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.

Zombies - Ignition

Ignition

Mel talked as he drove and I listened as well as I could over the growing pain in my leg. As overwhelming as everything was, it was nice to have somebody explain the situation to me for once, instead of having to figure it out for myself.

"They say the virus hit sometime last night," he said, eyes fixed straight ahead, voice devoid of emotion. I got the feeling he was relaying the information purely for my sake, so I sat in grateful silence and listened. "All of the important sources are saying it's a freak of nature and nobody is responsible for it." He turned to me. "Of course, those are all the media sources that have ties in the government. Our smaller, more independent and trustworthy people said it was man made until they got shut up." His expression hardened and he returned his attention to the road before he continued, "But that doesn't matter now. We gathered together as many people as we could--the ones that were...safe..." Here, he trailed off, unable to continue perhaps because of emotion. I wasn't sure.

Buildings passed by, looking oddly ethereal. Golden bars of light reached past them almost horizontally now, casting long shadows across our path and onto the city as the Humvee's shadows flitted across uneven terrain beside us. Mel paid the scattered bodies no attention, but I stared in horrified fascination at the various death poses, some lying in dark stains of their own blood. How many people were dead, I
wondered, but forced my thoughts elsewhere. Thinking too much would just break down the damn I was so carefully holding up.

"You look like you've had better days," he finally said wryly.

"Can't think of a worse one," I muttered. Then, after a moment of recollection, "I had a normal life just this afternoon. I was eating a pizza..."

He smiled, but it carried no mirth; only sadness. "We all did, Jimmy. Goddammit, we all did."

"You seem to have expected all this, though," I ventured and reiterated, "I mean, you seem prepared."

He barked a laugh. "Prepared? No. Everyone has that fight-or-flight instinct, though. My group is just one of those who chose to take a stand instead of run. The only real difference between people like us is the amount of time it takes to make the decision. We--" he paused to gesture at himself, "--just made that decision quicker than most." He glanced at my leg. "Though not all. How does it feel?"

"Like hell on fire," I grumbled.

The Humvee jostled almost painlessly over a curb and pulled to a stop in the middle of a square, empty but for the dead bodies strewn about one side. The rest of the pavement had already been cleared, the bodies piled several feet high in one corner. A group of men in orange construction vests worked with the remainder.

"We're claiming this part of the city," Mel explained. "Judging by your leg wound and a few radio transmissions, we're not the only group of survivors." His face darkened. "Seems not every one of us shares the same sentiment, though." He continued in a lighter tone. "But, those are only rumours. Nothing to propogate just yet."

I nodded, but my mind was begin to cloud over with pain.

Mel noticed. "I can send for someone to take you inside. I'll wait out here until my men come back with your friend, though. I'm still not confident of everyone's abilities around here."

"But she'll be safe, right?" Sue me, but we'd been through quite a lot together in the last few hours.

"She's in as good a group of hands as I can manage right now, I can assure you. Who knows? In a couple months, the rescue teams I send out could consist of these same men. I'm holding bets until I can see my cards is all."

I nodded. "I'll wait with you if that's alright."

He grinned. "That's what I hoped." He reached into his coat with a creak of leather and produced a paper bag. "Normally, I don't encourage drinking to ease pain, but given what's happened today, I think this is a damn good time for a stiff drink." The paper bag pulled away to reveal a bottle of whiskey. "Hope you're not a germ freak." The cork squeaked free of the bottle and he sloshed back a sizable amount, then offered me the bottle.

I took it with less enthusiasm. Not that drinking myself out of my own mind was unappealing; I just felt that the time wasn't right. Something was nagging at me. I turned to Mel. "Who was that in the car down there?"

He scanned the square. "Down where?"

"The hillside. The person Lynette was helping. Who was that?"

He shrugged carelessly. "Fucked if I know. Probably just another casualty. Why?"

Now it was my turn to shrug. "Not sure..." I tried to brush away the nagging, but returned to it a moment later. After all, had there been someone alive in that car, wouldn't they have freed themselves somehow? And if not, what about the undead? I had yet to see how quickly they responded to fresh meat, but it seemed like a long time to leave it untouched. "She'll be back soon, right?"

"Should be back already," he enthused. "Nothing to worry about. Have a drink."

What was he hiding from? I took a small swallow and let the drink burn down my throat, warming my stomach. "The sun's setting."

He took the bottle back from me. "Give it another fifteen minutes. If they're not back by then, we'll go looking."

I nodded uneasily. The pain in my thigh had plateaued now, though it still hurt like hell. Spots were starting to dance at the edge of my vision and my limbs felt weak.

"You okay?" Mel asked, voice twinged with concern. I nodded weakly, but nausea was starting to twist my gut into pretzel shapes. The bottle sloshed back into my view. "It'll help dull the pain at least." Now he was just pitying me.

I waved it away. "Frankly, Mel, now is not the time. But I think I need to get to a doctor. I must have lost more blood than I thought." I fumbled with the door handle. My fingertips felt kind of numb. Things were starting to get a little blurry and my movement was sluggish. "Shit..."

And then I lost all motor function and fell against the dashboard while my eyes closed of their own accord. Sleep swept over me gently and I let it carry me away.

A Fuse Ill Lit

I woke up under white sheets in a white room with a woman dressed in white bending over me. She wore a white mask. I felt no pain. On the contrary, I felt right as rain. I giggled.

"He's awake."

Another masked face appeared beside the first. I could tell this one was a man because he had no breasts and his eyes were more manly somehow. "Sure took him awhile," he muttered, gruff voice confirming my perception.

"Doc..." my voice came out slurred, which struck me as funny, and I continued amid stifled laughter, "some things just can't be rushed, like steak. If you're gonna cook a steak, you have to cook it right. And I, sir, am no steak." My composure dissolved into fits of laughter that only intensified when he glanced at the woman, rolled his eyes and muttered an irritated oath before vanishing from my sight.

"Shh," said the woman. "You need your rest. You lost a lot of blood."

"Blood," I deadpanned when I could compose myself. "It's in you to give."

She shook her head, but I could see the smile in her eyes. "Just lie back. I'll be back to check on you later." She left.

That left me all by mysel in a room I saw as I twisted to take in my surroundings. I didn't know where they had found a room so white, but it was no hospital room. I could tell by the lack of medical equipment. "They are ill equpiped," I informed myself morosely. "Well, better that than illy quipped." I snorted a laugh.

Somebody knocked on the door and stepped inside a second later. It was Lynette.

"Lynnie!" I cried. "It's so good to see you again!"

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder hesitantly. Then she seemed to draw herself up resignedly and approached my side. "They told me you passed out in the truck, waiting for me."

"Lying in wait."

"Yeah. Well, thank you. You really should have been here instead, you know."

"I was just in the right time at the right place, baby."

She rolled her eyes. "How high did they make you, Jimmy?!" But she was smiling. "They did manage to confirm that you are immune to the virus, for which we can be grateful, I guess. Apparently, open wounds are much more vulnerable than the lungs."

"Always wear a condom," I snickered.

She stood. "Well, with that, I have to go. Mel said he'd be by to see you later." And then she, too, was gone. I lay there in the quiet muttering to myself every now and then. Maybe being drugged up wasn't such a good thing. But then I thought about how it must seem to everyone else and I giggled again. It was worth it.

Zombies - How To Kill Stuff and Annihilate Zombies

I was curled in a fetal of agony on the floor of a Humvee that loomed vertiginously off the ground, watching blood spurt from between fingers clenched in a death grip around my thigh. The shooting had stopped courteously, though something told me it had nothing to do with the intention of any kind of apology. They owed me a hell of a good one, though.

A clatter. Then, Lynette was leaping over the back of the driver's seat and stomping on the gas. The truck roared into action, churning its tires into black swaths of rubber on the asphalt with a hula motion and rocketing down the street like a Humvee being driven by a damsel in distress. With her knight in shining armour curled in agony on the floor beside her. I could almost taste the poetry.

The engine screamed. My blood spurted. Reinvigorated gunfire faded into the distance.

Then, without warning, we lurched to a halt, the truck's door opened and closed, then somebody was shooting again. I counted, twelve rounds, then a pause. Then twelve more shots, after which silence dominated. A fan ticked under the hood. Something howled.

Another shot.

More silence filled with ticking, but no more howling.

The door opened again and Lynette clambered inside with a paper bag in hand. Quickly, she dumped out the contents with a clink. Everything seemed to strangely quiet. There should be music playing or something. My blood was still forcing its way between my fingers. The pain in my thigh seemed to have spread to the rest of my body so that even my toes throbbed as they grew numb.

To grant Lynette a bit of charity, I did hear her pull the cork from the bottle, although I was too delirious to put two and two together even when she ordered me to remove my hands from the wound. But I caught on like flies to a dung heap when she tipped the bottle and set free a gout of amber-coloured liquid directly onto my profusely bleeding leg.

I don't faint often. And I find it ironic that alcohol was what did me in, but maybe the blood loss factored in there somewhere, as well. Whatever the case, I woke up a few minutes later to find my pant leg cut off and my thigh wrapped in clean white gauze. It throbbed with pain, but only slightly as if muffled somehow. I blinked and shook my head to clear it of the cottonballs that stuffed it.

"Oh thank God," Lynette breathed. "Here, drink some of this." She handed me a water bottle, which I took and sipped at obediently. After a moment, she spoke again. "I was worried you'd lost too much blood. How is the pain?"

We were still in the truck. I sat in the passenger seat now, reclined back as far as it would go, and Lynette sat, shoulders slumped, behind the steering wheel. The woman looked exhausted. Deep shadows rimmed her eyes and her hair was a mess. I nodded thankfully. "Better."

She seemed to take this in with some amount of satisfaction. "I injected you with morphine while you were asleep. It should keep the pain at a manageable level for a while. The bullet just missed your femur, for which you should be glad, but it hit an artery. I've stitched you up as well as I can out here. I'm not sure when we can get you proper medical treatment, though."

She watched me ponder all this for a moment. Then, answered the question before I could ask it. "I'm a nurse." She fidgeted for a bit before coming to some silent conclusion. We admitted the first infected case last night. It only took a couple hours before the hospital was overrun. I...don't know what happened to everyone. I just left." She finished her confession with her head bowed, in shame I guessed. And who could blame her, on both counts? Her duties as a nurse would be to keep people healthy and ensure that no condition grew worse on her watch, so watching a sterile hospital environment deteriorate into a chaotic, brain-munching orgy, not to mention fleeing the scene in a desperate attempt to save her own life, would be the ultimate self betrayal. But to her credit, here she was, alive.

I started to speak, to try and comfort her somehow but shut my mouth and sat mutedly. Some wounds have to be dealt with in silence, or risk being aggravated with insensitivity. I pushed myself into a sitting position as carefully as I could and took in our surroundings. The Humvee was parked in a rarely used lot somewhere along the river. Autumn leaves blanketed the pitted asphalt and lush, green grass that surrounded it. We sat facing the river which glided past several hundred feet below at the bottom of a gentle slope that arced away from us until it plunged almost clifflike into the gray-brown depths. A single ribbon of road lined by black lampposts cut through the hillside ahead and below us.

Lynette gasped, catching and drawing my attention a bit further down the roadway below us where a troupe of zombies ambled nonchalantly in the direction of an overturned car halfway up the slope. I squinted, straining for a clearer view. Sure enough, an arm hung limply through a broken window in the crumpled fuselage. The zombies drew closer.

What if whoever was in that car was still alive? I frowned and watched for movement but saw none. Still, the zombies were advancing. I had to make a decision.

"Fuck me," I grumbled as I loaded my shotgun, then my handgun.

"Jimmy?"

I glanced at her with a blank expression on my face. "Whoever's in that car may still be alive," I explained simply. "I will go save them."

She blinked. "Your, um, leg?" But I was already opening my door and hurling myself onto the pavement.

It didn't hurt, but my leg felt funny. Like it wouldn't hold me up or something. It carried me as far as the grass before I sprawled facedown, again without pain. There was just a dull sort of numbness that spread through my body when I landed. Another door slammed behind me and Lynette was helping me to my feet, leading me back to the Humvee where I could lean against it. I shook my head to clear it as she snatched the shotgun from my hands and replaced it with an assault rifle.

"It's loaded," she snapped brusquely and slapped a few extra magazines onto the hood of the truck. "Just don't blow my head off." With that, she was tacking down the hillside, shotgun at her hip. I noticed how she gave the zombies a wide berth before closing in on them and opening fire, allowing both for me to get a clear shot and for the shooting to come from more than one direction.

It was a passing thought, though. I sighted through the small scope on top of the rifle and pulled the trigger. My first few shots went wide, but I soon got the hang of holding the crosshairs on my target until the bullet was fired. The group started out with eight leering undead, two of which I dropped before Lynette got within mulching range with her shotgun and began cutting the things down like a madwoman. I was only able to drop one more, this one right through the skull. It rained brain matter back onto the grass as it flopped onto its back reluctantly.

I watched as Lynette approached the wrecked car tentatively. She held her gun ready to fire, but seemed to lower her guard as she neared the wreckage. Then, with a cry, she hurried forward and knelt in its shadow, working hurriedly at something I couldn't see.

I was so focused on her, in fact, that I didn't notice the newcomers until a group of men was hurrying past me, presumably to assist her. One of them stayed back to lounge against the truck with me.

Strangely, he seemed almost as if he'd expected the zombies. That, or he just knew how to adapt really quickly. The newcomer was taller than me by a few inches and adorned in heavy jeans stuffed into big, black boots. He wore a simple black t-shirt with the words 'Anarchy or Bust' in white flanked by a thick, leather duster. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail over a smooth face with a pointed nose, accented only by a day of stubble. He held out a hand in greeting.

"Mel Henson," he spoke in a rich, deep voice. "You look like a natural."

I tucked the assault rifle under my other arm to take his hand. "Thanks. Jimmy." I don't give out my full name unless I absolutely have to. Mel nodded and returned his gaze to where the men were helping wrestle someone out of the car. I opened my mouth, hesitated, then asked the question. "How bad is it?"

He grimaced. "It's a clusterfuck. We're not sure how it hit, or why, but the whole city is cut off. There's no way of knowing of anyone else in the country--or world--has been hit." His expression darkened. "We do know that we've been quarantined, though."

"Quarantined?"

He grimaced again, apparently displeased by the thought of it. "They've blocked all the major roads. The smaller ones might offer some kind of escape, but you can only go so far before you run out of gas."

"I'm sure there's a way to get to at least one," I insisted. "We're not in the middle of nowhere."

He shrugged and reached into his pocket for a cigarette with a creak of leather. "Like I said, there's no telling how far this has spread." He lit it with a flick of a lighter and puffed once. "I'd rather take my chances where I know I've got supplies. Wouldn't you?" He drew deep and exhaled a stream of smoke.

I had nothing to say to that. If it was true, if a virus had really caused all this and had spread to the countryside, then we were truly better equipped to stay in the city. For the time being, at least. The pain in my leg was returning so I hauled myself onto the hood with a grunt and sat there, resigned for the time being to watch the work further down the hill in the light of a setting sun. Though, I did glance over my shoulder time and again to check for more undead. They gave me the willies.

"You need a doctor," Mel noted.

I nodded, but said nothing.

He finished his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground, then drew himself up with that same creak of leather. "We should go, then. My men will take care of your friend and whoever's in the car. Can you walk?"

I shrugged. "Last time I tried, I nearly broke my nose."

He grunted in reply "We'll take your truck then. I look forward to finding out how you got one of these."

I forced a crooked smile. "Long story." I hobbled around to the passenger side and got in clumsily. My thigh was starting to throb with surprising vigour. I case one last glance at Mel as he started the truck. I had no reason to trust him, but nothing had presented itself to the contrary, and I had a feeling we both needed the companionship. After all, a disaster like this would no doubt bring people together, probably solve a lot of differences in light of higher necessity. I could at least be thankful for that.

Zombies - What The Cat Dragged In

This one's shorter than most. I figured I'd end it here, though, since it seemed appropriate. Watch for more next week.

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Zombies - What The Cat Dragged In

We drove. The river dragged its way through the city in a meandering, whimsical path that only allowed for bridges at the least opportune places. After about half an hour of U-turns and confusing, hilly streets, we found one that hadn't been completely destroyed. The sign, now hanging askew, claimed it was the High Level Bridge. It was named appropriately enough, a shaft of I-beams that spanned the area between two hills on either side of the river. At almost exactly halfway across, the pavement smoked at the edges of a crater, allowing just enough room for us to squeeze past. Below, the murky water crawled.

"What happened here?" Lynette's first words since the battle site.

"Damned if I know," I said blandly. I didn't want to know. Something had exploded and now the bridge was half gone! What was left to wonder?

"I don't see any bodies," she kept peering at the rearview mirror, watching the crater retreat.

There, I conceded, she had a point. I could still taste a bit of the vomit from the last time I'd seen bodies, though. The smell of it would linger in my nostrils for hours, too. The fewer bodies, the better.

"Might have just been an accident..." Now she was just musing, talking to keep the silence at bay. I gritted my teeth and focused on driving. There had been enough dying for one day--hell, for a lifetime!--and I'd be happy to blame it all on the undead. At least I could take my anger out on them. Later.

The bridge came to an end, the sky sprung into view again--sunny with a patch of clouds--and we crested a small rise in the road. Apartment buildings rose on the left side of the street here, and a few other roads converged in an awkward intersection I paid no heed to. The lack of traffic was creeping me out.

Ahead, the condos gave way to body shops, restaurants, furniture stores and whatever else mankind had seen fit to make money with. After the towering skyscrapers of downtown, I was thankful for a break in oppressive scenery. It's easier to see an enemy when you have a line of sight on it.

Lynette twisted in her seat to look at me. "Did it look to you like they tried to blow up this bridge, too? Dawson was no accident."

I thought back to where we had made our brief acquaintance with the mercenaries. It sure hadn't looked like a battle scene. Maybe they were trying to contain the undead to one side of the river. I wondered how long that would hold out.

"We're lucky we got across!" Now she was indignant. "Those bastards almost got us--hey!" She pointed at a figure disappearing behind a building. I squinted and slowed the truck.

"Looked alive..." I muttered. And it had. None of this reanimated dead person lurching business. That had been a kid seeing us and running, possibly to go find an adult. I pulled the vehicle to a halt.

"We're stopping? It might be nothing."

I held up a hand distractedly. "He's going to get someone. Watch."

The kid never came back, but the message had been delivered. A group of men, all of them armed with scowls and weapons, emerged from the alleyway. Then, they took aim and opened fire on us. Wildly, I thought about taking cover and shooting back, but I was too busy cowering and trying to find a place in the vehicle where their bullets couldn't get to me. Lynette had somehow wriggled into the back between the gun case and the wall, which left me the entire front of the truck where there was no cover. Glass exploded all over my back. More bullets pounded into the fuselage.

And then I was shot. My gaze was just passing by my leg and I saw the blood erupt from a mini crater in my thigh. I felt wind on my forehead and then I was screaming, rolling into the space between the seats and the dashboard. Nothing existed but pain and safety glass.

Zombies - High and Lonesome

A third entry into what I'm building into an ebook. I hope you enjoy, and leave comments. I am, it seems, susceptible to critique. And I'd love to hear what you think in whatever case.

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Gunfire erupted in a muffled clatter that came from up ahead. The convoy sprung into action, vehicles spreading into battle formation; tires squealed as trucks maneuvered into position and slid to a halt, spilling their payload of soldiers onto the ground in a chorus of booted feet on asphalt. More gunfire joined the ruckus as the men took up tactical positions wherever they could find cover.

"We have to help them!" I exclaimed urgently, fueled more by a need to do something--anything--other than sit still while the undead swarmed us from God knows where. Hastily, I fumbled for my seatbelt, fingers slipping on the catch in their hurry. A hand on my arm stopped me.

"Wait." Lynette's face mirrored her tone of perfectly calm determination. "Let's see how this plays out."

I met her gaze for a moment longer before panning to watch the still mostly motionless backs of the mercenaries ahead. They seemed to be handling things. My gut still clenched with anxiety though. "We could help," I offered.

She shook her head. "We'll just get ourselves killed. We wait."

I bristled at taking orders from her, but shoved the emotions aside. I had dealt with power complexes before and fighting it was not the wisest way to go. She had a point, anyway. I wasn't bad with a gun, but I was no trained merc. I settled back a little, easing both her tension and mine.

The radio screamed to life. "Jim! Get your ass out here! Bring the woman!"

I picked up the radio and paused to lick my lips before thumbing the comm. "What's that, Sarge?"

"That's General to you, soldier! Get in line!"

"Sorry, sir, you're breaking up. Can't hear ya." I redocked the handset.

"Goddammit, private, you are under my command, you hear me?" The radio feed broke up a little, then returned in a panicked scream that was much more animal than it was, well, words. It drew itself out into a thinned warble and gurgled from life.

I glanced up at the wall of trucks again. Most of the men had disappeared around the other side, followed closely by the rest. A grenade went off somewhere, throwing a sluice of shrapnel straight through the canvas of a transport. Wind tore at the wounded truck, and for some reason it felt eerie. The gunfire died down to an infrequent sputter. Somebody screamed.

My first thought was to glance at Lynette again to see what she thought about the situation, but she was already checking her gun as best as she knew how and working the latch to the door. I followed suit, grabbing my shotgun, a belt of ammunition and the closest handgun, which turned out to be something made of polymer. I fumbled for a few mags before tumbling from the vehicle in a sprawling heap. I staggered to my feet and collected my things sheepishly.

"Forgot it was so high," I muttered at Lynette's haughty look. She turned wordlessly and made for the barricade in an awkward crouch. I followed more smoothly. I, unlike her, was used to holding a gun. I'd even gone hunting a couple of times. Though, I made it a habit to hunt things that hadn't died already. Fewer complications that way.

Unwilling to go first, we both stepped out from behind cover at the same time. One of my knees gave out, then, and I settled into a sort of half crouch as the world swayed weirdly and a buzzing sound filled my ears. My stomach was doing flips somewhere, twisting and wrenching to get that pizza out. I swallowed heavily to keep it down and lowered my head to block out the sight but got a nice closeup of a pool of blood with little pieces in it.

"Oh shit," I groaned and vomited. I wiped my mouth and forced myself to stand up.

"You okay?" She actually sounded concerned.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Fine."

Bodies sprawled everywhere, most of them dead for the second time. Decayed, mutilated zombie bodies lay in every conceivable position, plus a couple extra, joined here and there by a mercenary, usually with a zombie or two attached to a limb or neck. The carnage stretched before us until the crest of the hill, and beneath it all spread a huge crimson stain. Zombie and human blood mixed into one gigantic stain. I thought hard about how the food still in my stomach wanted nothing better than to stay there.

Somebody moaned. I whirled.

Lynette pinpointed it first. "That came from inside that truck." I followed her.

I recognized the vehicle from its torn canvas, but it lost all form of familiarity when a pair of bloodied hands dove at me, followed by a body that was definitely missing a rib or two, as made evident by a lack of substance in the spleen area. I backpedaled as the undead met the apex of its flight just short of me and careened teethfirst into the asphalt. Before I knew it, I had dropped my handgun to the back of its skull and pulled the trigger. Twice. Crimson pounded into the ground, courtesy of a pair of .45 ACPs.

"Oh dear God," Lynette gasped. "That...you--oh shit! You killed that thing."

I straightened and glanced at her. "It was already dead."

She swallowed. "Right. Yeah, already dead..." She brought her knuckles to her lips, shaking.

Now it was my turn. "You alright?" She didn't respond. Uh, damn? I wasn't good with women. I moved to put a hand on her shoulder. "Come on, we need to get back to the truck.

She nodded without a word and followed me. I even held the door for her and helped her climb in. The Humvee really was way too high off the ground.

I pulled the Humvee around the barricade and drove, cringing, over the wreckage that marked the first fight of what I forebodingly felt would be many. My entire world had just fallen apart and the only thing I was still sure of was that we absolutely had to get out of the city as soon as was possible. Maybe it could still be safe elsewhere.

The Problem With Gun Control

This past Friday, an unsuspecting man was slammed against a wall at gunpoint and had his belongings searched for what was supposed to be a firearm. 29-year-old Jeremy Bell was reported to have been sitting at his desk behind a closed door in downtown Toronto's teehan+lax, a user-experience design firm, with a handgun earlier that day, as reported to the police by a keen-eyed neighbour in a nearby building. What the report neglected to indicate, most likely by fault of the whistle-blower, was that the gun was made of Lego.

This is just sad. In a country where the possession of an easily disguised firearm is in almost all cases a felony, the handgun has become somewhat of a taboo item reserved for cops and Briggs drivers. And the sight of such a weapon in any place other than on the hip of a well-uniformed, straight-shouldered suit sets off the alarms quicker than a druggie with a butterfly knife.

We should be insulted. How stupid does a person have to become to criminalize the weapon instead of the weapon-wielder. Oh, the guy holding the toy Lego gun gets a mouthfull of drywall, sure, but for what? A failure to keep the deadly weapon stashed properly inside his jacket?

Now, it's understandable, possibly even acceptable, that a dignified human being, however paranoid, should be reluctant to accept his fellow man as the culprit and assign the blame, instead, purely to whichever object obviously caused the damage. But then, it's also understandable that the man who loses his wife, kids and job in a single day would drink himself into a stupor and drive into oncoming traffic. What we easily forget is that understandable does not mean tolerable, and that no system is smart enough to do our common sense-related thinking for us.

We have brains, people! Bringing a Lego gun-lookalike to show your friends is as much a crime as eating too much cake at the monthly work birthday party. Bringing a real gun to work to blow your coworkers' brains out, on the other hand, equates roughly to that of soiling the cake before anyone eats it. The difference, it can be hoped, is obviously that of intent. The end result may be similar--comparable, at least--there definitely was a gun at work, or there definitely was not enough cake for everybody, but the outcome, and the planning beforehand, were galaxies apart.

The point here is that our lazy thinking is putting us out of shape. We can as much fault a man for bringing a bunch of Lego to work as we can a video game for a teenager hanging himself. Although, it seems we've started doing that, too. Let's open our eyes and get with the program, shall we?

Rattown - Part 1 (or, Three's Company)

Every so often, I get so frustrated with my writing that I throw out whatever I'm working on and start something entirely new in a genre I either never touch or simply hate, and see what I can build from there. I like to believe this makes me a better writer; in truth, it might just make me look like I'm trying to be a better writer. Either way, somebody can learn from this, I'm sure. And for what it's worth, I hope you enjoy the next bit. I focused on dialogue more than anything because, let's face it, I could use some practice.

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Three's Company

In 1987, the Ratwater city council held its Christmas ball in the manorhouse of one George El Tuckett. The famously rich man had become so through a litany of daring and careless investments. He'd spent as much time as a defendant in court as he had the aggressor, although he never lost, either way. Something was off about the man, but he was, as mayor Rosswell put it, "so damned chivalrous, it doesn't matter." And he was quite right.

As the orchestra picked up a slow waltz and the men and woman on the dance floor began their graceful stepping to the tune, bathed from above in the warm glow of candlelight, refracted a hundred times over by the crystal chandeliers in which they nested. All around then, reflected perfectly by the polished wood floor, sat round tables draped in ebony silk covered in a grandose representation of food in the form of a platter tower where each course had its own tier. People sat around these tables, happily chatting and eating, heedless of the cold outside despite the majestic windows that fronted each end of the ballroom, flanked by gigantic conifers heavy laden with the snow that fell in near sheets.

Along a far wall beneath one of the windows there was a bar that ran from one wall to the next in a giant, swathing curve. Behind it, dressed in brilliant white livery were six bartenders ready at beck and call. Seated at this bar sat a man and a woman, he in a three-piece suit that looked as if it had been cut and tailored that very day and she in a gown of deep indigo cut to show a flattering amount of cleavage without insulting her dignity. White lace cloaked her arms from fingertip to mid-upper arm where bronzed skin showed up to the shoulder. She wore her auburn hair loose in waves that spilled halfway down her partially naked back.

"Tell me, Richard," she sang, "what brings you here? I thought you were specifically banned from this event."

"Yes," he conceded with a dip of his head. "Yet here I am, drawn inevitably by your beauty and this," he indicated the room with an all-encompassing gesture, "event."

He spoke the truth. She was indeed beautiful. Hazel eyes sparkled beneath heavy lashes in a face that was both exotic and homely. Her lips, wide apart in laughter, shone ruby and her fair skin was soft in the careful light. She brought a drink to her lips with dignity and returned the glass, wide bowl on narrow stem, to the glistening marble bartop.

"Besides," continued Richard. "What was I to do two nights shy of Christmas Eve without you to tease with my ever irritating presence?" He, too, lifted a glass to his lips with a clink of scotch-drowned ice against crystal and replaced it beside her cocktail with a grimace of satisfaction. "I am, however, surprised to not see your boyfriend here, Mizz Tuckett."

"Oh, Richard, he's not my boyfriend! You know that." She took another sip, face stark with affront. "And don't call me that. My name is Olyvia."

"Well, Olyvia," he ventured. "God knows the man would like to be. Thinks he is, even, I dare say." Another sip of scotch.

"That's ridiculous." But she clearly didn't think so. Her cheeks burned a complimentary rose and her gaze dropped to the black marble.

"You don't like him, do you?"

"Richard!"

Quickly, he backpedaled. "I'm sorry! I just don't trust him is all."

"He can be very nice when he likes to."

"Which is never. For God's sake, Olyvia, end it with him. There are plenty of men who'd die to shake your hand." This was true, and it made her blush all over again, but she didn't reply.

At last she spoke, eyes still averted. "There was never anything to begin with, Richard. He simply wants to believe there was."

This was accepted in silence but for the rattling of ice. The band began to play some fast-paced rendition of another Christmas carol much to the delight of various couples around them who quickly vanished to the dance floor. Richard turned to watch but a shadow soon passed over his face and he spoke.

"Ah. There he is."

Sure enough, Olyvia's unwelcome, overprotective companion was now striding toward them, heedless of those dancing around him. He looked to have come inside recently and had yet to remove his coat. He stopped before them, the smell of crisp leather and cold snow wafting from him slightly. His eyebrows were knit together in a fierce scowl outdone only by the tightness of his fists at his sides.

"Olyvia."

"Will."

"Who's this?"

"Oh, this is Richard." A beaming smile.

"Hi."

"Richard."

"Bill."

"That's Will to you."

"Will." Then, "Have a drink, Will."

"No, thanks, we're just leaving."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "You're here with somebody?"

"Come, Olyvia."

"She's not yours to beck, Will."

"She sure is. Aren't you, Olyvia?"

"Well, I..."

"Yes, I know you are. See?"

"Actually, I'm afraid I don't, Will. 'Fraid I don't at all."

Will fidgeted, obviously not expecting any resistance. "Well, who the hell are you then?"

The eyebrow raised again. "It's not nice to swear in front of the lady, Will."

"C'mon, Olyvia."

"Will, I--"

The first word came out in a bark, hastily replaced by a hushed tone after, "Just! Look, let's just go, back to my place. Then we can talk all this over. I have a Christmas present for you, Olyv."

"She's not with you, Will."

"Stay out of this, you!"

"I'll stay out of whatever I damn well please--sorry, Olyvia--and the lady isn't here with you, so back off."

"What, she's with you?" Will scoffed.

"Ah, no, not as such, but--"

"Hah! See? C'mon, Olyv."

"And she's not a prize to be won, you chauvinistic--"

"I'd like to stay with Richard, Will."

His next words came out in a shout. "It didn't have to come to this!" And he reached within his long, leather jacket and withdrew a handgun which he levelled between the eyes of Richard. "Everybody get down on the floor!"