He Would Never Tell You That

Dec. 3 - Sydney

There was nowhere for anyone to go. He was afraid, but he would never tell you that. The city was in a complete chaos and there was absolutely nowhere for anyone to go. Rumors were that they had armed guards shooting anyone trying to leave, but he knew that wasn’t true. He knew this because he had gone to the edge of the city the day before, just to see if he could. Part of him really just wanted to get shot and get it over with, but he would never tell you that.

Where the disease started was the biggest question. Some blamed the United States, some blamed China, and a few radicals were even taking a stand to blame Australia. They said that it started in the Outback, and that’s why it went so long without being reported. He knew it was all ridiculous, that it didn’t even matter where it started. All that mattered was the world was falling apart and he felt trapped. He felt incredibly trapped, but he would never tell you that.

It was five in the morning when he heard the radio crackle the report. He wondered how long it had been playing. There was an actual plan being put together. He remembered all the days and plans prior to this. At first, the police and paramedics were able to handle the problems. There was occasional vagrant showing symptoms, or a few people in some random townhouse would be infected. All were small events, but there was a momentum he saw behind it. When getting the morning paper, people would mention how well things were being handled. He didn’t believe a word of it, but he would never tell you that. To him, the whole situation was destined to be the end. People showing signs of death, and then suddenly showing massive aggression and a high tolerance to pain . . . there was no positive ending to that. Still, he bit his tongue and smiled, not wanting to be a cynic or cause a panic.

As the days went on, he noticed more police presence, and then the occasional army truck rolling passed. He would go to work at the docks and notice the helicopters whirling over the harbor, loaded with soldiers and guns. He wondered how many people in the city had ever actually seen that much firepower outside of movies. He himself had been in the army before, and knew the soldiers were hearing something different than the civilians, but he would never tell you that. He just kept his eyes on his work and his mind off the stiffness in his back. He had no time for it.

Nights were his biggest worries. The sirens and soldiers and constant gossip were easy enough to ignore during the day, but at night he had nothing to keep his mind off of it. He would fall asleep with a bottle in his hand and a burning in his gut. He was never much of a drinker, and used it as a last resort, but he would never tell you that. When the morning sun would open his day, he was always bitter . . . especially on the last day.

There was nowhere for anyone to go. He was afraid, but he would never tell you that. The city was in complete chaos. There was absolutely nowhere for him to go. Or at least that was his first, second, and third thought. But the time number four whirled through his head the radio had given him an idea. The evacuation order had been given for the greater Sydney area. Anyone who wanted to be safely quarantined was to get to the Botanical Garden. There they would be allowed entry after being examined and would be kept safe until proper transportation could arrive.

He saw several problems in this for him. For one, he lived in Glebe. Since the roads were blocked up by the military barricades and wayward cars, he would have to walk. On a good day, he could usually make it in two and a half hours. On this day, he counted on more. He considered the value of his life before deciding he would go. He had obtained a gun nearly a decade ago, but he would never tell you that. He assumed that now was the best time to take it out. He pulled up the loose floorboard and removed the revolver wrapped in a cloth. He checked it and thought it would work. He wouldn’t know until he really needed to use it. The official statement was not to engage anyone showing signs of infection, but one could defend himself if necessary. He thought about putting himself in a few situations where he needed to defend himself, but he would never tell you that.

Six bullets were loaded into the awaiting chambers, and the rest were loaded into his pocket. He filled his knapsack with a couple bottles of water, some bread, and a flashlight. He never considered himself a survivalist, but he liked to plan. With the gun carefully hidden underneath his shirt, he stepped outside. Nothing had changed. He thought back to the movies he had seen, the ones with disasters and monsters in them. He thought that there should have been more. There should have been roaring sirens and fires and people running in screaming hordes. Instead he saw an empty street with empty houses and even a few empty cars. He took a few steps and decided his journey would begin.

The first ten minutes showed him nothing. He looked across the water at the other parts of the city, and still no signs of panic. Every few minutes a boat or helicopter would whiz by, but it was nothing startling. He didn’t think any of this was real. He walked in the middle of the open road for a minute. This just made him feel uncomfortable and he went back to the sidewalk. He still stopped to look both ways for cars, but nothing was ever coming. The biggest shock to him was the lack of people. He wanted to run into a group of others, to give at least the illusion of safety, but he would never tell you that. He assumed everyone else was not as slow to start up as he was. There was probably a mob down at the Gardens. That’s where he would find everyone. Already breathing heavily, he just trudged on.

Thirty minutes into his journey he had his first scare. At first he thought it was more people, survivors like him, marching for the safe zone. When he got closer, though, he noticed there was something wrong with each of them. Before this, he had never seen any of the infected except for a few quick images on television. Now there were three, hobbling along in the same direction as him. However, when he his footsteps became louder, they all stopped and turned their heads. Each of them was disgusting in a way. The unifying feature was the blood smeared around their mouths. His stomach sank at the sight of this, but he would never tell you that. He thought about the gun he had, and then thought again. In his fictional encounters cooked up previously in his mind, there was only one of them. Three was another story, and it had been years since he had fired a gun. And that was an Army rifle, and that was at still targets. No, this was not how it was supposed to be.

Luckily the things could only shuffle at a slow pace. He turned and went down another street, quickly, and when he came out the other side he saw no sign of the creatures. If they were following him, they were too far behind to be a danger. He continued on his way, passed Darling Harbor, looking back every few seconds. It was at the harbor that he found his first real group of people. There were four, three men and a woman. They were all white except for one Aboriginal. He had never thought highly of the Aboriginals, but he would never tell you that. He stared at the group as he approached them. They had blood on them, yes, but none near their mouths. They seemed safe enough. And if not, he still had the gun.

“Hey,” the Aboriginal called, “Hey old man, over here!” The Aboriginal waved him over, which he thought was a bit stupid.

He walked up close to them and got a better look. They were bloody, and they were holding bloody clubs. One had what could have been a table leg, while two had cricket bats. The woman had a long piece of pipe.

“Where you coming from?” the Aboriginal asked him.

“Glebe,” he answered.

“We came from there, too,” the woman said. “Did you see many?”

“Many what?” he asked.

One of the other men, the shorter one, looked cross. “Any of the deados?”

“Deados?” he repeated to the short man. Then it clicked. “Oh, yeah. I saw three of them a little bit ago. That’s all.”

“How’d you handle them?” the tall man asked. “You don’t look like you’ve seen a fight yet.”

“I just walked around them,” he answered.

“Great . . .” the short man muttered.

“Listen, old man,” the Aboriginal started, “you can come with us, but we need to know we can count on you in a fight.”

He smiled and lifted his shirt. They all saw the gun and gasped. He was desperate for them to let him follow them along, but he would never tell you that.

“Shit, we’ve waited long enough,” said the tall man. “We better get a move on.”

There was not discussion about it. They just continued walking. They introduced themselves. He paid no real attention to which names went with which person. There was at least a Declan and possibly a Raymond. The only one he could pin was the woman’s. Her name was Kate. This made him think of his daughter, but he would never tell you that.

As they drew into the city, the evidence of the situation became more apparent. Some blood dotted the streets and brick. A body would be sticking out from a doorway or alley. No one seemed to be alive. There were no shouts. There were no calls. There were only a few bodies and more blood than could fill them.

“I don’t like this at all,” Kate said. “I told you we should have left earlier.”

“We’ll be fine,” the Aboriginal told her, “As long as we don’t run into too many of those things. Just be glad the streets aren’t packed. Otherwise we could get stuck in some mob and wouldn’t know who was a deado and who was alive. We would be bit before we knew it.”

“Bit?” He let the voice escape him before he thought it through.

“Yeah, bit.” The Aboriginal was now looking at him. “No one wants to confirm it, but anyone who gets a bite from one dies. We saw it happen.” There was silence and everyone just looked ahead. “Oh, and just in case you didn’t know already, you need to hit them in the head. They don’t stop otherwise.”

He wished now that he had paid more attention to the news at this point. He realized how disconnected he was from the rest of the world, but he would never tell you that. He just decided to add that to a list of his regrets.

Block by block they walked, the bodies and the blood becoming a recurring theme. There were also abandoned cars with open doors and random items littered about. Clothes and mobiles and chairs and suitcases. Everyone had left in a hurry. He wondered if it was worth it for them, if they were any safer because of that.

They were less than ten blocks away from the Botanical Gardens when they noticed a large group of deados. The group was facing away from them, staggering towards the Gardens. It was easy to see how they were among the infected; he noticed the blood and the scratches and the overall deadness to them.

“No one make any loud sounds,” the Aboriginal whispered. “Maybe we can move around them.”

He agreed with this plan. There were too many deados to count, and he did not trust his gun. Even if it did fire, he had no confidence in his aim. With only six shots, because he assumed he would not be able to reload in time while avoiding them all, he was not sure he could make it out alive. His heart was pounding the hardest it had been all day, but he would never tell you that. His breathing was getting heavier as well. He just gripped the pistol under his shirt and followed the others. They were moving towards a shopping centre.

The building seemed abandoned, and one of the glass doors had been shattered out. They moved in a single file line. There was enough light streaming to feign safety. He was the last one in. He could not keep his thoughts straight as the panic came in. Suddenly, as if to break the tension or make it worse, a gun shot rang out. And then another, and another. Everyone looked around, trying to judge where it was coming from. Eyes fell to him, naturally, as he was the only one with a firearm. But soon they all realized it was coming from somewhere outside. It was most likely from the Garden, he guessed. Maybe the soldiers were getting restless.

The next sound that was heard, however, nearly made him wet himself, but he would never tell you that. From inside the building, there was the shuffling of feet. Not just one pair, but a growing number of feet, moving from what seemed like every direction.

“There’s one!” the short man, who may have been called Declan, called out.

“Three more coming from down there,” the tall man, Raymond, returned.

“I see more over there!” Kate yelled. “We’re buggered!”

“No,” the Aboriginal, who’d withheld his name, said. “We’ve come too far. Just stick together and don’t get bit. If we can get to that exit, we can make a run for the gate.”

And while this group of young and determined people rallied together, he did not believe they would make it. He believed that this was the end, and that going down fighting was the only option. This was not a final thought of bravery, but he would never tell you that. This was a thought based on giving up, on throwing in the towel, on simply accepting the end. The end or not, he drew his revolver and took aim at the deado that was nearest to him. He remembered to aim for the head. The first shot went wild. Where the bullet ended up, he did not know. Firing the gun, however, did jerk something back to life in him. His second shot connected. The deado nearest him fell with a thump.

The rest around him were drawn to the sound. He took a look around and saw the others fighting with their clubs. They were beating the deados out of their way. They were also much farther ahead of him. He charged forward, leaping over the bodies and rubbish in his way, ignoring the stiffness in his knees. He caught up to them, fired twice more, and began to clear a path. He fired the final rounds in the chamber and shouted, “Cover me while I reload.”

He laughed to himself as he pulled the bullets out of his pocket and crammed them into the gun. He remembered that when he left the Army, they said the training would never leave. Apparently that was true. With the gun reloaded he fired away, taking down anything in his path. Those behind him were now the ones keeping up with him. He felt young, he felt invigorated, he felt like he was breaking free. And in the literal sense, he was breaking free. With his help, and the use of the gun, the group was able to get to the other exit. They emerged on the other side of the door to see the city before them. They were a few short blocks away from the Gardens.

Unfortunately the streets were filled with deados. The deados, those poor infected souls, were everywhere. “This is it!” he shouted to the group. He was suddenly a leader. “Let’s make a run for it!” And so they did.

There was less concern now with clearing the creatures in their path and more of a concern of simply getting away. They clambered their way through, avoiding everything they could. His chest was pounding, but he would never tell you that. Creatures lunged and clawed at him. He felt them tug at his clothes and legs. His bag was pulled off him. He would not stop, though. Suddenly there was a scream behind him, and he saw Declan topple over. Before there was anything to do, he was under a pile of deados. The group just kept moving, trying not to break the momentum.

The Botanical Garden was now in sight. He knew they just had to get to the main gate and they would be fine. There was another scream and Kate disappeared from the group. Another Kate was gone from his life. Raymond called for her and stopped. Of course, he was not willing to stop. He was so close to staying alive, and he was not going to let anything slow him down. The tall man disappeared with his woman, and he thought it was a worthless gesture, but he would never tell you that.

They reached the gate. Bodies lay all around it. The gunfire started up again. His own pistol was empty. He just needed to make it to the gate. He and the Aboriginal came into view of the soldiers.

“Let us through!” he called to the nearest soldier.

The gunfire continued. The soldier looked at the pair and made a decision.

“Are either of you bitten?” he asked them over the sound of the guns.

“No!” they called back in unison.

The solider looked carefully at them and considered. “Are there any more of you?”

“Not anymore,” he told the soldier.

He then realized there was a chain link fence between him and the inside of the Gardens. Thankfully the guard motioned for them to go around. The rifles stopped sounding long enough for the two to get to the smaller, makeshift gate. They went through, and saw the crowd that was assembled inside. Soldiers were running back and forth, carrying weapons and ammunition and other various supplies. People were huddled together or standing alone. Faces were streaked with tears. Someone mentioned to them that they were just waiting for the proper ferries to be organized, and then they would all be shipped out of the city. He heard all of this, but none of it really sank in. The only thing he was thinking was that he was alive.

“Thanks,” the Aboriginal said to him. “I mean, I made it, and a lot of that had to do with you.”

“Yeah,” he answered, “same with you. Sorry about your friends.”

The Aboriginal just continued to look at him. “I reckon we’ll all lose someone during this.”

He just nodded in agreement, but really thought he was lucky. He lost everyone long before this happened, but he would never tell you that.

The two parted ways. He went to go find a place to sit down and be alone. He found a somewhat secluded tree and was able to look out onto the water. He could see boats out there, probably waiting to be piled up with heaps of people. He didn’t know where they would all be taken, but he didn’t really care either.
“Anywhere but here,” he said out loud to himself.

He reached down and rubbed part of his ankle that was feeling sore. He felt something wet. When he brought his hand back and noticed the blood. In his shock, he just laughed. He was bitten, and unfortunately for everyone who felt safe inside those gates, he would never tell you that.

Feel the wrath. Read more.

The Savior

Dec. 2 - Wichita, Kansas

The Reverend Tucker Adams locked the door to the terminal ward at the hospital. He pulled an empty hospital bed in front of the door. His face turned bright red with the effort. He checked its position and then his watch. It was 3 o’clock in the morning.

His breathing picked up. Since the creatures began showing up, the hospital had become a sort of safe house. It was swarming with army guys, good Christian boys protecting those people who had taken refuge in the old building. Rev. Adams knew that he would only have a short time to do his work: The good Christian boys wouldn’t understand and would surely try to stop him. They didn’t yet know they were damned.

He dropped to his knees. “Korro, kale ma shata nurrunda ka sheileh! God, in the name of Jesus, please take these people into your arms so that they might live in heaven eternal.”

Adams stood up. He walked toward another empty bed near the door. He reached under it.

“Jesus, give me strength,” he said quietly as he pushed the primer button three times. He went over the facts in his head. If these people died, they would come back as those beasts. If they came back as those beasts they would be damned. These people would die; they were terminally ill. And he knew he couldn’t save their lives. But he could save their souls.

He pulled the cord.

The chainsaw began to sing. Rev. Adams knew the sound well. Before he was saved, he had been a lumberjack and a womanizer. He had a tattoo on his arm of a nude woman riding a chainsaw. The irony of this was lost on him as he brought the chainsaw down on a 20-year-old woman with terminal case of pneumonia.

Her eyes flashed open but before she could scream the chainsaw ripped open her throat. Arterial blood jumped out her freshly carved carcass and then stopped, along with her heart. The Reverend looked down: It seemed as if the blood flew everywhere except onto him. He took it as a sign, and continued.

There were six other occupied beds in the room. None of their occupants had woken up yet. He moved quickly to the next bed. It had a twelve-year-old boy in it. The reverend worked from the bottom up, which proved to be a mistake. As the boy’s feet and then thighs disappeared into red chipped meat, he screamed. The reverend, shocked by the sound, brought the blade of the chainsaw to bear on the child’s face, which opened as easily as a ripe melon, the contents of his skull spilling out onto the floor.

The next minute went by very quickly. The other patients had been woken by the scream. They were gathered together by a window and were weakly hitting it, hoping to get out. The good Christian boys were banging on the other side of the barricaded door, hoping to get in.

There was blood in the reverend’s eyes from the boy and they burned badly. He remembered seeing a picture of a Buddhist monk in Vietnam who once set himself on fire as an act of devotion and protest. He wondered if this is what that felt like; the burning of a soul coupled with the silence of a mind.

The patients’ screams of “WHY” and “NO” were cut short by the rotating blades of the saw.
“I won’t let you become those creatures!”

The saw cut through arms and hands.

“I’m sending you to God!”

The saw cut through torsos.

“The pain will be over soon!”

The saw cut through whatever parts were still whole. The reverend was making sure to cut each skull apart. At least these people, he thought, wouldn’t be damned.

By the time the door finally gave way, the reverend had finished his work. Adams didn’t turn around at the sound of the army boys screaming at him. Underneath their screams he could hear the mass of what had been bodies gurgling; it had something to do with chemicals of all those bodies mixing together. But underneath that he was sure he could hear the voices of angels singing.

Feel the wrath. Read more.

Sanctuary

6:44 p.m. Dec. 1 - Goodwell, Mich.

When Jamie Whitaker stumbled into his kitchen, his parents were already preparing a cooler with whatever food they could quickly assemble, and his little brother Paul was covered in his toughest, heaviest clothes.

Jamie could see Paul was sweating in them and upset, huffing and puffing over the injustice of it, but their parents ignored him.

Jamie’s hand went to the wall, smearing red across the white paint. He dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, which was covered by a small arsenal of hunting weapons, several ammunition boxes, a baseball bat and a few large knives. A few of them Jamie recognized from the butcher block on the counter.

His father whirled to go to the table and suddenly realized Jamie was sitting there.

“Jesus, Jamie, where the hell have you been?”

The boy wiped his hands on his pants. Red streaks appeared on blue jeans.

“I was with Billie Urban,” Jamie muttered, looking at his crimson-tinted palms.

“TV says we need to go,” his fathered relayed loudly in the drill-sergeant voice he employed when issuing commands to his family. He didn’t seem to hear Jamie’s explanation. “There’s some kind of disease. People are attacking each other.”

“They’re dead,” Jamie mumbled. He didn’t look up.

His parents both stopped the myriad preparations they were making for the plans to leave to stare at Jamie. His gaze was fixed on the wood tabletop, which reflected blue-white glare from the buzzing fluorescent bulb overhead. Nearby was his father’s nine-millimeter handgun, so black it seemed to draw light into it.

His father took a step toward him. He put his hands on the table.

“Who’s dead?” He asked.

“Them,” Jamie returned. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

Jamie perceived that his parents’ eyes were still fixed on him. He knew they were about to ask him. So he just said it.

“Billie Urban’s dead, too,” he told them, looking up at his father.

“Paul, honey. Come here,” his mother said, grabbing his brother and pulling him out of the room. Jamie stared into his father’s eyes.

When they were gone, Jamie muttered, “They tore him up and they ate him.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Jamie,” his father demanded in rough, halting tones. Jamie thought his father would have been concerned — but he looked and sounded angry.

“They’re dead. They had … pieces falling off. They look like people, but they’re not.”

A second passed, as Jamie was searching for the right thing to say, but the only word that seemed to fit was one he hadn’t used since he was very small.

“They’re monsters.”

His father held his gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked out of the room. A second later he returned with a leather jacket, which he threw to Jamie.

“On the TV, it said they bite and scratch. Go get your hunting clothes on. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

As his father turned away, Jamie put on the coat to hide the blood running down his wrist and into his hand.

#

They set out in his father’s truck, which was less than a year old and had the extended cab. It was a strong, diesel-powered behemoth that cut a swath through the night with its bright white headlamps. Jamie had the hunting rifle on his lap in the back seat, barrel pushed against the closed door. He was looking out the window and hoping not to see anything.

Snow was building on the edges of the fogging window. Reflected there was Billie Urban’s bloody face with chunks torn off of it. Jamie couldn’t stop thinking about Billie, the things surrounding him as he screamed.

And suddenly, there had been red everywhere, a big puddle melting the snow, surrounded by blue-black man-looking beasts.

From beside him, Paul tapped Jamie’s shoulder and the older boy lurched a little. He turned back and glared.

Concern flooded the small boy’s eyes. “Jamie, what’s wrong with your hand?”

Jamie quickly pulled clear of Paul’s touch and pushed his hand into his pocket without looking at it.

“What’s wrong with your face?” he snapped.

Paul looked away, even more upset, and crossed his arms in front of him. He looked about to cry.
The truck heaved and Jamie’s head smacked the roof. His stomach churned and his arm throbbed. Jamie’s father swung the wheel hard and they fishtailed — Paul’s eyes went wide and Jamie’s hand went instinctively to the rifle, holding it hard against the door beside him so that it wouldn’t bounce away. But Jamie’s father pulled the truck back against the spin and straightened out, and there was another big bump.

This time, the windshield went dark, running crimson. Jamie’s father flicked the windshield wipers on and they went buzzing.

“It’s okay!” His father shouted as though through some sort of roaring sound, even though it was silent but for the engine’s rumble and Paul’s frightened breathing.

Jamie, on the other hand, found himself extremely calm. This scared him, and he felt sweat in his armpits and on his palms.

“We hit one, but I got it,” his father said, his voice calmer now. “He just walked right into the truck.”

“How much farther?” Jamie’s mother demanded.

The truck slowed and hung a left. Jamie’s face pushed against the glass again — he was starting to relax — when he saw figures against the white. They dragged through the snowdrifts on the sides of the road. Jamie knew they were walking toward the lights, the motion.

Toward the truck. Toward him.

The truck dragged slow again, his father downshifting, and Jamie looked through the windshield to see streetlights ahead and a big white church in front of them.

It was the center of town, about four miles away from their house, where there were more street lamps and two blinking yellow lights (one at the intersection of Main and State and one in front of the McDonald’s). There were trucks and cars in front of the church — some of the in the parking lot, most of them on the lawn in front — and men with guns standing at the front, behind a large white fence.

The area around looked mostly clear, and Jamie let out a sigh of relief.

His father shifted down again and the truck rumbled to a stop. His mother was stepping out of the truck already, helping Paul get out of his seatbelt, and his father turned around in his seat.

He handed Jamie a key ring.

“These are the copies for the truck and the house. Don’t lose them.”

Jamie eyes grew wide as he took the keys. He’d backed the truck down the driveway, and driven it in second over to the woodshed, but he’d never really driven before. But he could see in his father’s eyes – he wasn’t just holding these relics. They were his charge.

His father stepped down from the truck, shouldering the shotgun with its strap and then holstering his handgun. Jamie jumped out, landing heavily in the snow with the rifle, and followed him in.

It smelled outside, like rotting food and garbage; like something on fire. The cold wind carried it with snow that clung to the air. His father walked heavily toward the church, Jamie and his family following. The big doors were swung open and they marched into a hot room that was filled with people.

They were everywhere, crying and screaming and shouting and talking. Some were nailing boards to the doors and windows. Others were trying to organize the small group of refugees in the church.

There were at least two hundred crammed into the church. Jamie’s father led the family to a pew near the front, furthest from the door. There were people standing near all the windows, most of them with guns, and Jamie recognized nearly all of them from town, or from the local stores, or from school.

Earl Riley shouted toward them and Jamie’s father snatched the hunting rifle and stalked off with it and the shotgun at hand. There was a small throng surrounding Earl of heavily armed men. His father took a place among them and instantly they were all turned toward him, awaiting instructions.

Father Lawson was bent over a few pews away from Jamie, tending to Mrs. Samuels, who was bloody – Jamie could see even from this distance. She was heavy, and it looked like her arms, which were as large around as Jamie’s leg, had large chunks missing. She howled her pain but the drone of the chapel-turned-fortress drowned it out.

Jamie watched Father Lawson for a few moments, then started to look around. There were lots of people who were hurt. Most had gouges on their arms and hands. There were a lot of first aid kits around. Red had collected in pools on the soft blue carpet in more than one place.

Father Lawson finished with Mrs. Samuels (Jamie noticed that her five-year-old son, Luke, was not with her) and headed to the podium. He looked tired, his eyes sunken and face taught. He leaned against the podium and put his head in his hands.

Jamie approached him with slow, deliberate steps. He could feel fresh blood trickling down his arm and it pulsed with pain up to his shoulder.

“Father?” he asked tentatively.

Looking up, Father Lawson’s brow creased and he looked, for an instant, incredibly disappointed.

“Jamie Whitaker.” His face labored into a smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I did somethin’ bad, sir.”

“Oh?” he asked, but it was more of a sigh. “Like what?”

Jamie’s hands went into his pockets, a habitual motion that was a tell for his guilt. He looked at his feet.

“James.” Lawson put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “You can tell me. I’m only here to help.”
His eyes met Jamie’s, and the boy started crying in short gasps.

“I killed Billie Urban,” Jamie yelped in a low voice, sucking in air in tiny pulls.

Father Lawson’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. He set his big hands on the podium.

“Tell me what happened.”

Jamie wiped his face and sucked a deep breath. He squinted under Lawson’s newly heightened scrutiny.

“We were walking home down by the schoolyard,” Jamie explained, his voice tiny and halting. “Some guys were there and they started bothering me and Billie. Billie told them – Billie told them ‘fuck off.’”

Father Lawson nodded slightly, acknowledging the bad language without condoning it. It was his custom to try to make young boys feel understood, and because of this Jamie and many others placed a lot of trust in him.

“They chased us,” Jamie stuttered. “The older boys. They said they were gonna bust us up. We ran to the road.

“But when we got to the road, there were all these people out there. There was a car crash and a lot of people were stumbling around and bloody.”

Father Lawson was quiet, maybe holding his breath. He seemed to be considering what Jamie was telling him. The boy continued to sob in silence.

There was shouting, fast and loud, at the front of the church. Father Lawson and Jamie turned to see Jamie’s father and the other men moving toward the windows and doors. Jamie recognized the echoing pops of rifles firing.

“They’re coming!” Someone shouted.

A few screams sounded, but just as quickly everyone in the church fell into a tense silence. The men were barking orders at one another as they ran back and forth from the boarded windows, aiming out some of them. The men standing guard outside were louder, yelling over the sounds of their weapons.

Then there was a shriek, loud and terrible that carried more pain than Jamie had ever heard.
Instantly he thought of Billie Urban, and in Jamie’s mind the sound came from him.

The front door of the church was swung open (it was barred with a two-by-four that someone had turned into one of those flat locks you see in castles in movies) and three of the men who’d been outside ran in. When they’d arrived, Jamie had seen five.

“They don’t die!” One of them was shouting, his eyes wide and nearly spinning in his head. “You can shoot them all day! They don’t die!”

Jamie muttered, barely audible to Father Lawson, “They’re already dead.”

Lawson looked down at him but Jamie didn’t meet his eyes. The people in the church were murmuring and crying.

Jamie’s father turned to address the crowd. “Listen up!” he shouted, and everyone quieted.

“We need to keep our heads. These things – these people – are slow and stupid and not very strong. They’re only a problem when they get in crowds. As long as we stay inside and keep them off the building, we’ll be fine until the Army shows up.”

His words were comforting and Jamie could hear people begin to relax. He turned back to Father Lawson.

“Billie Urban saved me, Father,” he stated. He’d stopped crying and Jamie was aware the blood no longer trickled down his sleeve. “One grabbed me, my arm, and Billie hit him with a stick and I got away. But they grabbed Billie.”

Jamie paused, sucked in a deep breath, and said, “I ran away.”

Father Lawson stared down at him, instinctively putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Jamie struggled to focus on him. He felt tired suddenly, his eyelids and limbs heavy, and cold throughout.

The men were looking out the windows, preparing for the eventual arrival of the monsters, Jamie thought, when there was a scream inside the church. He and Father Lawson whirled toward the sound – where Mrs. Samuels, now on her feet despite an ocean of blood staining her white blouse, had grabbed hold of Mrs. Webb, who was a certified nurse and who had been taking care of her, and Mrs. Samuels was biting Mrs. Webb’s neck and Mrs. Webb was screaming and blood was spraying everywhere.

Jamie observed this with a calm he couldn’t understand and his mind was screaming for him to be scared, but his body refused to react. Father Lawson backed away a few steps.

Even from here, Jamie could see the change in Mrs. Samuels as people’s shock ran out and they started to scramble away from the dying Mrs. Webb and the feasting Mrs. Samuels. Her skin was gray and her eyes – her eyes were white, as if frozen, as if a cloud had come over them. She looked like Jamie’s old dog Bib, who had to be put down when Jamie was ten because the old Doberman had gone blind. Bib’s eyes had just gone away.

Jamie knew what was happening before anyone else. Jamie’s father and the other men were descending on the scene with knives and guns, firing at Mrs. Samuels while others screamed, but Mrs. Samuels half-ignored them. Mrs. Webb was making little sounds on the ground, like blowing air through a straw into a glass of chocolate milk. The men formed a circle around Mrs. Samuels, coming in slowly, looking for the best way to stop her.

Distinctly among the chaos, Jamie heard his father’s voice: “Try to cut off her head.”

But Jamie didn’t cry.

Infinitely calm, Jamie turned to Father Lawson, who’d stepped close to the boy when he’d heard the scream to protect him. Jamie looked up at him, and Father Lawson would later recount how young the boy looked at thirteen on that night, how young and innocent but frighteningly unfazed.

Jamie pulled his hand from his pocket. He held it up in front of Father Lawson, who reflexively took a step back in fear. Jamie’s arm was pale gray until it disappeared into his sleeve.

His vision was hazy and growing more so by the second. His eyes were going away. But Jamie didn’t cry, as much as he wanted to. He couldn’t.

“Father Lawson,” he murmured, his breath escaping more than words did, air leaving his body like rats from a sinking ship. “Am I going to Hell?”

Lawson was crying. He smiled, and this time it wasn’t forced, but by then Jamie couldn’t see him. He placed one hand on Jamie’s head and ruffled his hair. With his other, he reached behind him to the altar, where he’d seen someone drop a big knife, maybe a machete. He drew it up carefully into a tight grip.

“No, James. You’re not going to Hell,” Lawson said, and his voice was soothing and quiet and Jamie couldn’t help but feel better.

“You’re leaving it.”

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A Matter of Time

Dec. 13 – Iowa
He first arrived to Fort Miller with the rest of his company to help the National Guard contain the situation. It was ten miles outside of a fairly populated area, and the pandemic was hitting hard. Local law enforcement had to defer to the National Guard, and now the National Guard was appealing to the Army. There's no one else to go to, Private Daniel Hill thought as he surveyed the base. People were being pooled from all the surviving evacuation centers in the surrounding areas. The first thing Hill noticed was that there weren't many people coming in. What the hell is going on?

The company briefing company given before arriving had been short. The major points were that some sort of biological agent was infecting the population, causing hysteria, cannibalism, and a resistance to pain. There was no known cure. Anyone infected was as good as dead. Similar situations were popping up all over the country - possibly the globe. Containing the infected was no longer an option; now it was time to contain the healthy.

That was why they had arrived. Private Hill and all the other soldiers were supposed to lock down Fort Miller and protect every living thing inside. At first it sounded like a cakewalk. But as Hill took it all in, he wasn't so sure. He made his way over to one of the gates to help bring in survivors. As he got closer, he noticed a commotion. There was a police officer holding his gun on a young woman clutching a child.

“I told you, you're not coming in!” shouted the officer.

“Please, we have no where else to go,” begged the woman.

Immediately Hill noticed that all three people were in blood covered clothing. What were these people doing, he thought. The officer then pulled back the hammer on his pistol.

“Hey!” Hill called to him. He ran up and got in front of him. “What the hell are you doing? These are civilians!”

“They both have bites,” the cop told him, nodding to the pair. “They're not getting in here like that.”

“What?” Hill had no idea what the man was talking about. He looked at the woman and child, and sure enough they both had areas of skin missing that looked like an animal had torn them off. What is happening?

The woman put her hand on Hill's shoulder. “Please . . .” She was crying.

“Ma'am, you can come in. The officer is going to lower his gun,” Hill said.

“No, he's not,” a new voice called. “And she is not coming in here.” Hill saw Captain Walker, his commanding officer, approaching.

“Sir, these civilians need serious medical care,” Hill said.

The captain just looked passed him at the woman and child. “Unfortunately there is no medical care on Earth that can help them now. They'll be a danger to us in a few short hours.” He stepped forward. “Miss, you will have to walk away from here right now. If you do not, I will allow this officer to do whatever he feels fit to keep everyone else safe.”

The woman started to argue, but no words came out. She simply looked at Hill, then to the officer behind him, and turned around. Private Hill watched as she walked away. When she was out of sight, he turned to Captain Walker. “Sir, what are we doing here, exactly? What are we up against?”

The captain looked up, beyond the fences, out to something not in view. “Son, I wish I could tell you. Just buckle down. We'll have a lot of work to do in the morning.”

December 14

When that first morning came, Private Hill did not know what to expect. They were called together in their barracks and told to sit. They were informed on the situation more. Over night, the infected had shown up all around the base. They were completely surrounded. And while the hostiles on the other side did not seem to be able to break through the fence, it was a matter of time before there were enough to push it over. The job was simple enough: shoot the hostiles to clear the fences.

After being handed magazines four each, they were told to line up along the south fence. Hill crouched, weapon loaded, with other soldiers positioned ten feet to his right and left. He looked out at the crowd outside the fence. They're people, he said to himself. It's just a crowd of people. Then he saw what would soon be his first target. It had probably been a man at one point. However, now it was missing an arm and had its intestines hanging out. There is no way that thing is still alive. Hill tightened his grip on his weapon, waiting for the order.

“You boys want to put any of those things down,” a voice called from behind them, “You best aim for the head. Damn things keep coming otherwise.” There was some nervous laughter among the ranks. Is he serious?

“That gentleman is correct,” Captain Walker said. “Aim for their heads. And when you fire, take your time. Breath in, take a shot, breath out. Alright? I expect thirty kills from each of you along each fence.” He paused, as if someone might object. When no one did, he spoke again. “Ready? Fire!”

The sound of dozens of rifles going off was deafening. The sight of dozens of bodies getting hit was sickening. Several men were stunned. A few began to get sick. Private Hill just sat there, looking out at the beings beyond the fence. Why are they still standing there? He had not had the chance to see major combat before, but common sense told him this was not right. The people on the other side of the fence, the things, were just directly shot at. Many of them took bullets, if not the head, then to a part close enough. And yet aside from those hit directly, not one moved. Not one flinched. It was as if they were in a different world. This is not right.

Soldiers around him starting firing again, so Hill did the same. Breath in. He fired a round. Breath out. He looked around for another target. Soon he found a former woman with an exposed trachea. Already dead, he told himself. Nothing wrong with this. He fired. After several minutes, there were fewer shots being fired. Some men were signaling that their magazine was empty.

“When you're done, pop the magazine, put a new one in, and head to the next fence,” ordered Captain Walker.

Even though his wasn't, Hill took his magazine in out. He did not want to look like he was not following orders. He lined up with the other at the next fence. He looked for targets, but only found bloodier versions of regular people. Just fire above their heads. No one knows who is targeting who. Private Hill did this for the last three fences. He was able to justify a few more targets to himself, but some of his shots went into empty space. He could not bring himself to keep firing his weapon in their direction the whole time, even if it was over their heads. Private Hill simply fired a few times and then waited for the others to finish.

The people or things on the other side hardly seemed to notice they were up against a firing squad. They just crowded as close as they could, desperate to get in at their attackers. When it was over, he turned in his magazines and went off to clean his rifle. He hoped no one would notice his nearly full magazines.

It was noticed.

December 15

Captain Walker came in the next morning looking furious. “I was informed by the armory last night that most of the magazines came back with rounds still in them.” He looked around the room. No one wanted to meet his eyes, including Hill. “Do you boys understand what we are up against?” He stepped out of the room and then reentered with a television. “I suppose not. I have a tape I want to show you. I want you all to see what you refused to kill yesterday. We are not up against people anymore.”

The captain turned on the tape and let it play. They watched what appeared to be security footage. At first it was hard to tell of what, and then it became clear: a hospital. More specifically, the nursery ward. Each solider watched as two people tried to fend off a group of attackers. The people were eventually overtaken and then repeatedly bitten. They're eating them, Hill thought. What kind of disease makes you want to eat people? The horror, however, did not end. Once the attackers finished the two people, they went to each cradle. Most of the soldiers made sounds of disgust and tried to turn away.

That was when the captain spoke up. “You will fucking watch this!” Everyone snapped back to attention. “This is what we are fighting. Do you understand now?”

The men were then given their four magazines and led out to the fences. Hill had an easier time picking targets. He just pictured what he had seen each time to justify it. It was almost enough. At the end, his magazines could be described as mostly empty.

How long can this go on for?

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Purpose in Life, Part 1

Told December 3, but covers the days of December 1-3

Frenchtown, N.J.

Obviously I don't need to explain the events to you because I think you know just as much as I do. However, I think it is fair to explain to you that I believe this is entirely my fault. You see, all my life I have been a very religious person. Not to say I was a radical or went door-to-door, but I have always believed that God is above us and He is watching over us. I am telling you this because a couple months ago I asked Him for some help, and I believe that He has answered.

It would be fair to say that my life was not going in a good direction. I had graduated college well enough, but I was not able to land a good job. I was waiting tables to support myself, but I did not see that becoming a career by any means. A degree in Literature was not helping me move up in the world. To add to my frustrations, my college loans were due and I had to take on a couple roommates just to make ends meet. Unfortunately, these ends were not meeting fast enough, and I could not catch a break. My life was not going in a good direction.

There I was, in a dead-end job, living with two people whose company I did not enjoy, and I thought things could not get worse. Of course, they did. My mother, my saintly mother who raised me on my own since birth, passed away suddenly. No, not like you think. She passed in the more traditional sense and stayed buried. The bills for her funeral began to pile up, and I was having trouble settling her estate. I turned to the only place I could, the church. I asked the Lord for guidance. To be honest, I did more than ask. I fell to my knees, tears in my eyes, and begged for His help. I begged for Him to change my life, to change the world even. I wanted Him to fix everything, and I just cried and cried without response. Or so I thought.

Well, I should have remembered that the Lord works in mysterious ways. Subtle ways, too. No one really noticed when things started happening, and neither did I. Sure, I would catch the quick news stories, maybe some gossip at the restaurant. None of it ever seemed to be anything life-altering until it was the only story, the only thing talked about. People attacking people. Massive riots. Mobs in the streets. No way of telling the good from the bad until it was too late. I began to take more notice, and I began to wonder if I should have paid more heed to the signs.

Before I knew it, they were everywhere. When things started shutting down, stores and even my own restaurant, I began to worry. I worried what was happening to the world and if things were actually, finally, at an end. One night a roommate did not come back. I prayed for him, and tried to call the police. I hung up after being put on hold. I did not know what to do. I had no guidance. I had nothing. But then He showed me. He showed me when my other roommate showed up.

I was at my apartment, this apartment, when he, Devon, stumbled in the door. He had gone out for food, while I had not because of the warnings not to. He came in, and immediately went to the bathroom. He was mumbling about being attacked, about having to run for his life. Devon told me outside was Hell. Hell, on Earth? He then told me he felt sick and slammed the bathroom door. I heard the water running, some vomiting, and that just kept repeating for awhile. I asked him to repeat himself, to tell me the full story.

“I went to the store,” Devon began, “to get some food. The place was packed. People were everywhere, grabbing all this stuff. No one was paying, just grabbing and running. So I grabbed what I wanted and ran out of there. But when I got to the parking lot . . . they were everywhere, and there was so much screaming. People were attacking each other. Like, all-out attacking. I don’t even think it was to take their stuff. They were just crazy. This guy came at me, and then another. One of them bit me. He actually bit me! That’s when I took off back here, man. Oh, God.” I heard him start vomiting again. He still refused to open the door.

Eventually I heard nothing and began to get concerned. I knocked on the door. I called to him. There was no response so I went in. He was just lying on the floor, unconscious. His breathing was shallow. I saw where his arm had been injured. The bite marks seemed deep and deliberate. I was concerned and I knew he needed help. So I called the emergency services.

Nothing. I called again. Nothing. I was panicking and I hit redial over and over until finally someone picked up. I immediately told the person what had happened, what I knew, and asked for an ambulance. She told me there were no available ambulances. I told her that was not possible. She told me it was because there weren't. Nothing was available. And then she told me to get out of the apartment. I asked her why.

“Because,” she said to me, “Because when your roommate gets up, he is going to try to kill you.”

I was stunned by this. I mean why, why on Earth would my roommate just get up and attack me? How would he get up in his condition?

“Leo,” she said, “Leo, you have to get out or prepare yourself for what is to come.”

Now I'll ask you this, but I don't expect you to have the answer; how did she know my name? That is something that has gone through my mind since it happened. How did that woman, a person I talked to for only a few minutes, know my name? Did I absentmindedly mention it when I first called? Or was it a sign? Was, “Leo, you have to prepare yourself for what is to come” a message from a higher power, THE higher power? Call me crazy if you'd like, but that was the turning point.

He did get up, my roommate. Devon got up an hour or two after I called. It took him awhile to stand, but he eventually did. He looked confused at first, and then he noticed me. When he noticed me, staring my down with those glazed eyes, he really saw something he wanted. Of course, I had to be sure of what I was doing.

“Devon,” I said to him. “Devon, are you feeling better?” He just stared at me. At first I thought it was a blank expression, but then I noticed the wicked curl of his lips and the focus in his uncomforting eyes. “Devon,” I repeated. “If you are okay, please just say something.” His leg shifted forward and then his body pulled with it, but just one step. “Please, Devon, say something . . . anything.” Another leg forward, and then another.

While I had the best of hopes, I did not enter the situation unprepared. When he stumbled in range I swung hard with my baseball bat. The bat had been a gift from my dear mother on my twelfth birthday. I was terrible at the sport and it was used only twice, yet I never had the heart to get rid of it. It sat in my room, then my dormitory, and then my apartment, for years without a purpose. On that night, though . . . well, I don't think I need to tell you that all things happen for a reason.

I swung hard and connected with his head. The crack was nothing short of thunderous. The damage was not as much as I had expected. He fell, but got up again almost immediately. I struck him again, and then again, and then finally I felt his skull give out. It was sickening. I just stood there, breathing heavy, unsure of what I had just done. Blood covered the end of my bat and was oozing from a pocket I had created in Devon’s skull. Although I literally had not blood on my hands, metaphorically I was soaking in it. Was that truly what God had wanted me to do? I sat on the floor and thought this over. I cursed and I cried and I told myself it was him or me. I fell asleep there, a few feet away from the body. My dreams were filled with my monstrous action. If Earth was becoming Hell, was my action going to keep me there?

The body was still there. I still feel wrong calling it the body, when I should be saying his body. You told me you haven't killed one yet, right? Well, then I cannot expect you to understand the emptiness it causes. I was more than a hollow person after that; I was rotting. I knew of only one place to go. I covered Devon with a sheet and left.

Once out the door I noticed that the parking lot to the apartment complex was empty. Every car, save for mine, was gone. I had never seen it like that, and I took it as a bad sign. Where could everyone have gone? I received my answer right away, of course. There, taped to the security gate at the front of my building, was the notice from the landlord. Everyone was being asked to leave for the emergency centers. I wondered if I had not been notified of this on purpose, or if I simply did not hear the commotion. The sounds of sirens still filled the air at that time. I drove my car to the church I attended as quickly as I could. The streets were full of abandoned cars and every once in a while I saw a group of people. However, I couldn’t say whether these were people I wanted to deal with or not.

Once at the church, I tried to walk in the front doors. They were locked. A church, locked, at a time like this! I could not believe it. I would not give up. I banged on the door, over and over. Nothing. I went around back to the side door. I knocked again and again and again. Finally I started yelling, calling for anyone inside to answer me. I was about to start yelling for God Himself. Eventually the door opened a crack and I heard a voice. I recognized it as the priest, Father Patterson. He asked me who I was. I told him and he opened the door wider. There I saw he carried a pistol in his hand. Can you believe that? A man of the cloth carrying a pistol! I went to walk in but he stopped me. He asked if I had been bitten. I told him no. He stared at me for a moment, then relaxed.

“Enter quickly,” he said.

“Father,” I began, “I have sinned. I have damned my soul, Father.” I could feel the tears building back inside me from the incident. They would have burst forth had the priest not stopped me right there.

“My son, the world has changed. I do not believe you have sinned.” I had not even told him what I had done. He just seemed to know. We sat on a pew together. “These are troubling times. The Lord has seen fit to challenge us, but for what, I do not know.”

“I killed a man, Father,” I blurted out.

“Did you, now?” he asked.

I could not meet his eyes as I told him the story. How my roommate came home sick and injured, and I did nothing. I told him how I made my call to 9-1-1, and how I waited with the bat. I told him how I took my roommate's life and then just drifted to sleep in the very same room. “I am a monster, Father.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “No, my son, you are not. Your friend, he was the monster. The doctors on television can say what they want, but I know the truth. These bites, these bites from people that transform others . . . these are not the work of a disease or infection. These are the marks of the Devil. My son, you did not kill your friend. He was already damned. You simply released his soul, which was trapped in the unholy vessel.”

I did cry then, but not out of sadness. I was filled with such a relief. Those words made me feel clean, made me feel as if I was not cursed. I felt almost rejuvenated from this knowledge.

“What am I to do, Father? What are we to do?”

Father Patterson stood and walked to the altar. Without facing me, he said the following things. “Son, I can no longer tell you what we will do. It is up to the free will of every remaining soul out there. I will stay here. I belong in a church. You go out and make your own decision. But you should follow the advice you were given before. Prepare yourself for what is to come. I doubt the forces of man will keep us all safe for very long.” He paused and knelt. “Yes, I will remain here and attempt to find out why God is doing this to us.”

I said not another word to him. I left the priest in peace and exited the door I came in. I heard it lock as I walked back to the parking lot. I made my way back to my apartment, safely, and thought of what I needed to do. I decided to take the body outside. I had no shovel to dig a grave. The ground was too cold and I feared being in the open for too long, so I carried it as far as I could across the parking lot. When I made my way back to my apartment, I could still see the red stained sheet in the distance. I scrubbed the blood up the best I could, and made a list of everything I needed. I then attempted to sleep, as if I could with all the sirens still blaring. I must have drifted off eventually, because when I opened my eyes again, it was a new day. It was this day.

You know most of these events, but I need to retell some of them for the sake of this story. I needed to get supplies if I was to be prepared. I know this is a literal way of taking that statement, but I felt it was the best. I drove my car down a few blocks to the department store. The windows had been smashed out and its goods were scattered all over the parking lot. It seemed that I was not the only one who had this plan. Still, I gave it a chance. The main power of the store was not working, but the emergency lights seemed bright enough. I made my way inside quietly. I heard rustling, and every minute or so there were scattered footsteps, but I made no attempt to investigate. Still, my baseball bat was gripped tightly.

Now the first place I went was food. The store seemed to have been without power for days, so the smell was overpowering. Rotting fruit and frozen goods were too much for me to stomach. I made my way to the dry goods, which would be better for long term anyway. When I got to the aisle, I noticed a streak of blood amongst the scattered boxes. And that blood was a pathway that led right to a woman. She was standing, although I do not know how. Her face seemed scraped apart, and something was falling out of her stomach area. I did my best not to make noise, but my gasp was loud enough. She turned to look at me. Her eyes . . . I will just say this: Her eyes were that of a demon. They looked onto me, those dead-white pearls, and her jaw dropped open. She moved at me as Devon had.

She was several away when I first spoke to her. “Ma’am,” I whispered. “Ma’am, I need you to tell me if you’re okay.” Her pace quickened. “Ma’am, just one word from you and I won’t do this.” As I finished my sentence she was lunging forward.

Survival instincts took over, and just as before, I swung hard. The noise echoed inside the store, and fortunately she dropped from one blow. The bat had caught her lower than I expected. Still, once she hit the floor she made not attempt to stand. I just stared down at her as a trickle of blood moved from her. It suddenly curved and came in my direction. I stepped aside and watched it move under a shelf. I could not stand to be in that aisle anymore. I made my way to another, and decided I would take canned goods instead.

Luckily there was a shopping cart. I had not thought of that when I first went in. Too be honest, I had not planned much of this except for what I needed to buy. And yes, I realized that buying was no longer an option. I filled the cart with the best of the foods I could find, seeing which was healthiest and longest-lasting. I found boxed, just-add-water pasta meals as well. You know this because we are enjoying them now. My cart was full and I believed that I had enough to last me for several weeks. I thought this was good enough, and the sound of approaching footsteps encouraged me to leave. And that's when I did, and that's when you and I met.

I don't know what made me look across the street to the window. I don't know why you decided at that moment to look out the window. Neither of us could have heard the other. Maybe divine intervention is too strong for that type of situation, but you must admit it makes sense. And of course we noticed each other, and that's when you opened the window. And that, of course, is when you called to me for help, Kate. I made my way over to hear you better. You told me about the people downstairs, the ones that had the infection. You told me you were trapped. And then you asked me to save you.

You know, then, that I entered the house and saw the two people at the top of the stairs. You heard me call to them, to ask them to say just one word. You know how the one stumbled and fell down them trying to attack me. You know how I took care of him. You saw the body mess when you eventually came down. And you know how the other just stood there watching. You know how I charged him with fury, crushing his skull with a victorious force, over and over again. You saw the blood that had gotten on me from that. You know how I was bawling when you opened the door, begging God for forgiveness about what I had just done. And that's when you put your arms around me, Kate. You thanked me and cried yourself and told me to take you someplace safe. You told me that your parents had called from the emergency center in town and told you not to come. You told me how they said it was being overrun. You told me how their last words to you were, “Keep safe.” You asked me to keep you safe, and I promised I would. And I still will.

We came back to my apartment with the food. We looked around to see if anyone was nearby, human or monster. When we saw that there wasn’t, I made sure both the security gate at the front of the building and my own apartment were locked up tightly. We talked some more and then you asked me the question that just led to all of this. You asked why God was doing this to us.

Kate, I know my purpose now. I am here to save people, to save you, to save as many as I can. I am saving people and their souls. So when you asked me earlier, “Why is God doing this to us?” I think you're wrong. God isn't doing anything to us. God is doing this for me.

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Hell on Earth

9:33 p.m., Nov. 22 – Schaumburg, Ill.

Jim found the sight of his own blood horrifying. The hunk of flesh missing from his bicep seemed impossible in scope. It bloomed an expanding rose that smeared and ran down toward his hand as he stumbled backward out the door.

Lucas reached for Jim’s foot, which hung in the doorway. It had stuck against the door and the frame as he’d bounced backward down the stairs, landing hard in the snow. Lucas’ fingers were gnarled, bones clenching and straining against his rapidly paling skin.

The fingers worked like jaws, wrapping around Jim’s ankle, their grip unyielding, as he struggled against the shock of the cold. The icy touch penetrated his jeans, the nerves screaming and flaring beneath his skin, and his leg instinctively thrashed out. The heel of Jim’s boot slammed into Lucas’ jaw with a sharp crack. Jim scrambled back, his hands scraping pavement beneath snow. Lucas’ jaw looked dislodged, hanging a little low on the right. Jim’s shock led to pain and horror at the thought of what he’d done to the young man.

Lucas struggled against the doorway. Jim saw after a second that he was in no immediate danger. His son was slow, making stupid, deliberate movements. He struggled to put more than one motion together with another. Finding his way back to a standing position seemed beyond him.

As Jim stared at him, he started to cry. The pain in his arm was excruciating, like a flame stabbed through the limb on a sword. But worse was the cold crushing he felt on his chest as he watched his son’s dark, listing eyes moving over Jim with singular, unthinking brutality.

Jim saw in those eyes Lucas slipping away, disappearing.

“Luke,” he muttered through sobs. “Luke, where are you?”

Lucas pushed his way through the door, belly sliding over the ground as if he were a bloated snake, and flopped down the stairs head first, bouncing with awkward flailing.

It seemed only a few years ago that the two of them had practiced pop-flies in the back yard. Only eighteen months since Lucas had come to Jim, guilt-stricken over shoplifting with a friend and demanding to go to church for confession. Only four days since Jim had sat by Lucas’ bedside while his lungs fought every few seconds to tug in air.

Only minutes ago, Jim watched the light drain from the still, stagnant pools that had become Lucas’ eyes. What was left of him in that husk, Jim couldn’t be sure.

He glanced down. Already Jim saw black bands writhing up his arms, replacing blue veins.
His knees buckled. He dropped into the snow as his son reached for him, just a few feet away.

His vision blurred, and Jim thought about the handgun he kept in the closet in his bedroom. Immediately his stomach heaved. The vision of the gun against Lucas’ head was unbearable.

Jim looked down at his hands. He reached out for the searching limbs, Jim’s fingers stained red – the joints already contracting. The skin already graying.

His hand reached Lucas’, and Jim pulled him in. He wrapped his uninjured arm under Lucas’ chin and held his head tight, despite his jaws’ clenching. Jim felt the yearning in it and shuddered.

Jim’s eyes filled again. The two of them were damned, he thought. The gun wouldn’t change that.

As the cold crept over them and he embraced his son tighter than he ever had before, Jim thought of the gun, and of Lucas, still inside that husk. Jim knew he could see the soul still there.

He would stay here, together with his boy, and wait, Jim decided. He prayed he was right; he prayed this hell was better than what God had planned.

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Calculated Risk

7:13 p.m., Nov. 20 - Ft. Worth, Texas

There were eleven bodies covering the pattered maroon carpet.

One row of six, one row of five, all in the lobby so that everyone could see. Everyone being the concerned parties: Shane and Dale from within the bank, and the police from outside the bank, peering in through the glass.

The negotiators had just left the front doors, trying to work out a deal with Shane. Dale had stayed back with the hostages so that there would be no attempts at heroism from the unfortunate souls who had needed to make a financial transaction that particular afternoon. Dale had tried to plan the heist at a time when hostages would be available, but not over-abundant. Eleven was just fine with him, though he knew odd numbers put Shane on edge.

Shane wouldn't let the negotiators into the bank, nor would he take off his black ski-mask to talk. He had communicated by holding responses written on Xerox paper up to the glass. Dale liked the idea, but it nagged at his curiosity only being able to hear half of the conversation.

"How many hostages do you have?"

"Has anyone been harmed?"

"What are you demands?"

"If we do, you're going to have to release one hostage to show you're willing to work with us."

In between each muffled inquiry, Shane would scribble without delay, and slap the response up to the door. With each slap, the eleven bodies on the floor twitched uncomfortably.

Though still quite alive, Dale considered each hostage a "body." It ensured not only that the captive were listening, but made it easier to not think of them as real people. Internally, however, he had no intention of harming them, save for a rug-burn goatee from lying face down on the floor for so long.

"Get them up," Shane said when he returned.

"Up? Why?" Dale asked from under his black ski mask.

Shane looked to Dale's eyes, sternly.

"Get them up. We're moving to the vault."

Dale nodded and began to move the hostages to the vault one by one. Getting the vault open was the first priority when the heist began hours ago. It took only some shouting and a wave of Shane's shotgun to get the job done, but the cash within wasn't their final goal. After robbing a bank, a police confrontation was inevitable, and Shane wanted to make sure it was on his terms. This was fine by Dale, who knew that the amount they could demand for eleven safe hostages was more than they could hope to find in any one vault.

Nine bodies were in the vault and two were to go when Dale bent down and pulled on the shoulder of a rather large man in a business suit.

"Come on, buddy, let's go," Dale said.

The large man swung around quickly, bringing his elbow across Dale's jaw with full force. Dale flew back and then down, for what felt like much further than five feet, ten inches. The other remaining hostage -- a petite woman in jeans -- leaped into action, throwing herself at Dale's back. She wasn't very strong, which she seemed to realize quickly. She instead attempted to bite at Dale's ear. The pain was sharp and immediate, but before she could clamp down fully, a rubber-soled black boot snapped into the woman's forehead and sent her flying from Dale's shoulders.

Dale heard a crunch and looked up in time to see the butt of Shane's shotgun return the large man to the ground. The man squealed in pain: the preceding crunch the sound of his wide-set nose breaking.

"You wanna try some more funny stuff? Huh?" Shane hollered. The large man had both hands over his face, and his collar was beginning to absorb the blood streaming from beneath them.

Dale could hear faint sounds of commotion from outside, and knew the police had seen. He could feel their shadows cut through the evening sun, but didn't bother to look. He grabbed at his ear slowly, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Both bled lightly.

"You alright?" Shane asked him. Dale nodded. "Alright, then. Bring that bitch in here."

Dale looked to his second attacker. She was unconscious. Dale huffed, pushing himself to his feet, then bent down and swung the body into his arms.

Shane had left the other hostages behind in order to defend Dale, but none of them had dared make a move when they saw the ferocity of Shane's reaction. When he pushed the large man to his ass, two other bodies came to the man's aide.

"Don't fucking touch him," Shane ordered. "Let him bleed."

They slunk away from the man resentfully.

Dale laid the unconscious woman by the vault door and moved to close it behind them.
"Hey. Hold on," Shane said. He pulled Dale with him just outside the door and leaned in to whisper: "I told them they have two hours."

Dale looked through the slits in Shane's mask.

"And then?"

"And then...we kill a hostage."

Dale's eyes widened. "What, Shane, we can't--"

"Do not use my name! How many times do I fucking tell you?" Shane sighed emphatically, calming himself. "Don't worry. They'll see our demands are met." Shane stepped into the vault. "They don't want blood on their hands."

"Yeah," Dale muttered under his breath. "Neither do I."



One hour and fifty-five minutes later, Dale's stomach lurched.

Despite the dry cool of the room, everyone was sweating. Those with watches checked them compulsively, often just seconds apart. He and Shane hadn't told the hostages that one of them was to be executed -- there had been no more attacks -- but it seemed the unconscious woman had been playing dead. She was the only one close enough to the door to hear Shane give the news, and word had spread at a whisper to every shivering soul.

Thirty minutes prior, the police had cut the power to the bank, which was a curious decision to Dale. Of course it made things less comfortable for him and Shane, but it also made things less comfortable for the bodies, and they certainly weren't in charge of available amenities. Shane had split the last of the coffee with Dale forty-five minutes ago, a gift that Dale's nerves soon abhorred.

"Where the fuck are they?" Shane mumbled to himself. The silence of the room ensured that everyone heard.

"Maybe I should go out and check--" Dale began.

"No!" Shane stopped pacing and turned to Dale. "They have their instructions. If they're waiting for me to break, if they're waiting for me to change course, then they have another thing coming."

Dale looked down at his watch. One minute.

"Alright," he heard Shane mumble. "Alright, it's time."

"What? No, there's still one minute--"

"Well, let's not be late, then! Come'ere--" Shane grabbed the petite woman in jeans by the collar and dragged her to the center of the room. She screamed immediately, and the effect was viral. Whether they wanted to or not, all the other bodies began screaming along with her. The wails bounced back and forth off the metals walls so that eleven sounded like hundreds.

Shane leveled his shotgun and lined his sights, though at that range he could have hit a sunflower seed from a squirrel's mouth. The squirrel notwithstanding.

"Don't you move!" Shane shouted as the woman attempted to crawl away. She froze, staring down Shane's barrel. "Time."

Dale breathed heavily.

"Time, Dale!" Shane shot a glance at Dale.

"It's...it-it's time! But come on, Shane, let's think this through! We can't just go on killing people, we at least have to see what the hold up is."

Shane sights relaxed, but not his posture. Instead, he stepped over the girl in a march toward Dale. Without warning, he pressed the gun up to Dale's cheek. Dale didn't dare move.

"What. Did. I. Tell. You. About. Using. My. Name?" Shane asked, the spacing between each word more pronounced than the last.

Dale stammered. "I...I...I'm sorry, Sh--I'm sorry. But--"

"But?" Shane said sharply.

"But you just used mine -- Jesus, put the gun down!"

"I..." Shane relaxed his gun once more. He turned away without looking Dale in the eyes. "I'm sorry."

Dale sighed and looked around the room. All twenty-two eyes were fixated upon him and Shane, taught and unblinking.

"But this isn't a discussion. We came here to get what was ours, and we're going to get it. The authorities have to know that they're playing by our rules, and not the other way around. Don't you understand?"

Dale nodded slowly. Shane nodded once back and made his way back in front of the petite woman on the floor, which immediately re-initiated the cacophony of screams. This time, though, Shane's back was to Dale.

Dale heard the deep click of Shane loading the barrel, even through the wails. "Shane, I still don't think we should--"

The explosion from the end of Shane's gun reverberated through the room and trampled over the screams like bulls through a red alley. The room was silent in its wake as everyone surveyed what had been done. The petite woman was dead without question this time.

Dale expected the screams to start again, but they didn't. Only a few sobs. He was staring down at her when he felt hot metal in his hands.

"I'm going to tell those sons of bitches where we stand. And if they want to ignore our demands again, then another one's gonna die every hour." Shane had pushed his shotgun into Dale's hands. Dale finally looked up, away from the dead woman, and nodded slowly at Shane.

Shane went to the vault door, wrenched it open, and left.

Dale slumped to the floor. He couldn't believe what Shane had done. No, what he had done. What he had allowed to happen. Everyone else looked away, but Dale couldn't pry his eyes. The purple knot on her forehead from where Shane had kicked her earlier. The splatter of black blood, ripped skin and cotton where just moments ago had been her chest. He forced himself to encounter his mistake. His sin.

A tear formed in the corner of his left eye, but he sucked it back. He wouldn't allow the rest of the bodies, those still living, to see him any weaker than they already had. As he pushed himself to his feet, he could have sworn he saw something that wasn't possible.

The petite woman had blinked. His gaze snapped to her face, scouring it for more movement. After a moment, Dale convinced himself that he had seen nothing. He was tired, stressed and saddened. He wouldn't allow himself to become delusional as well.

That was when he decided he was through. So much planning, so much time...but he wouldn't be a part of murder. He would march out, turn himself in, and hope that Shane would forgive him. No money was worth this, he thought.

Dale left the hostages behind. Half were too upset to notice, and the rest still too scared to make a move at his back. As he approached the black of the glass front doors, Dale slowed from a confident march to cautious tip-toe.

There were no lights.

No police.

Shane stood before the doors where Dale stopped in bewildered silence.

Dale peered into the dark, trying to spot something. Anything. He slowly wrapped his fingers around the cold handle of the door and pushed. Before he let himself through, he dropped the shotgun to his side.

After two more cautious steps, it dawned on Dale that this might be a trap. He was surprised, suddenly, that Shane hadn't stopped him from going through the first set of doors. Before he could look back, there was a slam against the glass from outside. It was a police officer...dying. His skin was serrated and his tongue was visible through the gaps in his in his cheeks. His clothes were bloodied and ripped. In Dale's estimation, the man already looked dead. But there he was, propped upright and oozing against the glass.

With spastic haste, Dale turned and pulled back through the first set of doors. Shane was gone.

"Shane? Did you...?"

"Dale," Shane said. "Dale, where is my shotgun?" Shane backed out through the vault door shaking his head involuntarily. Dale found the shotgun on the floor and picked it up in time to meet Shane's outstretched hands. Shane immediately shouldered and cocked the weapon.

"What's wrong?" Dale asked.

"That bitch I just shot is up--up, moving around!"

"Up? You mean she's not dead?" Dale mustered, hopefully. He moved back toward the vault.

"Of course she's dead, I shot her in the chest! Now she's up and--she was biting another hostage!"

"Biting...?" Dale mumbled.

In his final steps toward the vault, Dale could now hear the screams that the thick metal door had suffocated. A hand reached out from the small opening and slid to the ground, bloodied and stiff.

Dale glanced over his shoulder back at Shane, who steadied his gun as best he could, but shivered all over, his wayward aim on the entrance to the vault. He had never seen Shane so afraid.

"Look out!"

Dale didn't have time to react. For the second time that day, the petite woman was hanging from his shoulders. He began swinging wildly, trying to remove her.

"Well I'll be god damned..." Shane muttered.

The petite woman swung back her head. The blood from her cole slaw chest smeared against Dale's back and her arms twitched strangely across Dale's face, knocking off his black ski mask. Her head was still purple from Shane's kick, but the wound was pronounced by her moon-pale skin and glowing white eyes.

Dale screamed and reached back, but couldn't pry her from his shoulders. She was too strong.
"Her eyes..." Shane hesitated...then, snapping to: "Stop moving, god dammit, or I'll put a round through you!"

"I'm...trying!" Dale gasped.

The woman swung her head back again, coming forward for Dale's ear. This time -- in one slow, methodical sinking of her jaws -- she bit the ear clean off. The echoing screams of the hostages in the vault could not compare to Dale's squawks of horror. Before Shane could get a clean shot, the man with the broken nose stumbled from the vault.

His movements were slow and rigid -- perhaps from loss of blood.

"Don't you come any closer!" Shane shouted, temporarily swinging his aim away from his friend. "I said stop!"

With one hand to his missing ear and the other holding back his assailant, Dale watched as Shane let loose a shell. He hit the large man at the left elbow. His arm swung there for a moment, before falling free. His slow pace, however, did not become slower.

"What the hell..."

"SHAAAANE!" Dale screamed as loud as Shane had ever heard anyone scream. He looked down to see the pale, petite woman pulling flesh and bloodied muscle from Dale's neck. "Shane..." his voice faded as he collapsed to the floor. Shane hesitated no more. He fired another round at the woman and she flew back from the force.

"Dale...Dale, come on now..." Shane slung his gun into one hand and slid to his knees beside his partner. Shane glanced up at the one-armed businessman, still in pursuit, before flipping his friend onto his back.

Dale was dead.

"Ah, dammit..." Shane sighed. "Ah, no, no, no. Not like this, not like this." Shane re-tightened his grip on his shotgun and in one motion cocked the weapon and pushed himself to a stand. Ker-thump, ker-thump, ker-thump. Shane fired three cartridges into the lumbering business man, who took each blast as a soft spring breeze. His pursuit still did not slow.

Shane reached into his pocket and fumbled for more shells, then popped open his gun to reload. When he looked down at his hand, re-emerging with the shells, he saw the petite woman on the floor. She was getting up. Without even time to curse, two more bodies emerged from the vault, moving as strangely as the man who had just taken four rounds without so much as a complaint.

Shane fired more frantically now, rotating targets, hoping for any contact that might slow them. After one last bam and an empty click, Shane knew he was out of ammunition. He had come for a battle, but hadn't planned for a war. He dropped his gun and turned for the exit. One more body stood in his way.

It was Dale. The side of his head and neck glistened black and red from his bite wounds, but the bleeding had stopped. His eyes were now overcast, matching those of the petite woman.

"Oh, Dale, no. It's me..." Shane pleaded. Dale swayed, Shane's words ineffectual. "It's me, Shane." Shane began to sob. "What's my name, Dale...What's my na--"

Dale lunged at Shane, jaws poised. Shane fell backward, where the large businessman was waiting to catch him. Shane pushed himself out of his grasp and into the patterned maroon carpet. Shane wept as Dale's fingers sunk into his arms, teeth into his shoulder, and four more lumbering bodies fell upon him.

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