, but laughing. “He always blames someone else,” she says.
“Ah, I’m saved,” he says beneath his breath.
“She likes you,” says Talaski, and pushes him through the exit before he can say more.
The two men go out and cross over 1st Avenue North, walk about thirty feet and enter a fenced parking area. There is no lock at the moment, but the door has a place for a shackle.
“Now listen,” says Talaski. “You don’t have any weapons on you?”
Keller smiles. “I don’t have any weapons on me.”
“Remember this: See as much as you want to see. Get involved as much as you want to… Just get out of the car. And, if someone throws a punch at me feel free to join in. Got it?”
“All clear officer!”

10

“Good, glad we got that over. Now, here’s your radio. You aren’t supposed to have one, but don’t sweat it. Just clip it onto your belt like this. Any questions?”

“Is Amy single?”

Talaski rolls his eyes, then shakes his head. “You’re on your own there. I barely even know her.”
“She seems to have an opinion about you…”
“They form one the moment they see me.”
Keller snorts laughter. “Well, that’s true.”

F OR JUST A MOMENT there is nothing but the pain and the leaden weight of loss heavy in his chest and centered around his heart. Grief and hate are at war within him, doing strange things. He tries to focus on the design worked into the grip of the pistol in his hands, and so far his cheeks are dry, but he can barely contain the urge to howl in pain. So he takes a moment or two hoping to clear his mind.

The nearest streetlight is a block away and it flickers. Sometimes during the flicker the light is out close to a minute. The next closest lights come from the houses across the street, but they are few and muted behind curtains. He stands beneath an oak tree and gazes at the small frame house up on cinder blocks. A Dodge Neon is also up on cinder blocks in the front yard. The yard is mostly foot high weeds and garbage of all types is scattered across it. He can’t tell if any lights are on in the house.

Behind him, two blocks away, he can hear cars going by. As always, traffic is brisk on 22nd Avenue South. He hears them only on a subconscious level, because he is focused.

Someone whispers his name in the darkness, then again, “Bronte?” “Be quiet Tracks! Someone hears you and I’ll shoot you first.” Tracks grunts, and is silent, but Bronte can still hear his heavy

breathing. Tracks has had his septum deviated a few too many times and is now primarily a mouth breather.

11

At six foot three and three hundred and fifty pounds, he is a good man to have at your back to be sure, but not especially bright. Still, a lack of intelligence can be a good thing when things get heavy.

“Okay Tracks, do you remember the plan?”
“When you give the word, I knock the door down.”
“Good. Now just wait while I go check out around back.” Tracks grunts an answer. Bronte takes two or three steps when he

hears a scream and dogs barking with a savagery that stops him dead. The sounds all come from the house across the street.

Bronte stops, and turns slowly to face across the street. Should he let this stop him, he wonders. “We’ll wait,” he whispers. “Let’s see if anyone calls the cops.”

Tracks grunts again. Bronte is used to it, so he lets it go. Either the big man understands or he doesn’t. Why worry? He’s been a steady fixture in his life for so long; sometimes he takes him for granted.

“Bad shit going down in there, Bronte. Be best we leave.” “Like I said,” Bronte says, “we’ll wait and see.”
“It’s probably too late, anyway.” Tracks’ voice is raspier than usual.

WHEN COMPARED TO THE SURROUNDING NEIGHBORHOOD and the other strip

stores, the brightly lit convenience store stands out like a beacon. The topmost sign, nearest the top of the flat roof, reads, ‘Sheff’s Food Town and Discount Meats’ and underneath, ‘Cigs, Beer, and Lotto.’ One car is parked near the entrance and three people are standing in front of the laundromat next door. They appear to be female.

The wheels of the St. Petersburg Police cruiser crunch across broken glass in the street and into the parking lot. The driver slows down near the people and says, “Hey you, Dirty Sanchez, come here.”

One of the three straightens up, cupping a now lit cigarette. “All I’m doing is having a smoke, Officer Ski. You got no reason to call me dirty names.” The voice is Puerto Rican accented English with a husky tone. “Are you finally ready to jump the fence?” She steps into the light spilling from Sheff’s. Her face is almost pretty with high cheek bones, a creamy chocolate complexion and full, pouting lips. The small tank top does nothing to conceal her enormous cantaloupe breasts, and her miniskirt reveals a lot of thigh.

“That’s a man, Matt,” Officer Nick Talaski whispers to the man beside him in the cruiser. The other man, a civilian ride-along named Matt Keller, laughs until he coughs violently in a cupped fist. “All three are men, as a matter of fact.”

Dirty Sanchez bends at the waist and looks into the cruiser. “Who’s your beefy friend?”
A voice from the radio cuts off Talaski’s answer. “Three three two bravo copy?”
Talaski answers, “Three two bravo fifty five twenty two.”
“Proceed to location at two three, thirty-six twenty-four. Violent domestic in progress. Unknown weapons. Caller can hear screaming next door. Rescue is staging.”
The cruiser is already rolling as Talaski answers, “Super. En route.”

“COULD IT HAVE BEEN THOSE GODDAMN TURKEY LEGS?” he’d heard his father

ask over an hour ago. His Dad’s voice was always loud. He thought his mother may have answered, but he couldn’t be sure. Most of the time, unless one of his parents stood just beneath the door, he couldn’t hear them. This time his father’s voice came through loud and clear.

“I asked you a question woman. I expect to be answered.”

Daric didn’t like the edge in his father’s voice. Angry was okay, but drunk and angry was a bad combination. He closes his eyes. His mother makes an awful groaning sound and he hears his father say, “What the…” Then from below, the sounds of people struggling, heavy breathing and then his two dogs start to bark. But not for long.

Daric clutches his almost forgotten teddy bear in the darkness and tries not to listen.

TWO DOORS DOWN FROM THE RESIDENCE of Tyrese and Lanita Jenkins, Talaski cuts the engine and the lights on his cruiser. He hands Keller a heavy duty flashlight. “Stay back near the sidewalk. Let me and the others approach the house. The one thing you can do for me is watch for a crowd. If one starts to form and they get angry we’ll need to get the fuck out of here quick.”

“I’ll do it,” says Keller.

Two other cruisers pull up behind Talaski’s. The sound of the car doors opening and closing seems loud. Keller catches himself holding his breath. Two officers exit the vehicles; one is a tall, lanky white guy and the other is a small, petite black woman. Both of them follow Talaski over the lawn and up to the front door of the Jenkins’ residence, a block house with three windows on the front side, two to the left of the front door and one to the right. The far left window and the middle window have air conditioners in them, and Keller noticed stacked cardboard boxes inside the third. Talaski takes the two steps up to the small porch in front of the middle window and the door and steps to the left side. The tall cop follows him and steps to the right. The female cop says, “I’m Williams. Just stay out of the way and keep your mouth shut. If things start to go to hell, just run.”

Talaski bangs on the door, which has security bars mounted over jalousie glass. “Police! Open up!” For a moment or two there is silence, then Talaski repeats himself and bangs on the door some more. There is a faint light coming through the glass door and Keller thinks something moves. He is dimly aware that he has just sighed. Nervousness maybe? “Did you see that Williams?” he hisses. A shape is framed in the light. The doorknob rattles and the door opens in. A man stumbles forward. Talaski and the other cop are barking orders… something about stopping. Williams says, “Oh dear Lord.”

14

The man is covered in blood. A bloody froth covers his nose, mouth and chin. Keller plays his flashlight over him and the man’s face is a mask of red through which the white of his teeth gleam. His arms are extended and he appears to be reaching for Talaski. “Don’t touch me sir,” he says. “Just back off, I’m not kidding.”

The man either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care. He manages to snag Talaski’s left arm with his bloody fingers. He attempts to pull Talaski toward him, and if anything his mouth opens wider and he leans his head forward, questing, teeth snapping together.

“Sweet Jesus!” shouts Talaski. “This bastard’s trying to bite me!”

He reaches for his holster, in what appears to be a mixture of anger and panic. The tall cop seems paralyzed. He keeps looking from the open doorway and back to Talaski. He has his shotgun out and he takes a half step toward the struggling men when Talaski’s gun goes off with a flare of fire. The shot is loud and it catches the man in the throat. He staggers back against the wall of the house, but almost immediately he springs forward again, as if unharmed. Maybe Talaski missed, Keller thinks, while stepping toward the porch. He clutches the flashlight like a club and takes a step or two before Talaski fires again. This round plucks out an eye and topples the now lifeless body off the porch. Keller reaches the porch as Talaski shouts, “Dodd, check for vital signs and give Keller your shotgun!”

“Fuck if I’ll give a civilian my shotgun, Ski!” Dodd shouts back.

Talaski looks hyped. He starts toward Dodd, but is too late. Keller slaps the taller man hard and yanks the shotgun from his hands. “Do what Ski told you, and I’ll bring you your shotgun back in a minute.” Dodd appears too shocked to reply. His eyes are wide and he is grinding his teeth.

“Police!” shouts Talaski and kicks the door in. Glass shatters. “Where are you?! Come on out!” Talaski faces a small living room with a terrazzo floor and an area rug in the middle of the room. One recliner and a couch are against the far wall facing the front door and a 32 inch TV is immediately to the left of the door. To the right is a doorway. The TV is on.

Talaski approaches the doorway from the left. Behind him, Keller is following, breathing maybe a little too heavy but not enough to drown out the voice of a reporter from the TV:

“I’m Al Connors with a special news bulletin. My crew and I are here live at the intersection of U.S. 19 South and Fifty-Fourth Avenue South. Just an hour ago Police exchanged gunfire with a militant hate group known as—”

15

Talaski and Keller lose the rest of the commentary as they rush through the doorway and into a dining room beyond. There is a nice wooden table and four chairs. A newspaper is scattered across the table. To the right is a counter with three stools overlooking a kitchen and to the left is a hallway that apparently turns left. Talaski stops with both arms extended, hands cupping his pistol, looking into the kitchen. Keller moves quickly behind him to cover the hallway. He has the flashlight in his left hand, turned on, and the shotgun held in his right.

“For the love of Pete, ma’am,” says Talaski. “Stand up and move away from the dogs.” Keller looks over. He realizes that Talaski only whispered. Maybe she didn’t hear him. He is a bit startled to see a woman on her knees. She’s chowing down on something that looks like raw meat.

“Jesus, she’s eating the dogs,” says Keller. “Let’s get out of here.”

The woman looks up, as if irritated by the sound of their voices. Blood and fur are matted on her face. She is still chewing as she climbs to her feet.

“Get back on the floor ma’am! I won’t tell you again!” Talaski is shouting with a bit of hysteria. The woman’s only response appears to be a higher level of alertness. Was she in some kind of trance while eating the dogs? She is on the other side of the table but is edging around, eyes darting between the two men.

“You aren’t going to bite me, bitch,” says Talaski and aims his pistol between her eyes, as if hoping to scare her. He takes a step or two backwards and suddenly she is coming at him, faster than Keller thought she would, bloody fingers reaching—

The shot is loud. The woman’s head jerks sideways and she stops in mid-stride. Keller notices a small hole just above her left eye. Her body crumples, striking a chair on the way, and is still.

“Good shot man,” is all Keller can think to say.

Talaski lowers his arms. “This is shaping up to be a very bad day.”

16

“GOODNIGHT FRANK.”

“Good morning, Trish. See you tomorrow.”

Trish smiles. Frank always corrects her. The bouncer is always a big comforting presence. Even now, he stands in the doorway of the bar, watching her, waiting until she is safely in her car. A consistently pleasant man is always a shock to her. The parking lot is pitch black and nearly empty, but he never takes chances. Maybe all he is doing is admiring her rear, but he sees a lot more of her while she is working than he could see now.

She looks at her cell phone as she leaves the building, pushing any button to get the light to activate. Two fifteen a.m. She is a petite blonde with small delicate features and sparkling blue eyes. Well… sparkling for the first two or three hours anyway, but right now her legs are hurting, especially the knees and feet. She can never get home fast enough.

Her car isn’t much. Maybe it was once, but not now. It is a 1995 Mercury Cougar XJ-7, with a V-8 engine, a fading cherry red paint job, and a slight transmission problem. Also, the odometer, the power locks and the power windows don’t work. The windows do with help. The night is cool enough to make using air conditioning ridiculous. She grabs her keys from her purse and opens the door. The interior dome light is also out. She slides into the seat and waves goodbye to Frank. From here, all goes as usual. The engine starts smoothly, the interior dash lights work and she backs out of her space.

The club she works for is simply called Desires, and is on a service road beside U.S. 19. At this hour, on a Wednesday night, the road is barely lit and empty. All the customers left a half hour ago. Most of the other businesses are only open during daylight hours. The road also goes only north, in other words just one way—the wrong direction for her. Her home is in an unincorporated area between St. Pete and Pinellas Park that is south of here.

17

With roughly two hundred feet between her car and the place to make a U-turn, she spots something in her headlights. It looks like a group of men; they are off the road gathered around… something. It is the parking lot for a hole-in-the-wall bar called, “Dirty Dent’s.” Several motorcycles and pickup trucks are in the parking lot. It looks like a fight. Yeah, they’re fighting, she thinks. I need to get out of here. She floors the Cougar, and there is a brief sluggish increase in speed accompanied by the roar of revving rpm’s, then the car fish-tails a bit as the big engine responds properly and gathers speed. As she passes the group it looks like they are following her: pale shapes caught in her headlights. She is panicking now, and stands on the brake, afraid to miss the turn but even more afraid of the men now chasing her.

She slows down just enough and takes the turn cleanly with a squealing of brakes. Another block up she can see a street light shining down on her ramp. Something hits her trunk and she floors the gas pedal again. The engine lurches, once, twice and again catches its rhythm. She is up to fifty, then fifty-five in seconds. Thank God it looks clear, she thinks. What a shitty night!

She turns on her radio. Maybe there is something on the news...

WHEN HE HEARS THE VOICES OF THE POLICE, he wants to shout. Maybe they

can stop his parents from hurting each other and the dogs. No words come. Surprisingly, he finds that he can move, but his vocal cords seem paralyzed. He takes off his shoes and leaves them on the bed. He carefully lowers a socked foot and then the rest of his body to the floor and lies face down with his eye to the crack.

For a moment all is quiet, but then a strange noise. Is someone — his mother maybe—eating something? It sounds like his father eating ribs after a few beers. Smacking lips and a grunt or two come from the direction of the dining room.

Several gunshots ring out. He is startled but only for a moment. There are footsteps, maybe boots in the house below. The police are inside. Should he call out?

18

Then he can hear the voices of two men. The figure of a big blonde man appears in the hall doorway. His shoulders, arms and chest are enormous and he is holding a shotgun one-handed and a flashlight in the other. He’s wearing blue jeans, sneakers and a windbreaker. He looks around briefly then turns back into the dining room.

The two men exchange remarks with each other, something about dogs, and then he hears a man say something like: “You aren’t going to bite me, bitch!” and then once again there is a gunshot. Something hits the floor. The big man says, “Good shot.” The other man’s reply is too low to understand, but then he enters the hallway. He has a pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other. “Anybody here? Is there anybody else here? I don’t want to hurt you. Just come out…”

Daric shakes his head. The police have finally come to his house. His friend Jeff always told him it would happen sooner or later. The other man is wearing a police uniform but no hat. He too is a big, solidlooking guy, but a little smaller and thinner than the blonde man. His hair is going gray at the temples and he has a very serious face. The blonde guy has a nice face. This smaller guy looks angry.

No way. They will have to find him. He isn’t about to come out now. The angry guy approaches the door to the second bedroom.

PEOPLE FROM ALL OVER THE NEIGHBORHOOD are gathering around the Jenkins’

house. Despite the presence of the black cop, the crowd is muttering. The tall, lanky cop is on his car radio, frantically calling for something. His eyes are wide and disbelieving.

“That PoPo be on the edge, Bronte. Bronte!” says Tracks.

Bronte barely hears him. The wail of an approaching ambulance and another police car suddenly cut off and a moment later both vehicles appear, driving slow with their revolving lights still on.

A group of twenty or more people stand within twenty feet of the two officers who are still outside. “Hide your shotgun, Tracks. Let’s go join the crowd. Don’t do anything unless I tell you to.”

19

Most of the crowd appears to be people from the neighborhood, but a few are bums, probably crack heads. At the moment, things are on a knife edge. He can hear the female cop trying to calm people down, but someone is getting in her face, a woman…

“Janicea is stirring things up again, Bronte,” says Tracks. “I know,” he answers. Janicea is part of a local hate group. She is tall and athletic, with a mane of frizzy reddish hair framing an ironically beautiful face. Her physical beauty is now merely a mask for all the ugliness of the unrepentant zealot, but it wasn’t always so. He can remember a time when she didn’t live to hate. He and Tracks are close enough to hear everything now, standing just two people behind Janicea.
“That’s one of our people dead over there, Officer Williams. You saw Officer Ski shoot him and you did nothing. He executed Tyrese like a dog—”
Bronte pushes his way to the front. “No Janice, that’s not what happened.”
Janicea turns toward him, and he wonders if she remembers. She looks furious and very caught up in the moment. She is wearing a low cut blouse and her chest is heaving and her eyes are bright and he can feel the old chemical attraction still there… but does she?
“How do you know what happened…” and whatever else she was about to say is lost. Does she recognize him?
“I saw the whole thing. Tyrese was shot down because he came out the door like a rabid dog, trying to bite. The officer defended himself.”
The crowd is silent.
At the corner of his eye, Bronte sees someone move. It’s the tall lanky officer. He is abandoning Williams and heading for the ambulance and cruiser that have just arrived.
“We got us a couple of heroes,” he hears Janicea say. “War heroes fresh from mother and baby killing over in Iraq… What’s a couple of heroes doing here with normal folks? They must be crusading down here, my brothers and sisters. They down here saving white men—”
“Shut the fuck up Janice,” he says.
“Watch out Bronte,” says Tracks out loud. “She got some Haters with her.”
Bronte looks and they aren’t hard to spot. There are three of them, all big men. One is holding a brick and the other two are holding clubs, and all with hate in their eyes. None can get to him before he can draw his pistol. The one with the brick might be the leader. He is the most aggressive and the closest. Bronte’s hand is on the pistol when a fresh

20

argument breaks out. This time the argument is between the tall cop named Dodd, an obvious chicken-shit and the sergeant who’s just exited the cruiser. Behind them, two paramedics are struggling with one of those rolling stretcher-beds.

“The fucker slapped me and took my shotgun, Sarge. I want him arrested.”
The sergeant, a haggard-looking man with an anchor tattoo on his right forearm, gives him a skeptical look. “He slapped you, James?”
“Hell yes, he did, and then—”
The sergeant cuts him off. “Where are they now?”
“Ski and Keller? They’re still inside the house.”
The sergeant raises a hand to his forehead, and rubs his temple. “Well, you and Williams get control of this crowd and I’ll check on Ski.”
Dodd stands still. “What about Keller?” he says to the sergeant’s back.
“Just do your job, James.” The sergeant says this without turning around as he mounts the porch.
“You hear that Brenda?” says Dodd, to Officer Williams. Bronte notices the disgust on her face as she briefly looks at Dodd. She turns back to the crowd. “Go home everybody… The show’s over,” she says, raising her voice.
Incredibly, the crowd starts to melt away. Bronte is surprised. Janicea waves off her men. She turns halfway toward him, with just the right side of her face in profile. “We aren’t through, Bronte.” He can’t tell if she sounds angry or not. She doesn’t wait for an answer, but struts away in her tight jeans.
“No, we aren’t, Janice,” he replies, and can’t help wondering about the ambiguity of these final words.

21

CLASSICAL MUSIC BLARES FROM HER SPEAKERS, but she isn’t in the mood.

“I need some seventies,” she says, and hits the seek button on her stereo. There is a momentary pause, a static buzz, and she hears a man’s voice say, “The moon is full tonight, and the night is full of crazy things.” There is a long drawn-out sigh and maybe a little chuckle. “If you are out and about tonight, good librarians, maybe you’d better head home.”

What channel is this ? She glances down. At night sometimes you get stations you never get in the day. Her finger hovers over the seek button.

“Yes, you’d better head home and lock all the doors, and load all your guns…”
She shivers. What kind of nut… she has arrived at her turn, the light is green and no one is coming the other way. She has time to say, “Oh shit!”
He is there one moment and gone the next, his body literally catapulting up and over her bumper, hood and windshield. His head hits the windshield and explodes like a watermelon. It happens so fast she has no time to react except for an instinctive hunching of the arms and torso and a scream as her car goes off the road and slams into a ditch.
Something strikes her face and chest. The airbag? She nearly fades out from the pain. Too much pain to move and she keeps swimming in and out of awareness. Someone or thing is pounding on the roof of her car, then the whole car rocks. Through a thinning fog, she hears her door creak. The bag obscures her vision, but there is a louder screech of metal and the tinkling of broken glass. Cold fingers fumble at the bag and find her arm. She hears a moan. The fingers tighten painfully around her arm and begin yanking.
“Owwwww! My seat belt’s still on! Wait!” Another yank and this time she screams. With her free right hand she finds the seat belt clasp

22

and releases it—Just in time to be yanked completely from the car into the arms of a nightmare!

The sour stench of beer and urine envelopes her. The man has her by the left arm, with both hands wrapped around her bicep. His face is something out of a carnival freak show. Something about it is off kilter, a little lopsided maybe, like the skin is loose. His mouth has a sunkenin look that tugs at her memory. Does she know him? Is this the man she hit? He certainly is bloody. His shirt and pants look soaked.

“I’m sorry mister,” she blubbers. “I didn’t see you—honest!” Her eyes are already watering, but now a hot flood of tears pours down her cheeks. She looks around for a place to run. She is at the bottom of an eight to ten foot weed-choked ditch.

He moans again and she sees that one eye has rolled up in the socket. The good eye is wandering over her nearly nude body. Maybe a crop top, short-shorts and sneakers weren’t a good choice for drive home attire this evening. He yanks her arm again and lowers his head, with his mouth open. What? She is too stunned to react. His mouth is on her arm, sucking, tongue wiggling against her flesh. What is that odd sensation, his gums? A sudden realization: he has no teeth. “You sick bastard!” she yells, and pulls her arm free. She crashes against the car, can’t find a grip on anything and finds herself on her back with the man following her. He falls to his knees at her feet and manages to grab her left foot. She struggles, trying to free it, and meanwhile he is back up to his gumming trick. A sudden idea. She brings her left leg back, the top of her thigh grazing her chest, and kicks downward. Her foot catches the freak square in the face and he lets go. She climbs to her feet just as he rises up on his knees. She remembers her karate and gives him a side kick to the head. He flops over onto his back.

He doesn’t move. She gives it a moment or two.
Nothing.
She steps close to him and stomps. Something breaks. Goddamn

Pinellas Park redneck! Just like killing a roach, she thinks.

She waits. Her breathing slows. She can hear the electric hum of a streetlight twenty feet away, the sounds of intermittent traffic filter to her. She takes the time to get three things from her car: keys, purse and gym bag, then she looks for a way out of the ditch.

Moonlight reveals a worn path up and out just ten feet or so south down the ditch.
She looks up briefly. “Goddamn full moon. I should have known.”

23

“YOU SEE THAT?” says Talaski, pointing up at the hall’s ceiling. “Yeah,” says Keller. “Some kind of attic stair, right?”
“Yes. I want you to watch it while I check these rooms.” He waits until he sees Keller nod, then kicks the first door in. He

goes in low, gun moving wherever he looks, pointing the same way. Sees a small bedroom, complete with a bed, dresser, nightstand and a TV mounted on the wall. Faded football banners and awards cover the wall to his right. A doorless closet gapes across the bed from him with only a handful of clothes hanging and a lot of empty hangers. No one is under the bed.

“Clear,” he says, and exits the room. Takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. One more room and the attic to go. No sweat. At least he has a friend who just happens to be a trained soldier at his back. Just thinking about doing something like this with Dodd for a backup gives him the creeps. “You’re doing just great, Matt,” he says. “We’re almost through.”

“No problem, Nick.”

The next door isn’t shut firmly. A mere touch will probably open it, but he kicks anyway. No one is there. There is a king-size bed, two dressers, two nightstands and a couple of nice paintings. A soft, palegreen carpet covers the floor and cream colored drapes hang in front of two windows. There are two doors. One is open and leads to a large bathroom. There’s a sink, bathtub and toilet but no people in there. The second door must be a closet. The doors are wood and slatted. They are made to slide open on a track. If he kicks them, more than likely they won’t open, but will just shatter.

The tension is building within him. He goes to one knee and looks under the bed. Nothing. In the background, almost below conscious thought, he feels arthritic pain in that knee as he stands back up, but manages to ignore it. He walks around the bed and pauses beside the doors. He grasps a small wooden knob and pulls. The door folds

24

accordion-style and he sees a big walk-in closet, shoes on the floor and clothes hanging on all three sides. Empty.
“Clear,” he says again.
Keller is still watching the attic door. There is a pull cord hanging from it. “I’ll pull it open,” he says, “and you be ready to shoot if you have to.”
Talaski nods. Best to get this over quickly.
Keller gives a mighty heave, probably overdoing it, and the door opens out and down into place. It is in fact an attic stair of good construction. It would probably take Keller’s three hundred pound plus frame.
Nothing happens.
“Dark up there,” says Keller.
“Yeah,” Talaski answers. He points his flashlight up and sees a section of wood frame. “Be right back.” He takes the stairs as fast as he can.

THERE IS ONE WINDOW IN HIS ROOM, no screen, just a window. It faces the back yard and a Norfolk pine tree. The tree is so close that its branches must be trimmed occasionally to keep them out of his room. The roots are also causing a problem with the house’s foundation. He knows this because it is a frequent argument between his parents. There never seems to be the money to get the tree cut down and removed. He doesn’t want this to happen anyway. He loves the sound the tree makes when the wind blows through its leaves.

Down below, he hears the angry man kick in the door to his brother’s room. He knows it won’t be long before they find him. His shoes are tied and he has stuffed some extra clothes, a blanket and his pillow in his school backpack. After a moment’s hesitation, he stuffs the bear in along with the other stuff.

His window is open and a little breeze stirs the curtain. “I won’t be afraid,” he whispers to himself. “I can do this.”

25

Somewhere below him, he hears another door bounce off a wall. He reaches out and puts his hands around a thick branch. He can also hear voices in the front yard, and pauses to listen to them. Just some adults yelling at each other. He swings a leg out, steadies himself, and then commits his weight with the other leg. Then the unimaginable happens—the branch snaps beneath his feet and he loses his grip. His stomach lurches as he falls backward…

I N A MOMENT OR TWO, the crowd is gone, leaving only Bronte, Tracks and the two police officers, Dodd and Williams. The paramedics have entered the house, following the sergeant. Dodd has wandered over to his cruiser and is talking on a cell phone. Tracks is waiting for Bronte a half-block down by his car. Williams asked him to make a written statement and he has just finished it. He hands her the clipboard.

“Thanks for the help,” says Williams, just as he starts to walk away. “It was just the truth, Officer.”
“Why don’t you apply to the academy before its too late Bronte?”

she asks.
“Too late? What do you mean, Officer?” he asks, hearing the anger
in his voice.
Williams looks at him. She isn’t a bad looking for a woman in her
thirties. He wonders what her interest in him is.
“You know what I mean, Bronte. It’s only a matter of time before
you screw up. Pimping, dealing drugs maybe? The odds are against you.
At least get a job and go to college.”
“You don’t know nothing about me, woman. I’m in charge of my
life. I’m no criminal.”
“If that’s true, what were you doing here when you just happened to
see the shooting? I know you don’t live around here. You weren’t looking
for your brother’s killer by chance, were you?”
He doesn’t answer. He notices that she has a look of… Is that
compassion in her eyes?

26

“Go home Bronte. Give us a chance to find him. It’s our job.”

“You’ve had your chance. Two months is a long time. I’m a righteous man, and I have waited, but no one can find him.”
She reaches out and grabs his arm. “I know your mama, Bronte. Don’t you go and do something that might leave her alone. If you die, she dies with you.”
He pats her arm and turns away. “I’m already dead, officer, but I hear you. Thanks.” He is walking away when he hears what sounds like branches snapping, a child scream and then a thud. He looks back at Williams and both of them run toward the house.

THE GODDAMNED CELL PHONE WON’T WORK. The keypad lights up, but every

time she tries to call she gets the message: “all circuits busy.” She is only two blocks away from U.S. 19, a major road, but at this hour on a weekday everything except the Waffle House and maybe a big motel will be locked up and closed. The road she’s found herself on is probably the seediest section of Pinellas Park. For a stretch of about three blocks, it is nothing but a trailer park, an auto repair shop/junkyard, a couple of old decrepit apartments, and a palm reader. Several dirt roads lead off into a neighborhood to the east along the way.

Presently, she is standing across the street, her back to a derelict building, listening to the dogs bark in the junkyard. There must be five or six of them in the fenced-in area. Apparently she got too close as she ran blindly away from the ditch.

She stands on a porch, under an overhanging second story porch. The building would have some character if it wasn’t falling apart. Her mind is racing. I should just call the cops on a payphone. They are going to catch me anyway, and it was self defense. The dogs are driving her crazy, getting on her already jumpy nerves. I need to get away from the dogs first. She hurries around the corner of the building. Its windows are all boarded over and a lock is on the front door.

27

She pauses at the building’s edge. Roughly four blocks down, across a normally busy intersection, she can see the Halfway Tavern. It is past closing time for any bar in town, but the sign is still lit and she can see lights. The convenience store next door to it is also open. Still, what happened to the stoplight there? It’s out. She can only see that far by the light of the moon, and a lone car that barely slows as it crosses over.

The car decides it for her. She will go to the convenience store and call the cops from there.

A BOY SCREAMS nearby and in his gut, he knows he won’t be in time. Although sturdy, the staircase isn’t designed for two hundred pound men in a hurry. The room is dark, but with the flashlight he sees a peaked ceiling and several wooden crossbeams. He comes in bent over, gun first and the light reveals an empty room and that the only window is open. There is no closet and the bed is built into the wall. He goes straight to the window. He can see broken branches on the tree and high grass in the back yard crushed flat by someone. Just then Williams and a young black man come around the corner. The young man looks familiar, but Talaski is too distracted to place him.

“The voice sounded like a young boy—see the grass! He went that way,” says Talaski.
“We’ll follow him, Ski,” says Williams, not giving her civilian companion a choice. The man doesn’t complain, and both of them follow the path through the grass. Talaski turns away from the window and heads downstairs.
“Give me the shotgun,” says a gruff voice, Talaski’s Patrol Sergeant. He’s an ex-Navy guy named Tanner who isn’t much of a leader. He doesn’t like to make waves, and is only about a year from retirement. Talaski enters the hall just in time to see Keller surrender the weapon to Tanner.
Tanner looks up. He doesn’t look happy. “Did you have to shoot them Ski?”

28

“What the fuck does that mean, Sergeant? You getting too close to retirement or something?” Talaski is about to explode. All tact is out the window.

“Maybe I am, Nick. Maybe I am. What about this guy slapping Dodd and taking his shotgun? What’s with that?”
“Dodd panicked. He froze up on me. Keller was a Reserve MP. He didn’t panic. I went with the flow.”
Tanner’s expression doesn’t soften. “Keller is a civilian now. He had no business doing anything tonight. I may have to bring him up on charges whether Dodd wants me to or not.”
Keller steps forward. “Don’t worry about it, Nick. I’m accountable for my actions. I did what I could live with.”
“I believe you,” says Tanner. “Just stay with Ski for now. I’ve got bigger problems than this on my plate right now.”
“So can we go?” asks Talaski.
“We’ve got problems all over the city. Hang loose for me a few minutes while I make some calls.” Tanner pulls out a cell phone. Talaski notices a bandage on Tanner’s left forearm.
“What happened to your arm?”
“This?” says Tanner. “Some crazy bitch bit me during this problem we had over at U.S. 19 and 54th South about an hour and a half ago. Don’t worry, she barely nipped me.”
“Whatever you say, man. We’ll be waiting outside.”
Tanner grins and flips his phone open.

J AMES DODD IS NOT A HAPPY MAN. Right now his confidence is so shattered he feels dead inside. All because of that ride-along, Keller. He’d never seen a man shot before. Does everyone always react perfectly? That damn Talaski, too, always so smug, so sure of himself. Nobody but the Perp got hurt, so what’s the big deal?

He is leaning against his cruiser, with the driver’s door open. Something makes him look up—A sixth sense maybe? He can hear shuffling footsteps coming toward him.

29

He flicks on his flashlight and points it toward the street. The light reveals a group of people, some walking as if injured or handicapped. Drunks maybe?

“Wha… What do you want? We told you all to go home,” he says, hearing his voice break badly at the end. He can feel the hair rise on the back of his neck and arms.

Something is wrong with these people. He talks into the radio headset mike and keeps his flashlight focused on the people. “S twelve, this is Three Two Charlie, I have a group of people approaching my cruiser.”

Tanner’s voice comes through, almost immediately. “Hold your water… Give me a minute to get there.”
“That’s close enough,” Dodd says, but no one appears to be listening. All of these people are staring at him with a strange intensity. There’s something about their eyes. “They won’t stop!” he shouts into the radio, voice panicky. “Somebody make them go away!” He puts down the radio on the cruiser’s hood and then struggles mentally over pulling his pistol or his Taser. The closest of the group reaches the front of the car and starts to make their way toward him. The first guy is tall, with broad shoulders. He is shaking with some sort of palsy, but staggering along at a pretty good clip. He extends his arms, reaching out toward Dodd, and moans. Meanwhile, others reach the car and follow the first on either side, all moaning and looking at him.
Dodd falls down into the cruiser. Yanks the door closed and fumbles with the lock. The tall guy leans against his door and presses his face against the glass. His mouth is open, revealing large expanses of pink gum and yellow teeth, but his eyes never leave Dodd. With a halfclenched fist he pounds on the window glass. As if by signal, other people begin to pound on Dodd’s cruiser. Many are baring their teeth like… a dog, or wolf, or shall we say a hungry dog or wolf. Hunger: this is the word Dodd has been looking for.
Dodd reaches down to the car’s ignition and turns the key. The engine starts. His hands are jittering all over the place. He grabs the shifter and slams it into Drive. The pounding is worse if anything and now they are groaning… He floors the gas pedal and sees two people fly over the windshield as two more fall beneath the car and are rolled over. For a moment the car careens out of control and he rides up onto the sidewalk and over two trashcans before he regains control and speeds off.

30

SOMEHOW WHEN HE FALLS, he manages to land on his back and the backpack he is wearing. Fear and panic have him up on his feet before he can consider his good fortune. The angry cop is coming.

A six foot high wood fence surrounds his entire back yard, but there is one place he might be able to climb, using the lightning blasted trunk of a long dead oak tree. He runs. Voices from behind and above him complete his panic and instead of climbing the tree he cowers down and attempts to hide himself between the trunk and the fence.

Two people, a man and a woman, stop right in front of the tree, one of them holding a flashlight that allows him to see them. The man is tall and muscular and wearing an unbuttoned shirt over a black t-shirt and jeans. His hair is cut very short, and there is some sort of scar on his right cheek, a keloid scar maybe. The doctor told him that they are very common on black people. Like me, he thinks. It’s something to do with healing on the inside and out.

“He’s hiding behind the tree,” says the other person, a small, petite policewoman. She puts the light of her flashlight right on him.
“Come on out, little brother,” says the man. “The police just want to help you.”
Daric doesn’t move. “What about the angry one?” he asks.
He hears the man snort. “Don’t worry about him. Just come on out.”
“Bronte!” someone shouts. Daric looks up and behind him. He can’t see anything through the slats, but he can hear someone behind the fence in the Vlaslov’s yard. Whoever it is begins to climb over the fence, then drops lightly to the ground very close to Daric.
The man with the scar looks up. “What is it, Tracks?” The cop’s flashlight reveals a huge man, very similar in size to the blond haired man in his house. His hair is cut so short on his head that it is just a shadow on his skull. His eyes have a sleepy look to them, and his nose is a mangled wreck.

31

“The bad PoPo, Dodd, he just ran over some people and took off.”

“What?” says the woman. “You say he ran over people? You mean with his cruiser?”
“Yes ma’am. They tried to break into his car and he drove over them.” The man, Tracks, sounds out of breath. Daric can hear his breath rattling noisily. The woman cop starts to run back toward the front of the house.
“Maybe you better wait, Williams!” says Bronte, turning to follow her. Tracks holds his hand out, and Daric hesitates only a moment, then allows the man to pull him to his feet.
“Best you stay with me, little man. Do as I say.”
“Yes sir,” he answers. The fear deflates what little confidence he has. At least he isn’t completely paralyzed.
“Remember: do as I say,” the man repeats and he yanks Daric up off his feet and settles him up on his shoulders behind his immense, nearly bald head. Tracks breaks into a lumbering run, and for the moment Daric feels safe.

THERE ARE DITCHES less than two feet from the road’s edge on either side, so she decides to walk in the street. Odds are, as dark as it is, she will fall otherwise. She stays on the right lane, traveling southeast. On the right is what must have been a motel years ago, but is now a collection of three rows of apartments. There is barely any room for the cars parked out in front of the apartments, and they are almost in the street.

Everything is black. Either everyone is asleep in this block or the power is out. There are three apartments per row. The first one has a noisy air conditioner mounted in a window that kicks on just as she passes by. So much for the power being out.

In the distance she hears the wail of sirens. Are they going to her accident scene? She stops, hoping to hear roughly where they stop. Two or three cop cars over on U.S. 19, she guesses. They don’t stop, and gradually the sound dwindles with the distance.

32

The tarot card reader is only two buildings up on her left, just past a scrap metal dealer. No lights are on. Usually there is a lit sign out front with the psychic’s name, Madam Khatka. A night or two ago, some wise guy changed it to ‘Madma Khatka.’ Even now, she can feel the laughter bubbling within her, but it is of the hysterical variety. She is too afraid and shook up at the moment to laugh.

She sticks to the right side of the road. A little breeze blows over her and she shivers. She draws even with the last of the apartments and sees that the door is hanging wide open, but it’s dark in there. Wait, idiot! She slaps her hand against her forehead. There is a small penlight on her key chain. She digs in her purse and comes up with the keys. A small purple cylinder the size of a pen is attached to the chain. She flicks a small button and then narrows the beam by adjusting the top near the bulb. The door is swinging in the breeze but a high-heeled ladies’ shoe is keeping it from closing. A little further in the doorway is an overturned lamp. There may be a phone. There may be another freak too. She backs away from the doorway, turning off the flashlight.

Chicken shit coward. She can still hear the voices from her past. Why should a girl have to be brave? She hears the voice again. Because fear can get you killed also…

She turns the light back on and steps over the lamp into the room. A little living room, a sitting room really, is to the right. There are two chairs, a small TV and the end table the lamp fell off of.

She stands still and continues to play the flashlight in a counterclockwise direction revealing a darkened doorway, a small dining set, and a man sitting there pointing a gun at her.

“Have a seat, missy,” he says. “And tell me why you are in my house.”

33

JUST IN FRONT OF HIM, moving a bit too slowly, is the broad-backed figure of Keller, but the moment he hits the front door he jogs to the side, as if aware of Talaski’s impatience. From a block or so away, he hears the squeal of car tires. Out in the street he can see Tanner nearly surrounded by people who aren’t backing off, despite the sergeant’s repeated commands for them to do so. The two ambulance EMT’s are down. People are kneeling over their bodies… Those people closest to Tanner are reaching out as if to embrace him. There is a sudden awful jet of fire and the boom of a shotgun firing, the one Tanner took from Keller. A man’s body literally flies backward with the blast. Tanner ratchets another round and an empty casing ejects.

Talaski draws his .40 pistol, exits the house and bounds off the porch. Three or four people are lying in the street, probably dead. Tanner fires again and this time two people stagger, one falling to their knees and the other nearly catapulting backward. Two other people are on him and he falls backward.

Talaski stops and plants his feet, taking aim with his pistol. Everything retreats into the background, including Tanner’s screams of agony. He can see other people shambling towards him, but for the moment he ignores them. Tanner has dropped the shotgun and is trying to pry one of the people away from his throat. The other person is gnawing on one of his arms.

The sound of the shot is strangely muted. The head of the person going for Tanner’s throat seems to explode and come apart. Talaski switches targets, aims and fires. Another headshot. Tanner shakes the body loose while trying to sit up.

Something brushes past Talaski—Keller! He sprints past. With a slight twist of his over-developed torso Keller clobbers another person with his flashlight. Talaski can hear him roaring something, voice thick with rage.

34

There is only one person left, a woman in a loose white flower-print dress. Talaski notices her hair is in cornrows. She must have been hit by Dodd’s cruiser. He watches as she tries to regain her footing. One leg doesn’t look right and is probably broken. Keller is helping Tanner to his feet and here comes more people. Williams and two black men, one older and one younger. A young black boy is perched on the shoulders of the older, bigger black man.

Talaski feels detached. He realizes Williams is saying something, but he can’t hear her over the echo of the gunshots and a continuous murmur of screaming and pleading in his ear. He realizes his earpiece for his radio is turned way down and he has been too distracted to pay attention to those voices.

Tanner is holding his already injured arm and there is a spreading red stain in the center of the bandage. Keller bends over and picks up the shotgun that Tanner took from him earlier. Tanner doesn’t appear to care as he draws his pistol and walks over to the woman in the flower print dress. He puts the barrel against her head and she snarls something and reaches for his leg.

“Are you listening to me, Ski?” says Williams, sounding disgusted. “Sorry, I missed that,” he replies. “What did you say?” While waiting, he drops the partially used magazine out of his pistol and replaces it with a full one from the pouch on his belt. He slips the other magazine into his trouser pocket.

There is a sound of a shot. Even though he expected it, he still jumps. “I said have you been listening to the radio? Dispatch said that a command center has been set up at Tropicana Field. All units are to break off whatever they are doing and head in.” Maybe it is just panic in her voice, he decides, not disgust.

“Why?”
“Earlier, the mayor thought it best to just keep people inside their houses. Now he thinks there is safety in numbers. There is something seriously wrong with these people. We gotta get out of here!”
“What do you think about this, Matt?” says Talaski, speaking to Keller. “Sounds fucked up or somebody is circling the wagons.”
Keller looks at him. “I got a bad feeling.”
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s pack everybody up and go.” Williams nods, then seems to hesitate. Keller is easing Tanner into the passenger seat of Tanner’s cruiser. Tanner says, “You’re going to need more rounds for the shotgun. Take the keys, there’s more in the trunk. While you’re at it I have five loaded mags of .40 cal back there. Bring them too.”

35

Keller walks around to the trunk.

Talaski notices Williams is still hanging around. “Spit it out Brenda.

Is something bothering you?”
“I’m bringing Bronte, Tracks and Daric with me in my cruiser.” Talaski looks up. The younger black guy is looking at him, eyeballing

him . He’d look tougher if he didn’t try so hard. The other guy doesn’t appear to be looking at anything—It’s almost as if he is switched off. He doesn’t even seem to notice that the kid is still on his shoulders. The boy has to be at least ten years old and probably weighs over a hundred pounds.

“I’m glad,” he says at last. “Call me Ski, if you want…” He extends a hand to shake.
The younger man takes his hand, “I’m Bronte and this is Tracks.”

“TECHNICIAN HAWKINS TO DECEDENT STORAGE.” Blake delivers this intercom message at least twice more before he gets a reaction. Hawkins calls Blake’s phone extension and bellows into his ear. “This better be good Blank! I’ve got no tolerance for bullshit tonight. I—”

Blake cuts him off. “Doctor Bastrov wants you to come to the autopsy room now.”
“Tell her I got five minutes left of my break.”
“She wants you now.”
“Okay, Mr. Blank. I get you. Tell her I’m coming.”
Blake puts the phone in its cradle mount on the wall. “He says he’ll be right here, Doctor.”
“Thank you Mark… it is Mark isn’t it?” she says, trying to smile. She’s on a razor’s edge.
“Yeah,” he lies. He’d tell her anything to see her smile at him like that.
Unfortunately the banging is getting louder, more insistent. Or is the sound just coming from more drawers now?

36

Her smile fades into a look of terror. “I don’t want to know what’s happening in those drawers Mark.”
He stands there, still holding his mop. He wonders what she’d say if he suggested they just leave. My name’s Morgan, and I’m in love with you. Somehow this just doesn’t seem the time to tell her. Precious time is going by, though. Hawkins will be here any minute. I’m crazier than a bedbug and so is this situation.
“I’m going to…” she says, and then Hawkins practically charges into the room. The noise stops him in his tracks.
“What’s going on, Doctor?” he asks.
Doctor Bastrov shakes her head. “We hoped you knew—Is this a joke Joss?”
“A joke? Not that I’m aware of…” Hawkins’ expression has gone from enraged to wide-eyed.
“Mark, watch out!” shouts the Doctor. Blake spins around just in time to see the corpse sit up on the table beside him.
“Mother of God,” says Hawkins in a hoarse voice. Bastrov’s scream is a terrible thing, and Blake wonders at his own centeredness in this situation. I should be out of my mind. Maybe it’s the fact that this thing is so feeble it has no power to scare him? I get emotional over a woman who doesn’t know my name, but stay calm when the dead reanimate? The fact of the manner is this corpse is in terrible shape. It’s looking at them, but is fastened down at the pelvis and the legs. The hole for his colostomy tube really is disgusting, and the drawn hellish look to his face is scary, but…
“I’m getting out of here,” says Hawkins in a broken voice. Blake can’t help but let his contempt show for the much larger man. He can hear it in his voice and feel it in the sneer on his lips. “Maybe you’d better, Hawkins, before I have to clean up after you, eh?”
“You son of bitch, you don’t have the balls to say that to me,” Hawkins says, with his face now contorted by shame and rage. “I’ll…”
“You’ll do what?” says the Doctor. She has evidently recovered somewhat from her initial shock and fear. “Mark could you please tell the switchboard to call the coroner for me? This is big.” She gives him a little smile.
“Sure thing, Doctor, I’ll get right to it.”
She turns toward the big man. “Technician Hawkins, do you think that thing understands us?”
Hawkins stands there a moment, forcing himself to look. The thing stares back at him and opens its mouth in a snarl. “I don’t think so, Doctor, but it does appear to be angry.”

37

“If it was smart, it would free itself, don’t you think?” asks Blake. “Who asked your opinion, Blank?” asks Hawkins.
“Where is this man’s file?” asks the doctor.
“Right here,” says Blake, and hands her a clipboard that was lying

on the floor near the puddle. “No one is answering the phone at the switchboard, by the way.”
“That’s odd,” she mutters, but her attention is already on the file.
“Maybe I should walk down there and check?” Blake offers.
“Yes, do that,” she says. Hawkins gives him a dirty look behind her back.
Blake shrugs at him and stops short. “Heavens to Murga…”
Every corpse in the room is sitting up. Some of them are already standing. There are at least six between him and the door. “Doctor?” he says.
“Quick! Into the observation room!” she shouts.
All three of them retreat into the room and lock the door. Meanwhile the corpses crowd around the door and pound on the window. There’s something hellish—or demonic, even—in their gaze. The eyes, those awful staring, hungry eyes.
“That wasn’t too bright bitch!” shouts Hawkins. “We’re trapped in here. I could’ve run past ‘em. Not now. Oh man…”
Fish in a bowl.

H E SITS IN HIS CRUISER, head back on the headrest, and listens to the frantic voices on the radio. “All units! All units! Proceed to Tropicana Field. We have set up a rally point there… National Guard and Army Reserve troops are…”

The cruiser is parked in front of his apartment building, just one of ten or so off Fourth St N not far from the Howard Franklin Bridge. All is quiet here. But for how long?

For the moment, he can’t make himself move. His arms and legs are still jittery.

38

Another voice cuts in on the radio during a brief lull. “Tyrone Mall is on fire! Officer Lloyd is down! Officer down! Rioters are torching everything! Please assist!”

“This is Dispatch. All units are to ignore that call and report to Tropicana Fie—”
Dodd switches off the radio. “Enough of that shit,” he mutters. He gets out of his car and notices the empty parking space next to his. One of his two titty-dancing neighbors didn’t come home tonight. The roommate’s car is there. Too bad his uniform doesn’t give him any traction with those bitches; either one looks like a guaranteed good time.
“Where are you tonight slut?” he says out loud. “Where are you?”
“Are you talking to me Officer?”
Dodd turns around, and sees a thirtyish guy with a comb-over and glasses with thick lenses. They are the horned rim type and they make him look more like an insurance salesman than a mechanic. He works down at the City Motor Pool. “Not fucking likely Larry, but thanks for asking.”
Larry grins and pushes his nerd glasses back up his nose. Larry is also a first class suck-up, but Dodd likes that. This guy worships him. “I’d like to get a piece of the blond one myself, James,” says Larry. “You’re talking about the dancer who lives next to you right? I keep hoping she’ll come down to Singles Night at the clubhouse, but she never shows.”
“She’s probably a dyke Larry, but who knows maybe you’ll get your chance.”
“Thanks man, but I’ll settle for Debbie over in Dispatch.” He grins. “She’s always a sure thing.”
Dodd laughs. Debbie is big as a house, but everybody needs love. “Are you headed off for work?”
“Yeah, I need to go in early; Cliff wants me to look over the Chief’s car. Something about a transmission problem. My day’s shot already…”
Dodd thinks about warning him, but that might lead to questions of about why he is home early. No way is that going to happen. “Have a good day Larry,” he says and turns away.
“Want to have a few beers later? I got a case in the fridge.”
“God willing Larry, I’ll drink a few with you later.”
“Cool. I’ll see you then.”
Dodd is already walking away, his mind racing. Whatever is going on is sure going to change things around here. At least one of those dancers should be home. Her car is there… and everybody needs love, right?

39

HE CROUCHES BEHIND THE BURNING CIVILIAN HUMMER and tries for a better

grip on the axe, but it’s hard with the gloves on. He lost his helmet somewhere near the mall entrance about a hundred feet behind him, but his anti-flash hood is still pulled up over his nose. The smell of burning gasoline and pork is heavy in the air—Only, it isn’t pork.

It is the smell of roasted human flesh.
He can hear them following him, but for the moment, he is panting for breath. He keys the mike on his two-way radio. “Anybody there? This is Mills and…”
From somewhere nearby he can hear his own voice echoed, and shuffling footsteps even closer! Time to go back into action! He stands and goes around the still warm wreck in a hurry, axe held high. He sees four people. Three are coming right for him while the fourth is getting to his feet about ten feet behind them.
“If you can hear me, back off!” he shouts. Their only response is to focus on him, raise their arms as if to embrace him, and continue shuffling in his direction. Though his arms are trembling, he feels a terrible nervous energy coiled within him. I won’t run. He takes a deep breath—the first, closest one, is about to touch him, and he swings the axe. The blade bites deep and a large chunk of white bone with hair still attached flies off to land in the dirt. The guy staggers and topples to the ground.
The next guy looks like a derelict or wino—Only one that’s had a big hole punched in his throat. Late sixties with long sideburns and slightly bugged eyes. Mills’ first swing on this guy fails to connect, but succeeds in slicing through his tie. He tries again and this time there is a modest bloody spray and the guy’s head flies across the parking lot and rolls under a Honda. The third guy—A police officer, tries to grab his arm, but his fingers slide off of the sleeve of his bunker coat.
The cop is a tall goony guy. His hair is very curly, even though short. He tries for a bear hug and Mills clips him in the side of the head with

40

the axe. The cop drops to his knees, and the blade whistles down and into the tight knit curls.

Mills’ breathing is labored. The fourth person, a young man, hasn’t come any closer. He’s still standing, as if paralyzed, about ten feet away. Mills struggles with the axe, but it is in deep.

“You’re not one of them,” he hears the young man say.

“No, I’m not. Now get over here and grab the goddamn cop’s gun, kid. He’s dead. He doesn’t need it anymore.”
The ‘kid’ is a hulking teenager in a green football jacket that says ‘Green Devils.’ He appears twenty but is probably seventeen, with a brown buzz cut hairstyle which ages him—a little. He’s standing a few feet away looking toward the burning shopping mall. He turns to Mills and says, “I ain’t no kid,” then walks over.
Mills’ bunker coat and pants are spattered with blood. The axe head is running with it. He laughs to himself. Why am I laughing? I must be losing it…
“You laughing at me, Mr. Fire Man?” says the kid.
“No kid, just at the situation. So… what’s your name?”
“I’m Sam Turner. I think my girlfriend may be in there.” The kid stands and stares toward the mall.
“In the mall? Oh man. She might be dead.”
“We got separated. There was a big group of us standing near the south entrance to Sears, you know, on the other side?”
“Yeah…”
The kid seems to lose his train of thought. “You just killed a cop, man.”
“I don’t think what I just killed were still rational human beings. I saw them kill two of my squad mates. They were chewing on them, for Christ’s sake.” Even now, Mills can’t bring himself to think about what remained of his two best friends…
“Yeah, it’s still freaking me out. I’ll get my bat out of my car’s trunk, but I ain’t touching that cop’s body, man.”
“Okay, well I’m going to then. Keep a watch out.” Mills leans his axe against the Hummer, and squats down beside the body wearing a St. Pete Police uniform. The guy’s name tag says ‘Lloyd,’ and there is already a film over his staring eyes… He forces himself to reach down and unfasten the guy’s gun belt. It’ll be better to have the whole thing, ammo, taser, cuffs and all. There’s even a flashlight still clipped to it. He holds the body up and unfastens no less than five clips that help bear the weight of the belt. It is a struggle, but finally he lifts the belt out from

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under the corpse. He stands back up, still looking at the belt, furrowing his brow as he concentrates.
“I’ll get my bat,” says the kid. “That’s my Acura right there.”
Mills nods without really looking. This isn’t going to fit over my fire jacket. If I put it under, I won’t be able to get the gun quickly… He pauses a moment, watching the kid cross over to a white four-door car. The kid holds his keys out and the trunk pops open. I’ll just put the pistol in my bunker coat where I can reach it and I won’t even have to keep my jacket unbuttoned.
He reaches for the front of his coat. Thank God I have this coat and pants. I think it saved me from getting bit.
From somewhere a few miles off, he hears an explosion.
His radio is silent.

“S ONOFABITCH, THAT HURTS,” says Tanner, cradling his doubly injured forearm and wrist. He is in the passenger seat of his cruiser and Keller is driving. “I don’t think the bastard’s teeth broke through the bandages, but goddamn, it was enough to make me bleed again.”

Keller doesn’t know what to say, but mostly he is transfixed by what he is seeing as they drive. They are on 16th St South, and are just coming up on the 22nd Ave South intersection and traffic light. Two cars are burning in the intersection and ten or twenty people are standing on the northern edge of 22nd. Several bodies are in the street, burned to a crisp. Keller and Tanner are in the third cruiser back, with Talaski leading and Williams and the others in the second car.

Talaski’s voice comes over the radio, “Be ready, this doesn’t look good. It’ll probably be best if we just drive through no matter what.”
“I think I broke my wrist when I fell,” says Tanner, apparently oblivious to Talaski. “I can see something moving beneath the skin.”
“Try to relax, man,” says Keller. “We’ll find you a doctor.”
“Fuckers bit me too. I might have something…”

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Keller is trying not to let Tanner get to him, but it’s building. He tries once more to reason with him. “Listen man, I need you to get it together. This isn’t just your typical bad day…” He trails off as he sees people in the crowd throw things at Talaski’s and Williams’ cars. One of the objects explodes just short of Ski’s car, while the other adds to the blaze already engulfing one of the wrecked cars. Flaming bottles—the bastards are throwing Molotov cocktails! Ski chooses to floor his gas pedal and people scatter as he rockets through the intersection. Williams is being more careful and that gives that guy, Tracks, time to poke a shotgun out of a window and fire into the crowd.

“Jesus,” says Tanner. “One of them just dropped a bomb and three people are on fire now.”
“Hold on, we’re going around the other way,” says Keller as the car turns sharply left around the wrecks and arrows down 16th Street after Talaski and Williams. Tanner keeps talking, but Keller has turned inward. He is driving alertly, but the radio earbud in his ear is a constant welter of information, pleas for help and panicked voices. The dispatchers are overwhelmed. Many of the cops have given up call signs altogether and are just using their names… “This is Officer Earnest Potts. Me and Sergeant Mendoza are trapped in Isaac’s Lounge on 34th Street South. There must be fifty psychos outside. We’ve shot six or seven of them, but one of them actually bit Mendoza on the neck. He seems all right. At least the bleeding stopped, but they’re banging on the doors…”
So many tortured voices. He thanks God that he’s been gone from St. Pete for so long. No family to worry about for me. But what if this is happening everywhere? What then?
Tanner’s voice breaks back through. “I think the Dome’s on fire…”
“You mean the Trop?” Keller asks, thinking of Tropicana Field.
“Yeah, that’s it,” says Tanner.

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“I’VE BEEN IN AN ACCIDENT AND I NEED A PHONE…” she says, but the man

shows no reaction. He looks kind of scrawny. The dinette table is made of glass, so she can see he’s wearing cowboy boots, blue jeans and a white sleeved t-shirt. Every muscle in his thin arm is defined with no fat. The skin on his face is tight enough to frame his skull. He has small high cheekbones and a thin nose with flared nostrils. An unlit cigarette dangles from his mouth. The silence draws out.

“I was hoping you’d let me use your phone,” she says, and tries to smile at him. “But why don’t I just run up to the StopGo and use theirs.”
He mumbles something.
“Excuse me?” she says.
He coughs, then clears his throat in a series of painful, nasty sounding hacks. The pistol never wavers. “Pick up the lamp and come in,” he says.
She picks up the lamp and sets it back on the endtable beside the door.
“Good, now come and shut the door behind you.”
“I don’t think I will. I think I’ll just be on my way.” She backs up, left hand trailing along the door, feeling for the knob.
The man stands up and fires the gun. Something zips past her right ear and into the door. The sound of the shot almost paralyzes her.
“Stop right there, bitch. You try to break into my house and I can shoot you dead. Now do as I say, or by God I’ll blow you out of those short shorts.”
I’m in for it now, she thinks to herself. There has to be a way out of this.
He is stepping closer to her, and she realizes he probably is younger than her, he just looks old. Maybe he’s a junkie? “I’m asking nice now, missy. Step back inside and close the door behind you.”
“What’s going on Dickie?” says a brassy female voice from the darkened inner doorway. “You better not got another hooker… Oh hi.”

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The woman comes out looking as she pictured: a brassy big-mouthed fake blond with big floppy tits. She’s wearing a robe, but it is undone to her pubis, exposing the evidence, (so to speak.)

“I’m no hooker,” Trish says. “I just got in a car accident around the corner and I need a phone.”
The woman brays a coarse laugh, and apparently ignoring Trish’s explanation, says, “You haven’t checked her purse for goodies yet, Dickie?”
“Not yet, Alice. You wanna check for me, while I hold the gun on her?”
“Hell yeah, Dickie. Just look at the hate in her eyes! She’d kill us for sure, if she could.” Alice walks toward her. Her lipstick is smeared and her eye shadow is streaked. Her eyes look bloodshot.
“Listen Alice,” says Trish, “You aren’t touching my purse.”
“Well, maybe not right away, gorgeous,” says Alice. “Maybe we’ll play…” She reaches a hand out toward Trish’s chest, and even manages to lay her palm there for an instant before Trish punches her twice in the face and bolts around the door. The surprise on Alice’s face is perfect.
As she sprints away, Trish looks down at the knuckles of her left hand. One is bleeding. “God that felt good,” she whispers and for a moment she grins. She has a good start on them. Her punches buckled Alice’s knees—She was going down for sure, and Dickie would have to come around the table, step over Alice, and then follow her outside.
Trish makes it back to the road and sprints southeast down the dark two-lane road. She knows there is enough light to see her, but if she runs in the grass she will probably break an ankle. Thank God she spends so much time in a gym! Even though her adrenaline is really pumping right now, she doesn’t have much trouble evening out her breathing and finding her rhythm. Breathe in, then exhale, and repeat while her feet faithfully carry her away.
“Bitch, you won’t get away from me that easily!” Dickie shouts, but sounds far away. Her purse is slowing her down, but she has it tucked like a football under her left arm, with the strap still wrapped over her shoulder. The keys with the penlight are clenched in her right hand. She can see the moon, full and shining with a yellow glow just above the rooftops of an old derelict package store that is just behind the convenience store with an old Chevy Malibu parked in front. The lights are on, and there are two pay phones right there, just left of the doorway. Just the length of a football field separates her from her goal.
From far away: “Biiiiitch!”

45

EACH BLOCK NORTH TAKES THEM FARTHER AWAY FROM HIS BROTHER’S KILLER.

They are barely a block from the intersection with the burning cars, when Williams pulls over to the curb. Bronte doesn’t say anything. What do you say? Her whole body is shaking and she is crying. Tracks and the boy are in the back of the car, so it is up to him.

“This isn’t just a riot,” she says.
“No, it’s not,” he replies. “This is the end.”
He looks up. The cop, Talaski, has pulled over at the edge of the

next intersection, while Keller has pulled in behind them. “I have to go home. My husband and kids are sleeping through this.
I can’t go to the Trop. I’ve got to try to save my own people—my family!” “I understand. I’ve got people to take care of, too.”
“So, what do we do—split up? I think we’ll all die without doing
anybody any good, then.” Her eyes are red and watery, but he can see
she is making an effort to keep it together. This one’s tough. “Tracks and I will stay longer. What’s happening downtown and
around the Trop can wait.”
“What if we are too late and…” her voice breaks.
He reaches out and takes her face in his hand. He looks in her eyes.
“We don’t have time for what-ifs—we gotta be cold. You understand?
Even our little man Daric will have to be, or we are all dead.” He lets her
go and turns to look into the backseat.
Daric is sitting up in his seat with his backpack on his lap. Tracks is
slowly feeding shells into his shotgun. Bronte looks into Tracks’ sleepy
eyes. He raises an eyebrow and nods toward the boy. Tracks ratchets a
round into the chamber.
“He be ready,” Tracks says.

46

HIS BUILDING ISN’T NEAR THE WATER, but it has a view of the pool, some woods and part of 4th Street N. He has to walk around the pool to get there from his parking space. He can hear the hum of the pool pump as he walks past the stairs that leads to the second floor, and turns into the half-enclosed corridor that leads to ten apartments. Each has a window and a door with a number. Number Eight is vacant. Number Nine is home to his favorite fun-loving titty dancers: Nina and Jackie. And of course, Number Ten is his.

Should I kick their door in or knock?
He hears music before he reaches the door to Number Nine. He also notices a bar of light falling from a gap in the curtains. He stops, and puts his face up to the window, even with the gap. Now he hears the murmur of voices, laughter. He’s looking into a living room. There is a big screen TV directly across from the window, against a wall about fifteen feet away, and a couch just below the window. For a moment he is riveted by the TV. He feels his heart rate pick up.
Something is buzzing.
The slut is watching a porno! Oh man, this is perfect… He finds himself getting lost in the moment. A beautiful blond woman is kneeling unzipping a man’s pants with one hand while she squeezes something large hanging down one pants leg… But what is that annoying buzzing sound, he wonders… It sounds so close. He looks down and sees the blond-haired head of his neighbor and a lot of golden, toned skin. She is sprawled on the couch below him, just on the other side of the glass, wearing only a brief pair of white panties. She’s holding something—a long white object. Dodd can feel his face flush, and well, it’s not the only area of his body experiencing an increased flow of blood. This woman is killing me!
He makes himself stand up. He walks over to their door, takes his flashlight out and knocks on the door with it. Each knock is hard enough to dimple or chip the paint.

47

A moment later the door opens… and there she is! His beautiful, kinky blonde neighbor, Nina.

The bitch didn’t even turn off, or pause the movie! He feels the confidence that led him to knock on the door begin to ebb… He watches her face, watching while recognition fades almost immediately to distaste. It is always there, like she smells something bad or like she is prudish and he did something vulgar. The really brutal part is watching her stand there with a blanket held in front of her, but almost as an afterthought. He can see almost her whole left breast, and a lot of silky smooth skin. Is she daring me to do something?

“What do you want James? I’m watching a movie.”
“Er… I can see that. Can I come in a moment?”
“It’s not a good time, James.”
On the TV screen behind her, a man has joined the kneeling woman

and they are pushing the man to the floor. “What kind of filth are you watching Nina?” he hears himself say and pushes the door open over her protests. He can hear something in his voice, but can’t put his finger on it. “Maybe we do need to talk, Nina. Have a seat!”

He savors the shocked look on her face. Almost anything is better than the disgust. “And let’s see you without the blanket…”

HE TIRES OF WAITING AND GETS OUT OF HIS CRUISER. For the moment the street

is quiet. His eyes feel scratchy, which is normal. He’s once again gone beyond the point when he should be sleeping.

Williams rolls her window down. He can tell she’s been crying. “You okay, Brenda?” he asks.
“We’re going to check on my husband and kids, Ski. I can’t wait any longer.”
He thinks fast. “Do you want to meet somewhere after?” he asks. “We all may need each other later.”
“We’ll meet you at BayWalk, that’s pretty much in between. How’s that sound?” says Bronte.

48

Talaski leans down and looks into the car. “That’ll be fine. Take care of Brenda, okay?”
“Take care of yourself, Officer Ski. Tracks and I are professionals.”
Talaski laughs. “I’ll remember that. See you later.”
Williams rolls the window back up and does a U-turn. They take a right turn down an alley and disappear. Probably avoiding the trouble at the last intersection.
Keller walks up. “They aren’t coming with us?”
“They’ll try to meet us at BayWalk later. She’s going back for her husband and kids.”
“So we’ll continue on…”
Talaski’s cell phone is ringing. He raises a hand to Keller to hold on, and answers the phone.
“You say we shouldn’t go to the Trop, Debbie? Why?”
Talaski’s face is gray. He listens for a moment or two, then says: “Get out of there and go home... Maybe I should come and get you?”
He listens. “Okay, I’ll call you later. Thanks for the heads-up.” He closes the flip style phone.
“What was that about?” asks Keller.
“A friend of mine… A dispatcher just told me she’s leaving. She told me to stay away from the Trop. Everything’s going to hell but the mayor and the chief think this will just blow over.”
“So, are we still going?”
“I think we should. I want to know the situation first-hand. Where is Tanner by the way?”
Keller shrugs. “He wasn’t feeling well at all. I left him sleeping in the front seat.”
“Well, let’s see what he thinks and then we’ll decide.” Both men start walking back to the cars. Talaski opens Tanner’s door and the sergeant doesn’t stir. He reaches down and grabs the man’s shoulder and gives it a shake. Nothing. “Sarge, wake up. We got a question for you.”
Talaski looks closer. “Oh shit,” he says. He puts a couple fingers on the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse.
“What?” asks Keller.
“He’s dead.”
“What from? People don’t die from a bite unless they bleed to death!”
“They do if they’re poisoned. Maybe these people are infected with something and their bite is poisonous.”
Keller looks dumbstruck. “Maybe his heart gave out. I bet that’s what happened.”

49

Talaski bows his head. “Maybe it did. Help me get his gun belt off. At least you’ll have a back-up weapon now.”
Keller helps Talaski pull the body from the car. They lay him on the sidewalk. Keller lifts the torso upright and Talaski starts to unfasten the stays attached to the belt.
“We aren’t going to leave him here, are we Nick?”
“No, we’ll put him in the trunk for now. Guess we’ll bury him later.”

SHE REACHES THE INTERSECTION. The light is blinking red facing her and the 62nd Avenue light is blinking yellow. She stumbles out onto the street, looking both ways. There is no traffic in either direction. There are several cars and motorcycles still in front of the Halfway Tavern and only one in front of the convenience store. Which way to go?

Her breath is whipsawing and she can feel sweat at the nape of her neck and sliding down her forehead. It feels like her legs are cramping. She forces herself into a shambling run toward the convenience store. Most of the windows are covered with beer and lotto ads. The car out front is a battered once white Chevy Citation with a Jesus is Lord bumper sticker. She could use Jesus about now. Another choice plagues her: Do I use the pay phone? No way, half the time they don’t work and…

She plunges past the phones mounted on the wall and pushes on one door. Locked! Tries the other and it opens in. Half of the store is blocked off with wet floor cones. She can see and smell the wax and bleach. A narrow strip of dry floor has been left free to the register area and to the other side of the store. Music is blaring from a boombox perched on the register counter.

Sudden inspiration makes her spin around once inside to lock the doors. Light spilling from the building only allows her to see to the edge of the parking lot. She fumbles at the doors. “Help! A man is trying to kill me! Can anybody hear me?!” she shouts.

No one answers.

50

The damn locks need a key. Maybe Dickie isn’t following anyway. She drops her purse beside the radio and sprints around the counter, stopping abruptly at the sight of red—red spattered everywhere. The coppery scent of blood reaches her nose over the cleaning smells. Where’s the body?

“Fuck, oh fuck,” she is chanting to herself. “Where’s the goddamned phone?”
There, just under the counter, beside a slotted opening, is an old fashioned corded phone. She seizes it, and Oh God someone’s blood is all over it, squats down keeping her eyes on the front door. There is a dial tone. She punches 911 on the keypad.
She counts the rings. Anything to keep her mind focused. There are six before a recorded voice tells her, “Please stay calm and a dispatcher will be right with you. This is a recording… Don’t hang up. Please stay…” Her mouth is so dry and her legs are trembling. Heaven help me. The cord isn’t long enough to move far. I can’t squat on my heels like this forever. I’m going to have to stand up, or hang up. There is nothing under the counter that appears useful. There are cartons of cigarettes, somebody’s soda cup still dripping condensation; a rack of porno mags, the lotto machine and rolls of scratch-off tickets… A voice answers the line: “Police department, can you please hold?”
“No, I can’t fucking hold, please!” she hears herself scream.
“Stay calm ma’am, we have our own problems here,” says the voice, a young woman’s. To her growing horror, she can tell the woman sounds as panicked as she does.
“Please, I’m trapped, and—”
“And I’m just office help down here. Half the dispatchers went home. Tell me where you are and I’ll try to get some help to you.”
“I’m at the…” What is the name of this place? She stands up and something whines over her head followed by the sound of imploding glass and a gun shot. Trish finds herself on her knees, ducking behind the counter. Someone is making a whimpering noise. Oh God, that’s me…
Glass crunches. Someone is breathing heavy. “I’m here, bitch. I told you to stop.”
More glass crunches and pieces skitter across the floor. “I even asked you real nice just to sit down. Alice wanted to be friends with you, even…”
Can he see me? she wonders. Very carefully she slides forward closer to the counter. The blood isn’t sticky. Isn’t it only that way when it’s fresh?

51

“Why do you whores always lie?” His voice sounds like he’s standing just on the other side of the counter. “My-my, that’s a lot of blood back there behind the register. You coming out from there, or am I going to hurt you?”

She looks up, and he is there leaning over the counter, gun pointed right at her, grinning. “Oh yeah, we’re going to have some fun. First hang up the phone.”

She hesitates. In her ear, she hears: “Now listen, just pretend to hang up and set the phone on the floor. I’ve got a Tech working with me now. We’re trying to trace your call…”

Trish looks into the lunatic’s eyes and sets the handset in the cradle. “Smart move, missy. Now stand up slow.”
She ignores the command, and sits back on her butt, heedless now about the blood. “No, come and take me here. If you really want me, you’ll come take what you want.” The little voice from her past has taken over, the survivor voice. She has no plan, but maybe this separate part of her does.
“You are one kinky bitch. I’ll say that for you.”
One thing she has learned to do is to disconnect. The percentage of attractive men that she sees, when working, is pretty low. Most are bearable, but every now and then she gets a real creep. I am an illusionist, a magician…
She allows her mouth to form a pout, even as he grabs her by the right arm and yanks her to her feet. With his right hand, he holds the pistol under her chin. His face comes close to hers. Onions. Why can’t they ever have good breath? He lowers his head and she feels his lips on her neck. His free hand has slipped underneath her crop top. He pinches her nipple. What use fighting him? She leans back against the counter. This guy is actually trying to be tender. That he wants her even though she’s covered in blood disgusts her, but the evidence is there: she can feel a medium-sized erection against her thigh.
She hears a thud, but can’t see where it came from. She’s on her back now with her top up over her breasts, but still under her arms. He’s undone her belt and is fumbling with the button and zipper on her shorts. She hears a feminine groan.
Dickie turns his head just far enough to speak over his shoulder. “Is that you, Alice? Just wait, you’ll get your turn.”
She hears another moan or groan, and then a small, dainty hand grabs Dickie’s shoulder. The nails are fire red and perfectly manicured.
“Let go Alice. I done told you to wait your turn…”

52

The hand gives a savage yank and suddenly Dickie is spinning sideways with the woman’s hand still gripping his shoulder. Dickie says, “What?” He drops the gun as he begins to struggle with the woman, who isn’t Alice. She must be the missing clerk—she’s wearing a smock with a name tag that says ‘Leesa.’ There is a bloody stain centered on her chest, but otherwise she appears okay, if a little pale.

“I wasn’t gonna hurt her, I swear,” says Dickie.
The woman snarls and goes for his throat—with her teeth! “Noooo!” wails Dickie. “Help me!”
The spell is broken. Trish thinks: I can move. She kneels quickly

and grabs the gun—some kind of revolver. Meanwhile Dickie is losing his battle with Leesa.

She moves around the counter, just as Dickie slips in the blood and goes down on his back with the woman on top of him. She grabs her purse. She hears a liquid gurgle.

Heart pounding, she hits the door at a sprint and it bangs open. Momentum carries her off the sidewalk onto the parking lot, and she doesn’t even think twice. The lights of the Halfway Tavern shine like a beacon.

THE SPRINKLERS ARE ON. The air is full of spray, mist and swirling smoke and the floor is covered with puddles and streaming water. I am brave. He tells himself this over and over as he and the boy, Sam, advance into the mall. “We should be wearing masks, you know that Sam? If we get into an area where the smoke is concentrated…”

“Yeah, I know, but we’ll just stay low, right Mister?”
“That’s right. If you feel light-headed or dizzy, get low.” “Can do. God, I can’t believe this is happening…” The boy sounds

lost and maybe sad.
“I don’t know, Sam. I’ve been in and out of the Twilight Zone so
many times now—This is just a little extreme.”

53

They are well into the main corridor now. The entrance to Sears is off to their left, while to the right is the first of the smaller stores, and straight ahead is another exit to the other side of the mall. Smoke prevents Mills from seeing more than thirty feet or so in the direction of the smaller stores.

“What do you mean by Twilight Zone?”
“Wait, do you want to try inside Sears first?”
The boy stops, considering. Mills can’t help but think of him as a

boy, no matter how big he is. The combination of youth and innocence… “We ran in through the Salad Place, you know… whatchacallit?” “Yeah, I know, and then what happened?”
“The fire alarm went off and didn’t stop. People started pouring out

of stores. She was there with me one moment and gone the next.”

Mills thinks this over. “Maybe we should see how many people are outside on the other side of the mall, just in case, before we go any further in…”

“Sounds good to me Mister. Say… did you notice?” asks Sam. “What?” Mills asks, slowing down, feeling the fear and tension. His stomach is roiling and he has to bite back on a belch that sends a hot rush of bile up his esophagus.
“The alarm is off. Should it be?”
Mills shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Mills leads the way, toward the entrance/exit parallel to the one they came through. They pass the entrance to Sears. The doors are wide open and they can see most of the store’s clothing departments and jewelry. Clothing racks are overturned, and the body of a large woman wearing a business suit is sprawled face down near the entrance in a welter of broken shopping bags and water puddles.
“I think she’s dead,” says the boy.
“Who? Your girlfriend?
“No, that lady by Sears’ entrance.”
“I’m not sure I could go back into Sears, son. I left two of my friends in there.”
“Who’re they? Guys from your Station?”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t save them. “Those things—zombies or whatever they are—attacked us. I’m the only one who got away.”
Sam nods. “I’m pretty sure Liz didn’t get away either.”
“You think she’s outside somewhere, or down the hall?” Mills points half-heartedly down the mall concourse, toward its center.
Sam looks resigned. “She’s down the hall.”
“Okay champ. Let’s go find her, then.”

54

HER VOICE IS LEVEL. Maybe she realizes that panicking will do no good? “My boyfriend is—”

“Is what Nina?” Dodd asks, and draws his gun. “Let’s try this: He isn’t here when you need him. Isn’t that right?”
“James, I was just watching cable. I wasn’t doing anything filthy. Don’t treat me this way. I just dance. I’m no hooker. You don’t really want to hurt me or do anything bad. I know you’re a good man…”
She’s afraid, he can tell. The gun is freaking her out. “Lie all you want Nina, but I’ve been waiting a long time for this, and hey, maybe we can both help each other out…” He can’t help but laugh.
Guess I’m gonna change careers…
“It’s not too late James. Please don’t do this.” She is still pleading all the way up to the point when he slaps her. She collapses like a rag doll and tries to curl up into a ball.
“Oh no you don’t Nina. We’re going to have some fun.” He grabs a long slender arm and pulls her to her feet. He crushes her against his chest. Her robe has come undone. He has only to look down and lean back to see everything.
“What kind of fun James?” asks a voice from behind him—a male voice. Dodd freezes. He still has the gun in hand, but is of course facing the wrong way. “Just let her go James, or I’ll make you wish you had.”
There is something in the guy’s voice that doesn’t sound convincing. “You got something to back that up?” snarls Dodd, turning around. “I’m giving you a chance. Just come around here and take a seat on the couch.”
“And what happens then?”
Dodd doesn’t hesitate. “I let you and the bimbo live.” He pivots quickly, gun ready and the guy is vanishing through the door. Dodd freezes. What the hell do I do?
If I let the guy get away…? A long minute passes by. The people on TV are arguing, voices full of hate.

55

He crosses swiftly to the door and closes it, locking both locks. Nina is still lying on the floor on her back. He picks up a pillow from the couch. “Here,” he says kneeling over her, and takes a moment to brush a strand of hair from her lips. “Sweet Nina…”

He puts a pillow over her face and presses down hard. The ensuing struggle doesn’t last long…

All the way to her house, she is crying. A late reaction to everything going on, he wonders? Her right hand is on the seat, while she drives with the left. He puts his hand over hers on the seat, then looks out the window. Many houses and apartment buildings are burning. Even when there isn’t a fire in sight, the glow is there throwing flickering shadows. To complete the hellish atmosphere, there seems to be a fine black ash swirling around in the air.

“I appreciate you all staying with me to find my family,” she says, giving his fingers a squeeze.
Tracks rumbles from the back, “None of us are any good alone now, Officer Williams.”
“Call me Brenda, and I’m still grateful no matter what you say. You think I did the wrong thing not going to the Trop?”
“No,” says Bronte. “Talaski and Keller can find out what’s going on, while we take care of business. I’m not too sure about Tanner, but I think we can count of the other two.”
She nods, and he can see the tears have dried up for now. She has a fierce look of concentration now. “We need to stay alert. Look over there at that pawn shop.”
Bronte looks up and sees four or five cars and a group of people in front of Han’s Pawn Shop. The front doors are wide open and people are coming out with stereos and televisions.
“We aren’t stopping,” says Williams. “Looks like a bad day for Han.”
“Han can afford a bad day or two, I think,” says Bronte.
“I go to school with his kids,” says Daric.

56

Bronte makes himself face forward. Maybe the boy is coming out of it.
“His son, Richard, is really skinny.”
Bronte catches himself nodding. “Is that right?” he asks, hoping to keep the boy talking.
“Yeah, and he thinks he’s bad cause he takes Tae Kwon Do. I’m an orange belt with a stripe, and Richard is only a yellow.”
Bronte masks a smile, then, as casually as he can, he turns around, “Do they let you guys spar yet?”
Daric’s eyes light up. “No, not yet. My friend Jeff broke his thumb the other day, and my Dad told me…”
The boy’s eyes are dead again, that quick. He sinks back against the seat.
Tracks nods without changing expression. “He be okay, Bronte.”
“Nice try,” says Williams, voice low.
Bronte turns back around. Williams is driving down a fairly decent street with new houses on the left side, and relics from the fifties housing boom on the right. She looks up at him briefly. “We’re here.”
Bronte glances at the sports style watch on his wrist: 3:30. Williams turns right into the driveway of a modest, two or three bedroom ranch house. There is a half circle driveway, a two-car garage and a nicely landscaped yard. A large oak overshadows most of the driveway.
“You want to come in?” she asks. He catches no hint of what she wants.
“Maybe we’ll leave Tracks and Daric here while we go check things out. What do you think of that idea?”
“I like it, Bronte. Thanks.”

57

THREE MEN WITH RIFLES stand just beneath the interstate overpass over 16th Street South. Only one is a cop. Several cars block the road. One is a burning wreck from which a man’s body still hangs from a window. A large group of people are milling around the southwestern entrance to the Trop beyond the makeshift barricade.

The cop gestures for them to stop. His rifle is slung and he’s holding a clipboard. The two civilians fan out while the cop steps up to Talaski’s window. Keller stops his cruiser about twenty feet behind.

“Name?” says the cop with a frown. He has a square jaw, a handlebar mustache and is wearing his service cap a bit too low. He just stands there tapping a pen on the clipboard. The name plate on his chest says: Harris.

“Talaski.”

Harris moves his lips, probably saying, “Talaski” as he glances down the clipboard. “Ah yes, Sergeant Patterson says you are to report to the mayor right away.”

The mayor?
“Don’t sit there slack-jawed Ski. The mayor’s standing right there, near the street in that group of people. See him?” Harris gestures toward the left side of the street near a parking lot—a parking lot that just happens to contain two News vans. Oh yeah, it’s an election year.
Talaski scowls. “Call me slack-jawed again and I’ll hurt you Harris.”
Harris looks startled, then after a moment or two his frown returns. “Okay, tough guy, I’ll remember that. Who’s the guy in Tanner’s cruiser?”
“Tanner’s dead. The guy in his car’s name is Keller, Matt Keller— He’s ex-Military Police.”
“Okay. According to my notes from the log, Dodd and Williams should be with you. Where are they?”
“Dodd ran over some people with his cruiser and disappeared. I have no idea where he is. Williams went home to get her family.”

58

Harris writes something, probably something concerning the fates of his fellow officers. “I’d talk to the Chief about this Keller guy. He’s with the mayor.”

“Sure thing sport,” Talaski replies. Talaski takes his foot off the brake and drives over to the curb by the crowd. Keller pulls in behind him. As Talaski exits the cruiser he notices that many of the people are welldressed with an air of affluence. Two city council members are talking to one of the news teams. Keller gets out, but Talaski waves him off. “Stay with the cars, will you? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Keller nods and leans his forearms against the top of his still open door.
Talaski edges his way into the crowd. A stout, middle-aged executive type grabs him by the right shoulder. “What’s going on officer? Can’t you tell me? The market opens in three hours and I’ve got a lot of trades today…”
Talaski stops and glares at the guy. “Take your hand off me, or I’ll rip your head off.”
The guy freezes with his mouth still working in apparent indignant outrage. “How dare you talk to me… Me, goddamn it, like that? I’ll have your fucking job you…” The guy gets real close, looking up at least two or three inches, and his words spray spittle.
Talaski can hardly believe his luck. This guy is asking for it. He barely cocks his arm, the distance is so short, then snaps a jab to the guy’s jaw. The guy straightens up like a board, lets go of his shoulder, and falls backward onto an elderly couple. All three collapse. In the ensuing pandemonium, a path opens directly to the mayor and Talaski takes it.
People scramble to get out of his way. A familiar face appears, Jacques Yates, blocking the way with his body. He has a long mournful face, that of a hell and brimstone preacher or maybe an undertaker. His hair is buzz cut and he has a very visible five o’clock shadow. “Easy Nick. Take a deep breath.”
“It’s been a bad day Jock. Just let me get this over with.”
“Was that really necessary? Jesus man, those old people could have been hurt.”
Talaski turns. Four or five people are helping the broker and the old couple to their feet. The couple won’t look at him. Perhaps they are sympathetic? However, there is no doubt of how the broker feels. He is separated from Talaski only by the strength of Yates’ arms. “You can’t treat me like this. Who the hell do you think you are?”

59

Yates turns toward him. “Shut up, or I’ll knock you down dumbass.”

The broker’s eyes bug, but he shuts up. He shuffles away, rubbing his jaw.
“Let’s get you to the mayor,” says Yates. “I’ll lead.”
Only a thin screen of people separates him from the mayor and his entourage now. He can make out three more council members, the city superintendent, the local National Guard commander, the police and fire chiefs and the mayor himself. Twenty feet or so beyond them a female reporter and her cameraman have apparently just wrapped up a set piece with the mayor’s group for a backdrop.
A councilman, a gray-haired guy named List, is yelling at the mayor as he and Yates draw near. “I’m telling you Ritchie, these riots need to stop—At all costs. I’ve worked too hard to let some bunch of ignorant…”
Talaski steps forward in front of List and cuts him off. “You wanted to see me, sir,” he says to the mayor. Chief Hadley is standing right behind the mayor, drinking from a coffee cup. He raises his eyebrows at Talaski’s boldness, but says nothing.
The mayor turns to face him, a short man, but vigorous. His brown hair is slicked back and wet looking, and he wears a gray sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers. A cell phone ear bud cord dangles from his ear down under his collar. “You must be Talaski. Good of you to get here promptly.” He offers his hand for Talaski to shake.
Talaski looks at the hand a moment too long, but takes it just as the mayor is pulling it back. When he looks up, the smaller man is glaring at him. “I’m going to overlook that, officer, and I’m going to get to the point. I need you, Yates and three of our cadets to escort two busloads of VIPs to the pier. When you get there, all you have to do is make sure they stay safe. Think you can manage that?”
“Sure thing,” he replies.
“No questions?”
“Nah, I’m sure Yates has already been briefed.”
“I’m counting on you and Yates. The chief speaks highly of you.”
Bullshit. I work the second shift. He’s never around to get to know me or anyone else. Talaski grins. “We’ll take care of them, sir.”
“Excellent! Now chief, where were we with the power problems…” The mayor turns away. He nods at Yates and the two of them retrace their steps through the crowd.
“Excuse me officer,” says an insistent voice at his elbow. It is another guy in a suit, a tall, thin Asian guy with longish hair. Only this one is holding a microphone and has a cameraman behind him recording everything.

60

“No comment,” says Talaski, not breaking stride.

“I’m Al Connors, with Action Eye News, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Fuck off. There’s my answer.”
The man is outraged. “Now wait a minute! Are you trying to lose your job, Officer? We’re live!”
Talaski’s face is red, and his jaw is clenched. “Say one more thing to me, and I’m going to feed you your buddy’s camera. Take a walk.”
Connors stops, and turns to his camera. “There you have it folks! Fires are raging out of control in several neighborhoods, power is out on Coquina Key island and much of the South side, and our police are over the edge… I witnessed that Officer, I can’t pronounce his name… but I witnessed him punch out a civilian moments ago. I’m sure he’s not a good example of the average St. Pete cop… Back to you, Denise.”
“You believe that guy?” says Talaski to Yates as they near Keller and the cruisers.
“You must be having a shitty night. I got pulled early. I’ve been here at the Trop since nine or so. That trouble at the mall started early and has escalated. The mayor’s sending some of the MP Reservists over there to check things out. We lost touch with anybody there roughly an hour ago.”
“You kidding me? And that bastard thinks this is just rioting or something?”
Yates shrugs. “Isn’t it?”
“Listen my friend. This is big. Out of control big. We need to talk, but I need to go by the station first. If you’re smart you’ll go with me.”
“You aren’t coming with us to the pier? Are you crazy?” Yates emphasizes his agitation with an elaborate waving of his arms.
“I want some heavier duty firepower. Listen to me Jock. These bastards don’t give a shit what happens to you.”
“Still, I must perform my duty. I am responsible for those cadets and the citizens we are escorting.”
Talaski raises a hand as if to ward him off. “Okay, Jock. Keller and I will catch up with you as soon as possible. Hopefully I can get you equipped as well.”
Yates stares at him. “Okay. We will wait an hour for you to return. It will take that long to get these people loaded on the buses.”
Talaski turns to his cruiser and sees Keller already climbing into his.

61

S HE IS RIGHT BENEATH THE SPRINKLER but they won’t let her move. I’m soaked to the bone. This can’t be happening. She tries to keep her eyes on the tiled floor, but it is hopeless. Her thoughts are a confused jumble and her nerves shattered. At least the fire alarm has been turned off, but then why are fires still burning? Where are the police and firemen?

Why didn’t I stay home and watch that Kiefer Sutherland series? She knew the mall was about to close, but she needed shoes for the weekend. That she is still here and in this situation is too much to contemplate. She looks at her watch and sees that it’s nearly four a.m.

I’m about to be raped, murdered or worse by a bunch of Goths . She is kneeling along with four or five other people in front of Macy’s in the enclosed center of Tyrone Mall. There is a fountain nearby, some potted plants and numerous benches. The ceiling overhead is made of metal framing and windows. The mall itself separates into three different arms, one facing south, one east and one west. The north side is the entrance to Macy’s. She knows there is still a fire burning in Macy’s. The smoke is still mingling with the fire sprinkler water and the air is hazy.
He must be the leader. She knows his name is Webb. The other members of his gang call him that often. His skin is as pale as a nice linen paint, youthful and seemingly without blemish. There are too many earrings to count, but she thinks the one through both nostrils is the worst; it isn’t a ring but extends like a toothpick roughly three inches on each side along his cheek like a strange metal mustache. He is dressed all in black, from the beret on his head, the unbuttoned long black trench coat to the combat boots on his feet. She can see a black t-shirt and black leather pants beneath the coat. He isn’t looking at her for the moment, but over at two of his companions. She knows their names too: Tim and Monk. There are five others with them, four girls and one other guy.

62

Tim and Monk are holding mops and are using them to poke and prod two young women. The two women are bloody and pale themselves. Both look like they’ve suffered terrible wounds… but neither appears to notice their injuries, frightful as they are. Each time one of the women tries to get to her feet, either Tim or Monk clobbers them with a poke or a wallop to the head that sends them flying. Both of the girls seem to have endless energy and keep getting back up.

“I can’t believe it,” says Tim loudly.
“What’s that?” says Monk.
“I spend most of my life hoping someday to become a vampire and

I end up worrying about becoming a zombie instead. What’s with that? I want to be smart and undead, not a hungry cretin who happens to be undead.”

Monk laughs. “Stop it man, you’re killing me!”
Tim’s eyes are crazy. He isn’t joking around in her opinion. She can see him working himself into a real anger. “Neither one of these bitches would have even looked at you or me before, Monk, but look at them now. They want us bad.”
Webb takes a step toward them. “That’s enough fucking around. Molly and Heidi should be done in the jewelry store any minute. You saw what happened to Randy. Put the zombie bitches down for good— now!”
Randy. Why did I have to see that? Even now she can see his body lying beside the central fountain. How does that saying go… the one her ex-husband used? Oh yeah! He died bad. He was arguing with one of the security guys—some hotshot twenty-year old trying to look tough with handcuffs and a can of mace on his belt. It was pathetic how the security guy, who was basically an empty uniform, tried to confront the big, muscled red-haired teen.
“Yeah, I saw what happened to Randy, Webb. I saw him break that mall cop’s ass,” says Tim. “He punched his ticket all right!”
Webb nods. “But he’s just as dead isn’t he?”
“Yeah, but…” One of the zombies manages to grab Tim’s ankle. He isn’t a big guy and she yanks his feet right out from under him, and he’s falling backward. Tim’s head strikes the tile floor with a smack. Monk shouts. The girl is pulling herself along Tim’s prone body.
Webb pulls a small handgun from his coat. He sights carefully, left hand cupping the right hand that is holding the gun. “Monk, get out of the way!”
Several more of the gang members shout. “Here comes Molly and Heidi!”

63

Monk is too distracted by his unconscious friend. The other girl makes a grab for him and he barely rolls away from her. The other zombie is now straddling Tim. Kathy sees a bright flare of light and hears Webb’s pistol bark. The girl’s head snaps sideways with the impact of the bullet and she falls over. Monk is back on his feet and sprinting toward Kathy and Webb.

Webb grabs Monk by the throat. “Slow down dumb ass.” “Let me go Webb! We need to go.”
The other zombie is staggering after Monk. She isn’t moving fast,

but she makes up for it with determination.
“Take the gun, Monk and finish what you started.”
Monk is blubbering. “Hey man, this is all a mistake. I don’t want to

die.”
Webb is merciless. “Take the gun and you won’t. Put her down like
I told you to and we’ll all get out of here.”
Monk takes the pistol. “I never shot a gun before,” he says. He isn’t
complaining about shooting someone, Kathy thinks, just that he doesn’t
know how. Meanwhile the zombie is closer. Webb begins to push Monk
toward her shouting at him, “Do it! Do it!”
There is a crash from inside Macy’s. Kathy turns and sees fire
enveloping the insides of the department store. A wave of heat billows
out. The women with her begin to scream and Kathy turns back around
just in time to see the zombie grab Monk by the shoulders and pull him
forward, as if to embrace him. She hears a series of shots and sees flares
of light reflected from the wet tile floor and on the faces of the two people. “Shoot her in the head dummy!” shouts Webb and that’s when Kathy
snaps. She scrambles to her feet and the woman or girl beside her grabs
her arm. Both stumble to their feet. The other captive women follow
suit and they all scatter, running in different directions.
My car is near Sears, she remembers. The girl is still holding onto
her arm, but appears to be completely panicked. She has a death grip
on Kathy’s arm. Do I need to cut this bitch loose? The savagery of this
thought leaves Kathy stunned, but there it is. She pushes it aside. They
run into a wall of smoke and mist and almost crash into a jewelry kiosk.
Behind them someone fires more shots, but none apparently toward
them.
Both of them duck and run faster. “Stay with me ma’am,” says the
girl, sounding winded. “I won’t leave you.”
You won’t leave me? Kathy can’t help it, she laughs. The girl gives
her a bewildered look. “I was going to tell you…” Kathy trails off. Two men are right in front of them.

64

H E LOOKS BACK ONCE, toward the car, as he follows Williams up her driveway toward the house. Tracks is outside the car facing away. Standing guard. The boy is still in the back seat.

“Maybe I should go?” he says, hoping she will agree. He stands behind her as she unlocks the door.
She turns back around and for a moment they are too close together. She’s married. Her face is almost level with his. There is something in her eyes, her expression. He likes the way she looks at him. “Please don’t go. I may need you. My husband…”
“I thought I should offer.”
“No, don’t,” she says. Are we talking about the same thing? She turns back around and opens the door. He follows her inside and through a short entryway. He smells pipe smoke. The house is dark but a flickering light comes from just around the corner. To the left is a doorway. Williams walks past the doorway and turns right into a large living room. Someone is sitting in a recliner facing away from the door and turned toward a big screen TV tuned to a live broadcast. The picture is a bit jittery, but the sound is clear. An Asian man in a rumpled suit leans toward the camera.
“Al Connors here at the Trop with St. Pete City Councilman List. Evacuees are still pouring into the stadium fleeing several riot torn areas across the city. Councilman, what do you think will…”
The person in the chair holds up a remote and the TV mutes. A man in a faded blue robe and slippers stands up and faces them. He is holding a pipe and trying to light the bowl with a match. Even in the shadows he can see that the man is light-skinned with even, regular features and a well-trimmed beard. Williams’s husband is high yellow? The man also has a sullen look to him. “Brenda?” the man asks.
“Yes Morris?” she answers.
“What the hell is this mother fucker doing in my house?” Morris points his pipe at Bronte.

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“This man is my friend. How could you?”
Bronte forces himself to stand still.
“Tell him to get out of my house—this instant!”
“You tell him that.”
“I will Brenda. I’m not a coward. Don’t push me.” Morris is shouting

now. “Armageddon has come. The wicked must be cast out.”

Morris’ eyes are wild and his thin-lipped mouth is wide in a snarl of rage. Any trace of a dignified man of the middle class is gone. He reaches into a pocket of his robe and starts toward Bronte.

“Don’t do it Morris,” Bronte says, his own gun already drawn and pointed at Morris’ chest. “I just wanted to make sure your wife got home safe.”

Morris doesn’t listen. He keeps coming closer with his hand still in the robe pocket, still ranting and raving. “Why does a police officer need to be protected by a thug like you? Tell me mo—”

Bronte clubs him with the butt of his pistol. The man drops to the floor in a boneless heap.
Williams rushes across the room, and hesitates, as if trying to choose which man to comfort.
“I’m sorry Brenda,” he tells her. “No man calls me that name twice.” While she is caught motionless, still trying to make a decision, he turns and walks out of the house.
“Bronte wait!” she shouts, but he pretends not to hear as he closes the door.

F OR THE FIFTH OR SIXTH TIME, Blake looks into the room beyond the glass and at the ventilation duct access panel in its ceiling. Then he looks at the 6 x 6 inch vent in the room he’s in. No cliché is going to save me. The thought goes round and round as the minutes tick by on the wall clock. Thinking about those things in the other room works for a while. It’s almost interesting to watch them. They aren’t detail minded, or even possessing of any coordination or reasoning to speak of. One of them near the door has his mop in hand and is apparently fascinated by stepping into the bucket’s contents.

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“I’m getting more and more uptight Blank. Know what happens when I can’t take it anymore?” says Technician Hawkins. He puts his cigarettes and lighter on the table and stands up.

Blake is fed up now. “I’m guessing something ugly, eh, just like you Joss? You’re going to do something to benefit yourself.”
Hawkins grins at him, and says, “Come here bait! I’ll use you to distract them, so I can get away.”
The doctor gasps in apparent outrage. “You are no better than they are. Martin is a good man. How could you?”
Hawkins lets his eyes wander down her body. “You’d be surprised what I’m capable of Doctor. The longer we wait here with nothing to eat or drink, the weaker we’ll get. I’m not going to die here.”
It’s Morgan. My name is Morgan. Inside the voice cries out, but on the outside Blake stares impassively across the room at the big man, Joss the Hoss Hawkins. “Okay Joss, if you feel like talking, I’ll listen.”
“You sure are a calm little shit, aren’t you Blank? I thought you’d be pissing your pants.”
“You’re strong, not quick, Joss. Maybe another plan?”
“Nah, I think throwing your ass around this room a few times and then using you for a diversion will work for me. Maybe I’ll take the Doctor with me and maybe I won’t.” Hawkins gets up and starts to cross the room. “I’m gonna swat you like a fly.”
“I think you’re going to sweat a lot and get angrier,” replies Blake in a mild voice.
Hawkins frowns and clenches his fists. He crosses the room with his large back muscles flared emphasizing the v-shape of his torso before it sags into a big gut. He kicks chairs out of his way and tries to corner Blake, as Doctor Bastrov cowers near the door.
Hawkins throws a roundhouse punch that Blake ducks neatly and slips past. Blake’s open hand slaps Hawkins’ cheek hard, and then he fades away before he can be grabbed. Hawkins howls and tries to bum rush him into a corner. Blake ducks his outstretched arms again and slips behind him. He delivers a kick to Hawkins’ ass that sends the bigger man crashing into the wall.
Hawkins stands up and turns toward him. He is breathing heavy and there is a defeated look in his eyes. “Smug little bastard.”
“None of this needs to happen Joss. As a team, we might get out of this.”
“Fuck that. I’ve got you by the balls, Blake!” Each word is uttered in a raspy voice.

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“The sooner you realize you can’t win, Joss, the sooner we can make a plan.”
Without a word Hawkins finds the energy to rush him again, and once again, Blake neatly sidesteps him and ducks out of reach. What the… This time Hawkins doesn’t stop but continues on and grabs Doctor Bastrov by the arms and swings her around.
Blake stands motionless, and closes his eyes.
“Gotcha Blake. I told you I would.”
Oh you bastard… Blake feels like he’s been gut punched. Hawkins has her and they are already beside the door. Its over. The words are already there in his mind. Take me instead. Don’t hurt her. All that is required is enough courage and human compassion to utter them. “Don’t…” he begins and opens his eyes.
“Don’t do it Joss!” she shouts, and it is strange to hear her use Hawkins first name. “Take the little wiggly worm. Look, he’s ready to die for me. Don’t kill me—kill him Joss!”
Blake reels and each word hurts as if she were punching him or erasing all he has held dear. Shut her up, please! Make her take back the hurtful words… Hawkins is laughing. Is that a small, self-satisfied smile on the doctor’s lips, he wonders. I’m nothing to her—just a little wiggly worm. I’ve been lying to myself, living in a dream world.
She looks back at Blake with a pitying expression and Hawkins opens the door. He yanks her off her feet and one pale hand with red fingernails grabs the door frame. She shrieks and Blake is running, despite it all, feeling panic cover over the grief as her hand disappears and the door is left open. Through the window, he sees it all, Hawkins using her like a shield in his initial burst through the door, then tossing her into three or four of the things. Blake reaches the door and he sees Hawkins stop short with one or two of the things clutching him by his legs and another on his back. Others are closing in on him.
I can almost tell what he is thinking. The savage grin on Hawkins’ face transforms into a look of unbelieving terror, the look of a man who knows he didn’t jump far enough to clear a crevasse. Somehow, just as they start to bear him down, Hawkins makes a lunge back toward the door.
Still too slow, Joss. Blake shuts and locks it in the man’s outraged, despairing face.
Sometime later, Blake pulls the curtains and turns off the lights. He settles into a padded chair. Meanwhile in the other room, all the familiar glutinous sounds of the autopsy are audible, none particularly disturbing or unexpected.

68

FOR A MOMENT, as she runs across the two lane road, she catches a fragment of Patsy Cline singing, but then it cuts off. Did someone change the station? The parking lot is nothing more than sand, cigarette butts and occasional clumps of weeds or grass. There are two fairly beat-up cars and one nice motorcycle occupying roughly a third of the possible parking spaces.

She can’t really see inside, but the signs that advertise various beers and the one that says OPEN, are still on. In fact, the main doorway is still open. Someone has shoved one of those little rubber wedges beneath it to keep it that way.

“Hello,” she says, poking her head through and looking around. “Please, I need help!”
A pile of crates and a large toolbox sit on the floor near the door. The floor itself is made of rough sawn pine with a thread-bare coating of varnish. A bar is against the far wall with chairs and tables in between. There is a doorway at either side of the bar.
Where is the phone? There has to be one… She notices that photos are plastered across the back wall. All kinds. The doorway to the left has a sign above it: ‘Game Room,’ and the doorway to the right has a sign that says: ‘Employees Only.’
Should I go behind the bar or keep looking for somebody? The choice is tough. The thought of being surprised outweighs the thought of immediate help anyway. She takes the doorway for employees. There is a short hallway then a swinging wooden door with a window. So I don’t knock down someone coming the other way.
Voices, just on the other side, stop her before she can peek through the window. “The lights and speakers are working fine now, Jerry. It was just a few blown circuit breakers.”
“That’s great Hank. The hamburgers are almost done.”
“Great, well why don’t I pour us a couple beers and…”
She pushes through the door. These guys sound normal to her. I have to trust somebody to help me.

69

“Jumping Jebus!” shouts the man with his back to her. He’s a big stocky guy, wide but not tall. Probably on the edge of middle-age, but still spry enough to spin around like a ballroom dancer. His face goes red when he sees her standing there. Probably embarrassed to be scared by a girl, she thinks. He’s wearing one of those uniform type shirts with the legend: ‘Hello, my name is Hank,’ embroidered over the left side of his chest.

The other guy is facing her across a grill that is built into a counter. He’s not tall either, but has a head full of gray hair, bushy gray eyebrows and a droopy gray mustache.

His gaze takes in the entire picture: the pistol still clasped in one hand, the purse in the other, and her dirty bloody clothes. At the end of the brief examination his eyes are still kind. “Hello, little lady. What can we do for you?”

Both of the men look so genuinely concerned that she actually allows herself to let go a little. A sob bursts from her and her nose is running. She half turns away but Hank takes a hold of her shoulders gently and holds her to his chest. “Don’t cry honey,” he says. “Hey Jerry get her some tissues for crissake!”

From somewhere she manages to stay focused, aware that she may have placed both of these guys in danger. “Please, we must hurry. Call the police will you?”

“Sure, but let’s get you calmed down first. Why don’t you and I go get seats at the table and Jumping Jerry there will bring us a hamburger in a minute or two?

“I’m so sorry to barge in, but you see I wrecked my car and—” “Save it. We can talk about that later. I’m Hank Wellman and the old gray hair over there is Jumping Jerry Jebus—I call him Jump or Jerry and he answers me.”
She finds herself grinning a little. “I’m Trish, actually Patricia Reed and I’m very pleased to meet both of you.
“Well then Trish, let’s go find the restroom so you can clean up a little and then we’ll find a table. Jump always makes extra.” He gives her a little pat on the back and holds the kitchen door open. She follows him out the door with the smell of frying hamburgers filling her nose and her belly grumbling. I’m surprised I’m not queasy. He leads her into the Game Room and points at to the left choice of two doors.
“I’ll be right here. Don’t worry about a thing.”
She nods. If only you knew, Hank…

70

WHERE WAS THE VOICE? The little voice that always spoke up and said no when he hovered near the edge of doing something wrong. It’s not like he listened very often, but now that the voice is silent he feels as though something has been lost. The good voice has been quiet for some time now. The other voice, the one that leads to trouble, always seemed formless with just the hint of an idea and no awareness of concepts like morality and essential goodness. Well, that isn’t true. I am a cop after all.

Perhaps it isn’t too late. He starts to pull the pillow away but can see she’s stopped breathing. Would mouth to mouth bring her back? Maybe it isn’t too late… There is no time. The guy might be calling the police even as he sits here. I don’t want anyone looking for me.

He stands up. If only I could have stopped, we might have had some fun. He spots his flashlight on the floor at his feet and kneels down. What? The girl is sitting up!

She isn’t dead! The pillow falls off. She opens her eyes and has a confused look on her face and her skin is so pale. He is frozen in place, fingers just touching the heavy plastic casing of the flashlight and his knees are aching.

He gives out a soft groan and her eyes immediately focus on the sound, and on his mouth. She lunges at him, and his fingers have just wrapped around the flashlight. He falls backward but manages to get one booted foot against her chest as she gropes all over him for a handhold. “Get away from me bitch!” he shouts, but somehow he knows she isn’t aware in the intelligent sense. She’s like those people he ran over—just like the people who snacked on the EMTs and Sergeant Tanner. He kicks out with his boot and the force of it literally catapults her hundred pound body across the room. He doesn’t bother to try to stand, but he does draw his .40 pistol and take aim just as she straightens up and comes right back at him.

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He squeezes the trigger and the first round hits her in the chest dead center. This stops her mad rush long enough for him to fire again and miss! She is almost running and there is a look of determination on her face. He fires, this time with both hands steadying his aim. She staggers with only feet separating them. A small hole appears in her temple and he fires twice more both times scoring hits to the head. Nina falls over backwards, taking a lamp with her in a loud crash. The TV’s picture tube is also a shattered smoking ruin.

Dodd climbs to his feet. “Good lord,” he hears himself say. He feels shaky again. I need to eat and sleep. I won’t be able to keep going at this intensity.

Someone pounds on the door. “Nina, are you okay?! Answer me!” He drops the nearly empty magazine into his hand and slips it into his pants pocket. He takes another from his ammo pouch and slides it up into the well within the pistol’s grip. There is now one round in the chamber and fifteen in the mag.

“Nina! Open up Nina!”

Dodd crosses the room and opens the door. The guy who ran is facing him. Dodd puts his gun in the guy’s face but at the last second the guy dodges to the side and runs. Dodd follows him out, and even though he is coming down slowly from his adrenaline rush, he still keeps the guy in sight.

People are out everywhere, standing on balconies, in the parking lot and some are holding phones. They will all witness whatever he does.
“Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot me!”
Dodd slows to a stop. The guy is ten feet away fumbling with a car door lock.
Some people would have trouble shooting someone, let alone in the back with a crowd watching.
Not me!
“We’re back to the wild west, baby,” he says, still walking closer.
Just a light pressure on the trigger and a fragile border is crossed.
Once, twice, and oh what the hell, three times. The boyfriend, or whatever he is, is now sliding down the side of the car, leaving a trail of red. People are screaming somewhere nearby, but the sound is muted in the aftermath. He switches the pistol to his left hand and feels in his pants pocket for the keys to his cruiser with his right hand. The man’s body settles to the pavement, one hand still on the car.
Better check out what’s going down at headquarters. Sun will be up soon.

72

T HE POUNDING IS RELENTLESS, not rhythmic but a continuous violent attack. “What else can it be?” Keller wants to know.
Talaski shrugs. “I think you and I have known since this morning.” “So what are you saying? Do we just leave him in there?” “It’s either that or we shoot him. I hate to leave the car. At least

we’ve got everything we need out of the trunk.”

Keller stares at him. “That’s cold man, but he might bite one of us if we screw up. I have to agree, unless we have to, let’s just leave him there.”

We’re kidding ourselves. I know we can’t leave him there . Both of them stand there for a moment looking at the trunk of Tanner’s cruiser. Someone is trying very hard to get out of the trunk. Neither of us has any doubt. They’ve tried talking to him, but the thing in the trunk isn’t Sergeant Tanner anymore.

“I think I could shoot him, if you’ll open the trunk for me.”

Keller nods. “Maybe you should let me do it. I didn’t know him as well as you.”
“Nah, let’s just do it and get it over with. Just get back away from the trunk as quick as you can, okay?”
“Sure.”
Talaski pulls his pistol and is standing about ten feet away. “I’ll wait until—” he starts to say, but Keller has already turned the key in the lock and the trunk bursts open almost immediately. Keller backpedals, and a smell wafts out from the car. Death most certainly doesn’t become him. Tanner sits up and his skin is too pale. The only signs of life are the fact that he is moving and the eyes… He has enough presence of mind to roll out of the trunk and keep his balance when his feet hit the asphalt.
“Are you waiting for something, Nick? Shoot him man!” Keller has his, or rather Tanner’s pistol out and he looks ready.
Goodbye. Talaski squeezes the trigger. All the target practice pays off and the sergeant dies again. He closes his eyes and wipes some

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moisture that is leaking from them with the back of his free hand. “That was tougher than I thought it’d be Matt,” he says.

“Tanner!” says a voice somewhere nearby, but not Keller. “What did you just do? I can’t believe you did it. You just shot him in cold blood.”

“That’s not what happened.” Talaski opens his eyes. Two cops are standing at the top of the entrance stairs to the station with guns drawn down on him. One of them, the guy talking, isn’t a friend.

“Now, very slowly Talaski, I want you to put your weapon on the ground.”
“It’s not what you think, Gransky…” he says, but trails off. He doesn’t know what’s really going on, and probably wouldn’t believe it even if one of them bit him.
It’s almost comical watching this guy work himself up. He’s a big, ex-heavyweight complete with cauliflower ears and a mangled nose and on the downside of his fifties. His frame is about eighty pounds overweight and at the moment his whole face is flushed red with blood. “That’s Sergeant Gransky to you numbnuts and I’m going to have your ass on this one. I practically grew up with that man you just killed. Now both of you put down those weapons.”
“It’s your call, Nick,” says Keller. “Maybe this can be cleared up with a phone call or two…”
Talaski shakes his head. “He’ll throw us in the lockup and worry about details later, Matt.”
“Dennis,” says Gransky to the cop beside him, “Call for backup. Talaski is out of his head or something.”
“I don’t know what you’re up to Gransky, but I’m betting you aren’t supposed to be here.”
“Anymore than you are Talaski?” replies the older man. “You think you’re pretty smart, but you’re just a puppy with wet feet.” Gransky cocks his head toward his partner, Dennis. The other cop, another older guy with a slim, trim tennis player’s build whispers something in his ear. “What do you say, Dennis? Do you think Talaski shooting Tanner was justified?”
Dennis shrugs. “I didn’t see it, Greg. I guess it’s your word against his.”
“Maybe I shoulda had my glasses on, eh Talaski?” Gransky’s smile is enormous.
“We’re leaving Gransky. I’m going to leave it up to you to get some guys from maintenance to come pick up your good friend, Tanner here.”

74

“Go ahead Talaski, have it your way. I’m sure we’ll discuss this again later.”
Talaski backs up, grabbing Keller’s arm in the process. “Follow me in Tanner’s car. I guess we’ll be going with Yates after all.”
Gransky and Dennis disappear into the building without waiting for them to leave.

H E COMES BACK TO CONSCIOUSNESS from nothing, as if someone just plugged him back into reality. At first he can’t move and there is a terrible pain radiating from a bump on the back of his head. His mouth is dry. The accumulated smells of garbage and rotting food are heavy in the air, making his empty stomach roll. He realizes his body is sprawled face down and his cheek is against something cool—a brick. He opens his eyes. Am I lying in an alleyway? Down the alley between the buildings, he can make out the first brightening of sky as the sun comes up.

God, that guy worked me over .
With both hands he pushes himself up, then maneuvers himself onto his knees. As usual, the right knee is killing him. Arthritis or something. He puts a hand against the dumpster beside him and stands. The right knee feels as if it’s been bent the wrong way or jammed. No running today. Down the alley he can see the sunrise reflecting off a building and a small slice of Tampa Bay.
My wallet! It’s still there in his front right pocket along with some change. He checks the other pocket. The car keys are gone. They were still in the ignition when he tried to help that crazy guy. He starts walking toward the east end of the alley. The guy must have dumped him a few blocks away from BayWalk, then drove off with his cab.
He passes a small parking lot hidden here in the alley behind the buildings. There are only two cars, and maybe eight empty spaces. He wonders briefly if it would be worth it to pound on a service door or two to get some help. I’m not far from the Pier and a lot of condos—Someone will help me. He keeps going, wincing once in a while when the uneven

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brick cobbles cause his bad knee to falter. He trails one hand on the stucco wall to his right and a minute or two later emerges near a park that borders downtown St. Pete’s waterfront. A few blocks to his left is the Vinoy Hotel and condo complex, then a little closer the Dali Museum and another park. Almost directly ahead, jutting out into the bay is a causeway that leads to the Pier.

He walks out of the alley and onto the street. He turns his head. Something is burning. The smell is acrid. A car is burning about twenty feet away to his right. Bodies are sprawled in the street in a carpet of broken glass, most of it from a storefront near the car.

From somewhere nearby he hears a short strangled cry of agony. Behind the car? Why do I want to know? I can’t even run away, if I need to…

Somebody is still alive, right behind the car. In fact, two people are kneeling beside one of the bodies. Both of them are practically embracing the guy. One is a man and the other a woman. Jesus, why is the guy twitching? He must be hurt badly. “Hey, do you all need any help?” he asks, and takes a painful step toward them. No answer. They don’t even look up. Are they ignoring me?

He tries again while narrowing the distance to about fifteen feet. “Hey, what happened? Can I help you?”
The woman looks up and her mouth is a wet red smear. Her jaw is moving—Chewing? She snarls something and climbs to her feet. She’s wearing only one shoe, one of those fuck-me type shoes, pumps or something like that. Why doesn’t she kick it off? He watches almost paralyzed as she staggers off balance toward him. Without thinking, he is backing away. She looks young, maybe twenty, and she’s dressed stylishly in designer jeans and a bare midriff top, but her eyes… like looking at a dead fish head.
“Stay away from me, lady,” he warns her.
She doesn’t react, and just keeps coming toward him. He continues to backpedal.
“I’ve had enough trouble lady. Please stay away.” He backs into something—Another car. The body of a middle-aged guy lays face down on the ground beside the car’s open trunk. He can see a lot of blood through the thin hair of the guy’s scalp.
He looks back up. The woman is nearly on top of him, reaching out already with bloody fingers. He scuttles around the car. She crashes against the car where he just stood and glares at him over the roof. For the moment, she seems stymied. He realizes he’s been holding his

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breath, and lets it go. He takes a quick look into the car. No keys there. The trunk maybe? Or maybe still on the guy’s body? He pushes that thought away. Cross that bridge when and if I have to. Now how do I distract her long enough to check the trunk?

Something catches his eye: movement in the distance. Over her shoulder, distant, but on their way, he can see five or six other people heading this direction. And just like that he feels any optimism over this situation slip away…

DAWN ARRIVES and proof that the city is burning is tangible all around them. A sharp chemical tang is in the air, and several black smudges mar the pale blue sky. In the last hour, Bronte, Tracks and Daric have heard sirens here and there, but always distant and never for long.

Darkness enabled them to hide from the groups of people roaming the streets, but being outside now is a lot riskier. They squat behind a dirty pickup truck parked near the outside wall of a corner store in a decrepit building on 4th Street South. There are bars over the windows, but Bronte can see the front door is hanging open—Whether that is by design or accident, he isn’t sure. Forty feet or so beyond the store there is some kind of dockyard complex on a canal from the bay and a small humped bridge spanning it.

“Thrill hill,” he hears Tracks whisper, talking to the boy.

“That’s a bridge, Tracks, not a hill,” Daric replies with a little belligerence.
“If you go over it fast in a car, you’d know.”
Bronte interrupts with a wave of his hand. “We’re going in the store here. We all need something to eat and drink, and maybe we can rest a while.”
Tracks nods and they all stand up. Tracks already has his shotgun in hand. They file along the wall and stop just outside the door. Bronte pulls his pistol from beneath his jacket, then slides through the doorway fast. The interior of the store is dim, but he can make out lighted coolers

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for beer and soda on the back wall. Most of the store is stretched out to his left, with four aisles of merchandise. Just to his right is a checkout, but no one is there. The usual lotto machine, magazine racks and register are visible. He leans over the worn wooden counter. The register is open and empty. The cigarettes are all gone and the scratch-off lotto tickets are missing. Somebody robbed this place…

He hears Tracks and Daric enter behind him and pull the door closed. Bronte says over his shoulder, “Stay here and watch the door. I’ll check out the rest.”

He can see down each aisle as he walks toward the back of the store. The first looks like mostly detergents and medicines and the second looks like snacks such as chips, candy, cookies and soda. The third has a lot of canned goods and the fourth has wine on one side and beer and soda coolers on the other. Finally there are two doors beside some comic book racks and a few stacks of bottled water.

Better check behind the doors.

The door on the right has a sign that says, ‘REST ROOM,’ and the left, ‘KEEP OUT.’
He takes the restroom first. The hinges squeak but all he sees is a spotlessly clean bathroom with an ancient sink and toilet. There is a mirror over the sink. He lets the door close and goes to the next door. This door opens into a small storeroom with a roll down metal slatted receiving door and a dead body face down on the floor. The dead guy is an old man, seventy maybe eighty years old with skin the color of black coffee and a fringe of tight white peppercorn curls covering the back of his head.
He knows the guy is dead because he has a couple of bullet holes in his head. The sound of Tracks’ heavy breathing is right behind him. “I locked the door Bronte. I put the closed sign up.”
“Where’s the boy?” Bronte asks.
“Looking at the comics,” Tracks replies.
“Somebody shot the old guy, Tracks,” he says.
“He Willie Brett. He own the place.”
“Somebody just couldn’t rob him. They had to kill him too.”
“I used to fish with his boy out by the Pier.”
Bronte steps over the corpse. He tests the lock on the back door, then squats beside the old man. “This is what we are going to do.” He reaches down to the old man’s waist and fishes in his pants pocket. He pulls forth a ring of keys. “We get something to eat and drink, and we stretch out for a few hours. We pack up some supplies from here,

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medicine, food and water. I hope we have the key to that truck outside. If we do, we load the truck with everything we can and we get out of town. Things aren’t going back to normal.”

Tracks’ face is impassive, like a carved ebony statue. “Okay Bronte.”

T HE WOMAN NEARLY KNOCKS HIM DOWN as she runs into him. He drops the axe and tries to keep his footing as his back hits one of the kiosks that abound in the mall’s center.

“I’m a firefighter—it’s okay, you’re safe,” he hears himself saying, while patting the woman’s back. Abruptly the woman calms down and relaxes in his arms a moment. He can tell she isn’t a big woman, tall but not big. Her head is just beneath his chin and is a rich chestnut brown. He can smell her shampoo.

“Sam, oh Sam,” yells a voice, another woman’s. Over the woman’s head he sees a brown-haired teenage girl in a cheerleader’s outfit throw herself into Sam’s arms. Both young people look overjoyed.

“You found her, Sam?” Mills can’t believe the kid’s luck. He didn’t really expect they would find her, yet alone alive.
“No, this is her best friend Natalie,” he answers.
The young woman looks up from Sam’s chest. “I was with them when we all got separated. I panicked. I have no idea what happened to Liz.”
“So Liz is her name? Your girlfriend I mean…”
“Yes sir, she has reddish-blonde hair in a bob, and is wearing a cheerleader’s outfit like Natalie’s.” Sam’s voice is bleak, and a good part of the joy of a moment ago appears to be gone.
“I’m sorry Sam. I wish I was her,” says Natalie. “I feel terrible.”
Sam pulls her close again. “Never wish that. I care for you too.”
“Oh Sam, do you think she’s dead?”
The woman in Mills’ arms stirs, and takes a step away from him. “Listen, I’m glad you guys are here, but there are some Goths not far away. They were holding us prisoner. Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

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Oh man is she a looker … Mills is struck dumb for a moment. Her mascara has run, and there might be a wrinkle or two, but she is lovely. Even wet, her hair has a bit of a wave to it. What do I do? The choices are tough no matter which way you look. Keep looking and imperil two more lives or give up and leave another person for dead? Either way I’m going to feel like shit.

Sam speaks up. “I can’t ask any of you to look for her. I’ve already asked too much of Mr. Mills there. This whole place may collapse any minute now. Maybe she’s waiting outside? Shouldn’t we get out of here and look?”

Mills makes a quick decision. “Get them out of here to your car, Sam. I’ll meet you on the far side of the mall, outside Penney’s.”
“Are you sure?” says the woman, taking his hands in hers. The way she’s looking at him makes him feel ten feet tall.
“Yes, now please go. Hurry!” He looks down briefly at her hands as he lets them go. Yes, no ring! He picks up the axe. “I’ll see you all on the other side.”
“Wait, what’s your name?” the goddess wants to know.
“Adam Mills… And yours?”
She laughs, eyes sparkling. “I’m Kathy. We’ll be waiting.”
He is still smiling as he sprints into the mist and smoke.

I NEED TO PEE. Trish doesn’t really want to open her eyes, but sunlight is coming through a window hard and unrelenting. Also, somewhere not too far away she can hear people talking, maybe a TV. She groans and sits up, trying to remember what’s happened. Where am I? I’m in the Halfway Tavern with my good friends Hank and good ‘ole Jumping Jerry.

She is reclining on an old cot, dressed in a man’s button down shirt, with a blanket pulled over her. It’s a little room, hardly more than a closet really. A small window is the source of the sunlight. The TV noises are coming through the door, probably in the next room which is the kitchen where she met Hank and Jerry.

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The urge to urinate comes on stronger now that she’s upright. I have to get up and get moving. She slips out of the cot and as she stands the shirt comes down to her thighs. That should be good enough to make it to the bathroom to wash and change. She looks around and spots her purse and sports bag. Her clothes from yesterday are in a pile near the door beside her shoes. All she had in the sports bag were assorted toiletries, a change of panties and her outfit she wore last night—hardly appropriate attire, and she’s wearing those panties now. I’m not about to wear any of those bloody clothes again.

“Well, I’ll just wash up and cross that bridge when I have to,” she murmurs to herself. The door opens easily and she steps into the kitchen. Jerry looks over his shoulder at her. A thirteen inch TV is in front of him. A small Hispanic woman is on screen saying something while several buildings burn behind her.

“Good morning sunshine. Want coffee or something to eat?”

She grins. “Yes to both, Jerry. Thanks. I’m just going to the little girls room.”
“Great. Hank called up his son, and there’s clothes for you to wear right there on the counter.” He points to her left. “I think he got the shirt and pants sizes right, but I’m not sure about the shoes.”
There are three different shirts, two pairs of jeans, a pair of shorts, several pairs of socks and three pairs of panties. “Thanks again, Jerry. I’ll go change right now. Where is Hank and his son?”
“They went across the street to the store to pick up a few things.”
And to check my story. “Okay, well, I hope they are careful.”
“They took your gun just in case. We never did get through to anyone at either the sheriff’s department or the police.”
“All right. I’ll be right back.” She gathers the clothes in her arms.
“And I’ll start cooking,” he says with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows.
There’s a 25” TV on in the bar. She stops a moment beside it and turns up the volume. The view is from a helicopter flying parallel with the interstate. She recognizes the area and realizes that what she is seeing is only a mile or two from where she is now.
The reporter, a guy named Chuck, is in the helicopter apparently talking with the anchor, Denise, in the studio. “Denise, there are scenes of horror taking place on this highway from as far south as the Skyway to the 54th Avenue North exit ramp that we are over right now. Jesus, will you look at that.”
The camera pans in and focuses on a young woman running from a massive pile-up of cars. Four or five people are staggering drunkenly

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after her. “Why are those people chasing that woman? And look Denise, there is a wrecker, but no sign of the driver. I can see two or three cars have been towed into the grass of the median strip.”

“Do you think you could help the woman, Chuck?” asks Denise, and Trish notices her speaking from a small window on the right of the screen.

There is silence for a moment almost as if the unseen reporter has been stricken dumb. “I’d sure like too, Denise, but it’s really not quite safe enough. Maybe one or two of you back behind the lines can call a first responder to come help.”

Denise’s face has flushed, and she makes a few choking noises. The in-studio camera pans. A tall, slim black woman stands before a weather map, holding a pointer. “We’ll be right back with your local weather after a word with our sponsors…”
Trish hurries into the bathroom.

H E PARKS THE CRUISER behind some derelict buildings near 16th St N and 5th Ave N. To his knowledge no one noticed, but with the break of day... Oh well. He just needs a few moments to concentrate, to think. The police band radio is very busy with traffic, but his interest is only in what’s going on, not in helping.

He reaches into his sports bag, fumbling past his folded spare uniform shirt and pants, some snack-size bags of potato chips, a city map and finds it: My hideout gun. He holds a mini-revolver, almost six inches long and weighing only 9 ounces. It’s a .22 magnum, five shot ‘Black Widow.’ He leans over and straps the gun to his right ankle and pulls the cuff back over it. Most people don’t notice the slight bulge. “Just in case,” he says to himself. “I’ve just given myself five extra shots in case I need them.”

What next?

Making tough decisions has always been difficult for him. I made it through the academy on guts, he liked to tell himself and others.

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Nobody carried me . Of course privately, he has begun to admit that he might have a problem. That Keller guy was right. I am scared and I do panic. Only, I’m unpredictable when I panic. Sometimes I get pissed and forget I’m scared.

My only friend is a nerd mechanic who thinks I’m a hero. He is, at the moment, only a block from that friend’s work center—He liked to call it a chop shop. I think I’ll visit my pal Larry Crawford’s chop shop. That’s what I’ll do.

It’s either that or try to join the mayor’s party over near the Pier and the Vinoy. It sounds like something really interesting is developing there. I’m interested all right, but I ain’t going alone. Maybe Debbie can come too…

“There’s nothing like a sure thing.”

He laughs a little and then starts the car back up.

O FFICER YATES BLOWS A STREAM OF SMOKE and leans with his arms braced on the roof of Talaski’s cruiser.
“Is that what they call a cheroot?” Keller wants to know.
“No,” says Talaski, “It’s what they call a piece of shit.”
Yates smiles faintly. “They say some hotshot Reserve Lieutenant got a bright idea.”
Talaski and Keller stand and watch as some last minute changes are made to convoy’s orders. All the vehicles are lined up, but most interesting is the tractor trailer that someone has fixed with a ram. They’ve even been allocated a Humvee complete with three soldiers and mounted M-60 machine gun.
Yates continues, “Apparently he knew the cruise ship was in port and decided to confiscate it. This was all only an hour or so ago, but he reported everything to his commander and the mayor and they went nuts. It may look like we’re trying to save people and protect the city, but these bastards got plans.”

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“You’d think we were escorting the President,” says Talaski, stifling a yawn. He takes a long swallow of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Damn this tastes like moose piss.”

“They’ve loaded two school buses and a city bus also,” says Keller. “All to take the privileged elite to their escape: A fucking cruise ship!”
“Without that ram, I bet we wouldn’t make it two miles. The news media has panicked everyone now. Terrible things are happening up on the interstate.”
Keller nods. “The urge to just run away and save yourself is strong. But where the hell can we run to? You think we’re getting on that goddamn cruise ship?”
“I want to see what’s happening. Besides we’re safer with these guys for now, anyway.” Maybe.
Keller laughs, seeing Talaski roll his eyes.
“Well, let me introduce you to Corporal Ramos,” says Yates as he motions with a wave of his hand. He leads the way toward the three soldiers standing by the Hummer that’s part of the convoy. One of the soldiers, a Hispanic guy, is wearing a starched and pressed uniform and a beret.
“Get a look at this guy,” says Keller, nudging Talaski in the ribs. Talaski knows he is referring to the Hispanic. “What is he… a Latin Errol Flynn?”
Yates laughs and Talaski grins. The guy does have the resemblance, from the dashing good looks to the pencil thin mustache just edging his upper lip. He has to know.
“Corporal, this is Officer Talaski and his friend…” says Yates, and trails off.
The Hispanic guy steps forward, extending a hand to Talaski. He appears to either ignore or not see Keller. “I am Corporal Alvaro Ramos.”
Talaski nods and takes Ramos’ hand. “This is my friend Matt Keller.”
Ramos cuts him off, and barely glances at Keller. “Very good, we are in a situation when even civilians may prove useful. I want you to have no doubt who is in charge here. Me. I will tolerate no disobedience or disrespect. We are the soldiers here. If you pay attention and look to me, my men and I will protect you.”
Talaski turns to Yates. “What kind of bullshit is this?”
Ramos tan face flushes, and he steps in between Yates and Talaski. “If you have a question about something I’ve said, Officer, you will address it to me. Officer Yates knows his place.”

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The other two soldiers walk up and flank Ramos to either side. Both have M-4 carbines, a variant of the M-16, but the barrels are only pointed at the ground.

Talaski fights down a snarl. As it is, it’s certain, he isn’t hiding his contempt very well. He contents himself with a simple, “Heh. I was merely expressing my distaste for my friend’s taste in cigars, Sergeant.”

Ramos looks puzzled, but apparently decides to let it slide. “My rank is corporal. If you stand with your vehicles, I’ll send your passengers to your cars.”

Talaski snaps off a salute with his left hand. “We’ll be waiting, Corporal Ramos.”
Ramos frowns, turns on his heel and walks away. The other two soldiers follow him.

HE KNOWS THERE IS A DEAD BODY IN THE BACK ROOM, but it doesn’t mean as

much to him as it would have. Right now, he feels safe. Tracks’ towering, bulky shape is nearby, standing at a window, looking out. Bronte is busy making a pile of supplies near the door to the back room. And the door to the back room is locked.

“There’s people walking around out there,” says Tracks. “A few are headed this way.”
Daric sees Bronte glance his way and pretends to read the comic he’s holding. So far he has a respectable stack of keepers. Tracks said he could take as many as he wanted.
Bronte says, “Are they…?”
“They dead Bronte,” answers Tracks before the other man can finish. “I don’t think they know we here. They just walking.”
“Okay, well maybe we’ll have to leave sooner than we thought.” Bronte grabs another box.
“Wait, look at this Bronte.”
Daric gets up and goes to stand at the door and look out. He hears Bronte join Tracks at the window. Out front in the street, blocking the way to the bridge is a big Army truck loaded with people in the back.
“Haters,” says Tracks.

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THE MOTION AND THE STENCH of unwashed bodies are making her nauseous. The truck shifts noisily into a higher gear as they make the turn and a stream of oily smoke issues from the upright dual exhaust pipes above the cab. The wind on her face is humid enough to add to the layer of filth that is already making her miserable.

The man facing her looks up at the massive clouds overhead and remarks, “Gonna rain soon.”
She looks over her shoulder, back the way they’ve come, ignoring him. What am I doing, she wonders, not for the first time.
“You never were one to doubt yourself before, Janicea,” he says and his breath tickles her neck.
“Shut up Torenz!” she says with as much venom as she can muster. Some spittle appears on his cheek. We’re packed in like sardines. I can’t move, even if I wanted to.
People are pressed up against her from all sides and… someone is playing with her ass. She squirms and achieves nothing more than another smartass grin out of Torenz. He is her right hand and her lover, of sorts. His skin is a glossy dark chocolate and he has high cheekbones that remind her of an Indian chief. Dreadlocks spill out from underneath a boonie style green hat. He is also wearing blue jeans, a collarless black t-shirt and a twenty-inch gold chain.
Torenz must feel the spit, but he doesn’t react. He maintains a devilish grin.
If I scream, will they stop the truck? I must endure, like I did on that night that changed my life.
It lies across a veil of years, but she can still feel the cool breeze coming off the lake over her skin like a caress. The moon was full and glorious. Ever since then the sound of wind blowing through palm fronds or sea grass can bring it all back. It was her last date with Bronte. He liked to take her to Lake Maggoire at night to see the moon on the water.

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As long as they stayed away from the trees and closer to the neighborhood, it was okay. Vagrants and far worse slept and did whatever in the trees after the sun went down. Of course, then and now, there are gators in the lake itself…

One night as they sat on the bank, they saw the gleam of flashlights over in the trees. The headlights of a car were also on over in the parking lot about fifty feet from the cops themselves with their flashlights.

“Cops probably rousting somebody,” said Bronte.

Janicea couldn’t help it. Pigs are harassing my people. Bronte was no better at telling her no than anyone, so a moment or two later they were standing close enough to hear and see everything.

A tall, too-skinny black man was standing in only a pair of shorts and sneakers in the light of the flashlights. His shirt was on the ground at his feet along with five or six cigarette lighters. There was a small pile of sticks and a pipe on the ground, but no drugs that she could see. He was going to build a fire, I bet.

The two young men were white, probably in their early twenties, wearing suits and holding flashlights. One was taller and more athletic. She noticed even in the light that his complexion was a sallow yellow and oily. Hispanic? Italian? The second guy was shorter with a big head and jug ears. “Where’s the crack, Benji?” The taller, more athletic of the two men barked the question. “We know you have some.”

“No boss man, I ain’t got no crack.”

“You know where some is though, dontcha Benji? Come on, don’t play games with us.”
“No sir, I’m clean. Just building a fire to keep warm and keep the bugs away.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it!” shouted the taller man, and she wondered why he was so angry. “Now think about this… if the crack isn’t yours Benji, then maybe we can let you go.”
The short man looked puzzled, but Janicea didn’t think Benji noticed.
“No way! You the cruel one. I heard things about you.”
“Then you know how cruel he can be if you make him angry,” said the short guy.
“You’ll let me go if I show you the rocks?”
The taller man nodded, “Sure, maybe.”
Benji looked around and his eyes lit on them, she and Bronte. He stood on one leg and pulled off his other shoe. He dumped a couple rocks into his hand.

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“Is that your shoe?” asked the angry one.
“Yeah,” said Benji.
“You’re under arrest. Drop to your knees and cross your feet.” Benji freaked. “You lied! You lied to me!” he shouted. “That’s your shoe so they’re your rocks. Now get down on your

knees.” The guy with the jug ears stepped behind Benji and drew a pistol from beneath his arm under the suit coat. She’d swear later that he put the barrel against Benji’s head, but not even Bronte would back her up. But if they were cops they’d never do that!

She couldn’t help herself and stepped forward shouting, “Why don’t you go chase real criminals—He wasn’t hurting anyone but himself!” The two men looked over at her and she shouted, “Run Benji! Run!”

From a distance she heard Bronte shouting at her, “No Janice, stay out of it. He’s just a piece of garbage. They all are! They aren’t cops, Janice!”

Something or somebody is shaking her. “Wake up bitch!” yells Torenz. “We’re here, get off the damn truck!”
“Torenzio, I…”
She can feel the people move behind her and suddenly she no longer has to press against him. Torenz brings a walkie-talkie to his lips. “We are setting up now. Where are they?”
“They just passed Bartlett Park and Chattaway’s, Torenzio. They should be visible to you in less than a minute unless they stop again.”
“What? Have they been stopping?”
“Every time they see a place to loot.”
“Well, there is a corner grocery just to the right of Thrill Hill behind me. We could take out the lead vehicle just as it reaches the bridge and then proceed from there?”
“What does Janicea think?” asks the voice.
“Janicea doesn’t know shit. I’m afraid she’s lost her willingness to help the cause,” Torenz says, and grins at her.
“It’s no skin off my ass, brother. We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

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His arms are aching. Pretty soon, I may have to switch to the pistol because I’ll be too weak to swing the axe.

The water continues to pour down. He stands for a moment, waiting for the others to disappear. How am I going to do this? When he had Sam with him, they could each take a side. In theory, that way, they could check each store.

He resigns himself, and jogs into the center of the concourse where Kathy just escaped from. “Fire department!” he shouts, “I’m here to help you! Fire department! Come out and I’ll get you out of here!”

Twenty or thirty bodies litter the floor, in and around the fountain. Smoke is still billowing from the caved-in store entrance to his right. Nobody moves. No cheerleader uniforms either. The first store on the left is a jewelry store. Several display cases are smashed in and glass is all over the floor. A gray-haired woman in a tan skirt and blue blouse is on her knees in the middle of the mess, attempting to stand. Dear God why isn’t she screaming? The glass must be digging into her legs. The thought flashes through his mind. One of them!

He speeds up a bit and looks into the next store. It appears to be filled with expensive statuettes and gift items. Nobody or bodies though.
Time to try the other side and backtrack a bit. What happened to the Goths?
The first store on this side is also a jewelry store. “Liz are you here? Fire Department! Hello!”
He gives up and goes to the next. It is some kind of eyeglass place. A display of sunglasses is almost empty. Theft? He takes a few steps inside, but it is also empty. No damage to display cases, but empty. Hopefully most people escaped. He turns to leave and sees the gray-haired woman across the way. She is on her feet and staggering badly in her highheeled shoes, but walking toward him determinedly.
Jesus. I should probably kill her now. The woman’s face is gray and one eye is rolled up. Normally he’d run to help someone who looked

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like her and was still walking around. That’s what happened to Fabrowski and Lechi. They went to help terribly injured people and he was unlucky enough to witness it.

He blinks abruptly. Good God! I’ve been woolgathering. The woman is only five feet away and has begun to moan. Glass is still imbedded in her legs, arms and hands. “Oh no you don’t,” he says and jabs her with the head of the axe. Down she goes. “That’ll slow you down a bit.”

“Which store next?” he wonders out loud. “Might as well stay on this side a little longer.” With that, he jogs into a ladies clothing store.
“Hello! Fire Department! Anyone here?”

T WO MEN IN BUSINESS SUITS, two women and two children are walking toward him. He can see a similar sized group heading toward Talaski and his cruiser.

The bigger man of the group approaching Keller is expounding on something. He is about Keller’s height, with gray-flecked hair cut above his ears and collar. His yellow-toned skin is pocked and oily. “We were thinking about staying at my condo on Tierra Verde, but this appears to be quite serious.”

“Is it well-stocked with supplies?” the shorter man wants to know. He has a big head and big ears. “You know I’m a serious camper and serious about being prepared for hurricanes. I have a supply of the new army rations, canned goods, water, liquor and almost any sundry item— We don’t really need to go to this ship.” He pauses and looks around furtively. He actually looks right through Keller, then says, “I even have guns and ammo.”

I’m invisible to these people .
Both men fall silent as a distant throbbing materializes into the chop and clatter of a helicopter. It appears over a line of three story office buildings. The body of it is painted a fiery red and yellow letters on the side proclaim, “Sky Action 9.”
“What’s he doing Dad?!” shouts one of the kids, a boy of about thirteen.

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The helicopter drifts lazily above them, traveling at a meager three or four mph. Some sort of camera is mounted in the nose, just in front of the pilots. The down draft is enormous and the dress of one of the women in the group flies up around above her waist before she can pull it down. Keller gets an eye full and a lazy grin breaks through the sober mask he’s been wearing for hours now.

Now that was beautiful .
“What are you smiling at?!” shouts the bigger guy.
“I saw something that pleased me,” Keller answers. The copter picks

up speed and disappears behind some buildings as it continues on a northerly path.
“Don’t smart ass me.”
“Well, then don’t dumb ass me, or I’ll knock your dick in the dirt.”
The guy is hyperventilating. “I’m personal friends with both the mayor and chief. Your career will be finished.” He actually sprays spittle at the end. His wife, the woman in the dress, puts a hand on his arm trying to restrain him. “Lionel please, it doesn’t matter.”
Lionel shrugs her hand away and the woman staggers back with a shocked look on her face. “Stay out of this Carol.”
Carol listens and goes back to comfort her children. All the others are standing there with shocked expressions.
“Last chance,” says Keller, and folds his arms. He takes a deep breath.
“What do you mean last chance? I’ll have your badge. Maybe you’ll be able to work in the drive through in McDonalds or—”
“Shut up and get your family in the car. I’m done talking.”
He splutters, but seems to think better of it. “Okay Carol, let’s get this over with. Everybody in the car.”
“Hey mister?” asks a girl of about eight. Her red hair is in pig tails and a delicate spray of freckles cover her nose and cheeks. Her expression is serious.
He smiles at her.
“Are you going to ‘rest my daddy?”
Keller looks over her head at Lionel, who is now scowling at his daughter.
“Your dad is just upset. Fortunately, I am patient.”
“But are you going to put him in jail? Mommy says the tax man might if—”
“Shhh, dear,” says Carol, blushing. “I’m sorry Officer. We’re all under some strain. I hope you’ll forgive my husband’s behavior.”

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“Call me Matt, ma’am, and don’t worry. Let’s just get out of here.” Keller looks up as he reaches for the driver’s door handle. Lionel is standing at the front passenger door frowning at him, with an angry flush on his face. “What’s your last name, Officer?” he demands, voice pitched low. “You think you are a big man and you carry a gun and a badge and you can treat little people like shit.”

“It’s Keller, and I’m not an officer so you can stuff all your threats about my job and your bragging about your powerful connections. And you are a blowhard braggart, Mr. My Condo.”

“Is that so? Well, how about we settle this with our fists, right here then?”
“You sure you want to chance humiliation in front of your loved ones? I don’t have anything to lose, you do.”
“No piece of garbage like you talks to me like you did. Let’s settle this.”
“Try this on for size—No! Now get in the car, or I’ll leave your ass.”
The first car is pulling out. Lionel appears to be wrestling mentally with himself.
Keller whispers, “Listen you selfish prick. I’m driving the car that is taking your family to safety. If you got a problem with me we’ll settle it later.”
Lionel stares at him for a moment then slides into his seat. Keller follows a moment later and starts the engine.

I N THE END she settles on a pair of khaki green shorts with cargo pockets and a beige scoop-neck top. I’m almost naked again. This outfit would be enough to turn heads in the club. She is well aware of the effect her body has on men. She grabs her sneakers and socks and goes back out to watch more TV.

In just the few minutes she’s been gone a lot of the professional production of the news program has also disappeared. She can hear part of the crew say, “Just a minute Denise, the teleprompter…” then the male voice fades into a static hiss, then clears. The camera shifts

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slightly and she can see the weather girl drinking some water and arguing with a guy in a T-shirt and jeans. The screen jitters, then steadies back on the anchor, Denise, who is now smiling into the camera, but looking strained. With a sheaf of papers in hand, Denise launches into a narrative that is either on a teleprompter or memorized.

“Around the world and back here at home the news is the same: Mass rioting, power failures, and governmental crackdowns. There is an emergency session in Congress and the President is expected to issue a statement within the hour. All National Guard and Reserve Troops have been activated and placed on alert. Sources indicate that martial law is about to be declared for the entire country. Sad news from several major cities in the Northeast. Large sections of New York City, Rochester and Boston are burning.”

“Horrible ain’t it?” Jerry says, entering the room behind her. “They keep side-stepping all around the cause. Why are they worrying about integrity now?”

“What is going on Jerry? I’m a little dense. All I know is last night was a bad night.”
“I think you’re in denial, Trish. You aren’t dumb.”
“Something’s bothering me. Haven’t your friend and his son been gone a long time? I don’t really know how it ended across the street.”
He shrugs. “Maybe you’re right. Think we should check on them?”
“Yes, I have a bad feeling that it’s too late. Got any weapons?”
He puts his right hand behind his back, grins at her, then pulls a Bowie knife with a gladiatorial flourish. “We who are about to die…”
She cuts him off. “Don’t joke like that Jump.”
“Sorry,” he mutters. “It isn’t funny, you’re right. Let’s go find them.”
He eases the knife back into its sheath, then takes both her hands in his. “If I tell you to do something—Do it! Are we clear?” He looks deep into her eyes and it takes an effort not to look away. Mostly because she isn’t comfortable with genuine affection. He clears his throat. “Don’t do something crazy trying to save me. I’ve got nothing tying me here except my friends. No family. If something happens and I tell you to run, I expect you to do it.”
“Okay,” she answers and gives his fingers a brief squeeze.
“You’re not convincing me, Trish, but I guess I have no choice but to trust you. I know there’s no way you’ll wait here while I go check.”
She gives a quick grin without opening her mouth, and winks twice.
“I don’t have anybody either, Jerry,” she says. “At least til I met you guys.”

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He looks startled. “A sweet pretty thing like you? Guess we’ll have to look out for each other, then.”
They both leave by the front door. Trish still doesn’t have a weapon, but as long as Jerry does, she’ll try not to worry. They both draw up short. Two SUVs are pulled in front of the convenience store’s parking lot. A guy with a hunting rifle is standing between the two vehicles. A group of five or six people are standing on the sidewalk.
“Goddamn ghouls,” mutters Jerry.
“What, you mean those bystanders?”
“They’re worse than zombies if you ask me. They feed off the pain and suffering of others.” Is that pain I hear in his voice? A moment later, he laughs. “Sounds like I was describing lawyers, doesn’t it?”
She gives Jerry a blank look, then looks past him across the street. Hank and his son are on their way back. “Thank god, they are all right,” she says.
Jerry grins and somewhere not too far away, over his shoulder, there is an awful flare of light, followed by an angry expanding cloud full of debris. A moment later a shockwave shakes the ground and then the sound of an explosion so loud that glass shatters in nearby cars and in the storefront. Trish stumbles into Jerry who barely remains standing while most of the other people fall to the ground.
“Must have been the gas station on the corner or a tanker truck,” says Jerry as debris rains down around them. A big tire still attached to an axle falls on two people and pins them to the ground. A softballsized piece of metal junk clips a man on the head and he drops to his knees, a hand feeling for an ear that is no longer there. Without thinking, Trish starts to run toward them, when suddenly Jerry shoves her to the ground and lies on top of her. “Stay down,” he says in her ear, “and cover your ears.”
Two more explosions follow hard on the heels of the first.
“There goes the power,” says somebody nearby. Several people scream and the ground itself convulses for a moment. Jerry hugs her tight and then something hits her hard enough to knock her senseless.

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WHEN YATES STOPS THE GROUP OF PEOPLE HEADING FOR HIS CRUISER, Talaski

shrugs. Might be a good time to make sure I’m ready. He pulls his pistol, removes the magazine and ejects the round in the chamber by pulling the slide back. Someone shouts at Yates.

The Mayor?
Sure enough, the Mayor and the Chief are standing with Yates and shouting at him. A moment later, Yates actually hangs his head and motions to the group of people to follow him. They get aboard one of the buses. The Mayor shouts something and waves at a woman standing off to the side with a plain clothes guy he knows only by sight. The whole group makes for his car.
“No fucking way…” he mutters. With quick, sure motions he releases the pistol’s slide and reloads it. Something tells him to place the pistol down between the seat and the door instead of returning it to it’s holster.
The Mayor pulls open the front passenger door. He gives a strained little smile, “Little change of plans, Officer. Hope you don’t mind?” Without waiting for an answer he steps back away from the door. Chief Hadley opens the right backseat door and the woman slides in. Not much to look at, at least at the moment. Talaski’s only impression is that of a petite woman of about thirty with smudged make-up and a disheveled appearance. She’s dressed well, but her white culotte pants are dirty and her peach-colored blouse has a torn sleeve.
“I’ll let the Chief ride up front with you, Officer,” says the Mayor. “Detective Pitts and I will ride in the back with Ms. Collins here.” Talaski’s eyes meet hers in his rearview mirror briefly, then Hadley is sliding ass first into the seat beside him. There is a whiff of what might be stale sweat and cigarette smoke. He waits while everyone settles in, buckling seat belts, then starts the engine. The whole time he stares at Hadley, waiting for the man to say something.
Hadley glances over and his cheeks, ears and nose are flushed red. “Got a problem with this, Ski? If you do, we can leave your ass here.”

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T HERE IS NO TRAFFIC on Ninth Avenue North. Nothing. He draws even with a gas company building and slows down a bit, looking it over. He spots the sign, ‘Dan’s Gas.’ There is a chain link fence running around the property and the gate to the parking lot is hanging wide open. Three cars parked out front. Automatically, in his mind, he catalogues them: Lexus; Chevy S-10, and an old Cadillac.

The front windows of the building are all tinted. Maybe the employees are watching him. He hears something like muffled thunder and looks north. Sees a rising, expanding smoke cloud. God, that must be miles from here. Maybe over in Pinellas Park. Freaky shit man.

He glances back at the Gas Company, and three people have emerged from the front door. All three are pointing at the smoke and talking. One of them is female, very female.

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IT’S LIKE WATCHING SOMETHING HORRIBLE in a movie play out. From the

window, he watches the people fan out in a rough ‘U’ shape in front of the bridge and the army truck that is now blocking access to it. Three guys with handguns are actually hiding behind the truck parked near the building. Four more carrying rifles are hiding behind a hedge across the street, and at least ten more are behind the army truck. Those ten may not all be armed. It’s hard to tell.

“That be Torenz and Janicea behind the truck, Bronte,” says Tracks, the bass rumble of his voice loud in the room.
“I thought so too, Tracks. They must want something pretty bad that’s heading this way. Nothing good is about to happen.”
Tracks looks around. The boy is there beside him. “Hide in the last aisle, Daric. If one of us calls your name, come running.”
Bronte almost smiles. Tracks can speak normally if he wants to. Hard to say why he doesn’t all the time. Maybe it’s a way to trick people into underestimating him? But why do it in front of me, then?
“I say we wait right here to see what happens. We really don’t know what’s going on. Either way, we can do some good. We can definitely ruin Janice’s day if we want to.”
“Yeah,” says Tracks with a ghostly little smile that barely raises the edge of his lips. “I’m all about that.”

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F OR A MOMENT OR TWO, she actually kneels with both knees on the pavement near the front of the truck, but her jeans don’t have any padding. She leans against the big tire with first just her shoulder, but then she shifts and sits down with her butt on the pavement and back to the tire.

No one is paying any attention to her. Torenz is standing near the back of the truck, peering around its bulk and still talking to someone on the walkie-talkie. The others are all crouching or hunched over with their weapons held ready. How can they look so sure, so certain of what they are doing? I didn’t order this. I wanted us to march downtown to the Trop.

She looks down at the gun in her lap, a silvery piece of metal. Each part of it has a purpose. Take one piece away and it will fail when needed. Will I fail when needed? This is it. I’m going to kill some whiteys. Somehow the idea doesn’t sound as appealing as it once did.

She has an unobstructed view across a parking lot and of a small convenience store. No lights on. The sign in the door says: Closed. There’s a pick-up truck parked alongside of the building near the entrance.

Somewhere, distant but getting closer, the sound of diesel engines. She closes her eyes, letting her memory drift back to the night by the lake with Bronte…

The anger is like a drug, and her hate is almost a living thing. Something about the gun pushed her past reason, past good sense. She leapt toward the guy with the gun, and managed to grab his arm, digging in with two inch nails. His face twisted into a pained snarl and suddenly a shot rang out. Benji fell forward with a bright arc of blood jetting from his neck, face down next to the fire. “Dumb bitch, why did ‘cha wreck our scam?” the guy with the jug ears screams. He raises his free hand, and backhands her. “I’m killing the bitch Lionel!”

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Lionel says, “No,” but then Bronte is there. He takes the gun right out of Jug Head’s hand, and punches him with a closed fist, then he spins toward Lionel in what she recognized as a rehearsed karate move. His elbow connects with Lionel’s jaw. Both men drop to the ground. Bronte stands over them, and turns toward her. His eyes were bright, shining with something… hate maybe?

“Last time Janice. That’s the last time I compromise myself for something stupid you’ve done.” Lionel moans, but doesn’t move. Bronte looks around briefly, but not at her, then…

“Wake up Janice!” Someone is kicking her. “What’s wrong with you bitch?”
Torenz.
She looks up, brushes her hair from her eyes with her free hand.
“Get up and get ready. They are almost here.” The grin is still there on his face. Like a mask. She wonders for a moment if she ever really knew him. “Be strong woman, and we will right some wrongs. We’ll get a little crazy this time.”
She smiles and extends her free hand toward him. “Help me up, won’t you?”
He takes her hand and for once in a long time his smile falters. Without seeming effort he pulls her up. “For a while there, I thought you were losing your nerve baby,” he says.
“Like you said, they are coming,” she replies and winces as someone blows a long blast on a horn. She takes a step or two forward and looks around the front of the towering engine compartment above her.
“Run,” she says, somehow overcoming her own paralysis. The horn blares again, long and loud. A dump truck is hurtling toward the deuceand-a-half truck that blockades the road. She trips on the curb while behind her there is a loud rending of metal on metal as the two large trucks collide and merge into a shrieking metal mass that slides past the bridge and into the canal.
Torenz is running past her, gun in hand. His mouth is open and he might be shouting, but she can’t hear. She gets to her feet. Two or three people are on the ground near her. Something zips past her ear. A shot? She looks around. Yes. There is an elderly white man leaning out of the passenger door of a Toyota pick-up. Bastard!
Just like that the anger returns. She runs toward the truck, holding her own gun in both hands, getting closer.
The man takes aim, and she is close enough to see him close one eye and squint the other as he aims over the sight, leaning his arm on

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the open door. He has a bulbous forehead and a receding hairline. Each thinning hair is swept back and greased down.

She stops two or three feet from him and looks down the barrel of his gun. Her chest is heaving and she is trying to suck in as much air as she can through her nose and mouth. Why doesn’t he shoot?

He licks his lips. He has a large mole above his left eyebrow. Maybe he can’t shoot a woman? She raises her own gun, still clenched in both fists, and takes aim. She hears a series of clicks—Maybe four or five? He is pulling the trigger but his revolver is empty.

She centers her sight on his forehead and peripherally she sees him drop his own gun and start to raise both hands.
Just a little squeeze. His head jerks up. A loud noise. The smelltaste combo of gunpowder thick in her nose and mouth as the recoil throws the barrel skyward. The guy is gone, vanished behind the door, or fallen back behind the truck’s dashboard.
She runs around the door. The guy is dead. More shots nearby. Someone grunts. She feels light-headed. That wasn’t so bad. More shots rattle off the metal hide of the truck. She sprints forward, feeling keyed up. The next vehicle in the convoy in front of her is a city bus. The engine is still on, but the door near the driver’s seat is open. She pops in and there is the bus driver, another white guy, this one fat and fortyish, still dressed in his bus driver’s uniform. He sees her gun and goes for a shotgun at his feet.
“Fuck you, bastard!” she screams and shoots him three times. A woman in the bus further back screams and the driver slowly slides down in his seat, dead with his eyes open and a cigarette dangling from his mouth…
She steps further into the bus, gun in her left hand and the other already reaching for the shotgun. She sees movement near her and she turns, points and fires her last bullet, feeling like a killer, feeling unstoppable. A small brown-skinned body stands in the bus aisle, swaying for a moment then topples to the floor—A child!
No, it can’t be.
At least thirty people, mostly kids, are cowering in their seats. Janicea lowers her head. A middle-aged black woman wearing a head scarf and a knee length blue dress rushes forward, too late, screaming at her, calling her names. The woman cradles the child. “How could you?!” the woman asks.
Something in the woman’s voice makes her look up. “It was easy. I wanted to kill people. I still do.”

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“Children?” The look on the woman’s face is full of incredulity. “Not children, no. White people.”
“Well goddamn you bitch, you fucked up. Get out of here. Leave us

alone.”
“Is the boy dead?” she asks.
More adults are making their way down the aisle. A couple of them

are white women. “Listen,” says Janicea, “take the shotgun and I will make sure no one else gets hurt, okay?” She makes as if to hand the weapon over, but the woman hisses, “Fuck you! Get away from us. We don’t need your nasty hating kind. Go!”

She puts the shotgun on the floor, and with the empty revolver still in hand, backs out of the bus. She draws even with the bus driver’s corpse and something, some intuition makes her look at him. A glance at her watch. How long since she killed the guy? Will he turn into one of them? His face certainly has gone ashen, and his head is leaning against the window and his cap is now covering his eyes. The unshaved pad of fat below his chin reminds her of a hog’s hide, bristling with coarse gray hair. Just to the right of a large bloodstain a name tag on his shirt says, ‘Greg Simpson.’

Do I dare grab his feet and drag him out? If not, what happens to the kids trapped in here? With that thought she leans over and grabs one ankle with her free hand, gives a yank.

The body doesn’t move. His cap still covers his eyes. What if they are still open?
I don’t have the guts to look. Instead she shoves the pistol into the top of her pants and grabs each ankle. Someone groans.
Oh shit. She looks up. His cap has fallen off revealing that indeed his eyes are still open, only they are rolled up in his head. Did he make the noise, she wonders.
She tugs his ankles and his eyes, the iris that is, roll back into view. His mouth opens and she lets go. He grabs the seat behind him and sits up, watching her as she backs down the stairs and out the door. She thinks he’s about to lunge out the door after her, when someone screams in the back of the bus. The people in the bus are closer to him. Does he know they are trapped? He lunges down the aisle deeper into the bus and the resulting terrified screams is too much to bear.
Oh God! I just killed those people.
Somebody runs past her. One of her group, another woman. “Run Janicea! Those things are everywhere!” she screams and disappears behind the bus.

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Reluctantly, Janicea looks around. Groups of people are all over the place around her pulling people down or already… feasting on them. There is no sign of Torenz. How could things go so wrong? I’ve got to get out of here! Maybe if I hide in the convenience store?

She runs.

HE PAUSES FOR A MOMENT at the next intersection, throws a glance over his shoulder. I’ve found people all right. More dead ones. He performs a quick count and comes up with ten now, shuffling along behind him at various speeds.

A spate of painful coughing seizes his chest and rib cage. His throat feels raw from the smoke. God knows what things are burning and combining in here. His choices have narrowed down considerably. To the left is a short arm of the mall with about seven or eight stores on either side and a Dillard’s at the end. In front of him is a children’s play area and behind it a JC Penney’s. A right turn will take him down an even shorter arm or branch, which has maybe three stores on either side before reaching an exit.

His agreed-upon path is straight out through Penny’s. The sprinklers are only working sporadically here, but the water is at least two inches deep everywhere. Scattered bodies and floating trash litter the tiled expanse. No cheerleader outfits yet. From the direction of Dillard’s more shambling shapes emerge from behind the falling water.

He takes a closer look at Penney’s and notices the doors are closed. Did someone lock up? This certainly changes the plan. Even with the axe, he worries that it will take too long to break a door down. And then he will have compromised the safety of everyone hiding there. He walks over to the doors, hoping to see someone looking through the glass.

Nobody is there, but there is some blood on the doors and four or five corpses piled near a door. He starts to turn when something grabs his shoulder. He lets out a scream and the sudden burst of adrenaline propels his body free and toward a bench against Penney’s wall to the right of the doors.

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A corpse is coming for him, a young guy with one good arm and another that looks chewed. Others are within ten feet or so, lurching closer, their ghastly faces intent and focused. Oh God, I’ve grown too careless! They are hemming him in against the wall. “You won’t take me so easily you bastards!” he yells and he whirls the axe two-handed above his head and into a swing that connects with the young guy’s throat and rips it away. On the back swing he catches a middle-aged guy across the face. Each impact is jarring on his exhausted arms and hands. They are closing in too tightly now. Soon sheer numbers will take him down.

This may be it. Time to die.
He hunches over, leaning forward, takes a quick step or two and hits a woman with his shoulder and plows his way into an open space between people at a dead sprint. His only worry is a slip or trip as he caroms off people while trying to keep his footing. Boots splashing and his own belabored breathing are loud in his ears. Arms, hands and occasional objects flail at him. Somehow he controls his sprint for about ten yards while they try to get a grip on his slick bunker gear.
Almost free, just a little further.
Something hits him square in the back and penetrates his gear. He goes down screaming beneath at least two of the creatures and loses the axe. It slides away from him as he hits the floor and he slides a bit himself. Just for a moment he is too stunned to react and suddenly there is a ripping, tearing pain coming from his back and a bestial snarl from whoever or whatever is pinning him down. He flips over with relative ease and shrugs a woman off his back. Vision blurred by streaming water, he catches a glimpse of blonde hair and some sort of mini-skirted uniform. He pulls the pistol from the front pocket of his jacket and hopes it will fire. Right in front of him, the blond is back, face full of hunger and rage. Aim quick and fire. A lucky hit between the eyes jerks her head sideways and she crumples. She is wearing a cheerleader’s uniform. Oh no, Liz, I found you…
His mind reaches its limit, even as he regains his feet. Too much. Far too much.
The mob closes back in, but behind him fifty or so feet away are the exit doors.
He runs, terrified now beyond consoling, but still the urge to run, to find someplace to hide. One thought between the tearing pain from his back and the terror, matching him stride for stride: She bit me. She bit me.

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THERE REALLY IS NO TIME TO HESITATE. He steps around the back of the car and the girl comes for him, clumsily, off balance but determined. “Come on bitch,” he says. “I don’t care if you are a woman. You picked the wrong guy to fuck with.”

She doesn’t reply. Like talking to a hungry shark. She appears to have one thing on her mind: some kind of crazy urge to bite him. After a few minutes, he loses patience and grabs one of her extended arms as she reaches for him. He begins to spin on his good leg and she either doesn’t have the presence of mind to resist or he is just too strong. He gradually pulls her into a spin that lifts her off her feet and then he flings her away from him. A hundred some-odd pound woman is nothing next to the strength of a three hundred pound ex-lineman.

“Now that was sort of refreshing,” he says to himself. “Bitch-tossing!” The woman flies an impressive distance and lands with no grace. Does she have any self-protective urge? If anything, she seemed to radiate hate and rage. Oh God, get me away from here. He abandons the idea of taking the car and strikes off toward the park, limping, but still walking faster than any of the people lurching after him. He takes a step up from the street to the curb, feels light-headed and quite without intending it, he staggers to his right a step or two. Sweat breaks out on his scalp, but feels cool in the hot humid air.

I never got my blood pressure pill: Pressure’s probably sky high. A white sign is in the grass. He’s in the shade now of towering oak trees. Probably says ‘Don’t walk on the grass’ or something, he thinks, but does a double take. The sign actually reads, “Proceed with caution and listen for voice commands. You are being watched.” What the hell is that shit?

As if to offer proof, bodies are scattered in the grass starting roughly fifteen feet from the sign. He shrugs. It’s either proceed forward and maybe get shot, or go back and probably be eaten. “Don’t shoot!” he yells and walks past the sign. “I’m on your side!”

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Nobody answers. The grass needs to be mowed. Those Y-shaped sprouts are waving in the slight breeze. He passes three gray-haired corpses; one man and two women. What if someone killed them for the hell of it? Where did that thought come from? No one is safe if that’s what happened. Maybe I am dead and I’m in Hell?

“Okay big boy, that’s far enough,” says a voice from the trees, hard to say where, but nearby. I made it about three steps further than the corpses. “You been bit? If you have, and don’t tell us, we will make you suffer.”

“Nope, no bites. Just banged up a little,” he answers. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but other than that…”
“Alrighty then, we’re going to let you through. My friend, Riker, is going to be watching you through a scope. He will split your head open like a ripe tomato if you try anything funny. Just do what I say, and you are going to be safe, capeshe?”
“I’m listening.”
“Good. Just walk straight ahead for about half a block. You’ll see a restaurant at the corner, just before the entrance to the Pier. Know what I’m talking about?”
“Yeah, I ate there with my ex-wife once.” Graham takes a step or two and sees who is talking: a guy in an Army jungle uniform. He’s sitting behind a tree trunk, holding an M-16 rifle. The leg of the soldier’s partner is just visible about six or seven feet up the tree.
The soldier realizes he’s been seen and gives Graham a two finger salute with his right hand. “Wait outside the door when you get there and someone will come get you.”
“I got it, and thanks.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Big. We may need more guys your size real quick. I hope you can fight.”
Graham doesn’t answer. He’s already walking toward the restaurant, favoring his right knee and thinking about cold beer and painkillers. Probably just a pipe dream.

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HE IS LOOKING AT HIS WATCH, listening to fading and more infrequent gunfire when Tracks says, “Here she come, Bronte. She running from the bus.”

Bronte steps back toward his window and the carnage it reveals. He looks and sees Janicea running toward the door to the shop. “We should have left the moment this all started,” he says, mostly to himself, but loud enough for Tracks to hear.

“Too late then, Bronte. Too late now.”

Janicea runs right up to the door and looks in. The glass is tinted. He stands still and looks back at her, and hopes she will just turn away. She is gasping for breath, eyes wide with panic and are just as beautiful; facial features just as perfect as when they first met. He watches her lips mouth a word, “Bronte?”

He nods.
She shouts, “Let me in Bronte! They’re going to kill me. Please…” “Open the door Tracks.”
Tracks opens the locks and lets her in. Three or four of the

creatures—Zombies or whatever they are, begin to bang on the door and windows moments later. Tracks finishes re-locking the door only just in time.

Janicea turns around, looking back at the dead faces. “Oh God, I don’t know what happened to Torenz. Those things are everywhere, and they’re killing everybody!”

“Look there,” says Tracks and points. He waits patiently for her to look. She spots a green floppy hat.
“That his hat. It fell off when he ran like a bitch.”
“He wouldn’t leave me,” she starts to say.
“That what he did, bitch,” says Tracks. “That what hate get you. A big man with a twisted little heart like a piece of rotted fruit. He screamed and ran.”

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“He did, didn’t he?” she asks, and Bronte knows she is asking him. “Yeah, he did, Janice.”
He watches her look over Tracks. Looking for a weakness, maybe? The pounding continues. It really is impossible to concentrate and

won’t the noise attract more of them? “You think noise attracts them?”

Bronte asks, not waiting for another question from Janicea. “More are coming,” says Tracks.
“Please don’t leave me again Bronte,” says Janicea.
Bronte turns to face her as she walks deeper into the store. She is

still struggling to catch her breath. He wants to curse her, tell her to go to Hell, but at just that moment, Daric appears next to her. Can’t do it. “You can go with us, Janice,” he says. Over her shoulder, he watches Tracks’ face shut down. Almost like he slapped him. He’ll forgive me. “The longer we wait, the harder it will be to leave,” says Tracks.

“If we try to leave now, we’ll have to leave most of the supplies,” Bronte replies, nodding towards the piles they have made.
Janicea shakes her head. “I probably shouldn’t have any say, but here goes: There is always the chance we can get more food later. Right now, we are in trouble. I say we take what we can and run.”
“You’re right, Janice,” says Bronte. “We’re going to leave very soon. I want you and Daric to carry as many bags as you can. Tracks and I will protect you. If there isn’t too many of those things, we’ll pull the truck around front and load the truck bed to the brim. All of us will squeeze into the cab for safety. If there are too many of them, we’ll just pile into the truck and leave. Any questions?”
Daric is clutching his Teddy Bear and a handful of comics. Janicea gives a weak smile. “My gun’s empty. Can I have more bullets?”

107

P OLICE CHIEF HADLEY takes a puff on his cigar and lets the smoke curl from his nostrils. Most people would describe him as portly; a big man gone to fat. He’s wearing a wrinkled blue suit with a white shirt and a red and blue striped tie. The tie isn’t tied but is hanging like a snake around his neck, and his jowls are a steely gray with a day old beard. The chief clamps the cigar into the side of his mouth and reaches into his jacket. Talaski sits perfectly still and watches while the chief pulls his service pistol from beneath his arm: a chrome.357 revolver with a four inch barrel.

The engine is running now and most of the convoy has pulled away. Only Corporal Ramos’ Humvee and Keller’s cruiser still wait behind them.

“I’m not real sure of you Talaski. I know you’re a smart guy, but there’s smart and there’s too smart. We could use a guy like you, but…”
“I’m listening,” Talaski says.
A hand touches his shoulder and Talaski half turns toward the back of the car.
“We’re not going to the Pier,” says the mayor. “It might be a trap. We plan to take as many people as we can. We’ll leave the smaller craft for those we can’t make room for.”
Talaski’s face is a perfect poker mask. He even manages a smile. “The perfect plan. I shouldn’t be surprised you guys cooked this up so quickly…”
The mayor smiles, flashing his mouthful of white teeth. “You always need to be a couple steps ahead, Nick. Do you mind if I call you that? It is Nick, right?”
“Feel free, sir,” Talaski replies. He notices that the mayor doesn’t offer him a less formal name to address him by.
“So Nick, are you in?” asks the mayor.
“Yeah, count me in boys,” Talaski answers and grins at the chief, who raises an eyebrow in response. “But I do need someone to tell me where we’re going.”

108

“Take Beach Drive over to Snell Isle to start. You made the right choice.” Giving credence to this statement is a small, relieved-looking grin on the chief’s face.

“You won’t be sorry to trust me, Chief,” says Talaski. At least not right away.
“Then let’s get started, Ski.”
Talaski puts the car in gear and they pull out onto Central Avenue

going east. “Who are the people in the other cruiser?” he asks casually.

The mayor is in the middle of whispering something to his secretary, but holds up a hand to her and answers, “Friends Nick. We need to take care of them. One of them, a guy named Lionel, owns the yacht we are going to board. The soldiers are just an added bonus to make sure we get where we want to go.”

Most of the north side of the next block is burning. No sign of the Fire Department. “Let’s try 4th Street…” says Hadley. Talaski calculates, roughly three more stoplights.

We’ll be traveling against traffic. What traffic? Talaski spots a hobo about a block up carrying a TV on his shoulder. The hobo ducks into a warehouse doorway when he spots the cruiser. I can’t shut off, he thinks. Guess it’s a good thing I can’t. Might save my life, yet.

“I’m sorta surprised we are the point vehicle, sir,” Talaski says. Let’s see what kind of guy the mayor really is.
In the rear view mirror, Talaski watches the mayor plant a kiss on the woman’s throat. Her eyes are half-closed and she leans into him. Maybe she is pretending he’s someone else? The detective, Pitts, is asleep with his head against the glass of the window.
“Were you talking to me, Ski? Why do I give a shit?” says Hadley. “I was walking point in Nam when your parents were still wiping your ass.”
Nice one. “Just a thought, Chief, seeing as we are transporting the VIP.”
“You some kind of chicken-shit, Ski? I didn’t have you pegged as one.”
Talaski feels a warm flush in his cheeks. Anger simmering in his veins, not that it’s ever very far from the surface. He laughs briefly, despite himself.
Hadley doesn’t understand. “What are you laughing at boy? You got this one chance to earn your place. Piss me off and it’ll vanish before your eyes.” He blows another cloud of smoke out his partially open window.

109

Just ahead, someone has left a car in the middle of the street. The driver’s side door is still open. It’s a Honda, something with two doors. I should know this. Shattered glass lies all around the car and one single jagged piece masks the driver’s side. The tires are all flat. Something moves at the corner of his eye. Hadley is staring open-mouthed and slack-jawed at the car wreck and just beyond his beaklike nose and double chin, Talaski sees someone enter a doorway and pull the door closed behind them.

“Chief, somebody just went inside the house to your right. I think it was a man.”
Hadley turns toward him. “I didn’t see anything.”
The mayor leans forward, face close to the mesh. “You think it’s an ambush, Nick?”
“Well, did you notice that cars are parked on both sides of the street and that car is completely blocking the road, both lanes?”
“Yes, and so?” There is an edge to the mayor’s voice.
“I’d suggest we find another way.”
Hadley explodes, “Like hell! Either go around it, or plow your way through.”
“Now, Jubal, let’s don’t be so hasty,” says the mayor. “You haven’t been a patrol officer in years.”
Jubal. That name always kills me. Named after a mediocre rebel general. Talaski barely suppresses a smile.
“With all due respect, Richard, you need to shut the fuck up. This is my game here. I get you to the boat and you take over the politics after that.” Hadley isn’t careful about his delivery when he speaks. Both the mayor, Richard, and his secretary, Marilee, blink more than once from particles of spit blown from the near berserk Hadley. Marilee actually complains: “Jesus, he spit on me, Ritchie.”
Richard ‘Ritchie’ Mayes, man of the people.
“Have it your way, then,” says the mayor. He reaches into his coat and hands Marilee a handkerchief.
Hadley points with his hand close to Talaski’s face. Turn into that driveway to your left Ski. It’ll take us around the wreck and we’ll just drive on some grass in the next yard. You see?”
Talaski nods, puts the car in gear and steers onto the driveway. The house covers at least three lots, has a pillared entryway and a lot of lush landscaping. The driveway encircles a bronze statue of a rearing horse. Near the street he turns left again partially onto a sidewalk and the grass. He spots Keller’s cruiser in his rear-view mirror following them. So far, Corporal Ramos’ Humvee isn’t moving, but he can see someone sitting up in the roof turret manning the M-60 machine gun.
Just a few feet further he steers over the curb and back into the street. Coffeepot Boulevard and the waters of Coffeepot Bayou are only a half block away. Keller pulls behind him and they both stop at the stop sign. The road looks clear. A left turn will take them to a bridge to Snell Isle and a right will take them back to the downtown waterfront of Tampa Bay. The mansions of Snell Isle are visible from here. Two and three story homes, many with Spanish tile roofs, and very sizeable, immaculate lawns. No one is ever in a hurry around here, unless they are jogging.
The Humvee’s engine roars as it picks up speed and slams the immobilized car out of the way. The wreck fails to do more than slow it down momentarily. The front bumper might be scratched. Talaski can’t really tell from here. It is an impressive piece of machinery without a doubt.
“What are—”
Talaski cuts Hadley off in mid-sentence by turning left. The little convoy proceeds along the slightly curving road with houses on the left side, and the bayou and boat docks on the right. Except for the total absence of people, everything looks normal. Palm trees are blowing in a light breeze, the sky is blue for the moment, but there is a dark line of possible storm clouds looming ominously over Tampa. The wind is blowing west. We may be in for some rain. The car rounds the curve and there just ahead of them is the bridge, a white stone affair with fluted supports and one-lane each way. There is a four-way stop in front of the bridge. Talaski is already looking ahead. Involuntarily he eases his foot off the gas.
“What is it?” snorts Hadley.
“Look at the bridge,” says Talaski. “It’s blocked and guarded. Maybe we won’t be going there after all, eh?”
“Bullshit!” exclaims the mayor. “Lionel and I live there. We have a membership at the Golf Course. There shouldn’t be any problem.”
Someone steps away from the barricade in front of the bridge and strolls toward them.

“TRISH, ARE YOU OKAY?” A male voice. Not familiar. The same person repeats her name a few times and she realizes this same person is shaking her. She cracks an eyelid. A younger, slightly better looking version of Hank Wellman is cradling her in his arms and looking down her top. Just by feel, she can tell a lot of her tanned flesh is exposed and one breast is about to pop free. Oh yeah, it has a scoop neck. He looks harmless and she is tempted to let herself slip back away.

He pauses a moment to push his glasses back up his nose. He has short stubby fingers with dirt under the nails, but smells faintly of a lemonish aftershave. She can see a few spots he missed when he shaved.

“Where are we?” she asks and sees him give a guilty start. She knows they are in the bed of a truck and she can see a light pole overhead, the type you see lining roads. Several sea gulls are perched on it, screaming and squawking in complaining voices.

“You’re awake? Did you—”
“Yes, I know you’ve been getting an eyefull. Now, help me up.” His face goes a beet red, but he helps her to sit up. She’s in the bed

of one of the pick-ups that were in front of the Halfway Tavern. Jerry and Hank are nearby talking to a couple of middle-aged people. “What’s your name?” she asks.
He can’t meet her gaze. “Bud Wellman, ma’am, and I’m sorry for…”
She decides right then that he must be all of sixteen. He’s a little on the heavy side, another of his father’s traits, but its only by twenty pounds or so. “Don’t be sorry, Bud. A lotta guys would have done more than you did. I guess I passed out, huh?”
“Yeah, you’ve been sleeping. It’s been an hour or so since the explosion.”
“What was going on in the store? Was there a dead guy in there?”
“I’m not sure. The guy that was standing guard on the SUVs got killed by a chunk of metal from the explosion, though. His family was inside ransacking the store. Everythings cool now. They asked to join us and Mr. Jebus, my Dad’s friend said okay.”

112

She sits for a moment without saying anything.
“Are you hungry or thirsty? I can get you something,” he says, while rising to his feet. He climbs out of the truck bed. When the silence draws out, he continues to chatter. I probably scared him. “My mom and sister are helping pack up stuff from the store. A State Trooper stopped by a little while ago and said people are gathering at the Wal-Mart. It has everything we need and it’s a safe house or something.”
“That sounds good… Did you say your name is Bud? I’m hungry and thirsty.”
He gives her a nervous grin. “Well, actually my name is Marvin, but I prefer Bud. You won’t call me Marvin, will you?”
“Not if you weren’t teasing me about the food and drink…”
“I’ll be right back, ma’am.” He runs away toward the tavern entrance.
She stands up, straightening her clothes. I wonder if his parents even knew where he was or what he was doing?
“Hey Trish, I want you to meet someone,” says Hank, waving her over. She nods, and steps onto the truck’s rear bumper and jumps off, landing neatly on the hard packed dirt of the parking lot.
The two people standing with Jerry and Hank are both middle-aged, one man and one woman. The woman’s face is haggard with big blue eyes red from crying, and her grayish-brown hair is done up in a messy bun that is about to come undone. Her sleeveless, khaki blouse is bloody and the right leg of her jeans is torn out. The man has a medium build and is wearing a red Buccaneers t-shirt and jeans. Whitish circles of salt ring the shirt beneath his arms and around his collar. He has a high forehead, a mane of grey-streaked brown hair and a pure white goatee that somehow reminds her of one of the three musketeers.
Hank puts a hand on Trish’s shoulder. “Patricia Reed, this is Marco and Lani.”
“Call me Trish,” she says and holds out her hand to both people in turn.
Marco says, “Pleased to meet you,” with a faint, unidentifiable accent, and Lani nods.
Hank squeezes her shoulder. “Did Bud tell you we are discussing going to Wal-Mart?”
“Yes, it sounds good. I worked there part-time last Christmas and made some friends. Maybe we’ll have someone on the inside.”

113

THEY RUN FROM THE MALL STUMBLING LIKE DRUNKS into the humid heat and

bright sunshine. If only we were truly escaping the horror, I might feel like celebrating, but we’ve just exchanged milieus. Kathy looks around. I wish I still had my purse, but what does it matter? My car is on the other side of the mall. She wrinkles her nose and tries to breathe through her mouth only. There is a smell, however faint for the moment, from the bodies lying scattered and from those still upright.

“Where’s your car, Sam?” Natalie asks.
“This way!” They run between a mini-van and a Cadillac, Kathy hating every moment spent in her uncomfortable soaking wet clothes. They pass a small group of slashed bodies whose insides decorate the concrete all around them in flowery spray patterns of drying blood.
“Here is where I met the firefighter,” says Sam. “And this is my car.” He points toward a spotlessly clean, white four-door Acura. Sam and the girl, Natalie, slide into the front seat, while Kathy sits in the back, throwing frequent looks over her shoulder. Thank God we got out of there.
“Do you think she’s all right, Nat?” asks Sam. He has his keys out, but not in the ignition. Kathy can tell he is looking forward and not at Natalie who is clinging to his arm. The girl consequently does little to mask her feelings. It’s hard to read her precise emotion from her profile, but anger and jealousy are a good guess. “I hate to say it Sam…” Natalie says.
Yeah, right!
“You think she’s dead, really?” Sam turns and grabs Natalie by her shoulders with both hands. The bat is somewhere on the floor up front.
“She panicked, Sam. I couldn’t stop her.”
Kathy leans forward, over the seat. “Let’s talk about this later. We have to get out of here!” She looks around. Sure enough, a group of people are emerging through the mall’s exit near Sears. At least two of them appear injured and are limping.
Sam turns her way by sliding his ass around and putting a leg on the seat. His eyes have a feverish intensity, and his short brown hair is plastered to his forehead. “Listen Kathy, I care about Liz. If she’s dead…” He grabs a handful of his hair. “If she’s dead, I don’t know what I’ll do. Here I am babysitting one of Liz’s friends and some woman who should be able to take care of herself and—”
“That’s bullshit!” shrieks Natalie. “What gives you the right to even think something like that?!”
“Am I wrong?!” he shouts right back in her face. “You’d like to take her place wouldn’t you?! Tell me I’m wrong Natalie! I can see it in your eyes!”
Natalie leans back against the seat and headrest. She won’t look Sam in the face, but also seems unable to speak.
“Okay Sam,” says Kathy. “You won. You made your point, now can we go?”
Sam ignores her. He turns back to the now weeping Natalie. “Nat, Nat,” he says. “Do you care about me that much?”
“Always,” she replies.
“I’m confused but glad you told me. I care about Liz, but I… its too late. Whatever happens…”
Kathy can’t stand it, knowing the big firefighter may be in trouble. “Please, we must hurry. Liz might be okay, and that firefighter, Adam might need us.” This is worse than Days of Our Lives. Still, Kathy, admit your heart rate didn’t pick up. Tell us how it meant nothing and you felt nothing when he held you close. “Just my hormones and natural loneliness making me weak,” she whispers under her breath.
“You got it Kathy, we’ll go get him now,” says Sam as he puts the key in the ignition and starts the car. Someone nearby shouts and there are several bangs. Gunshots, maybe? “Must be your Goth friends,” mutters Sam as he throws the car into gear and spins out of the parking space to the left and away from a number of onrushing black-clad figures.
They clear the main body of cars after only thirty or forty feet and he steers left onto the road that circles the mall parking lot. Kathy fastens her seat belt and holds onto the back of Sam’s chair.
“I hope he’s waiting for us outside,” says Natalie.
Me too.

T HE THREE PEOPLE are about to enter the S-10 pick-up truck when he pulls into the parking lot. There are at least ten propane tanks in the truck bed and one of the two men is already sitting in the bed. The woman is standing by the cab with the passenger door open and the other man is opening the driver’s door.

Dodd hits the lights on the roof rack, but refrains from turning on the siren. Just to shake them up. The woman flinches. She has her blondish hair in a ponytail and is wearing some brief canvas shorts and a peach-colored top tied up below her breasts. The sight of her smooth, tanned stomach and her perfect breasts almost push him over the edge. I’ll just shoot the two men and take her. Law of the fittest… and meanest now.

Play it cool and take them off-guard. I can do this . When he exits the cruiser his reflective sunglasses are on and he is wearing his best stone face. “Want to tell me what’s going on here?” he asks.

The driver, a guy in his thirties wearing a black t-shirt, blue jeans and a Devil Rays cap, is the first to speak. He has a square jaw, dimples and a mustache that dips down just past his mouth. “Name’s Mitch, Mitch Fallon. I own this place. I just came by to get some supplies for myself and my neighbors to get us through this crisis.”

“Is that so?” Dodd has his hand on his pistol butt.

“Yes officer,” says the woman. She smiles politely and he thinks: Closer to forty than thirty, but still good.

At that very moment the door to the building swings open, revealing a broken and splintered jamb, but nothing happens. Somebody used a crowbar on that. “All of you need to step away from the truck and into the parking lot away from the building.” For emphasis, he draws his gun, but doesn’t point it. Yet.

“I can explain, sir,” says the man.

“They all say that,” says Dodd and grins at the guy. “Now move your ass.”

“And what if I don’t. My friend Carlos over there has a gun. One or two shots into the propane will blow us all over creation. Or maybe he’ll just try his luck shooting you.”

Without moving his head, Dodd looks over at Carlos, glad that he has the shades on. Carlos looks like a Mexican or something—He’s Latin for sure, darkly tanned with jet black hair. Carlos is wearing a denim shirt, a headband and holding a large revolver that is pointed his way.

I’m fucking up . How can I get out of this? He struggles for a moment to keep himself still, to not lose control and run.
“The way I see it Officer is this: I think you are an opportunist. Maybe you drove by and thought: ‘Criminals! I must do something’ but I think what really happened is you saw some sort of opportunity. What do you think?”
“I think your idea stinks,” Dodd snarls.
“I think you saw a nice piece of ass and wanted some, but hey, I can’t blame you. My Suzy is a hot bitch. I’m an opportunist too, Officer…”
“Dodd.”
“Yes, Officer Dodd. Maybe we can work a deal to work together? We take things slow. I pretend and you pretend that we don’t want to kill each other and we see what working together can do? What do you say?”
Suzy leans against the truck and toys with one of the tied ends of her shirt. “Yeah, what do you say? I think we could be good friends.”
“Call me James.”
“Say James,” she says, and he notices her eyes are focused just below his gun belt, “Why don’t we go back inside? I have something to show you.”
He raises the back of his right arm to his forehead. Cold sweat is gathered at his temples and the back of his head. He glances up at the sun briefly, then to the two men. Neither of them appears to take exception to her invitation.
Suzy turns around, toward the door, not waiting for his answer. He takes a long, lustful look at her ass as she walks back toward the store’s entrance. God, that’s fine!
He grabs the door, holding it open long enough to follow her and enters some sort of office reception area. There is a long counter just across from the door, some chairs and a couch to his right and two propane tanks sitting on the floor. They tried to take too many.
With her back still toward him, she places her hands against the counter and leans forward in an exaggerated pose as if ready to be searched. She looks over her shoulder. “I think I need to be searched, officer.”
Unbelievable. This isn’t happening to me.
Dodd stops and takes a deep breath. Realizes he’s still holding the pistol.
“Not here, go back behind the counter,” he says, voice thick, almost guttural, feeling blood rage through his veins, giving rise to a painful erection.
Suzy turns around, and her right hand is unbuckling her belt. “Come on, I just thought you’d like a quickie and then we could all be on our way.” She smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind her left ear.
“What’s the deal with Mitch? Is he just gonna have a smoke outside while we fuck? Or maybe when my pants are around my ankles, he and Carlos will come in here and waste me.”
“No, that’s not it at all, James-baby. He doesn’t own me. Now come over here and let me help you relax…” She takes a half-step toward him and he notices that her belt is undone, and two buttons are undone. Also, most of her smooth tan belly and just a hint of bright pink panties are now visible.
“Time to make a decision, James. Trust me or not?” Suzy steps closer, pulls on the tie holding her shirt together. Fingers on the zipper of his pants tugging, pulling. Warm breath and soft lips on his neck, kissing downward.
Dodd makes a decision.

H E WANTS TO LOOK, but can’t. Every time he looks in the rear view mirror he catches the woman, the short guy Barney’s wife or girlfriend, looking at him. Her eyes are gray, he thinks, a sort of steely blue gray with a nice oval face and a lot of brown, unruly hair.

I wish I had my sunglasses . It would be a good alibi. Keller squints his eyes in the bright sunlight, although there is the feeling of impending rain in the air.

118

Keller lets his foot off the brake and the cruiser edges a little closer to Talaski’s. Better put it in park, he thinks and does so. A barricade has been built across the bridge and a tall white guy with broad shoulders is approaching Talaski’s car. He’s wearing blue jeans, a green shirt and boots. A small carbine with a white cloth tied to it is in one of his hands with the butt on his waist.

“Got a cigarette Barney?” says Lionel. He is turned sideways in his seat, seat belt off, his suit coat gaping open and his tie hanging loose around his neck. The air conditioning is going full blast, but Lionel is sweating and he smells rank, like dirty gym clothes. His dress shirt is undone to his navel exposing a lot of pale, saggy skin covered in coarse black hair.

From the corner of his eye, Keller sees Barney fumble in a shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Barney’s wife is sitting on his lap. Lionel’s two kids are crammed together next to them and Lionel’s wife is directly behind Keller. Before Keller can say anything, Barney’s wife explodes, yelling at both Lionel and her husband. “You aren’t smoking in this car! Put those cigarettes away right now Barney or I swear to God, I’ll—”

“Shut up Helen, you mouthy bitch,” says Lionel.

Lionel takes the cigarettes and lighter from Barney. Keller is surprised that Barney says nothing. Helen meanwhile has apparently had enough. “Let me out of here!” she shouts. Her hands scrabble for the door handle, while Barney tries to stop her. “I don’t want to go with these people.”

A nice, but probably unintended elbow to the face takes all the fight out of Barney. Helen pulls the handle and the door is open. She squirms out and slams the door on him as he tries to follow her.

She sprints around the front of the car and runs toward a yard full of tall shady oaks, dead or dying shrubs and fallen leaves.
“Let her go, Barney,” says Lionel. “I’ll find you something better… something more grateful and willing, eh? Maybe more than one?” He flashes a quick fake smile and pops open his door.
The smaller man slumps back in his seat.
What the hell is Lionel going to do? Keller pulls the keys out of the ignition and opens his door. Lionel shouts, “Helen!” There is a gun in Lionel’s hand. Keller spots it immediately, but can’t react fast enough. Lionel runs around the cruiser after the girl and stops short to aim the pistol with both hands. The gun looks strange with something attached to the barrel.

119

Keller is out of the car and closing when Lionel squeezes off a shot. The sound is muffled, and he realizes it is because it has a silencer. Keller doesn’t stop but instead runs on. Lionel hears him, starts to turn with the gun clutched in his left hand. Then Keller crashes into him in a vicious tackle. Both men go down but with the far heavier and stronger Keller on top.

Lionel is stunned but has enough presence of mind to try to get his gun hand free but Keller is forcing that arm up and away from both of them with a death grip on his wrist. “I shot over her head, you asshole!” Lionel shouts.

All reason gone, Keller can feel the anger course through his veins, something primal and demanding. He lifts a ham-sized fist and punches Lionel in the face.

And again.
Lionel spits out blood and what look like fragments of white porcelain. His eyes are fluttering. A moment of lucidity produces the thought: One or two more punches like that and no more Lionel. In that moment, he hears a sniffle. Keller lowers his fist and looks back toward the car. Lionel’s wife and kids are watching him and the younger child is crying. The expression on the wife’s face is hard to fathom. Barney is there also, but he looks paralyzed, standing with his door half open and a shocked look on his face.
Keller climbs to his feet, and jerks Lionel’s semi-comatose body up also.
“Oh Jesus,” says Barney, “you knocked out one of his front teeth.”
“He’s lucky that’s all I did. Everybody back into the car.”
Keller manhandles the guy back into his seat and straps him in with a seat belt. He then locks the door and shuts it. He takes a moment more and retrieves the silenced pistol. Some kind of automatic by Beretta. Drops the magazine and examines a bullet. Nine millimeter. I’ll keep it.
One of the kids starts to say something.
“Hush now,” says the wife, “your Daddy’s sleeping.”
Keller settles back behind the wheel and closes his door. He puts the pistol on the floor near his feet. He looks in the rearview mirror at the backseat. Meets her eyes.
“Sorry about that.”

120

IN THE SHORT INTERVAL between his sprint toward the exit and actually reaching the exit doors, he is already missing the axe. It doesn’t make a loud noise when used and generally it kicks ass! He barely checks his speed as he hits a set of the double doors and explodes out onto the sidewalk and into the sauna heat of the parking lot. He bends over a moment, hands on his knees gasping.

To his right is one of the large chain bookstores and slightly behind him to his left is another entrance to Penney’s. In front of him the parking lot is mostly empty but there are a few parked cars and… a few shambling figures.

There! Is that it, an Acura? Must be! A white car comes around the corner from the bookstore and heads straight for him!
He windmills his arms. Feels awkward in his soaking wet bunker suit and boots. Knows he must be a bloody mess. The car slows and behind him he hears the doors open. Sees Sam’s youthful face behind the wheel, the other cheerleader beside him, and Kathy in the back seat throwing open her door and sliding over. A feathery barely felt touch on his back and he stumbles over into the car.
The cheerleader, Natalie is shouting, “He’s in, go, go, go!” The car lurches as Sam floors the gas pedal and the door isn’t even closed yet and Kathy is hugging him tight, her hair a fragrant tumble around his face, one hand stroking his cheek, murmuring something about, “You made it, you’re okay…”
“Where do I go now?!” Sam asks, shouting in a shaky voice. “Where to Mr. Firefighter?”
Mills slams the door shut and struggles upright into his seat, but Kathy remains close to him.
“I have a few ideas, but we need somewhere safe to talk. Drive around to where my engine… my truck is, okay Sam? Park on the edge of the parking lot. If any of those things are near, we’ll change plans.”
“Gotcha.” Sam circles around the nearest formation of cars and takes the road that loops around the mall’s periphery.

121

The last minute nature of his escape has revived him for the moment. There are plans to make, things to do, and incredibly a real reason to live. All of it, though, hinges on one thing. He leans forward on the seat and says, "Kathy, do you see that tear in my gear? Can you check it for me?"

She looks into his eyes, and he can tell she is almost as terrified as he is. "Sure Adam, lean forward some more."
He closes his eyes, feeling her cool fingers pull the material to the side and explore the wound.
"Looks like something sharp got you, but it doesn't look like a bite. There's some blood, but I think you'll be fine."
He relaxes back into the seat, and leans toward Kathy. "Thanks, and that was a nice greeting you gave me. I got the idea you were glad to see me."
A flush is already in her cheeks, long before the smile. She bats her eyes. “Yeah, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Humph!” he says, feeling a big dumb grin on his lips. “Most people are grateful when we save them, but I want you to know that I’m touched. I needed to feel needed right then. I shouldn’t have gone further into the mall…”
“Looks quiet for the moment, Mr. Mills,” says Sam as he brakes the car next to the looming bulk of the fire engine.
“Good,” Mills replies. “I have a plan, but I’m not sure what’s more important at the moment?”
“Did you find her? I have to know,” Sam says. “Please don’t lie to me.”
Mills stares at the kid. That’s all he really is, a kid. “Yeah, Sam, I found her.”
“Was she…?” The boy can’t finish. Natalie puts her arms around Sam and pulls him to her chest, and rests her head on top of his. Mills notices tears well in Sam’s eyes. The whole truth isn’t going to help here. That’s certain.
Natalie is watching him, with some unreadable emotion in her expression. Expectation?
Mills makes himself go on. “Liz was already dead, don’t worry,” he says, and something strange happens. Natalie looks startled, almost as if she knew what happened. She recovers quickly, but too late.
And she knows I know.
She knows I lied. How?
She won’t meet his eyes.

122

“Hey Kathy,” he hears himself say. He opens his door and swings his feet out.
“Yes, Adam?”
“Why don’t we check around the engine and give Natalie and Sam a moment?”
The two of them exit the car. A little heated breeze is blowing. For just a moment, all he can hear is that breeze blowing through some nearby palm tree fronds. He helps Kathy out, and they walk toward the fire truck. Mills starts to search his pockets, then blurts, “Oh no, I think I lost my keys.”

O NCE INSIDE, the décor of the room isn’t very impressive. Hardly a romantic or stylish place. Perhaps in a minimalist way it has style. Basically, it’s just a glorified beach bar. There are some nice paintings and an impressive mahogany wood bar counter. The only thing missing from the scene in his memory are the people, the fresh flowers on each table, the music and his wife. There might have been a live band…

He takes a deep breath, savoring the scent of a cigarette. Pathetic, but almost comforting. Almost as good as having one myself. “Bullshit,” he says, without thinking.

The woman looks back over her shoulder, gives him a brief smile and exhales a stream of smoke. “You got that right,” she says, oblivious or uncaring of what he just labeled bullshit. “Always a fucking line, no matter where I go. Oops, sorry about the language. This situation… and now I’m smoking again.”

“I quit yesterday.”
“Really?” she sounds bored. He falls silent, but looks her over. She is a tall slender woman in her late thirties with a mass of curly

reddish-blonde hair in a bun and small-framed glasses, wearing a white tank top, black jeans and hiking boots. A black denim jacket is thrown over her shoulder and a holstered revolver is on her right hip. Heavens! Smoking in public buildings and unconcealed weapons back in fashion?

“So what happens here exactly?” Graham asks, looking at the line of people that are ahead of him. He is fifth and last.

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She shrugs. “From what I’ve been told, they make us strip over in the kitchen there and then some doctors look us over to make sure we haven’t been bit. After that, you are free to join the other refugees over at the Pier.”

“What if you have been bit?” he asks.

She takes a half step away from him and her hand reaches for her gun.
“I’m fine,” he says, rushing the words out. “I’m just curious what happens to people…”
She doesn’t exactly relax. “Well, be careful how you phrase things, okay? I heard a shot out back near the boat basin a few minutes ago. Maybe they take people out there and shoot them?”
“I’m not too sure about this,” he says, but his gut says that he is sure. Where else would he go?
“My Dad always said, shit or get off the pot.” Her voice gets a little raspy.
Graham laughs despite his unease. “Good one, Miss…”
“I’m Shaunna,” she says.
“Nice to meet you Shaunna, I’m…”
She interrupts, “…probably not going to know me long. I’m here to see if any of my family is here. If not, I have to go back to my neighborhood to find them.”
“Oh, sorry,” he says, feeling deflated. The voice in his head starts right in on him. Don’t even try to make friends, you idiot. Do you really want someone to depend on you right now?
“Don’t be sorry. I’m just wound too tight. I had to fight down the urge to just go in here guns blazing. My patience is worn thin.”
“If you need any help, I’d be willing,” he says and gives his best sincere look. Her eyes are dark brown, with some kind of golden highlight.
She cups a hand to her ear, and leans toward him. “I’m deaf in my right ear. What did you say?”
He leans toward her, but not into her space. Feels flattered when she doesn’t back away. “I’ll help you if you’ll let me.”
“Why?” she asks, and looks at him as if really seeing him for the first time.
He starts to shrug, but forces himself to stay still. “No one should be out there alone. Helping you and your family is better than sitting around here.”
She tilts her head. “That’s honest. If my family isn’t here, I may take you up on your offer.”

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He smiles, deciding to let her have the last word. Anything else he might say could ruin things. I’m a nice guy, just give me a chance… I just need one more chance.

She turns back around, managing to take a puff or two off the cigarette before it burns down to the butt. She crushes it out on the floor, not far from where he once sat with his wife, one day long ago on an anniversary, back when he still had it all.

EVERY TIME THE SUN BREAKS FREE from the clouds, Bronte can not only see, but feel the difference. The sun is like a blazing torch, and if they weren’t about to leave, he’d strip down just for comfort. But here, up on the store’s roof, he must endure it, at least for a few more minutes. Tracks is lying next to him, looking every bit as miserable as he feels.

“My guess is forty,” Bronte says, looking down and over the small parapet that rims the flat roof of the food store. Dead people are still milling around the wrecked convoy and the store’s parking lot. Five or six more are banging on the doors of the store. “But I can see more coming this way.”

Tracks lifts his head slowly and looks around without moving. “Careful,” says Bronte, “If they see you up here…”
“It may be for the best, Bronte,” says Tracks. If they are all looking

up here, you and the others will have a better chance when we make a break for it.”

Seven glass bottles with rags protruding from the tops are lined up within reach of either man. The rags are oily and the bottles now contain lighter fluid or gas. Janicea found a gas can in the back room and there was a section of shelves downstairs with charcoal, lighter fluid, grilling tools and just out back of the receiving door, a propane tank. There were also a few stacks of old soda bottles and some cleaning rags. Suddenly they had the distraction they’d need to make it to the truck and hopefully get out of here.

125

Janicea hands another bottle up to Tracks through the open door in the ceiling and he puts it with the others. “About time the bitch be useful,” he says. “Them haters know how to blow things up.” If Bronte hears him he is ignoring him. It’s certain that Janicea heard, but she never talks to him. Her face doesn’t change expression as she bends down from her perch on the ladder and takes the last bottle from Daric.

“I hear you Tracks, and I know what you think of me,” says Janicea, looking up at him. “Maybe I agree.”
“You always been bad news Janicea,” he replies. “Just most men can’t see past a fine ass…”
Bronte looks down and sees Janicea giving Tracks a long cool stare. “That’s enough, both of you. In just a few minutes we’ll be trying to get out of here alive. I’m going to toss some of the food bags into the back of the truck. I want to see what those things do, whether they react or not. Janice, can you watch the windows and see if any of them leave?”
She lowers her head. “Sure Bronte.”
Bronte immediately turns away and crawls over to the two sacks of food just a foot or two away. Just below, on this side of the building is the parked truck. He takes a quick look.
No one.
He grabs a bag, lowers it over the side and tosses it. There is a soft thud as it strikes the back of the cab and falls into the back of the truck. That bag contained mostly bread. He waits.
Nothing happens. Tracks is watching him, laying flat near the bottles. Bronte shrugs and slides back over to the hole. “Anything happen?”
Janicea is crouched not far from the doors. “They didn’t move. Just banging on the doors and trying to look in,” she answers. Daric is sitting calmly beside her, trying to read a comic in the dim light of the coolers nearby. The overhead lights are off, just in case. If the things knew for sure they are inside, God knows what they’d do.
“I’ll try the one with the canned goods then.”
He slithers back the short distance. Meanwhile Tracks slides a little closer to the edge. Bronte hefts the sack, lowers his arm and tries to drop it right in the bed. The sack lands squarely in the middle and bursts throwing cans everywhere and making a loud racket.
“That did it, Bronte,” says Tracks. “Look!”
Five or six of the things abandon poking around the convoy and head straight toward the store. “Let’s go over things one more time, downstairs.”

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Tracks follows him down the ladder and all of them duck into the back room, away from the creepy pounding. Someone has covered up poor Willie with a blanket, but he’s starting to smell. Near the door is a pile of food and water to take with them.

When all of them crowd into the room, Bronte begins: “Tracks will start us off. He’ll begin lobbing the gas bombs at the creatures. We wait fifteen seconds and then we go out the back door. Janicea will have the keys and she will unlock both doors of the truck, and try to start it. Daric, you and I will carry all the food and water we can and dump them in the back of the truck. Then you climb in beside Janicea. Tracks, all you need to do is wait until the truck starts, then throw your last two gas bombs, then lower yourself to the bed of the truck and we’ll get out of here. Janicea, once you get the truck started, move over so I can drive. Everyone got it?”

Daric raises his hand. “What if the truck won’t start?” “We leave everything and run for the canal, honey,” says Janicea.

Bronte and Tracks nod as he looks at them.
“Even if they try to follow us, I think we can go faster in the water
than them,” says Bronte.
Daric smiles faintly, then gets a solemn look. “Well, I better put my
bear, Mr. Tibbs in my backpack then. I don’t think he can swim.” “Good idea Daric,” says Bronte, and reaches down and pats the boy’s
back.

“PITTS, Pitts, wake up,” says the mayor, Ritchie Mayes.
Talaski watches in the rear view mirror.
The guy must be a heavy sleeper. Or maybe he used a sleep aide.

Rumor has it that he has an alcohol problem. Finally, Mayes catches a pretty good slap to the guy’s chin and he wakes up.

“Sorry sir,” mumbles Pitts, obviously very much out of it, only half awake. His nose is like a beak, but very thin and delicate looking. A thatch of hair protrudes from either nostril and Pitts has the decidedly unfortunate and disgusting habit of pulling on the hairs whenever he’s nervous.

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“Listen Duane, you and Nick here are going to go meet with the guy over there. See.” The mayor points with his right hand. Talaski notices a very heavy looking gold ring.

Pitts looks up, squints. “What do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him you have me and the police chief in this car and to let us through. Tell him about Lionel also.”
“What if he tells me to fuck off… sir?”
“Well then,” says the mayor, apparently unperturbed, “you point over at Corporal Ramos and his machine gun.”
Pitts smirks. “That’ll work, I bet. Come on, Ski, let’s go.”
Talaski opens his door and palms his pistol as they get out. He holds it down against his right leg. There is a slight breeze, but the air is so heavy with humidity and heat that he feels sweat break out on his back right away.
Pitts gives Talaski a quick glance, top to bottom. “Let me do all the talking, Ski. If you fuck this up for me, I’ll bury you.”
“If you fuck up Pitts, it’ll be your fault, not mine,” Talaski says without a smile. “I’m actually surprised no one has buried you.”
Pitts’ jaw actually drops. They walk alongside each other a half dozen steps or so in silence. “You got some mouth on ya, don’t ya?”
Talaski watches Pitts’ hand drift upward inside his coat.
“Got itchy armpits, Duane?” Talaski asks, and shows Pitts his gun. “A bullet to the head will fix that for you.”
Pitts shakes his head, steps sideways a bit further away from him. “I understand, Ski. I don’t want trouble. Just let me do the talking okay?”
“You need to re-think things, Duane. I don’t like being on the outside of things, unless they are dirty things—Those types I clean up. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on, or that I don’t know what position I’m in. My ass is hanging in the breeze right now and that makes me short tempered. What’s worse for you is that I’d actually like to shoot you right now. You need to be working real hard to convince me that I’d be making a mistake.”
They continue forward. Pitts keeps shaking his head, looking as if he wants to say something but can’t figure out how. A moment later they stop in front of the man from the barricaded bridge. He’s got a full, but well-trimmed brown beard that hides a round face. Big build with just a little gut wearing khaki slacks, a safari-type shirt and some hiking boots. He has a big revolver in a flap style holster on his left side, reversed for a cross draw and a big scabbarded knife, probably a Bowie on his right hip.
“Lose your pith helmet hunting Jumbo?” Talaski asks. “You smart-mouthed cops are all the same,” the guy answers.
Pitts is beside himself. “No, please, don’t listen to this jackass! My name is Detective Duane Pitts and I’m the one who’s supposed to do the talking.”
The guy stands still, eyes back on Pitts. “Very well, Detective, my name’s Gerry Cleaver. We’re keeping Snell Isle a safe haven. What can we do for you?”
Cleaver—Like Beaver?
“I represent the mayor. He and the chief of police are in the police cruiser behind me. Lionel Burgosi is in the other cruiser. They just want to go to the Burgosi residence.”
“That’s out of the question, I’m afraid.”
“What?!” shouts Pitts. “You know Mr. Burgosi?”
“Yes, quite well. Well enough to tell him to fuck off, along with the mayor.”
“You must be crazy. Don’t you see the Humvee with the machine gun? That thing will make mincemeat of you and your men. Be reasonable and let us through and I’ll forget what you just said.”
“Mr. Burgosi, Mr. Mayes and Mr. Hadley are persona non gratis. I warn you, there is more to our defenses than meets the eye.”
“So what about Mr. Burgosi’s boat?”
“What boat?” asks Cleaver with a grin.
“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Cleaver, but I’ll give them the message. Think about whether the loss of life is worth it while I’m gone.”
“When it comes down to it, Burgosi might have the balls to try, but Hadley and Mayes are a couple of cowards who follow which way the wind blows.”
“What about Councilman List?” asks Talaski, out of the blue.
“Funny that you’d ask, Officer… Talaski.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, he is our leader.”

THE MAN’S FACE IS FLUSHED and he is out-of-breath and bloodied, wearing a torn t-shirt, blue jeans and boots. “I’m telling you. One more time,” he says, and pauses a moment. “Forget Wal-Mart, forget going to Clearwater. That gas station explosion a block or two away has started a major fire and the U.S. 19 is blocked anyway. I know the radio and TV are saying it’s a safe place, but you’ll die trying to get there.”
“So,” says Jerry, “How do you know all this?”
“I’m the traffic guy for a TV station and five radio stations in the area. I’m Chuck McMurray.”
Jerry looks blank. “I don’t like music Mister. I don’t listen to the radio. You some kind of DJ?”
McMurray blusters, “I’m on talk radio also. And no, I’m a traffic reporter. Oh well… Anyway, I was on with a local TV anchor. We had a camera feed and we’ve been crisscrossing the St. Pete, Clearwater area for hours. Denise, that’s the TV anchor, convinced my producer that we needed to set down at the Pinellas Park Wal-Mart.”
“Why would she do that?” asks Trish.
“She’s a bitch. Anything for ratings, eh? Next thing I know my ass is flapping in the breeze. The parking lot was packed with those… what do you want to call them? Zombies? I don’t read SciFi, but I’m pretty sure that’s what they are. I tried to get Tony to lift off, but—”
“Zombies aren’t SciFi mister—they’re Horror,” says Budd. “They go around eating people.”
“Thanks kid, I’ve had a graphic example of that continuously all day. You haven’t seen one yet, have you? Thanks to that bitch, Denise, I got a first-hand, up close and personal experience,” says McMurray, sounding bitter and tired. “What time is it, anyway,” he asks, and squints at his wrist. “I lost my glasses and my watch getting away from those things.”
“What happened exactly?” Budd asks.

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“Well, I’ll tell you, Tony and I had been up there all morning. We did the best job we could trying to re-route traffic around pile-ups and spills. What gets me is how long we maintained the charade that we still had jobs, and that things would be better in the morning. There really is nothing to compare with watching someone get eaten alive. If you have family, the stress of worrying about them is unending. I haven’t been able to get a hold of my wife and kids all day. We live in a condo just over the Gandy Bridge in Tampa.”

The circle of people around McMurray is growing. From four or five it has grown to at least twenty. The neighbors must be waking up. Trish looks at her own watch and thinks: About time! She sees that Marco guy step forward. “So where do you recommend we go, Mister?” he asks.

“The next closest place I can think of is Northeast High School over on 16th Street and 54th Ave.”
“How long since you’ve been there?”
McMurray shrugs. “I haven’t. I can’t be everywhere. They just gave me a list of places to send people.”
“So it could be a deathtrap?” asks an elderly woman in a shrill voice.
Shut up, old crow! Can’t help thinking that, but it was a good question.
“Yes ma’am, it might be,” replies McMurray.
Marco steps closer. “I’d like to see that list if I may?”
I just want to know what happened to the helicopter and the pilot. The questions are there, but other people are crowding around McMurray now. Someone starts to fight with Marco, presumably over the list. Trish finds herself backing away.
Maybe it’s time to do a fade, and disappear? She can’t shake the feeling that McMurray is up to something, but it’s crazy. She has nothing to base the suspicion on but a twisting in her gut. But, there he is, and he’s looking at her. He makes his way past the people fighting over the list and for the moment, the crowd all melts into a background murmur, easily ignored.
“I know you,” says McMurray. Up close, he towers over her. He must be over six feet tall with wide shoulders. There is evidence of a slight gut and there are red spots up high on his cheeks—A boozer maybe?
“Is that so?” she replies. Her first reaction is to thrust a hip out and put her hands on her waist, but she fights it down. I’m not working.
“I’ve seen you somewhere. Just not sure where.”

131

She laughs. “I get that a lot. Can’t imagine why, though.” “Maybe it’s your enchanting laugh, madam?”
“Don’t try that stuff on me Mister. I’ve heard it all before. Say, I was

watching you on TV just a couple hours ago. What’s the rest of your story?”

“It’s not a happy story. I was trying to update the status on local safe places. So many of the safe places have been destroyed. I only know of a handful that aren’t. When the anchor Denise told me the producers had O.K.’d setting down at Pinellas Park’s Wally World, I almost shit a brick.”

“Go on,” she says, watching his eyes. The truth might save her life. “Tony decided it would be better to try to set down at the Highway Patrol compound that’s near Wal-Mart rather than at Wal-Mart itself. That parking lot was loaded with those things. They’re pounding on the doors. I don’t know if they’re inside or not, but the parking lot’s loaded with cars. It looks like the survivors tried to circle them like a wagon train in front of one of the entrances. There’s dead bodies piled up. At first we were gonna try to land on the roof, but we weren’t too sure that it would support the chopper. Then Tony says, ‘The Staties have a station near here. We can land there.’ I said, ‘What the hell is a Statie?’ Tony laughed, a harsh, braying laugh like a donkey, then told me: ‘You know, the State Troopers, the Highway Patrol. Don’t you Irish know anything?’ We always messed with each other, so I came back with, ‘If you Dagoes would just say what you mean, instead of making up words maybe I would know something.’ He just smiled, while with one hand he fumbled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. I turned back to my window. We were about a hundred feet up and past the edge of Wal-Mart’s parking lot, over U.S. 19. He took us past a furniture store and some other buildings. I noticed that for the most part you could negotiate the highway in a car, but not very quickly. A motorcycle or bike would be better. I saw some more people, but they could have been those things. Hard to be sure. Tony was like, ‘Damn. A car is blocking part of the landing pad.’ I looked out the front and saw that somebody had left a car, a police cruiser on the edge of the pad. I said, ‘Must have been in a hurry, huh?’ And Tony said, ‘Sure is strange, but strange is normal now Chuck. I’d say you’re right, but where would they go?’ And I wondered if they’d have any fuel left, you know, mostly talking to myself. And Tony was like, ‘I’m sure they do, amigo. Now we’re thinking alike!’ He had a fierce grin on his face and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip. He said, ‘Let’s set this baby down and see what’s happening. At least the pad is in a secured, fenced area.”

132

Should have known better than ask a reporter to tell me their story , Trish thinks. He’s going to go on all day. “Can you get to the important part?”

“Oh yeah, yeah,” McMurray says. “Yeah, I was like, ‘I don’t see anybody around and I’ll feel a lot better with a full tank of gas.’ Tony snorted at that. He was like, ‘Ha! I’ll feel better when I’m tanked up on some hard stuff.’ I watched him line us up and start descending. I thought maybe we were coming in a little quick, but with his usual skill he guided us in until we were hovering about a foot off the pad. He said, ‘I need you to check things out a bit before I shut her down, Chuck. I’m gonna take her back up and see how many of those things we attracted while you investigate.’ I remember wanting to tell him to forget it and lets just look for another place, but I didn’t argue. I said, ‘Sure thing, Tony.’ But I didn’t waste time. I just opened the door and jumped out and landed okay. I found myself right next to the cruiser. The driver’s door was still open. I looked inside. Shotgun laying on the passenger seat and blood smeared and pooled on the driver’s side. The keys were in the ignition. Just for the hell of it, I tried the ignition. The engine turned over and the gas gauge read half full. I turned it off, pocketed the keys and took the shotgun. Didn’t know much about guns, but I’ve seen people pump the slide, or whatever it’s called. I tried it and nothing came out. Empty, I guess. I took it anyway. Better to have something than nothing and maybe I’d find some shells.”

McMurray pauses, raises a hand to his head. “Got a headache and I need a smoke bad. You think there’s any left in the store there?”
Trish shakes her head. “Don’t know. Do you need to take a break? The story can wait.” Can definitely wait.
McMurray gives her a sharp look. “You want to know about the helicopter, don’t you?”
She feels her face get hot. “The thought crossed my mind…”
“Assuming it’s functional, where would you want to go? I think Doomsday has come and there isn’t anywhere to go.”
“Good question. I don’t really know what to do but stay with this group. So, is the copter still available or not?”
McMurray looks away. His hands do a dance on his two shirt pockets, feeling for cigarettes that aren’t there. “Look, let’s go find some smokes and something to eat. What do you say?”

133

S HE LOOKS AT BRONTE’S BROAD SHOULDERS and is glad for his confidence. It may be as real as her willingness to give up her hate, but as long as he hides his doubt, she will feel safer. He steps out, gun in hand and looks both ways. Motions with his left hand for she and Daric to follow. He follows the building around to the right, away from the front entrance. She steps out, only having to push Daric a little to keep up.

They round the first corner and see the truck. It’s parked up too close to the building to open the passenger door. Bronte crouches and sidles up near the front tire. So far, none of the zombies wandering the parking lot seem to have noticed them. She runs with Daric to the driver’s door and pulls the keys from her pants pocket—but the key ring snags on something, threads maybe? She yanks and it comes free.

Daric screams. “Something’s got me! Something’s got me!” Janicea looks and sees Daric frantically trying to pull his leg free of the grip of somebody under the truck. Suddenly whoever is under there, crawls out by pulling on Daric’s leg. It’s another boy, about Daric’s age. She feels paralyzed. Fire blooms somewhere to her left, probably a fire bomb from Tracks up on the roof. Daric is still screaming and she realizes that the other kid is a zombie. Bronte yells something.
Her gun is in her waistband. Open the door or pull the gun? I’m panicking again! Daric falls backward and the kid pulls himself up along his body, grunting and groaning. Somehow, Janicea manages to pull the gun. Only three shots—that’s all they gave me. “Get off him!” she shouts and kicks the kid in the gut. The boy rolls over and starts to stand. She shoves the pistol in his face and he bites at it just as she pulls the trigger. The gun jumps in her hand and she sees a sudden crimson mist mask the gaping, snapping mouth. The small body falls backward and slides down against the truck’s side leaving a slug’s trail of blood on the dirty white frame.
Someone is screaming. She hears gunshots. “Janice, grab Daric and get in the truck!” is something that finally gets through, and she bends

134

down to lift the boy by his shoulders to his feet. He immediately clings to her. Now, the keys. Hands shaking, she still manages to unlock the door in just two tries. More gunfire. Bronte is breathing heavily nearby. She opens the door, lifts and shoves Daric into the cab and follows right behind him. Bronte is right behind her, climbing in and slamming the door closed. “Where are the keys?!” he shouts.

She hands them to him. One look out the windows is all she needs to see a mass of people approaching from all directions. Daric is whimpering. Bronte turns the ignition. The engine backfires, catches, and Bronte gives it some gas. The engine roars, but the people keep coming. “Where is Tracks?” Bronte wants to know. “He should be jumping into the bed. We’ve got to get out of here!”

The horrible, dead faces close in, pressing up against the truck, pounding and slapping, trying to claw their way in. Something bursts nearby, about ten feet to the left, and four or five of the shambling people go up in flames. She looks to the right just in time to see a bottle, trailing flame and smoke explode among another group of people.

Then, the whole truck rocks as something heavy lands in the truck bed and a mangled hoarse voice shouts, “Go! Go Bronte!”
Bronte doesn’t bother to look, just pushes his foot on the gas pedal to the floor. A succession of wide-eyed, snarling faces bounce up and over the windshield or fall beneath the truck’s spinning tires. Something about the noises reminds her of branches scratching and snapping as they claw across metal—And someone won’t stop screaming.
The truck hits the curb, briefly goes airborne, then lands with the hood facing the bridge and with Bronte still standing on the gas. The short steep rise approaches rapidly and then the truck climbs it effortlessly. Her stomach rises up and every muscle in her body appears to clench as they crest the top and go over…

135

S HAUNNA IS LONG GONE, when a guy in a lab coat and holding a clipboard motions for Graham to enter the kitchen area. “Strip down, and no fucking comments,” says a voice from Graham’s left, practically in his ear. He turns, looks into the eyes of a bored, beefy army sergeant with a pocked face. The guy is holding a semi-automatic pistol of some kind, probably a .45. He thinks he recognizes the shape from his Army Reserve days.

“You got three seconds to start stripping,” says the soldier. “One… two…”
Graham pulls his collarless blue t-shirt off, noticing some blood stains for the first time. As he pulls off his loafer-type shoes, the other guy, the one in the coat starts asking questions. He has a short, buzzed haircut and speaks with a light Carolina accent.
“What’s your name and profession if any?”
“Graham, taxi driver.”
The pen pauses, wavering above a blank box labeled ‘First.’ Graham notices the guy’s hand has a slight tremor. “Is that you first or last name?”
Graham shrugs. “First name is Chandler.”
“What the hell kind of name is that?” asks the sergeant. “Sounds like a fucking Limey.”
“Okay Mister Graham, have you been bitten? If you lie, I will find out, trust me.”
Graham rolls his eyes. “No bites, just a bump on the head from falling down.”
“Scratches, open wounds, sores or a rash?”
“No, but I’m allergic to oak pollen.”
The sergeant butts in. “Just answer the questions smart ass, or I’ll have to—”
“No sores, no bites, rashes or scratches, sir!”
The doctor looks him over, has him lift his arms. The pen makes a slight scratching noise on the paper. “Any fever or dizziness?”

136

“No sir, although I have a slight headache due to missing my high blood pressure pill today.”
“Okay, get dressed and you are free to go. Stay in the Pier approach area and away from the boat basin. If you exit the safe area I’ve defined, you are subject to another inspection or possibly being shot without warning. Do you understand me?”
Graham pulls his pants on, then sits down on a folding chair to put on his socks and shoes. “Yes sir. Any place to get something to eat and drink?”
The guy nods yes. “At the base of the Pier, you’ll find a Mess Tent.”
“Thanks,” he says and nods to the doctor. He pulls his shirt back over his head grimacing for a moment over the dried blood stain. Is it mine? He can feel the sergeant still looking at him.
“You got some size to you and some fat, but I may be able to use you later,” the soldier says. He doesn’t appear to notice the brief flash of anger that colors Graham’s cheeks and brings a glare to his face. “Come by here later if you got the guts. I need more guys for the perimeter.”
“Sure sergeant, I’ll do that,” Graham hears himself answer.

I’M OFFICIALLY A CAVEMAN. The thought runs through his head, though he tries hard to ignore it and put it aside. Strange to see smoke from obvious fires and to just stand by and do nothing. There are several, most within a mile or two. One looks huge judging by the smoke and visible flame south of them across 22nd Avenue somewhere.

“What’s wrong? Why do you need keys...?” she asks.
“For the truck Kathy. We can drive through almost anything with this truck.” Mills grabs a hand bar and pulls himself up into the partial cab. Looks at the driver’s seat and checks the ignition, just in case.
“Any idea where the keys could be?
“One of my partners must have them.”
“They’re dead…” she trails off, unable to finish.

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“Yeah, and walking around, I’m sure. Somewhere in Sears, unless they migrated somewhere else.”
“So, I bet your considering something stupid.”
He forces a grin. “Think of how brave I must be to even consider it.”
“There’s a thin line between brave and stupid in my book, mister. And another thing, haven’t we had enough of this place? Let’s just get out of here.”
“What we need is bats, good old-fashioned baseball bats,” Mills says, mostly to himself.
“What for?” asks Sam. The big brawny teen stops beside the truck and looks up at Mills. He has his bat in hand, and is offering it to him. The girl, Natalie stands a few feet away with Kathy.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me ladies, they make good bludgeoning weapons. You don’t have to worry about it sticking in your opponent.”
Sam smiles. “Why didn’t you ask sooner? I have four or five more bats in my trunk. I have hitting practice tomorrow and…”
There is silence.
“Nothing will ever be the same again, will it?” asks Natalie in a small voice. A hot gust of wind blows across the parking lot, carrying a few red-hot cinders and ash.
“Things look pretty bleak right now,” says Mills, “but hang in there. We have each other.”
“And we’ve got bats,” says Sam, but no one laughs.
Kathy speaks up. “Adam wants to go back in, back into Sears. We don’t have the keys to the truck.”
“That’s insane,” says Natalie with a bit of a snarl to her voice.
“He’s right,” says Sam. “Without the truck, we may not be able to get through the streets. One of those creatures could knock us right off a motorcycle if they got lucky. I’d rather have the truck.”
“But where will we go anyway?” asks Natalie.
Mills picks up a clipboard inside the cab. “There’s a list here of safe places to evacuate to. St. Pete General Hospital is one, and then there’s Azaelea Middle School and the Science Center.”
“St. Pete General is kinda far,” says Natalie, “but the Science Center and Azaelea are just down the street.”
“Well, I say we pick up some food and drinks and then we find a place to hide,” says Kathy. “Can you picture a bunch of screaming panicked people in those shelters? Those places will be full of people with no plan, waiting for someone to come save them. What we need is a safe house, not a bunch of—”

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“That’s a little harsh Kathy,” says Mills interrupting her, “but probably true.” He pauses a moment, rubbing at the area beneath the tear in the back of his bunker suit. “Why don’t we see if we can find the keys—I’ll go alone. And after that we find a grocery store, then we’ll go to… the firehouse! It’ll be ideal! Why didn’t I think of this before?”

Mills feels Kathy step a bit closer to him. Without making a show of it, she takes his hand. He is a little surprised, but more happy than anything at this development. When he looks up, he can’t tell if Sam or Natalie noticed.

“Yeah, that makes sense, I guess,” says Sam. “All except the part about you going alone. As a group we have an advantage, but alone, anything can happen.”

Can’t argue with that, no matter how much I want to.

“In that case, Sam, why don’t you and Natalie go get the bats. We’ll be right with you.”
“One more thing, sir,” Sam says, already turning away.
“Yes sir?”
“I think that two of us should stay in the car while the other two investigate. If we need to make a quick getaway we can. And also, I don’t think we should waste much time on this. I think ten to fifteen minutes is all the people who go inside get. If you can’t find them by then, then get out. We can find something else to use, I’m sure.”
“Good idea. How do we choose who goes and who stays, though?”
“Here’s an idea. If it bothers either of you, let me know. Let’s start working together as teams. Kathy and I will go in this time, mostly because I’ve killed a bunch of these things now.” Mills pauses, gives Kathy a serious look. “Anyway, we’ll get used to working with someone.”
Kathy gives him a wink. “All the way,” she whispers and squeezes his hand.
“Okay,” says Natalie. “Whatever exit you come out of, head for this side, the north side. If you have to leave by another, then make your way to this side as quick as you can. We’ll find a vantage point where we can see both the north and east exits, and then we will wait for you with the car.”
“Great, then let’s get those bats.”

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WHEN THEY, HE AND DETECTIVE DUANE PITTS turn to go back to the vehicles, Talaski notices something. Good ‘ol Duane has an earpiece in his right ear, and a microphone clipped to his collar. The mayor and Hadley heard everything. How do I warn Keller and get us out of this? If they have a direct link with Ramos, how hard will it be to pick him off at the same time? And what about these island guards—Will they really wait for the mayor to fire first?

It is one of the harder things he’s ever done. Every nerve is screaming at him: Run! The bayou is so close. Just a short sprint and a dive get him out of the picture, for a few minutes anyway. It’s either that or make a break for the houses. The sticking part is alerting Keller. He advances another two or three feet before inspiration strikes. Use our cell phones! He knows Keller has one, as does he.

“Stop right there, Pitts!” says Talaski.
“What the hell for, Ski? The mayor’s about to open fire on—” “Oh, yeah, Duane? How does he know? You sneaky piece of shit!”

One flaw, if Talaski has one, is his temper. For good reason certain people call him The Angry One. Right now he is about to flare up and go berserk. He can feel the tension in his shoulders and neck.

An engine revs and Talaski looks up to see Ramos’ Humvee barreling at him and Pitts. Some other soldier is up in the cupola with the machine gun, and it looks to be pointed right at him. There is a flash of fire and suddenly the street erupts around Talaski with flying chunks of asphalt. He breaks to his right, away from Pitts, and peripherally sees him fall or drop to the ground. No time to see if he’s been shot. His booted feet reach the grass of the yard of the nearest mansion. He can hear other weapons firing and the Humvee passes right by him, while its gunner blazes away at the men on the bridge.

Someone, or perhaps more than one person is still shooting at him. He hears several bullets whine past him and then he is sprinting up a driveway. I need to find cover! Where’s Keller?

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Something hits him hard, square in the back. He feels his legs give way, and in slow motion he topples forward, arms outstretched and plows into the driveway, aware of a brief flare of terrible pain.

MOST OF HIS WEIGHT IS HELD UP BY HIS ARMS. The muscles begin to burn, as

they both breathe heavier and the slapping sound of flesh on flesh increases. Her nails rake his forearms as she arches her back. It ends with a few frenzied thrusts and a few guttural grunts with Suzy’s ankles on his shoulders. “I’m dead,” he announces, and falls forward over her, allowing her legs to fall to either side.

“Oh God, you’re all sweaty. Get off! Get off of me!” The dreaded words. Another woman who loathes sweat. Reluctantly, he pulls away and stands up. Someone coughs and he looks up.

“How badly do you want to live, James?” asks Mitch, his face expressionless, arms on the counter watching as Dodd struggles with his trousers.

“That question has an obvious answer, Mitch,” he replies, bluffing, and forcing himself to finish dressing and pretend he isn’t afraid. Suzy hasn’t made much effort to dress yet, other than to retrieve her nearly transparent pink panties and slip them back on. Part of him would like nothing better than another round with her. He’d discovered she liked it rougher than he did.

“Well then, Mister Policeman, how do you feel about getting us into to the station to get some real firepower?”
“There aren’t really enough of us to get very far if anyone is still there.”
“What if I told you there were ten more of us?”
“Then I’d say: Things are shaping up!”
“How about a beer, James? Why don’t you go get all of us one, Suzy?”
“Sounds wonderful, Mitch,” answers Dodd.
Suzy stands up, stretches with an unusual degree of limberness. A lot of tan, beautiful smooth skin is on display. She then pulls on her top, shorts and shoes. “I’ll be right back, Mitchell.”

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“There’s a guy I know who might be able to help us, and he’s on the way.”
“The more the merrier, James. We have to band together or the bad guys will win.”
Dodd snorts, then cuts loose with slightly hysterical laughter. Suzy returns with three frosted bottles of beer. Coronas. She passes them around. Dodd twists his cap off and tilts the bottle toward the others. “To bad things happening to good people.”
Mitch grins.
Dodd takes a long pull, slaps Suzy on the ass and grins right back.

FOR A MOMENT, Keller is too stunned to react, but then a bullet hits the passenger window next to Lionel’s head. The bullet resistant glass is no match for it, and the bullet passes right through and shatters the rear passenger window behind Keller. The kids and Lionel’s wife are screaming. Barney is shrieking: “Get out of here!”

Keller pushes all the distractions away, even as another bullet ricochets off the hood. The engine starts smoothly, and he edges around the mayor’s car, noticing Hadley struggling to slide over into the driver’s seat, but focusing on Talaski. The man seems to be leading a charmed life as he separates from a stumbling Detective Pitts and just reaches a driveway. Then, one bullet out of the thirty or forty that churned up the asphalt all around him catches his still sprinting friend in the back and tosses him to the ground like a discarded doll. “Damn!” Keller shouts as he brings the cruiser to a sliding tire screeching halt between Talaski and the people trying to shoot him. Several bullets immediately pepper the car, but he doesn’t care. He throws the shifter into park, leaves the engine running and exits the vehicle at a run toward his fallen friend.

“Nick, I’m coming!” he shouts. Talaski gets his hands and knees beneath him and tries to rise to his feet. A bullet whizzes close by and smacks into a tree trunk, scattering splinters. Talaski grabs his pistol from the ground, holsters it and finds his feet. Keller grabs him, starts to steer back toward the cruiser when he hears a door slam. Both of them look up to see Barney behind the wheel. He throws the car into

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gear and with a half-hearted single finger raised, gives them the bird.

He then peels out and follows the Humvee toward the bridge. “Back Nick! Let’s get into one of those houses—”
The M-60 roars and there are two quick explosions, and the sound

of men screaming as they die.

Talaski throws an arm over Keller’s shoulders and allows him to half carry him up the drive and around the side of a house, out of the line of fire. Both of them are breathing heavily as they slump down into a luxuriant stretch of grass and against the stucco wall of a Spanish style mansion. An oak towers over them, with decades old limbs snaking in all directions.

The machine gun falls silent. A moment or two later, a pistol fires once, twice. Silence overtakes them.
“Thirsty?” Keller asks.
“Yeah, and God that hurt. Good thing I’ve got my vest on.”
Keller stoops over a spigot and a carelessly piled hose. He turns it on, lets it run a moment, then hands the end to Talaski. “Ah, that’s good. I was worried it might be reclaimed or sulphur water.”
“That’s why I let you drink first,” says Keller with a smirk. He proceeds to drink, then turns off the spigot.
“Bastard! I should have known.” It’s never over with Talaski. Revenge is coming.
“Guess we’re fucked until we find another car.” Keller looks around the corner. “The chief’s car is still there. Maybe they’re waiting for Ramos to give the all-clear. I can see that bastard walking around the bridge. Looks like he just put a couple of survivors out of their misery.”
“Who, Ramos?”
“Yeah. He’s shooting everyone in the head with his pistol.”
“All we got is our pistols, eh?” asks Talaski.
“Yeah. I didn’t have time… but hey, I do have an extra one I took off Lionel. I almost forgot. It even has a silencer.”
“Let me see it, will you?”
Keller nods, reaches inside his jacket and hands the pistol over. “I had to unscrew the silencer. Let me give you that also.”
“You never know, this might help us. And as long as we’re together there’s still hope.” Talaski looks the weapon over, screws the silencer back on. He drops the magazine and ejects the round in the chamber, then places it back in the magazine.
“Do we hang out here and follow them or head back toward the Pier?” Keller asks.
Talaski looks thoughtful.

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THE SKY IS A SLATE GRAY and it feels like rain. From his perch on a lawn chair, Jacobs looks out over Tampa Bay. The water is choppy and full of tiny whitecaps. The air is noticeably cooler than it was ten minutes ago. A big speed boat with an enclosed cabin has just tied up at the small marina. A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a desert pattern camouflage uniform emerges from a door facing the boat’s stern and jumps to the dock. The man wearing mirrored sunglasses and a crisp, creased uniform with the gold eagle insignia on his cap strides toward them with a self-important air. One hand is resting on a holstered pistol at his waist as he walks along, while the other holds a cigar.

Someone mutters, “Oh shit.”
The man frowns, and slows to a stop. Apparently he isn’t happy that no one has jumped to attention. He looks over each man, finally settling on Jacobs.
How does he know I’m in charge?
“What happened back there, soldier?” the colonel asks. He blows a smoke ring. The name on the right side of his chest says ‘Dutton.’
Jacobs leans back in a chair and takes a long pull from his icy cold can of Michelob beer. Most of his equipment lies at his feet: helmet, rifle, and backpack. He tries to concentrate on the beer, but the echo of shots, screams, and the roar of Shell’s flamethrower are in his head. His ears still ring.
“Not sure sir. Guess it was too much for him.”
“Too much for who? You mean this psychopath, Shell?”
“We’re all potential psychos Colonel. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.”
“Well, Sergeant Jacobs, you’d better get a grip on your men before they realize their potential to fuck up. Shell got off easy. If I thought for even a minute that any of you knew what he was going to do, I’d have all of you shot on the spot.”

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Jacobs can feel the blood rush to his face.
“Understand me Sergeant?” the man barks.
“Yes sir,” he replies. We won’t kill any more Congressmen. The colonel nods, turns and takes a step or two back toward the

boat. “I knew I could count on you, but we must set examples for the men. Reinforcements and a relief team are on the way. Just hang tough a few more hours and things will ease up.”

Jacobs watches the man almost run down the dock. Probably worried we’ll shoot him.
After all the killing he and his men have done, the loss of Shell still hurts. Seems like a small price to pay against the areas they have cleared, but his men are dead tired. Tired and burnt out. No question that they have lost their edge. How else to explain Shell’s death? The answer is at his fingertips, and literally echoes up out of his past, a relentless voice in his head, despite being dead and gone more than six years ago. Even worse, every word replaying through his mind is true.
“You got to watch them Jacobs. The signs are always there. The trick is to notice them. Personal hygiene is usually the first indicator of a loss of morale. Guy quits brushing his teeth? He’s probably thinking about his Momma, or worrying about his wife sleeping around.”
Two out of his four surviving men have officially started to lose it. The first, a guy named Bern Lepski, has quit using deodorant. The second, Charlie Watson, has quit brushing his teeth. Both of them saw more than they should have on the last mission, but things are drawing to a close, and it is rare when everything goes to plan. Only Booth and Hicks appear to be behaving normally.
“Anybody hungry?” asks Hicks while holding up a ten year old MRE.
“Fuck off Hicks,” Lepski snarls. “I still got blood all over me.”
Hicks holds up his other hand in a warding gesture. His chin is thrust forward and although he is smiling, his eyes are cold. “I was just trying to be friendly. You got a problem with that, I’ll fix it for you.”
Jacobs raises his voice, “Can’t you guys enjoy a beer or two and just be? Shell isn’t even cold yet, and you guys are ready to kill each other already.”
“That’s different Sarge and you know it,” Hicks says. “Shell wanted to die. He told me last night that he couldn’t take much more. Being able to take that dumbass politician with him tempted him too much.”
Lepski pulls his facemask back far enough on his head to expose his face. The mask stays in place, but looks like it might fall off. Lepski’s face is flushed and sweaty. “Hicks has a point Sarge. Shell died bad,

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whether he wanted to or not. Crazy bastard. Might’ve been the lucky one though. This ain’t over. I can still him screaming.”

He screamed, all right. Face first, all the way . Jacobs grimaces without realizing it, the memory still too strong in his mind to put aside. He relives it all, unable to escape.

Shell was walking point, down the corridor of a middle school. The tall, spindly figure of Congressman Morris ‘Moe’ Brock was beside him, distracting him from the job at hand.

Speaking sharply into his headset, Jacobs said, “Booth close up a bit, and pay attention goddamn it!” All of them were drifting mentally, too tired to concentrate properly. One or more of them would be asleep immediately if he called for a stop.

Jacobs looked back. He was the second in the staggered formation they were using. For the moment, all was well. Each man was roughly ten feet apart, facing left or right watching, and anticipating.

“What do you think Private?” the congressman asked, “How close can you get us to the school auditorium that got overrun by the undead, eh?”

“Better get this asshole away from me Sarge,” said Shell, now standing beside the closed door to the auditorium.
“Mr. Brock! Come away from—”
Brock didn’t listen. He reached for the door handle and yanked. Bodies spilled out into the corridor, mostly young, but not all. None of them alive, but all of them moving. Oh sweet Jesus!
Pandemonium erupted. Gunfire. Someone was screaming—the Congressman of course. The burly figure of a PE coach, wearing red shorts and a blood-stained once-white shirt, grabbed Brock’s arm. Four or five children scurried out and went for his legs. And more were coming.
Jacobs was frozen, carbine still held loosely in his hands as he watched the nightmare play out.
A trio of kids wearing black and white checked skirts, black socks and white shirts swirl briefly around Shell, just as Jacobs heard him pull the two triggers. Too much! Flame engulfs the three shapes, then hoses across the congressman and his attackers.
“Run, for god’s sake, run!” shouts Shell, and then he screamed. He too was aflame, quickly becoming a torch.
Jacobs and the rest of his men ran.

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HE LEANS AGAINST THE WALL A MOMENT, can feel a sheen of cold sweat on his face. Why am I sweating so much? He tries and fails to take a deep breath. Settles for several shallow ones instead. Nausea hits him hard as he exits the restaurant. “Pretty thirsty too,” he says to himself.

A family of four turns toward him at the sound of his voice, but ignores him when he offers nothing more. They are passing around a gallon size jug of water, but don’t offer him any. Graham walks past them without a further glance, too proud to ask for a drink. I hope I don’t faint in front of these people.

A large group of people are sitting on the seawall a little further down. All look exhausted and have a filthy, worn-out look to them. Few look his way as he walks by, and even they aren’t curious. A radio is on nearby. A weary voice is just loud enough to hear:

“Lance Mathers here on the capitol steps. The president has granted us permission to inbed with his escort. I’ve been informed that I won’t be able to give out our location once we arrive at the Presidential bunker, but I will have exclusive access to breaking news…”

This little news clip only stirs mild interest. Graham doesn’t break stride to listen to more. Maybe I’ll find Shaunna… Passes a guy with a five gallon paint bucket and a fishing pole that might be about to break. The guy pulls and reels frantically. Two sizeable fish already occupy space in the bucket. A bit further he spots a little old guy with a big acoustic guitar. Spanish flamenco music floats out over the boat basin.

Most people are sitting or lying down, but a goodly number are milling around. Probably aimlessly like me. People are getting food and drink from somewhere. Not far ahead of him, people scream and a few fall to the ground. A large man bursts into view and stiff-arms two people off their feet. He has the long scraggly hair and beard of a prophet, but the physique of a young man. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket, blue jeans, a white t-shirt and white sneakers. Two other men are right behind him.

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An elderly couple is shuffling along right in his way. Both are oblivious. They are both wearing floppy sun hats and have their arms linked. Oh Jesus.

Graham feels in his pocket. It has to be—And is! The fingers of his right hand clutch and wiggle a set of brass knuckles into place. Had no time to remember these earlier. Nothing he can do for the old people though, just give them retribution. The young man’s savagery is sickening. The two old people go down like birds trying to dodge a car far too late. Graham steps forward just as the guy clears the bodies and puts everything he has into a haymaker right that the guy never sees coming. His fist meets minimal resistance, almost as if he’d punched a tether ball instead of a human skull.

The guy collapses backwards onto the bodies of the motionless old people. Graham follows and loops a good right cross against the jaw of one of the followers, another bearded guy, but this one with plaits. This guy drops too. The third guy, long-haired, but no beard, has a tattoo of flames circling his neck appearing from beneath his collar and reaching as high as his adam’s apple. He blinks and stands frozen; a perfect target. Graham steps toward him, fists raised and feels pain radiate across his chest, shoulders and arms. What the hell? The last guy backs away from him and runs away, leaving Graham swaying above the bodies of victims and assailants alike. Suddenly standing on his feet doesn’t seem important or possible to maintain. Going down—he falls into the black.

THE TRUCK IS STOPPED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET. Three soldiers are

standing around it, pointing their rifles toward the truck. Bronte and Janicea are still standing by the truck’s bed. The soldier in charge is questioning Bronte about the supplies they’ve brought.

“Keep moving boys,” says the soldier walking with Daric and Tracks. Daric is old enough to realize that no adult male likes to be called boy, except maybe by his mom. The soldier is tall and lean and he has at least three guns. He isn’t nice either. “Head for the restaurant on your left.”

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Something is moving off to the left behind the restaurant. Daric sees two men with a bundle of some sort. A number of bundles are already piled on a barge tied up to the seawall. The two men swing their arms, and the shape of the bundle in their hands becomes clear. He has seen dead people get zipped up in plastic bags similar or maybe even the same as these. The body arcs up just enough to land atop of those already aboard.

Daric wants to ask Tracks what’s going on, but somehow he senses he should keep this to himself. He still can’t speak anyhow. The horror of what he’s witnessed is still too much, too overwhelming. Got to find a way to show Tracks.

As if sensing his distress, Tracks lays a big hand on his shoulder and squeezes. The sound of his labored breathing has become comforting. Nothing can happen to me as long as Tracks is here. Long rattling exhale, followed by a deep breath.

“Everything’s okay, little man,” rumbles Tracks in his ear as the soldier gestures to them to enter the building.
“Give me the piece boy,” says the soldier with a yawn. The rifle barrel is pointed right at Tracks’ gut and the soldier has his finger on the trigger.
Tracks takes a deep breath, staring at the soldier. No trace of emotion is visible but his breathing may have a more purposeful rhythm now. Hard to say.
The soldier goes pale. “Look, I’m just trying to do my job. I don’t want trouble.”
“Then mind your business and your manners boy,” says Tracks.
“You have to give me the piece.”
Tracks nods. He reaches behind his back, grabs the pachmeyr grips of his pistol and lashes out with a lightning quick punch to the soldier’s jaw. The guy’s head snaps back, connects with the concrete wall with a thud and he falls bonelessly to the ground, face down.
“We go in here, you do what I tell you Daric,” says Tracks.
Daric nods solemnly. Tracks opens the door and ushers Daric in.
A guy in a doctor’s white coat stands at the far end of a restaurant dining room beside a door that would probably lead to a kitchen. “Right this way,” says the man, holding the door for them.
Daric enters first with Tracks right behind him.
A Jersey-accented voice commands, “Strip down and no fucking comments.” Tracks sees a big Army sergeant sitting on a bar stool. The only weapons visible are an asp, the replacement for the night stick, and a holstered pistol. The sergeant has a no nonsense, better-listento-me look about him. His square-jawed face is unshaven and visibly

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pocked. Salt stains radiate out from his armpits on his brown undershirt. The only way to tell his rank is by the insignia on his ranger style cap. He has the asp out and he flicks his wrist and the thing telescopes out almost two feet.

Tracks gives an involuntary shudder.
“I only repeat myself once,” says the sergeant. “If I have to do it again, things get painful.” He clasps the asp in hand, and gives a hardeyed glare at Tracks. To Daric, Tracks’ breathing is comforting, but for the sergeant, it must be irritating.
“Quit breathing so loud, you trying to sound like a serial killer or something?”
“Something,” mutters Tracks.
The doctor picks this moment to speak. “Please sir, I need you both to strip down so I can examine you, and meanwhile I’ll ask a series of questions, okay?”
Tracks doesn’t reply, but he grasps the bottom of his t-shirt and lifts it above his head and off. Daric notices that he keeps his back away from the sergeant. Probably hiding his gun. Daric pulls off his own shirt and unbuckles his belt.
“Any bites, gentlemen?” asks the doctor, clipboard and pen in hand. He looks slightly shocked by Tracks’ massive, scarred torso. The skin is a rich chocolate brown, but marred by keloid scars. His chest is sculpted, broad shoulders and his lats are like two wings, but it looks like someone whipped his back. Only someone filled with hatred could do what’s been done to Tracks’ back. Somebody with an asp? A whip maybe?
The sergeant stands up. “Hey Doc, check out the boy! It looks like he’s got a bite on his calf… See it? The right one!”
The doctor’s face has gone pale. He quickly kneels by Daric and grabs the leg, lifting it to examine it more closely. Daric tries to shout, tries to kick his way free, but he is no match for a man’s strength.
“That’s a lie,” Tracks says. “He ain’t been bit!”
“Looks like a bite to me,” says the doctor. “Can’t take a chance. We’ll have to euthanize him.”
What does youthanize mean? Daric wonders, but can’t ask.
Tracks blusters with rage and from the look of it, his sorrow is plain to see at this news. I don’t remember being bit… “Nobody hurts Daric!” Tracks’ voice isn’t capable of shouting but he manages an outraged whisper.
“Settle down,” says the sergeant, turning back toward Tracks. Tracks ignores him and wades in, big fists flying. The sergeant ducks and comes

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up and slashes Tracks across the chest with the asp. Daric’s big friend staggers and slams into a prep table.
The sergeant laughs. “Didn’t like that I bet.”
Tracks straightens back up. The look in his eyes is murderous, but his breath is wheezing now, uneven.
“Take a look at that mark, eh Doc? No blood though.” The sergeant is pacing around Tracks, eyes alert, obviously savoring the situation.
The doctor takes a step or two forward. “Please sir,” he addresses Tracks, “no more trouble. I’ll be kind to your son. He’ll just go to sleep and never wake up.”
Tracks brings his hand from behind his back. Daric has time to see a pistol, then there is a big flame and a loud boom as Tracks pulls the trigger. The doctor clutches his throat and falls down and the pistol barrel begins tracking the sergeant. Tracks takes a ragged breath, settles the sights just as the sergeant lunges forward and whips the gun right out of his hand with the asp. Tracks counters with a punch to the soldier’s head and then another punch from his still stinging gun hand.
The two men grapple and bestial grunts fill the air. Daric scrambles out of the way, and looks for Tracks’ gun. Meanwhile, the doctor lays on the floor, feet spasming while a gout of blood jets between his fingers.
Tracks gets a grip on a finger—Snaps it, then grabs another. The asp drops from the sergeant’s hand. The man screams. Tracks wrestles him to the floor. The sergeant tries to cover his face, but Tracks is straddling him and punching him in the head, alternating fists. After three or four punches there is no resistance, but Tracks is angry.
I think he lost count.
Daric reaches out, grabs his shoulder and Tracks turns and sees him. With his tortured voice he whispers: “Daric.”
Daric isn’t afraid. Tracks was gone somewhere, lost in a dark place. Tears slide down the big man’s face. He really is having trouble breathing; the sound of it uneven, rasping almost choked, but somehow he climbs to his feet. He hugs Daric very tightly.
You be okay Tracks.

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S EARS IS A MASSIVE WHITE BUILDING on the mall’s southeast side. There is a Sears automotive center separate from the main building, and a new Italian restaurant next to it. The auto center has six or so drive-in bays for tires, batteries and oil changes. When Mills was a little boy Sears seemed huge, but now compared to a Wal-Mart Supercenter, it not only appears small, but is. One of his earliest memories is of spilling a huge bag of M& M’s his mother bought him in this store. They were all over the floor.

Standing at the service entrance to Sears’ main building, Mills says, “If we see a lot of them, we just get out, okay?”
“No argument here. I don’t really want to go, even with a bat in hand.” Kathy does look a bit nauseous.
Mills grins at her and turns back to Sam. Sam is standing beside his Acura with the door open and the engine running. Natalie is sitting in the passenger seat.
“Let’s test the walkie-talkies right now,” says Mills. “Sam can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Adam,” replies Sam. “I can hear you on the walkie talkie also.”
Mills’ grin gets wider. “Okay smartass, you’d better keep an eye peeled for us. We could come out at any time with an army of the undead behind us.”
“Just find the keys. Okay, Mr. Fireman?” the teen replies. “And then there’s a cat that’s trapped in a tree…”
Mills snorts, waves goodbye and opens one of the double doors. Just inside is a waiting area with a long counter. A sign behind the counter says: Service Desk, Returns and Pick-Up. Another small sign says: Closed. Some chairs are bolted to the wall on the left. Sitting in one of them is a dead guy. Probably early fifties with an immense gut, narrow shoulders and long scraggly hair. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says something like: Ted’s Steak House. We want to put our meat in your… The rest is obscured by a bloody stain that dripped onto the floor.
Mills shakes his head. “You ever hear of this radio guy, Phil Hendrie, Kathy?”
“The talk radio guy? Sure, but some of the people he’d interview would make me really angry. I never listened more than a few minutes. You don’t like him, do you?”
But Kathy until now you were almost perfect… “Nevermind then. Let’s see, the entrance to the main store is to the right.”
More dead people in the aisle. Overcome by smoke or…? He and Kathy are standing in the entrance to the main store, and this particular area is the shoe department. Four corpses are visible. One face down right in front of them. Two more huddled together behind a shoe display and the leg of another person is visible behind a register kiosk. To the right are the clothing departments and eventually the entrance to the mall. Straight ahead is Jewelry, and to the right is Hardware, Paint and eventually another exit that faces the parking lot and the nearby Automotive Center.
“Where did you leave them?” Kathy whispers.
“Upstairs. There’s an escalator in the middle of the store behind Jewelry.”
“God, this is creeping me out. Let’s hurry, okay?”
“Sure.”
Beyond some blood stains and dropped personal items, he sees no further sign of other people. The air is bad and there seems to be a haze in the air. He thinks about this place having a paint department—What if the fire were to spread there? He shrugs the thought aside. Nothing he can do about it.
He pauses at a main aisle. Looks both ways. Just a few feet away is Jewelry. Costume jewelry, both bracelets and rings are featured on little tables with revolving display cases. Someone is standing near another cashier station or whatever they are about ten feet away. Guy in a suit with a crew cut. He looks normal, but Mills can’t see his face.
Do we try to sneak around him?
Kathy steps up alongside him, her lovely face mere inches away. Mills is so tired of ugliness and ugly death. For a moment he forgets where he is and looks at her profile, the long straight nose, the full slightly pouty lips.
The guy turns around. Kathy stiffens next to him, shocked into immobility. He sees the motion out of the corner of his eye and turns back. They stare at each other. The other guy, middle-aged, eyes a bright steely blue but his mouth is twisted into a snarl. One eye has a tick.

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The voice is full of regret, “All I wanted to do was buy an engagement ring. No one would help me.”
His hands are bloody, like two red gloves up to his elbows. He smiles almost apologetically. “You see, I tried asking nice at first. I’m in a hurry and I deserve good service as much as the next guy. Only these bitches,” he says, waving dismissively behind the counter, “wanted to help the British guy first.”
“British guy?” says Mills, wondering what the best course to get out of this will be.
“Yeah, some playboy with a deep tan and a fat wallet. He cut me in line. I sure ruined his day. I went right over to Hardware and found a nice hatchet…”
“Listen ah, sir,” says Mills. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say my name, but it’s Sid.”
“Well Sid, I’m a fireman, and I’ve got a report of a possible blaze upstairs. We’re going to go up and check it out.”
“Yeah, you guys were here earlier. A couple of your pals gave me some trouble, but I fixed them too. Stick that in your report, or your girlfriend, or… stick it up your own ass.” The guy actually cackles, and Mills notices something that stops him cold. The keyring to the fire engine is snapped to the crazy guy’s belt buckle.
“I’m not trying to hassle you sir, just doing my job.”
The guy winks. “I know what you mean, I’ve never had a suit like this before. My taste in clothes is very different. I usually go in for a less civilized appearance.”
Kathy clutches his arm, and whispers, “Don’t ask. Let’s just get away.”
“You telling secrets, slut? Whispering’s for the bedroom. In public it’s insulting.” The guy’s lips have drawn back, and there’s a line of drool. He reaches back behind the counter and comes back with a hatchet.
Kathy shrieks, long and loud. Mills holds up a hand, palm out, and says, “I’m done humoring you.” He brandishes the bat, settles both hands on the haft, and takes a couple swings.
“Humoring me?!” shouts Sid. “I crucify myself everyday for a bitch just like her.”
“I doubt that,” says Mills.
This brings Sid up short. He was starting toward them, but now he cocks his head as if it will enable him to hear well.
Mills continues, voice level, pitched just above a whisper, “You don’t have anyone. You are a lonely, pathetic little man who thinks carving up a few shopgirls makes him tough. Fear me, the piece of shit you scrape off your shoe!”
Sid’s eyes glitter with tears, and something savage, probably hate. His upper body is trembling. There is a chunk of something lodged on the hatchet blade vibrating in time but seemingly stuck. Mills keeps waiting for it to shake loose.
“Get behind me,” Mills says out of the corner of his mouth.
Kathy nods and steps behind him, wraps her fingers around his right arm.
“I told you, I’m buying an engagement ring.”
“Doesn’t mean anybody wants it from you. It’s probably some woman you annoy at work. This was going to end badly for you no matter what, I’m guessing. The woman, if there is one, doesn’t have a clue that you are anything more than some sexually defective creep.”
Sid’s face crumples, but he doesn’t give up. “There is too! She loves me! You don’t know anything!” He appears to be grasping at shreds now, anything…
Mills glares at him, allowing all the contempt he feels for this killer to come through. “So, you are good? Is that what you’re telling me, Sid? I’ve got you all wrong?”
“What are you doing here, fireman?”
“You are avoiding the question, Sid.”
“And I’ve been doing all the talking. There is no fire here. Just two dead firemen. They were walking around trying to eat people, but I fixed them. I fixed them like I fixed the salesgirls and the store manager. Customer service is going to improve around here!”
“Want me to go away Sid?”
Sid falls silent, shrugs. “Sooner or later, I’ll kill you if you don’t go away.”
“Will you help me, if we promise to go away?”
Sid’s eyes widen. “Don’t know. Depends.”
“Those keys you have clipped to your belt loop—I need them. If you’ll give them to me, we will go away.”
“I’m not a psycho you know.”
“I never said you were Sid.”
“You don’t have to. Think about your posture right now. Look at yourself. Your body language is shouting, I’m ready to defend myself and my girlfriend. And don’t even bring her up. Look at her peeking over your shoulder. You’d think I was a serial killer or something.”
Mills takes a slow, deep breath, lets it out. “So what do you want Sid? We need those keys.”

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Sid doesn’t hesitate. “Take me with you.”

Behind him, he feels Kathy tighten her grip on his arm. Too easy to just pull the pistol and shoot him. I save people.
Just that quick, he decides.
“Okay Sid, let’s go.”

“BEEN A LONG DAY. Want to stop somewhere and you can take a nap?” Keller asks.

Talaski has his back against the house’s wall. His eyes close and he can feel the sun baking him, dragging him down. It would be very easy to just crash somewhere and sleep around the clock. “Sounds good, but we’re only a few miles from the Pier. Don’t you think we should keep going?”

“It might be worse there Nick. If we find a place around here, we can each get a few hours rest.”
Talaski opens his eyes. Looks up at the cloudy sky just in time to see the first drops fall. “Okay, you convinced me. What about this place?”
He joins Keller in looking around the corner at the front of the house. It is a three story, and the paint job looks new; more modern than most of the neighboring houses. White stuccoed walls, massive wooden beams and large windows give it a sturdy appearance. The power appears to still be on here. Talaski can hear the rattle of an air conditioner somewhere nearby.
“Looks like a place I would have loved to live in,” murmurs Keller.
“Yeah.”
Keller draws his .40 pistol and goes to stand to the left of the front door. Talaski follows and steps to the right. To either side are wide windows with security shutters rolled up in metal housings mounted above. A large living room is to the left and maybe a study to the right. They are under a covered porch now and the rain is really coming down.
“I hate to just break in,” says Keller.
“What, you want to knock?” asks Talaski, voice full of sarcasm.

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“No, but let’s check the porch out first. Maybe they hid a key in a pot or something…”
“Or we could do this first,” says Talaski and he grabs the door handle and turns.
The door opens.

“W HICH WAY DID THAT SOLDIER SAY TO GO?” asks Bronte, stepping up his pace. He and Janicea walk together, arms brushing, away from the soldiers. They turn a corner and she looks around. “Alone at last.” Janicea smiles up at him. “It would be great if we could find something to do to take our minds off—” she says, voice low.

“There’s nothing I’d like better, but we need to find Daric and Tracks.”
Janicea looks crestfallen. “That building straight ahead, the restaurant.”
Bronte notices a body near the entrance. He starts running.
“Wait Bronte!” shouts Janicea, but he keeps running.
Something is wrong.
Bronte stops, kneels down, fingers at the throat of the soldier sprawled outside the restaurant. “Still alive.” He rolls the guy over on his back. This guy escorted Tracks and Daric here.
The unconscious man mutters something. Bronte unsnaps the guy’s pistol belt and suspenders. Load bearing equipment, his LBE. The ammo pouches are all full. Janicea rushes up while he is slinging the suspenders over his shoulders then cinching and fastening the belt. There are also two canteens, a big knife and a compass all hooked or stored on the belt. He picks up the man’s M-4, flicks the selector switch from safety to single shot, and pulls back the charging handle to chamber a round.
Janicea leans over the man, looks at his face. “That’s the soldier that took them to be checked out by a doctor.”
“You sure?” asks Bronte.

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“They don’t all look alike,” she answers with a smirk.

Bronte snorts in surprise. “Was that actually a joke? Maybe there is hope for you.”
She doesn’t reply, just stands there looking at him. “We’ll start looking here,” he says, pointing at the door to the restaurant. They might still be in there. And I’ll go first.”
The door isn’t locked. They are standing in a dining room with at least ten tables and a fancy bar. “Let’s try through there,” Bronte says and crosses the room toward a door that probably goes toward the kitchen.
The sound of raised voices, then a gunshot stops them both for a moment, then Bronte is running with the rifle held in both hands. He kicks hard at the double swinging doors and goes through. He spots Tracks kneeling alongside another soldier.
“I had to kill them Bronte,” says Tracks, looking up as they enter. His eyes are watery with a feverish yellow hue. “They said Daric got bit and he had to die.”
Bronte lays a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s okay, but we’d better get out of here quick.”
“Sure thing.” Tracks stands easily and Daric stays close. “The exit is this way.”

HE WAKES TO A SENSATION OF SWINGING, as if he’s in a hammock. Something grips his ankles and wrists and then releases him. Am I flying? He manages to open his eyes just in time to see a snatch of stormy sky and then he lands on his back on something soft and springy. A bad mattress?

For a moment, he is too shocked to move. What’s happened to me? What is that awful smell?
Someone is shouting, “Good shot Kurt! He’s a heavy bastard. I wasn’t sure you guys could throw him that far.”

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“With Fugi here, it was no problem. Is there any more?” This voice is much closer, and standing above him, with a slight German accent.
Graham cracks an eyelid. Two men are standing above him on a seawall. One is short but very wide. He is just wearing a pair of jeans and some combat boots. His massive upper torso is bare, shining with sweat and sunburned. Kurt maybe? The other man has a medium build, but is taller and of Asian descent. He too is stripped to the waist but is wearing khaki shorts, socks and hiking boots. Fugi maybe?
They think I’m dead. I’m surprised they didn’t shoot me in the head to make sure I didn’t come back. He realizes that he is on a flat barge lying on a pile of bodies. This must be where they dump their dead. Wonder what they’ll do if they see me move?
“Grab the guns, will you Fugi?” asks Kurt. Fugi nods.
Nothing to do but wait. Not feeling too well at the moment anyway. Within a moment or two the voice of Kurt fades and both men appear to be gone. Graham struggles into a sitting position. The barge is anchored only about five feet from the seawall, but he will have to get into the water to get back to shore.
The nearest dock is roughly fifty feet away and there are a lot of boats tied up. Surely there will be a ladder or something. I can’t climb a seawall right now.
Unfortunately, he notices a second problem.
There is a slick of blood all around the barge. It is barely moving. The water is as close to still as it ever gets in the bay. He can see some garbage and a dead fish floating nearby.
I’ll just climb out, stay as close to the seawall as I can then climb out near the dock. It sounds like a good plan.
He slides off the end of the barge into water warm as a bath. The water is chest high when his feet hit bottom. Stay calm, it’s just blood. Has to be at least one or two hours to sunset. Sharks feed at dawn and sunset. If I don’t flounder and splash around like an injured fish, I’ll get out of this just fine. He takes a gliding step forward, feels the mud ooze beneath his shoes, then takes another. Must be high tide. The murky water is still up to his waist when he reaches out toward the seawall.
Rain starts to pelt his head and shoulders. No big deal. I’m about as miserable as I can get.
Something gouges his leg, or more properly his left calf, then rips… Graham screams, reaches down. A tiny morsel of his calf is missing, but nothing is there, nothing to catch anyway. He continues forward

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more determined than ever to get out. Brushes something soft in his way, but feels it float toward the surface. “Oh Jesus,” he murmurs. A vile smell bubbles to the surface followed by a bloated, shredded shape that might have been human. One or two crabs are still busy.

MITCH’S BIG TRUCK IS IDLING BEHIND HIS CAR, parked just inside the open

gates. For the moment, there is no traffic on the radio. Dodd sits in his cruiser, in his familiar cocoon. The day has turned gray and rain is coming down hard, too hard for his windshield wipers to keep up. Still, they are in the City Vehicle Maintenance parking lot. He’s got them here, now he’s just waiting for a break in the downpour.

The man in the passenger seat beside him, Carlos, shifts a bit then taps a cigarette out of his pack. Camels. Whatever that means. What’s the difference between Camels and Winston? He is clueless. “I’ve never smoked a cigarette,” he says before he can stop himself.

“Que?” Carlos answers without looking up. With scarred blunt fingers he uses a battered Zippo to light a cigarette, then leans back. A long stream of smoke issues from beneath his bushy black mustache. He arches an eyebrow toward Dodd.

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Dodd picks up his cell phone and dials the only personal phone number in its menu. It rings. “Come on, answer, Larry. Where the fuck are you?”

An agitated voice answers,” Hello, ah… Goddamit! Sorry about that. This is Larry. How can I help you?”
“Larry, this is James. Where are you?”
“James? Oh, James the cop. Hey buddy! I’m down at Bay Three still working on the Chief’s fucking car. Cliff won’t let me go. He says another hour should do it.”
“Haven’t you guys been listening to the news? Didn’t Debbie call you?”
“Naw, Cliff and I’ve been listening to CDs all day. If Debbie called I didn’t hear it. Course I just turned the phone on to get a pizza delivered.”

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Dodd pauses a moment, thinking how to best approach this. “Well listen Lar, I’m in the parking lot with some friends. Bay Three is the second building right?”

“Sure is James, but you shouldn’t be bringing any civvies back here.

Chief will have your ass.”
“Fuck the Chief. I’ll be right there.”
“Sure thing, James. Come on back. Cliff won’t tell anybody.” Dodd breaks the connection and puts the phone between his legs

for now. He puts the cruiser back into gear and they roll past a square, blocky administration-type building and then the first of four vehicle buildings. Each building looks like a warehouse with two roll-up steel bay doors. Through the pounding rain, he sees a yellowish glow where a door is rolling up two more buildings away. Instead of stopping, he rolls right inside and Mitch follows him.

As he turns the ignition off, he can hear a loud clashing as the door descends and then crashes against the cement. Dodd pockets his cell phone, exits without a word to Carlos and hurries over to Larry and his boss, Cliff.

Cliff’s a guy about six feet tall with a medium build. He and Larry are both wearing filthy blue coveralls and black work boots. The main difference between the two mechanics is that Cliff is a hard case, while Larry is the quintessential nerd.

Correction: Cliff thinks he is a hard case .
“Who are these people James?” Larry wants to know. Cliff butts in, “I’m telling you now James, I don’t like it a bit. You

know it’s against regulations to have these people here. What Larry sees in you I’ll never know, but you better haul ass out of here soon.”

“What I need you both to do is come over and listen to the radio, or better yet is there a TV here?”
Cliff is getting red in the face. “Listen here, I’d like to go home to Duchess some time tonight…”
Duchess? “You want to know why I’m here or not Cliff?”
Cliff shrugs. “Okay, follow me.” Larry falls in next to Dodd as they follow him around an unmarked late model sedan up on a lift, scattered tools and an air compressor that is just cycling off. The radio is on a workbench with more tools and a couple of open soda cans. It’s the type that includes a CD player and a cassette deck. Cliff turns it on and fiddles with the tuning dial. He gets static for a good inch or two, then a voice steadies. “I’m Al Connors and I’ve spent most of the day and part of last night with St. Petersburg City Councilman Truman List. We were part

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of the final exodus that escaped the trap over at Tropicana Field. That place is no longer safe. The number of walking dead is climbing at an astronomical rate. I’ll tell you Tracy, I could spend over an hour just describing the hellish journey we endured simply trying to get from the Trop down to the Pier.” Connors pauses and another voice breaks in.

“Things aren’t much better over here at Northeast High School shelter, Al. The cafeteria manager says we need more food soon. The number of refugees has exceeded capacity. Many survivors here brought their guns and some food with them but the mood here is getting ugly.”

Another voice, a woman’s: “Let’s see what’s going on nationally from our Network anchor Lance Mathers in Washington…”
Yet another voice, presumably that of Mathers, “…and no power in the West. We’ve heard nothing in two hours from any of our West Coast affiliates. The president should have appeared five minutes ago, but we’re still waiting…”
Cliff’s mouth is hanging open. “What is it some sort of alien invasion or did those pesky Russians finally nuke us?”
Dodd sighs.

MCMURRAY’S EXPRESSION IS SERIOUS, eyes boring into hers. “If you stay with these people you will die. You know this?”

“They helped me. I can’t just leave them.” She feels her hard exterior crumble a bit. It isn’t so much the threat of death exactly…
“There’s room for you,” he says, apparently abandoning any pretense that the chopper is truly destroyed.
“You have a wife and kids. That doesn’t leave enough of you for me.”
That one hits him hard. “Okay Trish. I understand.”
She forces herself to turn away. “They need you. Go get them.”
She doesn’t look back.
A line of vehicles is pulled up in a double column in the middle of 62nd Ave N.

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Hank Wellman walks over. “Your reporter fella coming with us?” “I don’t think so, Hank. Am I riding with you?”
“Yeah, you, me, my family and Jump.”
Hank is looking over her shoulder. Somehow she knows McMurray

is still standing there. “What about that fella you were talking to? Does he need a ride?”
“No Hank, but thanks, he already has one.”
“Listen, I don’t mean to pry, but he latched onto you like he knew you...”
She folds her arms. Gives him a level steady look. Wonders whether he will catch on.
Hank colors a moment later, cheeks turning red. He blusters, “That happens to you a lot, I guess—Men acting like they know you?”
She nods. “Everybody wants something Hank.”
“Not me Trish. I’m just your friend.” He gives her a solemn, sadeyed look.
“I know Hank. I knew you and Jerry were good guys the moment I saw you.” She slips her right arm around his left. “Are we ready to go?”
“Yeah, but God knows where…”

HE WATCHES THE SLIM SOLDIER with the immaculately pressed and starched uniform and spit-shined boots. The guy is truly a cold-hearted killer. No mercy is offered to any of the wounded and no corpse is left without a headshot. Only when Ramos is sure that each corpse is truly dead does he holster his 9mm Beretta.

Executions. How do you feel about that Jubal? Might have witnessed a few back in Nam. Didn’t bother me then. Seemed like justice after they greased so many of my friends. Do unto others before they do unto you. Haven’t had to live that credo for awhile, huh ol’ buddy? Hadley turns back to the mayor who is busy digging in a cooler full of beer. Wonderful ice cold Budweiser. Mayor Mayes twists the cap off one and hands it to him, then grabs another for himself. They are standing beside what remains of the barricade.

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From somewhere close he hears the first cry of grief, followed by others, all the voices of women. He doesn’t look at them for a while, but as he raises the bottle he sees them. Young wives, old mothers. He frowns. Children.

He turns back to look at Ramos. Jesus! The guy is dragging his pistol back out!
“Leave ‘em be soldier boy! You hear me?” Hadley sprays some beer over the mayor in his enthusiasm to make Ramos obey.
Ramos turns toward him. His lean, tanned face betrays nothing. Hadley has seen the look before. Many times. Mostly on the faces of boys too young to be that empty, that careless about killing. If only there were some anger, or sorrow in his expression, but there is nothing. A black hole, sucking…
“You fool yourself, Jefe,” says Ramos. “The blood calls to them. They will want revenge.”
Hadley nods his head. “Then let’s get going. Get the vehicles across.”
“All we really need is the Hummer, sir,” says Ramos.
“What?” asks Hadley, giving Ramos a blank look.
“All of the weapons, ammo and supplies are in the Hummer. We don’t have far to go. Why not just take the Hummer and we will get there faster?”
“Oh, I see. Good point. I’ll tell the mayor.”
Ramos nods, salutes, then yells, “Private Natchez bring the Hummer over!”
Hadley watches another of the soldiers, this one a stocky tanned guy, snap to attention and then hurry over to the vehicle. That must be Natchez. The third soldier is still in the turret with the machine gun and seems to be watching the women pretty closely as they mourn their loved ones.
Mayor Ritchie Mayes and his girlfriend are standing off to the side of the barricade, looking out at the bayou and the bay beyond. He has one hand on her waist and another brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Wait’ll you see this boat, sweetness, it will really knock your socks off,” says the mayor.
“Why can’t we just go back to the condo, Ritchie? I don’t have any of my stuff. No make-up, perfume or anything. I can’t even change clothes.”
“Don’t worry, Marilee, I—”
She stomps a little foot and Hadley can see her seriously unhappy profile complete with a pouting lower lip. “But I am worried. I haven’t

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had a shower since this morning and almost nothing to eat or drink and you expect me to be happy?”
Hadley can’t stand it. “You’re alive aren’t you?”
The girl turns her furious expression on him almost immediately and pulls free of the mayor’s grasp. “Go fuck yourself old man!” Marilee shoves a hand into her purse, appearing to be searching for something. Her hand closes around a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She taps a cigarette out and puts the pack back into her purse. “Where is my cell? Did you do something with it Ritchie?”
The mayor shakes his head, but she doesn’t appear to notice. She puts two trembling fingers to her lips and leaves the cigarette pursed there, then brandishes a lighter and lights up.
Hadley places one of his huge hands on the mayor’s back and forces him to walk a few steps away. “You need to ditch that soon.”
“She’ll adapt, Jubal. She’s my problem, not yours.”
“You better make sure it stays that way. I don’t think our army corporal is a very tolerant man, himself.”
“Everyone has their uses, Jubal. Marilee happens to be a very gifted and talented young lady whose flaws I’m willing to accept in exchange...”
Just don’t be so sure you are the only one enjoying her charms, Ritchie. The desire to lay it all out is almost too much, but somehow Hadley manages to keep the suspicion just a thought, and hopes it isn’t a reality.
“I’ve often wondered why you never re-married after Marge, eh Jubal? There are plenty of women out there willing to put up with a few bad habits. Marilee might even have a friend who could help manage your stress.”
Hadley shakes his head and makes a half-hearted attempt at a smile. “Someone like Marilee would kill me in a minute or two. Big and ugly as old Marge was, she was more my speed. I just couldn’t abide her sharp tongue anymore after twenty years. If she’d just been a kinder woman, I…”
Marilee tosses her still burning cigarette to the ground and steps back over to them. “Let’s get back in the car, Ritchie. I need some A/C quick.”
“Ramos wants us all in the Hummer,” Hadley hears himself say.
The mayor is looking at him. “Why? Have you told Lionel yet?”
“When have I had the chance? We’ve been talking about broads.”
This earns him another glare from Marilee.
The mayor closes his eyes. “Go see what he thinks about that and then let’s hurry up and go.”

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HE DOESN’T THINK TOO MUCH OF IT when he first notices Natalie taking her sneakers off. They are both sitting in the front seat of his car watching for Adam and Kathy to come out. The first shoe, a tennis style sneaker, falls with a thump to the floor and then she peels her sodden sock off. Her bare white leg is extended and her short cheerleader skirt is hiked up just far enough to reveal an appetizing glimpse of her crotch snuggled in colorful thong panties. She gives a little moan and he finds himself watching her bend and lift her leg, fingers caressing the smooth skin of her calf, then her thigh.

“You really should keep your shoes on, Nat, in case we…” he says, then trails off as she repeats the process with her right foot and leg. In mere seconds, his body has responded and now he is aware of a painful throbbing.

Sam is still staring when she turns toward him with a sensual halfsmile and shifts in her seat. She places both feet in his lap. “I sure could use a massage Sam.”

She knows ! He watches a lazy grin spread across her face and her eyes are half-closed as one of her feet immediately finds his hard length and the other waves around in the air in front of him.

The whole car rocks as something crashes against Natalie’s window. Natalie screams. A corpse is sliding slowly down the glass. Sam feels his adrenaline surge, but he can’t think. Panic takes a hold of him. What do I do? The engine is running—Just throw the transmission into gear and drive away!

At that moment, someone or thing opens his door. He tries to turn and—terrible pain explodes against his head. I’ve been hit hard. Slowly, so slowly, he manages to bring himself upright.

My head is wet .
Through blurring vision, he sees his hands still on the steering wheel. There is still a chance to get away. Then he is hit again and even Natalie’s screams fade down into nothing.

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SOMETHING, either the pain or pangs wakes him. He is curled into a fetal ball lying down. I should be dead. Why aren’t I?

Endure . There is hunger, headache, and the pain from his blistered hands, but it is thirst and fear that finally motivate him. I’ve got to get up. They want to eat me. Some small part of him is still aware and worried, but the rest just wants to stay down. The concrete of the sidewalk is warm on his skin and the feel of a light breeze and sunlight through his eyelids all mean that he is no longer trapped.

A faint pattering sound comes to him, and something pelts him on the neck. Rain. He opens his left eye; the one that isn’t pressed against the concrete. The blocky outline of the police station is only a block away. More drops of rain fall.

Have to move .
Otherwise I’ll die here.
Another thought emerges as the rain strengthens: I don’t want to

be one of them.

That thought galvanizes him. He rolls onto battered knees and manages to stand. Okay! I’m up. But good God am I stiff. Feel like Frankenstein. He takes a step, then another. He rubs at his other eye. It is gummed shut. Probably blood.

An ambulance is just ahead of him, parked haphazardly over the curb and up on the sidewalk. The two front doors are open and he skirts around the driver’s. As he draws even with the hood, he sees a sign post beneath the vehicle. The front grille is caved in and shattered.

Keep walking. If I stop, I may wake to find that I’m still in that room. Still there looking at the pack of cigarettes and the lighter that Joss left on the table. Maybe this time I won’t come up with a plan.

He can feel dark, demented laughter welling up, but somehow, he fights it down. I burned them. I won. I was cleverer than they. Who is still not walking around? Certainly not Joss the Hoss. Nope. I settled his hash. Me, Morgan Blake.

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A little whisper in his head asks, “What if the Doc is still walking around?”
He chokes and tastes bile. Oh God, I need a drink. I need to wash this bad taste away.
Distant thunder rumbles somewhere to the north. He closes his eyes a moment while continuing to stumble and stagger forward, then makes a wish.
I know God. Thunder isn’t a falling star. She doesn’t even deserve any warm feelings from me, but I can’t help it. The hungry look on her face now wouldn’t be the one he always wanted to see.
He opens his eyes just in time to see he has made it to the police station. He makes his way up the stairs to the entrance.

THERE ARE NO WINDOWS IN HIS WORKSPACE, not of the normal type anyway.

What Anton does have are a large number of video monitors. Twenty two of twenty four of them are working presently. There is room for two people, but at the moment he is alone in the small room offset from the dispatch center. The head dispatch clerk, Debbie, just brought him a cup of black coffee. It is very pleasant to wrap his fingers around the mug’s warmth. Especially when he looks at the row of exterior camera views and sees the rain slanting down and pelting the landscape.

“Have you seen anything?” asks Debbie, leaning over his shoulder. For a moment he loses himself in the wonderful sensation of her breasts brushing his back and shoulder. Sometimes it is almost painful to him but he never complains. Even mentioning it might forever deprive him of a normal woman’s touch.

Not many women interested in a cripple like me . The moment of self pity comes and goes and he remarks, “Not sure. Look at Camera Seven. Do you see?”

“That’s a person all right,” she answers. “Wish we knew whether he’s one of them or not.”
“I’m leaning toward a zombie. Look at the way he’s walking. The only other possibility is that he’s drunk or injured.”

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If anything, the pressure on his shoulder increases. “He’s wearing a uniform of some kind. Looks like the one our janitors wear, doesn’t it?”
“Debbie, we can’t keep letting people in here. You know Gransky is going to go ballistic on you soon. We’re not the flipping SPCA.”
Debbie straightens up and steps around the wheel of his chair to confront him. “I wish you’d quit making jokes like that. If I didn’t know you better, mister…”
Anton rests each elbow on an armrest and steeples his fingers together, then raises a bushy eyebrow. “So, what do you want me to do, then?”
“I expect you to let him in—If I tell you to. What do you say?”
“Okay. Does this mean you’re going downstairs to look him over?” He takes a quick sip of his coffee. Still too hot.
“Yes, I’ll get a closer look and a second opinion. Amy is covering the phones and the radio if you need anything.”
“Sure thing. I think Dennis is watching the door. At least he’s a decent guy. If the guy hasn’t been bit, he’ll probably let him in.”
She makes a face, the kind you make when you bite into something sour. “Oh, he’s decent, I suppose, but he’s a pessimist through and through. Maybe he’s been around Gransky too long. Anyway, I should be back soon.”
“Okay,” he says to her back as she walks away. His attention is already back to his monitors, particularly number seven.

THE RAIN FALLS FROM A SKY OF SLATE AND GRAY. He shivers beneath the

downpour. Someone is on the dock. They are trying to be quiet but the wood groans and complains. Something metal clatters. He wraps both hands around the ladder poles and takes his time with the steps. It must have been a mild heart attack. I’m going to be fine now. Just eat right and exercise and I’ll be fine. No more cigarettes or booze. The straight and narrow for me, Lord.

One more step and he’ll be able to see over the edge of the dock, but something stops him.

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A muffled voice speaks from almost directly above: “I paid off the guard. We can take the big Cat at the end of the dock, last slip on the left. It’s gassed up and loaded down with food and water. We just have to wait for dark and the moon to pass.”

“Sure thing, Kurt. Everything is going to hell here. I don’t know where to go, but anywhere but here, eh?” Someone with an Asian accent.
There is a rustle of cloth, and the muffled voice is a bit clearer over the rain. “You are correct Fugi-san. When did you say Riker and his friend would join us?”
The voices begin to move off, but he thinks he hears the one called Fugi say, “At eight-thirty.” He forces himself to wait. Patience. There is no hurry.
Graham glances down at his wrist. His watch is still there, and still working. Must wait another two minutes and give these guys time to move away. Who knows how they would react if he just popped in on them. Also, he isn’t sure how knowing that some men are planning to steal a boat might affect him, but knowledge is power. The phrase brings a small laugh.
The backlit numerals on his watch say 5:22 pm.

“DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH UNSIGHTLY OPEN WOUNDS? Then call this

number now for—”

He pushes the channel up button on the remote control and the balding guy with the big mustache disappears. A brief flicker. It is an old TV. Organ music fills the room. A camera is focused on a church pulpit and a middle-aged guy in a dazzling white suit with swept-back gray hair. The view zooms a little too fast and forcefully and for a moment there is a close-up of the guy’s nostril hair and slightly yellowed teeth.

“If you haven’t been bitten, it’s not too late my children… Come downtown near the Pier. We are accepting one and all in this time of darkness. Come down to Union of the Trinity and be saved! I am Pastor Cornelius Berg—”

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Talaski pushes the off button and the picture snaps out of existence leaving a blank green curved screen. He sits in a plush leather recliner, right arm thrown over his forehead and the other with the remote, resting on his stomach. All he can hear in the sudden stillness is the patter of rain on the windows.

“There’s people out on the street,” says Keller from his position in the next room. It’s a den or study with two windows overlooking the road. “Look like refugees.”

“As long as they keep walking and don’t stop, I don’t care what they do,” says Talaski, reaching now with his right hand for a tall, insulated glass filled with ice and Pepsi.

“I agree,” says Keller. “I think I’ll go put those steaks on. We should cook some fresh stuff while we still can, eh?”
“Sure, and I’ll force myself to turn the TV back on.”
“You have to be a dedicated son of a bitch to still be doing your job now,” Keller says, walking past the doorway to the living room.
“Is that what we’re doing? Or should I say I’m doing?” Talaski pauses, an evil grin in place. “I mean you are just a ride-along and…”
“Fuck you,” replies Keller. “In all seriousness, I don’t know what else to do. Your friend, Yates, could probably use our help down at the Pier.”
That’s true. Almost forgot about you Jock. “Once we eat, we can be there in a half hour or so, depending on how many of them are inbetween.”
“But what happens after that?” asks Keller.
“You mean after we stop the mayor’s evil plan and save everyone?”
“Yeah, Nick. What happens after that?”
“Can’t see that far Matt. Maybe we won’t live that long.”
Keller is still standing in the doorway. “I’d like to find out if that desk clerk down at the station is alive.”
Talaski grin is downright demonical. “If not her, Dirty Sanchez seemed interested in you…”
“Sometimes, I really do hate you,” Keller says and then disappears down the hallway.

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FROM A DISTANCE they can see that the road is blocked at the next light, but whoever is in the lead vehicle continues on. The signal lights are out but within half a block details emerge: one overturned car, another on its side and five or six in a crushed pile-up involving a Semi. Trish wants to close her eyes and stay huddled against Bud Wellman’s chest. The whole situation is too much. The only thing left to decide really is whether life is still worth living. Joy has never come easily into her life; only after a great deal of struggle. Does that make me tougher... or just more vulnerable?

Rain falls in a nearly solid sheet and pounds so hard it makes it difficult to hear. An early twilight descends as they reach the intersection of 16th St N and 62nd Avenue N and come to a dead stop. On their side of the street, the west, there is a middle school on the right and somebody’s house on the left. The SUV in front of them rolls forward a few feet.

“Where the hell does he think he’s going?!” exclaims Hank, and pounds a hand on the steering wheel. “There’s no way through.”
Jerry is up front beside him. “Maybe we could drive through the fence?”
Hank looks to his right. “You mean around the middle school?” He pauses, considering. “It is only chain link… if I got up some speed maybe.”
Trish sees movement around the SUV in front of them.
People are emerging from the wrecks and surrounding the vehicle. Trish wants to cry out, but Bud reacts first. “Dad, look out! Marco’s being surrounded!”
Hank looks forward again. Trish watches a wave of the dead rock and pound on the other SUV. “My God, how many are there?” Hank murmurs. He seems stunned into immobility. More of the creatures bypass Marco and head for them.
There is a sudden engine roar and Marco’s SUV is upon them before anyone can react. Glass shatters and there is a terrible metal shriek as the whole world tilts with the impact of the two huge vehicles. Trish winds up on top of Bud and his mother as their SUV crashes over onto the driver’s side.
None of us were wearing seat belts. She’s in a pile on top of Bud and his mother.
“Mom! Mom!” Bud shouts. Trish tries to get a foot on Hank’s bucket seat so she can get some of her weight off the other two people. Nothing but silence from the front seat. Hank and Jerry are either dead or unconscious.
“Oh God, Trish, she won’t wake up! And I smell gas. We’ve got to get out of here!”
The stink reaches her nostrils. “I’ll try to get the door open, Bud, hang on.”
She gets a hand on the handle and it turns, but she isn’t strong enough to shove it open with one hand. “I can’t…” The whole vehicle rocks one way, then the other. Trish barely holds on.
“They’re on each side of us Trish.” She looks down and sees him trying to stand, without stepping on his mother. They rock again, but he manages to stand. “Here, let me boost you up so you can use both arms.” His big hands circle her waist and he lifts. She puts her hands above her and the door opens. He continues to lift her and she is half out.
More rocking and shaking. Now the rain strikes her full force and soaks her in an instant. She is barely balanced on top and has to grip each side of the car to keep from slipping off. Bud lets go, and he grabs the door, holding it open as she pulls her feet free. She swings back around to face the open door. On either side of the vehicle she can see those things trying to push the vehicle over. Bud’s face is looking up at her with… is it just rain streaking down his face?
“Goodbye Trish. I can’t leave them. I have a lighter.”
She sobs. “They’d want you to come Bud, please…”
“Can’t do it Trish. Now run while you can!”
Somewhere overhead, the roar an engine and the thump of rotors. A light stabs out, makes its way around the intersection. She looks up and is fixed in the beam. Something slithers down through the dark: a rope! A magnified voice says: “Grab the rope and tie it around you Trish.”
“Do it,” says Bud.
She looks down and sees several zombies on their back or knees in the backwash.
“Goodbye Bud.” A last look at a friend and she leaps up and out, knees flexed, lands on a corpse and rolls off and onto her feet. Up and

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running to the right of the intersection. South. There is just room enough for a small woman between the fence and a wreck.

Above her, the rotor and engine noise recede as the helicopter rises. She ducks and dodges three of the dead things and makes it right through the gap, running flat out now, trying to keep her breathing cadenced, barely wincing when a sudden bloom of light and expanding air overtake her, followed by a chain of explosions.

She slows her headlong flight as it takes her into water over ankle high, but refuses to look back. She’s back to being just Trish, the one and only.

The one and lonely.

J ANICEA AND THE BOY are walking ahead, while he follows with Tracks. Daric is holding her hand in one hand and clasping his bear in the other. A comic book protrudes from the top of his backpack. Such a good kid. Even Janicea isn’t so bad anymore.

The same thoughts chase each other around in his head with no answers or solutions forthcoming: Each time I open myself up to someone I get hurt. What if the boy has been bit? We really need to know the truth.

“Gotta find us a doctor Bronte,” says Tracks in his hoarse nearwhisper.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing, Tracks. The only problem is who can we trust?”
“Maybe I can ask around? There are a lot of people up ahead in that line and near the Pier,” says Janicea.
“No,” says Tracks. “We stick together.”
Janicea looks surprised. “You mean that, Tracks?”
“We all need each other Janice,” Bronte says. “If we separate, we may never find each other later.”
A tall, skinny young white guy is walking toward them. His arm is bandaged and he’s walking with a limp. Tracks steps over to him. “Excuse me sir,” he rasps through what sounds like a mouth full of gravel.
“Yes sir, how can I help you?” The guy stops, and his eyes flicker over each of them briefly. He gives an encouraging nod at Tracks.
“The boy, he hurt and we need some food.”
“Let me take you there, just follow me,” he says, already turning around.
“Oh no, just point. We don’t mean trouble Mister…”
The man stops again, gives a broad smile. “You aren’t trouble. Seriously. I’ve been treated and I’ve already eaten. Let me help you. It’s a small enough request. There’s some tents over here. Right this way.” He barely finishes talking before he turns back away from them and takes a big stride.
Tracks looks back and shrugs with a questioning look.
“Let’s go and follow the nice man. Come on Daric,” says Bronte.

H IS HEADLIGHTS PICK THEM OUT through the falling liquid shroud with maybe ten feet to spare: three people standing in a loose knot almost in the middle of the intersection. Dodd doesn’t even attempt to brake, but heads straight toward them at thirty or forty miles an hour. In the seat beside him Carlos cries out, “Cuidado! Los Muertos!” Then there is a near simultaneous concussive triple thump as they plow through and send the bodies flying. One body flies up and shatters the windshield and remains lodged with a near complete head and torso inside the cruiser. Dodd is screaming and barely aware of anything but the thing’s snapping teeth as it lunges for him. Fortunately both of its arms are severed and Dodd makes no effort to fight the slide as the car hydroplanes into a complete 360 and more. The world spins around, the outside a blur as they spin. Dodd is dimly aware of Carlos screaming, “Mi dia! Mi dia de muerte!” Then they clip something and the dead thing flies free and they slam to a stop on top of a mailbox. Dodd’s chest slams into the steering wheel and the car rolls off the nearly flattened box, engine still running.

Dodd can barely breathe. Don’t let it be broken ribs. Carlos sits up beside him, blood running from a cut somewhere on his forehead. He

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looks barely conscious. Dodd looks around. Rain is falling in the car through the jagged hole in the windshield. His clothes are getting soaked. He notices most of a pale hairy arm lying on the seat between him and Carlos.

“Looks like he left us his left, eh Carlos?” Dodd hears laughter, but can’t be sure where it’s coming from. Guess I’m a little disoriented. Carlos isn’t laughing.

The car begins to roll forward. My foot isn’t even on the gas. He notices that at least they are facing the right direction. In the light of his remaining headlight, he can make out the Police Station. He squints. Someone is going in! The car rolls closer and he can see the person better. It’s a man wearing a janitor’s outfit. Probably one of our maintenance guys. He doesn’t seem to be with it.

The chest pain is easing. Dodd takes a deep breath then calls out, “Hey you!” He brakes and puts the cruiser into park. The guy doesn’t hear or is ignoring him. The janitor starts up the stairs, very uncoordinated and stiff. Oh God! Another one! Dodd exits and draws his pistol. He starts up the stairs after the guy.

M ILLS HAS SEVERAL TERRIBLE THOUGHTS as they reach the exit door back by the Service Desk. The worst centers around the hatchet in Sid’s hand. He can’t help but picture the man hacking the living and the dead alike. One cut from that still bloody blade would probably infect you. Heh, probably! Better revise that to definitely. Why am I hesitating to shoot this guy, really?

Sid gives him a brief questioning look. “Do you think we could stop by my fiance’s house? I’ve spent the last hour trying to get through on my cell, but I keep getting an out of service message. I’m worried.”

Yeah Jack, and why don’t we all go get some drinks afterwards? Cocktails and some nachos!
He finds himself nodding instead. “Sure Sid. We owe you big time for the keys. It would be the least we could do.”

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“Well golly gee, Fireman Mills, that’s swell. Here, let me give you the keys now as a goodwill gesture.” Sounds just like the Beaver. Mills grins, chances a look back at Sid.

Sid looks serious. His left arm is extended out, palm up, fingers cradling the key chain. “Really, go ahead and take them before I change my mind. One of us has to trust the other one first, right? I’ll be the one.”

“I’m willing to wait Sid. Are you sure?”

Sid tosses him the keys. Mills is so surprised he almost drops them, but with his left hand, he manages to hold them safe.
“I’m not all bad. I just don’t enjoy being trifled with. Some people are asking for it. You know what I mean?” Sid is looking at both he and Kathy now, his face flushed and his breathing going ragged. “I’m a shopper just like anyone else, and I want my fucking self-respect! We’re all supposed to be equal when shopping. My money’s just as good as a flipping whore-mongers—Better even.”
“Wait a minute Sid,” says Kathy. “It’s over. No reason to get worked up again.”
Sid’s shoulders are heaving, but something slips through. He looks down at his feet. “You’re right. Those people are dead, and I have friends now. We are friends, aren’t we?”
Mills makes himself take a step or two closer to Sid. The other man doesn’t react.
He claps him on the shoulder. “Sure we are Sid, but you’ve got to be good and help me take care of Kathy.”
Sid’s eyes get a faraway look, and he might be smiling. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I trained with the best. My master has a black belt with a stripe in Karate and after practice he’d show me some wrestling moves…”
Kathy rolls her eyes. Mills barely catches himself, knows he’s teetering on the brink of uncontrolled laughter. Just have to hope that Sid doesn’t know. Because if he does… He’s not very forgiving.
“Say,” says Sid. “Looks like it might rain soon.”
Maybe I’d better just kill him now.

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THE BARREL NEVER WAVERS. It’s rock-steady between my eyes. “I’m still not sure he ain’t dead,” says Kurt, standing somewhere
behind Graham. “I mean, we picked him up like a sack of potatoes and
tossed him. I’d swear he was dead.”
The taller Asian guy, Fugi, is the one pointing the pistol. His eyes
slide all over Graham, evaluating him with a flat, brown-eyed stare.
Alligator eyes. Cold blood. “Well, he is pretty fucked up, but he don’t
look dead, Kurt. Maybe they can use him on the perimeter?” “Is your name really Fugi?” Graham hears himself ask. “Naw… It’s just an acronym for Fuck You G. I.”
Graham snorts a brief laugh. “That’s good.”
Fugi smiles and lowers the pistol. “No hard feelings? They told us
you were dead.”
Graham looks him in the eyes. “No, no hard feelings. I understand.
Did you happen to find my brass knuckles by the way?”
“No, but you can have this pistol. I took it off the first guy you hit.
His buddies swore he was still alive so we just hauled you and the old
couple down to the barge.”
Fugi offers him the weapon butt first. Graham takes it and looks it
over; a six-shot revolver. He spins the cylinder. Still a full load. “That’s a Colt Python .357 with a four inch barrel. You might be
able to drop a Rhino with that baby.”
“Got any extra rounds?”
“No. But if you find the guy, you can probably take them from him.” “Any chance I can get on your boat if I’m here by eight-thirty?” “You did hear everything then. I’ve got this sixth sense. Something
told me someone was on the ladder.”
Graham nods. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t wait long enough for you guys
to be gone. I’m a taxi driver after all. We get impatient. Normally, I can
make myself relax, but here I am a filthy mess and I need a shower and
something to eat…”

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Fugi holds up a hand. “I get the picture. You might have to go over to the Vinoy for most of that. As to whether you can come with us or not, that ain’t up to me. Could be our boss could use another gunman. Get yourself cleaned up and be back here before eight-thirty and who knows?”

“Thanks for the gun,” says Graham, and the other man nods. “I probably won’t see you again. I’m looking for someone.” He turns away, back toward land and starts walking down the dock.

Kurt’s overly-loud voice says, “He might not be dead yet, but he’s so close. We shoulda tossed him onto the barge again.”
Don’t look back. Guy’s needling me. Better to ignore him.
There is a gate at the end of the dock, but it isn’t locked. He opens it and after he steps through, closes it behind him. Sees a sudden flare of light near the back of a long low building. A thin guy in army camouflage is crouching there, out of the rain under the roof eave. He is smoking a cigarette. A rifle lies across his thighs, but his hands aren’t on it.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“I’m with them,” Graham replies.
“You guys are crazy. Whole State’s under quarantine. Nobody leaves. You understand what that means?”
“Mind if I step out of the rain?”
The guy gestures with a wave of his left hand. “Feel free.”
Graham steps over and leans against the wall about three feet from the guy. Close up, he’s just a kid really. There’s a spray of freckles under his eyes and a wispy red mustache over a thin-lipped mouth.
“I’m completely out of the loop here. I got the shit beat out of me last night. Guy stole my cab and left me for dead. I wake up to… this. Been wondering if maybe I’m really dead and this is hell.”
“Yeah? That’s tough. I’m a reservist. I get this call telling me to come to the Reserve Center on the double. I don’t know what time it was… maybe four in the morning? My sergeant’s a son-of-a-bitch! He’s been on my ass nonstop until they put him in with the doctor giving the checkups down at the restaurant there.”
Graham laughs. “I met him. Pretty blunt talking guy. So what’s this about nobody leaving the State?”
“Oh yeah! Guess you never heard, huh? Supposedly the Coasties or the Navy will sink any ship or boat that tries to leave. Far as I know, nobody’s tried yet. I think you’re okay as long as you stay in the bay. Somebody sure has some plans for that cruise boat, though. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

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“I may have heard people talking about it. Sort of a reverse Titantic, I guess.”
The guy puts the cigarette to his mouth, takes a long drag. The tip glows brightly in the growing darkness. Smoke wreathes his face momentarily.
“What’s that you say about the Titanic?”
Wonder if he’ll offer me a cigarette?
“It’s the reverse this time. Rich people want to be first to get on this one.”
“Never saw the movie mister. I hate that Dicaprio guy.”
“Ah…”
“Now that Poseidon Adventure—that was a flick!”
“I need to go. Look, my name is Graham. I need to go find somebody. Maybe I’ll see you around later?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Graham. My name’s Louie. Say, ah, could you do me one favor?”
“What’s that, Louie?”
“The next building is the restaurant where they’re inspecting people. Could you check in on the Sarge for me? I heard a shot a little while ago, but he told me not to worry unless a bunch of shots were fired.”
Graham nods. “I’ll check. If you don’t see me in the next few minutes, then there’s no problem, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Graham turns away. Now, if I can avoid anymore setbacks…

I’ M TIRED, MARGE. And I don’t know what I’m doing. His thoughts come and go, thoroughly disjointed, like someone aimlessly picking on a guitar.

The first thing he sees appear through the rain is a statue of a panther. It is frozen forever in a stalking position, hunting in the grass. Somebody stole one of them once and caused quite an uproar. Never caught them.

Something is wrong with the windshield wipers. Occasionally, the right wiper blade twitches. The rain is coming down just hard enough that the wipers have to stay on. “I told that goddamned Larry over in Vehicle Maintenance that he’d better RainX all the cruisers.”

Beside him, Pitts grunts.
In the end, somehow, despite Ramos’ protests, they still took all three cars. Hadley still ended up in the mayor’s cruiser sitting up front, still in the passenger seat. Pitts is driving and the mayor and his floozy are cuddling in the back.
“I got this sudden craving, Chief,” says Pitts.
Hadley gives a start. The fucker’s pulling on his goddamn nose hairs again! I won’t let it get to me. I won’t…
“What for?” Hadley asks back, not really wanting to encourage conversation. Rather enjoy the scenery. He’d always loved Snell Isle. The neighborhood lawns were always immaculately groomed and the houses well-maintained. Words like Stately came to mind. Lush. Luxurious. Classy.
“Chicken wings and beer! Man, that would sure hit the spot right now…”
“Who knows what’s on this guy’s yacht? I’m sure there will be something for you.”
“Well it ain’t gonna be any pleasure cruise, Chief. We’re running for our lives.”
Hadley nods. “I don’t know where we’re running to. It seems like every time things get tough, people run. Why is that? Running might buy you some time but it doesn’t solve your problem. Think about it. If we run from Iraq for instance…”
The mayor makes an indignant noise and whispers something. Hadley resists the urge to look, but Pitts is either too dumb or inexperienced to know better. He turns toward the back seat immediately.
Marilee squawks something and slaps Pitts hard. Hadley grabs the wheel just in time to keep them on the road. “Do you think this is romantic Ritchie? Just you and me and two hick idiots?
Pitts quite unwisely speaks up, “Hey, I voted for Kerry! I’m no hick idiot!”
“Shut up! And keep your eyes off my tits Mister!”
“Calm down Marilee. We’re almost there. Look there’s the Arabian Nights Tower and Minaret. See it?”
Hadley looks up. Pitts has steered them around a curve and just visible is the Sunset Golf Course Clubhouse. It does, sort of, look like

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something from the Arabian Nights. Palm trees line the road. You drive by these places all your life without ever knowing the history or the reason why something is. All he really knows is that some guy named C. Perry Snell built it way back in the twenties.

“I hate feeling dirty Ritchie. I need a shower and clean clothes.”

Ramos’ vehicle is in the lead. For the moment, the gunner is out of sight and the turret hatch buttoned up. There are no obstructions in the road, but the Hummer could make short work of most. Hadley looks in his mirror mounted just outside the door. Their benefactor, Lionel, is right behind them.

“Chief?” says Pitts.

“Yeah, Duane?” Hadley turns back forward. People are out in the rain, just walking around.
“Looks like those bridge guards just thought they were guarding this place.”
One person, a woman in her late forties, steps in front of the car and Pitts doesn’t even brake. The middle-aged woman is struck and vanishes. There are a series of thumps beneath the car. Pitts laughs.
“That was gross. You didn’t have to do that,” says Marilee.
“She didn’t feel anything Miss.”
“So you say. How did you ever become a policeman?”
Pitts scratches his head. “A clean driving record helped…”

“WE COULD GO INSIDE, out of the rain?” Janicea asks, standing beside him. He runs his fingers along the rough texture of the concrete wall.
Remembers being here as a boy and having his mom or uncle boost
him so he could see the water below, on the other side. The water was
always dark, murky. No telling what was swimming down there. “Do you think the water was ever clear here, Janice?” He looks her
in the eyes.
“You mean the Bay?”
“Yes.”
“We messed it up somehow, I’m sure. We humans mess up most
good things.”
He nods, lowers his eyes. “Part of being human, I guess.” “I’ve been asking for two things, Bronte. Two big things. If you say
yes to even one of them life might still be worth living for me.” He looks back up at the beautiful perfect face. Waits. “Forgiveness is one. I’ve allowed myself to hate—completely. It
consumed me.”
“And the other?” he asks.
Her lower lip trembles. “Another chance?”
He reaches with both arms and pulls her in, chin against his left
shoulder. Feels her breath on his neck. He whispers in her ear, “You’ve
always had the first, Janice. You’re the one that couldn’t forgive—At
least not until recently. I think you’ve come a long way since last night.” “And what about the second?”
“You care too strong, too fast. I take my time. There’s too much
going on right now for me to know. Maybe once we get out of this mess?” The silence draws out, and he can hear water dripping, and people
talking nearby. Somewhere in the distance there is the hum of an
approaching helicopter.
She moves a hand over his back, then hugs him tighter. “Okay Bronte.”

SO CLOSE, SO CLOSE: the words like a mantra in his mind. That someone might not be there to let him in was never in question. I’ve got a card. One more step. Then someone is yelling at him from behind. To be so close… Full of despair, and desperate rage, Blake spins around, fighting for balance. Settles with his back against the glass double doors. Sees a tall, lanky cop ascending the stairs, pointing a gun at him.

“Die! Die! Die!” the cop screams and stops to aim. His face is demonic, mouth scowling, eyes wild. Blake looks down the barrel as the man slowly steadies his aim. There is a dry click.

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The cop has a puzzled look on his face. Like he can’t believe the gun could be empty.
Blake lets out a sigh. The cop’s name plate says Dodd. If I give this guy time to reload, it’s over. “Excuse me Officer Dodd, are you finished now? I’ve really had enough stress for one day.”
Dodd looks up, a beautiful shocked expression on his face.
“I’m not one of them. Please, I don’t want to die.”
The shocked expression and any trace of concern fade away. The scowl is reforming. He raises his pistol and drops the empty magazine. Blake isn’t sure, but he thinks he must have pushed a release button. The empty goes into a pants pocket and a full magazine from his ammo pouch replaces it. All this is done in an efficient, practiced manner. As the new magazine slides up into the well inside the pistol’s handgrip, he gives the butt a slap, apparently to make sure it is seated properly. There is no danger unless he pulls the slide. Right now the pistol’s chamber is empty. What the hell is this guy going to do? He knows I’m alive.
The cop looks him up and down, apparently evaluating him, then says, “What the hell did you mean by that crack, asking me if I’m finished?”
Don’t be afraid. You escaped Joss and worse. “Just trying to get your attention before you killed me, Officer. You were screaming at me.”
The cop’s fierce expression relaxes again and now he looks a bit rueful. “I was wasn’t I? So, what’s your name? I’m Dodd.”
Blake is puzzled, but relieved. Maybe this guy isn’t going to kill me after all? Maybe he has a sense of humor? “I’m Maintenance over at the Coroner’s, and my name’s Morgan, Morgan Blake. They actually have me work over here occasionally, also. I do have my pass card. I was hoping someone was alive here.”
“Ah, you must know that Doctor Bastrov—What a hot piece of action that is! I just wish she was friendlier.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Dodd laughs. “Sometimes that coldness makes me want them more. Sluts! I know a thing or two about them and what they want.”
Blake forces a grin. This guy wants to be liked real bad. That’s not too hard. Always knew I could act.
“Well, Mister Blake, if you don’t mind opening the door and holding it for me. I think I need to help my companion out of the cruiser. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll do that Officer Dodd,” he answers. The card is already in his hand. My first priority is to get a gun, right away, then maybe I’ll get the jump on somebody the next time. He slides the card and waits for the light to turn green. A moment later the door is open. Another police officer runs from behind a reception counter. Blake wonders if he caught him napping. This officer looks unhappy also.
“Who the hell are you?” the guy barks, pistol pointed at Blake’s chest.
“I’m Blake in Maintenance. I work over here sometimes, but mostly at the Coroner’s.”
“There was someone else with you—Where did he go?”
“Oh, that’s Officer Dodd. He’s helping someone out of his cruiser and is coming right back.”

A STOLEN MOMENT, hunched over breathing deeply while the rain falls. Already the sewers are overwhelmed and water is backing up in the street. The sun is almost a memory, merely a molten yellow smudge just above the rooftops in the distance. The things are everywhere, just too slow to take her down. A nightmare that can’t be escaped. Still, the effort to survive must be made. She is small, fast, and in superb condition. Must keep going, find a place to hide.

She resumes running, but at a more reasonable pace, darting in and out between people when necessary, but with direction—Running south on 16th St N.

Up ahead, near the next intersection, she sees several fiery flashes brilliantly outlined in the growing darkness. Then, the sound of shots reaches her. Are people screaming? Hard to hear over her breath and the sound of her feet splashing in puddles.

Somebody is still alive up near the high school.

Or at least they were.

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“ARE YOU READY?” Mills asks. He has one hand, the one holding the keys, pressed against the door and the other still clenching the bat. The psycho, Sid, is next to him and Kathy is behind.

“I’ve never rode in a fire truck,” says Sid. “This should be exciting.” “It is—” A sudden blur and the sound of wood meeting/merging with a human skull. From the corner of his eye, Mills sees Kathy haul her bat around for another swing. Sid is pressed against the glass front of the door, facing toward Mills. His eyes have rolled back, showing only the whites. Sid’s axe drops, clattering to the floor tiles. His body remains pressed up, almost as if he’s still ready to leave.

Another swing and solid meaty connection. This time the impact leaves a splatter of blood both on the glass and on everything nearby. Sid’s body loses the battle with gravity and falls backward to the floor.

A tremor wracks one hand and then Sid is still.
Kathy pushes a strand of hair out of her face.
“Now I’m ready Adam.”
“Mother of God Kathy.”
“It had to be done. I could either sit back and wait for you to do it, or

take my chance when it came.”
“Sounds like the voice of a professional killer.” The sarcasm in his
voice seems to catch her off guard. He has time to wonder if he is
disappointed in her or just shocked by her actions. And why? The guy
was a killer.
“If you can’t handle me pulling my weight, then I’ll go,” she says.
Fortunately, she doesn’t have a good poker face. He can see that she is
freaked out. Her face is pale, almost pasty. Suddenly she steps back
and to the side, bending over not far from the dead guy wearing the
Phil Hendrie shirt. She spends the next two or three minutes vomiting.
He tries to be near, yet keep his distance. There is always the danger of
joining in if you get too close.
Mills looks at his watch and makes himself wait another minute.
Reaches a hand out and she doesn’t resist. Turns her, then pulls her to
his chest. “We both need to be strong for each other. Now let’s get the
hell out of here.” He pushes the door open and they go outside hand in
hand.
Somebody in a trench coat is standing right there, pointing a small
pistol right at them. “Perfect!” the man exclaims. “I really wasn’t happy
about coming to look for you.”

THE HOUSE IS THE LAST ONE on the block, right on the bay. It must have just stopped raining. Everything glistens as if dewed. The sun is almost down and he can hear cicadas in the trees all around. Lionel’s mansion is probably three or four years old. Some people go for these massive multileveled piles of concrete with the elevated entryways. That Lionel was one of them made perfect sense. Hadley much preferred his little two bedroom, two bath bunglalow on the golf course to this… whatever it is.

Pitts slows their cruiser and follows the Hummer onto the oversized half circle driveway and stops behind it almost in the street at the far end. Lionel’s cruiser parks beneath a pillared portico at the foot of the marble staircase to the front door.

Hadley hears Marilee grumble something about why are we parking here, but quickly shuts her voice out. As he exits the car he notices the yacht behind the house. “Cripes, that thing must go sixty feet at least,” he hears himself say.

The mayor speaks up, “Fifty-six feet, Jubal. I’ll let Lionel tell you the rest, but it is impressive, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say. There’s even one of those flying bridges.”
“What’s a flying bridge?” asks Pitts.
“Nevermind that right now,” replies Hadley. “Go help Ramos and his men to transfer the equipment and weapons to the boat.”
Lionel’s sidekick, Barney, wanders over. “Mayor Mayes? Could you, Marilee and the Chief please join him on the Yacht as soon as you can?

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We aren’t planning on sticking around long. The food, gas and water are already stowed, so we’re almost ready.”

“If there’s a shower on that thing, we’re coming right now,” says

Marilee.
“There are two showers, one on deck and one below…” “Okay Barney, let’s go,” she says, without waiting for the mayor.

Barney shrugs and follows her.

The mayor seems nonplussed. “She’s just cranky, Jubal. She’s probably more like Marge than you realize.” He pauses with a grin. “Except her ass is much better.”

The mayor doesn’t wait for his reply. He turns and walks toward the rear of the house, following a little cobbled path.
“If you say so Ritchie,” Hadley whispers, “but you sure make a lot of excuses for her.”

IT’S RAINING HARD AGAIN. Daric can feel it saturating his skin right down to the bone. People are milling about around a stairway that descends down to the water and a floating dock. There are two large tents in front of the Pier’s entrance. A fairly steady stream of people are coming out of the first one with food. The tall man walks right past that tent and takes them to the second. A white soldier out front puts his arm out to stop the tall man. Daric and Tracks stop too.

“What’s up Henry, you gathering strays?” The soldier isn’t tall, but he’s wide and muscular. He has the puffed up look and the aggressive attitude that his Dad told him were the marks of a steroid user. Watch out for them Daric!

The tall man’s face flushes red. “Why do you care what I’m doing Marks? All you’ve been doing is eating and drinking beer. I’ve got an injured child. Now step aside.”

The moment Henry tries to shoulder his way past, the soldier turns his hip and flips him. Henry lands on his back and doesn’t move. Maybe he hit his head?

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Daric feels Tracks’ gentle hand push him back behind him. He knows the big man is about to do something again. Only this soldier looks every bit as big as Tracks, if not as tall, and is definitely younger.

Tracks is breathing heavier. The soldier must hear him and looks up from the prone figure of Henry. One massive hand yanks the rifle out of the soldier’s hands and the other one grabs him by the throat.

“I developing a dislike for soldier boys,” Tracks says, mouth only inches from the man’s face. The soldier seems completely paralyzed. It’s a mistake not to notice Tracks.

“That man try help the boy. Tracks hurt you bad for that, maybe throw you to the sharks.” The man’s eyes reflect true terror. Tracks drops the rifle, grabs the man with both hands and shakes him.

Someone steps up close to Daric. “Put him down Tracks,” the person says, and then Daric realizes it is Bronte. Bronte has his big pistol out. “I’ll watch him while you take Daric inside. Go ahead, let him down.”

Tracks gives him a final shake and lets him go. The soldier’s legs buckle and he falls to the ground beside the man, Henry. Tracks kneels and gives Henry’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Mistah Henry! He be okay, Bronte?”

Daric notices that Tracks looks truly worried for the man who tried to help them. Bronte is kneeling beside the man now. He reaches out and touches the man beneath the chin, somewhere on his neck. “He has a pulse Tracks. Help me lift him and we’ll take him with us to see the doctors.”

Tracks brushes Bronte aside, then lifts Henry onto his left shoulder. As a group they cover the last few feet and enter the medical tent.
Something doesn’t seem right. A portable light is lying on the floor and the room looks torn apart. Daric hears himself gasp. Four people have a fifth person pinned and they are…
A hand covers his eyes while another yanks him off his feet. Bronte whispers in his ear, “Hush.”
Bright flashes of light flare from behind Bronte’s fingers, followed by several gunshots. Someone snarls like a dog. Some other people begin to scream.
“Run Bronte, Janice! I’ll follow!” shouts Tracks in his strangled voice.
“We must get to the boats,” a voice shouts, seemingly in Daric’s ear. Bronte’s hand falls away and suddenly Daric has a chance to see what’s going on. Janicea is just ahead of them running, and people are all around them, all trying to force their way down the stairway to the water.

189

Daric wonders why they are all so afraid now. Bronte is holding him against his chest with one hand, while the other has the pistol. I must be getting heavy. Bronte doesn’t seem to notice. Janice stumbles on a body at her feet, but manages to keep her feet with a quick lunge. Bronte stops, looks around. The way to the staircase is blocked. At least fifty people are struggling with each other. Daric catches a glimpse down the causeway that leads to the Pier. The rain is making it hard to see far because it keeps getting in his eyes, but it looks like a solid wave of people are making their way toward them.

Dead people.
Daric wants to scream.
“What do we do Bronte?” asks Janicea. “All I can think of is to either

go into the Pier or try jumping the wall and swimming?”

Bronte keeps looking at the press of people trying to get to the stair and the people beyond. He looks like he’s calculating or something.
“Let’s get Tracks and we’ll look for another way down. Maybe we won’t have to jump.”

M OST OF THE ROOM IS IN DEEP SHADOW, except where some light still filters in from the eastern-facing glass patio doors. He wonders if the power is out. There is no light coming through the window of the door to the kitchen. Nobody waiting in line to get inspected either.

Outside he hears the rain pick up, pattering on the roof and the metal tables. A little gust of wind rattles the building.
He takes a step or two toward the kitchen. Draws up short. Can feel the hair on the back of his neck and on arms stand up. The oh-so-wise little voice in his head speaks up. Don’t go in there Chandler! You go in there something bad is going to happen for sure.
The gun is in his hand. He’s not sure when he pulled it out. The hammer is thumbed back. He gathers his courage.
The rain gusts a bit harder. “Hello,” he hears himself say, barely above a whisper.

190

No answer.
Clears his throat noisily. “Hello,” this time a bit louder. Hears a very distinct thump.
Something clatters onto the kitchen floor. Clipboard maybe? “Hello!”
Becomes aware of his own uneven breathing, rasping in and out.

Feels blood racing through his body. Fresh sweat mingles with the rain in his hair, the salt in it stinging his eyes. I don’t need this. Light flashes through the patio doors.
The doctor is standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

SOMEWHERE OUT THERE beyond the darkness that he hides in, he can hear a distant voice screaming. Sometimes he thinks he hears his name, but most of the time it is just the sound of misery, pain, suffering—madness.

He drifts in and out. A voice close by: “Maybe Webby hit him too hard… you think?”
Another voice sounding agreeable: “He was bleeding pretty bad. Maybe his brains are all scrambled?”
“You must be finished with the bitch?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Cause you’re over here asking dumb questions. Sometimes you really get on my nerves Monk!”
Finished with the bitch? What the hell does that mean? Only one way to find out.
Sam cracks his right eye open. Just a flutter really.
I’m still in the car! Slumped over and bleeding pretty bad, but alive! I wonder if… he feels around the steering wheel column. Yes! The keys are in the ignition.
Through the driver’s side window he sees a hairy guy wearing black jeans, combat boots and a white wife-beater undershirt. Guy must be going for the Wolf Man look. His brown hair is past his shoulders and he has muttonchops. Hair is visible from either the front or the back of

191

his T-shirt. He has a vacant look, almost as if he’s switched off. “I’d swear she started to like it, Tim,” he says to the other guy, who isn’t in Sam’s view.

“Trust me Monk, none of them really like anything you give them. No matter how enthusiastically. Now just shut up will ya!” says Tim. “Take her off the back of that car and come help me.”

“Help you do what, Tim?” Monk says, over the shoulder.

Sam watches him turn and disappear. Unless he sits up straight he won’t be able to see over the windshield.
“I may have to cut the rings off this woman’s hand. I can’t get any of her rings off.”
Sam sits up in the driver’s seat. The pain is bad, but manageable. Tim’s head is just visible in front of his car but he’s looking away over toward Monk.
Make a quick plan and go for it. If the car doesn’t start, I’m probably a dead man.
Sam turns the ignition, hears the engine turn over and floors the gas pedal. Tim stands up halfway and takes the hood square in the chest. He disappears followed by a couple of thumps. Sam spins the wheel, trying hard to line up with Monk who is running toward a small body on the trunk of a car.
—Natalie’s nude body, bent over face down on the trunk of an Oldsmobile. Why doesn’t she move?
Rage mounts within him like a pot boiling over.
Monk dodges around the car and in his panic runs out onto a large empty section of parking lot. He seems to be running toward Sears. Sam notices three people outside the service entrance: Kathy, Adam and another one of these creeps! And, that creep is pointing a gun.
Make it count. Don’t die a loser.
A heartbeat or two later Monk falls in front of Sam’s car and the left front tire rolls right over him from buttocks to head. Sam manages to maintain speed and needs only a slight correction of the steering wheel to line up on the back of the man holding the gun on Adam and Kathy.
“One more guy,” Sam murmurs. He can feel dried blood on his face crack and flake off. “One more and my work is done here.”
Sam pushes his foot to the floor and the engine roars. The last guy, some freak in a trench coat, turns almost in time to avoid being hit, but the bumper catches him with a crunch that tosses him against the wall. There is a fleeting glimpse of Adam and Kathy, then the tires strike the curb and the car flies up and over onto the sidewalk.

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At over seventy miles an hour the car plows through a light pole and into the glass doors to the mall.
An explosion follows.

SOMEWHERE IN THE DISTANCE a small anguished voice shouts: “Mom!” Soaking wet and out of breath, Trish stops behind a hedge. No telling
where the voice came from. A block over to her left maybe? A child’s
voice certainly. The falling rain is muffling all sound. The light is fading
fast. She is close enough to the high school now to hear occasional shots,
but no sign of anyone living.
Just a vast gathering of the dead; a mostly silent mass hunting the
still living, breathing minority. The odds of surviving are too long. She
realizes no safety will be found here. A side street, one lane each way,
beckons to her with only a few of the dead ones wandering about. Might
as well. She jogs left and onto the center of the road.
The houses are all single story, block houses built in the fifties as
vacation houses or veteran housing. Two bedrooms and one bath. Not
many garages. No imagination or eye toward beauty. Small yards with
minimal landscaping and almost no trees. Lots of cars, though. What do I do?
True darkness is about to descend on St. Pete, the type only familiar
when the power goes out.
Not the time to be looking for a place to hide. Oh God. If I can find a rock, I may be able to break into a car. Tire irons
always kill people in the movies. Don’t think I’m up to another drive at
night, but I’d sure like to find a flashlight or a gun—or both! She makes her way into the yard to her left. Everything is masked
by darkness. Finding a rock will involve stepping on one.
I need a better idea.
There are some lights from the yard of a house at the end of the
block on her left. Maybe the power is still on around here? She starts to
jog, barely seeing and dodging around a car parked in the street. On a
whim, she stops and tries the driver’s door.

193

Locked.
Tries the other three with the same result.
The temptation to just sit down right here, in the middle of the street,

is strong. Nothing is going right. She forces herself onward, but now she can feel exhaustion and stress beginning to tell. The jog becomes a walk. Two houses to go, but she is already slowing, disappointment sapping her will to go on.

Solar lights.
No power—Just a cheat.
“Mom!” yells the same voice, but this time more ragged and

heartbreaking.
I have to do something.
The child is somewhere just ahead, not far from the solar lights. Something stops her. The lights are arranged to outline a sidewalk

and… lights!

The idea comes from nowhere. She reaches down and pulls one up, putting her hand around the shaft still caked with muddy earth. It is one of the three tiered, vaguely Japanese types. So easy to steal. She remembers a salesman explaining this to her once, that this is the chief drawback to this type of landscape lighting.

A half-assed flashlight is better than none! Feeling a little better with her light in hand, she starts back in the direction of the voice.
“Mommy!” Might be a little girl, she thinks. “I’m hungry!” Spots her; a little waif in a nightgown standing on the porch of the neighboring house.
“Shhhh, honey. My name’s Trish. I’ll help you.”
The little girl steps back a little toward the front door, but there is a measure of relief in her expression. The feeble light reveals a mop of long brown curly hair and dimpled cheeks.
Almost close enough to sweep her up into her arms. Two steps maybe.
“Don’t be afraid sweetie.”
The girl darts through the still open front door and even though Trish throws herself the last foot or two, it is too late. The door closes in her face and the sound of locks sliding into place is audible from the porch.
Trish holds herself against the door. Feels her own heart beating rapidly.
She forces herself to turn around, and then allows her butt to slide down to the porch. Think this over Trish! What is priority right now?

194

What are my options? The first and uppermost thing that occurs to her is the need for a safe, secure place to rest. After that, she doesn’t have much of a plan. Rescue the little girl if she can, maybe?

Check the other doors. Of course!
She lifts the light and goes around the left side of the house. A six foot high wooden fence divides the backyards. Only the neighboring house has a gate however. There is a paved stone pathway that winds around and into the backyard and several windows and an air conditioner mounted on a wooden pedestal.
I need a ladder. She looks up. The roof of the house is flat, perfect to lie down on and not have to worry about rolling off. I may not be able to rescue the girl, but I can watch over her—Sort of.
There is a detached single-car garage and the fence ends on the edge of the neighbor’s property. The backyard is mostly dirt and weeds and wide open to a dirt alleyway. Some toddler age toys litter the backyard and a very tired, rusty kid’s swing set is just to the right of the garage. The dominant feature is a large oak that overshadows the whole back yard and overhangs the house.
No ladders though. Maybe in the garage?
First she decides to try the back door. She hurries over. There is a small porch and two steps up to the door. Locked. The disappointment stops for only a moment. If the garage is unlocked maybe she can hide there. She takes the stairs in one step and stops again.
The shapes of two men are shuffling across the yard from the alley. They are already in between her and the garage.
Is the light attracting them? They definitely can see me.
Adrenaline pumps through her once again, but doesn’t quite take off the tired, hungry edge. Fight or flight? The urge to run is overpowering her ability to reason. The first, closest man reaches for her making a grunting, gurgling sound. Up close he is a horror. Her ability to smell him is stronger at the moment than her ability to see him. Gagging, she ducks under his reaching arms, swings her hand around and buries the light spike in his face. Not sure where, but she swung with everything she had and it slid right in. No time to try to pull it free. She lets it go, even as one of his flailing hands grabs a handful of her shirt and rips. No time. He topples and she sprints past him toward the garage. Can’t see the second guy, but knows he is close. She grasps the door handle… turns, pulls the door open and throws a glance over her shoulder. The second guy is right there on her heels!
She spins, yanking the door toward her as she lets her body fall backwards into the dark interior of the garage.

195

The door slams shut violently, nearly causing her to lose her grip on the door handle. She gets her feet under her, stands and feels for a lock on the door handle.

The lock engages.

The thing outside begins to beat on the door.

H E CAN FEEL A TREMOR when he sets foot on the deck of the big yacht. The engines must already be on. Lionel’s friend is standing with his back to Hadley in a doorway that leads to what looks like a living room.

“Hey what’s your name again?” Hadley asks.

The little man turns around and meets his eyes briefly. “I’m Barney, Lionel’s friend. And you’re Jubal, right?” Barney has a smug look. Thinks he’s a high roller around here.

“To ass wipes like you I’m Chief Hadley or Chief.” Hadley flashes him a small, mirthless smile. “Are we clear on that?”
“Crystal clear, Chief. You just let me know if I can get you anything.”
“Got any beer?”
“Sure, right this way.” Barney steps into the room and Hadley follows. It is a living room. Couch against the far wall with a recliner opposite it. Table lamps. A big LCD TV on the wall. There’s a fancy wooden bar to the far right, next to a set of double doors. Another door is opposite the one he’s just come through and two more are on the right and left sides of the room.
Barney reaches down to a small refrigerator behind the bar’s small counter, comes back with a Michelob Light. Hadley shrugs, accepts it and twists off the cap.
“We could cruise as far as Key West in this baby,” says Barney, lifting a beer of his own. “Not sure about Mexico, but wherever we go, it will be in style.”
“That’s swell Barnaby. How about you set me up with another one of these and then we go find something to eat?”
Barney’s face is red, and his bottom lip is pouting.

196

“Oh, lighten up Barney. I’m just having some fun with you. How much have we been able to laugh in the last ten hours or more?”
Barney nods. “It’s just that respect is important to me, Chief. I’ve been in Lionel’s shadow my whole life. Even now, he gets to be the bigshot with the fancy boat that rescues everyone.”
“You know what, son? It’s that kind of bullshit that will make you a coward. Don’t feel second to anybody but me.” Hadley grins. Hell, I’m almost feeling relaxed. How did that happen?
“You’re right Chief. Let’s head down to the galley and see what we can find…”
“Wait a minute,” says Hadley. “Who’re those people?”
Barney frowns, squinting. Running across Lionel’s backyard are a bunch of women and a couple men. Barney is speechless. “I don’t know, but this doesn’t look good.”
“Maybe I shoulda let Ramos kill those women after all,” Hadley murmurs.
As they both stand half-paralyzed looking out the window, they see a woman fire a shotgun right into the face of one of Ramos’ men. The guy literally lifts off and disintegrates at roughly the same time. Hadley turns to Barney briefly. “You better arm yourself son.” He doesn’t wait to see what Barney says but instead steps over to the door on the left. It opens onto the bridge and a small staircase going down. Right in front of him is a captain’s swivel chair, a steering wheel and an array of controls. There’s one door also on the right, but nobody is present. “Hey!” he yells down the stairs. “We’re being attacked!”
He can hear gunshots seemingly everywhere outside. No choice, I’ve gotta go below. Only problem is I’ll be trapped like a rat. He pulls his revolver, realizes he’s still holding the bottle of beer. He announces to no one in particular, “Fuck it, I’ll die with a gun in my right hand and a beer in my left.”
No one answers.
“But not just yet,” he says and goes down the stairs.

197

HE LEANS INTO THE CAR and gives the guy’s shoulder a shake. “Wake up Carlos, time to wake up!”

No response. Unless you count blowing blood bubbles. Carlos’ mouth is pretty bloody. Maybe he kissed something when they crashed? Shrugs. “Okay, Carlos, stay here awhile and sleep it off. Just don’t sleep too long.” This last remark causes him to giggle.

Dodd gathers up something he calls his duty bag and pulls the keys from the ignition. He locks and shuts the door. Carlos isn’t very safe with the big hole in the front window, but… I don’t own him. “No tengo amigos,” he says, giving another silly laugh.

It’s still raining. While Dodd bent over into the car his ass got soaked. “I hope the showers are working.” He hurries back up the steps and finds Blake and another officer waiting for him in the doorway.

“Oh, I know you,” says the officer standing with Blake. “You’re Dodd, the guy Talaski and Yates are always fucking with.”
Dodd can’t make himself stop from leveling a murderous look at the guy. “Better watch your mouth,” he snarls, past caring about whether this is a challenge he’s up for or not.
The other guy flinches a bit, clearly surprised by the ferocity of Dodd’s reaction. “Hey, listen, I didn’t mean anything by it. I hate Talaski. They say he’s up for detective and he’s only been here two years. I make one mistake and they blackball me. I’m stuck on patrol the rest of my career.”
“Fair enough,” says Dodd. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Carl Dennis. I work with Sergeant Gransky quite a bit. Sometimes they let me help in the armory.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen you two around working events. I worked that damn BBQ fest last week. Nothing but drunks looking for trouble. I had to—”
Blake waves a hand. “Please, can we go inside? I’m in bad shape and need to sit down.”

198

Dodd waves him on. “Sure thing Ace. Let’s get you inside and find someone to patch you up.”
“Debbie’s on her way down,” says Dennis. “She’ll fix you right up. Just have a seat over there, okay?”
True to his word, a door opens a few more feet down the hall near a card scanning device. Dodd recognizes the large breasted stout woman immediately as his neighbor Larry’s girlfriend. She is wearing a lowcut beige sweater and an ankle length brown skirt.
Dodd calls out, “Could you leave the door open Debbie. We’ve got a wounded janitor here.”

INCREDIBLY, THE GUY IN THE TRENCH COAT IS STILL ALIVE. The impact with the

car threw him against a wall near the doors to Sears. From the angle of the guy’s shoulder, he can tell it is most certainly dislocated. He’s left a good portion of his face on the wall too, Mills notices. Still breathing, but messed up bad.

I don’t help bad guys.

“I remember this guy,” says Kathy. “He’s the leader of those Goths.

They called him Webb or Webby.”
“Let’s go, Kathy. We’ve got the keys now.”
She turns toward him. “That was Sam in the car. Do you think—” “He’s dead. So’s Natalie. He never would have left her.” “Yeah, Sam’s dead and so is Natalie because of this piece of crap.

Are we going to just leave him alive here?”
“Doesn’t matter anymore. Let’s just hurry up and get to the engine.
I’ll get you out of here and to someplace safe.”
“Sounds fine. I’m pretty uptight right now. I need to find someplace
to relax.” Her face is solemn, eyes serious.
“Me too.” He realizes how much she has been through—How much
all of them have been through and now it’s just the two of them. He
extends his left hand toward her, gives her a devilish grin. She reaches

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out without hesitation and smiles back up at him. Her slender fingers are cool and feel wonderful wrapped in his hand.

They begin to jog across the parking lot, trying to keep their distance from the sprawled bodies and the often grisly sights. Two or three of the creatures are still wandering about, but they are too far away. Moments later, Mills helps boost Kathy up into the cab and settles behind the steering wheel.

Kathy sits curled in the seat, one leg beneath the other, watching expectantly.
He fits the key in the ignition, closes his eyes and pauses a moment while mumbling a prayer. “Here goes nothing.”
The engine turns over and rumbles to life.
“Ready to rumble?” he asks her. He turns on the headlights and shifts into drive.
“At last something is going our way,” says Kathy.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says and watches her puzzled look. “I think meeting you gave me a reason to make it this far.”
She nods with a serious look. “Well, yeah, there is that.”
They both laugh. She leans against his side.
Maybe things will be all right. He peers into the growing dark.
Maybe.

T HE REFLECTED GLOW from what must be a massive fire provides light to what otherwise would be near pitch blackness. The massive bulk of the Vinoy Hotel complex looms over them to the left across Beach Drive. Talaski and Keller are crouching with pistols drawn behind the burned hulk of a Chevy van.

“My whole life I’ve lived here and only been in that place once,” murmurs Keller.
“The Vinoy?” asks Talaski. “Fancy place. Nice view from those penthouse suites overlooking the water.”

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“How do you know?” asks Keller, suspicion in his voice. “No, don’t tell me…”
Talaski grins widely. “You remember Bonnie, the brunette with the nice ass?”
“Forget I asked,” says Keller. “Don’t tell me.”
“She liked to hang onto the balcony rail while I…”
Keller motions with his hand in cutting motion across his throat. “Listen!”
From a distance there comes a strange sound: screams and cries of despair from hundreds of human throats. Along with it is a near continuous ripple of gunfire.
“I bet it’s the people at the Pier,” says Talaski.
“Could be. Guess we need to go find out?”
At that moment, two cars whip by them, the second barely avoiding a crash into the van.
“Wonder where they think they’re going?” says Keller.
Talaski shrugs. “Not far.”
A third car comes around the corner, but this one’s driver is more cautious. The car even slows when Talaski and Keller reveal themselves. The driver’s window rolls down as the car comes to a stop. “Nick you bastard—You still live!” says the driver.
“Sounds like that Yates guy,” says Keller. Talaski nods.
“Jock, is that you?” says Talaski.
“Yeah, I barely escaped. More of those things than you can imagine overran our perimeter. I’m actually suspicious that it was abandoned by the soldiers and they left us with our asses hanging out.”
“What do you mean?” asks Talaski, starting to lean into the window. Much of the car’s interior is in shadow, but there is a coppery reek...
“Stay back Nick!” shouts Yates.
Talaski straightens, shocked by his friend’s reaction. “What the hell Jock?”
“I don’t know how long I have Nick. I didn’t really escape. They bit the shit out of me. I’m bleeding badly.”
“Well, let us help you,” says Keller.
“You can’t help me, Matt. It is Matt, right?”
Keller nods.
Talaski feels frozen.
“I don’t know what happened to the rest of us. Patterson and I got separated. We should’ve just ran. I also heard a nasty rumor. They say the Army, the mayor and the city council knew what’s going on. That’s how they knew so early to grab that cruise boat.

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“How’d you find that out?”
“This Al Connor’s guy on the radio. He claimed he interviewed an Army Lieutenant named Champion who gave documented proof to him. Of course it was about this time that Patterson and I realized that the soldiers nearest to us in the perimeter were gone.”
“Let’s us help you Jock—Maybe they just scratched you,” says Talaski.
“No can do Nicky. You guys just need to get out of here. Maybe find a way onto one of those boats. I’m just gonna take a little scenic drive here.”
“Okay Jock.”
Yates doesn’t wait for more. He floors the gas pedal and speeds away.
Talaski lets his shoulders slump. A tear slides down his cheek and into his day-old growth of beard. His face feels like it’s about to crack into a million tiny pieces. “I’m losing it Matt,” he hears himself say. “I can’t take much more.”
Keller puts a hand on his shoulder.
“I try hard not to let many people get close—but they do.”
“I know man,” says Keller.
“Most of the time all I feel is anger, sometimes hate. I can handle that. It’s this maudlin shit I can’t handle. Have you been thinking about how this is going to end for us, Matt? Ugly, plain and simple.”
“If that’s true so be it. Meanwhile I’m going to make the best of this and keep trying. Despite your pessimism, I think you still have hope.”
Talaski strives to keep a straight face. “Whatever you say Matt. Long as there’s a chance that I can find more ammo, I won’t give up.”

G RAHAM LIFTS THE BIG PISTOL with both hands and stands with his knees slightly bent. Hold your breath, close the left eye, hold the sight steady. The dead doctor lurches toward him across the shadowed room. The sergeant appears in the doorway right behind him.

Steady. The sight lies just beneath the good doctor’s nose, right above his snarling upper lip. Squeeze the trigger gently. In a grotesque

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tableau, a good chunk of the doctor’s face simply vanishes and his body falls backward. The old familiar smell of gunpowder sharpens even as the sound of the shot deadens Graham’s hearing.

The sergeant stumbles over the body and goes down face first. Graham tracks him automatically; shoots him in the back of the head. Both corpses are still.

Wonder what happened to them after I left? He shrugs, starts to turn away then stops. That sergeant had a holstered pistol. He might even have a rifle back in the kitchen. If I want to live, I’ m going to have to do things I don’t like. He extends his sneakered foot and rolls the sergeant over.

To his relief, both guys are still dead.
He kneels down and unbuckles the guy’s pistol belt. The gun is still in the holster and there are two ammo pouches. The belt is too tight, but that is easy to fix. The convenience of one-size-fits-all can be wonderful. He enlarges it by at least three inches and cinches it around his waist. The pistol is a comforting weight. One pouch is filled with .45 magazines, all loaded. The second pouch contains three M-16 magazines, also all loaded. There is also a flashlight. He unclips it, turns it on, and holds it in his left hand. He keeps the revolver in his right.
“I don’t really want to go in there,” he murmurs. It’s a bad habit, but ever since he started driving the cab he’s talked to himself more often. He pushes the reluctance aside and goes through the door fast.
The room is the same except for a gory mess on the floor. The sergeant’s corpse was in pretty bad shape. Maybe the doctor ‘woke up’ first?
No sign of a rifle anywhere. He begins to search the room. The only likely place is what looks like a storage cabinet near the door. It isn’t locked. Inside he finds a loaded army-style backpack with a sleeping bag tied to the top and the missing rifle. There has to be some good stuff in the backpack. Pulls the backpack over his shoulders and then picks up the rifle. It’s already loaded and has a sling set up to hang around the neck. It should be perfect if he needs to simply reach down and fire. Goes ahead and pulls the sling over his head and lets the rifle dangle near his belt buckle.
My luck must be changing.
Without a backward glance he again takes up the flashlight and the partially loaded pistol.
Guess I better go tell that kid, Louie, that his sergeant is dead. It’s time to get away from here.

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JUST THE THOUGHT that all this striving might be for nothing lends him the strength he needs. He works the shotgun with the economy and skill of longtime mastery. The ratchet-booms come quick and close together and the bodies disintegrate and fall almost as one. The old killing skills are still there, even if the body is no longer perfect.

He pauses by the tent’s entryway and reloads. All he can see is a milling crowd. My boy! My boy! The phrase runs through his head, although nothing escapes his lips but the harsh rasp of his labored breath. Can’t fall apart now. He still needs me.

Three soldiers clatter by, rifles held at port arms running toward the approaching mass of walking dead. Just beyond them, a knot of people are struggling at the entrance to the floating dock down at the waterline. He spots a familiar mass of red hair and starts to run. A moment later, a smiling Janicea and Daric clutch him in a hug. Bronte hovers behind them.

Daric holds up his arms and Tracks sweeps him up against his chest. “I was afraid Tracks,” says Daric.
“Don’t be afraid boy,” he murmurs, then louder says, “Everyone

okay?”
The other two nod.
“Good. I know a way out.”
Bronte is looking at him strangely.
“No time, just follow, okay?” Tracks doesn’t bother to wait for an

answer and simply starts running toward the Pier’s main building, a massive inverted triangle. Here and there they pass panicked people. There are several shops clustered around the main entrance but they run right past these and see the main entrance double doors standing open. A flickering battery-powered lantern gives just enough light to reveal most of the immediate interior.

The four of them stop briefly. Inside is a large lobby featuring two huge cylinder fish tanks and a lot of old pictures of St. Petersburg and

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the previous piers. Several people are milling about but none pay them any attention. They enter a wide corridor and take a right at a sign that reads ‘Elevators.’ Light reflects dully off a pair of elevator doors and a stairwell door.

“Power’s dead, Tracks. How are we—”

Tracks points at the stairwell and pushes the door open. “We’re going down.”

O NE FIST, then the other slam onto the door. It isn’t so much the danger that he will break in, but the relentless quantity of the guy’s pounding that is driving her crazy. More of them will come, maybe more than she can handle. She has the irrational urge to scream out at him to stop.

“I’ll make you stop,” she mutters and feels her way toward a wall. “I don’t care how big, dumb or dead you are either, you bastard!” Her hand grips the edge of a table or shelf, then something metal. She reaches out with both hands and grabs the metal thing; it sloshes. Must be a can of something that’s half-full and heavy. What the hell is it? She feels for and finds a cap, the screw-on type.

Gas.
Wouldn’t gas in the eyes blind a dead guy? Why not, she wonders. The thing outside has begun to moan. She catches bits and pieces

of it between the pounding. In response, she can feel her skin literally crawl.
I have to do something now. The longer I wait, the less time I have.
She carries the can over to the door. It’s easy to find even in nearly pitch darkness. At least I have enough to slosh over several people. I wonder if I should try to find a backup weapon? What if the gas doesn’t work and I can’t get out?
“Some people put a flashlight near doorways just for times like this,” she says and gives a bitter laugh while reflecting on what she just said. “You never know when you’ll be trapped in a garage with zombies outside.”

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She forces herself to feel all around the wall to the right of the door, starting high. The door does swing in, so it seems logical to put one there. Her fingers fumble over the light switch. There seems to be three of them lined up from left to right. One is a separate line, or at least a separate box. The urge to try them is too much.

Three dry purposeless clicks.
She forces herself into stillness although every muscle wants to strike out at something in frustration. Takes a deep breath and pauses. Eyes closed she lets it out.
I won’t do that again.
The search continues. Nothing else is within a foot of the doorway on the right. She tries the left. It is just a short stretch of wall, but there is a large stack of wooden moulding strips in a bundle; too flexible and flimsy to be of any use as a weapon.
Back to the right, but further over she finds another table. Small objects on the table are rattling around with the vibration from the pounding. There is a little storage stacker, the type with all the little drawers containing screws, nuts, and nails. She trails her hands around the table top, about to move on, when she feels a handle. It’s a small metal sledge. She can barely lift it with one hand. Why couldn’t it be a hatchet? Oh well, with two hands I’ll still be deadly with this sucker!
She makes her way back to the door. “Make a plan, Trish,” she says to herself. “How about this? Shower whoever is out there with a gas bath, then grab my sledge and brain anybody who tries to stop me.” Her voice sounds confident, unafraid.
“What about afterward?” she hears herself say.
When the seconds go by and the silence draws out too long, she realizes that no one is going to answer that question. Better to just get ready, then act. She rests the sledge against her right ankle and grabs the plastic gas can. It feels like one of the smaller ones, maybe a gallon or a gallon and a half container. Probably half-full. She unscrews the cap and the pungent smell carries faintly to her nose.
Hold the can in your right hand, and open the door with your left.
She unlocks the door, turns the handle and a bloodied hand smacks the door open. The creature takes an unbalanced step into the garage and Trish splashes the gas right into his face. His hands reach for his eyes momentarily; a reflex action maybe and Trish steps past him right into the yard trailing gas everywhere. The other creature is still down with the glowing landscape light inbedded in its face.
The back door to the house opens and another man is there. This one is aiming a pistol just over her head. “Get down!” he screams.

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Trish drops, heedless of where she is and a shot booms out over her head. The ground is muddy. Three more shots ring out, sounding somehow less fierce than some of the guns she’s heard lately.

A male voice somewhere closeby says, “You can get up lady. We got coffee inside.”

THE STAIRS END IN A KITCHEN complete with a booth big enough to seat four adults.

There is a large refrigerator, a sink and even a small dishwasher. The kitchen cabinets are finished with a red mahogany stain and a glossy polyurethane finish. Lionel’s wife and two children are sitting at the booth with a pile of magazines and books. All of them appear to be afraid.

“Where is everybody?” Hadley asks.

Both kids look toward a short two-step stair that descends into a hallway. There is also a short passage forward, but the kids didn’t look that way. The wife nods down the stairs. “I have to protect my kids. I’d leave if I knew they’d be safer.”

“Stay here and be quiet. I’ll be right back. Better yet, what is forward?” he asks.
“Captain’s cabin,” the wife answers. Hadley realizes that he’s never been properly introduced. How the hell does this guy have a nice family?
“Take the kids in there and hide if you can. I’ll come back for you if I can. You kids listen to your mother.”
He turns away and doesn’t look back. Either they’ll listen or they won’t. At the bottom of the short stair he finds himself flanked by doors on either side. There is the distinctive hum of machinery coming from either side. Must be the engines.
He finishes the beer and pauses to set the bottle on the floor.
Another door is straight ahead and the passage jogs left around it. He eases the door open and looks with his gun. Just a little two-bed cabin, nicer than most but still a bit cramped for a guy pushing 330 lbs.

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Another door on the left is open revealing a small bathroom with a toilet, sink and shower. Finally, there’s one more closed door at the end of the passage.

Loud music spills out through the last door. He presumes it is the owner’s cabin.
Plush carpet covers the floor. The door is locked.
He pounds on the door with the butt of his pistol.
The door opens a foot or so. Lionel, wearing a white terry cloth robe, is framed in the doorway.
“Let me in Lionel. We got problems.”
Lionel shakes his head. “Maybe you should come back later Jubal.”
Hadley pushes him aside and sees a very over-the-top opulent bedroom. Everything matches and is tasteful. Obviously, Lionel’s wife had some influence here.
The mayor and his girlfriend are on their knees in front of a glass coffee table. What looks like a bag of flour is spilled over most of the table. Ritchie and Marilee have little glass straws in their hands and some of the white powder dusting their noses and upper lips. Marilee is also topless. Her skin is tan and smooth, her breasts are perfect and her teeth are very white when she grins at him.
“Chiefy-baby,” says Marilee. “I’m coping a lot better now. You really aren’t such a bad guy. But you sure can be tight-assed when you want to be.”
Ritchie explodes with laughter, his face beet red. “You got that right, Sweetheart. He’s forgot more about having a good time than I—”
“Better get dressed,” snaps Hadley. “We got bad guys on the boat.”
“Bullshit,” snarls Lionel. “We’re underway aren’t we?”
Hadley turns toward Lionel and sees that the guy is actually bouncing up and down lightly on his heels. Coked up, as they say. He also barely reacts when Hadley takes a handful of his bathrobe and pulls him close.
“Better sober up for your family’s sake, dumbass. You got any guns down here?”
“Now Jubal, for Christ’s sake...” says the mayor, but Lionel must see something in Hadley’s expression.
Lionel very carefully takes Hadley’s hand from his robe. “I got the picture. Get on your feet Ritchie. The Chief’s serious. And I do have some guns down here. Let me show you.”
“Just arm yourself and the others. I told your wife to lock herself and the kids in the captain’s cabin. I can’t sit down here like a rat.”

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“That’s true,” says Ritchie with a smirk. “You don’t have the build for it.”
Hadley shakes his head. “That some kind of joke? You better get your head on straight before someone rips it off.”
Something big hammers the door behind Hadley. Marilee screams. “I don’t want to die Ritchie!”
The mayor looks a little spaced. He drops back to his knees, glass straw in hand.
“Ritchie! Ritchie I’m talking to you. What are you doing?”
The mayor pinches one nostril closed, holds the straw to the other and dips into the white mound. He takes an extended snort, barely pauses for a breath and then inhales another. Hadley watches the guy’s eyes roll up in his head, while a weeping Marilee cradles him in her arms.
“I need you Ritchie. Don’t leave me now. Bastard! You selfish bastard!”
Tears slide down a near perfect cheek. She seems quite unaware of any irony to her words.
And so it goes.
A metallic click draws his attention back to Lionel. The guy has just lifted a painting, hinged on the top and locked it in the open position. He is now twirling the dial on a lock.
“Better hurry Lionel. Remember, I had to leave your wife and kids.”
Lionel reaches for a small handle and pulls. A two inch thick door opens out. Hadley can see three or four stacks of bundled cash, a pistol and four loaded magazines of ammo. “Nine millimeter Beretta,” Lionel says. “Fifteen rounds per mag.”
“That all you got in there?” Hadley asks.
“I consistently get all forty rounds into the target. If one is sufficiently skilled, you don’t need to carry a cannon like yours.” Lionel sounds a bit smug.
“That so? Targets don’t shoot back.”
“And to answer your question, the heavy duty stuff is upstairs in the galley. I don’t expect to fight a war in my bedroom, Mr. Hadley.”
There is a terrible crash and out of the corner of his eye, Hadley sees the door burst open and a big man enters the room. “Hands up!” the man shouts.
Hadley feels paralyzed, and only manages to turn halfway toward the door, with his gun still pointed at the ground. Shouldn’t have had that beer. Fuck it, someone was going to get the drop on me sooner or later.

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“Don’t shoot me!” shouts Marilee. “I’ll do anything you want!”

The middle-aged man is wearing an olive green short-sleeved pullover shirt and tan slacks. Brown deck shoes. A wet, apparently fresh, red stain is growing on the front of his shirt. He is holding two revolvers.

Lionel says, “Councilman Truman List, welcome aboard.” The man has a large mouth full of capped teeth. There is something down home about his expression, even angry as it is at the moment. “Where’s the mayor?” he asks brusquely.
“He’s taking a powder, you might say. See him over there lying on the floor?”
List’s expression doesn’t waver. “You killed a lot of my friends, Burgosi—You and the mayor there.” List’s eyes are roving everywhere. Hadley watches him notice Marilee.
“You didn’t give us much of a choice, Councilman. I’m not a nice guy in the best of times. Your man Cleaver told me that I wasn’t welcome and that you were taking my boat. What did you think I’d do?”
“Guess I fucked up, eh Burgosi?” The councilman says this with an ironic smile. For the moment, he is the one with the advantage.
Marilee decides to stretch. Still kneeling beside the unconscious mayor, she arches her back and thrusts out her chest. Hadley guesses she is still high as a kite. List’s eyes widen, then narrow. Hadley steels himself to spin around the rest of the way and try his luck.
“Don’t try it, Chief,” says List. “I’ll blow your fat ass all over Lionel’s bed. In fact, it’s about time for everybody to drop their guns. Right now!”
Hadley and Lionel drop their guns. List looks pleased. “Now we can have a little fun,” he says.
Hadley has time to ponder List’s intent for only a moment when Ramos appears behind List and presses his pistol against his head.
“Too late for that,” says Ramos. “Buenas sueno.”
Ramos pulls the trigger. List’s head jerks with the close-range impact, and his body falls to the deep pile rug, nearly a soundless nonevent.
No one protests.
Hadley sits down on the bed with his back to the headboard, gun in his lap. He feels a bit light-headed.
“Thanks, Corporal Ramos,” Hadley says, but Ramos has already exited the room.
Marilee laughs a little hysterically and then climbs in beside him.
His reaction is immediate and obvious, but he tries to remain nonchalant. Lionel watches the two of them for a moment. “I’m going

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to check on my wife and kids. After that, look for me upstairs if you need anything.”
When neither of them answers, Lionel leaves the room.
Hadley closes his eyes. Marilee nuzzles against his neck. He can feel her hand roving and caressing.
“Guess you like me, huh?” she asks. He can almost picture a smile on her face.
“Part of me does.”
She raises her open mouth to his, teeth parted.
“But not the part that counts,” he says and stands up quickly.
Her reaction is immediate and obvious.
“Bastard!” she shouts, voice hoarse with rage and hate.

“HEARD ANYTHING AT ALL from anyone lately?” Anton asks.

The pretty young clerk looks up at him and shakes her head. “Maybe they’re all dead? Maybe if we brought a regular TV or radio in here from the break room?”

“That might make us more depressed. Maybe when Debbie comes back you can go get a TV or radio. Anything’s better than sitting here listening to a dead channel.”

“That’s true.”

A police van is backing up to the number two loading bay. Anton watches one of the mechanics from the Motor Pool climb out of the passenger seat and use hand signals to guide the van into the recessed bay. “Say Amy, isn’t that Debbie’s boyfriend Larry out there?” he says over his shoulder.

“Hold on, I’ll be right there,” she replies.
“Don’t bother, I’m sure it’s him. We need more people here anyway. Hopefully they have some supplies.” From this angle, Anton can’t see the door go up, but he does see the van begin to back in. “His card worked.”

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“They should have called,” Amy says right near his ear. She has nice eyes and a nice smile, but is way too young and too skinny for his tastes. Still, he does love the close contact that this job demands. None of these women are repulsed by him.

“Maybe they tried. Who knows? Power’s out all over town.”

Anton glances at Camera Sixteen and freezes. It’s mounted outside and is focused down First Avenue North, looking toward downtown and the bay. A mass of people are marching like a dark tide toward them. They should reach the Station in about eight or nine minutes judging by how fast they are walking.

“What’s wrong Anton?” she asks, placing a hand on his shoulder. “They’re coming this way. Look at them, like a dark tide of death.” “Should I call Sergeant Gransky?”
Anton can feel his heart rate pick up. His mouth has gone dry.

“Gransky’s an asshole. He’s no leader. I think that cop that just came in is Dodd. He’s the one that went AWOL after that Domestic last night. He’s always seemed sorta flaky to me. What Larry sees in him, I’ll never know.”

“I almost filed a complaint on that Dodd guy two or three weeks ago. He’s real grabby.”
Despite himself, and the growing mess outside, Anton can’t resist. “What do you mean?”
Amy grimaces, apparently reliving the memory. “I was bent over digging in a file cabinet when he walked up behind me and grabbed a handful—And not just of my ass. He palmed me.”
“Jesus. What made him think he could get away with that?”
“Debbie and Larry were joking around as usual, you know how they flirt. Dodd has been hounding me to go out on a double date with them, but I was being nice each time I refused. I’m new here. He must’ve mistaken my nice refusal for being hard to get. I slapped the hell out of him when he grabbed me. Nice went out the window. At least he doesn’t like me anymore.”
“That may or may not be a good thing,” he says, looking at the bleak look in her eyes.
Her expression softens a bit. “So be it, Anton. Don’t worry about me. We’ve got bigger problems right now.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”

THE URGE TO REACH INTO HIS POCKET is almost too much. There is too much going on. Dodd can feel how easy it would be to unravel right now. Too many what ifs are hanging over him. What if Larry can’t get the van in? What will Mitch do if he thinks he’s been double-crossed? Thank God that janitor is here to provide a distraction. If everyone’s focus was on Dodd right now, he might go berserk.
Both Debbie and Dennis are hovering over the little guy. “I’m going to go get cleaned up, maybe stop by dispatch,” Dodd says and runs his card through the scanner. Neither of them look up, but the janitor is giving him a hard look. What’s that about? The little shit couldn’t possibly have a clue. The door slides open. Dodd enters the elevator, hits the button labeled ‘Three’ and slumps against the wall. He rubs his sleeve on his forehead and across his drenched scalp. I feel dirty, both inside and out. How did I end up one of the bad guys? Easier maybe? When the rules get thrown out the window people make it impossible to play fair. The worst though is when no one backs you up. That damn Patterson and Talaski let that piece of garbage wannabe slap me around.
He imagines walking up behind Talaski, gun in hand.
The elevator stops and the door slides to the side. He steps onto the short green carpet, worn smooth by a wheelchair tires. Damn stuff always reminds him of a miniature golf green. The dispatch switchboard, an array of phones and several desks and chairs take up most of the room. And right behind it, through an enlarged doorway, is the Security Room. Dodd forces himself to run, even though he’s pretty sure almost nothing can go wrong at this point. He pulls his gun, scurries around a desk and there, framed in the doorway, is Anton sitting in his motorized wheelchair with a puzzled look on his fat face. One hand is holding a phone to his ear, and the other is in his lap. Dodd notices with a laugh that a dinner napkin and sandwich are on his lap also.
“Always hungry, eh Anton?”

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“What are you doing in here with your gun drawn James? There’s no trouble here.”
Dodd levels the gun. “Hang up the phone, Anton. Do it now!”
Anton hangs the phone up, but his hand is now jittering, and his tiny eyes are open wide, almost comically in contrast to his bloated round head.
“What do you want, James? I don’t want any trouble.”
“Override the system to evacuate mode. I want all doors unlocked.”
Anton clenches his teeth. “Those things outside can get in if I do that. Have you looked outside lately, James? Have you?”
“Streets were clear when I came in. Don’t bullshit me Anton. I’m dead serious right now. I’ll kill you if I have to.”
Anton looks like he’s thinking hard. Sweat rolls down one doughy cheek. Or is it a tear?
“You got a count of three, then I’m going to shoot you in the knee cap or something. I’m going to hurt you.”
“Wait! Make me a promise, and I’ll do as you ask.”
“Are you fucking crazy? I’m pointing a gun at you.”
“Promise you won’t hurt her.”
“What? Hurt who?”
“Promise me.”
“I don’t hurt women. I promise. Now, do as I ask!”
Anton punches a series of buttons on his keyboard. His hand hovers over the ‘enter’ button. “You sure you don’t want to re-think this? The doors will unlock if I do this—And there really are a bunch of zombies outside.”
“Do it. I’ll let you turn it back on as soon as I can.”
Dodd watches him push the button, then steps over behind the big man so he can see the computer screen.
When he does, he notices a number of things. Chiefly that a certain desk clerk named Amy is kneeling behind Anton—Hiding. The second thing is that the locks have been disabled. All doors should open normally now. The third is that there are indeed a large number of zombies surrounding the building. Even now, one is pushing his way into the reception area downstairs. Dodd watches the stunned expression on Debbie’s face. He can almost hear Dennis scream, but all the same, the man does stand up and draw his gun. Debbie is frantically pushing the elevator button as Dennis shoots wildly.
Finally, he watches that janitor, Blake, stand up and enter the elevator. He manages to pull Debbie in with him, but Dennis either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He looks a little preoccupied.
“Don’t worry Anton,” says Dodd. “Just keep the bitch away from me, and she has just as good a chance to live as you do.”
Both of them look like they’re in shock. Let them think about that double meaning. Both of them quit watching the lobby drama to see what he is doing. He pulls a small walkie-talkie out of his pocket and switches it on. “All clear Mitch. All the doors are unlocked.”
“We’re all in this together, James,” says Anton. “We could’ve worked something out. Those things are actually getting inside now.”
Dodd shakes his head. “Nah, somebody would have spooked. It’s better this way, and it’s not like we don’t have plenty of guns, eh?”
“Oh my,” says Amy.
Dodd bristles, instantly angry, assuming she is commenting on his remark. Without thinking, he points the gun at her. She doesn’t notice. Her attention is riveted on the lobby. Blake and Debbie must have got away. Dennis is backing up, fumbling with his gun, trying to reload. Four or five dead people have shoved their way inside and are grabbing for him.
Dodd shrugs. “Why get upset? All jerks should die like that.”

THE WIND SWIRLS WITH MISTING RAIN and something is burning. There is just enough wind to blow smoke toward the west, into the city, but some reaches him. He coughs. The smoke has a chemical smell. Graham’s legs are aching with an antsy feeling.

“Where are you, Louie?” Graham says to himself in a whisper. The soldier wasn’t at his post when he returned. Now Graham is torn between simply heading for the boat or going to look for people. There is a major fire not far away, along with a lot of gunfire. Occasionally bullets sing past, but apparently not aimed at him.

“Be smart and get on the boat.”

His voice sounds ragged, probably hoarse from shouting and toxic smoke even at a whisper. The dock gate is still open, only now the planks are slick with rain.

215

It’s pathetic, noble and sad, but I have to at least look for her before I get on that boat. Otherwise I’ll always wonder.
He starts walking toward the Pier’s approach. His path leads him around the restaurant and away from the water. A small, jam-packed parking lot stands between him and the approach road. There is an open view of the park that lies beyond and the hellish slaughter that has overtaken the area since he left. Thousands of the walking dead are pressing down to the Pier. Sporadic gunfire and an occasional explosion tears into the group, but doesn’t stop them. And then, it looks like the Vinoy is burning. At the very least, the shops and homes across the street from it are engulfed in flames.
Graham leans against the restaurant wall. A clattering noise in the parking lot causes him to raise his rifle. Someone curses in a low-pitched voice, “Goddamned beer can.”
A group of eight to ten people is rising up from underneath the parked cars and heading his way. Apparently they don’t see him. He’s struggling with whether he should speak up when he hears a familiar voice say, “Be quiet.”
“Fugi, is that you?” he says, before he can stop himself.
“Who’s there?” hisses Fugi’s voice.
“It’s me, Graham, you remember—the dead guy.”
Fugi chokes back a laugh. “We grabbed some other people to go with us. You still coming?”
Graham thinks quickly, eyes on the massed dead, and the slim odds of finding anyone alive. Goodbye Shaunna.
“Yeah, let’s get the hell out of here.”

216

THEIR BACKS ARE AGAINST THE METAL HANDRAIL and she is huddled next to

him. A soft lavender scent envelopes him that is pleasant. Quite the opposite of the trim, athletic Dr. Bastrov, but he isn’t choosy. Her lush figure feels wonderful everywhere it is pressed against him.

“Someone unlocked all the doors,” Debbie says to him in a breathless voice. “I’ll just bet that Dodd guy is behind it. Poor Dennis.”
“Maybe he’ll get away.”
“The worst part of it, Mister… ah, Blake, is that those things can get in now. We’re wide open. Unless we reactivate the system soon, this place will become a deathtrap.”
“What can we do?”
“I know,” she declares, suddenly sounding relieved. She reaches behind her back and fiddles with something attached to the belt around her waist—a cell phone. “I’ll call Nick.”
He wants to ask, but decides to wait. Meanwhile, the elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open on the second floor.
“Hold the doors, Mr. Blake. I need a better signal.” Debbie steps into the adjoining corridor. Blake pokes his head out and sees the same old familiar closed doors, benches and plaques covering the walls. The carpet on the floor looks like something from the eighties and the lighting is low enough to give the place a sad, neglected air.
Debbie stops a few feet away. “Nick, oh thank God! Listen, I’m in trouble down here at the station. Can you help us?”
The doors start to close but retract when they bump into Blake. He sways on his feet, feeling the need to lay down somewhere. The danger is all that is keeping him awake.
Debbie returns the phone to her belt. He can see in her expression that she isn’t happy. “He’s near the Vinoy. He wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to get back here or not.”
“Looks like we’d better go try to turn the locks back on ourselves.”
He’s not sure, but she might be grinding her teeth.

217

“TRY THE COUNTY-WIDE EMERGENCY BAND AGAIN,” says Mills. “That’s it, right

there.” Kathy turns a dial and stops when he tells her.
Just a hint of static, but no voices. Dead air.
“Here, let me have the mic,” he says and she hands it to him. “Dispatch, this is Engine Three, Azalea Station, do you copy?” More dead air.
“Dispatch, Engine Three, Azalea Station, over.”
“Everybody’s dead,” Kathy says in a little voice. “Oh God, this sucks.

What are we going to do?”
“All it means is that no one is monitoring calls right now. That is
bad, but…”
The truck is idling at the intersection of Tyrone Boulevard and 9th
Avenue North. To their left or north of them is the Tyrone Gardens
Shopping Center, and to the right is a couple of businesses, small one
or two story office buildings.
“I think we should go to the Police Station,” says Mills. “We did talk
to someone there earlier.” He wants to calm Kathy down, but isn’t sure
what to do. For lack of a better idea, he leans over and takes her left
hand in his right.

THE CIGARETTE DANGLING FROM HIS LIPS is almost too much. He must be hoping for a tough guy image, but is falling far short. He’s probably a few years past his thirtieth birthday and is wearing khaki shorts, a Tshirt and some deck shoes. A Tampa Bay Devil Rays baseball hat is in one hand and the gun, a revolver, in the other. He must be all of five and a half feet tall. His fine hair is long, both back and front and swept
back away from his forehead.
“You can get up anytime now, darlin’. It’s safe now,” he says with a
Midwest accent and a slight slurring of his words.
Trish gets her knees under her and stands back up. “Are you the
little girl’s father?”
“Naw, I’m just a friend of the family. Name’s Watkins.” He shoves
the pistol into the front of his pants and then extends his hand to shake
hers. Just watching him do that leaves her stunned, but she manages to
shake hands.
“I’m Trish. Is the girl okay? I tried to help her, but she locked herself
inside the house when I got close.”
“She was out? Wait’ll I tell Paula. We told that girl to stay inside ‘til
we got back.”
You did leave her all alone. Happens every day, just like it used to
happen to me. Short of kidnapping the girl what can I do? I may not
even be able to help her. “Well, as long as she’s safe, I think I’ll be on
my way.”
“You sure? It ain’t safe out here.”
“You aren’t safe in there either.”
“If you want, I’ll give you the key to the house next door. A Canadian
owns it and nobody’s there right now.”
This offer stops her in her tracks.
“I mow their lawn and trim the shrubs while they’re gone. They
give me a key just in case. Somehow, I don’t think they’ll be back.” He
grins half-heartedly.

219

“I’d like to take you up on that, but—”
He nods. “I understand. Well, good luck to you.” “I appreciate the offer and thanks for saving me.” “Not sure if I saved you, but maybe I did. Take care.”

THE DOOR AT THE BOTTOM IS LOCKED, but no match for Tracks. One shot from his shotgun destroys the handle and lock and the door is easily pushed open. All the horrible sounds that were muted inside the building come back now and echo off the water here under the Pier: gunfire, screaming and shouting.

They come out of the stairwell onto a large floating dock. It’s the type that has no pillars, but it is tied off at each corner to give some stability. A pile of flattened cardboard boxes is stacked haphazardly on the dock right next to a moored powerboat with a small pilot house. An old man is standing on the boat, facing toward them, one hand braced on the Pier’s bottom above him and the other holding a pistol.

“Who are you people? What are you doing down here?”

“Steady there, sir,” says Bronte. “We’re just looking for a place to hide. Things have gone to hell up there.”
“Is that right? It sure sounds that way too. From what one of the soldier boys told me, I thought they were going to start loading people on boats.”
“What about the cruise ship?” asks Janicea.
“I think she’s full up. They’re just waiting for a few bigshots now.”
Daric notices that the man isn’t pointing his gun at them anymore. His tanned face is weathered like old leather but he looks like a nice man, always smiling with his eyes and his mouth. He’s wearing shorts and an old blue button-up shirt that is open almost to his belly, revealing a mass of tangled gray hair on his chest. The hair on his head is roughly the same gray-white color, but is tousled almost as if he never combs it.
“So what are you doing, sir?” Daric hears himself ask.
The man looks embarrassed. “I was sort of waiting until the last moment. I was going to rescue as many people as I could when the last boat leaves. Of course, when the tide comes in, I’ll be forced to abandon my hiding place.”
“You changing your mind now?” asks Janicea.
“Yeah,” the man answers, but pauses, glancing up at the stained concrete above them. “I hear helicopters.”
Everyone freezes, apparently listening.
The sound of rotors carries to them over the water, although all they can see is about ten feet above the water.
“Something bad coming,” Tracks murmurs and gathers Daric into his embrace.
“You got that right,” says the old man. “That’s a lot more than one helicopter. Maybe you folks should go ahead and come aboard? If you want to. I’m happy to take you with me.”
“Sure, we’ll take that offer,” says Bronte. “Let’s get aboard, everybody.”

THEY FACE EAST, standing on the sea wall and looking out over the choppy bay. Behind the two men, leaves skitter across the sidewalk in a gusty breeze. The clouds are heavy with the promise of more rain, and an occasional bolt of lightning flashes somewhere over the broad expanse of water near Tampa. As night falls, lights should be visible over there, but they aren’t. There’s just a haze or an incredibly dense wall of rain heading their way. Boats are all over the place, but none near enough to signal. Not that anyone would pick us up anyway. Talaski lowers the cell phone and puts it on a belt clip.

“Don’t torture yourself, Nick,” Keller says. “There really isn’t a choice. Debbie asked for our help. The people trying to evacuate don’t even know we’re here and probably wouldn’t give a damn even if they did.”

Talaski shakes his head. “Can’t argue with you there and we don’t even know what Lionel’s yacht looks like.”

221

“And that does mean that Lionel and the mayor will probably get away, but so be it,” says Keller.
“But now we need transportation. It may take us hours to get there.” Talaski cocks his head to the side, cupping an ear. “Do you hear rotors? Think the Feds are finally coming to help?”
“Somebody’s coming. Maybe we better take cover, just in case?” Keller replies.
The helicopters appear, at least four of them coming over and between the downtown high-rise buildings.
“Three Apaches and a Blackhawk,” says Keller.
“Yeah,” says Talaski. “All painted black.”
“This ain’t friendly.”
“No,” says Talaski. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, let’s get moving. Otherwise we may get involved with all this.”
Talaski nods. “I’ll take point for now.” He starts off at a slow jog, crossing the small park that separates the waterfront from the houses. Keller is following about twenty feet back.
They run this way for close to ten minutes, going ever deeper into the neighborhood beyond. The Old Northeast is what they call it. A hell of a lot of wealthy people live here. Or did. All the lights are still out. At least in the houses.
Talaski slows up, and lets Keller catch up. They stand in the middle of the road.
Keller’s breathing is a little uneven.
Talaski points. “About a block up, see it? That’s the dome light of a car.”
A motorcycle engine revs. Suddenly the car up ahead is bathed in light from the right—It’s a motorcycle’s headlight.
The car is a police cruiser.
“Let’s hurry, this might be our chance,” says Keller.
Talaski runs almost as well as he did at twenty. The only difference now is that sometimes his knees ache and of course there is the old shoulder injury. Nobody knows but Keller. Funny how I opened right up to him from day one. He breathes in and out easily, pistol held loosely in his right hand. Off to the right, Keller’s breathing is a bit ragged, but he’s keeping up.
Whoever is just ahead doesn’t seem to hear them coming.
“Tommy, let’s just go,” says a voice. A whiny miserable voice.
“He isn’t dead yet,” says another. “You want to just leave him like this?”

222

“Yes I do Tommy. I’m scared.”

Ten feet to go now. Talaski slows up, drags his flashlight out and turns it on.
“Somebody’s here Tommy! Run!”
Talaski puts the light right on the person sitting on the motorcycle. “Police! Stay right there,” he says. Ten feet or so, to the right, Talaski sees Keller turn his flashlight on also.
The person on the motorcycle looks like a junkie. An androgynous junkie. Long scraggly hair, skeletal facial features to match a spindly limbed body. Impossible to guess the age. The owner of the voice without doubt.
“It’s more cops Tommy. Now what do we do?”
“You shut up, for one!” shouts Keller, surprising Talaski when his patience runs out first.
“Cover the freak show, Matt,” Talaski says, and he moves toward the cruiser. He gets a bad feeling. A small Canadian flag sticker is on the bumper. Yates! I knew I shouldn’t have let you go like that!
On the other side of the cruiser is a horrific scene. Two motorcycles are on their sides and a lot of bodies are scattered on the ground. A kid is squatting next to someone wearing a police uniform.
Talaski kneels next to the kid. The kid doesn’t look up, just keeps holding Yates’ hand. He might be sixteen, a little on the skinny side. “He saved us, Mister. A group of those things knocked both my friend Jelly and me off our bikes. Poor Jelly was knocked out. They got him right away, but this cop here saved us. I knew, just seeing him, that he was hurt bad already, but he came out with his shotgun blazing. He wasted them all.”
Yates’ breathing is uneven and shallow. The end is near.
“He’s going to die soon. I thought the least I could do would be to keep him company, then...” the boy’s voice chokes up. “Then I’d put him to rest.”
“You’re a good boy, Tommy.”
The kid looks up at him. “My sister’s not a freak you know.”
Talaski nods without speaking.
“She just has some problems.”
“Maybe you’d better go stand with her. I’ll take care of Officer Yates.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Get away from here. Find a place to hide.”
The kid climbs to his feet. He is a mess from falling off the bike. They must’ve been going pretty fast. He’s wearing blue jeans, a plaid

223

shirt, a blue jean jacket and cowboy boots. He runs over to the motor cycle his sister is still on. “Slide back a little, will ya Terry?” he says. A moment later, he peels out and roars down the road toward the 1st Street edge of the neighborhood.

Terry—Even her name is androgynous .
Keller comes over and stands nearby. He doesn’t say anything. Yates breathing slows, hitching, almost as if it’s snagged on

something. He makes a choking sound. Then nothing. Talaski takes aim. It can’t be long now.
“Don’t wait, Nick. Just do it.”
Keller is right. He pulls the trigger.
A helicopter flies by overhead. They both stand still a moment.
“We taking the car or the bikes?” Keller asks.
“Let’s take the car. I don’t even know how to start a motorcycle.”
“Me either.”

“T HERE’S AT LEAST THIRTY OF THEM on the 1st floor now. Please, I’m begging you, let me at least set the doors back to normal where you need a card to get anywhere.”

The fat guy’s voice is getting to him. I’m cut off from the others. What if they leave me with these losers? I’ll never get out alive.
Dodd lifts the walkie-talkie. “Mitch, this is James, over.”
Almost immediately, Mitch answers. “Yes Jim, what’s up?”
“We’d better close down the doors man or we may not get back out of here alive.”
“Go ahead and lock us back up, then.” A snapping noise, then, “We got that guy Gransky. I thought you said he’s tough?”
A little bravado seems in order. “If he got too good a look at you, Mitch, that may have scared him to death.”
Distant, tinny laughter. “Good one, James. The good sergeant should have the door open for us at any time now. By the way, is Carlos there?”

224

Dodd thinks fast. “I haven’t seen him. He wouldn’t follow me into the station, so I had to leave him in the cruiser.”
Dead air. Time draws out. “You’re disappointing me, Jim. I thought I made it clear that he was supposed to stay with you?”
“Can I help it if the fucker doesn’t listen, Mitch? Can I? I practically beg the guy to stay with me and all he does is ignore me.”
“Okay Jim. I guess you two weren’t exactly buddies. Still, I’m expecting more from you from now on. Get me?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry.”

THE SQUAD ROOM IS IN DEEP SHADOW with the lights off, but Debbie still moves around it quite easily. She goes from one desk to another. “What are you looking for?” Blake asks.
“I thought maybe some of the detectives might leave a backup gun in their desks. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Sounds like a long shot, but we’ve got nothing better to do.”
Blake sits down in a chair at a particularly cluttered desk. Opens the top drawer.
There are a couple of books, a small bottle, and something with a foam handle. Blake snorts, and holds up the bottle. “Debbie, do you like an Aqua Velva man?”
She smiles and looks at him through hooded eyes.
The look leaves him with a pleasant little glow. “What’s this?” he asks, holding up the handle thing.
“Looks like you found yourself an ASP, or better known to you as a riot baton or night stick. That’s the new type. It extends if you flick it.”
“Guess it’s better than nothing. Did you find anything?”
She shakes her head. “A pack of cigarettes and some gum.”
“Then it’s hopeless. Where were you going to take me?”
“Up to the Comm Center. I’ve got a first aid kit up there and there’s a little kitchen stocked with all kinds of snacks and drinks. We may as well go up and find out what’s going on, I suppose.”

225

“I could really go for a soda right now,” Blake agrees.

“I probably should have taken us straight to the armory. Do you know how to shoot a gun?”
He nods his head. “I used to go shooting with my uncle. He was a Gulf War Vet and—”
He watches her eyes cloud over, and her jaw clench. “A simple answer of yes or no would have been enough. I’m trying to make a decision here and you aren’t helping.”
What the hell? Are all women flaky? One minute she’s flirting with me and the next she’s treating me like a kid.
“Let’s just hurry then, whatever you want to do,” he hears himself say, surprising himself.
Debbie doesn’t appear to notice or maybe she doesn’t care what he thinks. She is fiddling with a pack of cigarettes. Finally she gets one out, holds it to her lips and grabs a lighter. She flicks her thumb and the light flares and suddenly he’s lost, remembering his narrow escape; shoving a burning wad of paper into a dead woman’s mouth and laughing hysterically. That was the strange part. The laughter. Couldn’t stop it. Like finding the Stryker Saw, a small vibrating saw used for removing the brain. Ah, the horror of that! Fire and saw versus flesh and bone. Laughter. Seeing what was left of Joss the Hoss… Someone grabs him. They got me. He struggles and a hard slap snaps his jaw sideways. Darkness laps at the edge of his awareness for a moment. He blinks his eyes.
Debbie is close, holding him in her arms. “I thought I lost you for a minute there,” she says.
He shudders.
“Nah, just a waking nightmare. I’m capable of terrible things, Debbie. Shooting a dead thing is probably the least of them.”
“When we go into the Comm Center be ready then. You may have to be terrible again.”

226

EVEN THOUGH MILLS HAS HIS LIGHTS ON, he still nearly hits the woman on the bike. The light is very poor in the early dusk. The brakes lock up and the rear end of the truck begins to slide sideways on the slick road.

All this happens as Kathy screams and he nearly bites through his tongue in the effort to avoid the biker. There is a second or two of nothing as the truck slides on the slick asphalt and crashes rear end first into a pile-up of cars. He is aware, but removed, observing from some distant place and feeling nothing. A sudden bloom of heat and light brings him back. Kathy is slumped in her seat, held in place by her seatbelt. He is draped over the steering wheel with blood in his mouth and an ugly headache coming from a bump on the head.

Someone or thing bangs on his door. He looks up. A woman’s face is in the window with a hand rapping hard on the glass.
“Are you okay in there?” the woman asks.
“Not sure,” he answers.
“Open the door. And if this thing will still move, we better get going.”
We?
He opens the door, sees a petite blond wearing shorts, sneakers, a torn shirt and not much else. The shirt, apparently scoop-necked, has now but torn down to her navel.
The effect of the view is immediate, which seems strange given the situation.
Get past it Mills—Focus!
Kathy still hasn’t moved. The blond reaches around the door frame and unlocks the back door.
“I’m serious, you better move if you can. Those wrecks are on fire,” the woman says. She leans over the seat and reaches for Kathy’s hand. Mills turns away, puts the transmission back into park and tries the ignition. The engine turns over and he presses the gas experimentally. The resulting roar sounds good. He grins over at the blond, watching her eyes. She smiles back and her eyes don’t flinch away.

227

Uh-oh . Back to business, Mills.
“I think she’s okay,” she says, then adds, “Her pulse is strong.” Mills risks a quick look back at her. Not a raving beauty, but it

doesn’t hurt my eyes any to look at her. There is some sort of masked sensuality. He almost laughs, and barely manages to look away from her face. Masked—Yeah, right! “Thanks. Sort of hard for me to check right now.”

He glances behind and in front, shifts into drive and pulls away from the wrecks.
“I’m Adam. What’s your name?” he asks, without looking her way.
“Patricia Reed. Friends call me Trish.”
Trish.
“What’s her name?”
“Oh, her name’s Kathy, we saved each other over at the mall,” he says, feeling awkward like he’d left something unsaid—Something obvious. Do I want her to think Kathy’s just a friend? Strange things happen during a disaster. Can’t let this make me crazy. Why worry about anything more than surviving right now anyway?
“I’m actually glad you almost ran me down, a bunch of those things were after me,” she says.
“Glad to help. Kathy and I are headed for the Police Station. Is that okay with you?”
“If I can get a gun there, I’ll be really happy. I’ve fought those things with everything but a gun and I’m getting tired of it.”
He laughs. “I’m better with an axe, but I lost mine. Some big guns would be nice. Or even better if the government finally sweeps in to rescue us.”
She barks a laugh that might be closer to a cough. “God, I hope I’m not catching a cold now.”
Thinking about her laugh, he says, “I take it you are skeptical that the Feds will help us?”
“About as likely as…” and her voice trails off. He looks over and she’s looking at the sky. An all-black helicopter is about to fly over them. It appears to be covered with weapons.
“That ain’t a news chopper,” he says.

228

A FEW DROPS OF RAIN PATTER DOWN, then for a moment or two there is nothing.
“Keep going,” says Fugi. “We need to hurry.”
Within three or four steps, Graham has time to realize that something isn’t right.
The people with Fugi and crew aren’t willing members. They are all attractive women, with their hands bound behind their backs and mouths gagged.
He wants to ask why so badly. Why add to the misery around them? Even more he wants to set the women free.
Then he thinks he recognizes one of them. Her glasses aren’t on top of her head anymore and her mass of reddish-brown curly hair is no longer done up neatly in a bun behind her head. All the spirit he saw in her earlier seems to be gone. This person has joined him in the ranks of losing it all. No doubt about it. The irony of finding her this way is a little too much.
Even worse, it may be too late.
I wish I could be sure its her. He starts to count how many men there are. Of course, all of them have guns.
Suddenly, a man’s voice in his ear, “Hey man, good to see you!”
Looks up. “Oh, hey Louie. I was wondering what happened to you.”
Louie grins. “I was guarding the boat but I saw you guys coming. I had to get a closer look.” He wiggles his eyebrows while looking the women over. “So it looks like you got yourself equipped. You strip a dead guy or something?”
“Shoulda stayed at the boat, Louie,” says Kurt, the broadly built short guy. “I told you—”
“Yeah, I know Kurt, but you ain’t the Sarge. He won’t like how you an Fugi there have been acting like bigshots. He hasn’t named a secondin-command yet.”

229

Fugi steps forward, while putting a restraining hand on Kurt. “While all that may be true, Louie, what makes you think you rank higher than any of us? You’re nothing but a Private—An E-nothing!”

“Still more than you, Fugi!” Louie snarls. “You’ll never be more than an ex-con—”
Graham hears someone cock a pistol hammer. Fugi is holding a pistol inches from Louie’s forehead. “And what do you think you’re about to be Louis?”
Louie has gone absolutely still, mouth agape, one hand still raised in mid-gesture.
Very carefully, Graham slips the safety to semi on the rifle, then curls his finger around the trigger.
“Put the gun down Fugi,” Graham hears himself say. “The sergeant is dead. No sense in any more killing.”
Fugi doesn’t move, but he darts his eyes toward Graham. “Listen man,” he says to Graham, “this little piece of shit is getting uppity. We’ll be better off without him.”
“I don’t agree,” Graham replies.
Fugi’s shoulder twitches and the gun starts to swing around. Graham already has the rifle aimed center mass on Fugi’s chest. He pulls the trigger once, twice. Fugi’s gun goes off and clatters to the ground. Fugi himself seems to crumple inward, almost as if the sudden bright red blotches on his chest and stomach are pulling him backwards and downward. Two women are knocked to the ground as the bare-chested Kurt swears and throws a haymaker punch at Graham. Graham sidesteps the punch, and now up close to Kurt, swings the butt of the M-16 into the man’s face.
Kurt goes down and without hesitation Graham fires three rounds into him.
“Sweet Jesus,” mutters Louie.
“Take Kurt’s knife, Louie. It’s there on his belt—See?”
“Sure, whatever you say man.” Louie reaches down and pulls the blade free. “It’s a good one.” He holds it up. Probably a six to seven inch blade, all black with a non-slip handle.
“Free the women,” Graham says.
Louie looks at him strangely. “Why do you think they are tied up?”
“You really don’t know? Fugi and Kurt were basically enslaving them.”
“You think?” Louie asks, sounding genuinely puzzled.
“Yeah.”

230

Louie steps up to the first woman. Most of them, although attractive, look shell-shocked. Horror, confusion and sadness. God knows what they’ve been through before Fugi and Kurt got to them. Louie starts cutting through the rope binding the first woman’s hands. The rest of the women are standing in a line, calm for the moment, but who can say what they’re thinking?

“Louie and I will help all of you to the best of our ability,” Graham says, facing the women, but only really looking at one. She won’t look up and her features are in shadow.

“We have a boat. We’ll take you with us if you want to go, or you can do what you want.”
The first woman is free, but she seems preoccupied with the two dead men at her feet. She mumbles something that sounds like the word, “three.” Shakes her head. She is a tall, slender girl really, dark-haired with a thin face. Pretty, but too young. Her eyes look up into his, blazing with emotion, something pent up. “Three,” she says again, practically spitting the word out. Her eyes are bright with tears. “Three!”
Must have been hit on the head or something. He looks past her. Louie has cut the next woman free. The third woman has an athletic look. She actually has enough presence of mind to smile at Louie, but there’s something wrong. A shiver rolls down his spine.
“Hey,” says Louie, almost casually, “they didn’t tie this one up.”
Graham fumbles with the rifle, almost paralyzed with horror. Hears the first woman shout, “There were three of them!” He sees the knife appear in the smiling woman’s hand, watches her smile mutate into a feral grin and witnesses the knife rise high and plunge. How many times does she manage to stab Louie? No telling. Only the memory of something sharp and glittery arcing up and down and Louie slowly folding down to his knees, head back, mouth open but speechless as his lifeblood mingled with the rain.
At last she stops. Louie crumples forward the rest of the way and lies face down at her feet. “That was easier than I thought,” she says. “I’ve had old people fight harder than that.”
Graham stares at her. There is a roaring in his ears. Someone is shouting, maybe a distant part of him is screaming, “Shoot her! Shoot her!” Something has broken within him, and he stands there. I’m gonna die.
He actually closes his eyes, only a blink really, and the roaring increases. Something lifts him off his feet and the very air around him is rent with the passage of whizzing objects and explosions.

231

The killer seems to fly apart before his eyes, her scream lost in the fury of beating rotors and roaring engines. Long before he loses consciousness, he literally loses the ability to process for a time.

Overload. Blackout.

HADLEY STANDS ON THE FLYING BRIDGE, with Ramos at the wheel. “How fast we going, kid?” he asks.

Ramos looks over at him, dark eyes angry, upper lip rising in a sneer. “Don’t call me that.”
“You’ve been called worse, I bet,” says Hadley.
“Maybe I have, Jefe, but never twice by the same person.”
Hadley laughs.
They aren’t going fast, but the yacht is big, and Ramos doesn’t quite seem to have steering down to well yet. Even at a slow speed, they have struck at least two or three other boats since leaving the canals behind. So far, Hadley has refrained from comment.
“There is the cruise boat,” says Ramos. Sure enough, it is there, several hundred yards from the seawall below the Vinoy complex, and almost equi-distant from the Pier. Most of the buildings lining the waterfront are on fire and the reflected light bathes everything in a hellish yellow glare. Boats of various sizes are on the water everywhere. Four or five black-painted helicopters are circling overhead, also.
“The helicopters aren’t good,” says Hadley.
“No? What are they doing?”
Hadley points. “Watch this, he’s about to strafe those people. We used to call it a gun run.” The Pier is packed with people. One of the helicopters is flying over the street leading to the Pier approach. The helicopter’s mini-guns are mounted on either side of its fuselage. Suddenly it’s like two miniature suns blinking, blazing death down in a luminous stream that literally rips the gathered people apart.

232

Out of the corner of Hadley’s eye he sees a flash. A missile darts from the helicopter and slams into the rear of the cruise ship. Hadley counts, “One thousand one, one thousand—” There is a tremendous explosion that throws both men to the deck. Burning debris rains down and swirls in a huge fireball.

From a distance Hadley hears a voice. “What the hell happened Chief? Come on, wake up!” A hard slap stings his face and he opens his eyes. Lionel is kneeling down beside him, face shocked and afraid. “Marilee, come take the wheel!” he shouts over his shoulder.

A female voice shouts something unintelligible in return. “I need your help, Chief. I don’t know what to do.”
Hadley struggles to focus, his eyes watery and stinging. “Help me sit up,” Hadley wheezes.
“Those helicopters are slaughtering everyone.”
And we’re the second biggest naval target.
Hadley snorts, choking back a painful laugh. Lionel wedges an arm

beneath him and manages to shift him to a sitting position against the ladder railing. The yacht has swung broadside to the now burning collapsed ruin that was the Pier. “Tell me what to do!”

Hadley takes Lionel’s hand, gives it a squeeze. “Look behind you.” Lionel throws a wild look over his shoulder. The metal, insectoid hide of a helicopter faces them across two hundred yards. There is a small flash, then a small fiery-tailed shape darts toward them.

Lionel makes a mewling noise.
“Marge…”
Brilliant light flares, huge and all-knowing, searing into and through

every dark little corner.

233

WHEN HE TRIPS AND ALMOST STUMBLES for a fourth time, Debbie once again saves him from a tumble back down the stairs.

“Are you sure you’re up to being my hero?” she asks. Only the obvious warmth and concern for him in her voice and smile keep the remark from cutting deep.

“I’ll be ready,” he says, but the pain from his burns and from the beating he endured suggest otherwise. He decides not to mention that. However, some hopeful little romantic part of him allows an unrelated thought to become word, “I might be guilty of enjoying your help.”

She blushes. “Stop that, you’re embarrassing me. Besides, I got a boyfriend already.”
Seemingly a thousand responses to that immediately flood through his mind, but something tells him to just let it pass.
“This is our floor,” she says and pulls the door open for him.
They step out into a tiled corridor running north and south. The elevator is only ten feet away. “It’s the door just a few feet further down from the elevator.”
North then.
“I wonder if I should go in first without you. That way you could maybe be a surprise?”
“If something really is wrong, they’ll know we’re coming,” he replies, reasoning that someone is still monitoring the cameras.
“True,” she says, reaching for the door handle. The door opens inward before she can do anything. Blake sees a slender, twentysomething blonde woman standing there.
“Come on in, quickly, both of you,” says the blonde.
Debbie goes in and Blake follows. They enter a room full of TV monitors, computers, desks and chairs. Over toward the far side is a smaller room with an open door. Blake sees Dodd standing over near that doorway beside a guy in a wheelchair.

234

“So glad you both managed to escape the excitement downstairs,”

Dodd says with a little half-smile.
“What’s going on?” Debbie asks in an angry tone. I wonder if she
knows Dodd well enough to speak to him this way. Concern for her
gives him a little jump-start.
Dodd calmly raises a pistol and points it in her face. “Shut your piehole, bitch. Play your cards right and I’m sure your boyfriend will take
you with us.”
“Larry’s a part of this?” she asks, sounding shaken. “Why didn’t you
just give us a chance to help willingly?”
Dodd looks smug, like he has all the answers. “Not my game. Guy
named Mitch is running this. Maybe it’s just a question of how much
are you worth? Let’s be reasonable. What do any of you have to offer?” Blake watches the faces, the expressions of these people Dodd is so
easily dismissing as useless. All of them, presumably good people, good
at their jobs. Useful people.
Blake takes two or three steps toward Dodd. “I’ll tell you what we
have to offer, although it should be obvious.” He stops only when Dodd
points the gun at him. Still, way too far away. There must be a way
out of this.
“What’s that, little man?”
Always the focus on the negative. He can readily understand Dodd’s
viewpoint, just in the way he labels people: Debbie’s fat; the guy in the
wheelchair’s handicapped; the blonde is weak; and I’m small. Surprise!
Sometimes God compensates. Sometimes he smiles on the oppressed. “You going to answer me?” Dodd says, raising his voice. I irritated him just by being silent.
“We have trust, Officer Dodd. People with character do the right
thing. Do these friends of yours have any character? What are they doing
while you stand guard up here?”
“Shut up!” shouts Dodd. He lowers the gun, and reaches up with
his free hand to run fingers through his hair. He sits down in a rolling
chair next to the guy in the wheelchair and actually crosses his legs. “That was clever of you, Maintenance Man. You almost made me
lose my cool, but you see, I’ve been on the street for a while now. I can’t
say that I have any idea what you hoped to accomplish, but you were
playing with me.”
The guy in the wheelchair stiffens. Something on one of the cameras
must be intriguing him. “James,” he says.
“What now, Anton?”

235

“There’s a black helicopter outside. Oh Jesus!”
“What?!” shouts Dodd. Whatever else he might have been about to say gets drowned out by several tremendous explosions. Then there are some curious buzz-saw roars. Blake realizes the Government must be attacking the zombies outside.
“This is great! Look at that! They’re cutting them to pieces!” Anton’s voice is jubilant. “I’ll see if I can pick up the channel they’re using if you want me to?”
“Go ahead,” says Dodd, “but don’t say anything unless I tell you to. And all the rest of you can just come over here and have a seat. I’m sure you know what will happen if I can’t trust you.” He gives a hoarse laugh. “Like that one, Janitor Boy? Trust—Get it?”
Blake nods with obvious resignation and takes a seat nearby.
Now, I might be close enough.

THROUGH THE SECOND FLOOR WINDOW, there is a wonderful view of Tropicana Field. Or was it called a Stadium? As of now, she would call it a smoldering ruin. She takes a deep breath; the place still smells of fresh paint. All of the furniture is new. This room is a loft or something. Whoever lived here used it is as a family room. There is a TV, a couple of couches and a plush carpet on the floor.

“Did you hear me?” the guy asks. His name is Adam. Must remember.
In her mind, Trish is having trouble processing what just happened, but she is tired, after all. It happened so fast after the helicopter flew over. She says, “There were at least two explosions and then that buzzsaw sound. Can you imagine the screaming if those were real people?”
“Oh, I’m just thanking God that I didn’t drive us into the middle of that,” he answers.
“Yeah, it’s good you pulled over.”
“I hated to leave the engine, but until we know what’s going on, I think we’re safer here.”
The other woman, Kathy seems to be waking up but is still dazed. She is lying down on a couch.
“Did you check all the doors and windows downstairs?” Trish asks him.
“Yeah, it wasn’t too hard, this being a condo and all,” he answers. “I think they built them for the diehard baseball fans, hoping…”
He is standing near the window, but watching her every move. She isn’t sure how interested he really is, and wouldn’t give a damn anyway. Men have been looking at her like this for a long time. I am lonely but not miserable. This Kathy would be miserable if she didn’t have company. What about him? It would be nice to know in case there is a chance. A quick look at him right now would reveal his level of interest, I bet.
“Hoping for what?” she asks, looking right into his eyes.
His face flushes through his tan. “A lot of people thought we’d fill the stadium every night.”
He’s interested.
“Oh. Guess they were disappointed.”
His eyes are closed now. “I enjoy going to a game, although I never was a baseball player. I was always afraid of the ball.”
“My interest went as far as men in uniforms. I also liked eating Cracker Jacks and stealing sips of my Dad’s beer.”
He laughs.
The window is open and a gentle breeze is blowing through the fronds of a palm tree out in the front yard. She can still smell the rain.
Voices on the wind. She looks down.
She puts a hand out, touches his arm. “Listen.”
The fire light reveals them, not that they appear to be making any special effort to be silent. Three men in bulky black outfits carrying rifles.
Adam pulls her down, so they are both crouching now, but they can still see.
The leader uses a hand gesture. All three turn to their left, spreading out until each is at least ten feet from his neighbor.
A liquor store is across the street. She notices that there’s light coming through the windows. This is what these black men are reacting to. A light means living people. The dead people are dumb, surely too dumb to use a light of any type.
An amplified voice echoes off the buildings nearby: “Federal authorities! Looting is a crime. You have exactly one minute to exit the liquor store. Come out the front door, with hands on your head.”

237

The light in the building goes out, but no one appears. The minute isn’t quite over when she hears two shotgun blasts. Someone screams.
“Sounds like that came from the back of the store. There must be at least one more of them that we didn’t see,” she whispers.
“They aren’t here to help us,” Adam whispers in her ear. “I’m really worried that they have heat sensing night vision gear. If they do, we’re next.”
“Last chance for the rest of you to come out,” says the voice.
“Don’t shoot!” someone screams. “We’re unarmed! We’re coming out!”
A moment later three people stumble through the front door and out onto the store’s parking lot. Two of them might be women. The flickering quality of the light makes it hard to be sure.
“Booth, Hicks, clear the building!” says one of the men, apparently the leader. Two of the men in black enter the liquor store while the others wait. Only the leader is still outside with the three people.
The male captive speaks up. “So, are you here to help us or murder us?”
The leader appears to shrug. “You have been caught red-handed stealing from a liquor store. That makes you a looter in my eyes.”
“So we’re going to jail?” the man asks.
“The sad truth is you could have been picking up garbage, sir. The end result would still be the same. This is a no-life zone. I’m sorry.”
The man splutters, “What does that mean? Just take us to jail.”
“What do you think it means? It means I have to kill you and your friends.”
One of the women steps forward, “Please sir, I didn’t even have a drink in there.”
“Don’t you listen lady? I just told you this is a no-life zone. We can’t take a chance on you living to spread the disease to others.”
The woman shrieks, “You can’t mean that! None of us even have a scratch!”
Trish takes a deep breath and tries not to hold it. I will not panic. Adam reaches for her hand and she lets him.
The scene continues to unfold in front of them as the other four soldiers reappear from the shadows. One of the soldiers speaks up. “You sure are a cold fuck, Jacobs. Why wouldn’t you just do them, and get it over with?”
The leader, apparently named Jacobs, rounds on his subordinate. “Don’t tell me what to do, Booth. The whole world’s coming apart, but we are going to do this one thing right. Do you hear me?” “Sure we do, Sergeant,” says Booth.
“Okay, Booth. Good answer. Now I want you to shoot them. Now!”
Booth stands there, facing the other man, but his back is to them. If anything else is said, they don’t hear it. Suddenly, the three captives split up and run in different directions. The man and one of the women are cut down immediately. Two quick bursts from an M-16. But the second woman eludes the shots fired at her somehow. She runs around a pickup truck and runs straight toward them. More shots follow and then the window in front of them explodes. Trish falls to the floor and drags the dumbfounded Adam with her. Several shots pass overhead, then a shouted command.
“Hicks, cease fire. Just let her go. Booth keep your mouth shut. I don’t want another word about this. Hicks contact Comet One and give them a sitrep. Booth, take point in front of Watson and Lepski. Hicks you walk drag. We need to move on our primary now.”
Adam takes Trish’s hand and pulls her to her feet. They both crouch, still holding hands, dreading whatever Jacobs and his men will do next.
“Adam, what are you doing?” asks a soft bewildered voice. Must be Kathy.
She feels Adam’s fingers tighten on hers. Kathy is standing, looking down at them. A hand is at her throat, near her mouth. No question she is pretty, even in the shadowed room she can see it. Nice hair, too. “Oh, I see how it is. This must be Eve, right? You left me alone for a little tramp in tight shorts.”
Trish speaks up. “My name’s Trish.”
“Kathy please keep it down,” Adam asks, voice pitched low. “It’s not like that.”
“No? Then tell me how it is then.”
Adam stands, takes a step toward Kathy. For the moment, Trish stays where she is. Adam’s reply is sharp. “No, now is not a good time Kathy. I’m trying to tell you something else.”
“Oh,” says Kathy, voice breaking a little. “I’m sorry, what is it?”
“Bad guys are outside.”
Kathy reaches toward the window, as if to touch her reflection. “They look okay to me. Just soldiers with guns.” She throws a contemptuous look toward Trish. “And none of them look like her.”
“My name’s Trish.”
The woman stares at her, ignoring her hand. “I heard you the first time, bitch.”
Trish shakes her head. I had a feeling.

239

Kathy storms toward the stairs. Adam seems paralyzed. The poor guy is horrified.
They can hear her unlock the front door. Kathy opens it and steps outside, waving. “Hey! Hey, I need help!” She actually walks ten feet toward the soldiers, far enough where she and Mills can see her.
The soldier known as Jacobs doesn’t even hesitate, just levels his gun on her and squeezes the trigger. The bullets hose right through her with occasional flashes of tracer rounds. One punches right through her forehead and lays her out flat on her back on the front stoop.
“At least she won’t be getting back up,” Trish murmurs.
“Goddamn you’re cold,” Adam says, eyes blazing anger.
She fights down an angry retort, making herself take a deep breath first. Don’t take it personally, Trish. He’s just lost all chance of explanation or apology to her, and that might be tough to live with.
“In my line of work sometimes you have to be,” she replies. “I don’t depend on the kindness of others.”
Outside, she hears the Jacobs guy ask, “Was that the one that got away?”

BODIES ARE EVERYWHERE, but there is no movement. A gentle little breeze blows over him. The moon is full and riding high.
Must have been out, but not for long.
There is the hazy memory of someone crashing into him. The woman! The killer! He opens his eyes, realizing the backpack is propping him up in a sitting position.
Somebody has turned the volume down but he can hear crackling flames, gunfire and moaning. Probably just means he’s been deafened.
He draws a shuddering breath, coughs on the smell of blood and scorched flesh. A body is lying across his legs, a swatch of bone-white skull visible through long matted hair. His gaze trails away to his own body, shirt ripped open to the navel, covered in filth, but his chest is still rising and falling.

240

What if everyone else is dead? All the people I just rescued and everyone at the Pier? What will I do?
Go down to the sea. See if the boat’s still there. One step at a time. First you must stand up.
Something has just clamped onto his thighs. Sudden terror surges through him and he attempts to jerk his legs free and stand up. The woman lying in his lap is looking up at him. Her crazed eyes are turned upward reflecting moonlight like lamps through the mask of blood covering her face.
Where is the M-16? No time to look. His fingers fumble at his waist, prying at the holster flap. Meanwhile the woman is pulling herself up his body, holding him tight in a grotesque parody of lovemaking. The gun comes free, and he remembers that there is a round in the chamber. Just aim and squeeze the trigger.
Why hasn’t she bit me yet?
He hesitates, takes a closer look at her face. It isn’t the same woman!
Maybe that look on her face isn’t what he thinks. He drops the gun, reaches down and grasps beneath each arm and halls her up to him.
“Shaunna?” he says.
“Good memory. I wondered if I’d see you again.”
He slides his hands around to hug her.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
She smiles, closing her eyes. “I knew you were a good guy.”
“Don’t go.”
No answer. But is that a faint little smile on her lips?
“Stay with me!” he shouts, frantic now. He carefully slides from under her and rises to his knees. He pulls her shirt to the side and presses his ear to her chest.

241

HE RESTS HIS GUN HAND ON HIS THIGH and raises the walkie-talkie to his ear. “What was that you said, Mitch?”
The reply is crystal clear and loud: “No tengo amigos.”
“What the hell does that mean?” asks Anton.
“Somebody just told him that they don’t have any friends,” says Amy. Dodd can feel the blood drain from his face. “What are you telling
me, you bastard?”
“That van is pulling out of the garage,” says Anton. “There’s another
one outside also. Still some zombies alive too.”
“We found Carlos and he told me what you did,” says Mitch. “You
left him to die in the cruiser.”
Dodd shouts out, a raucous cry of rage, and lifts the gun. Mitch is
leaving him here to die. There is a familiar flick noise followed by a
click. An ASP? What the hell? Sudden terrible pain radiates from his
arm and he drops the gun.
That little weasel—Blake—has an ASP in one hand and his gun in
the other. The gun is pointed at him. He has time to shout, “You broke
my arm!”
Anton yells and crashes his wheelchair into him from the other
direction. The pain is so intense from his arm that he is fading out, even
as he and Anton slam into and around various obstacles. The door is
open to the hallway. Many hands grab him and shove him through it.
People yelling at him seemingly from all sides.
“Grab some ass out there, why don’t you tough guy!”
“How tough are you now?!”
He sprawls on his back, crying uncontrollably as the door closes.
They’ve locked me out! What’ll I do?
For a long time, he just lays there, processing nothing, aware only
of the pain.

242

SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH THE CAR. Now that it’s parked he notices a wisp of steam rising from the hood. Must’ve damaged the radiator running over a curb or something. The last half hour was both one of the most maddening and most exhilarating times of his life: A torturous, on the edge ride across lawns, through hedges and squeezing by piles of wrecked or abandoned vehicles.

Keller shuts his door carefully and comes around the car to stand next to Talaski. The cruiser is parked in the parking lot of Tropicana Field. On the edge of the parking lot is a deep ditch, spanned by a couple of foot bridges, then the three one-way lanes of 1st Avenue South and finally the Police Station.

“We can’t count on this car to get away in, I guess,” says Keller. “No, it doesn’t look like it.”
Keller is quiet, and Talaski knows how tired he must be. Neither

one of them has slept in a long time. Talaski has the advantage of being accustomed to it. Three days or so without sleep is common for him.

“How many of them do you think there are? Still walking around I mean.” Talaski asks, and doesn’t have to point. Both of them are looking at the back side of the St. Pete Police Headquarters. Flames from a burning warehouse and several wrecked vehicles illuminate hundreds of corpses littering the street. Quite a few zombies are still standing, most of them around two large garage doors.

“Fifty maybe?” says Keller in a monotone voice. “Looks like they’re all on the other side of the ditch. Someone’s opening that parking garage door. Look!”

Talaski squints. The door is opening. “What the hell? That’s a van.” The van comes up and turns right fast, headlights spearing several of the walking dead just before striking them and running them down. The van appears to lose traction on the wet, bloody ground and begins to slide toward the ditch. The driver just manages to regain control and runs over the curb and several more zombies before settling onto the center of the road.

243

Hard on the heels of the first van comes a second, this one a bit slower and more controlled. It too turns right, runs over a few more bodies and heads west toward Sixteenth Street.

“What the hell was all that about?” murmurs Keller.

“Be nice to know, but somehow I doubt it was Debbie or anybody upstairs.”

HE WAKES CHOKING on a mouthful of salt water. His upper body is laying face down, sprawled halfway across a piece of wreckage and his lower body is underwater. He is still dressed, even down to his shoes and the weight of his .357 still under his arm in a holster. There isn’t much to see nearby, just fires burning on the waterfront several hundred feet away. Everything else is hidden by darkness. He can hear people screaming or calling for help, but none seem to be close.

I wonder why I’m still alive? What are the odds? What about the others? The explosion was huge.
He rubs a hand over his head. What little hair still there is brittle, apparently scorched, and flakes away at his touch. The rest of his head has a sunburned feeling and he’s pretty sure that the combination of that and exhaustion is making him loggy.
The sound of a boat engine going very slow carries to him and he notices someone with a flashlight, apparently in the prow of a boat. The boat slows and he watches as two children are dragged aboard. Might be Lionel’s kids. Hope so. The wife must not have made it. Too bad; she seemed like a good woman.
He is exhausted. No energy to save himself if he wanted to. What are the odds I ended up here on this wreckage? I should be dead.

244

HE WAS LOOKING when the hovering helicopter launched a missile at the large yacht. The missile flew straight at the ship and struck it with a furious explosion that lit the whole Vinoy Basin. Everything stopped for a moment as pieces of the large yacht flew everywhere.

The helicopters disappeared soon after.
Several minutes went by before the old white man took their boat out from beneath the Pier. Now the boat is moving very slowly and Bronte is standing up front, bracing himself while looking around with the flashlight, trying to find survivors. All Daric can see are dead people.
The boat steers closer to the burning yacht and Bronte yells something.
Daric stands up from his seat back by the motors. Janicea tries to grab his arm to keep him next to her, but he jerks free. Tracks is standing also as the boat slows even more and steers just to the side of two small figures in the water.
Kids. Like me!
Well, white kids anyway.
Tracks leans far out, and scoops both of them up, yelling “Got them!”
He sets both of them down and Janicea brushes past saying, “I’ll see if there’s any towels.”
The boy might be two years older than Daric, and the girl looks about a year younger. Both are bedraggled and half-drowned. Neither of them stands for long and are soon sitting on the seats at the rear of the boat. Janicea comes back with towels. There isn’t enough room in the back of the boat for all of them, so Daric stands by the door to the pilot house.
“I see another one, Tracks!” yells Bronte. “Do you see him over there Ozzie?”
Ozzie is the old guy. Oswald Hazard. Strange name for a strange guy. Still Daric likes him. What would have happened if he wasn’t down there?

245

“I see him Bronte. I’ll get us right alongside. Tracks may need some help with him.”
Daric looks. The guy is big. Maybe as big as Tracks. He’s lying on some wreckage. “He looks dead, Tracks.”
“No, he still breathing. See?”
“Yes. Still. The guy looks as big as a house. You might not even be able to get him into boat.”
“I get him in boy,” says Tracks, grinning down at him. The engine noise trails off and the boat nudges against the wreckage. Tracks leans over the rail, reaching out with his hands. “Sir, Sir!”
The man stirs, rolls over and takes a hold of his outstretched hands. He’s an old man, big but old.
“Chief Hadley?” says Tracks.
The half-lidded eyes open and the man’s slack, weary features are somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “That you Alan?”
“Yeah Chief, it’s me. Take my hands now and hold on tight. Let me do the work.”
“Good to see you my boy.”
Tracks takes a deep breath. The big bicep muscles in both his arms flex and for a moment his breathing quickens and he lifts the other man from the water with a convulsive shrug and a heave. Water cascades into the boat and some hits Daric across the legs. The other man comes up, out and over the rail.
Tracks stays bent over, and he appears to be looking the man over.
“You hurt Chief?”
“Don’t think so. Just very tired. You still watching—”
“Just relax Chief. Janicea getting towels.”
The enormous white man closes his eyes. Daric steps a little closer. “He’s got a gun, Tracks,” he says, pointing at the holster under the man’s arm.
“He the PoPo Chief, Daric. Get Bronte.”
“He didn’t call you Tracks. He called you ‘Alan.’ Why is that Tracks?”
Tracks turns toward him. All the high points of his face and the bare skin of his shaved head gleam faintly in the moonlight. There is something strange about the look on his face. Daric can’t quite figure it out. “Don’t ask boy. Just get Bronte.”
“Yes sir.” He backs away, and Janicea steps past him.
Alan is a strange name, even stranger than Tracks. Maybe the Police Chief is sick. “Bronte! Tracks needs you! Bronte—”

246

“I hear you, Daric,” says Bronte, stepping carefully around the cabin and coming his way. He puts a hand on Daric’s shoulder as they both head for the back of the boat.

The back of the boat is crowded now. Too many people. “Daric, I want you to take the other two kids down into the cabin. One of us will be down to check on you in a while. Right now the adults need to talk.”
“Yes sir,” Daric answers and waits for the other two kids to follow him. The little freckle-faced girl follows with no problem, but the boy is slow to get up and he takes his time.
Daric sits on one of the bunks while they take the other. “I don’t need to sleep right now, if you want this bunk,” he says to the little girl. She starts to shake her head, but her brother interrupts her. “Listen boy. I need to find my mom and dad. There’s no time to talk.”
“My parents are dead too,” Daric says. The ‘boy’ hurts, but he won’t show it. I know how to handle bullies. Not sure about racists though. What if these kids are racists?
The girl is looking at him with a sad expression. She turns toward her brother and says, “Mom told you to be nice to people, Frank. Don’t call him boy.”
“Shut up, Beth,” Frank says.
Beth ignores him. “I heard them call you Daric. I’m Beth and this is my brother Frank. I’m sorry to hear about your parents.”
“I told you to shut up Beth,” Frank says with a snarl. His face, especially his cheeks, are red with anger and he’s breathing hard.
“Just leave your sister alone, Frank, and I’ll shut up,” Daric snaps right back, dropping to his feet. Guess I’m about to find out how crazy this kid is.

247

FACE MERELY INCHES FROM HERS, he hisses, “No matter how you look at that, that was really a shitty remark. I’d ask what’s wrong with you, but I don’t want to know.” He can feel the anger freezing his face into a mask, some sort of rictus of hate.

Her face is equally savage, but she keeps her voice to a whisper, also. “Hate me if you want but I didn’t pull the trigger. She judged both of us and practically committed suicide.”

Her eyes lock with his and don’t flinch away. First his friends, then Natalie and Sam. Now Kathy. All dead, and nothing he can do about it. All that’s left now is a woman he’s barely met, knows nothing about. All that is sure is mutual attraction or desperation. Even now, just looking at her, his blood is racing, his thoughts a jumble.

“I’m going after them. Guess this is goodbye.”
She hesitates only a moment. “I’m coming with you.”
They both leave the house by the front door and jog across the street.

Mills places his back against the liquor store wall and looks around the corner. The five men are just ahead, each one at least twenty feet apart. One of them is in the middle of the road, dashing toward the far side. Suddenly a van rockets around the corner, fishtailing briefly as its headlights pin the guy almost in place. Some instinct appears to galvanize him as he begins to sprint with three lanes still to go. Incredibly the van follows him, speeding up and hits him at about forty miles an hour.

The leader Jacobs screams, “Kill them!”
Gunfire erupts from four different locations and converges on the fleeing van. The bullets literally riddle it with holes before it can make it a half block away. Trailing smoke, it drifts out of control across two lanes and crashes into the back of a big SUV. No one gets out.
“Well done!” shouts Jacobs. “Booth, go check it out!”
Before Booth can move, another van rounds the corner and runs over the guy still lying in the road. This time none of the soldiers wait

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for the order to fire. Tracers criss-cross the road and one blows out the van’s left rear tire. The driver fights for control but fails and the front of the van crashes through a plate glass storefront.

The soldiers continue to fire for a minute or two until the voice of Jacobs yells, “Cease fire! Hold your fire!”

T HE SOUND OF THE SHOTS ARE LOUD. Too loud. Hopefully, despite the risk of attracting more zombies, someone will show him the same courtesy someday. At least he has saved a few people from coming back.

Just making sure that dead means dead. He wants nothing to do with this sort of afterlife.
He does take the time to gather up three pistols he finds among the bodies. Kurt, Fugi and their female friend are somewhere beyond worrying about that now. I need every edge I can get.
The voice of his Korean Tae Kwon Do instructor is still with him, merely requiring the most ludicrous of triggers to activate. Graham hears the word ‘edge,’ and shortly thereafter, “You must use the edgy Chad. The edgy! A closed fist is slow. The edgy is swift and hard.”
I wish you were here with me now.
He pushes the dock gate open and steps out onto the dock itself, his footsteps loud and clunky. Most of the gunfire has faded now and the rain has stopped. The boat is the last one on the slip and fortunately it looks like it will be easy to get out. Just release the moorings, start the engine and motor off.
Easy.
He walks down the dock between all the still moored, unclaimed boats and stops at the end. The thing must be at least forty feet long. Every detail impresses him, from the two big outboard engines on the back to the mast towering overhead.
When he climbs aboard and his feet thump on the deck, he hears a noise. He’s standing in the stern and can see some stacked boxes, tables and chairs, but not much else. There is a ladder going up to an open air

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bridge, and a covered living area. He decides to go deeper into the covered area, and turns his flashlight on.
He hears another strange noise and swings the light toward it.
There, pinned in the light behind a set of closed French doors is a little puff ball of white fur with black button eyes and nose. The little dog, hardly more than a puppy, barks again and brushes his paws on the glass.
I’m actually smiling. Not going to be completely lonely anymore.
Graham unburdens himself. He can’t really get rid of all this stuff quick enough.
Once done with that he opens the door and the little dog sits back on his haunches and looks up at him.
Tears in his eyes, Graham hugs the little animal to his chest, and tries not to come completely unglued. “Glad to meet you little guy.”

THE CREATURES SHAMBLE CLOSER, but something is restraining him and his right arm is throbbing terribly. Can’t move! They got me now! Got to run! Can’t… He wakes with a start, terrified and disoriented with no clue where he is. The panic is complete but short-lived. Darkness, the smell of damp mops and bleach all serve as triggers. I’m just in a closet.

Hiding.
“Only cowards hide. I just needed someplace safe to sleep. No big deal,” he says, whispering to himself. He cradles his injured arm a moment. It really is throbbing.
“Nobody cares about me. I can’t trust anyone. No matter what I do, they turn on me. I’ll have to show these bastards that you might fool James Dodd once, but that’s all. The balance comes due. Then I come to collect.”
With all that being said, he reaches down to his ankle and the comforting weight that’s been there all along. My little Black Widow. The pistol should be more than enough to take down anything in a close quarters situation. He releases the clasp and pulls the gun free. He can’t see it in the pitch black room, but just holding it gives him an edge.

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Okay. Now I’m going to stand up . He leans over, turning to his side and gathers himself on his hands and knees, then pushes himself upright amid a clatter of brooms and mops.

That’s over with. Now, what’s next hero?
“Now I get out of this closet and I go downstairs for better weapons or I find a place to hide and ambush the others.” He pauses a moment, considering. “Well, I could always use a few painkillers also. Truth be told.”
He holds the gun in his left hand, pointing it straight ahead. With his right hand, he reaches out and grasps the door handle. It doesn’t budge. He tries a firmer grip, twists and releases. “I can’t be locked in. Try the other hand.”
Gun barely clasped in his right hand, he takes a firm grip on the door handle and twists. The handle goes further than he could manage with the other hand and the door opens. He steps outside quickly, transferring the gun yet again so he holds it with his strong hand.
A hurried glance left and right reveals an empty hallway full of shadows and more closed doors. No creatures.
I’m on the third floor. Did they say zombies were on the third? Can’t remember.
Seems quiet.
He takes a step or two toward the stairs.

HOW LONG DO WE HAVE UNTIL HE GETS BACK UP? Seconds? It seems incredible
that those guys could be sloppy, but apparently luck is running with me for a change.

Mills forces himself to wait another ten seconds, then he stands up and sprints toward the soldier still lying in the road where his companions left him. He turns on his flashlight and plays it over the corpse. The guy is spread-eagled on his back, eyes open, with a contorted terrified expression frozen on his face. There is also a bullet hole between his eyes.

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“Nice,” mutters Trish from beside him.
“Yeah, he’s a real treat. One of his buddies must’ve given him a mercy shot.” Mills squats down and pulls the microphone headset from the guy’s head. “If only they are still working…” He makes a few adjustments to the earpiece and adjusts the mic, makes sure it is turned off and then puts them on. He has a vague awareness of Trish stripping the corpse, first of its weapon, then equipment. The sound of a whispered voice takes him away.
“I can see a large crowd, Jacobs. Most of them are clustered near the south entrance and the parking garage doors.”
“Okay Lepski. I want you to provide cover fire. Booth and Hicks will secure the entrance.”
“I’m getting a lot of interference on my end, Jacobs. I hear you still right now, but you may have to shout commands to me if I fail to respond.”
“Okay Lepski, just hold on. We’re almost in position.”
“The little fires still burning around here are also messing up my Infra-red vision.”
“Give me a chance to catch up, Lepski. I can’t see any of this yet.”
Mills turns his attention back to his companion. He is just in time to see her strapping herself into the dead guy’s body armor. “Little big on you, but not bad,” he says.
“Thanks sport. Wait’ll you see my sleepwear.”
Mills looks up, but now she’s reaching for the guy’s equipment and ammo harness. There is a holstered pistol on the belt portion of the harness, but she doesn’t examine it.
What do I say to that?
He gives up. “I can hear everything they’re saying. Sounds like they’re about to attack a bunch of zombies in front of the Police Station.”
“Good,” she says, finally picking up the guy’s main weapon: a nastylooking shotgun with a pistol grip and a drum magazine. “I don’t mind if the zombies kill a few of them for us.”

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“I DON’T THINK THEY CAN SENSE US OUTRIGHT, do you?” Keller asks.

Talaski rubs his temple and looks around. “We’re pretty close and none of them have yet.”
Talaski shifts a bit to get into a more comfortable position. They managed with no trouble to make it to the ditch and even to cross one of the bridges. Right now both men are lying in the dirt, looking across the street at the Police HQ.
“Do you think that’s an argument against these things being supernatural?”
“I don’t know Matt, you’re still alive and you don’t notice much.”
“Bastard,” Keller mutters, choking on a laugh.
Ever since the vans rocketed out, the mass of zombies has congregated more toward the still open garage door. At the moment, five or six pose a serious threat to anyone trying the normal entryway for people on this side of the building.
“Hmm, what to do?” Talaski ponders.
“Do you think we can make it inside?”
“Is Dirty Sanchez a man?” Talaski retorts.
Keller smacks himself in the forehead. “Oh man, I was trying to forget that part.”
“Don’t let him know that.”
Talaski reaches down to his belt and pulls his ASP. Keller notices and does the same.
“Remember Matt, we only use the pistols as a last resort.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, we don’t want to attract any more of them.”
“Let’s go then,” Talaski says sharply. He propels himself up and off the ground straight at the nearest bunch of walking dead. He doesn’t bother to look but hears Keller right behind him.
The first zombie in their way is facing away from them. He’s a big, fat blob of a man dressed in the remnants of a suit. Talaski swings the

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ASP against the guy’s head that sends his victim staggering one or two steps to the right and into an old homeless guy in a trench coat.

A young, long-haired punk spins around and clumsily falls to his knees. He makes a grab for Talaski’s leg and almost trips him. Talaski is forced to grab the punk’s shoulder to keep from falling. For a moment, he’s almost cheek to cheek with a dead white face with shredded lips, a gaping hole where a nose should be, and a single staring milky eye. Talaski thrusts himself backward, just as the thing goes for his throat. Someone grabs the back of his shirt, and then Keller swings his ASP like a baseball bat against the punk’s skull.

Talaski gets his balance and Keller releases his one-handed grasp on his collar.
The punk’s face is no longer recognizable as such. It’s just a lump of bloody cookie dough wrapped around a metal pole. Talaski risks a look at his friend and sees something else instead. Keller snarls, sounding like some primordial beast, puts a foot on the punk’s chest and jerks his weapon free.
“Come on,” Talaski says, hoping enough of his friend’s sanity is left to understand. He runs five or six feet, seeing the creatures closing in on either side. Two more stand before the door and its key slide. Talaski kicks one in the knee cap, shattering it with his boot, then slams his ASP onto and through the thing’s head as it goes down. The other, once an attractive young woman in a brown dress, launches herself at him, one hand trying to get a grip on his buzz-cut head, while the other reaches for his face. He reaches out and gets a hand around her neck, just enough to keep her mouth away. The ASP is tangled in something.
She’s too close. Can’t break free. The thing’s hand is now around his neck trying to pull him toward her mouth while he desperately dances around in a circle with her, trying to break free. Talaski lets the ASP go, and it clatters to the ground between them. He reaches up with both hands and grabs hold of her head.
“Bitch!” he screams, and twists with his hands. He hears a gruesome snap and her body is suddenly limp. Lets her go. Keller is behind him with a length of pipe, swinging it like it’s nothing. The crowd is closing in, but so far Keller is keeping them back, cracking limbs and skulls, still screaming, but hoarsely now.
Talaski feels for the I.D. card, and looks at the scanner. The LED is lit. Presumably, there is power to it. He slides the card.

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H E KEEPS HIS SPEED DOWN. The water is choked with ‘objects,’ mostly wreckage and bodies. This boat is also a little harder to steer in the enclosed area of the marina. Until he can find the way out and get past the Pier, his stress level will stay high. Good thing, Fugi and his friends had everything ready. Otherwise, he might still be messing around.

The moon has gone behind some clouds and is visible only as a sickly yellow stain.
The rain has almost stopped. He thinks about the cabins below. I could have a shower and be sleeping like a baby in minutes. Just need to find a hiding place where the helicopters won’t find me so easy. Maybe over near Weedon Isle, among the mangroves. After that, God knows.
Most of the boats still moored are damaged or destroyed. He can see people walking around on the docks occasionally but he’s pretty sure they aren’t alive.
This really sucks. I thought I had it bad before… And the last thing I want to do is think about the Ex. Who knows whether she, the kids and their ‘new’ daddy are still alive.
Everything is quiet up on the Pier. Just people strolling around as usual. That’s the trick. Maybe it always has been. From a distance you can imagine a wonderful world out there. Those people up there aren’t dead people trolling or strolling around looking for a bite—They’re just out for an early morning walk. Don’t look too close. Up close, things get ugly.
He shrugs. I must be tired. Really tired.
Just before the bulk of the Pier blocks it off, he sees a glow. Maybe a light on the water? Wonder who would have a light on and why? He is in the channel now and feels reasonably sure he can go a little faster and still be safe.
Many of the Pier’s glass panels are shattered. Who knows how? The top floor is the fifth floor if he remembers correctly. There’s one

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inside bar and one outside, and lots of outdoor tables to take the sea breeze and the night sky. One floor beneath the top, probably the fourth, also has a light, maybe a lantern. Some kind of Spanish restaurant on that level, he thinks.

Sorry I can’t help you up there, whoever you are .
A moment or two later, he exits the marina and passes around the Pier’s bulk into the open water of Tampa Bay. If he were to follow the Pier around, he would end up in the Vinoy Basin. He makes a slow, leisurely turn, doing exactly that, turning to his left. Almost immediately he spots the light he saw earlier; probably a high-powered flashlight. Someone is sweeping its beam over the water.
People looking for survivors I bet.
He looks to his right, maybe a hundred or so yards further out in the bay. The bulk of the cruise ship is there, motionless and probably lifeless, grounded on a sand bar. Small fires are still burning in and around the gaping hole that used to be its stern. He is a little amazed that the whole thing didn’t blow sky high. A good portion of the rear of the ship simply vaporized.
Voices from the small rescue operation draw his attention back to the small motor boat ahead. He looks down at the lighted console beside the wheel. There is a microphone and a switch next to it that is labeled ‘Loudspeaker.’
He throttles his speed down to a crawl and flicks the switch on.
“Attention small craft. Please hold your fire. I can help you if you wish. I’ll anchor and await your reply.”
There is a series of little tugs on his shoes. He smiles. The little white puppy is playing with his laces.
“A little aggressive hospitality, as they say,” he mutters to himself. He looks up at the sky and its blanket of disturbed clouds. “Hopefully where I’m needed most.”

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THE PAIN FROM HIS BROKEN ARM STILL THROBS, and every now and then he

has to stop and take several deep breaths. The only light comes from the red-tinged emergency lights on each landing in the stairwell. Am I descending into Hell? “No air down here either, that’s for sure,” he says and wipes his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. Just walking around is bringing on a serious sweat.

As far as he could tell, there were no zombies on the third floor. There is a difference though between searching room by room and just peeking through the window of a fire exit door into a single hallway.

So, who really knows?
“The bastards are definitely all over the first and second floors, though,” he murmurs to himself and giggles a little. “Might be a little punchy.” He’s standing on the last landing before the final flight of stairs to the basement—and more importantly, the armory. A bulletin board runs the length of the wall closest to him. On it are various gun safety warnings and rules.
All he has to do is walk two or three steps to his right and the final flight of stairs will take him directly to a hallway. The first door in that hallway goes to the armory. There are also several other rooms, mostly full of supplies of various types.
“Never told you that, did I, Mitch? Ha-ha, you dumb bastard. All the food and water you need right here.” He claps a hand over his mouth briefly. “Oops, talking out loud may not be the best idea, James old buddy.”
He hears a metallic clank, and what sounds like shuffling feet. All trace of exhausted hilarity leaves him. He clutches the gun a little tighter in his left hand, and lets his finger curl around the trigger.
Something metal, maybe a pipe, slides across the floor down there.
Officially now, he makes himself face the fact that he isn’t alone.
“Got to save the last one, no matter what,” he says, whispering this time.

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He takes the three steps and turns to look down the stairs. Two men are standing at the bottom of the stairs. He recognizes one right away due to his massive bulky body and his mutilated ears: Sergeant Gransky! The other guy is on the slim side. Can’t be Gransky’s sidekick, Dennis. He’s still on the first floor somewhere. Why are both these guys just standing there?
Might as well find out and get it over with.
“Sergeant Gransky?” he says, heart fluttering.
The man’s huge head turns up toward his voice. Why is he grinning? Is he dead or not? Both men suddenly stagger into motion and promptly trip on the stairs. Gransky lurches to his feet and musters enough motor control to climb the stairs. Finally, Dodd gets a good look at the cratered ruin of Gransky’s chest.
No doubt now. He lines up the faintly luminescent sight on the big man’s forehead.
Sweat rolls down from his hairline and onto his nose. A faint stinging sensation around his eyes adds to his frustration. I have to wipe my eyes. The urge is unbearable and Dodd backs up and around the corner, frantically rubbing his entire face onto the sleeves of his shirt.
He can hear footsteps following him from down there. No one should have to endure this type of insanity.
Suddenly, Gransky’s bulk heaves itself up onto the landing, still wearing the horrible grin. “Oh God, please save me, somebody…”
Dodd is barely aware of his own fixed grimace and the single-minded concentration he puts into aiming between the thing’s eyes. He squints, squeezes the trigger and winces at the sharp bark of the shot and the bright yellow flash from the barrel.
Gransky’s head jerks to the left, as if slapped, and the rest of his body follows the motion. In a state of shock and disbelief, Dodd watches the body tumble down the stairs, taking the other guy with him.

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ANGER AND GRIEF are doing terrible things to the boy’s face. “What if my Mom and Dad swam over to the cruise ship? How do you know what happened to them?”

“Even your sister thinks they’re dead, Frank. You calling her a liar?” Frank closes his eyes a moment, almost as if he’s trying to be patient. “She doesn’t know any more than you do, boy.”

Beth stands up and throws a punch at Frank. He dodges it easily and holds her back seemingly without effort.
“So what will you do, Frank? You gonna just jump overboard and swim over there?”
“No, we’ll take the raft on that guy’s boat.”
“Someone will catch you, Frank,” declares Beth.
“I’ll swim over there if I have to, Beth.”
“If anybody was alive on that boat, we would’ve heard from them by now,” says Daric.
“Maybe, maybe not. They may not want anyone else and they’re just waiting for us to go away. They might need me.”
“Okay, we haven’t even really been on this other boat yet, why don’t we go on over and check it out. Until we see the real situation, this is all just crazy talk.”
“You’re smarter than you look… Daric,” Frank says, grinning at him.
“You aren’t,” Daric replies back. “You’re dumb as a rock.”
“Keep pushing me and see what happens.”
Daric doesn’t want to back down, but decides to. What can this boy do all on his own anyway?
With a look of desperation, Beth speaks up. “Why don’t we go see this puppy Janicea told us about? I need a doggie right now.”
“Sounds good to me,” says Daric, but he’s really not so sure. I can’t ever tell anybody what my mom did to my dogs. He can feel hot tears well at the edge of his eyes, but somehow manages to hold them back.

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Ozzie is the only one still on the motor boat with them. He’s sorting through some boxes when they come up out of the cabin. Daric can see the others sitting on the fantail of the other boat as if this were normal times.

“You kids going over to see the pup? He’s a real cutie,” Ozzie says, but he doesn’t seem to really expect an answer. He just keeps working.
Frank goes first, sliding over the railing, bracing himself, then sliding over into the other boat on his butt. “Come on Beth, I’ll help you over.”
Beth takes her brother’s hand and slides over easily. To Daric’s surprise, he helps him also. All three of them are standing about midship, so they start toward the back. They can hear the adults’ voices already.
Bronte’s voice says, “I don’t care how much of what we need’s on that ship. It’ll be a death trap by now. And another thing: How do we know that those soldiers won’t be back tomorrow to finish the job?”
Tracks voice follows, “Bronte right. We need to hide. Weedon Island sound perfect with all those mangroves.”
“We don’t know if there is a good place to hide a boat,” says someone with a raspy voice. Must be the PoPo. He swallowed a lot of seawater. “But I vote for Weedon Isle too. What about you Janice?”
Daric misses whatever her answer was, because at that moment, Frank walks down the stair that leads down there and interrupts everyone. Beth pushes in beside Frank and Daric is left still standing on the steps. He can still see, but can’t move past the other two.
“Well hello there,” says a big, stocky blonde guy with broad shoulders. Got a gut too. Must be the new guy who offered to help them. “I’m Graham.”
He looks like a nice guy anyway. Not as old as that PoPo, but at least as old as Tracks.
Graham holds out a hand to Frank, but Frank doesn’t take it. A little alarm goes off in Daric’s head, but Beth steps forward and takes Graham’s hand instead. “I’m Beth, this is my brother Frank, and I don’t think you’ve met Daric.”
Daric looks down and sees Frank’s hand behind his back and under his shirt. What’s he doing? But Graham is shaking Daric’s hand now, over the shoulder of Frank.
Graham’s fingers tighten on his, going from a gentle shake to a tight grip.
“Get offa me mister and step back or I’ll pull the trigger.”
Where’d Frank get a gun?
Graham lets go of Daric’s hand and steps back. His kind face is gone and an ugly, squint-eyed scowl has replaced it.

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“Better have a good reason to pull a gun on me boy.” Beth shouts, “Frank no! These people are good! They’ll help us!” Frank looks around, almost as if measuring the shocked adults

around him. Daric can see the ugly little automatic pistol in his hand. That’s what this boy is, ugly and little. “Get away from me Beth. I’m not going to Weedon Isle. I’m going to look for my father.”

The fat PoPo sits up straight in his chair and speaks up. “You’re Lionel Burgosi’s kid, I remember you in the galley.”
“Yeah, that’s me Mister.”
“Listen kid, I’m sure he’s dead, I—”
“Shut up! Shut up or you’re the one who’ll be dead!” Frank shouts.
Tracks steps forward. “What you want little boy?”
“I’m taking care of my family! My Dad always told me to be ready. Someday I’d have to be a man. I want to find my father!”
“He’s floating out there in little chunks, kid,” says the PoPo.
Frank screams. “No he’s not! He’s in that ship I bet! I want to go look for him there!”
“He dead boy. Why he be on that ship?” asks Tracks.
“He’s looking for us! For Beth and me!”
“We all lost people in the last day. You not alone.”
Frank motions with the gun. “Either give me this raft or take me over there. Then leave if you want. I have to know.”
He’s bigger than me, but from behind, I’ll have the advantage. I’ll knock him down and pin the hand holding the gun beneath him. He can hear his Dad’s voice: ‘Once you have a plan, don’t think about it, son—Do it! Emergencies can’t wait.’
Daric throws his arms wide and leaps on the bigger kid’s back and literally rides him to the ground. Someone shouts, “Daric no!” and for a frozen moment or two, Daric struggles all alone against a writhing, griefstricken monster.
Then there are a series of muffled pops.

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T HEY BARELY HAD TIME to pull the soldier’s corpse behind one of the vans, when suddenly all four soldiers came running back around the corner. The leader started shouting when he saw that the body was gone, but shortly thereafter the helicopter arrived.

Watching the helicopter come in and pick up the four men was tough. Especially knowing how badly Mills wanted to avenge Kathy’s murder.

I’m all suited up like a modern day gladiator at least . I must look more than a little ridiculous with shorts and a ripped shirt though. She pictures a late night commercial: Strippers Gone Wild, and has to choke back a laugh.

Mills watched them with a look that could only be described as intense hatred.
When the helicopter took off and headed east, she heard him murmur, “Sorry Kathy. I’ll get them somehow.”
“I am a little curious,” she says, and purposely trails off, hoping to distract him. She stands up and starts to walk toward the front of the van.
“Curious about what?” he asks, and follows her up, bracing himself on the side of the van.
“Who the hell these van people are, and why were they driving so fast? Might as well check them out? They might have something good in there.”
“Okay, but be ready. Those soldiers shot the hell out of them, but they might not—”
“Okay,” she answers, watching him heft his bat.
They both go around to the front, and she finds herself almost mesmerized by all the bullet holes. The glass of both doors, driver and passenger, are shattered, as is the windshield. It’s still too dark outside to see anything else.

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Mills turns on his flashlight and shines it inside the cab. Two figures are still seated, complete with fastened seatbelts up front. Both of them appear to be wearing the dark blue coverall jumpsuits of the City Motor Pool.

She watches Mills rub his eyes, then glance in. “I think I recognize the driver,” he says, “His name’s Larry.”
“Well Larry and his buddy there look like pincushions.”
“Yeah, at least it must’ve been quick. This was the second truck— Right?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I think so. The first truck made it further.”
“I’m going to try the back door. Whether one is there or not, I’ll just jump to the side, so you can let them have it. Are you sure you know how to handle that cannon?”
She grins. “Safety is already off, and the bolt is forward. We’re ready to rock.”
Mills grabs the handle for the sliding door, and without hesitating yanks it open with a quick jerk to the right, then left. He backs out of the way, once again shining his flashlight into the van. Another guy, a Hispanic, is back there, but this one is still alive. A chest wound is still oozing blood. The guy is wearing a blue jeans jacket and pants. His head is down on his chest and he’s sitting up on the floor of the van with his back to a large wooden case and a lot of ammo boxes.
“You got any medical training?” she asks.
“Just very basic stuff. They’d like us to all be ALS, but I’m not even BLS certified yet.”
“What’s ALS and—”
“Advanced Life Support and Basic Life Support.”
“So this guy is fucked?”
“If you want to be blunt, yes. We can’t do anything for him, except maybe give him an angel as his last sight before he goes.”
“What do you mean angel... Me? Don’t make me laugh.”
“Then the merciful thing to do would be to shoot him.”
Someone coughs behind them and they both jump.
“Bad answer Sparky,” a man says in a mild voice. “Don’t move.”
“Sparky and the Angel,” says a woman. “I like that. Sounds like a great children’s book.”

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“I’ VE SHUT DOWN EVERYTHING except the keycard entry for doors,” Anton says, leaning back, raising a warm can of RC to his lips and chugging. Blake watches the pale, stubbly skin of the man’s neck as the big man downs the soda in a matter of a few swallows. He notices the rings of sweat beneath the man’s arms and the front of his nearly unbuttoned shirt. A jungle of matted, coarse, curly black hairs protrude out over his collar.

Amy is fanning herself with a magazine. “Hot in here,” she says, her voice flat as if she’s been drained of energy.
Debbie shoves the last bite of a glazed donut into her mouth with enthusiasm. Blake watches her licking her fingers and thinks about her touching things, door handles and god knows what else. In fairness to her there is no faucet in here.
If any of them starts picking their nose…
“How much longer do we wait?” Anton wants to know.
“I wish we knew whether they made it inside,” says Debbie.
Anton frowns. “Well, unless one of you is willing to go down to the basement and fill the gas tank for the generator, we’ll continue to be blind and ignorant.”
There is silence for a moment until Anton flips his ID badge toward Blake like a playing card onto the table between them. He picks it up and looks it over. Something makes him look up and at those around him.
All eyes are turned toward Blake. Wait a moment this is too much! “Whoa there! Why is everyone looking at me?”
“I can’t get down the stairs, Martin,” says Anton. “It makes me feel useless.”
“Can’t anyone get my name right?!” Blake shouts. “You ask me to put my ass on the line and you don’t even respect me enough to get my name right. It’s getting old.”

264

Debbie puts a hand to her temple, almost as if she’s giving herself a brain scan to dredge up the information.
“My name is Morgan, Morgan Blake. What’s so hard about that?”
Debbie tries to smile and reaches a hand toward his. Blake yanks it back out of range. “Don’t make it worse, Debbie. I’ll go down there.”
“Don’t Morgan!”
He is on his feet, pistol in hand, anger driving him, fueling a second adrenaline surge. Debbie trails him, but is far too slow to catch him before he reaches the door and closes it behind him. Muted shouting follows him as he sprints to the staircase and inserts a badge.
The hall is deserted. He’d almost expected to find Dodd waiting for him.
First things first. Make sure the damn safety is off on this pistol. He takes a moment, discovers there isn’t a little switch. Then he mutters to himself, “Now, lets try that thing they do in the movies.” The top half of the pistol, the barrel part, does slide back and a bullet comes popping out.
“He did have it loaded.”
He spends the next couple minutes discovering how to eject the magazine and reload the gun.
“Okay Dodd, I’m ready for you now.”
The stairwell is close by. No way to know where Dodd is, so it’s better to just get to it and get the power back on. He slides the card through the slot, opens the door and after listening for a moment or two, he begins the descent.
Halfway down, all the aches in his body begin to return and his level of paranoia increases to the point where he stands still for minutes at a time, just listening.
Between the first and second floor, the sound of muffled gunfire brings him to a complete stop.

265

THE MURMUR OF THE ENGINE is a distant comforting roar, evidence that they are heading for a safe place. The room is in darkness, except what feeble light is reflected in through the windows.

“That was terrible Janice,” he hears himself say into her soft mane of hair, lips close to her ear.
“That boy was crazy. How could anybody know he’d draw a gun?” She holds him tight for a moment, then backs away just enough to look him in the eyes. “It’s not your fault Bronte.”
“The little girl, Beth, is broke up. When the boy passed, I had to move quick to—”
“I know Bronte. She’s sleeping in the other cabin now. Tracks is watching over her and Daric.”
“That’s good. We need so many things if we’re going to survive this. We don’t even have a doctor! I guess the boy would have died anyway, but maybe not.”
“Why don’t you talk to the PoPo, maybe he knows what we should do?”
He is looking back into her eyes. “The old Janice would never have said that. Are you for real? Is that you, Janice, or is this a new lie?”
“I’ve done some terrible things, Bronte. All people need each other. Worse than ever right now. I turned away from God for so long. I turned away from life. You helped bring me back.”
He grins at her. “So, I guess you owe me?”
She laughs, but doesn’t fight him off when he kisses her cheek, her lips, then the ear that is so close. After a moment or two, of increasingly frenzied caressing, she pulls him backwards onto the bed with her.
“Janicea, I…”
“Shhh, no more talk.”

266

“MOTHER OF GOD!” Talaski shouts in horror when the door opens. The dead literally spill out and toward him while he frantically backs up, swinging the ASP.

“What’s wrong Nick?” Keller wants to know, but doesn’t dare to look. He too is preoccupied with a large number of the dead trying to get to them.

He gets no answer for a few long seconds as Talaski hammers at the hands and arms of the creatures reaching for him.
Brute strength. The ugly sound of metal hitting soft, rotting flesh. Harsh breathing from the both of them.
“This is the crowd from Tropicana Field; it has to be,” Keller wheezes.
“The room is loaded with them, almost as if they knew we were going to open that door,” says Talaski.
“Should we… Run?” asks Keller.
“Never make it,” Talaski replies. “Too many.”
Two zombies come at him at once. One older, a beefy weightlifter type wearing slacks and a polo shirt with the name of a restaurant on it. A nametag is still clipped to his shirt collar. The other is a tall slender woman wearing a pale blue men’s dress shirt. The woman goes straight for his throat, hands grasping, and he loses the other one briefly as he slashes through one of her arms and clubs her across the temple. She drops and he feels something crash into his side and he collides with Keller, stumbling backwards out of control.
Everything degenerates from that point. The big zombie has a grip around his waist and pulls him to the ground. His head slams painfully against the concrete. Is that gunfire and people screaming some kind of war cry? The ASP is lost, but he manages to pull the gun. He can barely see through stinging sweat. Something rips at his shirt and gets stopped by the vest before reaching his skin.
He swings the gun down like a club at the zombie’s head and to his shock the guy’s hair falls off.

267

Toupee!
A half circle of oily hair is revealed halfway up his scalp from his forehead. Talaski grabs what there is and forces the guy’s head back. He aims the gun right between the eyes and pulls the trigger.
Then Keller is standing over him, still swinging what looks like a chain link fence pole. A fireman steps up alongside him, firing an M-16. A third guy wearing a Devil Ray’s ballcap reaches down and helps him to his feet. “Hang in there, officer. Help has arrived.”

HE SITS BEFORE THE ARMORY DOOR and rocks with the pain. It’s getting difficult to think about anything but the pain.
Something clatters and booms in the stairwell.
Someone’s coming.
Most likely another one of those things. All is ashes now. I always triumph somehow in the end, but maybe not this time. Too many things went wrong.
He can hear mismatched echoes of steps coming down the staircase and pausing on the landing.
I should be armed to the teeth right now and wearing SWAT armor.
Everything went wrong after that first lucky shot put Gransky down. He’d followed the two tumbling bodies down to the bottom and found the smaller, skinnier guy trying to get up. The main problem was trying to concentrate with a broken arm and sweat running into your eyes.
The thing got to its feet and he realized that it was another cop. This one was missing part of his face, but there was still half of a handlebar mustache and most of his nose. One eye was turned up showing the whites. Dodd looked at his nametag. Harris. Do I know him?
Dodd found himself backing up, while his gun hand wavered. Finally, with his back against a wall, he forced himself to stop and aim. He held his breath.
The shot hit Harris square on the adam’s apple and didn’t even slow him.

268

In desperation, Dodd darted forward to meet Harris and practically put the barrel against his forehead.
He hit where he aimed with that one. Harris promptly spun away with the impact and settled to the floor.
Two bullets left.
It didn’t matter. Soon he’d have all the guns and ammo he needed.
Only the door was locked. It wouldn’t open with his card. He needed a special card or key or something.
There was still one chance. If Gransky still had the card he would be saved.
Neither Gransky or Harris turned out to have a card or key.
Now his back hurts from rolling and lifting Gransky’s bulk, and the pain from his arm is so bad he is whimpering.
The gun rests on his knee. Without too much trouble, he can use it to steady his aim.
A small person, a small man maybe, steps into view. In the red emergency lighting it’s hard to tell from here. At roughly twenty five feet, he has doubts of being able to hit the guy. “Who’s there?!” he shouts.
“Is that you Officer Dodd? Still hanging in there, I see.”
It’s the maintenance man, Blake.
Maybe if I’m silent, I can bluff him.
The little man takes a few more steps. Twenty feet—Still too far. Dodd knows guys who’ve missed a live target at eight feet.
“If you put down the gun, Officer, I’ll help you. We’ll get you medical attention and we’ll let you stay with us. What do you say?”
Dodd can see that Blake has a gun too—His gun! He’s pointing it at him even as he speaks.
Fifteen feet now. With my right hand, I could make him dance at this range.
He squints, focusing the sight on Blake’s center mass. Blake is holding his own gun now in both hands.
Got to make this one shot count and save the other.
Dodd suddenly jerks and twitches as Blake opens fire. It feels like being pummeled by red hot bolts that go right through him. Torn apart. Screaming with the pain and the awful noise. Nothing else exists.
A high-pitched whistle blows continuously in his ears and somewhere beyond it he can hear people screaming in torment. He feels his back sliding down the wall and his head hit the concrete floor. Blake is standing over him, removing the magazines from his belt. Sort of like he is stripping the dead. Only it’s me.

269

Suddenly the pain is nothing next to the terror of what he halfsenses. He tries to speak, tastes blood and begins to choke.
Blake finishes pocketing the extra mags and without hesitating points the gun in Dodd’s face.
Dodd sees a brief flash of light, but not the one someone in his position might hope for.
Then nothing.

H E SITS APART, barely noticed, sulking. None of them even asked him what happened. All that mattered is that he got the power back on. Everything else is lost in the arrival of the new people. Now all of them are clustered around a table, but not him.

The radio crackles for a moment, then with Anton fiddling with it, the voice comes through loud and clear:
“…This is Chief Jubal Hadley can anyone hear me?”
Anton leans forward, grasping the mic, “Chief, we hear you just fine. This is Call Center Chief Lesk. Where are you?”
“I’m on a boat, son. Got a bunch of people with me.”
“Any chance of our two groups hooking up, sir?”
“We’ll have to arrange something, Lesk. It’s good to know we aren’t alone. Are there any officers with you?”
“Yes sir, one… Talaski.” Lesk says.
There is a long pause “Okay, never mind! We’ll call you at this time two days from now. We should have some sort of plan ready to implement by then.”
“Can do. Talk to you then.”
For a moment they all fall silent, but then one of the new guys speaks up. “I have a stash of propane that might be useful for something.” Several people try to speak at once, but Anton motions them to silence.
The policeman, Talaski, speaks up. “Having the propane available is a good thing, but having someplace safe to operate out of is more important.”

270

“He’s right,” Anton says.

At that point, someone else disagrees and pandemonium erupts. Blake decides he’s had enough and he sneaks off. Anton has unlocked all the doors on this floor, except for the main staircase. He walks past that one and to a door twenty feet further down.

Just inside the door is another staircase going up. He takes it and within moments is at a door. As he opens this door, a gust of wind nearly yanks it from his hands.

The first light of dawn is lighting the sky to the east, but he doesn’t think it will last. Lot of cloud cover overhead. He can almost taste the rain. Another storm coming.

He walks over to the edge of the building and looks down.

Several hundred zombies are still milling about below and more are coming.
“They’ll just keep on coming, won’t they?” says a woman’s voice. Someone is standing beside him.
Not Debbie.
He looks over. “Yes, they will,” he answers. It’s one of the two new women.
“I’m Trish and you’re Morgan right?”
“Well, yes, that’s true also, Mrs…”
She smiles. “I told you Morgan, it’s just Trish.”
Candle to the flame, Blake. Watch it. His face does feel warm, but he doesn’t let that stop him. Probably got a goofy smile on my face too.
“Nice to meet you, Trish.”

WHEN THE ELEVATOR SHUDDERS TO A STOP and the doors open, the young

lieutenant escorting him leads the way. There are three pipes running the length of the corridor just outside the doors, all clustered together about waist high. What are they for?

He doesn’t ask.

271

Every twenty feet or so, there is a light on the ceiling covered by a metal grating.
Feels a lot like a prison.
They pass three lights and turn a corner. An Army Private wearing a camouflage uniform comes to attention and presents arms. The door is open and Foster steps though and into a large room with a bed, desk and two chairs. There is also a large, steel two-doored locker and a map of the United States on the wall. He turns in a circle, eyes taking in the puke green walls, and the simple utilitarian design that is rampant throughout this place.
“Is this the best we can do?” he asks sarcastically. The lieutenant grimaces, but he pretends to ignore it. “This is going to get old real fast.”
“It’s the best the Joint Chiefs can arrange at the moment, Mr. President,” the lieutenant answers.
“What’s your name boy?” Foster asks. The soldier is no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, with broad shoulders and an athletic build. He’d probably be a good-looking guy if not for his pocked oily skin.
“Green sir! First Lieutenant Charles R. Green.”
“Where are you from? Do I detect a southern accent?”
“North Carolina, sir. Burnsville.”
“That anywhere near the Linville Caverns?”
“Not too far away, sir!”
“Well, Lieutenant Green, I’d like a drink and I’d like to be briefed. You have the codes, correct?”
“Yes Sir! How about I escort you down to the Ops Room and we’ll fix you up?”
Foster nods. “That’ll do, son.”

Finished 11:20 PM 3/31/2007

272

Acknowledgments

There are quite a few people I’d like to thank for helping me in one way or another on this book. The first is my silent collaborator Dave who helped more than he will ever realize. Second would have to be Dr. Pus who has always believed in me and was willing to take a chance on me long before reading Dead Tide. A big thank you also to Dan Galli for such a fantastic cover. Following hard on their heels would be my readers, Shannon Catcott, Susanna Parrish, Dana Lindsay, Judy Anderson, Mike Johnson, and Michaelene Pusateri. A belated thanks to two great teachers who helped change my life: Bill White and Mike Prosenchak. I’d also like to thank all my friends and co-workers at Wal-Mart Store 1536 for their unwavering support and enthusiasm. Thanks also to my in-laws and most of all my wife and daughter for putting up with me.

Stephen North has a BA in English Literature from USF , and is a former Army Reservist. He is married to Lisa, has a daughter named Lindsey, and resides in Florida.

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The formula has been changed... Shifted... Altered... TwistedTM

It’s the end of the world: 1999.

Professional nobody Ross Orringer sees flashes of cameras and glances from strangers lurking around every corner.

His paranoia mounts when his friends and family begin acting more and more suspiciously as the New Year approaches.

In the last minutes before the clock strikes midnight, Ross realizes that the end may be more ominous than anyone could have imagined: decisions have been made, the crews have set up their lights and equipment, and the gray makeup has been applied.

In the next millennium, time will lose all meaning, and the dead will walk the earth. ISBN: 978-0-9789707-8-9

Five years after the dead first walked, a small pocket of humanity survives in the fortified town of Eastpointe.

When a stranger arrives claiming to know the location of a cure for the zombie plague, the town will risk everything to possess it.

But does the cure even exist?

And what price must be paid?

“If you love zombies, this is a must-read.” —Nickolas Cook, Hellnotes

“Adkins has a knack for raw storytelling that shocks and entertains. Great stuff!” —Jonathan Maberry, Multiple Bram Stoker Awardwinning author of Zombie CSUand Patient Zero

ISBN: 978-0-9789707-7-2

An ongoing journal depicting one man’s personal struggle for survival, dealing with the trials of an undead world unfolding around him. An unknown plague sweeps the planet. The dead rise to claim the Earth as the new dominant species. Trapped in the midst of a global tragedy, he must make decisions... choices that that ultimately mean life, or the eternal curse to walk as one of them.

The formula has been changed... Shifted... Altered... TwistedTM

The formula has been changed... Shifted... Altered... TwistedTM

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