Tomb With A View

Three weeks into mayhem and destruction that looked like it would never end, the zombies quit trying. It happened literally overnight. One moment, they were slapping halfheartedly at our shiny glass doors; the next, the only sign they had ever been was streaky red-brown handprints. Our headquarters in the library went from DVD-bent-to-near-breaking-point tension to a stunned silence that lasted days.

Not that the undead completely up and vanished. Groups of stragglers could still be seen from time to time, but they didn’t seem to care anymore. Lyn grumbled something about us having lost too much weight to be appetizing, but even her dry musings soon died off as we realized that she might just be right. Our food supply was dwindling.

Which was why I now sat at Mel’s desk on the upper half-level of the library, scheming. Most of the book shelves had been moved downstairs in that first onslaught from the mercenaries and the rest had since been pushed out to the walls. Most of this floor was taken up by a kitchen-type area that consisted of a couple deep freezers, some commercial fridges, a scavenged receptionist’s desk and a couple rows of collapsible tables and flimsy chairs. Someone had managed to drag in a stove, too. Aside from that, there was a seating area against the far wall. A few couches and recliners made a cozy nest around an electric fireplace with towering stacks of books interspersed among the furniture. That area was separated from the rest of the floor by a semicircle of bookshelves. And between our nested “library” and the kitchen was where we now sat

Floor plans littered the table between us, wrinkled from heavy use. Every outside doorway was marred with the word “Secure” in red Sharpie and a blue line drew a path from our building to the food court of the nearby mall. I had breathed thanks to the city engineers more than once for the network of pedways that spiderwebbed beneath the entirety of Downtown.

“It’ll be like ordering takeout,” I said, tapping the Sharpie on the nearest food court in the mall. “I can take care of a few stragglers. And that’s assuming there are any. Your guys didn’t see any.”

Mel frowned. “I know what they saw.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “I can’t put these people at risk, Jimmy. We have food left for a few more days, at least. We can hold off a bit longer.”

“Hold off for what?” I demanded. “None of us are getting our fill at meal times anymore. There’s a huge supply of food a block away and you want to sit here and just wait?”

He hesitated. “I can’t jeopardize the safety of the people under my charge,” he said at last. “You have to understand my position here.”

“Dammit, Mel!” I barked, leaping to my feet. “You’re jeopardizing them already!”

The small amount of children we’d found who had survived the outbreak had been gathered together by a few would-be mothers and put immediately into a makeshift homeschool system. They were gathered in the dining area. A few of them glanced our way at my outburst, but quickly returned to what they were doing.

Mel noticed and looked back at me. “Would you keep it down?” he muttered tersely, then motioned with a sigh for me to sit down. I sat, grudgingly.

“Look,” I said, “I don’t like our options any more than you do. But we’re going to have to take risks if we want to make it out of this.”

His eyes asked the question none of us dared give voice to. Make it out of what? And to where? But all he said was, “Okay. But we’re locking the doors behind you.”

I nodded and grinned. “Just open them when I get back, will ya? I’d hate to come home to find the locks changed on me.”

* * *

Lynette found me downstairs, in the corner with the gun racks, as I selected a Sig Sauer M1911 model from its bevy of companions and holstered it at my hip. I had already donned a black t-shirt, matching fatigues and sturdy boots.

“You’re an idiot if you think you’re doing this alone.”

I glanced at her. “Then stop me.”

She snorted. “Hell no. I’m coming with you.” Her shoulder clipped mine as she reached past for her own sidearm.

I looked at her, weighing this time. Finally, I said, “You’re sure?”

She spared me time enough for a quick glare, checked the Glock’s magazine, slid it back in and racked the slide, then turned to give me a meaningful look. “I’m sure.”

Shrugging, I said, “Okay, it’s your skin.” But inside, I wondered if I would ever win an argument with her. I swear, women do the dumbest things for a little conflict. I picked up the shotgun I’d laid on a nearby table and slung it over my back. I glanced at a second ammunition belt, studded with red shotgun shells, and grabbed it after a moment of thought. You can never be too careful. “Don’t get left behind,” I told her and jogged away.

The pedway looked completely deserted as the doors slammed shut behind us with an echo that rolled ahead of us down the hallway. I grimaced. “Honey, I’m home,” I muttered.

Lynette glanced at me questioningly, but didn’t say anything. She had eyes only for the hallway ahead. We moved quickly, both unwilling to stay in this place longer than we needed to. The place looked completely deserted, but that only got me worried. It’s terribly unnerving, hearing only the sounds of boots. People had once milled about down here, hurrying more than they needed to, absorbed in cell phones and iPods that put them somewhere else, anywhere but here.

Funny how desires like that never seem to change.

We passed through another set of doors and into the train station. A long, brownish streak of blood stretched from the far doors all the way to the stairs leading down to the platform.

“I wonder if they had a ticket,” I mused.

Lynette drilled me with a hard look halfway between mirth and disgust. I wasn’t sure which I felt either. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

The next set of doors opened to an upward sloping hallway of blue-grey tiles under harsh, flourescent light. We moved ahead at an easy jog. I unslung the shotgun at the crest of the hallway. No need to go in unprepared.

“I hate this,” Lynette growled. She was running with her sidearm in her hands.

“What?”

“Give me safety or give me a fight. I hate this in-between shit!”

Boy, did she ever have it right! My heart was beating way faster than my jogging was cause for.

Another set of doors, and the hallway changed direction again. We passed through a parkade without incident and slowed to enter the mall through a set of automatic sliding doors.

“Yeeeeaaaaaggghhhhh!” A skeletal figure was sprinting for us with two bony arms raised high over its head. My shotgun blast obliterated its chest as Lynette’s single handgun round punched through a cheek. It landed shoulders first on the floor and slid for a few feet before coming to a final rest.

I gave the room a quick survey, checking for more undead. An abandoned cart sat against one wall beside a mop pail and a Wet Floor sign. I motioned for Lynette to follow me and hurried over to peer inside the cart. It was half filled with folded New York Fries uniforms. Quickly, I snatched them out onto the floor.

“We’ll use this. I hope you like potatoes.”

Lynette gave me a questioning look between darting glances around the room, but followed when I led forward again. I pulled the cart up in front of the New York Fries booth and vaulted over the counter.

“What’s that smell?”

“Four-week-old fries,” I replied. The deep fryer was still bubbling. “That’ll be a hell of a power bill.” I poked my head into the back room. Empty, except for all the boxes. “Perfect!”

“What’s that?”

I turned back, holding a box with “NYF” printed boldly on the side. “Potatoes,” I grinned and handed it to her.

A guttural groan came faintly from somewhere inside the mall.

“You’d better haul ass,” she muttered as she dumped the potatoes into the cart, then turned to watch the room.

I agreed by tossing boxes two at a time into the cart until it was full. “Okay, kids, play time’s over!” I hauled at the cart with my left hand, Sig in the other.

The groan came again, in choir form this time. “You’re kidding...” I groaned. The cart was damned heavy! We left the food court and made for the sliding doors, past the dead skeletal zombie. The doors slid open, and Lynette barked a curse. I turned.

A group of fifty or more of the undead were shuffling out of a hallway near the food court. “Can you take the cart?” I barked at Lynette as I swiveled down to one knee and grabbed for my shotgun.

She didn’t answer, but grabbed the cart and started moving back toward the parkade. The shotgun roared, zombies fell, but the rest kept coming. Buckshot doesn’t do a whole lot to a zombie at far range. Not when you’re trying to kill all motor function.

We passed through the parkade and entered the hallway. Lynette strained with the cart with her Glock in her free hand, watching ahead for any threats while I hurried backwards alongside her, dropping smoking shells on the floor. For a brief moment, I was intensely thankful I had decided to bring the second belt of shotgun shells, but then a group of sprinters broke free of the growing crowd of undead.

“How’re you doing, Jimmy?” Lynette yelled.

“Oh just”--I slammed a round of buckshot into the gaping mouth of the nearest runner--”fine! How are you today?” I thought I heard her tsk, but it was drowned in my next shot and the sound of two more falling bodies.

We stopped at the doors exiting the train station. “We have to make sure they don’t follow us through here,” I told her as I whipped out the handgun and send more zombie brain matter splattering. Something caught my eye, then, as a figure darted through of another set of doors. “Shit!”

“What?”

“Stay here and hold them off!” There was no time to explain. That had been a kid, and he had been alone, and he had been alive! A couple zombies were on his tail, I saw, as I pounded through the doors and ran after him. I dropped them easily; the bastards never thought to look for prey behind them.

The boy stopped to eye me carefully in a suddenly very quiet hallway. I slowed to a walk. “You okay?”

He shrugged. “Fine. You?”

I stopped gaping. The kid looked to be no older than ten years old, but acted like an adult. There was nothing to show that he had just been chased by two dead men. “Come on, kid. It’s not safe here.” I motioned for him to follow.

“I have to find my mom,” he said. This time, a hint of childishness showed through. He looked tired.

Shots rang out behind us. Lynette hollered, “Jimmy!” She needed help. I couldn’t just leave the kid, though.

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll help you find your mom.”

His eyes brightened. “Really?”

“Yeah, yeah, come on!” He followed eagerly.

I crashed back through the doors to see Lynette fending a few stragglers off with the cart. Hurrying closer, I opened fire and watched them fall limply.

“Where the hell were you?” she demanded. “I ran out of--” She spotted the new arrival. “Who--are you okay?” That was directed at the kid. She didn’t wait for a reply, but looked back at me. “We should get back.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Zombies - A Finale

I had a better title, but it wasn't relevant.

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

"Shit," I muttered. Again, "shit!" with more urgency.

Lynette snapped out of a haze at this and started moving, whipping me around in a tight circle and moving back through the maze of hallways at a near sprint.

I tried to keep an eye on the signs whizzing past in case I had to come back at any point, but it was useless. We turned left when I swore we should have turned right and went down a level when we should have gone up--this, by the way, was the nearest I've ever come to taking a bite out of my own knee. Stairways are murder to a wheelchair.

Suddenly, we stopped. Lynette slapped at the Up button beside--you've got to be joking--an elevator.

I stared at it and said, "Um."

"We're going a level higher than the main floor. There's no way in hell I'm going out there before I get a good idea of what's safe."

Huh. She was smart! I marvelled. I would never have thought of that. (Don't read too much into it.)

The doors dinged open and Lynette somehow managed to move into the car at a dead run. My head spun. The doors slid shut.

"What if there's fighting on the top level, too?" I watched the floor number uneasily.

"When we've already lost."

But we're still alive, I wanted to say. Instead, I went with, "Oh."

We were quiet for a bit.

"I was eating a pizza before," I ventured.

The number flipped to a 3, the door parted with cheer, and hell broke loose.

The back wall of the elevator blossomed forward in a screech of steel and roar of fire that pitched me forward and out of the car. The second floor only took up half the building, ending in a loft-type of railing that overlooked the main atrium. I watched the balcony railing sail closer before something caught my eye. It was Lynette, body limp, sliding across the floor on her belly and turning in a lazy half circle before coming to a rest against a bookshelf.

One of my wheels caught the top rail and I hurtled downward in a weird, painful-legged flail through a cloud of fire, smoke and scorched debris billowing out ahead of me.

Falling sucks. Especially when it's a far enough fall that your view of the impending impact is suddenly obscured by a view of the wall, and then the ceiling. I went so far as to catch just a glimpse of a second wall before all I saw was floor tile and what looked like a piece of my tongue.

My vision went flashy black in that kaleidoscopic way only severe head trauma can go. I thought I would at least pass out, but I didn't. One of my feet kicked me in the throat, then followed my hips down to the floor after what has to be the most awesome spinal-injury-evasion-not-accomplished-with-a-skateboard-at-hand of all time.

I blinked, ignoring the buzzing whine in my ears and the accompanying migraine, and tried to find my wheelchair.

It lay beside me, somewhat blackened and missing an armrest, but otherwise unscathed. With heroic effort, I lifted myself to an almost-sitting position, blinked a few times and wiped some blood from my nose.

I was in the main atrium now. Bookshelves had been moved to create a staggered V-shape of barriers that provided minimal cover. I noticed they were arranged in doubles, in hope, I guessed, that a double layer of oak would stop the bullets.

I fumbled my wheelchair closer and clumsily hefted myself into it, almost tipping right over again. I couldn't help noticing the trails of wetness extending from my ears down both sides of my neck, but blinked a couple more times to clear my vision again and wheeled myself cautiously toward the first shelf to peer around.

I counted six gunmen that looked like ours--they were facing the doors--and at least a dozen returning fire from the receptionists' desks near the entrance.

The ringing in my ears was drowning out every other sound, I noticed with a twinge of worry. I wasn't even sure if they were taking in any sound at all.

With another spattering swipe at the blood under my nose, I put both hands firmly on the wheels of my chair and hustled forward, across the room. Somebody out there had the virus and I assumed it was the General. He seemed like a good place to start.

Something zinged past my head. They were shooting at cripples now? The bastards! I gritted my teeth and moved faster. Ahead, across a small stretch of open space after one last bookshelf, a gaping, charred and burning opening led to the blue-tinged twilight outside. I was forced to assume the General was now doing what he had done in the earlier fight--that is, run and hide while his minions did the dirty work.

I found him long before I expected to. He leaped mutedly into my path just as I emerged into the open air. His mouth gaped in a soundless battlecry to accompany the shotgun in his hands.

"You fuckers have no sense of decency," I grumbled in a very muffled voice. I never expected to die in a wheelchair or from a shotgun wound. But life's a bitch that way.

I watched him chamber a shell with a menacing grin. His mouth was moving through what looked frighteningly like a victory monologue.

In my everyday life, if somebody blocks my path, I am instinctively inclined to stop moving to avoid a collision. I feel this is normal for most people. Strangely, I have never before had to factor in my being in a wheelchair.

Where I would otherwise have stopped, I now rocketed along, hands lifted in surrender. His eyes widened, he stepped back, and I plowed into him.

The wheels of my chair caught on his feet as he went under and I was catapulted forward once again. But this time, I didn't pull a Superman from one storey to the next; I just flopped. His knee came up and caught me right in the family jewels--I have to assume out of the goodness of my heart that it was an accident--and my elbow slammed down on the bridge of his nose (that wasn't an accident. He had done more than enough to make me overlook any heart-goodness at that point.)

Then, I could hear again. My hearing cleared like angst-ridden teenagers when mall security shows up. Shaking my head to clear the disorientation, I spat out runoff from my nosebleed and sat up just as a military truck swerved into the far end of the square.

Something nearby squawked. I looked at the General and started. He was out cold. How convenient, that! His radio was staticking like mad. I realized it was someone speaking.

"...just pulling in, General. We have the package and are arming it now."

"Oh hell," I groaned. A glance showed the truck halfway across the square. Gunfire still staccatoed from inside the Library. The truck drove closer. "Ohshitohshitohshit!" I looked around frantically for something--anything!--I could do.

Something gleamed on the General's belt. A grenade. Better to, at the very least, keep the virus from getting inside, right? It was probably airborne, judging by its quick spread, but the open air would disperse it a lot quicker, I reasoned.

Besides, I had a bum leg, was outside all by myself--at the mercy of whatever decided to come along--and was suffering from a serious concussion. And I had a migraine. So to hell with reason.

I picked up the grenade, pulled the pin and waited with my hand clamped firmly on the detonator, prayin gI was doing it right.

The truck was about to bounce off the curb and cross the street to the library when I threw my last ditch effort and hoped it wasn't only smoke.

The drab green truck went up like a Christmas tree being torn in two by a gigantic, billowy, orange monster thing with a lot of black and green smoke! A wave of heat washed over me, forcing me to blink madly until it passed.

When my watery eyes finally cleared, I saw the truck, still pouring smoke, sitting flat on the pavement with no wheels in sight. The entire vehicle looked like a giant, burnt raisin with bits of orange licking at its edges.

A loud buzz filled my head, my fingers went tingly and I lost all my strength. I slumped weakly to the ground and waited for the next zombie with the munchies.

It wasn't a zombie I saw next, though. It was Mel. He came out through the same opening my wheelchair lay across and knelt beside me.

"You okay?"

I looked at him indignantly.

"Well, you know, all things considered..." He stared at the burning truck. "What happened?"

"Had the virus," I groaned. I hurt. "We need to get inside. Away from it..."

He frowned. "I doubt it could live through heat like that. We'll be okay."

"Oh." I suddenly felt very sleepy. "Lynette?"

"Knocked out cold, but in better shape than you. Let's get you inside."

I muttered something to the affirmative, wondering if I would get more morphine. A few more men appeared with a stretcher and helped carry me inside. I let sleep steal over me. It was kind of nice to take a break... We would be okay as long as there were no more mercenaries around.

After all, what could be worse than a group of power-hungry vigilantes with a virus designed to put humankind on the endangered species list?

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

That pretty much ties this bad boy up. If you liked it, recommend it to your friends. Give them links. Stuff like that.

On an aside, I'm not sure if my next story will be a continuation in the same world or not. At some point, I know I'll go back. I enjoy writing in the first person too much not to. But I'm going to start dumping actual hours into a novel and see how that turns out.

I am not in any way disinclined toward feedback or ideas, so keep them coming. Other than that, though, I'll keep writing if you keep reading. You guys rock.

The Maestro of the Silver Cord

Writing is a lot like brewing coffee. You have to prepare it and grind the beans just right before adding almost-boiled water at the right speed before you can step back and wait for it. But then you have to wait--and you can't wait too long or else it comes on too strong--just the right amount of time before you try it.

I think a lot of what I've been doing recently is waiting, whether by option or circumstance. This is why a lot of what I've been working on remains unfinished. At some point in the next few months, I promise you, more will be complete than in the process of brewing.

'Zombies - Finale' is still on its way. I haven't really had time to work on it for a long time, but what time I have had is now preserved in a notebook that may be permanently irretrievable. If that is the case--and I should find out soon--a rewrite should be more daunting than difficult.

The following is what happens when I ask Maria what I should write about. Now, before you get your hopes up, it's a complete freewrite. The only character I spent any time fleshing out at all is the one you may never meet. But I like this setting, so I may stick with it a while. Anyway, read and enjoy. Comments are welcome.

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

It was a little after eight when Miles left the pub and stepped into a sheet of rain. A strong gust of wind flung hair in his face with a vicious howl and tugged meaningfully at his coat. Hurriedly, he brushed hair from his eyes and pulled his coat up a little higher to shield his neck from the stinging gale. With a single upward glance, he turned and hurried down the sidewalk, figure hunched against the penetrating downpour. Billowing clouds overhead loomed darkly, setting the city in shadow so deep it looked like night.

Around the corner, Miles stopped in front of a small corner store and waved madly at a taxi parked half a block down, almost invisible in the glistening sheets of silver raining from the sky. There was no sign of acknowledgement for a moment, then the vehicle started with a glow of taillights and puff of steam from the exhaust. It pulled away into oblivion to find a place to turn around and Miles retreated to where a few others stood under the cover provided by the building's meager awning and folded his arms against the chill, bowing his head as he did.

Before him, in the street, runoff gathered in a quickly rising pool above a gutter, driven to madness by more rainfall. A small, pockmarked whirlpool whirled about in its center like a dervish.

Then, the sidewalk shook a little, ever so slightly, as if something had been dropped on it and the dervish began to slurp up a new rivulet, this one red. Miles squinted. That couldn't be right.

A cry broke through the sound of pounding rain, Miles whirled to its source. A woman lay face down on the sidewalk, arms flung out before her as if in humble petition. A man was stooped beside her, shaking her gently by the shoulder. He was sobbing.

"Maya! Maya!" he was wailing. Miles stepped closer to pull the man away and inside the building, struggling against the man's futile attempt to revive his Maya.

Forcibly, Miles pushed the man to the floor against the counter, ignoring the startled cashier. "Listen to me!" he shouted. He swatted the crying man's hands away and tried again. "Listen! She's dead!" At that, the crying stopped.

"H-how?"

"I don't know. Stay here. I'll call 911."

The man listened, obviously in shock and Miles did as he promised just as the taxi arrived. The cab driver came bolting through the door just as Miles hung up the phone.

"There's a--"

Miles shut him up with a glare. "We are very well aware of what is out there."

The cabbie swallowed and nodded, casting a nervous glance to the now prostrate man by the counter. Then up at the cashier, who shrugged helplessly.

After that, nobody uttered a sound except for the occassional sob from beneath the counter. Miles spent his time browsing through the store, poking at filmy bags of potato chips and Cheezies until boredom overcame him and he strode over to stand by the window. He quickly returned to browsing, though. The site of the body was too unnerving.

A distant wail of an ambulance quickly manifested itself in flashing red lights outside. Miles glanced around, saw no one else willing and headed for the door to speak with the paramedics himself.

"Wait!" This from the cashier.

Miles obeyed and drilled the short Asian with an annoyed glare. "What?"

"It might not be safe."

"Safe? We're in New Jersey, not Iraq! Whatever happened, happened." He started for the door again, annoyed all over again when he saw the paramedics waving to him. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he grouched and slapped a wet palm against the door to open it.

It looked like someone slashing across a page with a red paintbrush, followed by a limp body crashing to an awkward slump in the street with one shoulder propped up on the sidewalk. The second didn't take long to follow his friend and flung himself backward onto the hood of the still-running taxi. Miles cried out, backpedaling from the door as fast as he could. He collided with the cashier who had been tentatively creeping to look out the window.

"What happened?" he stuttered.

"The fuck you think happened?" snapped Miles. He hurried to the far back corner and sat down with his back to it, placed his head on his knees and breathed deeply. This would all come to an end and then he would wake up and it would just be a dream. Make it be a dream, make it be a dream...

"It's real."

His head snapped up. Had he been speaking aloud? Gathered by the counter, looking worried, stood the cashier and a couple he hadn't noticed before. They looked like a movie couple. She was wearing leather boots that complimented her jean-hugged legs nicely and a large, gray sweater that obviously belonged to her man but looked fantastic on her anyway. He was dressed in simple dark jeans and a black t-shirt with a sport coat thrown carelessly over one shoulder. His free arm curled protectively around the woman.

"It's real," repeated Mr. Protective. "We're stuck here."

Zombies - Dead and Walking

My extended Christmas vacation is finally over, so I can start writing again. I'm actually surprised at how hard it is to get going after a break. Anyway, here's another Zombies entry. I see about one more for this story. After that, it's on to something new, hopefully. Enjoy.

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I woke the next morning to a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, toast and hash browns with a giant mug of coffee and glass of orange juice to boot. After staring at it in delight for a few moments, I lifted my gaze to the foot of my bed where Lynette stood.

"Good morning," she said wryly. 'You almost missed it."

I glanced at the clock on the far wall. It was almost quarter after eleven. The first half of the night hadn't granted me much sleep with my leg wound throbbing like mad. After a few hours of writhing, the nurses had taken pity on me and dosed me full of morphine again. I had fallen asleep not long after. Who says drugs are bad?

Lynette helped me sit up and waited for me to start eating before she spoke again. "Mel's waiting outside. He has someone he wants you to meet."

I glanced up. "Now?"

She didn't have to answer me, because Mel came marching through the door just then.

"Morning, Jimmy."

"Hi Mel." He had yet to indicate that he cared for a formal title, so I was going to hold out as long as I could.

He took no notice of it. "We have some bad news. We found one of your fellow soldiers last night. In the car wreck. It seems God's Talon doesn't have much of a heart for deserters because they shot him and tied him into the vehicle." Then he paused to give me a meaningful look. "If you hadn't come along, he'd be dead right now. Or worse."

"What? We're not letting him crash his own funeral?" I shoveled some eggs into my mouth, surprised at how hungry I was.

My humour was lost on him. "Hopefully not. But it looks like he may get another chance. They're coming here, Jimmy."

"Here? Who?"

"God's Talon has apparently taken issue with us rescuing one of their men. Seems he knows something we shouldn't."

I sat up a little more, ignoring the twinge of fury in my leg. Dammit, there were more of them. "Is he talking?"

Mel shook his head. "Not at the moment, no. He's scared to death of these guys."

"How long do we have?"

"I'm surprised they're not knocking on the door already."

"Shit."

Mel left soon after that to check the doors again. Taking shelter behind glass doors from a tide of the undead is one thing, but angry mercenaries with big, scary guns is quite another. There was apparently a small team of able bodies working on it at the moment, but I could tell Mel was worried. We were in a library for fuck's sake. We could have at least taken shelter inside the Worker's Compensation building or something, some place that was used to hostiles.

A wave of claustrophobia swept over me. Of all the conditions to be in at the moment, lying in a bed had to be someone's cruel joke.

"You'd better not be thinking about leaving this room," Lynette warned.

I awarded her with my best innocent face. "And do what? Get myself killed?" I concentrated on eating my hash browns for a few minutes. Whoever was in charge of the food had my fondest regards.

The mercenaries arrived, then. I knew they had because an explosion thumped in the distance and the floor shook just a little. I noticed Lynette glance toward the door.

"Don't let me keep you here," I said nicely. She shot me her darkest look.

"I'm on duty," she snapped, then muttered, "Even if it's the shit shift."

"I resent that," I grouched as I slumped back on my pillows. Part of me had to feel sorry for her, though. I wanted to be out there, too. Another explosion sounded off somewhere. Lynette fidgeted. I drank some juice.

I thought back to my first meeting with the mercenaries. It had almost seemed like the squadron we met with was guarding the bridge. The flaming, charred remnants of chasm that had been a bridge... Were they waiting for someone?

"Lynnie," I began.

"Lynette." She was sitting on a plastic chair, chin in hand, staring out the door.

"Lynette..."

"What?"

"Did it look like they were guarding the bridge?" I started on my coffee. It tasted a little burnt, but it was good anyway.

"What from? Zombies? It was on fire, Jimmy."

"That it was. So why were they there?"

She shrugged. "Should I care? They're all dead now."

"And it almost seemed as if they knew we were coming, didn't it? I mean, they left as soon as we got there."

"Sure, it's not like they had much to do there. They probably had other orders to follow."

"But then they died."

She stiffened. "Hey, remember all the blood and bodies all over the ground after they died?"

"Yeah..."

She glared at me now. "Well I don't want to! For the love of God, Jimmy, let it rest! Let all those dead men rest!' Her voice cracked and she returned to a sullen silence.

I decided to shut my mouth and keep my thoughts to myself. How could she not want to talk about it? Women confuse me.

But what if the mercenaries had been there to stop all the people from getting across the river? What if none of this was an accident? If that was the case, it would make sense for them to try and control the virus--or whatever it was. And if somebody else found out about it, they would be smart to try and shoot any of the culprits who made it across the river.

My leg was throbbing. I drank some of the coffee and took a bite of a piece of toast. It sounded deafeningly loud in the quiet, but I persevered.

That could be why they were coming after their man now. If he knew what they were guilty of, they would stop at nothing to silence him. They might even unleash the virus on us.

"Oh hell..." I moaned as all the pieces fell together.

Lynette glanced over, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"They're going to hit us with the virus!"

"What virus? What are you talking about?"

"The fucking zombie virus! The one that turned everyone on this side of the river into a zombie!"

She scowled, obviously irritated that I wouldn't just sit and be quiet like a proper injured person. "Not everyone got turned, Jimmy."

"No, but almost everyone did. And yes, there was destruction further south, but it wasn't extensive like this."

She frowned but didn't say anything. Gunfire started up inside the building as faint shouts and screams wafted in through the open door.

"I need to talk to the other merc!"

"Like hell you do. Jimmy, you are staying here!"

I stared at her, mortified. "And let everyone else die? No! I need a wheelchair!"

"Jimmy, no! It's not safe out there."

"Because it'll be safe in here when the virus hits again. Get me a damn wheelchair!"

Maybe she saw the truth in what I was saying, or maybe she was just tired of arguing with me, but Lynette hurried out and returned with a wheelchair in two minutes flat. When she did, she was all business, wasting no time or breath on useless words like "please." She simply ordered and I obeyed, also aware of how little time there could be, even if the virus was a last resort. There was no telling how long Mel's men would hold out against trained soldiers. More gunfire clattered down the hallway.

The hallways seemed a maze to me, but Lynette seemed to know her way. We arrived in a room similar to mine in moments. The injured mercenary was eating a breakfast similar to mine, though he had no nurse attending him at the moment. He glanced up lazily when we entered.

"Are they going to use the virus on us?" I demanded.

He froze with the fork halfway to his mouth. "The virus?" His speech was lightly accented with something European.

"The thing that turns us all into walking corpses!" I snapped. "It could mean your life."

His eyes widened. "They have one, yes. But I don't know if they would use it on us..."

"They left you for dead, didn't they? They used it on the whole rest of the city!"

"Yes, but if you survived, that means you are immune." He hesitated. "At least, I think..."

"That's not good enough, man!" My voice was getting high pitched. "If there's any chance they'll use it, we have to know!"

He reached under the bed and retrieved his radio then, but hesitated once more. "If they know I told you..."

This guy really was scared, I marveled. They must have some badass bosses. "I don't think it matters to them anymore. They've made up their minds."

And so did he. With a flick of his thumb, the radio chirped to life.

"Is it ready to use?"

A pause.

"Doctor! Is the virus ready?"

Then, a shaky voice came online. "Yes, General. Are you sure...?"

"Of course I'm fucking sure! How soon will it be here?"

"About five minutes, sir."

I glanced at Lynette and saw the same horrified determination I felt.