Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Diminished Returns

Editor's Note: What follows is the "Wrath of the Damned" authors' first attempt at a Twitter-based short story. The entire short story is composed entirely of 140-character bursts that were posted to the @wrathofdamned Twitter account. You can follow the blog's Twitter updates, zombie survival tips, and our future short stories at http://www.twitter.com/wrathofdamned.

The rules of the story were these: Any of our five authors could add anything they wanted to the story at any time. But none of the authors could discuss what they were doing with each other or tell each other what they wanted them to do. In that way, each Twitter post acted as a prompt to everyone else.

Because of the premise, the story's a little...weird. It doesn't always hang together perfectly. Some posts are experimental. Some are truncated to meet the 140-character requirement.

However, we're proud of what came out from this experiment. The story, while a little bit all over the place, still stays true to the "Wrath of the Damned" style in most ways. And we're learning. And we plan to do more of these serialized stories.

Enough disclaiming. Enjoy "Diminished Returns."

--PRH
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Just got back from grocery store. Madhouse. All the canned food was gone. Radio says governor's concerned about hoarding.

Gas prices were up $3 everywhere I tried to go today. Decided to keep the car in the garage. Worried about thieves.

Despite what the news says, no sightings within 100 miles. Alan next door brought over a gas mask. Says guys at work think it’s airborne.

Spent the day checking my supplies. Dismal state. With the way things are going in Chicago, I feel I'm ill-prepared.

CDC: Two unconfirmed cases less than five miles from here. Victims unresponsive to stimuli, aggressive, slow-moving.

Stories coming out of cities don't make sense. NBC says victims attack others. Fox reports disease kills instantly. Transferred by fluids.

Day off today. Left the TV off. News offers nothing useful anyway. Haven't seen anyone on the street all day.

Called Alan. Grilled some burgers in the yard. All he talked about was Chicago. According to his nephew, Nat'l Guard is deploying there.

Back to work today. Jonas and Kathy are out sick. Alan looks twitchy as hell. He keeps turning on CNN, but the boss keeps bitching at him.

Six co-workers are out sick. Ordered Chinese for lunch, but the delivery guy never showed. Bribing the janitor for the vending machine key.

Power just kicked back on after almost two days. No work - nothing to run the computers on. Bringing Alan some beers, even though it's 1.

Alan's not doing so hot. He's been huddled over an a.m. emergency radio since the power went out. Official story: Infrastructure damage.

Alan's grateful for beer and company. "Spent yesterday at my parents'," he says. "They think this ... disease ... is an act of God."

"Act of God?" I ask as he tunes the radio to a new band. I raise an eyebrow. "I don't think the TV's giving us the truth anymore," he says.

"My parents are a little nuts when it comes to sinners," Alan explains. "Then again, it's been a while since we've seen a plague."

Heading home. Brain's buzzing. A plague. Hadn't thought of it like that. It kills people or makes them nuts. An act of God, Alan said.

Took the day off. So many people sick, figured nobody would notice. Spent the day watching Judge Judy. Rachel Ray taught me to make cookies.

Feel like I've been out of the world for days. Called off work again. Talked to Alan, who says half the staff was out of work today.

Caved and switched on the TV. Things are bad out there. Pundits keep saying "imminent state of emergency." Can hear a thunder storm brewing.

Standing on my deck, watching the rain, smoking. Getting dark. The lights from town are reflecting off the lake. Never seen it like that.

Flash of lightning. Saw a figure in the water, waist-deep. News in background: Mercy Hospital the site of attack. Ten dead, several missing.

Alan at the door. He's soaked through, clearly scared. "I need your car." Flash of lightning -- his car wrapped around a tree on the street.

"Where are we going?" I ask, grabbing a coat from the closet. Alan sees the driver Dad bought for me before he died, grabs it. I grab keys.

Toss the keys to Alan. With the driver in-hand, he's gone from terrified to singular in purposeful. Eyes are steely. Knuckles white.

"You know what I told you about this being an act of God?" His voice trembles a little. "It's not. It's not God."

"What happened to you?" I ask, noticing blood under his fingernails. "I need to get to my parents," he mutters. He says nothing else.

Know how in movies cars break down and are abandoned with just enough space to drive a car between them? Not true. Driving sucks.

Alan's parents live in butt fuck nowhere. With traffic, we've been driving for 2 days. Should've taken 4 hours. Slept in the car last night.

Alan didn't bring any food; guess he was in a rush. We've basically been eating Doritos and Power Bars. Wish I had made those cookies.

Got close today. Multi-car pile up blocking the freeway. Didn't see anyone, but Alan wanted to go around. Way around. Backseat bed again.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing here. Alan's a friend, not a great friend. We've seen a hundred cars out here, but not a goddamn soul.

It's like the highway just stopped. One car hits another, another hits that -- the artery clots. Like a heart attack. Where are the drivers?

That first night, the storm made driving impossible. The next day we saw emergency vehicles and traffic was god-awful. Today, we're alone.

Parked. With the lights off its like the dark will never end. Floods in like water, pressing. I see shadows swirling outside. Try to sleep.

Now I'm thinking about my good friends. Where are they? No one's called, but I guess I haven't either. Zero bars...fucking Sprint.

Day dreaming disrupted by screeching breaks. I brace myself on the dash - never wear a seatbelt. Couple assholes crossing the street. Jesus.

Alan's out of the car, driver in-hand. Moving fast. Following. The two guys don't seem scared. These are the first people we've seen.

One of the guys looks really bad. The other one is helping him along, one arm under his shoulder. Alan raises the driver. "Outta the way."

Alan's ready to bash skulls. "What are you doing, man?" I call. Run to catch up. He's motioning for the guy to get away from the hurt man.

"Fuck you, man, I'm bleeding!" says the bleeding guy. They've stopped walking. Alan: "Just -- just get out of the road!"

The other one's quiet...won't let go of his friend. "He's right, man," I say. "He looks pretty bad. Maybe we should help him."

The other one's quiet...won't let go of his friend. "He's right, man," I say. "He looks pretty bad. Maybe we should help him."

Alan doesn't even glance at me. Steps toward them, driver outstretched. Looks like he's gonna wind up -- "Alan, c'mon, man!" I shout –

Just when it looks like Alan's lost his shit, the quiet one drops his friend, grabs the driver from Alan and swings back. Alan's on his back

"If you want to come with us, get in the fucking car," says the bleeding one. Alan's skull is cracked; blood everywhere. Holy shit.

The unhurt one's still got the driver. Heads over to Alan. I can hear Alan trying to breathe. The guy swings the driver down hard, overhand.

I couldn't even make a sound. The guy hit Alan twice more. No more sounds. Turns back to me. His eyes are gray and flat. Mutter "oh god..."

Bloody: "He had to die. It was mercy. Now he won't be one of those things." Backing away from them; can't stop looking at Alan. "Things?"

They're climbing into Alan's car like it's just been pulled around by the valet. "What things?" I muster. No answer; they put it in drive.

"You comin'?" Bloody spits out the window. Once, when I was young, my friends rode bikes to the liquor store to steal some shit.

They got in so much trouble, but I always wished I had gone. Felt chickenshit. I don't know why I'm thinking about that now.

Guess it's keeping my mind off Alan. Alan's body. The car starts to roll, so without a word, I jog up and get in back. They're nonplussed.

I don't even know Alan's parents. I hardly know where I am. Now I'm three days from home with no car, no supplies...What choice do I have?

I'm not stupid. I saw the news -- riots of diseased people rampaging through buildings and streets. There's no one around for a reason.

In the back of my dead friend's car with his murderers; they're all I've seen of humanity. The sun drifts low. In this dark, it's a new day.

Every time I blink I think I hear something around me. I wonder if going crazy is the best way out of this.

"What happened to the police? The authorities?" I ask. Bloody turns back in his seat. His face shows pain. "I'm Brett. I'm a cop."

"This whole area was evacuated. Flooding from the storm. There was a huge accident. First responders go there and found a lot of bodies."

"Evacuation? Why didn't I hear anything about--" I spot Alan's tape deck. Suddenly I remember 37 replays of Meatloaf's "Bat Out of Hell."

Quiet swerves around some abandoned cars. A disheveled man with white hair sees us and jogs futilely after. Quiet hits the gas.

I decide it's best to not ask why we didn't stop to help. "But the bodies, see," Brett sighs. "They didn' stay that way. Not exactly."

"They tore those cops to shreds...with their TEETH. And their fingernails...most of 'em are slow, but them fucks don't go down."

He mistakes my blank stare for skepticism. "Don't believe me, ask Ronald here. Two days ago I couldn't get him to shut up."

I avert from his eyes -- see the gun strapped to his side. "Want it? It's fuckin' empty." He tosses it toward me. "Here, you can have it."

Brett: "These people with this disease, they're not rioting. It's so goddamn quiet. They're not sick. They died. They're dead."

"And it's not just sick people. The officer I was training, this panicked driver shot him. He bled out. Then he got up and killed the guy."

I think of a lifetime of pop culture ingestion...Romero, Shaun, FillintheBlank of the Dead, Max Brooks, even Boyle. "So, like...zombies?"

Brett smiles...smirks even, to one the side of his face. He turns around and stares out the window. I guess this conversation is over.

"Where are we going?" I ask. Brett: "Authorities are routing people to evacuatino points, like stadiums. We're going where the people are."

Look out the window, but all I see is Alan. In his last seconds the man wasn't making sense. Did they kill Alan in defense, or for this car?

Without turning, "Have you two killed a lot of people?" I see Ronald flinch. Brett turns back. "Only to stay alive." "Was it worth it?"

"We're still here, ain't we?" Brett offers. I counter: "Not exactly police protocol, though, is it? Killing those you're sworn to protect?"

To this, Brett says nothing. "What about Ronald? He a cop?" Brett: "No. Old golfing buddy. Hell of a swing, eh?"

I believe that was a joke at the expense of my dead friend. My blood is boiling. Wish this gun worked. Wish I had that golf club.

I lean up so I'm closer to Brett. "Why the hell did you bring me with you?" Brett: "We weren't just gonna leave you there."

Brett: "Look, I know what happened was insane, but this is about survival and crazy people--" He cuts off; Ron slows the car.

Between the seats, I see what Ron sees: a crowd. They're all facing east, marching down the road. Well, not marching -- stumbling. Lurching.

Brett: "They're headed away from us. What the hell are they doing?" Then: "They're following the evacuation."

Christina had seen "Shaun of the Dead" enough times with her deceased boyfriend, Pat. Fake it till you make it...through a crowd of zombies.

There were 8 of them. A couple of Pat's friends, a couple of her classmates, and a family from the convenience store. "Like this," she said.

"Ow, fuck!" Shhhhhh, was her immediate reaction. The dad of the family had broken character. In front of 50+ zombies. Then, the culprit...

He was on his knees...hit by a car from behind. A few of the zombies had turned at his yelp. The 3 assholes in the car didn't seem to care.

He just drove into them. What a fucking asshole. They're not zombies, clearly. Did they even hear that guy scream? What the fuck are they—

"Is he fucking crazy?" I shout. I'm gripping Brett's gun so tightly that I can feel blood pulsing in my hands.

Brett: "Shut the FUCK up, son, unless you want to get left. I am NOT going to play it safe and get fucking mauled out here by soccer moms."

"How many people need to die to secure your safety, Brett?"

Brett turns back. He would hit me right now if he could, but he's too banged up. "Shut your mouth! You have no idea what I've done."

Brett: "Those things aren't people, even the ones that are still alive. EVERYONE who dies becomes a monster."

Alan's face flashes in my mind. "Some of us already are monsters." In one motion I lean up and smash the gun into Brett's head.

Ron swerves as Brett's skull erupts with blood. Catches one of those shamblers, which bounces over the hood. Windshield cracks. Spinning.

Brett's side of the car slams into a telephone pole. Alan's car is totaled. Brett's not moving. I feel blood in my eyes. Kick the door open.

Flop out of the car. My legs scream. Look around: figures everywhere, bleeding in the sunlight. Ron's getting out.

Ron's face is twisted with rage, anguish. I can see in his eyes he'll kill me. He revels in it. Get up, palm the gun. He charges. I swing.

I miss hitting him but momentum carries me into his chest. I hit him with my shoulder. We fall. I scramble; they're all around us.

I'm flailing backward. Ron can't move that fast. They're falling on him. I grab his leg, try to pull him clear. Try to save him. But can't.

Dead people are tearing Ron apart. Brett's not moving. Figures are all around me. I killed them both. The dead come to judge me. And I run.

Had a choice: Run along the road, with the things, or off the road. Should have chosen the road. Ground is uneven, keep stumbling. Not good.

Trying to move as quickly as possible just inside the tree line. Attempting to be quiet. difficult. There are so many of them out there...

Sun's setting. Glancing deeper into the trees see a dim light. The road is thinning out with...them. I turn toward the light and move.

Faint crashing behind me. Something coming in after me. Now the only sound is my breathing & heartbeat loud in my ears: its getting closer.

It’s coming slower than I thought. I gain ground & run on. The light is brighter. A clearing. Alan's being bludgeoned in my mind’s eye...

I hesitate for a split second as I remember the killings. I no longer know what to expect of the world...I hear branches breaking behind me.

My mind clears at the sounds behind me and I run forward into the clearing...

At the precipice, I freeze. Something shaking in the high grass. Can't keep quiet: I'm winded. Breathing like a fat gym student on mile day.

The grass shakes again; bit closer now. Though I know it's empty, I grip the gun like it's my lifeline. Better than trying to run again.

See a pattern in the grass now, uneven steps. Need to be the aggressor: I level my gun and scream: "Who the fuck's there? I'm armed."

No answer. Few more uneven steps. I follow them, lead them. "I said who's there?" Close now. "Goddammit, I'll shoot--" I see him now.

A dog. Wounded back leg. Not a zombie dog, thank god. There are, at least for now, still limits. I release my grip and crouch. He whimpers.

Is it possible for animals to get infected? I wish there was a safe way to test this.

We stare at one another. He's afraid to come any closer. Or maybe he's trying to ask me for help. I yank at the bottom of my shirt.

Took some work, and the result is a frayed t-shirt, but I've got a black strip of cotton. I inch towards the dog: brown, medium length hair.

He lets me get close, but cringes when I get near his back right leg. I can see the blood. I'm careful, but slowly start to wrap him up.

What now? Leave him? Guess we'd both feel better not alone. Would love to get back to the road, but that's where I left those...things.

The woods, then. Didn't reach the Star rank in Boy Scouts for nothing. Though I was a few requirements short on my zombie merit badge.

No one's around. The only people I've seen are dead. I move slow to keep a pace the dog can match. The light is just beyond a stand of trees

It's dark among the trees. The dog limps along. It's like everything else in the world has died. I keep checking back; he's still following.

Stepping through the last of the trees. Hear nothing but our breathing. Other side, the light: a pole on a fence. With figures all around.

They're silent and milling, aimless. A few just slump. There are 15 at least. They haven't seen us. Can't tell if more are in the dark.

The dog's spooked. Backing away slowly. I crouch down beside him. Seems to calm him down. Don't touch him though. We don't have that trust.

Shit. There are more, just standing, among the trees. The dog spotted them. We're surrounded. Doesn't seem like they've seen us. Yet.

The dog makes a sound. Not quite a a growl and not quite a whimper. I cringe, hoping none of them notice.

I stand and take a few cautious steps backward. His shaggy brown hair is straight up, but he approves of my retreat. I hit something –

Wheel around. I bumped into the back of a dead guy. Upright. He turns slowly and the dog barks -- I shush him -- and the others take notice.

The one I bumped swipes at me; a fast swipe. I duck it, but barely. Didn't know they could move so fast. Looked like a twitch. Muscle memory

Before I remember the dog is injured, I'm dodging more twitches and am tearing my way through the trees. I hear a bark behind me and turn—

He's trotting not far behind me, somehow forgetting his pain. But the dead are close behind, moving faster than I thought possible.

A few even make a case to be described as runners. Pausing has cost me. A wirey willow a few trees away. Break for it; start to climb.

I'm halfway up before I remember dogs can't climb trees. I lower myself to grab his front paws and pull when I suddenly wonder: can they?

I swing him up -- fucking heavier than I expected -- and he land precariously on the branch beside my. The first runner takes a swipe –

-- but he overshoots it. Then there's two, three, six. The others are catching up. Another grabs. He has the dog; I kick as hard as I can.

The dog is going crazy now, barking so hard he can hardly keep his balance. Backs up the branch. Something grabs my sleeve from behind.

I pull without looking. My sleeve is gone. I'm up one branch; the next; the next. Dog follows suit as best he can. Help him up the last one.

High enough now. We're surrounded. Seems they can't climb, even the runners, though a few try. Dog in my lap...guess we wait.

I think I slept. The dog is barely moving, but I'm sure he isn't bleeding. We're still in the tree. They're still down there -- not leaving.

In the light from the fence, this is the first time I've had a chance to look at them. They're all mutilated, like a land mine blew them up.

Some are missing limbs, fingers, ears and noses. Their eyes are white and milky. The wander around, slack-jawed, dazed. Sometimes they fall.

The one closest to me still has earbuds in. He wears a college t-shirt, soaked in blood. He was someone's son. No he's some sort of monster.

The sky is growing lighter. They lost track of us. If we're going to get out of here, we need to do it before they can see us again.

Sun's rising. The one nearest us has his back turned. They forgot about us, seems like. The dog senses it too: Time to go.

Climb down carefully, dog half on my shoulder. We're not that high -- 10 feet -- but getting down is tough. Moving slow; can't make noise.

Touch the ground. The dog hasn't moved. There are 15 or so of them around, and none have noticed. If we can make the fence...

I don't put the dog down, but it means I'm slower. Step to the right, past a few trees, past the guy with earbuds. I can see the fence.

Almost to the fence. I drop the dog -- it yelps. I hate myself a little for hurting the dog.

I hate myself even more for alerting all those bastard creatures that are now coming for me.

I consider climbing a tree again. I snatch the dog up and run for the fence. I make it over the fence with the dog. It wasn't easy.

I put the dog down on the other side of the fence and we run. He struggles to keep up.

I look behind me to see if any of those monsters made it over the fence. One or two did.

When I look back to the side the dog was running on I see the dog is gone. Confused, I stop running and look.

In the darkness I can make out a hole in the ground. I run to it. The dog is dead, impaled by wooden stakes in the ground in the hole.

I look around, angry. I hear a sound and all of a sudden my right shoulder explodes in pain. I'm thrown backwards by the force of the gunshot.

I grab it instinctually. Fall to my knees. "AH, MO-THER FUCK!" My shirt's already bleeding through. "Shit, Sharon, that one's still alive!"

I look up to the trees. Can't focus, I'm all blurry. Maybe I see something moving? I look back to the fence, then forward -- SLAP!

Someone just slapped me in the god damn face. "Right here, soldier. Stay with me know. It's just a flesh wound, yer not gonna die."

All I see are camo and a beard. The army? Thank God. Two arms grab me from either side and I'm being dragged. Shots fire past me.

A few blurry, bloody moments later and I'm on my side in the dirt. I'm yanked up and someone's talking to me. Don't listen. Shoulder hurts.

That someone is tying off my shoulder, stopping the blood. Their words are coming into focus. "...we thought...one of those zombies." Young.

His face. He's no older than 14. A fucking cub scout. "Where's your..." I manage. "Where's your...officer?" "Officer? Oh. Dad's on his way."

14 tosses me a bottle of water. Gets me a chair. We're in a tiny camp. Too small for military. Three more in camo come around side a shed.

It's beard-and-camo: "You with me?" I nod. "Sorry about that. Saw the fence and...well, Sharon doesn't miss the head often. You're lucky."

See Sharon at his side. She's younger than 14. 11, 12 maybe. Flat chested. Holding her gun like a hot-steel baby doll. Shot by an effin kid.

"These are my sons, Robby and Namath. I'm Dean." "Namath like the football player?" "Yessir," kid says. "Know that's a last name, right?"

It's lost on them. "Where are the others?" I ask. "Others? We it," Dean explains. I look across his family. Gun-totting, camo-laden family.

Great. I'm in fucking “Red Dawn.”

Except communists don't eat people. At least I don't think...and there is no Swayze..."Hey." I'm brought back to reality.

Dean looks at me sternly and I wonder if any of his looks aren't stern. "How many of them are on the other side of the fence?"

"Uh I don...maybe 20 or more ...or less." The stern look continues - and continues. I'm finding it hard to concentrate.

Still more stern looks, and all I can think is: damn this guy is stern. And then: Hey, did they kill my dog?

I pass out. I dream about Swayze, which is what I posthumously named my dead dog.

Awake. The sun's high overhead. Lying on a wooden bench. Intense, dull ache in my shoulder. Sit up -- no one's around. I'm alone.

The fence stands 100 feet to my left. A few trees here and there, but mostly clear. To the right, a silent bulldozer. Construction site.

Two trucks parked sideways on a dirt mound just past the bulldozer. Alone and don't know where the fuck I am...considering Grand Theft Auto.

Sit up to go check out the trucks. Shitmotherpiss. Forgot about my shoulder. Don't they need to take the bullet out?

Walk to the Chevy, leave the Honda. Steal American. Nice, tan leather seats. Half-empty Mountain Dew in the cup holder. Flat, but amazing.

Strikes me now, as the warm sugar water trickles across the lining of my stomach, that I haven't eaten in at least a day. My stomach twists.

SLAM. The gate of the truck shakes. I duck, spin around - ah, shoulder! - peak out the back. It's Dean. And a dear carcass.

I make a cautious exit, but startle the girl. Her rifle's cocked and ready soon as the door slams. "Don't you ever put that thing down?!"

"Sharon, stand down!" Dean orders like a lieutenant to his soldier – not a father. "Just, uhh...napping," I lie. "That breakfast?"

"And lunch, and dinner," he adds. Sharon still eyes me sideways. "Where are the boys?" Trying to be casual. "Seems they're a bit shaken."

"Had 'em dig that trip in the ground a few days ago for the monsters. Looks like it did in Roscoe." Takes a minute to register.

"Ah. You mean Swayze." "Huh?" Dean huffs. Shake it off: "Can I...help? Do anything?" I hear the gun CLICK again – look...girl's cleaning it.

Dean: "You any good with a weapon, son?" Me: "I haven't fired a gun since I was 10." Dean: "Huh. How the hell did you get this far?"

"Sharon, go help your brothers," Dean says. The girl heads off without a word. Following orders.

"You can't stay here," Dean tells me, staring me in the face, when Sharon's out of earshot. "We can't carry you. I got the kids."

"I'm not worthless," I return. "I'll pull my weight. I won't be a burden."

Dean: "Prove it."

Asshole really put me on the spot. I marched away, acting like I was going to do something right then, but I had no idea. Now I'm spelunking.

Grabbing bits of root and jagged, knife-sharpened stakes down into the 8-foot hole that claimed Swayze. I'm a fucking mad man.

It's pretty gruesome...not sure I've ever seen a dead dog. Looks like he died instantly, though. Now the hard part: getting out.

With no regard for my only shirt, I march triumphantly back toward camp with Swayze draped over my shoulders. Leave him there.

Dig for probably 30 minutes. Go and call the family over. The boys come; Dean and Sharon are skeptical.

Even made a little cross out of sticks; we have ourselves a nice little service. The boys cry, but seem happier now. Dean nods his approval.

Now if we can please cook that fucking deer.

Dean sent me to walk the site's perimeter with Namath. Whole place is fenced in. Zombies sometimes shake the fences, sometimes flop over.

Namath's not a great shot, but at the fence, he just puts the barrel up to their heads. It's a mess and hard to watch. Calls me "pussy."

Me: "If I'm going to help clean up zombies, can I have a gun?" Dean: "You're not shooting. You're bait."

At the fence. "Do they get in much?" I ask. "We've only been here a couple days," Namath returns. "It's not as bad as in town."

Namath: "Don't move." I freeze. Suddenly a hand on my shoulder. Namath raises the gun, fires it just past my face. Thud as zombie falls.

"Nice work," Namath remarks. I'm shaking. "C'mon, there's two more down there."

"Here," Namath says, handing me the rifle. They're lurching toward us, 50 feet off. "Aim high. Try to focus on an eye or something small."

I raise the gun to my shoulder and squeeze the trigger. Explosion. The rifle hits me in the face. Namath can't stop laughing.

"Like this," Namath tells me, taking the gun out of my hand. I rub the goose egg on my forehead. He raises it, sets his feet, fires.

The first monster barely flinches as the slug plows through its upper chest, escaping with a spray of red. It continues toward them.

They're both still coming. Namath puts the rifle butt down between his feet and cocks out the trigger guard, raises it again.

I hear something behind us. Turn back -- a bloody construction worker, hunks of rebar sticking out of his gut. Almost on us.

Namath's totally defenseless. I can see he won't have time to react, the worker is too close. I have no weapon, so I use my shoulder.

We both go down. Feel the bars stabbing at my arm, chest. We're completely tangled and I can feel tearing fingers. Teeth not far behind.

A shot, right next to my head. I can feel the heat. Look up -- it's Dean, handgun pointed down at us. "Get the fuck up," he breathes.

Sharon is mopping up the others. Dean turns to Namath: "You can't even handle walking a perimeter? Get back and clean that deer."

Dean hauls me up. "You and me gotta talk." Walk away from Sharon. "You need to get your head outta your ass, son."

He shoves me up against a bulldozer. "I won't have some asshole putting my family in danger. You need us -- we don't need you."

"Get your fucking act together, yuppie," Dean finishes. He releases my collar. "Pull your weight or find somewhere else. This is my family."

A few hours have gone by. We're eating Dean's deer. They built a fire. I'm an outsider here. No one trusts me. I don't blame them.

Watching Dean with his kids, I can see how much he cares about them. He makes sure everyone has plenty. Waits till they're finished to eat.

The kids are heading to bed in the abandoned equipment. Dean and I stay at the fire, on watch. "Sorry I snapped," he remarks. Nothing else.

I open my eyes. I can feel myself with a cold sweat. The fire is dying and I don't see Dean anywhere around.

I start searching. Everyone else is here, asleep. When I look beyond our makeshift camp, I see Dean staggering back.

Dean is dragging one of his legs. His head is hung low. He utters some sort of grunt. Is this really happening?

I look for something to defend myself with. He is approaching me.

"Would you stop messing around and help me?" Dean has apparently twisted his ankle.

He explains that he went to get more wood for the fire and tripped. I feel myself calming down, even wanting to laugh from my reaction.

Sitting by the fire again, I tell myself I won't fall asleep this time.

Dean just keeps rubbing his ankle and staring off into the darkness. He's starting to creep me out.

"Go get more firewood," Dean tells me. "But it's still dark," I say. He gives me a look. "So?"

It's dark out here and I am completely terrified. How am I supposed to find anything?

I hear something. I definitely hear something.

I wonder what Dean's game is...but since his blow-up, I'm more afraid of his gun than a zombie's foot speed. Maybe I'll just kill time...

I round a few trees...pick up a few twigs, drop them again to start over. In another world, I would want sleep. Now I'm content with pacing.

After a couple more rounds of pick-up-sticks, I turn around a tree and nearly run into a fence post. Guess the fence goes pretty far.

Follow it, absently. Run my fingers across the cold chain-link. My world is my finger tips: bouncing, scraping, feeling.

I see them now, huddled together. They're inside the fence, which takes a moment to register. More pile on. From where?

Gaping hole in the fence. Torn down -- bent down. Quickly. With a few more steps I can see it -- They're huddled around the deer carcass.

Stay put. No sudden moves. It hits me: that bastard set a trap. He's trying to get me killed.

I debate whether I should warn the rest of camp. But that would mean confronting Dean. Of course, I should worry about myself first.

Step backward quietly, trying to avoid attention. I smile to myself knowing I just picked up all the twigs I could have stepped on.

Decide to take the long way back around - away from the broken fence - and come up at camp from behind. Should scare the piss out of Dean.

Taking my time, but alert; on my toes. Strangely calm...feel in control for the first time since I called in apocalypse to work.

About half way back. I think. An explosion. A gun shot. The kids jump into my mind and I break into a sprint, broken twigs be damned.

4, 6, 12 -- more coming. Guess there wasn't enough deer to go 'round. The boys have taken the high ground on separate mounds of dirt.

Hard to see. Too dark. I look for Sharon and Dean...see Dean. He's lying there. Can't tell if he's breathing. Don't see Sharon.

The boys are shooting, surprisingly calm. But they're not hitting much. I make a decision...run for the white truck.

Keys are still in it, just like before. Reverse it off the dirt mound, kick up dust -- mistake. But I get it between the two mounds.

High Beams. Zombies don't mind the light, but the boys can see them now. They hoop to one another and compete for head shots.

A scream. I pull myself from the car, momentary victory dashed. I see Sharon...crawling backward, still holding her rifle...away from Dad.

He's up, lumbering. This time, I know. Idiot didn't twist his ankle, got caught by his own trap.

For once, Sharon's sure hand can't pull the trigger.

I try to wrestle the weapon away from her. We lock eyes.

She releases the gun and I know what I have to do.

I take aim at Dean. I wish I could do this with my eyes closed.

Goodbye Dean.

There's still more and we need to get out of here.

I yell for Sharon and the boys to get into the car. Sharon seems dazed enough to listen.

The boys take some convincing, but they get in. Where do we go from here?

I throw the truck in gear with the boys in the bed and Sharon in the seat beside me. Roll past Dean, through the crowd, toward the fence.

Impossibly loud in here. The engine is actually rumbling. We plow through the fence, over some things that could have been people.

The adrenaline's seeping out of me as we roll onto the dirt road that cuts through the woods leading to the site. Have some time to think.

I have no idea where I'm going. The road meanders through trees and darkness. Headlights barely penetrate. Mist is rolling in.

The sun will be up soon, then whatever cover we have from the dark will be lost. Not that everything in the area can't hear us.

Highway out ahead of us. It's still deserted. Pull out onto the road. Guardrails and blacktop -- a bridge.

The truck rattles and I realize why Dean never tried to take his kids out in it. Oil light's blinking. Smoke pours into the cab.

I assume calling AAA is not an option at this point.

We stumble out of the car to avoid the smoke and take a look around. On the bright side, we appear to be alone.

Sharon and I jump out as smoke pours from doors. The boys hop down. Namath: "Where are we?" Me: "No idea."

I can't tell, but I don't think there's anyone around. We'll probably have to walk. We should wait for daylight, if we can.

The dawn is beginning to break and I think it's time for us to move. I don't feel comfortable sitting still anymore.

I start walking down the road, assuming they will follow me. I look back after a minute and notice they haven't.

Me: "What's going on?" Namath: "We're not going anywhere." Sharon's face is swollen from crying. All three stare at me. All three are armed.

Me: "We can't stay here." Namath: "We have to bury our dad."

It's dark, but growing lighter by the second. I see steel in the kids' eyes. They won't be reasoned with.

I realize how little I knew about Dean. Or about myself. He saved my life, then I thought he tried to end it. And then I saved his kids.

Maybe he wasn't setting a trap for me. Maybe he was. His biggest concern in the world was the care of these three. He wanted more for them.

Me: "Then we'll go back." The kids seem surprised. It's not much of a purpose, but it's something.

We march back down the bridge. We didn't get far in the truck. I think back at what I've done to survive -- I've hurt more than I've helped.

Namath jogs up beside me, away from the others. "This is our job. You don't have to come." I look into his eyes - how old is this kid, 15?

"You need me," I tell him. "Simple as that." Namath: "But this isn't your responsibility."

"You're right," I reply. Dean's face flashes through my mind. Alan's face. The two men I left to be torn apart. Swayze.

They might just be better off without me. Everybody who's helped me, who's even come into contact with me, has died. Even the dog.

Namath starts to lead the kids off. Sharon's reloading her weapon. They pass me and I start walking too. Namath looks back.

"What are you doing?" "Coming with you."

The kids don't say anything. We move on down the bridge as the sun spreads light over the vacant, empty cars and blank pavement.

It's eerie to be on a highway that's so quiet. But there's nothing -- nothing from people, no cars, no machinery, not even animals. Just us.

Cars lay empty and lifeless. They're like tombs, stretching out down the hill like gravestone.

Movement in a car. Sharon readies her rifle but we steer clear. Anyone alive doesn't need to go where we're going. Anyone dead can stay put.

Some cars have bodies spread around. More than a few are shot. Good to know we're not the only ones around. I still shudder at the sight.

Namath and the kids are steely, though. Their dad taught them well. They ignore the bodies and sometimes the boys stop to take a look.

Realize that's a good strategy when they check a body that makes a move for them. Namath takes it out with a revolver I didn't know he had.

Pass more bodies. I think we're nearing the construction site. Starting to see a few more figures stumbling around. The kids draw closer.

They're not noticing us. I'm starting to wonder if we shouldn't try to learn something from them -- how well they hear, how well they see...

No time -- Sharon's been spotted. I can see the dirt road that leads to the site. A couple of them are shambling toward the group.

Follow Namath up onto the flat bed of a truck. Sharon takes aim. "Wait! It'll bring more of them!" Namath cries.

Three of them are getting close now. I can smell them, despite all the bodies. Almost retch. Sharon hands me a two-by-four from the bed.

They're close, clawing at the sides of the truck, too dumb or weak to climb up. Up close, they're horrible. Raise the board, close my eyes.

Blood sprays as board crushes nose of nearest. This time I do throw up. Never had to bludgeon something to death before. Kids seem fine.

It's still coming. Namath pushes me out of the way and goes to work with a tire iron. I kick at another as it tries to grab his arm.

"We need to go," Sharon says. I see what she sees. We're drawing too much attention. Robby and Namath clear a path and start running.

Suddenly the road seems crowded. More and more shambling out of the woods. We hurry through the car graveyard toward the dirt road.

But already I can see this won't go well. If there are 15 or 20 here, there's at least double that at the site. More along the way.

I'm starting to worry. Nothing about this is going to work. How can we get to the site? How can we get Dean's body? How can we escape?

The day's growing brighter and the mist is starting to dissipate as we jog onto the dirt road, past the most of them. Trees between us/them.

We're alone again. It's lucky they move slow. The kids are close behind me, keeping their eyes open. Me: "We should head through the woods."

Take to the woods, moving quickly but quietly. Kids know the area well -- Namath leads. I'm watching out backs, carrying the tire iron.

Not many zombies around, if any. We're being pretty sneaky, I guess. Starting to see trees, landmarks that look familiar.

I see the fence. We're getting pretty lucky -- whatever followed us out of the construction site must have spread out or gone to the road.

We reach the fence. Still nothing around. I look to Namath. "Are you sure about this?"

Namath meets my eyes, and nod. Down on one knee and offer a hand to start boosting the kids over. Namath first, then Robbie. Sharon last.

Drop as quietly as possible into the site, behind the kids. It's fully light out by now. A few shamblers in sight, but not many.

Dean's body is about 100 yards ahead, among the equipment and a fair number of monsters. Should have asked the kids what their plan was.

Follow the kids as they take cover behind a lifeless bulldozer. Quick headcount: 14 zombies ahead. Four more to the left near the entrance.

Check that -- not 14, more like 34. They didn't follow the truck out. They're just milling around. From around the bulldozer, I can see Dean

No way we can deal with all these things. Too many to shoot, they'll surround us if we make noise, no convenient truck with which to escape

Turn to Namath: "This is a good way to get killed." He says nothing. Sharon, the oldest, looks at me: "You're right. It is a good way."

The kids look to me. I don't have any answers. What's important in a world like this? Is there any respect for the dead?

I think back on the things I've done. Is there any respect for the living?

Yes. There is. There must be. There are things that make us human.

"Wait here," I tell the kids. "When it's clear, take that wheelbarrow. Get your dad. I'll meet you back on the road somewhere."

Before they can say anything, I'm gone, running -- through the center of the site. Lower a shoulder and plow into the nearest of them.

Stumble, stay up. They've noticed -- nearly 50 of them. Sprint to where they're thinner, start shouting. Drawing them away from the kids.

Keep checking over my shoulder. Gotta remember they're all around me. Letting them shamble closer. Jesus there's a lot.

I've still got the pistol and the tire iron if things get hairy, but I should have thought this through. Where will I lead them?

Start walking backward, toward the back of the site.

Can't lead the zombies out of the site; there's only one entrance, and it'll just leave the kids in danger when they try to escape.

Hopefully I can draw some or all of them off and the kids can deal with any stragglers.

They're starting to cluster together. I'm pulling them back, behind the equipment and clutter, away from Dean's body.

Turn -- some were behind me. They're close. Zigzag clear, start to run. They're biting. Peripheral vision: the kids grab the wheelbarrow.

Can't see the kids anymore. Can't see much of anything except ghouls. Nearing the fence -- with a gaping hole. And more coming in.

Shit.

They're tightly packed in front, surrounding me from the back. Heading in the other direction. Too far away to see the kids.

Pistol in left hand, tire iron in the right. Back's against the fence, but they're getting close. Really close. Trying to climb.

Halfway up the fence. It's not too sturdy. They're crowding around below me. Bash one in the face with the tire iron.

Wow they're close! One just tore my jeans with its teeth.

I'm just out of reach but I don't know how long I can stay here. Hands hurt. Almost dropped the pistol. Fence is shaking crazily.

Through the bodies I see Robby and Namath pulling their father's dead weight into the wheel barrel. Sharon stands guard: looks back, forth.

In that moment, one lunges at me from the right. I swing the iron -- in my left -- and hit, but the swing sets me off balance. I fall back.

The fence catches me, but the one I hit falls into another -- the two of them topple over. Our collective weight is too much for the pop-up.

My ears are assaulted with groaning metal; chain links desperate to pull apart, smash together.

I push myself into a sort of roll -- I can't let them land on top of me. I would never get up again.

The fence is flimsy enough to my left that I'm able to pull it up, doubled-over, folded on top of me. I can feel their icy fingertips.

I'm no use to attack any of them from this position, but it wouldn't matter. Most I can do is delay the inevitable. They're swiping, biting.

Rock back and forth, keep the chain link on top of me...try to keep them distracted long enough for the kids...I feel one on my ankle: kick.

One of the fallen is spewing his rotten breath into my gasps; I heave, but there's nothing left to puke up. Another one falls on me—

I can't hold him up. Can hardly move. This is it...this is what every moment in my life has led to...I hope those damn kids got away...

KA-BAM. KER-KRACK. Two shots. Two different guns. I close my eyes...try to breath. I know what that means...they're coming for me.

"SHARON!" I muster. "SHARON YOU TAKE YOUR BROTHERS AND GET OUT OF HERE." Over the groans and the gunfire, my muffled shouts are lost.

More gunfire. They'll never cut through them all. Not all the way to me. They're wasting their only chance to escape...to bury their father.

I scream again, this time for Namath. He looks me right in the eyes -- they can hear me. They just aren't listening.

The horde is starting to turn toward the kids.

Strain against the fence. There's still too much weight -- I can't get out of here. I can't help the kids. I can't stop the monsters.

All I can do is lie here and watch them die.

"Namath!" I scream. "Namath!" He looks right at me.

Meet his eyes. And stick my hand through one of the diamond holes in the fence. Pain sears through it immediately as one bites.

Shove the pistol through and press it against the temple of the one that's clamped down. Blow his skull apart.

Namath watched the whole thing. I'm back beneath the fence, and they're still piling on. "Get out of here now!" I scream.

Namath hesitates, but Sharon and Robby are already pulling him out of there. A second later, I can't see them anymore.

Press the pistol against another ghoul. Blow it away. It slumps off the fence. I'm trying to wriggle out the other side.

There's no point, not really. Namath knew -- he'd seen it. Bite means infection. Infection means death.

Still don't want to be torn apart lying under this fence.

I know there's not a lot of ammo in this pistol. Put the barrel in another monster's mouth. Another takes a bullet through its eye.

With each shot the weight lessens on the fence for a fraction of a second before each body is replaced. Slowly getting to the top.

The pistol clicks. I'm almost there. Put my hands up and get the fence up just a little -- enough to get a foot against it. Kick hard.

Free! Just barely slid out from under the chain link. Blood covers my hand and arm -- it's bad and it screams with pain -- but I can run.

Look back -- they're following me. Good. Time for a trip through the woods. One more thing to do: make sure they don't go after the kids.

Blood covers my arm. Wonder how long it'll take me to bleed to death. Or what it'll feel like. Already getting tired.

Decent space between me and the horde. They seem to be following me deeper into the woods. Pull my shirt off, wrap it around my arm.

Keep moving for a few more minutes. Keep an eye on the group -- they're still coming. Shout every once in a while. Drawing as many as I can.

Okay, now what...

There - a tree. Branches are fairly low. My arm burns and stings and flares, but I haul myself into the air. Climb into the tree. Shout some

They're slowly gathering beneath me. My voice hurts. My arm hurts. My head hurts. The world spins. I'm high enough now.

It feels good though. Like I can relax, finally. They can't get in the tree, I can't get down. The kids are gone. They can bury their dad.

Only one more person has to die. But I'll worry about that later. Right now, the woods are beautiful. Sunlight peeks through the thin trees.

Think it might be a good time for a nap.


--------

Endnotes: We thought you might be interested in some statistics from this story.

"Diminished Returns" consists of:
8,478 words
45,175 characters
369 posts

The story began on June 2, 2009, and ran until Aug. 19, for a total of 79 days. It was completely made up on the fly by the authors.

The next story will be a little different. Writers' meetings are taking place now to determine several elements of the story and its arc, but the post-to-post updates will still happen in a vaccuum -- no discussion between authors. We're making a blueprint, then we're building it in separate rooms.

If you have ideas for the next Twitter of the Damned story -- including character ideas, settings, themes, and anything else you want the story to include -- leave it in the comments here.

We're listening.

1 comment:

  1. What's fun is that this actually reads kinda like an actual person like live-tweeting a zombie apocalypse. What's slightly more eerie is the way that this mimics the actual live-tweeting of non-supernatural horrors and human rights violations with which we have come to be familiar...

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