The noon sun doesn’t help him. He’s a sitting duck chugging up the middle of the street. But it’s the only way. Up and around. He checked down the straight path to the hospital, and it looked bleak. His little perch, up on the fast-food joint, sank his spirits faster than a torpedo.

His dad has to be there. Jamie is sure he’s OK in there. It makes sense, given what he saw, that his dad is stuck there. How could he not be, with the sea of bodies surrounding the campus?

But he can’t make a straight run there, no, that would be a suicide mission. The only way is this road that runs up a small mountain range that lines the eastern side of the flat land. He couldn’t shake the group following him from earlier this morning, and the uphill climb kept his pace to a crawl. He even hopped off and went on foot around some of the upward bends.

They’re creepy. One of the ones in the lead is this hollowed out older man. It looks like his skin was frozen and his insides deflated, as if they had been sucked in with a vacuum. His eyes are the worst. They’re like sunken ghost ships in the deepest sea crevice.

Jamie pedals on to the song playing on repeat in his mind. He tries to keep his eyes forward. It’s hard not to look back.

The street rises endlessly until it doesn’t, and levels out to a small plateau of an outlook. He takes a small break and catches his breath. The last upward stretch kept the distance between him and his followers steady. They struggle with their footing, with some even tumbling back downhill.

Below the overhang, nestled just off the side of the road, sits a small structure. It looks gated and boasts loudly about its vacancy. Jamie checks back. They still come. His legs protest. He needs a place to rest. He’s not making it all the way to the hospital on so little food and sleep.

He grabs his bike, forces his muscles to spring into action, and coasts down the hill toward the motel.

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And that, I tell you, is the last of those little mice. Wicked little things they ended up being. Really of no use at all. What a shame.

I had to lop ‘em off, one by one. Most were sleeping. What silly little things. They should’ve known better than to let me in. Let their guard down. That’ll get you killed out here, alright.

Now, look at ‘em. Taking a little sunbath. They’re almost cute.

I rub my eyes. The sun stings. It always does. I take a drink. My water bottle is all mucked up from those mucks. They were a messy bunch. But that’s all ancient history now. Now is now, and that’s what needs to be now.

And what’s next? That’s what’s on my mind now. Next. This place is pretty good. No bangers around really. That’s a plus, but no mice either. Not so much a plus. What to do with myself?

I sit back up on the rooftop. Right on top of that silly motorcycle helmet. It’s like sitting on a rock. I survey my space here. What’s mine.

And then, I tell you, I see something interesting that might just turn this day around.

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Jamie cruises to the front gate of the motel parking lot. It’s locked with a thick chain and a husky padlock. Behind it, opens the parking lot with what looks like a pool area in the middle. It could be a little island getaway in the sea of pavement if it weren’t for the fact that it’s filled with stained bodies.

They don’t move like the ones slowly making their way down the hill. At least not yet. They might. He’s still not sure how it all works. Of what the real rules are. The thing that’s important is the fact that they aren’t moving yet.

He places his bike down and moves to the gate. He wraps his fingers in the chain-link metal and gives a mighty shake.

If any are inside, they’ll come running to this racket.

What answers is not what he expects and sends him tumbling back, off-guard.

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“Hey, turkey!” I say.

The turkey looks up, all stunned like. He should have thicker skin, I tell you.

“You should have thicker skin,” I tell him.

He stumbles back and nearly falls on his ass. What a joke. What am I gonna do with this one? It’s all I can think about now.

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Jamie gets up and dusts off his pants. He has to shield his eyes to see the little figure standing up on the roof. It looks like the little elf on a shelf that his dad puts up around Christmas time.

From the voice, he guesses it’s a girl. She must be young, too. It’s hard to tell, staring into the sun.

He shouts back. He asks if she’s OK. If she’s hurt. Does she need any help?

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This one starts squawking on and on. All this nonsense. He’s gonna wake the dead. There’ll be bangers all over this place in no time. I tell you, that little birdie is gonna get us killed.

But not if I have any say in it. Nope. I gotta wrangle this one in, so I jump down and go to the fence. Past the rest of these mucks lounging in the pool.

I get there. The sun hurts. It’s like knives right into my pupils.

“What do you want?” I ask the turkey.

He looks at me, all dumb like. Maybe he’s more of a monkey, but I’d call him a rabbit. He looks so very soft.

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The girl comes to the inside of the gate. She’s covered from head to toe with gunk and blood. She looks like she took a swim in the pool.

The thought runs through Jamie’s mind. He moves it far to the back and focuses on the person in front of him. Up close, he guesses she is about his age. Maybe a year or two younger.

She’s short and has on a full tracksuit with matching brand sneakers. It must have all been white at one time. It isn’t anymore.

He repeats himself, “Are you OK?”

She answers, but says something that makes no sense at all. The words are there, but like a nonsensical code. He looks at her with a questioning eyebrow raise. She seems to lose her patience immediately.

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I tell you, this one is insufferable. It’s like he doesn’t speak a word of English. It’s not like I’m speaking in tongues here.

A blank stare is all I get. Maybe he’s a bit slow. That’s all I need. Keep up, here friend-o. You wanna live or die? Speed is everything here.

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“Um, so look, I’m not sure if you’re OK. I guess maybe you’re not. But this place looks bad. You shouldn’t stay here. And there’s a huge group coming. Look up the road. They won’t take long to get here. We should leave. I’m going to the hospital. The big one in the next town. You can come with me.”

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I knew it. I told you his gabbing would bring a ton of bangers. He points out his own stupidity. Of course they’re coming, muck-o. You basically rang the dinner bell to draw ‘em in.

But, despite his boyish bristle, he might have a point. Here is pretty dead. I mean, look at it. Quite literally.

This hospital idea might not be so bad. Should be people camped out there. Alone. Afraid, just looking for someone to step up. Take the lead. Little mice all in a row.

The first one, here. Come, little fuzzy one, pedal on your wheel. You’ll get me there faster.

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The girl paces back and forth as if in an intense debate with her own shadow. She mumbles a lot. Then, finally, she pulls a key out of her track pants and opens the gate. She points to the bike and says she’ll come.

Jamie understands this. The crowd coming down the hill spills into his side view, but for some reason, he’s stuck looking at her.

He shakes his head loose and picks up his bike. He sits and pats the metal runner sitting between the handles. He can pedal. She can ride.

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What does this one think? I tell you, he thinks this is the 80’s or some shit. Like riding on the handlebars is something I’m gonna do.

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She hesitates, so Jamie tries to reassure her.

“It’ll be great! You know, like those old movies from the 80’s? They always had a bike ride at the climax. We could be like that. Come on! That group is getting too close for comfort. Hop on!”

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I’m about ready to strangle this little chick-a-dee.

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The girl pauses, then moves to the back of the bike. She pushes Jamie up the tip of the seat to the point that it hurts between his legs. She tries to fit on the back but doesn’t, so she settles on the metal railing that hangs over the rear wheel. It usually carries a basket, but it wasn’t attached when he grabbed the bike from their shed.

He settles back into a position where he can pedal and feels her arms wrap around his waist. It makes him give three false starts and nearly topple them into a nearby bush.

Finally, he catches a rhythm, and they sail away, down the street, leaving the oncoming herd to fill the empty lot.

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This turkey drives like a bat. Blind, I tell you. He zigs, and he zags. It’s like being on a roller coaster. I’m gonna get sick. Then he’ll get what’s coming to him. All down his back. All into that stupid shirt. It smells like musk and teenager.

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Jamie strides at a steady pace down the now level road. It’s littered with holes and cracks but remains mostly empty. They pass a gas station and a storage facility. Both produce some shambling bodies, but nothing that trips them up or slows them.

The afternoon melts into evening, and they reach the outskirts of the small town. The hospital sits at the south end. They enter from the east.

Jamie pulls over and explains his idea.

They should slowly circle inward toward the hospital. They can check the streets before going down them and try to use things like trash cans or cars with any juice left to draw out any of the undead with sound and slink past.

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This boy is such a boy. Talking and talking and planning and planning. Not doing. You need to do something to not be dead out here. He should know that, but his soft, little hands tell me he doesn’t. How predictable. Like a little one-two step. One always follows two.

I’ve had enough of it all, I tell you. I’m getting antsy. My eyes feel too heavy for waiting. We need to speed it up, here. Toothpicks in, pedal to the metal, stop wasting time, birdie.

I push him to the hard back and hop on the seat. It feels soft to the hard metal rungs, and my legs push down with ease. We take off like a rocket, I tell you. I can really move.

The turkey almost falls off. Fly, little bird. His arms wave, then find my waist, like mine did his. He feels soft, like a pillow. Haven’t had one of those in I don’t know how long.

We fly down the streets, talking be damned. Two birds, like hawks. We swoop for the kill.

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She’s insane! She’s going to get us killed! That’s it. That’s my end. Here lies Jamie, dead by the whims of an insane bike girl.

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We make record speed, I tell you. Flying. The boy says something into my ear, but the wind knocks it out. It doesn’t matter. I tell you, that hospital is just around the corner now. I can smell it, like a barnyard.

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Jamie holds so tight his knuckles turn white. His fingers hurt. It feels like he might lose a few nails. He might lose whatever small food sits deep in his gut. He might just lose his mind.

She doesn’t seem to understand caution, even in the pure definition of the word. She pedals at full speed and nearly skids out around every corner. She doesn’t look side-to-side or back. He’s not even sure if she’s looking forward. She’s just in motion.

They come to a roundabout, and she leans into the left bend. They travel past all the exits. Twice. For a fleeting moment, it dawns on him that she might be having fun. This, here and now, is fun.

It makes his stomach flip even more than it already is with the absolute certainty that this girl is steering them directly to their doom.

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This turkey is of no help at all. I’m telling him to read the signs around the circle. One should point us toward the hospital, and he just clings to me like he’s frozen in time.

I tell you, a girl’s got to do everything herself. I don’t want to scare the little birdie, so I don’t want to let on just how many bangers are right on us. We can’t afford to slow down. We’d be breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

The sign! I yell my voice out, and Turkey-boy finally, finally gets it. He points, and I veer down the way. Not too late. My little peepers catch the crowd hitting the circle just as we exit.

At this rate, whatever little mice are at this hospital are gonna have to fight us and this group. Don’t think we’ll shake them in the last stretch.

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The hospital rises in its eight-floor stance down the street. It’s a straight shot and, to Jamie’s surprise, the way looks mostly clear in front of them. Just a long corridor of houses and driveways. Some have those mailboxes that sit against the street. Some of those are smashed and lie on the sidewalk like corpses of another life.

The bike sputters, and the chain slips off again. The girl’s feet don’t stop pedaling to nowhere.

Jamie tries to be quiet, but ends up yelling for her to stop. They have to get off. He needs to fix the chain. They’re so close.

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The turkey’s bike is broken. What a piece of junk. We need to hoof it, but he stays by the fallen ride. He has a death wish, I tell you.

I pull at his little, flappy arm. He jiggles with part of the bike. I’m going to have to leave him. Leave this little boy to die by his own hand. All my efforts wasted. Why doesn’t he see that?

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Jamie swipes her pulling hands away. He almost has it. Why is she messing with him? He sees the herd following them, her lack of caution catching up. This girl, with pure drive of energy, is going to get them killed.

They can’t outrun this many. There’s probably more in the side streets. They’d make it to the front of the hospital just to be surrounded. That’d be the ultimate ironic twist. His dad, in there fighting for life, would die, having been bitten by the dead husk of his own son. They could write a book about it, if books will ever be written again.

He tells her to calm down and gives her a hard shove. It makes her lose her footing, and she falls back onto the hard street.

Jamie says sorry but doesn’t stop wrenching the chain back into place.

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That’s going to leave a bruise later. Looks like my little turkey has some dropped cojones, after all.

I get up and dust myself off. This little boy might just be up to par. He might even be full of some surprises.

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He snags it. He flips the bike back over just as the circling horde converges onto their road. They’re packed so densely he can’t make out individual features, even this close.

He grabs up the handles and spins the bike toward the nearest side street. She stands, just looking at him with big eyes.

“Come on! We have to go!”

He doesn’t ask. He steers right into her. He’s either going to mow her over or pull off a daring rescue maneuver.

Both could be bad for him.

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Like a knight, I tell you. Little chick-a-dee swoops me right off my feet. Right onto those handlebars.

Right out of a stupid sequence from one of those stupid 80’s movies. Just like he said. What a turkey.

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They don’t crash into a heap. She readies herself and does a half-jump-half-twist up onto the handlebars.

It nearly rips the grip from his right hand, and they drift. The front tire hits the curb and bounces back out into the road. He pushes, and they take a slow lurch toward the smooth surface.

The bike levels out, and the chain sticks on the cog, this time. Jamie has never pedaled so fast in his life. The hospital shrinks to the background, but he doesn’t notice. His body is too full of testosterone and blinds him to any logic. All he can do is pedal.

She sits up on the handlebars and turns a bit. She wraps her left arm around his shoulders and rests her forehead against his.

Ahead of the couple, a sprawling suburban landscape opens itself. The two ride relentlessly toward it.

She doesn’t say anything. Neither does Jamie.

This isn’t the 80’s, is all he can think about, like a record on repeat, trying to out pedal the feeling of heavy dread and suffocating failure.

Two shadows push an overflowing shopping cart up the nearly empty street. It rattles like a cage over the small imperfections. It screams of desperation, despite their efforts to keep it down.

“I know, but stop being so loud.”

Peter runs to the front of the cart and pulls up until the wheels shush. Lucy does the same to the back until the squealing casters stop their screaming. The load is heavy, consisting mostly of long-lasting canned goods and water. Some medical items and building supplies, such as screwdriver sets and scissors, fill the gaps.

The two have been huffing it for nearly six miles now. They’re both soaked through with sweat, and Peter is still sticky from the incident back at the store.

They went there with high hopes. It seemed like the best idea. Secure a space that had everything they needed to hold out for an extended time. Sit pretty and wait to see how things develop. A food store. If it wasn’t overrun, it would be perfect.

It was, at first. The warehouse door was a trick, but Peter was able to crack it. And just in time. There was a mob on their heels. The handle was shot after prying it open, but they were able to jimmy a metal bar from an unused display for expensive spices to seal it tight. There were two fresh ones inside, tucked away in an office. They nearly made Peter wet his pants, but they couldn’t escape the locked office door.

Lucy ventured out first and tested the open sales floor by throwing a rattling metal coffeepot down the dark aisle. There was no response besides the start of banging on the front windows and doors. She threw a second one, just to be sure.

They moved to the sales floor and checked the security of the front doors, then used paper bags to cover every inch of the glass. After two hours, things grew silent, and they both collapsed in a tired mess on aisle six. Peter slept. He’s not sure if Lucy did because she was busy making stockpiles when he awoke.

She had laid it all out by category and further by expiration date. There was enough to last half a lifetime, or maybe a few months. She said they should still be cautious and ration what they have. Who knows what’s going to come knocking on the door at any time?

Peter agreed. He found it best to agree with Lucy. She was right most of the time, even when she wasn’t. They talked in whispers. They talked about what to do next. They sketched and made models with materials from the office supplies aisle. How to best fortify the store? Should they make an lookout on the roof? Could they section the store off into small pockets of containment, in case any unwanted guests make their way in? This went on for two full days.

They never came to any final agreements outside of the one: they needed to get the two locked up in the office out. Having them inside, one thin door with a pushbutton lock away, was not the ideal state of safety. As much as she tried to hide it, Lucy developed deep bags under her eyes and, in small lulls, would nod off. Peter knew that even she needed to sleep at least a couple of hours at a time. That should have been their top priority. She agreed with him, not about the sleep, but about getting rid of the office dwellers.

The plan was simple. Suit up with layers of the store’s cheap undergarments, light raincoats, and gardening gloves. Tape everything once over, and line forearms, shins, and any other straight part that could be clamped down on with rolled magazines and more tape. Go to the roof, throw something that would make noise off the front. Draw any that are outside to the front and clear up the back entrance. Grab the two in the office, cover their heads with trash bags. Shove them out back, jimmy-lock the door, and Bob’s your uncle, problem solved.

That was Peter’s phrase. Lucy rolled her eyes at it, but still went to collect everything they would need. About two hours later, they had everything ready. Peter headed up to the roof with a laundry basket full of cooking timers.

There was a problem, but it wasn’t one he thought was a big deal at the time. He was wrong.

The warehouse door where they had entered sat under an overhang. He couldn’t get eyes on how many were there, pressing up against it. He should have. He didn’t and figured it couldn’t be that many. This little trick worked in the last store. It would surely work here, too.

Again, he was wrong.

He lumbered to the front, set the plan in motion, threw the basket down with it ready to buzz and ring in five minutes, and joined Lucy in the warehouse. They waited ten minutes, slid open the office door, and nabbed the two bodies completely unaware. The undead struggled under the masks of the dark trash bags, but proved easy enough to pull to the door. Lucy slid out the thin display bar, opened the door, and she and Peter shoved the unwanted baggage in unison.

The jostled figures smacked into a thick wall of other bodies. They must have been five, maybe six deep. The wave surged and breached the door in a heartbeat.

Lucy was pushed back first and fell into a pile of empty cardboard boxes. Peter was able to dodge to the side and rocketed to pull her up and toward the front part of the store.

They scrambled. The crowd filled the warehouse. Peter knew their only chance was right out the front doors, and hopefully up the street at a fast pace. Lucy pulled free. He yelled for her. She darted down aisle two and emerged a moment later with the overflowing cart.

Peter flipped the lock on the front door and pushed the two sides away like parting the sea. Lucy banged through with the cart. The smallest sliver of luck shone on them like a little light. The last of the kitchen timers were still sounding off as little soldiers refusing to end their duty, and kept the attention of the crowd.

Lucy led, as they sprinted up the road and only looked back to measure the distance between their rattling parade and the sea of death. After a block, they had to slow down to catch their breath and straighten the cart. They couldn’t abandon it, being their only lifeline now.

That was all an hour and twenty-six minutes ago. Before all the sweat and exhaustion. Before they passed the park and the little main street that brought only more staggering bodies. Before they turned onto this street lined with typical suburban two-story homes with their garage doors and fenced yards.

Right before Peter saw this house, which looked empty and secure. It doesn’t have a body pressed against the front window, broken-out glass, or smudged bloody prints. It looks still. Calm. Secure. If they’re lucky, there might only be one or two inside.

They pull up to the front door. Lucy sets the cart aside, and they try to peek in. They try to get a hint at a way in.

“Get the hell away from my house!”

The living voice sets Peter back a few steps. Lucy charges the door and bangs.

“Hey! Hey! We’re alive! We’re OK. Let us in! There’s a ton of those things coming. Let us in, OK?”

There is a silence that seems to last for years.

“Go away.”

The voice is clearly that of a woman. Lucy pulls Peter aside and whispers in a short breath, “That’s a girl. She sounds young. Listen, I bet she’s alone. She’s scared. Probably lost her parents. She’s on edge. We need to play this cool, but fast. Just follow my lead, OK?”

Peter answers with a nod, and they both move slowly to the door. Peter can’t help but look up the street to see the first of their followers bend the corner. He swallows his panic. Lucy talks to the door.

“Hi. Hi, in there. Listen, I get it. We get it. There are two of us. That’s all. We’re just as afraid as you are. We get it. What’s going on out here, well, it’s crazy, right?”

She waits for a beat.

“But listen. My guess is you’re alone in there. You don’t sound so old. I guess if your parents were there, or anyone older in there, we’d be talking to them and not you. Listen, we’re OK. We’re good people. We just need to come inside so we don’t get killed out here. Can you do that? For us?”

This pause ages Peter by several years. His eyes dart back down the road.

“No. This is my house. I’m not letting you in... so what? So you can take it from me? I don’t think so.”

Lucy closes her eyes in frustration. A dog barks from inside. The voice comes low through the door.

“Quiet, Coops.”

Lucy’s head shoots up. She looks to Peter, then the cart.

“Listen, kid. I know you’re in there by yourself. You and your dog. That doesn’t mean we want to hurt you or throw you out, and this is not a threat, but the way we can’t get in also means you can’t get out. To stay safe, you need to stay in. How much food do you have in there? Enough? For how long? Do you love your dog? How much kibble is in the pantry? You got water in there? How much? For how long? Look, we have a full supply here.”

Lucy pauses to let the fact sink in before continuing.

“A full cart, fresh from that big grocery store a ways back. I’m sure you know the one. It’s just up the street from the school. Do you go there? I bet you do. Or you did. Listen, let us in, and we’ll share it all. It’s not just food for now. I know how to grow stuff. Indoors, even. I have all we need. We can be set for the long run. But you’ve got to let us in. And now. There’s an army of ‘em coming right this way.”

There’s no hesitation this time.

“Go away. I’m not letting you in. You have no idea what I have, or what I don’t have. You don’t know who I am or what I have done. Now get the hell away from my door before you draw even more attention. If you don’t by the time I count to ten, I’ll open, but what you’ll get is a face full of my axe.”

The piece of wood blocking the small decorative window reveals that the girl is not bluffing. The stained head of an axe dances back and forth.

“One.”

Lucy backtracks.

“Oh, come on, kid. Look! I’m also not bluffing! I’ve got the full cart right here!”

“Two.”

Peter pulls at Lucy. The street end closes tightly with packed bodies. He can almost see their smell and pulls at the cart.

“Come on! We’ve got to go! She’s not letting us in.”

The door continues, “Six.”

Lucy mean-mugs the door, and its counting, and gives in. They remake their earlier arrangement and take the cart back into the street. That’s when he sees it. The next house. The next garage. The rolling door stands open. A garage is better than nothing.

“Look! Look over there!”

Lucy’s eyes widen at the possibility, and they high-tail it into the open space. They roll the cart into a back corner and start to fumble with the manual release to free the door.

“What are you doing in my garage?”

Peter is making almost wetting himself a habit as he spins to face the short, older woman standing on the step leading into the house.

“Granny, we don’t have time to explain! Those things are coming! We need to get this door down!”

Lucy is frantic, and it rubs off on the woman.

“Stop that! Get out of my house. You can’t close this door. My husband is out there. He didn’t bring his key. He can’t get back in if it’s closed.”

Lucy ignores the woman and pulls at the chain holding the door open.

“Lady, I hate to tell you, if your husband is out there, well, he’s not coming back. Not the way you want him back. Believe me, it’s better.”

The woman’s already wrinkled face curls into even more creases. Her lower lip quivers slightly. She takes a slow and long inhale.

“Hon! Hon, where are you? Help! Police! These people are breaking into my house!”

Lucy rockets forward and tries to cup the woman’s mouth with a greasy hand.

“Shut up, bitch! You want to die? You want to get us all killed!? Shut up!”

The woman struggles and proves to be more physically apt than her small posture suggests. She squirms and evades. She continues to shout. She breaks free of the grip and grabs a metal rake from a hook on the far wall. She bangs it on the cement floor.

Peter and Lucy group together on the opposite side. They circle while avoiding the swinging claws of the rake. The woman moves to pin them against the far inner corner with her back facing the opening.

Lucy pinches Peter. Her eyes shoot up to the garage door opener. The chain hangs free. The only thing keeping the door open is its own weight. She blinks and gives a short nod to Peter, then charges.

The old woman is taken aback and is too slow to raise the rake to make a blow. Lucy half-tackles her, and they both stumble and roll out onto the driveway. The two women separate and end up in sprawled positions close to the sidewalk.

Peter can’t see, but Lucy’s expression tells him how close the horde is. She yells for him to close it, and he reacts. He pulls at the front end of the elevated door, and it swings forward. It starts to close, and Lucy dives under just as the old woman starts to sit up.

The door swings all the way down to meet the weather lining. Lucy jams the left metal locking bolt into the side frame. She jumps over Peter and does the same to the right, securing the garage door, sealing them inside and the old woman out.

They breathe heavily and, without a word, pull the shopping cart to the inner door. Lucy checks the kitchen. It’s empty. They lift the cart in and lock the door behind them.

“Let’s check the rest of the house to make sure it’s empty. Then we need to board the doors and windows. Come on, we need to move fast.”

Peter agrees. Lucy’s always right.

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Mrs. Williams stands up and can only see a warbling mass of dark without her glasses. They must have fallen off in that tumble. Her wrist, her arm, and her leg all hurt.

A figure comes into the foreground in a flurry of hurried motions. Mrs. Williams’ body refuses to move back at the speed she wants it to, and she nearly tumbles over again.

“Mrs. Williams!”

It’s a familiar voice, and the figure takes shape as a ragged version of Shelly. The poor girl looks like she’s aged ten years since a few days ago when she dug and filled that hole in their yard. Come to think of it, that’s the same day her husband left. Has she really been waiting for days?

“Mrs. Williams! Hurry up! Come on, get up, we need to go! They’re almost here. We need to get inside!”

Shelly drags the old woman up by a frail arm and wraps it over her neck and shoulder. She hoists up and pulls the weight like it’s a sack full of bones and meat. That’s all they’ll both be if she doesn’t hurry.

“Oh dear, my arm. My leg. I think I hurt them. Those people. They kicked me out of my own house! We need to call...”

“Mrs. Williams, there’s nobody to call. And we need to move. Right now! Pain or no. If we don’t, we’re done for.”

The old woman nods and bites her lip against the shock of pain that travels up her leg with the first pressure. Shelly pulls her at a pace she thinks is impossible to keep up with, but they move, step for step, to Shelly’s front door.

The massive shape has a sound, and individual figures take form in her blurred vision as they cross the threshold. Shelly slams the door and lets the older woman drop to the floor. That dog of theirs doesn’t miss a beat and barks in time with what sounds like a hammer pounding.

Shelly leans against the door and breathes out a heavy exhale. The banging continues.

“Come on, I think it’s better if we go to the back of the house. They won’t hear us back there. Give it a few hours, I think they’ll give up.”

Mrs. Williams doesn’t know if Shelly is talking to her or the dog. Maybe both, but then Shelly helps her up, and she knows the instructions were meant for her. They hobble down the hall, past the stairs, and move to the kitchen.

Both sit heavily at the dining table and keep a long silence. After a while, Shelly gets up and gets them water. She pulls a small first aid kit from a drawer.

“Let’s take a look. Let’s see if I can help fix what you’ve got broken.”

Jannine sits on the porch and takes in the new day with disappointment. The old swing is anything but comfortable. Its hard wooden frame pinches at her spine. The baby weighs on the other. Her bones scream for help. She lets out a long exhale. What a time for the world to end.

Or maybe it hasn’t. She can’t tell, not from here. All she can see are fields. They look so peaceful. It can’t be that the rest of the world has stopped. But it’s what the news had said.

That’s when they were still back home. Before her dad came in a hurry and swooped them up and brought them here. Just in case.

That was the phrase of the day. Just in case what they say has any truth to it. Just in case it’s not what they say it is, but something different. Just in case it might be something worse. Let’s go, just in case.

She thought it was an overreaction. The news always goes wild. A world war is breaking out every other day. Every other hour. Whatever gets those ratings up. Whatever gets the people up.

But this did seem different. When they left, she noticed some of the other neighbors packing their cars. There were even a few boarding up their windows. One clearly made a raid on the grocery store and was carrying overflowing bags back into the house.

It had a reality to it that allowed her to get whisked away without much further questioning or debate. Jared was away for business. The client wanted a face-to-face at their offices in Chicago. He doesn’t have to travel often, so it didn’t seem like a big deal at the time. It’s not like the baby is due any day. They still have over two more months.

The last time she talked to him was three days ago. He was safe in his hotel. He said the city was on a kind of lockdown. The streets were full of military. The hotel told the guests to stay in their rooms and delivered packages with all they would need for a few days, as far as food, drinks, and toiletries. They even included a bottle of wine for the inconvenience.

Nothing works now. Not her phone, computer, tablet, or even the TV. Even the old radio in the kitchen only spouts static. She is worried. It’s so strange to be so disconnected.

The sun peeks over the eastern hill and cuts the tips of the grass. It drives into her eyes and blinds her. She closes them and opts to listen. She knows the sound. That old rattle and roll of her dad’s ancient pick-up.

It was part of this place when they bought it. They’re not farmers. Not by far. No, they live just on the outskirts of what most consider the metropolitan area, but it’s just your run-of-the-mill suburbs. The newer ones, not the more compact mid-century ones.

Her dad saw this place and bought it at a steal. It was a while ago. Nine years now. She was still a teenager then. She loved the place from the second they pulled over the small hill in the lane. She already liked the dirt path, but the little farmhouse peeking out of the different colored fields just tickled her. When she and Jared are older, they’ll retire and move here. That was the plan.

Now, she doesn’t know and shields her eyes from the morning light. She doesn’t hear anything outside the soft blow of grass. It’s different from leaves. They crackle and fight for space. Grass gives in.

Her dad left two days ago. She wanted to come, but he gave a hard no. Jannine’s stepmom wanted to go. He gave a hard no to her, too. Laila didn’t want to go. She never wanted to come here in the first place.

Laila’s a lot younger. By twelve years. It was strange for Jannine to get a half-sibling at that age. She felt too old. She feels the same now. They never really got along. Not that they don’t like each other, it’s just age and temperance. They’re two very different people. Laila is a carbon copy of their dad. Jannine is told she takes after her mom.

Her stepmom, Beth, is lovely. She doesn’t have anything bad to say about her. She sees her more as an older sister than a mother figure, which both have accepted and settled into. They work well together and share the nervous excitement in expecting the new addition to the family.

She feels safer, in the warming morning, knowing those two are still up in their beds. It makes this place feel more like home, but it doesn’t dispel the growing pit of worry settling in her swollen belly.

Her mind winds back to the puttering of her dad’s pickup. They talked it over. They agreed they needed more to stay here longer. Food. Medicine. There’s a well, so they’re set with water, but everything else is rusted with disuse. He took his pickup with the idea to load it with plywood sheets and nails, and other building materials to close the house down, if it came to that.

He said not to worry. He said he’d be right back. He waved and gave a big smile, then pulled down the lane.

Two days have never felt so long.

The sun climbs, and the wind settles into a pleasant morning. Jannine needs to get up. The rickety swing is too much for her back to handle. She rises, stretches up onto her toes, and shakes her arms like rubber bands. She tilts left, then right.

She can’t drink coffee. She used to love it, but since the end of the first trimester, she can’t stand the smell. The last time she tried with a cup of decaf, she nearly threw up. Since then, she sticks to decaf tea with a splash of milk. They don’t have any cows or milk, so she’ll have to do with just the tea.

The kettle whistles and footsteps tromp down the stairs. The two others appear in the doorway, as if the kettle were a starting pistol. Beth hugs Jannine and asks how she’s feeling. Laila stomps by and throws some thin bread onto a plate. She looks annoyed, as usual.

The three sit around the table and nibble at a small breakfast. They avoid the obvious question, and any conversation melts away to silence until Laila speaks up, “You know we’re going to have to go get him, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll be back at any time now.”

Beth’s answer closes the topic before it can really begin, but it remains in the air with extra weight.

Jannine doesn’t think Laila is wrong. It’s been too long. The next possible place to get all the things they listed would be a medium- to bigger-town, and the nearest one of those is a good drive away. Highway driving means a good chance that the way is blocked. Either by cars, military, or whatever else might block a large stretch.

She hopes he didn’t go home. Or worse, to the city. He might just do that. He’s an old, stubborn dog who outright rejects new tricks. Possible apocalypse or not, if he wants to do something his way, he’s going to do it.

She gets up and stretches her back. The old, wooden stools that serve as rustic dining table chairs hurt as much as the porch swing.

She goes to the sink and looks out the smudged window. She leans over the cool basin. The tightness in her lower spine doesn’t ease. It creeps around her hips and converges on her belly button. It’s as if talons are squeezing simultaneously from the inside and outside. She doubles over, giving in to the acceptance of pain.

Beth rushes to her side. They lie on the hardwood floor. Everything in this house is made of hard wood. They take deep breaths together, and Beth beckons for a tall glass of cold water. Laila delivers without saying a word, kneels, and takes Jannine’s hand.

They all stay in this odd pyramid for a full seven and a half minutes before the pain slightly subsides.

Jannine sits up, “Oh God, it can’t be, not yet. It can’t be contractions, not this early.”

Beth shakes her head, “I don’t know. Anything is possible. If it is, it will come again.”

They all pull up from the floor and sit back at the table, then decide better and move to the sofa in the sitting room. They give the space to Jannine, and she spreads out over the cushions. The pain throbs with a dull flicker that doesn’t completely leave. It tingles up to her shoulder blades.

“I think it’s my back. It hurts there, not in my belly. God, it goes all the way up. It goes to my neck. It’s like a sting, or I don’t know. Like a small fire is running up the middle.”

“Maybe you pinched a nerve?” Beth wonders.

“We need to get out of here. This dust trap isn’t doing us any good. We need to find Jan a doctor, and we need to find Dad. Come on, we need to be realistic here and not sit pretty hoping for the best.”

Laila’s words sit too deeply in reason for either of the other two to pretend that she isn’t right.

“Alright, OK. Maybe you’re right,” admits Beth, “But let’s take it slow, and not lose our heads here. The cars are full of our picture albums and that kind of stuff. I’ll go clear my car. It has more sitting space. Everything will be fine in the garage for now. Laila, get stuff ready in here. Pack a pillow and some blankets, plenty of water, and some food we can eat easily. Maybe make a few sandwiches and a small salad with the stuff from the garden. And... I don’t know, but something to pee in. It might be best if we try not to leave the car if we really don’t have to. I’m not sure what we have. Get inventive.”

With the plan laid out, they each play their roles to sort, gather, and prepare. Jannine stays put on the sofa.

Twenty-four minutes later, they pile into the Audi SUV, and Beth backs down the long drive. The sun sits overhead, and the day settles into a warm early afternoon with bees and birds. The grass brightens and reaches up. It almost waves as they drive down the lane, leaving the locked house in the rearview mirror.

Sharp stabs dive up Jannine’s back with each bump hit on the gravel path. Regret sits in as she replays her earlier arguments against paving the way to the house.

The brakes are pumped, and she nearly rolls off the back seat. The dust settles, and the tipped tractor comes back into view like a beast from the mists. It nearly blocks the lane, and Beth has to go even more off-road to circle around it.

As they pass, Jannine can’t help but look. She props up on her elbows and peers out the rear window. The driver’s cabin is hidden behind brown-stained glass. Dirt and muck cover the outside while something else covers the inside. She can just make out smudged handprints and isn’t sure if they’re static or not. She lies back down. The effort sends a new round of pain up to her neck.

The car settles into a wavy up and down as it travels the lane. Each side is nearly swallowed by overgrowth. It scrapes at the doors and knocks on the windows as they pass until they hit the junction. The lane stays unpaved, but splits into three and widens. The landscape slopes in a steady downturn and reveals a view that reaches all the way to the small dots that are skyscrapers.

“That’s weird.”

“What?” asks Jannine without wanting to prop up again.

“Just... well, it looks so... normal, is all.”

Beth agrees, “Maybe everything in the news was just an overexaggeration. I mean, wouldn’t you think you’d see plumes of smoke, or what? A more obvious devastation? Maybe everything’s back to normal?”

“Still no network,” Laila raises her phone out the window. Her phone is the last with any juice. It reads flat and displays a circling icon.

“Well, I don’t know,” Beth looks both ways, “Right is where Pop probably went, but left would get us to a hospital sooner.”

Jannine makes the call for all of them, “Sorry, Dad, but I need help here. My back hurts, but I’m more worried about the baby. I think we should head to the nearest hospital.”

The car lurches forward and goes left without any further questions. They trundle down the lane, and Jannine braces herself for every bump. She knows this way, and the hospital. They’re heading toward the coast. There’s this small town next to the hospital, which is one of the largest in the area. She and Jared ate at the diner there once, then took a stroll down to the inlet with its docks and small fishing boats. The word is quaint.

As the slow trip wears on, sleep threatens Jannine’s eyes. They grow heavy and dull with the slow throbs of pain and weaves of the struggling suspension. She nearly nods off until the car comes to a slow halt.

“What the hell?”

The bewildered statement filters from the front seat and begs her to sit up. She shifts her elbows down into the seats and picks her head up to look out the windshield.

The sun dances between shifting clouds, and the wind has picked up. It could be a small spat of a thunderstorm. It happens by the coast, but that’s not what stopped their forward progress. A few hundred yards ahead, the lane turns from the endless gravel to a smooth, paved surface. The main way to the hospital is up that way, but it’s blocked.

The intersection is packed with a crowd. They fill it from end to end. They look to be huddled, swaying in place. Some worm in and out of the crowd.

“What are they doing?” Beth asks.

“Don’t know. Look at how many. God, that must be hundreds of people,” Laila fumbles in a bag by her feet, “Hold on. I have a pair of binoculars here, somewhere.”

Jannine strains her eyes. She doesn’t need glasses, but at this distance, she can’t make out any details, but they’re right. It’s a mass of people, almost folding in and out of itself. It looks like a single organism consuming itself over and over again.

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

Both front seat passengers turn around at her statement. The looks on their faces show the same concern.

“I don’t think we should go that way. It doesn’t look right. Those people... They don’t look normal. Just look at how they move, but kind of stick together. It just... There’s something not normal about it. Why would they all be out in the street like that?”

Beth shifts in her seat to better face Jannine. She hoists her weight against the steering wheel to make the pivot. Her hand slips, and the bottom of her palm slides. It honks the horn in a short blast.

“Oops. Look, I know it looks weird, I agree. But it’s just a group of people. We’re in the car, and that’s the fastest way to the hospital. Look, I’m sure once we drive there, they’ll split and let us pass. Maybe we can ask what’s going on. It might be some kind of a camp or something...”

“Um, Ma?”

“What, Laila? I’m in the middle of a sent...”

“They’re coming.”

“What?”

All eyes shoot forward. The mass stirs and lurches forward, out of the intersection and onto the unpaved lane. They move as a group. Jannine thinks of an octopus skirting along the ocean floor.

The surge flows up the lane. Some of the bodies in the front stumble. Some are overtaken. They disappear under the ones behind. They come for the idling car.

“Uh, Ma, I think you need to go! We need to go!”

Beth throws the car in reverse. Her nerves shoot the car back and into the overreaching bushes hovering along the lane’s edge. She puts it in D and hits the gas and veers to the left. They leave a small cloud of dust in their wake. Jannine looks back a long time. The corner they were at nearly disappears from view as the first figures round the turn. She can hardly see them, but it doesn’t change the feeling they all share.

“OK. OK, we’re OK,” Beth reassures from the driver’s seat, “Jannine, are you OK? I think maybe that lot wasn’t friendly. We’ll try our luck this way.”

“I’m fine. Yeah, it’s OK. I think you’re right. Better to get out of there. Anyway, I know this way. It’s longer, but it’ll take you up the back way. It goes by this little inlet, through the town, then we’ll circle back up to the hospital. Jared and I took this way back home last time we were by here.”

The lane lumbers on, and the sky darkens. Jannine’s back continues to stab with pain, but she keeps a tight lip. It can’t go on so much longer now. They should be close to the town. Maybe they stop at the diner. If she can get out and stretch, it might be better. Besides that, she has to pee and would rather not attempt it in whatever bowl contraption Laila rigged up.

“Hey, look, we’re there. There! You can see, out on the water, there’s a boat. It has its light on.”

Beth slows down and points to the boat bobbing out in the middle. Their headlights shine down and sparkle off the water’s surface.

“Ma, look...”

Beth stops the car.

“Hold on...”

Laila looks through the binoculars. Her brow wrinkles with confusion.

“There’s a guy. On the boat. He’s waving. I think he’s waving at us. Ma, stop. Pull over.”

The car comes to a standstill on the edge of the lane. Laila jumps out and runs to the water’s edge. She looks, then waves frantically. The light flickers on the boat. Laila holds the binoculars up to her eyes for a long time. She stands still like a rock. The wind ripples through her hair.

Then she runs back to the car.

“Get in! Lock the doors! Turn off the light. Keep quiet. We need to wait.”

“Wait for what?” asks Jannine.

“For him, he’s coming. He can help us.”

“Help us with what?”

“With what’s just ahead, around the next turn.”

I shout after him, “Where are you going?”

“Ma!” he says, “Ma, it’s important! It’s our lives we’re fighting for!”

Like I buy that. It’s just another excuse for them to yippee-ki-yay all over the place. Throwing up sparks, like there’s some kind of boozy revolution. No, sir, I’ve seen enough in my lifetime to know what’s what. All a waste of time, if you ask me. Nothing changes in a night.

Still, I can hear those idiots out there. Cackling like a band of he-banshees. Testosterone fuel. They get each other going like a pack of baboons. I don’t miss being young. Not when such thick stupidity coats everything. No, sir!

I get out of my chair. It’s not as easy as it used to be. I don’t mind, it’s more comfortable that way. It sags in all the right places. Fits like a glove. That’s what happens over time. Things form to you and you to them. The whole world can be narrowed down to a few, comfy nests. No need to move, and no want to, either.

But these idiots out there. Look at them, lighting up the whole street with their sparks. They’ll wake the dead.

I open the front window. The little one that’s next to the door. It swings out. The street is full. That’s nothing new, but they’re acting strange. Maybe it’s the fire down the road. That’s also not new. The sirens will be here soon enough, then all these little birdies will fly back home, where their mamas have dinner and beds waiting. The mamas always have these things ready, with no thanks.

I yell at them.

“Shut up, you lot!”

“Go back home to your mamas! Stop being such nuisances!”

That gets their attention. Look at them, a whole mob, coming up this way. I yell some more.

“That’s right! Go on home!”

One breaks out in front of the pack. They head straight for my house. For my open window. They don’t look right. They look sick. Hurt.

They crash into my house and reach through the window. I tumble back in a yelling mess.

“What’s wrong with you!”

Hands and arms push through my little window. They break the glass. Blood squirts everywhere. It’s a mess. They’re messing up my house!

It’s hard to get up, but I do. I manage. No, these wild drunkards, these heathens won’t keep me down for long. I’ve outlived them this far. I bark mad like a dog.

“Get out of my house!”

That riles them up even more. The tiny hole is filled, and the banging starts on my door. The group spills over to the front window. And that’s when I see him. My son. My own son, out there, pressed against the glass with the rest of them. Has he gone mad? What has the world done to him? I didn’t raise my child to be like this.

He looks at me and sucks at the glass.

“Baby, what’s wrong with you? What’s gotten into you?”

I’ve lost my glasses. The details blur. He looks like he’s wearing thick lipstick. What have these people done to him? I go to the window for a better look. To try and get him to see some sense. Stop all this craziness.

“It’s me, your mama. Now, you knock it off with all this. You hear me?”

My son, my boy, he raises his hands like in church. They stretch above his head, and I can see all this close. I see him, just on the other side of the glass. I see he’s not right. He’s a mess, just like the others. They’re all smeared, all gone completely mad. They look like a pack of wild animals.

My son, his hands come crashing down. They crack right through the glass, and splinters fly everywhere. I hear them. They don’t say anything that makes any sense. Cavemen. All men, some boys. They push through and peel all the skin off their forearms. I see it. I don’t need my glasses to.

My son, his head pokes through. It’s pushed through, forward in front of the others behind him. Pushed through like being birthed. That was my job.

His face. It changes to something else. He doesn’t look the same. He looks like a monster, and he squeezes through the crack. He slides into my house in a pool of mess. It stains the carpet like spilled chocolate milk. It’ll never come out.

I roll back. Now my body feels more like a burden. Why won’t it move the way it used to? The way I need it to now? Hurry up, legs, hurry up, arms. He’s coming.

My boy, my son, he slithers across the floor, grabbing for me. I told him not to go out. Look what they did to my boy. Those others, pushing through the glass too.

He grabs for me. He grabs me. I try to kick, but it’s no use. His hands slide up my shin. They stain there too. He bites me. It’s like a bear trap. Down, hard on my foot. I can’t see, maybe he’s even taken a few toes.

Move body. I squirm away. I kick back. Something in me. I take on a different kind of instinct. Survival. It overrides my motherly concerns about kicking my own son in his bleeding face. His eyes. I finally kick away.

Two others fall in. They hit the floor and start to drag more, long stains. It takes a moment, but I find my feet. I use my chair to pull my body up, and I stand. I warble without all my toes.

I can’t look at this scene. Look at them. Always trying to invade. And my poor boy, still laid out on the floor. My poor boy turned into whatever they turned him into. I want to hold him, but I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me again.

I hobble upstairs. It’s hard, but I pull the hall wardrobe the best I can. I try to block the way. They haven’t followed yet, and I go to my room. I go to my bathroom. The door has a lock, and I lock it. I sit on the toilet. It takes a lot of effort. I wish my body could sink into the hard surface and turn it soft.

I close my eyes. They feel heavy, like my body. It holds me down. My foot hurts.

My son. What did they do to him? What have they done to themselves? These self-proclaimed revolutionaries. Down to breaking and entering and violence. I told him not to go out there, and now look.

I feel tired, so tired. I wish I could sink into my chair. Watch my shows. The Price is Right. Fall asleep with the taste of meatloaf and buttered carrots in my mouth, and my boy laid out on the sofa. Safe and with me. With his mama.

Instead, he ran off. Now I’m here, on the toilet like a rung-out Elvis impersonator. Hunka burning love. I’m so tired.

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The downstairs floods with bodies that grapple over each other. They fill the floor like a secondary carpet and trip the ones coming in through the shattered window. The body that was once the woman’s son stays pinned with his face deep in shag.

The woman slumps on the toilet. She leans to the right, against the counter. The water runs cold and sloshes down the open drain. Her fingertips dip into the cool flow.

Her heel lies in a pool of deep red. The bitten foot, looking not much more than grizzled meat and a few splayed bones, funneled all the thick stuff out. From the heart to the floor. Nevermore.

She is quiet. The hours have settled her breathing. Her body makes a slow transition to a thing that’s, for the moment, stilled.

The rest of the world surges on, and others, in other houses, meet various fates. The water continues to run. It sprinkles against the sides of the sink in a steady gait.

Its fingers move.

They start with a small shiver of several spasms. They elongate, then curl back into a claw of hooks. The forearm tightens, then releases.

The toes that are left follow suit. They crimp and ease in a steady beat.

The thing’s eyelids open slowly and stop at half-mast, revealing eyes that are clouded by a rolling fog. Ships could get lost in them.

The mouth gaps as if hanging on strings attached to the rising head. It levels, and the cheeks sag.

The body lulls and swaggers. It spins slightly like a top-heavy bottle before falling to the floor in a thick, sticky thud. It wiggles. It worms. It gets up on all fours like a beast. Its hair falls into the smeared mess across the floor and drags it to the corners of the tiny room.

It stands up on slow legs. It falls, then moves back upward. It rolls up to a steady pose. It looks into the mirror without seeing. The cold water runs. It stands.

In a quick moment, it grabs at the water. It brings its face down and slams its mouth into the faucet. The cheap metal pinches under the teeth that split with hairline fractures. The hands roam wild. The tongue leaches. It clamps down again. Splintered teeth rattle into the sink basin and down the drain.

The fingers twist and grab. One latches onto the handle and involuntarily shuts down the water flow besides a few last drips. The sink goes silent, and the persistent biting quits soon after. The face rises to stare in the mirror again. The mouth looks shattered.

The body stands at a still salute. It stays and stays. Ready. Inactive. In a state of hibernation, outside of slight twitches and small sway of weight.

Then it moves. With a force and purpose. It rams against the closed door and shakes the entire frame. The cheap, inner surface cracks away to sawdust with the next blow. Its hands break into the door’s hollow chamber. They grope at the space.

The crowd downstairs responds and builds an echo chamber. The thing in the bathroom’s hands purge forward, rattling the door, and bodies stumble at an attempt to make it up the stairs.

The tight staircase packs like an overfilled subway car, and a few of the bodies spill over the wooden railing to land below with heavy thuds. They fall like heavy rain. The bathroom door shakes in time.

The thin outer layer of the door gives way. Crooked fingers reach through to the open air and swipe at nothing. The sunken face follows. The mass squeezes into the slotted hole until the hinges give way and release the door with a yawn. The thing falls with it and lands in the hallway, free from the confining bathroom.

It stands in a slow arch. Its head turns and jangles the limp hair towards the stairs. A group of others pushes against the slanted wardrobe. They push it back. The gap increases, and they break through. Both sides meet in the slanting light coming from the window down the hall.

The bathroom thing merges with the coming crowd. They mingle as a mass around the hall, filling it from wall to wall.

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Outside the house, the street ebbs and flows with tides of them. Groups form and disperse like so many waves crashing against smooth rock. A single door is smothered with warped figures. They slam with increasing force toward the sounds coming from the inside.

Someone knocks on the inner wall. On the door. Against the front window. They shout. They jump up and down. They rattle the aggressors. They draw them in.

The person inside is still alive. They waited it out as long as they could. They formulated a plan. They aim to execute it.

The street clears as the milling bodies curve toward the grouping at the door. They spread outward and creep toward the edge of the window.

The person is dressed to the nines in outdoor gear and sports an oversized hiking backpack. It’s topped with a heavily rolled sleeping bag. Car keys jingle, wrapped in between their fingers.

They peek out the window. It’s as good as it’s ever going to get. They knock off the knocking and run as quietly as possible to the garage. They know time is tight. The moment the motor fires up, it will set off the stopwatch. It might only be a window of seconds. They hope those seconds add up to around thirty. That’s all the time they need.

They hop in the car. They insert the key. They take a breath. They count to a long three. They turn the key and push the button that opens the garage door.

The car revs to life. The door rolls open. The masses outside shift in time. The person throws the car in reverse and slam on the gas pedal.

The tires spin and squeal on smooth concrete. They catch, finally, and propel the car backwards, into the first few bodies. They bounce off, land on the incoming crowd, and are pushed back and forth to be pinned between the two moving objects. Pinballs going for bonus points.

The car is slammed and tilts to the right, almost jutting up. It skids backwards and curves off the straight course.

It accelerates and rams into the streetlamp. The post buckles, and the top-heavy light falls with a resounding crash into the street.

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The hallway comes to life. The bodies shift and move, triggered by a loud crash. Those downstairs filter out to the street. Those occupying the stairs filter to the ground floor, and those upstairs filter onto the staircase.

It moves toward the back of the descending crowd. It shuffles past the bathroom door with no hesitation or reflection on its previously caught state. It moves past the wardrobe that does not register as its former attempt at safety.

It moves down the stairs that have been under its feet for most of its life. It moves past the chair that sinks and folds into the form of its body.

It moves to the cracked open window. It steps over other bodies that litter the floor. One of them its former son. It steps between the shoulder blades and adjusts for the moving ground. It leaves the house and filters to the street like all the others.

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The person comes to and swipes the exploded white bag out of the way. The car horn blares. The roof and hood are dented in, following the outline of the fallen pole.

The back windshield is cracked and hangs loose in the frame. Fingers and the tops of heads grab through the outer cracks. The car is surrounded. The front windows start to fog with the panicked breaths.

The horn doesn’t stop.

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The bodies on the street merge on the sound. They wrap around the object. They enclose it like a warm blanket. A cocoon.

The thing’s weight gives it an advantage over the others. It swings its mass forward and knocks the ones less steady out of the way.

It reaches the object and presses its mouth against the smooth surface. It’s close enough to catch movement with its milky eyes.

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A gnarled woman slams into the driver’s side window. She sucks at the glass. Her fists pound until small fractures spread like spider webs.

Other hands join. She slams her face into the glass. They both split.

The driver screams. The horn blares. A death rattle.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The surface gives. It stuffs its mouth in. It follows a shrill alarm. It does what it does. It bites down. It grabs a mouthful of something soft and forgiving. It bites and bites.

It stops with a wet face. The sound dies. It pulls back out. It stands. It does nothing.

A street over another engine fires to life.

It moves. Its bulking mass fills the street as another body in the crowd. They move in a unison that might just make a mother proud.

“Hmmm?”

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“It was a loud knock.”

“What? No, I didn’t hear anything.”

“It sounded like it came... there! There it is again.”

“Yeah, OK, I heard that.”

“You going to check it out?”

“It’s probably just raccoons in the trash again.”

“Come on, John, just go check it.”

“Helen, really. It’s the middle of the night.”

“But you know, last week, someone tried to break in next door. If their dog hadn’t lost his mind barking, they could have been robbed blind. Or worse.”

“Oh, Helen. That wasn’t a robber. It was just Shelly sneaking in after curfew.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I saw her. Caught her red-handed but promised to let it slide. The one time. She’s a good kid. She can break the rules every so often.”

“Still, it’s a weeknight.”

“Is it?”

“OK, Mr. Retired... some of us still need to get up in the morning.”

“Alright, alright. You go back to sleep. I’ll check it out.”

“Thank you... and...”

“Yeah?”

“Say hi to the raccoons for me. They’re cute.”

“Oh my God, Helen. You are really... just sometimes.”

“Love you, too.”

John stretches out of bed. His back is stiff even though he’d followed the doctor’s and Helen’s nagging about doing his daily stretches and exercise routine. He doesn’t even really do it for himself, but it’s a great argument tool to have when Helen doesn’t want to do her end of the exercise. Her replacement hip still gives her some trouble, though she usually denies it.

He throws on his robe and pulls up his house pants. It’s early, still dark out, but now he’s wide awake. He could use a cup of coffee. What else does he have to do?

He goes downstairs and turns on the lights in the kitchen. He flips on the coffee machine and makes sure it starts to fuss. He hopes all this action is enough to scare away whatever critter is banging around outside.

Sometimes they get stuck in the pool. They don’t cover it in the summers, and there have been a few times he’s found squirrels grasping onto the filter edges.

He grabs his mug and looks out the kitchen window. He takes a sip. He doesn’t see it at first, but catches it after a minute.

A dark silhouette stands out against the dim pool lights. It seems to shimmer in the night air, and it takes a minute for John to be sure it is a person.

The figure looks to be slouching, gazing into the rippling surface of the pool. A breeze knocks the water around, but they stand still. They wear a thin jacket that almost looks like it’s in tatters, as the wind ruffles it around like party streamers.

John’s senses go on high alert. They’ve never had a trespasser before. It was never even a real thought. Their neighborhood is safe. They don’t even lock their doors half the time. But there it is, right in front of him. There they are in the swimming light. Standing.

That’s the first thing that strikes him as odd after the initial shock. Why break into the yard just to look at the pool? Wouldn’t they be trying to pick the back door handle or open a side window? What value does the pool have?

He finds the coffee hitting his lips in an automatic motion as he thinks the situation through. He’s lit like a display window. There’s no way the person hasn’t noticed his entrance to the kitchen. There’s no way they can’t see him plain as day. Either they have balls like kettlebells, or they’re insane. Maybe drugged out. That would explain a lot.

John is stuck on the spot. He’s not sure if going out is smart or if staying in is dumb. He takes another long sip of coffee. It tastes extra good this morning. He thinks of Helen upstairs. He hopes she fell back asleep. He doesn’t want her to be afraid in her own house.

Enough is enough. John grabs a knife, the largest one out of the wooden block that sits on the counter, next to the sink. He doesn’t plan to use it but knows how intimidating it looks. He’s a big guy, over the six-and-a-half-foot mark, and his age has pushed up his weight into the heavyweight class. He hopes it’s enough to scare them off.

Just in case he grabs his phone off the charger and starts to record. Better to have everything on video. If things go south, he can go back in, lock the door, and call the cops. He’ll have the whole interaction documented to avoid any hearsay later.

He turns on the flashlight, presses record, and leaves the kitchen.

“It’s three thirty-eight in the morning. My wife and I heard some noise in our yard. I went to our kitchen, which has a view of the backyard, and saw a trespasser by our pool. I’m going out to ask if they are OK and inform them that they are trespassing. If they take any action besides leaving, I will go back inside and call the police. This is a video to document all of this. There they are. You can see them by the pool. They’ve been just standing there, staring at the water for about the last five minutes. I don’t know how long they’ve been there before that. OK, here I go...”

John leads with the bright light of the phone. As he approaches, the person still doesn’t react. They continue to stand. They continue to stay fixated on the water. The wind picks up a bit.

“Hello? Hi. You, there! Are you OK? You’re in my yard. This is private property. What are you doing in my yard?”

The figure jerks up at attention. It turns with a slow, methodical twist toward John. He can smell them. It’s like a wave that makes him cough back sick in his throat.

It’s a man. At least it looks like a badly battered representation of one. He completes his turn to John’s horror.

The knife falls to the ground, and John quickly dials 911. A busy tone bleats on in his ear. He takes a few steps back.

“Oh my God. Oh, man! Are you OK? I mean, look at you! Just sit down, relax. I’m calling an ambulance!”

The man steps forward with an unsteady lurch. He lets out a slow grumble that sounds more like a dog in the back corner of a shelter cage. His clothes are ripped, wet, and full of dark stains. His jawline is scratched open and exposes his moving teeth. They clamp around his mostly severed tongue.

The rest of his face matches with deep tracks of red and gore. One eye sinks back, far too deep, into his skull. He looks nearly scalped, though John can’t make out if it’s a hairpiece fluttering in the wind, or the man’s actual skin.

“I think you should sit down. Shit! Why is it busy?”

John pounds on his phone to redial. It’s busy again. He tries a third time and is met with the same repeating tone.

“Come on, you son of a bitch!”

“John!”

“Helen? Honey, stay inside. There’s a man out here. I think he’s hurt. Bad. I can’t get through to an ambulance.”

“John! Look out!”

The man by the pool is almost on top of him. John hadn’t seen him make the unexpectedly quick progress across the patio. His eyes were glued to his phone, but divert to look directly into the man’s, only a few paces away. They’re dull, like clouded fishbowls.

“Whoa, mister. Hold on. Just take a beat, now. Take a step back.”

Despite his height advantage, the man’s presence sends John backpedaling to the kitchen door.

“Honey. John. What’s wrong with him? Oh my God. John! Look at him. What’s wrong with him?”

“Go back in, Helen! Get inside! There’s something not right with him.”

“John!”

The man quickens his pace and lunges. Two patio chairs fly to the wayside and skid across the polished concrete. John falls back over another and sends the table tumbling to its side. He lands with a thud on his back and feels a pop in his shoulder. Intense pain rockets from his neck down to his left leg.

The man is on top of him. The exposed jaws snap in quick succession. John has never smelled it before, but he still knows what it is. This man reeks of death. Of rot. Of the ending of all life. The teeth are chipped into sharp shards.

“John!”

“Stay back! This guy is crazy! Helen, lock the door!”

Helen instead hustles to help her husband. She picks up the knife next to the struggling duo’s feet and rams it hard into the man’s back, just between the spine and right shoulder blade.

The man turns his attention to her. He grabs out and latches onto her forearm. His fingers are dirty and cracked. His shrapnel teeth clench just under her wrist. The color drains from her face.

“You son of a bitch!”

John tackles the man, and they tumble toward the water’s edge.

“John! Watch out!”

The two splash in and stain the water a murky mess. It sloshes into a dark brown mix of struggle and stillness.

The waves settle to a calm, and the reflected light halts its dance. Helen stumbles toward the edge, trying to make out any movement under the surface.

“John? Oh God! John?”

A form explodes on the opposite side, by the hooked ladder, diving into the deep end. John pulls himself over the edge and sputters and coughs. The other blurry shape remains sunken.

“Helen? Helen! Are you OK?”

“Oh, John! Thank God. Are you OK?”

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“What’s wrong with that man? Did you see him? He looked like he was half eaten by a pack of wolves.”

“I know. I don’t know how he could still move like that. Someone with those types of injuries. I don’t know, hon, you’d think he’d either be in shock or just in so much pain. I really don’t know... but that doesn’t matter. I don’t think he’s coming back up. Did he get you? Let me see your arm.”

Helen leans down to her husband and holds out her forearm. The man left a nasty mark. A clear semi-circle of punctures surrounded by deepening purple bruises. Droplets of blood leak from each hole like thick runs of rustic paint.

“He got me, but it’s not too bad.”

“Hon! That looks terrible! God only knows what that guy has for diseases. We need to get you to a hospital.”

“Maybe you’re right. From the look of him... he wasn’t normal.”

“Normal or not, a person bit you. I think that’s hospital-worthy. And I should probably call the cops. Better to get them involved as quickly as possible.”

“Right, right. But maybe we do it from inside? I’d feel better being behind a locked door.”

“I guess. I don’t think he’s going to be any more trouble.”

“I don’t know, John. There’s something not right about him. He gives me the creeps. I just... I don’t know, I have a feeling. I think we’d go in and lock everything up. Maybe there’s more like him around.”

“Dear God, let’s hope not. That’s the last thing we need is a pack of lunatics running around biting people. Bunch of crackheads. Jesus. Alright, let’s get you up and in. I should change, too.”

Helen yanks her husband’s wrist and helps him up. Water drips in his footsteps, and he sheds most of the wet clothes and throws them on a patio chair before going in and locking the door. He yanks at the handle to make sure it sticks. His eyes constantly dart back to the pool, but he tries not to let Helen catch his fear. She’s been through enough, and he’s more worried about this bite than he tells her.

“OK, we’re in. Everything is locked. Why don’t you clean that bite out? Tons of soap, warm water, maybe get it twice. I’ll get you a fresh towel.”

“Thanks, hon.”

John leaves his wife as she fusses in the sink. The towel closet is upstairs, and so is her phone. He left his outside and eyes the pool as he goes upstairs. It sloshes slightly. He grabs a towel and pulls her phone from the charger on her nightstand. It’s fully charged.

He calls 911. It’s still busy. He tries again. The same.

“Shit.”

He wanders around upstairs to see if it’s a service problem. The phone shows full bars. Their wi-fi looks fine as well. He goes to the window that overlooks the backyard. He calls his phone. It rings. He can see his phone light up and skitter across the patio. He hits the red button to hang up when he thinks the pool’s surface jolts into small waves.

“Can’t be...”

He rubs his eyes and goes downstairs. He’s tired and wired all at the same time, but his wife is more important. She sits at the island in one of the high stools they use to drink their morning coffee. He hands her the towel and grabs her mug. She smiles and looks pale.

“It’s OK, John. It cleaned up OK. I think it’ll be OK.”

“Well, still, we need to make it to a hospital, but the darndest thing. The emergency number is busy. I’ve tried it a few times, and nothing. Just a busy tone.”

“Maybe it’s your phone?”

“Thought about that. It’s the same as yours.”

“Who was it that made the big case that landlines are useless these days? At least there you could get an operator.”

“I know, I know, I know. But that’s not a bad idea. You know, the Williams still have a landline. That old bird rises before the sun. I bet they’re already up. And anyway, it’s an emergency.”

“You shouldn’t bother them.”

“No, I think it’s the right thing to do. Look, Helen, besides your arm, we need to not forget there’s probably a dead man in our pool. I’d rather have cops and the whole brigade here to avoid any problems later when asked why we didn’t call right away. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll go to the hospital, get you sorted, and then I’ll go to the cops. The station’s not far from the hospital.”

“OK, hon. That sounds good. Go slow, don’t panic, I’m OK. Really. The coffee has done the trick. I needed some caffeine to calm my nerves.”

John kisses Helen on the forehead. It’s clammy. He lays her phone on the countertop.

“Take this. I’m going through the back to get mine. If anything, we can call each other.”

“OK. Be careful, please. That guy in the pool still gives me the creeps. There’s something just, I don’t know, not normal about all this.”

“Agree with you one hundred percent, hon.”

Helen follows John to the back door as he unlocks it and steps out. His eyes never leave the pool.

“Lock it behind me.”

“I’m not locking you out there. You’re a strong man, John Brown, but sometimes a stupid one. I’ll be fine. If there’s any trouble, I’ll lock it if I need to. But I won’t lock you out for no reason.”

“Alright. Then go back in. I’m sure I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Go on, already.”

Helen closes the door, and John scoops up his phone. He isn’t sure why, but he has the urge to keep the noise level down and nearly tiptoes to the side yard.

Next door seems all quiet. Even their dog must be asleep at this hour. John undoes the small lock on their side gate and squeezes to the small walkway where they keep the trash cans.

“I’d rather have seen those damn raccoons.”

He stops short. His view of the street is mostly blocked by the rest of the fence dividing the two yards, but he can make out a few people standing under the streetlights. Just standing. Like the man by their pool.

“Shit. What is going on?”

The words suck back into his mouth when one of the figures starts to move. It sends John quietly into the shadows next to the neighboring house. Down the street, a garage door opens, and a car backs out. They speed away, leaving the door wide open. Other houses have lights on too.

The details fuel his flight. No matter what this is, he doesn’t feel safe outside. Exposed. Vulnerable.

He knows they don’t lock their side gate, so he slips into the yard. They won’t mind. He’ll just slip through their yard and then to the Williams. There’s a gate that connects the two on the other side. It’ll be safe. Safer than out on the street. His skin crawls. What is it about those figures that’s unsafe? The feeling reminds him of the pool man’s smell.

He hustles down the side yard and turns at the corner of the house. It’s dark. They don’t have a sensor light. Nothing flicks on to illuminate the deep black. The stars are too weak.

The first one grabs him, hard on the right shoulder. The second on his left knee. It takes a moment to register that there are two of them. His mind pictures a large, tentacled creature sprouting from the depths of Hell.

They let off a wheezing groan that gets caught in dry throats. John stumbles back, out of their grips, and crashes hard into the side of the small shed. He can hardly make them out. Their forms merge in and out of the shadows.

He fumbles along the wooden wall until it disappears. He falls back and lands on something that pokes hard into his ribs. Pain rips through his torso. Something has been broken. He knows from his college days as a linebacker.

John grabs in the dark and pulls at the pointy thing. It’s a wooden handle. The front has a silvery arrow-shaped head.

The two shadows descend on him, and in a flash, he swings the shovel. It lodges in the head of one and carries through its momentum to topple the connected body into the other. They fall, and he rises. He jumps around the downed bodies back into the yard.

They stand like a wavering nightmare. The shovel sticks out from their singular, dark shape. He grabs at it, the wooden handle slick, and pulls till a sickening suction sound escapes. He falls back with the weapon, bounds back up, and unleashes blow after blow after blow after blow. He rains the brutality down on the two bodies until they feel like Jell-O molds.

Still, they move. Still, they pull toward him. Still, they persist.

“Why won’t you fucking die?”

He slams the spade down a dozen more times. They remain in motion. He backs up a few paces.

“Fine! Fine, you undying pricks. You won’t die, huh? Alright, maybe you just need a proper send-off. A real six-feet-under statement. Fine. See how you wriggle out of this!”

John Brown strikes the soft earth and removes the first shovel full. He keeps an eye on the two things in the yard but thinks of the one in his pool.

He thinks of Helen, then strikes the earth again.

*Someone clears their throat several times*

*A deep sigh*

*A deep inhale*

*Shuffling noises and a few small bangs*

I hope this thing is working. It’s been ages since I’ve used one. Used to have one when I was a kid. There was that movie, Home Alone, the one in New York. We all got these recorders after that. This one looks different, but it works the same, I guess.

*Unidentifiable sounds*

They always leave bubbles behind after they fall in. I can only imagine it turns the water putrid. They are corpses, after all. I assume they are. They have to be, the way they look.

I wonder if the crabs eat them. Maybe the fish do? I try not to think about that one too much, though. I eat the fish, but I’m not one of them, so maybe the fish just turn tail.

If another one splashes in, I think I’m going to yell out, call it an idiot. I don’t think I can help myself. But that’d only make more follow and drop in. Like stones splashing to the bottom. I wonder if they’ll eventually stack up, or if the current pulls them out to sea.

*The audio fades, followed by a few loud cracks*

... anchored out here, just far enough. Just deep enough. Close enough to hear them, far enough that I’m not one of them. Not yet.

I’m on a boat, if that’s not clear. A yacht, to be exact. It’s not mine, or at least it wasn’t. But it is now. Oh, there goes another one. Idiot!

Ah, shit. See? That did it. There go a whole bunch more. Right in the drink. Idiots.

*Clicking sounds*

Brian Strausman. That’s my name. For the record. If there needs to be a record. Shit, is this on? I thought the batteries were dying, but I found a pack in a drawer...

*Unidentifiable sounds*

OK. Yeah. OK, it’s working. This should be loud and clear. I checked it back. I hate the sound of my own voice, but I remember reading that everyone has that. It’s like a built-in default for self-hatred.

It’s strange, if you think about it. It totally goes against the idea of basic survival. Why would you save yourself if you’re wired to hate yourself? Maybe it’s an internal versus external thing? Who knows. I don’t. They don’t. Or I assume they don’t. Those suicide bombers out there.

*Chewing sounds and a long slurp, followed by a small burp*

At least I have water on here. Fresh water. This thing must have a tank or something. Must be for showers and toilets and all, but I haven’t been using any of those.

I’ve been trying to think about what I’ll do when the time comes. When it runs out, I need to get water from somewhere else. But I haven’t come up with anything good yet.

*Shuffling noises*

*Loud inhale*

I guess there’s always the other boat. I’d have to swim for it. But the weather’s alright. Water can’t be too cold. As long as those creeps don’t drag me under, it’d be an easy enough distance to cover. I don’t think the tide is too strong. The water moves, but it doesn’t really follow the low and high tides much. A little bit, sure, but not more than a couple of inches.

I wonder if there are sharks. That’d be something. I would think there wouldn’t normally be any in here. It’s a small inlet with a few docks. I couldn’t imagine there’s a huge food supply for them, but who knows, after all these sinkers have dropped in. It could be a swarm of sharks just feeding endlessly down there. Swarm? Or is it a school? A murder? No, that’s crows, but it would fit.

If my phone worked, I’d Google it. But that went out the window. It doesn’t matter. The thing is, if I want to get over there, I need to swim. He went in and never came back up. So, the same thing could happen to me.

I guess it would be different. Still, what a mess.

*Clicking sounds*

I came out here like a lot of the others. We were looking for a way out. The streets were jammed. Packed full of mostly abandoned cars. It was hard not to let the panic take over.

There was this feeling of impending doom. Like there was a wave surging toward the coast. There was, but that came later. Much later than everyone thought it would. Certainly, later than what I expected.

I was at home. I lived by myself, so I guess some things don’t change. I thought, Get to the shore. Hit the coast. Hop on a boat. Get out of Dodge. I guess everyone thought the same.

I don’t know how far away it is, but I had to leave my car way back there. It took me two days to walk here. Mostly through the nights, too. And it was a mess.

Everywhere was a mess, but any place with boats was really a mess. It was a savage mess. This was the third place I tried. The first two, forget it. Totally overrun. Boats on fire. It was all-out war. Some of the things people did.

This one group, I saw them. Thank God I had the sense to hold back, to hide out until I saw what they were doing.

They took this smaller group of...

*The tape stops*

A pen casing is used to wind the loose tape reel back into the cassette. The tape is placed back into the player. It springs back to life.

*Warbled, low pitch voice*

*Unidentifiable sounds*

... and that’s how I made it out of there. Barely. By the skin of my teeth, really. You would think I would’ve learned my lesson. Learned not to get into such a tight spot, but then I go and do the stupidest thing of my life.

I went back. I know, stupid. But you understand. I couldn’t leave him behind. I was alive because of him, after all. I owed him that much.

I did what you’re not supposed to do with zombies swarming around and went back into the mix. The widow was still open, so I slipped in there. I cut...

*Audio slows and deepens*

*Audio speeds up*

*Shuffling noises*

... and finally, that’s how I ended up here. The map proved its value. After all I went through to get it. Let’s just say I was happy it ended like that. I felt justified in some small way.

But that was it, just this little inlet off this little town. There’s one main street. Not much. Your usual stuff, I guess. A few local shops, a gas station, diner, two other restaurants, a post office, and an ice cream place. A knick-knack shop and a food store. I think there was a bank too.

It was all ravaged by the time I went through, and I had to hustle. This group that’s over on the dock was hot on my heels. I guess there is something to be said about that feeling of a coming wave. By then, it had already flooded into every small corner.

I could hear them coming before I could see them. It gave me enough time to check the docks. And there she was. This ship. Boat. Whatever. Tied up to the dock.

I won’t lie here. It wasn’t a clean scene. It looked right out of a true crime series. Just blood everywhere, but otherwise empty. I still counted my lucky stars, then untied the thing, just to find out it wouldn’t start. Don’t know, maybe no gas, maybe just broken. I’m no mechanic. Give me a spreadsheet and I’m your guy, but not this.

Despite its size, I was able to push it off the dock and let it drift out. But it wouldn’t have been enough. Then he shouted over from his boat. At first, it didn’t help. He just stood there yelling that I need to hurry up. That they are coming. He can see them. I’m not far enough out.

I knew all that, but didn’t see how to fix it. I said the same, and he told me about the small sail. I guess these boats, ships, whatever, all have a hidden mast with a sail you can prop up in case of any engine problems.

He told me how to release the anchor. It did the trick. I caught a small gust that pulled me out, and I dropped the anchor. And here I’ve been ever since.

*Sharp crackling sounds*

That’s Bobby for you. An old coot, but nice enough to help. Maybe he thought it’d be better for him. For a while it was. We could talk. Well, yell to each other, but the problem was that it always brought more to the docks. Always more splashing in.

I think that’s what drove him nuts. He mentioned his supplies were getting low, but we had ideas on that. No, it was that never-ending flow of bodies.

Bobby was older. A grandpa of six and father to three. The youngest didn’t have kids yet, but she was just married last spring, so he expected her to be pregnant soon enough. He was looking forward to it.

He’d never say it to his family, but to me, he confided she was his favorite. She was the baby. And just like him. It drove his wife crazy to have two of them in the house. She called them a gang. A gang of what, he never said, just the gang.

He showed me a picture of them. An actual, printed one. I couldn’t see it well at this distance, but could make out a large group of smiling heads. He kept it propped up, and I caught him looking at it when he thought I couldn’t see him.

Maybe that’s what was gnawing at his mind. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. I noticed him changing a few days before it all went downhill.

*A high whining sound*

Testing...

*Squealing*

... stupid batteries. Come on...

*Clicks and rattling sounds*

... I didn’t know what to do. He was babbling all this nonsense. How he was being called back home. Back to his family. I thought maybe he was on something. Or that he was delusional from lack of water or food. But no. He showed me. He had what he needed. He said he wasn’t delusional or going mad from hunger. He was full and fit.

He just kept yelling about the Lord and being called home. All it did was call to the zombies. I’d try to sleep at night with Bobby’s howling and their splashing. It was useless. I don’t think the guy slept for 72 hours.

*A deep sigh*

*A deep sigh, followed by small sniffing sounds*

The next morning, the final morning, this was two days ago now, I went out as the sun was rising. There Bobby was, naked as the day he was born, waving and riling up the crowd on the shore.

They’re always the worst in the morning. Not because they change in any way, but because you can see them as the harsh truth in that bright light. It cuts right through any imagined ideas that they’re not that bad. That they’re still people. That this is not the end of the world. Well, of humanity, anyway.

The bright morning sun shows it all, just like all the scars and pimples after a heavy night of drinking. Maybe that’s what turned Bobby. He could still see that in the warm afternoon glow and twilight mist. He couldn’t escape it.

He yelled at the sky and the sun. He said, I’m coming, baby! He dropped the spare anchor in with a splash. It was tied to a rope that was bound to his waist. It pulled him in with little more than a quick slurp.

I think he was lucky. That old bastard.

*Audio becomes incoherent*

Side A is at an end. The tape is flipped to the B side.

*High pitched sounds*

... and that’s it. It’s out. I guess I sucked it dry. I was hoping it would last longer. This bad boy looks like it can do long hauls out on the open water. You’d think it could carry more. But maybe it wasn’t full, wasn’t topped up.

Does it matter? No. It’s empty, it’s empty. I have a little over two bottles worth left. That should last me, sparingly, maybe for two days.

Shit. I’m not going to sit here and die of thirst. I’m not going to go insane like Bobby. That’s not me. It can’t be.

*Audio slows and deepens*

*Unidentifiable sounds*

I’m going to have to leave the boat. There’s no way around it. Maybe I can come back, but I have to leave. It’s either give Bobby’s boat a shot or make it further up the shore and inland. The dock is full, but around that looks alright. They’ve kind of grouped in one spot.

But even if I found water, how would I get it back here? I don’t think I can swim and carry a... what? How much would I need? How much is the risk worth? How long can I hold out here? Even if I can extend it, till when? When the weather starts to change? Soon enough, the water will ice over. They’ll be able to walk right out, won’t they?

Shit. I don’t know.

*Audio turns to white noise*

I thought about it, but I feel the hours following me. I need to make a move. I had almost decided on Bobby’s boat, but I kept going back to the thought of how long?

Even if there’s water, for what? Weeks? Even a month or two. I doubt it. And still. I keep thinking about the dock group becoming ice skaters. No. This can’t be a long-term situation. I’m going to have to get back to solid land.

If I need to take the dive at some point, better now while the weather’s good than later when it isn’t.

I wonder if this is what old Bobby was thinking about. Was he weighing the same debate in his head? Maybe it was easiest for him not to make the hard choice. He gave it up to the big-man-in-the-sky. I don’t know if that’s for me. It seems like a cop-out. I should make the choice that’s mine to make. Can’t leave something so important up to someone else.

*Shuffling noises, followed by a loud bang*

Jesus! They did it. They must be stacking up down there. Shit. Look at that! They go over each other like a bridge. It’s like a living, I don’t know, it’s like a walkway. The Red Sea never parted. It was just lined with bodies.

At least they’ve only made it a few strides off the dock. But Jesus. That’s, well, it’s horrifying, is what it is. Maybe it’s not the worst thing that the water is about out. I couldn’t stay here. Not knowing they’re coming. What’s that line again?

They’re coming for you, Barbara.

*Clicking*

The sun’s about down. I know what I’m going to do. Wait till dark. Total dark. I have a small pack. I’ll slip into the water and glide as quietly as I can further down the shore. These freaks seem to be only grouped by the dock. Their progress out into the water gives them, I don’t know, more energy or something.

I know it’s just all that splashing around is loud. It’s the sound that’s making them wilder, but my mind turns it into a drive of hunger. Their little bridge is growing way faster than I expected.

It’s creepy. Makes my skin crawl. Maybe Bobby wasn’t so off his rocker in just sinking down. The scene I’m looking at doesn’t inspire much hope. It’s just this flood of death spilling forward.

Jesus, I hope they’re not under and just pull me down by my toes into the blackness.

*Loud bang*

*Shuffling noises*

Hey! Over here! I’m out here! Stop! Don’t go there! Don’t go there!

*Shuffling noises*

*Audio becomes incoherent*

OK, OK, OK. Look, there’s a car out there. I saw them from their headlights. They’re up the shore from the docks. I don’t think the zombies noticed them.

It looks like three, maybe four people. I turned the little propane lamp I have to full blast. They saw me. Thank God, they stopped. They don’t know what they’d be driving into. A massacre, that’s what.

*Crackling sounds*

*The audio fluctuates from low to high pitched*

Alright. They waved. They see me. I made a big X with my arms. I think they got my meaning. They’re just sitting there. Oh, look! I think one has binoculars. I have some paper...

*Shuffling noises*

*Unintelligible yelling*

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. They’ll wait for me. I’m going to do it. I’m going to make the swim. God, I hope they’re not under me. If I can make it, there’s a clear way out in a car. Maybe they have water. I can teach them to fish. We might just make it.

But first things first, I’m going to Bobby’s boat. These people might be his family. His kids. I can’t tell, but how else would they end up here? Who else would know about this place?

I need to give them something small. I can do that for Bobby. I’ll swim there, grab that photo, then make my way to them over by the car. I can do that.

*Shuffling sounds*

You’d think I’d learned my lesson about going back. It didn’t end well last time. But I can’t. I can’t just leave it like that. I can’t leave Bobby hanging like that.

I don’t think I can leave anyone behind like that.

*Audio warbles*

It’s probably what’s going to get me killed. Jesus. What an idiot.

*Splashing sounds*

*Audio becomes incoherent*

Tape ends.

“Over here, come on!”

“Shut up! You’re being too loud.”

“Both of you pipe down... wait.”

Peter fumbles with the little pieces of the lock pick set under Lucy’s strenuous gaze. Her eyes fire urgency. Billy’s hand rests on the small of her back and taps out messages in quick pats. His head is bent around the corner they had just turned, keeping a stern look out and pushing the pace with each pat. He’s jumpy. They all are. Peter’s fingers aren’t working right. He keeps missing the keyhole.

“For fuck’s sake, hurry it up!”

In the two days that Peter has known Billy, he’s been nothing short of a constant asshole. A real ex-boss type.

Peter forces his hands to steady, though he only gets them to shake a bit less. He slips and twists. Finally, the lock clicks and the door opens. Billy pulls Lucy in, leaving Peter to take the last look before entering the building and clicking the door shut. He checks to make sure it’s locked. Twice. It doesn’t budge.

Inside is much cooler than out. The rows of tall shelves are like a deep, dim swamp. Their eyes take a full minute to adjust. If any were inside, they’d all be dead already. That’s the first good sign. The prolonged silence is the next, and Peter exhales through his nostrils.

He hates the zombies. More than Billy. More than anything else he’s ever come across in his life. And that’s even counting the time he and his friends jumped off a pier on a stupid series of escalating dares only to find the shadow of a large shark lurking within the pilings. It’s that feeling knowing you’re back in the food chain, back on the menu. It’s worse than any other fear he can think of. Tight spaces, spiders, and touchy-feely demons are all only a silly distraction from what’s truly haunting.

“You think there are any in here?” asks Lucy. Her voice echoes a little with a pitched crack.

They wait for a long moment, then Billy answers, “Don’t think so, babe.”

Sure, babe... Peter hates Billy all over again. It grows in the absence of any immediate threats. What a difference a few days make. As far as he knows, those two met just before their trio formed. They weren’t a hot item before that, and he wonders how much it is predicated on perceived protection. Lucy doesn’t seem a fool, but she acts it well enough. He’s pretty sure that’s lost on Billy, who pushes forward with a hand out to feel through the dark warehouse.

Peter secretly hopes there is one in here, wedged between the rows of shelves, that small purgatory where disregarded edges of cardboard boxes float, that bites at that outstretched hand. One chomp and old Billy would be out of the picture.

It’s not that he wants to be alone with Lucy. There’s no time to consider attraction, but there is time to consider survival. Above all else, Peter is sure that idiot will get killed, or get them killed. He stacks the odds only slightly more favorable that Billy will meet his own demise first, giving him and Lucy a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Peter doesn’t want anyone to die. Not anyone else. He’s not that type. But since all of this started, almost everyone around him has died. In terrible ways. Each one lasts as an afterimage on the back of his eyelids.

No, he doesn’t really want that for Billy, but since it is what happens, it’d be better if it’s Billy than him. Better Billy than Lucy. And if they come across anyone else, maybe better Billy than them.

It’s all just a long chain of speculation, but it gives Peter some hope, thinking that they will come across others and that the ones like Billy can be out of his picture as quickly as they came in. Hope is always the last thing to die. Outside of zombies. They don’t seem to die, no matter what you throw at them. Those old fictional tales were way off.

They finally reach some light coming through two small, oval windows carved into the middle of a thick set of swinging doors. They lead to the main sales floor, like they do in just about any store.

Peter knows them well. Not these exactly, but the type of doors. He’s worked for the last four years in a store just like this one. He used to penetrate this threshold hundreds of times every day. Lately, his visits to the back tended to get longer and longer. He mastered the look of looking. That one thing the customer asked for was just out of sight by another minute.

Billy pushes through the doors. They clamp back on his forearm, and he kicks uselessly at the scuffed bottoms. Peter turns and uses his back and shoulders to tip the doors open at even angles. Billy grumbles, as does something else in the store. It’s a rasping cry that catches the trio in mid-step. They dip behind the closest shelf and fall into a uniform silence. The rasp rises again, followed by softly shuffling pads.

There’s one in the store. Peter puts up his index finger in front of his pursed lips. Billy hisses, and Lucy buttons up. They all grow stiff.

A shadow shifts over the laminate flooring. It rocks to and fro, cast from the high-noon sun shooting through the glass facade. Other silhouettes outline the other side of the large glass panes. They must stick to the surface, like flies baking on a hot car’s windshield.

Peter knows if it’s just a single shambler, the three of them can subdue it and push it out the back door. Problem solved, but it takes careful planning and patience. Both of which Billy does not have, and the fool jumps into action, screeching like a banshee, prompting the group plastered to the glass to energize. The one in the store grows louder and quicker. Billy dashes around the cover of the shelf and launches into a flying tackle.

Peter’s earlier wish might just be granted yet. He sprints out to check the extent of the mess Billy’s got himself into.

Edging around the corner, he sees it’s bad. The ragged limbs of the thing scratch at the floor. Two of the blackened fingernails lay dislocated next to the lowest shelf.

Grunts and quick breaths escape Billy in his struggle with what used to be an elderly woman. He’s by far larger than she is, but her rampant snapping proves almost too much for him to handle. She has him pinned against the shelving post. Both of his plump hands grasp the sides of the zombie’s face as she pushes with her mouth like an eel rocketing out of its small rocky hole.

Peter is frozen. He wants to pull her off, but the risk of putting himself in danger is too present. Is Billy worth it? Up to this moment, his answer would be no, but he can’t just let the man get mauled like an animal. Those gnashing teeth jutting forward with ever more ferocity, those teeth and their will, they keep him glued to the spot.

It’s Lucy who breaks the trance with a lifted object. Peter can’t tell what it is through the side of his vision, but it looks heavy. She swings the object down, with a mighty crash over the back of the beast’s wobbling head.

The TV screen shatters into splinters, and the woman rolls off from Billy. He yelps and wipes his hands over his body and face. Lucy quickly takes an extension cord and wraps the woman into submission. Peter still stands in his dumb pose.

“A little help here!” says Lucy to either of the men.

Peter finally releases his frozen state and goes to Lucy’s side.

“There was an office in the back, we can lock her in there,” says Lucy, “Come on, grab her ankles.”

“Why keep it in here, with us? Shouldn’t we just throw it out the back?” asks Peter, slipping his fingers under a tuft of cord.

“Don’t be an idiot,” fires Lucy, “That’ll only attract more to the back. It was clear when we came in. Better to keep it that way.”

Peter nods in acceptance, and they pull the squirming woman back through the swinging doors. Lucy is right, and there is a smaller door directly to the left that Peter must have missed earlier.

They pull the woman into the small room and drag her to the farthest corner, check the binding cord, then leave her in the dark to calm down. Without any stimulation, they tend to go into a trance-like state. They move very little, or not at all, until something triggers them. Something that can be food. It makes Peter shiver, like that thin line of fin cutting through the waves.

They push through the swinging doors again to find Billy slumped over against the shelves. He holds his left forearm with his right hand and mumbles something soft. Peter thinks the man rocks a little, like a lost child.

“Get up, come on,” says Lucy, “It’s done, you’re fine.”

“No. No, I’m not.”

Billy looks to them with red eyes. He holds up his left arm to reveal a jagged circle of teeth marks and blood stains that leak from the open wounds. He starts to wail.

Lucy looks to Peter. He only shrugs. He’s seen people get bitten before. Most that have turned show signs of being bitten, or half the time are partially devoured, but he’s never actually seen the process. It’s an assumption that Billy will turn, but how and when is total guesswork.

“Now what do we do?” he asks Lucy.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen one turn. I don’t even know if one bite is enough. They usually look like they were attacked by a pack of wolves.”

They both stare at the downed man with an air of pity. Billy accepts it and lies on the floor.

“Well, he’s useless, that’s for sure,” says Lucy, “Look at him. Such a big guy downed by a little bite.”

She walks away and investigates the shelves. They landed in one of the last-standing large-scale electronics stores. The rows are lined with TVs, phones, toasters, and vacuums.

“This shit is as useless as he is,” Lucy pitches her head back toward Billy two rows over, “With no electricity, this stuff is just plastic and metal sculptures. What can we use it for?”

This brings Peter’s brain back into a working order, “Oh, I don’t know about that. I mean, any tool is only as useful as the user makes it.”

“We’re not talking about an Excel sheet here, buddy,” Lucy fires back, “No power, no worky... get it?”

“Most of the stuff, sure, but some of it uses batteries,” says Peter, already pulling a pack off a display, “That stuff will still work. It’s not like the batteries are bad. Not yet anyway.”

Lucy slows her step and looks Peter once over, maybe for the first time, “Alright, kid, maybe you’re on to something. But, still, what will that do for us? We can’t eat a flashlight.”

“No, you’re right, but I know two blocks over... well, it’s two blocks and a huge parking lot, but there’s a food store. One of those huge ones. If that place is empty like here, we could be set up pretty good.”

“From the sound of it, you have some kind of plan to get us there?” asks Lucy, looking at the display in front of Peter. She seems to get the idea without him having to spell it out.

“But what about Billy?” asks Peter. He wants to avoid the question. Asking it makes them answer. He’d rather Billy become an unknown, like so many others he’s come across.

“I’d say fuck ‘em,” Lucy says.

“Really? I thought you had a thing with him?”

“Oh, Jesus, no. Kid, maybe you are as dumb as I think you are. Hello? A woman running around the apocalypse on her own. Look, I know I’m not the best looking, but just having some titties and a vagina makes me a prime target out there. It’s like that idea that you need to align with a gang to survive in prison. I got the big guy sweet on me for protection, but look how useful he is now.”

“Yeah, yeah, OK, yeah, I get your point.”

“What do you think we should do with him?”

Peter thinks for a minute before answering, “Well, I assume he’ll turn at some point. I think he knows it, too. I’d say we leave him here, just as he is. No harm, no foul.”

“That’s probably what the people said who left that lady zombie behind. No, kid, we should do something with him. Something so he can’t make more of them once he does turn.”

“I guess you’re right,” Peter says. How disappointingly responsible.

They walk in stride back to Billy. The man has reverted to a fully infantile state and sobs on the floor. There is no consoling him. He knows he’s a dead man.

“Alright, big guy,” ushers Lucy, “Come on, sit up. Get up, let’s go.”

She claps her hands in three loud strikes. This gets Billy’s attention as well as the outsiders. The glass rattles with their eagerness. Lucy recognizes her mistake and looks to Peter. He feels a bit in a haze, but moves, nonetheless. He pulls at the whimpering man and drags him toward the swinging doors. They need to do whatever it is they’re doing, now. Otherwise, they’ll end up dead too.

The man, once so authoritative, gives in to his fate with little to no protest and allows his body to be pulled while he nurses the bite mark with wet eyes. Peter guesses he’s in shock.

Come on, babe... Peter almost smiles at the thought and pulls harder. He knows just what to do with Billy so that he won’t become a threat to anyone else.

The swinging doors flap, and they enter the dark warehouse. Peter looks for it. He knows they’ll have one. There’s always one in a store like this. They have to deal with too much cardboard not to have one. Some places even have two.

Off to the opposite side from the office door, he sees it lurking in the corner like Frankenstein’s monster. Its mouth open, ready to swallow.

Peter pulls Billy and rolls the man in.

“Hey, what... what are you doing?”

Peter closes the heavy metal door, and Billy becomes more lucid, registering his surroundings.

“Hey, hey now. Wait. Wait! What are you doing? Let me out of here!”

“No can-do, partner.”

Peter clamps the door and searches for the manual release. These things usually run on hydraulics, but with no power, he’ll need to use the manual crank. He’s done it before and finds the fail-safe switch and turns it to manual. The crank is on the other side. It looks like a big version of one of those spinning wheels with crank arms sticking out on his grandfather’s drill press. This one doesn’t turn as easily, but with a little muscle, it budges and starts to lower the flat ceiling inside the contraption.

“Oh, hey! What is this? Um, Peter, buddy? The door won’t open, and it’s... It’s getting a little tight in here. Can you stop it? Let me out? Come on.”

“Sorry, buddy, but I can’t do that.”

“What? Why not? What is this thing?”

“Relax, it’s a cardboard baler.”

“A what?”

“A baler. Stores get so much cardboard that they’d fill up the dumpster in a day with it all, so they use these machines to press it all into tight cubes. You know, it saves space. They can fit a week’s worth of cardboard cubes on one pallet. Usually they work by themselves, but you know... with no electricity, I need to crank this thing to get it to work.”

“For fuck’s sake! Are you going to crush me!?”

“Relax, babe. You’ll be fine.”

Billy’s lethargic condition fully disappears, and he bangs against the lowering ceiling. Each knock comes with a heightened sense of urgency.

“Come on, man! Come on! I didn’t do anything to you! Just let me out, OK?”

“No.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Let me out!”

“What are you doing?”

Lucy’s question nearly gives Peter a heart attack, “Jesus! Maybe don’t sneak up on people when there are zombies around. I almost jumped out of my skin.”

“Lucy? Baby? Is that you? Help me! This psycho is gonna crush me!”

Peter shakes his head, “Oh, relax, man. I’m not going to crush you. I’m just putting you in a spot that you can’t get out of, but if anyone else wanders in here, they’ll be able to find you easily enough. See, partner, you’ll change at some point, and I don’t want to leave you as a surprise.”

“I thought you were going to crush him,” says Lucy.

“Wow. I see we have a long way to go to build any trust. I’m out to survive, but I’m not a psycho killer. Now come on, he’s set, we need to take care of the ones outside and make it to that other store.”

“Other store? What other store?” moans Billy, “Don’t leave me here, please! Let me out. Take me with you.”

“Sorry, babe. But you’ve worn out your usefulness.”

Lucy gives a small nod to Peter, and they leave Billy to yell his voice to dust. They cross through the swinging doors, and Lucy points out the stockpile she’s made. They unpack the batteries and load them into the devices. Four double-A’s each. The small lights blink on.

“Alright, so out the front?” asks Lucy.

“Think so. With any luck, the back is still clear, but if not, this should draw any away.”

Peter grabs one of those bags that used to be for customers and goes through the swinging doors. He slowly opens the door to the office, but with Billy still yelling up a storm, being quiet is not really in the cards.

The corpse in the corner wriggles and slurps. He moves carefully and wraps his hands into his sleeves before readying the bag.

With a quick swoop, he bags her head and ties the handles around her neck. A tug on the cord pulls her up, and he directs her back to the sales floor.

Lucy makes quick work of stuffing the devices into the woman’s frayed clothing. Some fall back to the floor.

“Did you set them all?” asks Peter.

“Yes, they all go off in five minutes.”

“Alright, then let’s do this.”

They usher the bagged woman to the front door. Peter knows how this works in manual mode, too. It was more than once that he had to open the locked door for a customer banging to be let in after closing time.

He tips it open. Lucy kicks the woman to the curb while loosening the cord. It’s all as smooth as ballet.

Peter closes and locks the door, and they move to the back of the store to watch and wait. The woman wiggles like a worm and eventually finds her feet. The bag stays over her face. Like clockwork, they go off.

All the battery-powered alarm clocks ring their various tones into a chorus of cacophony. The street fills. All those pressed to the glass, those from across the street, and those unseen merge on the bait.

Lucy and Peter speed on last time through the swinging doors. They make their silent wooshes in and out. Billy catches the commotion and bellows out one last plea. The two ignore it completely, and after a quick peek, exit out the rear door they had once entered. The coast looks clear, and Peter leads the way.

They sprint in crouched form down the two blocks and skirt the rear end of the food stores’ parking lot. A quick nod between the two indicates their agreement that their plan has worked, and they make it to the back of the store.

Peter pulls out his lock pick set and fumbles about in the keyhole. Lucy checks around the corner from where they had just come.

“Hurry up! I see a few coming this way.”

“Pipe down... wait.”

Peter’s hands shake and shake and shake.

I’m right next to you.

The speakers blare with heavy guitars, and the shelves rumble along with the bass. It’s all he can do to drown out that drone of forever knocking. The beats clash like two warships, and he turns up the volume. It’s earsplitting. He checks for blood and finds only a small clump of yellowed wax.

Jamie’s room is littered with as many band posters as it is with half-empty water bottles. Thank God it’s rained enough to refill them. His bedroom window looms over the front door. The steps are scattered with his scat. What other choice does he have than shitting out the window like the kings of old?

It hasn’t helped to advertise his whereabouts by sticking out that prime rump for those gathered below. They bang, too. Even though he tries to be quiet, they’re still there in a huddled mass.

But they don’t concern him as much as the one at his door. That’s the one that got in. He knows her. Or he knew her. Should he still call her a her? Maybe calling it, it, is better. That makes it easier for him. Not to think of it as his friend’s mom. The same nice lady who would drive them to the theater or always treat them to some takeout afterwards.

She was a single mom. She worked a lot, but she was always around for his friend, like a constant pillar of support. Georgie-boy. That was his friend. He doesn’t know where Georgie-boy is, but he knows his mom, Mary, Mother Mary, is the one banging on his door. Let me in, or I’ll huff, and I’ll puff...

She came around when it all started last week. She was in bad shape. Bites all over. Blood all over. Crying. She couldn’t find George and thought he might be here. It was her last hope. But they got to her first, like a pack of wild hounds.

Jamie didn’t know it yet, not back then. Neither did Jamie’s dad. They tried to help her, patch her up. It happened sometime later that night. He was asleep, up in his room. She was down in the living room, and Jamie’s dad was in his room. They both woke up to her fumbling around. She knocked over a lamp and walked all over the shattered glass.

They came to the top of the stairs at the same time. Jamie called her name, and that’s all it took. She came up the stairs. His dad met her halfway to help. She looked like she would tumble back down with each staggering step.

Jamie’s dad grabbed her. She turned and took a chunk from his forearm. He yelled at Jamie to run, to lock the door behind him. So, that’s what Jamie did. Straight to his room, closed and locked the door in a flash. He expected to hear a knock from his dad, saying it’s okay to come out again.

That knock never came. The one that eventually did is the same one that goes on now. It’s her. It’s always her.

Later the next day, the last day Jamie saw his dad, he caught a glimpse out his window of him running out of the open garage and into the crowded street. He had on what looked like football gear and was swinging a bat. He smashed it right into their heads with loud thuds. Eventually, he went for the legs. This got them down a lot easier.

He ran under Jamie’s window and yelled up. It was maybe the oddest rendition of Romeo and Juliet that has ever been staged. There was even a storm rattling the skies. He said he was OK, but she bit his arm pretty badly. He’s going to the hospital in the next town over to get meds. Just stay put, she’s in the house still, but she can’t get to him. The round trip should only take about twenty, maybe thirty minutes, then he’ll be back with his arm taken care of and will deal with her. Just hang tight! Then he got in the car, backed out, running over a few of the downed bodies, closed the garage door, and sped off.

That was over five days ago. Jamie is worried but holds on to hope. If it wasn’t for Mary and her banging, he might even be doing alright.

But she doesn’t let up. She hasn’t. They don’t sleep. Ever. They’re just in motion when there’s something to be in motion about. The problem is that the ones outside hear his music, that’s trying to cover her banging, which keeps them grouped by the front door. It’s a call and an answer in an endless loop.

He changes the CD. He took his dad’s old collection and stereo. They have the house set up to play everything through Bluetooth speakers set to Spotify playlists. But his dad gave Jamie this big spiel about listening to good music front-to-back. To show his point, he gave up his old collection. Jamie has to admit he’s right. It is something different listening to a full album through, like the artist arranged it to be.

There’s another reason he’s grateful as he slides in the new CD. Even if he wanted music playing all day, Spotify went out with the rest of the Internet a few days ago. It’s like an endless sea of spinning wheels and pages not loading. Nothing works.

The CD player has a radio built-in, and even that is catching nothing but static. For a while, one position caught some music. It must have been a pre-selected playlist that went on until it didn’t. Jamie even tried turning the static up loud. A white noise blanket, but the banging cut through. It knocks into his head like a woodpecker, jabbing him in the ears.

The new CD spins, the digital display shows a number 01, and he cranks it. It’s the one that starts with electrical snaps. The sun went down about an hour ago, but some light holds in the air. The streetlamps start to go on, and it looks like a sloppy play. Bodies stumbling around, looking for their mark, coming in too early or too late.

Nights are the longest. They seem to stretch on into infinity. He does sleep a bit, in bouts, but not through. It makes his eyes feel heavy, and the music seems louder. There is always that rumor that they use endless, loud music as a form of torture. He can understand that, but the knocking is worse, like Chinese Water Torture. That constant drop, drop, drop on the same spot. It gains weight and power over time.

He clamps his pillow over his ears. It deadens the sound a little. He closes his eyes. Everything drones on. He sleeps.

The sun peels his eyelids back. He wakes from a dream. It’s a pleasant morning. Silent and golden. A small wind ripples his open curtains. He can hear his breath, in and out. He yawns, then sits up, feeling disoriented.

He checks his room. It’s a mess. Trash, clothes, and just everything strewn everywhere. It looks like a tornado hit. It’s the water bottles that make him question the otherwise peaceful scene. He remembers they are there for a reason, constantly refilled during the rain. Held out the window until his arm burned. Never enough to quench his thirst.

But wasn’t that just in his dream? A nightmare, really. Full of dead bodies, hunger, and constant, blaring alarms. The rest isn’t there.

He looks out the window. There’s nothing below except for smears of dirt and floating trash. Further down the street, he sees a few people. They look like they’re chatting on the corner. They are too far away to tell for sure. He rubs his eyes, but it doesn’t help make the picture any clearer.

He gets up and stretches. There is no sound. His CD player’s display is a cool black, as is the large-display digital clock that hangs on his wall. He checks his phone. That flashes on, but the battery is down to 56%. He removes the plug, sticks it back in. No change. He removes the plug from the socket, sticks it back in. No change. It doesn’t charge. It looks like the power is out. That usually means a trip to the basement and flipping a few of the breakers.

His dad usually does that, but when was the last time Jamie saw his dad? The morning has brought a fog. Maybe this is the dream? He goes to his door. It’s locked. He unlocks it. He opens it. He steps into the hallway.

At the far end, morning light filters in through the guest room. Or, it used to be a guest room, but now it’s filled with an old sofa, a TV, and Jamie’s PlayStation. That’s where he and Georgie-boy spend most of their time.

He wonders where George is. And now that that thought has passed, he wonders about George’s mom. That wasn’t a dream. She was in their house, half dead. It was she who caused the nightmare. The banging. He looks back at his door. The side facing the hall is smeared with dark stains. They’re cracked and shades of red and brown. Divots and scratches sprinkle the upper half. The lower half carries deep drips and running streaks.

He steps back and bumps into the opposite wall. It sends a dry thud down the hall. She answers and turns the corner from the stairs. Her body looks sunken in, and her face is drained of any blushing color. They dressed her wounds, but her clothes are caked with muck.

She raises her hands slightly, and he can see their condition. Ragged, torn, bones and lumps of meat hanging and mangled. Her jaw drops open under her pale eyes. They look like they’re covered with milk.

She comes toward him. Jamie is frozen for a moment. This isn’t the woman he used to know. Any hopes that this is just a bad dream drain out, along with his bladder. He can’t go back in there. Not back to that. Into his bedroom, a panic room and cage all at once.

She shifts closer. She makes gasps and wheezes through her slouched face. His body moves. He wills it to run past her. To knock her out of the way. To escape. But that’s not what his body does. His body disobeys and flies into that room and slams the door. It throws the lock as her stumpy hands reach the other side. They bang, and bang, and bang, and bang. He slumps to the carpet, a puppet with no will and no one to pull the strings.

The banging goes on for an hour, then it stops. The following quiet is deafening. It makes him come out of his stupor, and he presses an ear against the door.

There is nothing. The hall reverts to its previously peaceful absence of sound. Jamie might be able to hear a faint heaving, but that might just be his chest. It might be her, he can’t tell.

He gets up and presses his hands against his side of the door. He tries to feel through it. To feel if she is just on the other side, or if she moved on and away. He moves his palms over the smooth surface. He gives a single, sharp bang.

She responds with a frenzy. The door shakes on its hinges. She’s still there. He moves to the bed and launches out, but on second thought gets up and shuffles through the top-left desk drawer. He finds his old watch. It’s one of those cheap, plastic ones with a calculator built into it. He doesn’t know if the time is correct on it, but that’s not what he needs.

He plops back on the bed and starts the stopwatch. It runs and runs, ticking away the seconds along with her bangs. He stops it at fifty-one minutes. She falls into silence. He checks out the window, and a few have fumbled to the front door. He restarts the stopwatch, but it only ticks off six minutes until an unseen car engine revving down the road lures them away.

Jamie mutters out loud, “So, they’re attracted to sound.”

His own voice makes him jump and starts her at the door again. He arms the stopwatch and nearly holds his breath in stillness. This time it takes all but thirty-eight minutes. She’s still. The door rests. He exhales.

He tries the experiment two more times, each resulting in the same stillness after some time. Each trial plants the idea further into his mind. He thinks there’s a chance. There is a way to escape if he times it right. If he stays quiet enough. If he can think of a way to distract her. A type of sound distraction.

He rummages through his desk as quietly as possible. A few knocks set her off again, but he knows she’ll settle down, so he continues the search.

He finds it, shoved in the lowest drawer on the right, and despite not having charged it in a while, it holds at 38%. The little puck, with its blue light, might just get him out of this.

It takes a bit longer for her to quit. He waits, what feels like an eternity. Then he waits for just as long again. He takes measured breaths and tries to make as little noise as possible. He stalks his room on tiptoes. He changes his clothes. He empties his old backpack. He gathers everything he thinks he could need. He packs it all. He straps on boots, despite the heat. He wraps extra layers around his forearms and neck. He wishes he had a helmet, but a regular ball cap is going to have to do.

The sun slants to the horizon. The day is almost up. It might be a good thing. If he’s quiet, he can sneak into the soon-dark. It could all be to his advantage.

He checks out the window. The coast looks mostly clear. His belly grumbles. He could use a kingly shit, but decides to hold it in. For now.

He sets up his phone. He checks the volumes. He dares to open the door a crack, ready to slam it in case she’s just on the other side.

She’s not.

He leans into the hallway. He steps in low crouches. He prepares. Everything is on, little blue light ablaze.

Jamie throws it into the guest room, then slides back to his and closes the door with a small swoop. He presses play on his phone. The small speaker blares to life at the opposite end of the hall. It screams heavy metal in all its double-bass, chugging glory.

He hears her take the bait and gives it one minute in sixty carefully plotted seconds. He opens his door and squeezes through. Deep shadows paint the walls of the hallway. Her silhouette dances over them through the open doorway. Steps. Held breath. A reaching hand. Jamie closes the guest room door. It clicks. She doesn’t hear it over the music. He’s freed from his room.

Downstairs looks like a murder scene out of a detective series. Things are toppled. There are deep smears all over the walls. One window is broken. It seems like half the floor is covered in glass, and it makes him happy about his choice to wear the heavy boots.

He grabs all the cans he can muster out of the kitchen cabinets and water bottles out of the pantry. He drinks a warm soda. The sugar gives him an instant high that makes his head swim a little. He grabs the small first-aid kit from the junk drawer and finally a large knife from the wooden block on the countertop. Some of it he packs into a second, smaller bag.

It’s not safe. Not for long. Not with that window and Mary upstairs, one unlocked door away. The battery on that speaker will run down. They always do with exponential speed when they’re low.

The garage might be safe, or it might not be. It’s a risk he’s not willing to take, and goes to the shed out back instead. His old bike is there, sitting in a few cobwebs and a layer of unused dust. The tires are flat, but the pump is on the shelf lining the back wall. They hold the air.

Jamie rolls the bike to the wooden gate that separates their backyard from the front. He peeks over. The way looks empty, though he can’t see far past the corner of the neighbor’s garage.

Now or never. There’s no way to tell if it will get better or worse, so he grabs the last glow of twilight. Any minute now, the streetlamps will come on. He’d rather get to some higher ground before then and creep through the low light. He knows the path.

The first stop is a few corners up, where there’s a fast-food joint. It’s a two-story building. To the back side is one of those enclosed play areas for kids. He can climb to the roof from the netted enclosure. He got kicked out once, years ago, for doing the same. From there, he can get a straight view all the way to the hospital.

Jamie leaves the yard, hops on his bike, and pedals in soft pushes. He cruises down the middle of the street. The last of the evening sun filters through the houses. Figures stand in dark masses behind front windows. Almost every house seems to contain its own grouping. He wonders how long it will take until his will be the same.

The right pedal gives, and the chain slides. Not the most ideal place for a halt in his ride. In haste, he flips the bike over to slip the chain back onto the disc. His speed trumps caress, and the handlebars hit the road. The rusted bell snaps and sends out a chunky ding through the houses.

One by one, the front doors are mobbed by the inner groups. They bang to get out. They bang to get through the obstacles. To get to him. They bang and bang and bang until a parade march reverberates down his street.

Jamie stands out in the open. In the middle of it all, quietly trying to fix his bike.

So, anyway, here I am, dust flying up in the noon sun, little drops of sweat rolling down my cheek. Just me and him, mano-a-mano. But I'm not a boy, so what would you call that? Mano-a-girl-o? No idea, but that doesn't matter. It’s just the two of us left. The others? All gone. All eliminated, one by one, taken out by old gorilla arms or me. Yup, little me. The underdog. I cut that bunch down, no hesitation. They never saw it coming. I can be ruthless like that. Sometimes, you gotta be.

I wonder if he knows that. Had he paid attention like I had? I saw his every move, every good choice and every bad choice, every hard hit and every weak one, left side, right side, strength and weakness. I have his number, I tell you.

Then it starts. It's always like a dance, slow and unsteady at first. We hesitate in short movements. Then we explode. He shoots first. This is my plan. Let him think he has the advantage. Let him think he's in charge.

I let the shot rocket by, not without some dramatics. And he eats it up, I tell you. I could see it on his face as he gets ready to shoot again. He thinks I'm toast, an easy target. Boy, is he wrong.

He shoots again, but this time, I come back. He might be like a gazelle, but I'm like lightning. Lightning fast.

He doesn't expect me to unleash, and I shoot back twice as fast. It whizzes by him, a miss. Also part of my plan.

I want to surprise him but leave him still feeling confident, like my shot was a lucky accident. I smile and shrug in the one calm moment before we start up again, that old swaying tango. Wind-up, release, and go! Next shot, next volley, next round. I tell you, now he starts to sweat. I'm slowly showing him my hand, my cards, and he doesn't like what he sees. He shoots, I shoot, back and forth. This is not one-sided.

The sun beats down. Around our feet rumbles up a cloudy haze of dust, each of us soaking through our clothes. Now the dance is fast, exciting, and desperate all at once.

Finally, it's time for me to shoot first. My patience and expertise boiled into one chance, the beginning of his last. A quick succession. Rapid fire. Bang. Bang. Bang!

As quick as a flash, there he is, rolled out on the floor, covered in that mucky red, coated and drained. I let out a big smile. It wasn't love, I tell you, but it was something.

“That-a girl!” wails Coach from a hidden corner. Sucker’s so scared I can see the wet stain on his tiny shorts. The others come out too. Scared like small mice, ready to scamper off.

No, I'm the alpha here. Me and maybe those bangers latched to the fence. They make me wet my pants a little, but they're out there, and we're in here. That's important, and that big gorilla on the ground there isn't anything. Not anymore.

“Come on, ya mucks, move those useless bodies,” I yell out, and they hop to it.

The little mice scamper to and fro. They gather the losers and toss ‘em over. Let those bangers munch on that for a while, give us some peace and quiet for a change. After all, I got a headache. All that shooting takes a toll, even on me, but I don't show them that. Can't do that.

We cool off in the clubhouse. It's dark in here. We had to board up the back windows. Those bangers would knock right through. Don't want that, now do we? I asked and they said no. So, I told ‘em to get to work, and they did. Now we're cool and safe in here. Thanks to me. They'd better not forget that, unless they want a match, too.

The sun passes, and the moon comes. I try to sleep, but it's hard. They never stop prattling around the fence. That's why this place is good. High fences. No doors. Clubhouse. Showers. Sprinklers. Food is an issue, but I keep that to myself. I know the rations and give them out. They don't like it? They don't get any. Period.

But it’s OK now. Old gorilla and friends had a good stash on them. Oh, that's the beauty of our setup. It looks all nice. They want in. We let them, like, hey, no problem, man! I'm telling you. It works every time. They're always blindsided. Blind bats, flailing into an electrified wall. Splat. Like that gorilla out there. Maybe just a bunch of open ribs by now. There's a lot of ‘em out there, and they work fast. I can tell because they're rattling the cages again. They're banging away at the backboards.

A nuisance, really. I'm telling you. This noise keeps me up all night. It's like my eyelids have been pumping iron. I almost need toothpicks stuck in there to keep ‘em up, like those old cartoons. The ones with the cat that gets the shit beat out of it. Dudes who made those were sadists.

The sun hits. My eyes want to close, but I force ‘em open. Gotta, if I want to stay on top. Be the best. Can't let the others catch on. The chirpy one calls out from the roof. They say they see another group coming up. Time to start the show. Curtains up. Coach banters on like he knows something. He should've made a better choice than white for shorts.

“Alright, suckers, you know your places. Hop to ‘em!”

That's what I shout. They listen and scurry off to take their positions. It's like an ambush, or it would be if they ever actually bushed. They usually chicken out and stay hidden. Three blind mice. One of these days I'll cut their tails off.

“Move it!”

They do, and I take up my post at the top. I sit on the umpire's chair like a queen, surveying all that's mine. I make it look like I’m the one looking for some help. That's the key. Suckers.

The group rolls up. Looks to be a sweet setup. Four of ‘em. Pulling along a nicely loaded wagon. Guns pressed up to their shoulders. Little good those will do. You can pump those bangers full of lead, but they keep coming, even with half a missing head. Try to figure that one out.

“Hey! Look! There's a girl in there. Hey! You alright?”

Oh, I’m alright, alright.

“Come in! Hurry! It’s safe in here!”

I coo like an innocent bird. They take the bait.

“Go to the building, there's a place you can climb up the rain gutter. It's easy!”

They hurry. Run, rabbit, run. I hear them shouting, coordinating. A few shots go off. Idiots. All that does is call more. Better to be quiet. Now, there's no way I'll get any sleep tonight. Thanks for that, muck-o's.

The first of ‘em lands down in the safety of our little court system. The rest follow, and in between, they struggle with that payload. That wagon full of goods. I can hardly take my eyes off it. I still need those toothpicks. I tell you, the daylight hurts.

They make it in. They look around. They let down their guard. Idiots. I let one loud whistle rip between my fingers. They taste salty.

My group springs out and manages to take the guns off two of them. Some stay hidden, like Coach. Little roach.

One from the new group runs off, trying to get out. Don't know where he thinks that's gonna happen. Let ‘em go for now. I’m more concerned with the other one that's pointing a pistol at my temple. Oh, game on!

I take out mine and hop down to my side of the net. That old dance starts again. Back and forth. Miss and hit.

I get it right through his eye in the end. Game, point, and match. I'm getting pretty good at this. I should consider going pro.

“Alright! Get to it! Get this one outta here... and where'd that other one go?”

“Back in the corner court.”

That's the chirpy one again.

“OK. You waiting for an invitation? Get to it!”

Little Chirpy does, rushing around the corner. I’m about to address the two from the group, standing there with their arms up, to unload their wagon, when Chirpy comes screaming back.

Screaming.

“Will you shut up? You're gonna draw tons more in.”

“He cut it!”

Chirpy dashes by, repeating the phrase over and over.

“Who cut what?” asks Coach.

Heads spin at the noise. Even mine. Almost cranked it right off. But for good reason. Around the corner of our little clubhouse stumble a ton of ‘em. Just like I warned. Bangers big and small. Inside! What are they doing inside?

“He cut the fence!” yells Chirpy.

Oh, that's what he cut. That idiot cut the fence. Now I need to haul ass. We all do, but those choppers are already sinking in. Two of my group and two from the other group. Their wagon gets tangled in so many feet. It gets lost.

Coach runs and yells this high-pitched thing that hurts my ears. But I stay quiet, and it pulls the crowd toward him. Chirpy tries to climb to the roof but is pulled down. No more mice. Snapped in the traps with the cheese still lying there.

I make it to the umpire’s chair and pull up the steps. I tell you, the sounds coming from Coach could fill a slasher film. The end-girl screaming a hundred times over until he stops. I think I hear a gurgle, but that might be the bangers.

I curl up in the chair. Bangers don't see so well, and with so many spilling into the courts, they’ll keep themselves occupied. They’ll forget all about me in time. Maybe catch something or someone else moving along and follow that. I'll get outta here, mark my words.

The day lasts forever. I tell you, now I'm the one with the stained pants. Not like making it to the bathroom makes any sense. At least the sun dried it up quickly. But it makes my tongue dry too. I always keep a water bottle on my post up here, so it's not like I don't have anything to drink. It's not enough, but okay, okay. I'll live. Maybe have a mean sunburn.

I sit, I curl up, I try not to move. I wait, is what I do. The courts are overrun. What kind of idiot thinks it's a good idea to cut a hole in the fence holding all the bangers out? A massive one, that's what kind. They settle down after a while and start to stand around like a flock of lost sheep. Where's little Bo Peep? I ain’t her, that's for sure.

The sun goes overhead, then curves down the other side of the sky. Finally, some shade. I'm staying as still as I can. I think I sweated all the liquid out of my body. I almost thought about collecting it in my water bottle, but it's too salty. I have a few sips left, but I'm saving those.

I wonder if I can make the fence. I could just climb up and along it to the roof, then over and out of here. To where? No idea. But at least out of this chair. I'm debating it. Back and forth. Hit for hit, pros and cons.

It'd make too much noise. The bangers would collect wherever I rattle along. I'd be the banger then.

But what other way do I have out of here? There are too many. No way they're leaving on their own. Wait till it's dark. Sneak like a ninja. Maybe throw my bottle the opposite way. Make a distraction. It could work, so I need to wait.

Hours move more slowly than you'd care to think. The sky burns in twilight for I don't know how long. I'm almost thinking it's stuck in a draw. Idiot sky, let one or the other win already.

The moon does and rises. The floodlights don't work, but the stars do. They almost tell me to close my eyes. Wish me sweet dreams. I think of those cartoons again, toothpicks holding the eyelids, thick, red-veined eyes under them. I use my fingers to keep mine pried open.

The bangers settle more. They don't see great. I'm telling you, that is the truth. I think at night they wind down because they can't make out anything. They bump into each other. I wonder why they don't tear each other to shreds. Maybe they do, I can't make out the details in such a big crowd.

I go for it. Now or never. I creep down. Quiet as a mouse. Nearly as blind as one, too. I scamper a little. I have my water bottle but hold out on using it. No need to rock the boat if I don't need it to tip over. I slouch, I crawl, I do an interpretive dance between bodies. I plug my nose. Don't ask me to describe that bit of things. I step. Then I misstep.

Right onto one of their toes.

I guess it feels that, because it swipes down into the darkness, trying to find me. The others are riled up now. They all move and scratch toward the ground. I throw my bottle. The empty plastic doesn't resonate like I hoped it would, but it's something.

I move with them. Herded along. Who's the little lamb now? I am. I get swept back to the small tower and climb back up to my throne. It was waiting for me and cooled without my butt in it. Beneath me, a sea of dark movement. The fence? Miles away. I rub my eyes.

After a while, the bangers start to settle down again. The sky starts to lighten slightly. I tell you, that small sliver of sun nearly burns my eyes right out of my head. Like a katana to my pupils. They get more active. The light must help them clock their surroundings. It looks like those mosh pits you'd see in online videos of concerts from thirty years ago.

They all move and shift in one direction. I hear it too. If my eyes weren't already watering, I could maybe cry. Maybe. Voices are shouting from one side or another. They're drawing this herd to press, to bang on the fence.

I stand but stay silent. The light slants into my eyes and makes it hard to see. It sounds like a larger group. Gunshots. Is that a motorcycle? One of those high-pitched dirt bike ones?

Whatever it is, it makes a ton of noise. Now all the bangers move toward it. And, good for me, away from the hole that idiot cut. Don't get me started on the fact that the cause of the problem is also the solution. I'm too tired to hear it.

I take off, dried tongue and wet eyes and all. Right out of that hole. There are a few bangers around, but slow ones, and I circle around them easily enough. It's strange to be on the outside, with them caged on the inside. Maybe I had it wrong, but I'll never tell them that. That'd show weakness. I put on my game face.

They spot me. There are shouts. Directions given, smaller parties split off. One group of three people, two running and one on a bike pulling a small cart, hurries over, full of worry. I tell them in short, panting breaths how thirsty I am. How hungry. How scared. How tired. They call me a poor thing. I'm telling you, if there is one thing I am not, it’s that. But it's good they think I am. That's the game plan.

They pack me right into that little cart, give me a sun hat, a bottle of water, and some bread. Freshly baked, they say. So, they have some place. A place stable enough that they can bake. Idiots, giving all their secrets away.

They make a galloping U-turn to avoid the filled courts. They follow the small motorcycle. It whines like a canary, and the rider waves the rest on. The rest follow. I follow too. I can take a hint, after all.

They head back to wherever it was they had come from. I keep an eye out through the followers. Looking for the weaker ones, a few new mice. We had something back there, but nothing is forever. No, there are greener pastures, and I think this bunch is taking me right to one.

My eyes tell me to close them. They shout. They scream, but I ignore them. Magical toothpicks: inserted. There's too much to do. No rest for the weary.

It takes a few hours to make it there. My body feels all cramped up. They give me fresh clothes and more food.

The motorcycle rider takes off their helmet. She tells me I've been through a lot. Tells me to get rest. Tells me I can start tomorrow. There's a lot to do. I need to contribute, but today I can rest. I agree. Oh, the banter. I'm telling you, a master class in imitation of submission.

I make a small round about their camp. It's in an old roadside motel, fenced in to keep the non-customers out of the swampy pool. Bangers do their thing and bang away around the exterior.

There are a little over twenty of them. Twenty-two to be exact. One leader, sixteen loyals, and the rest scampering little mice. They cook, they eat, they prepare. The sun goes down, and they go to the open rooms to sleep in shifts. They think I've been knocked out.

I'm not. I'm wired like a jackrabbit. Blood red eyes and adrenaline. I sneak out of bed. I've already worked out which play to make. I shimmy up to the roof. The motorcyclist is there, on her perch. Her head bobs. I wait it out. Her head falls. Weakling.

I get ready for the hit. This court's mine.

The early poop patrol is part of it, but Copernicus is worth it. He's the best dog ever. She keeps that in mind as she carries around the pooper-scooper, looking for those small nuggets.

It's the smell that hits her first. A terrible smell, like slimy, gray meat left in the sun to half-bake. And something else she can't place. Maybe a stale gym after a long summer day of spin classes. All she can think is, Man, Coops... what on earth did you eat?

Their garden isn't a tight square, but it's not massive either. It's that perfect middle ground of separation from the neighboring houses without having to maintain a park's worth of upkeep. Her dad describes it by telling anyone who'll listen that they don't need a riding mower.

The hole is anything but small, behind the wooden shed, before the row of bushes in need of a trim. It cuts deep into the grass in a large, looping ellipse. Her best estimation gives it a length of a good ten feet and maybe seven, eight feet wide. You could probably fit a car in there.

It's rather deep, too, but some of the dirt that must’ve been dug out is piled back in the bottom, like someone had changed their mind halfway through. Other piles of earth lie around the chipped outline of the hole. Some worms wiggle out, then crawl back in. They must be as confused as Shelly.

Her parents never said anything about a new project. And they certainly wouldn't start one on a weekday morning. They're both usually at work by now. She's usually the last one out of the house.

Shelly walks along the edge of the hole and tries to make sense of it. She nearly falls in twice but catches her balance. It's the oddest thing, almost as if the loose dirt at the bottom moves. Or rather, something moves under it, causing the mounds to rise and fall like they're breathing.

“Shelly!”

The call almost makes her fall for a third time. It's their neighbor, Mr. Brown. He looks horrific, like he's missed the last decade of sleep.

“Shelly! Careful! You get away from there! You be careful now...”

“Mr. Brown?”

Shelly doesn't know what to make of the sight, but it frightens her. Usually, Mr. Brown shuffles around in his early retirement sporting sweatpants, a cup of coffee and a bent paperback under his arm.

Today, he looks wild. His clothes are stained. So are his face and hands. His eyes dart like feral, trapped animals. His usual book is replaced with a shovel, and more than dirt stains the pointed end. His forearms are crudely wrapped in dull gray duct tape. His knuckles bleed.

“Mr. Brown? What... what's going on?”

“Shelly. It's not safe. Not out here... you need to...”

“Mr. Brown! What are you doing? What? Why do you... I mean, did you dig this? What's going on?”

The man puts the shovel over his shoulder and holds his free hand out in a calming, patting motion.

“Listen, Shelly. Oh, God, it's great you're OK. I thought... I thought... It doesn't matter, just you have to know... Shelly, it's not safe. Not out here. Why don't you come with me and...”

Shelly backs away. She doesn't know what's going on, but something is terribly wrong. This is not the Mr. Brown she knows. This is a wild animal, backed in a corner, dangerous. Inhuman.

“I... I need to go.”

“Shelly! No! It's not safe!"

Mr. Brown continues to step forward. Shelly's body reads it as a threat. She takes off around the opposite side of the hole and dashes for the back door. She slams it shut and locks it, then peers out the small window.

Her neighbor slumps slightly and shakes his head, then just as suddenly straightens like a jolt of electricity. His head snaps back toward his house, and he runs with hefty steps.

“Lock the doors! Shelly? Shelly, stay inside! You hear me? Lock everything and stay away from the windows!”

He's gone, out of her view. She hears yelling. She runs around the first floor and checks the windows and front door. They're all locked. Her shirt is soaked with sweat. She runs up to her room. “Coops?”

Copernicus is in his usual spot, napping on her bed. He looks up in a sleepy daze at her disheveled entrance. She hugs him tightly. He becomes alert. He's really the best dog.

Her window overlooks their side yard and further into Mr. Brown's yard. She can just make out the edge of the Brown's pool and patio set. They look peacefully normal until a splash disrupts the pool's surface. It ripples with movement, but from what, she can't see. The water turns murky. There's more yelling.

Shelly calls her mom. It rings until voicemail picks up. She calls her dad and gets the same result. Then her dad's office. Then the school's number, the one her mom usually picks up, not the main one. Endless ringing.

“What the hell is going on, Coops?”

He doesn't know, but sits at the ready, matching her state of mind. She feels fried, like she drank far too much coffee. Almost twitchy. She can't sit still and makes a circuit of the upstairs windows. Their backyard looks normal, outside of the large hole. The opposite side looks the same, and the sliver of the Williams’ she can see looks exactly as it always does. The Williams are old and hardly go outside. Their place is a neat pad of cement with a few chairs and a large umbrella. Low maintenance.

She looks out the window in her parents’ room. It faces the street that stretches in both directions in an endless line of garage-fronted houses. It's quiet. Extremely quiet, which is not normal. Not on their street, not at this time of morning. It's usually filled with commuters on their way to offices, dog walkers and younger kids on their bikes. It's totally still but somehow wavers with a latent energy, like a desert mirage.

It looks like someone spilled something in the driveway a few houses down. A large polka dot of dark runs slowly to the gutter. A handful of garages stand yawning to the morning, with their cars missing. The whole scene could pass for an abandoned filming location.

Shelly checks the Browns’ again, and seeing that everything is still, goes to the garage. Her dad's car is there. It usually is, since he rides his bike to work. His office is only a few minutes’ ride away over on Main Street, despite the endless discussions that he'd get more business if he moved downtown. He argues that they're comfortable enough, and his time is worth more than some extra income.

None of it matters to Shelly now, except knowing her dad is only a few minutes away. She gets in, opens the passenger door, and gives a low whistle.

“Come on, Coops. Let's go see Dad. This is too weird.”

Copernicus hops in, as if on cue. Shelly opens the garage door, looks for any signs of movement in the rearview, then backs out onto the street. There is nothing. She idles a long moment, then slowly creeps up the road. It strikes her just how similar every house is on close inspection. She wonders how she's managed to miss the repetition.

It takes four and a half minutes till she parks in the designated spot in front of her dad's office. It used to be a local travel agency called Trips On Us. Her dad wasn't surprised when it went under and snatched the vacant spot. He claimed it’s perfect for his large desk and assistant and makes a personal yet professional setting for consultancies. It fits only one client at a time, which is exactly how he likes it.

The other parking spot, which is usually filled with his assistant's beat-up VW Bug, sits empty. The glass front door of the office is propped open. Some loose pages shift out and about on the tail of a small wind. The blinds are drawn.

Shelly has a small rock at the bottom of her gut.

“Stay here.”

She rolls the window down a crack, then leaves the car and walks cautiously to the open door. She isn't sure why, but she tiptoes most of the way like a cartoon with extending legs and long, flat feet. She peers in.

It's dark inside. The lights are off. She can't make out anything besides the pale green glow of the copy machine's buttons.

“Hello? Dad?”

Nothing.

She reaches in and flips the light switch. The fluorescents flash on. Her dad wants to change them out for LEDs but hasn't found the time.

The harsh light reveals a disaster. The office looks like a herd of something tore through it. Papers and opened folders litter the floor, the desks are in disarray, chairs are flipped, and the coffee maker burns the thin layer in the pot to a black crust.

“Dad?” she wavers.

No answer. Shelly moves into the wreckage. The vent blows a hard, cold air over the entrance. It turns her skin into bumps.

She can't find a sign of her dad besides the fact that someone had started the coffee. She goes to the back, where the single bathroom is, and checks there. The light is on, and the door is propped open. The faucet runs fully on hot and steams up the small mirror. She shuts it off and notices a pinkish ring around the white porcelain. The rock in her belly grows in weight.

The school. Her mom must be there. She's always one of the first ones there, especially today. Once a week, her mom and the principal meet and have a small breakfast meeting before the rest of the staff and students arrive.

Shelly gets back into the car. She pats Copernicus between the ears. He pants with his tongue out. “OK, Coops. Let's go try to find Mom. Maybe Dad's over there too...”

She trails off. She tries to stop her mind from rolling too far ahead and building up with panic, that old snowball running down a steep hill. She doesn't know what's going on. She'll find them. Just stick to the path. Next in line is the school. She backs out and doesn't bother to check the road. No other cars come or go.

The drive takes slightly over ten minutes. It passes the park, and in the distance, she notices a couple of people. They appear to be on a morning walk. She pulls over and shouts. They turn, almost in unison, and slowly start in her direction. It makes her skin crawl, and she doesn't wait around. It’s enough to know there are other people out and about, if only those few.

The school parking lot is fuller. The cars from different staff members sit in their designated spots. By this time, all the other kids should be getting there. Shelly has enough credits that she doesn't have class during first period. That's one of the benefits of the last three years of hard work.

She parks and cracks the window again. This time she leaves the car idling. Around the side is a staff entrance. You need a keycard to get buzzed in, but there's also a little speaker that connects directly to the secretary's desk. She'd be happy to talk to somebody, anybody.

The door has a large, frosted glass panel that runs up the middle. There are people standing just on the other side. As Shelly walks up it almost looks like a blurry Picasso. It morphs as she knocks.

“Hello?”

They press against the door. Bodies and hands and two faces at the front. Shelly moves back out of instinct. It's like they're grabbing for her through the glass. A few hands bang against the inner side of the divide.

“What the hell...”

She switches tactics and pulls out her phone. She calls the front desk. She can hear the phone ringing, and the crowd at the door abandons their pressed posts and moves back into the building. She waits for one of them to pick up. They don't. She presses the button by the small speaker next to the door. A cacophony of breathing, grunts and strains comes back. It sounds unnatural. She thinks back to Mr. Brown. How he looked. He had dug that hole. But why? And why in their yard?

He was trying to warn her. He did say it's not safe. Maybe she was too quick to react the way she had. Maybe he knows what's going on.

Shelly runs back to the car and jumps in. She pulls out of the spot and continues going backwards until she reaches the opposite end of the lot. It’s where her mom's spot is. It's empty. She takes that as a good sign. There is a type of alarm going off in her head, telling her that whatever’s happening inside those offices can’t be good. Hyenas are all she can think about as she leaves the lot and drives back toward home.

The park is fuller on the way back. There's a crowd forming. They look like a herd of sheep flocking from an approaching storm. She doesn't stop this time. She keeps thinking back to Mr. Brown. It's not safe. He looked so old. So frightened. So urgent.

She turns right onto Main Street. In her short absence, it's taken on a different look. There's a fire leaking out of one of the buildings. Two cars lie in shambles, having lost a game of chicken.

“What the hell!”

She speeds now. The engine roars, almost in protest. Her hands grip the wheel at ten and two. She leans forward. Their street looks the same. No tragedies here. Five houses down from theirs, the neighbor stares out from the front bay window. She looks terrible, like she was the one in the car crash back on Main Street. Her light hoodie is soaked with red. She presses into the window, reaching for the passing car. She smears handprints all over the glass.

Shelly pulls into their garage. It feels like an eternity until the rolling door finally closes. She and Copernicus get out and search the house together.

“Mom? Dad!?”

It's exactly how she left it. It's home, just empty. She goes back into the garden. Back to the hole. The stained shovel lies to the side. The whole scene feels somehow shifted, or shifting. She squats to get a better look at the dark bottom. She picks up the shovel to poke at it, to see if it pokes back.

There's a sound behind her.

“Mr. Brown?”

Her neighbor stands, soaking wet, with a sunken stare and the flesh from the left side of his neck and cheek missing.

“Oh my God! Mr. Brown! Are you OK?”

He doesn’t answer. He lurches forward and grabs at her. He smells of the same rotting meat that the hole does.

She raises the shovel in defense, and he clamps down on the handle. They spin together. A dance in the sunlight, waltzing along the edge of the hole. Step, two, three.

He snaps at her again. She calls out. They twirl. Her foot slips. She tumbles back. He follows.

They hit that soft layer. It nearly sucks her down. She screams. Her hand finds the shovel again. She tries to stand. He crawls on his belly. His face is caked with a muddy mask.

Shelly gets up on her feet. She sinks to her ankles. At the rim of the hole, Copernicus circles and barks wildly.

The man can't find his footing. Shelly turns to climb out. Something stops her. A root, maybe part of the sprinkler piping, snags at her foot. She yanks at it.

The grasp clamps tighter with each pull of her leg. She feels the air get crushed from her lungs when she makes out that it's a bony hand that's wrapped around her dirty shoe. The nails are painted a soft pink. Two gold rings flash and reflect the sun.

Another hand reaches from the dirt. This one larger, meatier. It wears a ring, too. Mr. Brown crawls slowly forward and partially uncovers her parents’ bodies. They animate from under the dirt, their faces snapping like earthen creatures.

“Mom... Dad...”

The whole scene blurs with her vision. She's in a tunnel, falling down a well. An endless hole. The light shrinks to a needle point. She's not in control. Her body just moves on its own.

Her vision explodes back, and she's lying in the sun, on the grass. Copernicus is next to her, with his teeth still locked onto the shovel handle beside her hand. Her breath returns. She stands. She looks back down into the hole.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mrs. Williams shuffles out their kitchen door. There's a mighty racket going on next door. They're a lovely family, but don't always register their volume. It's early, and a weekday. What on earth could they be doing to make so much noise? And what’s all the yelling about?

She opens the small gate between the two yards. They installed it years ago, when Shelly was little. She used to play with their grandkids. They built the opening so the kids could wander from yard to yard without tracking a mess through the houses. It squeaks now when she opens it.

Mrs. Williams turns the corner and stops.

Shelly stands in the middle of the yard. That dog of theirs is barking up a storm. They’re both covered in dirt, standing near what looks like a massive hole. What on God's green earth?

“Shelly? Dear? What's going on? Are you OK? I heard something...”

Shelly turns. She's covered in a wet muck. Her eyes are wild. Open too wide. They don't blink, like she's possessed.

“Mrs. Williams? Mrs. Williams! You need to go! Go! Go back inside. Go and lock your doors. Stay in. Where's Mr. Williams? Have you seen him?”

Mrs. Williams freezes. She’s never seen Shelly like this. Something is terribly wrong.

“Dear... What is it? What are you doing?”

Shelly raises the shovel and points it at the old woman.

“Go! Get back in your house. Lock the doors. Lock the windows! It's not safe out here!”

“Oh dear!”

Mrs. Williams stumbles backward. She hurries through the gate and slams it shut behind her. She goes straight inside and locks the door. Then the windows. All of them.

She finds her husband, not at his usual spot, tinkering with one of his unfinished ships in a bottle, but standing at the window.

“Do you see this, hon? Shelly? What’s that girl doing?”

Mrs. Williams joins him. Outside, Shelly is still at the edge of the hole. She's digging furiously, throwing heaps of earth back in. That dog keeps barking madly into it.

“What on earth is she up to?”

Mr. Williams turns and pulls on his knit sweater despite the early heat.

“What on earth are you up to, Pa? You stay put!” says Mrs. Williams.

“Don't worry,” he says, pushing up his glasses, “I'm sure it's nothing. See? Look... Mrs. Brown is heading over there. That hip of hers must be acting up again, poor gal. Don't worry, hon, we'll get to the bottom of this mysterious hole.”

That's the sound of your breath when you're running from them. Each exhale is a profane prayer. It means, most likely, you did something stupid. In hindsight, it's usually something incredibly stupid.

The runners will think that later, if they're still alive. Now they have no choice but to run if they want to keep it that way.

There are four of them, and one is responsible for their current predicament. The other three know it and hold the grudge like a baton, passing it back and forth, careful not to drop and leave it behind in the dust.

“You idiot!” pants Number One.

“Hell yeah! What were you thinking?” adds Number Two.

Number Four stays quiet, waiting for Number Three to answer for their actions. They don't have one, only heavy breathing. They've never run this far in their whole life. Every muscle hurts, and their lungs burn like they inhaled a bucket of hot ashes.

There were working cars before. Why would anyone run anywhere? Now the shells sit on the sides of the roads like the useless heaps of metal they are. Number Three's calves threaten to seize with cramps, but an over-the-shoulder glance keeps their legs pumping.

The group falls into a steady pace. It's not a sprint, more of a quick jog. They sweat and wipe at their burning eyes. The sun slants at an especially blinding angle.

The herd pursuing the four isn't that fast, but there's a ton of them. They spill over each other and crowd in swirls, overtaking the full width of the street. The formation is packed with fresh ones from inside the store.

That's always the case, you know that, or at least you should by now. Always check inside before just barging in. You always goddamn check! They're out of the sun, they're not all dried up like a bunch of mummies. They move faster. They squish in their own juices. It's gross, the sound they make. It could make you sick if you weren't counting your lucky stars that that squish-squash-squish told your hide to get out of Dodge.

The other runners openly question how Number Three didn’t know this. How could they have survived for so long without following the basics? It's been an unforgiving learning curve. Fifty-fifty: learn or die. Most have died. Three goddamn weeks is all it took for the world to go to shit. If they're being honest, it really only took a few days, but they'd like to keep up a small prideful front even if it's only for themselves.

The end of the bridge is in sight and packed with more useless heaps. End to goddamned end. Blocked, like it does any good. It kept those idiots who built it in a confined space, is what it did, but now it causes the four runners to make nervous glances toward one another. Number Two hung a left like a blind bat. The rest followed, equally as blind, and they landed smack in the middle of an inclining on-ramp. The way behind floods, ebbing ever closer. The sound laps at their heels, licking at their shoes.

They hit the barricade, and suddenly age plays a role. Number One and Four vault to the top with little issue. They’re far younger than the other two. They could be gone. Every man, woman, and child for themselves. Darwinism at its finest. Sorry, Gramps, today is the day you’ve reached your limit.

“Please don't leave us!” cries Number Three, forgetting their original sin. Number Two grabs up like an infant with hurt hands to its parent, asking for a kiss to make it all go away.

One and Four give each other a look. In it is a question: Should I stay, or should I go now? There's no jangling guitars here, and the instant of hesitation answers. They stoop down and help the others up. The opposite end of the bridge fills and overflows. Bodies splash into the muddy water below on top of other muddy bodies. They squirm like swamp animals and blend into a singular brown mix.

The runners scramble down the other side of the blockage. They can't dilly-dally. The raised view showed what was waiting for them: husks of more cars and more people. Are they still people? Number Three is the only one who thinks so. But people or not, they’re dangerous. Even Three gets that point and picks up the pace to match the others.

Coming downtown was a terrible decision. One in a long chain of terrible decisions. Shit, goes their breath, smacking back and forth off dirty windows through the constructed canyon. It’s too loud. They are loud, even if they’re trying not to be.

From every narrow side street pour more of the aggressive bunches. Number One picks up the pace. Four matches it. Two and Three settle best they can with a growing gap.

“We need to get off these streets!” huffs Number Three.

Two agrees with a breathless, “That's the only good idea you've had, fatty. Jesus, I can't keep this up.”

Four speaks up for the first time, “Not yet... Follow me, I know where to go. My place is only two blocks away.”

Not another word is said, and the group follows Four out of the lack of any other bright ideas. The run commences. Corners are turned around reaching fingers, and behind them crescendos a building wave. Faces smack into the pavement as bodies get pulled underfoot. The onslaught is as relentless as the heat.

Number Three struggles, loses several paces, and nearly falls twice. Even Number Two shows no signs of hesitation in forward momentum.

Four reaches and jiggles around in their backpack. A keyring emerges and rattles the way to the right. Number Three is so grateful. This nightmare of inflamed muscle and tunneling vision is almost over. They have a safe haven, maybe. Three will take maybe. They’ll take anything.

Except stairs.

That's what's waiting for the group. Goddamned stairs. A metal skeleton of a fire escape claws to the backside of the building, skirting under the windows on each floor. Number Four and One are up the first retractable flight like greased lightning. Number Two staggers after, and Three hesitates, feeling a possible heart attack coming on.

“Hurry up!” one of them shouts.

The wave crashes at the end of the alley. The dead come knock, knock, knocking on your door. Number Three takes the stairs two at a time. Death would make the best personal trainer - scythe and cloak bent over a stationary bike, techno music pumping in the background, one of those hands-free microphones curled around the skull, “...and up! Six, seven, eight! Come on, now! Give me more! Nine, ten! Push it!”

The other runners attempt to pull the extendable portion up once Three hits the top, but it's too late. Hands and feet and bodies are already weighing down the first steps. The dead perusers are not great at navigating stairs, but they can make their way when motivated. The shouts did just that. You should know they follow sound. They might not see great, but they can hear just fine. Another one of the basics. All the runners are guilty here, but they blame slowpoke Number Three. Strike two.

More stairs. They need to go up three flights, says Four. If they beat the pack, the key will unlock the window. The apartment should be empty. They can block up the window. Stay in. Stay safe. Catch their breath. Make a new plan.

“Get fucked!” says Number One and takes off at speed. They don't stop until they clear the roof. They spring over the edge and disappear from view. The group is down to three. The youngest calculated the weight and cut the unneeded fat off with no further hesitation. Just like all of them, thinks Number Three. Selfish, shortsighted, wrong. The stairs seem to never end.

Number Four reaches the window first and moves to unlock the outer deadbolt, then jumps back. Faces and hands slam against the inner pane. They stain the glass into a holy mess. Two and Three catch up to Four, who sits in a shocked stupor, and they drag further up. The dead navigators mingle up the steps and steadily rise. Hallelujah!

The runners three reach the roof and follow Number One's path. They flop over onto the flat surface. It burns their bare skin and sinks where the tar has grown soft. They stand and search. They don't see anyone. No one that's living, anyway. A few bodies mill around on the other roofs, but this one is clear. As is the next one over.

Number Two checks back down the fire escape. “We need to move! We're dead if we stay here. They're coming!”

Number Four's eyes have lost their life. Three looks at Two, and they run around the border to check other possibilities. Something to climb down, a door to an inner staircase, a rope... anything!

“Shit,” goes Number Three’s breath in a long exhale. There’s nothing. Nothing on this roof. But there is on the next. An open door. An exit. It even has a big sign that says so in red block letters: ROOF EXIT.

“There! We need to get over there!”

Number Two runs to the edge and looks down, then across, trying to calculate, “We can make it. It's not too far. It looks it, but it's not. We can jump it. We have to.”

“You're insane,” speaks up Number Four, “We'll fall!”

“You’d rather be eaten? Fine, you do you. I can make it.”

“Just be quiet,” protests Number Three, “Maybe if we're quiet enough, they won't come all the way up here. I've done it before. I waited them out. It takes a while, but if they lose the sound, they lose interest after a while.”

“Jesus, you're such an idiot,” combats Number Two, “It's your fault we're stuck here in the first place. You opened the door without even a glance inside. They're too close! We can't wait them out. Not now, thanks to you.”

Number Four speaks up again, with frightfully focused eyes this time, “We have to go, now!”

A pointing finger leads to the first hands and heads peeking over the roof's edge.

“Shit!”

That breath again, always exhaling. All three back up several paces. Number Four gives a shake of the forearms and hands, blows hard air, and takes off. They run, they leap, they hit the next roof and roll into a landing. They wave to the others.

“Shit!”

They take off in an unplanned, synchronized sprint. Two moves faster than Three. Feet pound into the surface. Breaths are held. There are no more Shits, and the air falls silent.

Both plant their last step and make the jump. Three rockets over the edge. Two's foot sinks into a soft spot that trips the runner into an overhead tumble. They clear the edge and fall, face first, down to the street below. There's a sound like a hard-boiled egg falling to the kitchen floor. The shell cracks, and the wobbly yellow middle leaks onto the hardwood. There's a swear, and someone has to clean it up.

Three hits the edge hard. Their grip finds it, but the lower half hangs down to the street and the former Number Two. There is a struggle. As if all the running wasn't hard enough, this half pull-up might just be the breaking point.

Number Four reaches over the edge, grabs Three's belt, and pulls. Together, they manage to hit the flat of the roof with no further fatalities. They stand and stare into dead eyes across the small gap. The first ones go over, with reaching arms, and land on top of Two’s still body. They build a small hill, like so many other terrible times in history.

The two remaining runners don't wait around long. They can't watch. You never can. Before all this, you had your looky-loos slowing down for traffic accidents. Watching terror from a distance. But when it becomes normal, daily, hourly, non-stop horror, then you tend to stop looking. It might be a way to not let yourself become it. Fight or flight. They fly away, without taking a needed breath.

Four and Three, the last of the runners, trample down the cool stairwell. They can hardly see in the dark after being in the glaring light. The cool, almost wet walls bring a small reprieve. It lasts all but three flights before the dark gropes back. Sticky hands and gnashing jaws halt their progress and send them along an inner corridor. Doors with numbers screwed just under the peepholes line each side. They start, oddly enough, at 3 and run up to 11.

The door with the number 9 on it stands open, and the runners dive inside. Four slams the door and throws the bolt. A small chain clasps on as a secondary precaution. They breathe in heavy tufts.

Always check. Never just barge right in. It's basics. You should know it by now. You always goddamn check!

The figures standing at the far side of the open living space spring to an un-life and move toward the two intruders. Four jumps over the small kitchen island and lands by the table set for four. Spoiled food lines the top in blackened mold.

Number Three doesn't know what to do. They stand in a stupid, frozen pose just waiting for the inevitable.

If you keep your eyes closed, it's easy to miss what's going on around you. Maybe it's a reflex to avoid seeing the thing that causes you the most fear. Maybe it's a needed detachment from reality to hold on to that last moment of self-preservation. Maybe it's just bullshit, and a weak move made by weak people.

No matter the true meaning, Number Three does this, and Four shouts and slaps at the table.

The bodies follow the sounds, and Three makes out enough of the situation to dart past and open the far window. They climb out to the fire escape that mirrors the one from the previous building, except this one is a newly painted shade of anthracite to match the building's facade. There are yells from inside, but they're killed by the slamming window. Double-paned. Great for winter and noise reduction. It separates everything outside from everything inside.

Number Three becomes the Lone Runner and doesn't hesitate until standing on street level. You can't linger on the gore. Everyone knows that. It’ll get you killed. They peek around the next corner and nearly get their nose bitten off. Goddamn zombies. They take off running. Always goddamn running.

They want to die from the heat, from the exertion, from the dried-up feeling of a waggling tongue. But they go on. They have kids, after all. They're grown, sure, but the oldest is expecting. Don't die yet, Gramps.

This city will be the death of them. They grew up here, but have since moved away. Nothing is familiar. Nothing is as it was. The streets used to be filled with small restaurants, shops and paper stands. Now it's just rows of the same stores selling the same wares.

If Three wasn't running for their life, they'd think how sad this has become. Hipster centers and expensive snack bars. The whole place has gone to shit. Maybe the dead rising isn't the worst thing to happen to a place like this.

The next turn sees a line of standing traffic cones. They merge three lanes into one. Striped tape hangs swaying between them until the line gives way to a segmented metal-grated fence. The pieces link together like those knock-off Lego bricks that don’t quite fit together tightly enough to make a stable structure.

The wave that once followed is now more like a thin trickle. There are gaps on either side. A row of folding tables stands just outside the fence barrier. A sign in large print declares: 1 More Mile, You're Almost There!

They think that rings true. They've almost made it. There's just the last mile. Close your eyes. The end will come.

All those miles behind. All those bodies behind, some moving, some still in the filthy gutters. This is a one-man race, a one-man achievement.

The fence segments start to hold crooked signs promoting sports brands, drinks, and the newest phone models from every company. Silent speaker boxes stand on extended poles. The cables run as snakes to the ground and follow the fence line to a large arch. More block letters make it undeniable: Finish Line!

Number Three looks back at what is now only a handful of bodies stuck on the outer side of the fence barrier. They've done it. They're safe. They think they are.

They cross under the arch and stop running. Finally. Jesus, finally.

Up on a riser sits a new car. It must have been the prize. A goddamn BMW. Here, in the middle of the end of things, is a pristine BMW and a little plastic case holding the key.

Number Three opens the plastic lid and pushes the unlock button. The car lights flash. There's a click.

“I'll be damned.”

It has leather seats. Three presses on the brake, then pushes the start button on the dash. The goddamn thing starts right up. It sputters slightly, but then purrs. The tank is full. The air conditioner blasts on.

Number Three puts it in D and pulls off the platform and down the street. The onboard navigation finds their country place and charts a path. They'll have one hell of a story to tell the rest of the family.

It's a good enough excuse for coming back without all the things they went to the city for in the first place. A new BMW isn't exactly empty-handed, but the family did ask to bring back a long laundry list of other things: canned foods, medicine, first-aid kits, hand tools. It goes on and on.

It takes forty-two minutes to navigate the crowded city streets and a few curses when dead hands scrape along the new paint job. One headlight gets the worst end of a small fender-bender, but all-in-all, a successful trip.

The other items can be found at any one of your standard roadside gas places. The car will need a top-up at some point. The drive isn't a short one. Number Three just needs to remember the basics: You always goddamn check!

Those other three pulled them out of a tight spot the first time that rule wasn't followed. Three won't make that mistake again. No, sir!

The BMW moves to an open lane on the highway. The air conditioner drones. The navigation shows to take an exit sixty-seven miles on. The radio repeats a hit from nineteen eighty-nine.

What a goddamn year that was. Simply the best.