City of the Dead

CITY OF THE DEAD

BY

BRIAN KEENE

HIGH PRAISE FOR BRIAN KEENE AND THE RISING!

"[Brian Keene's] first novel, The Rising, is a postapocalyptic narrative that revels in its blunt and visceral descriptions of the undead."

-The New York Times Book Review

"[The Rising is] the most brilliant and scariest book ever written.

Brian Keene is the next Stephen King."

-The Horror Review

"The Rising is more terrifying than anything currently on the shelf or screen."

-Rue Morgue

"The Rising is chock-full of gore and violence...an apocalyptic epic." -Fangona

"The Rising by master wordsmith and storyteller Brian Keene is a gruesome and macabre tale of horrific madness sweeping across the civilized world."

-Midwest Book Review

"An apocalyptic epic packed with violence, gore, scares and moral dilemmas. Brian Keene has given zombies their next upgrade." ?, ^

-Cemetery Dance

"Hoping for a good night's sleep? Stay away from The Rising. It'll keep you awake, then fill your dreams with lurching, hungry corpses wanting to eat you." -Richard Laymon, author of Resurrection Dreams

"More power to Brian Keene. He reminds us that horror fiction can deal with fear, not just indulge it." -Ramsey Campbell, author of The Overnight ii MORE PRAISE FOR BRIAN KEENE AND THE RISING

"Quite simply, the first great horror novel of the new millennium!"

-Dark Fiuidity

"Brian Keene is one of the best new writers in the horror genre. Period."

-Edward Lee, author of Flesh Gothic

"With The Rising, Brian Keene has forever raised the bar for extreme horror; this novel is not only gloriously grotesque, it's also smart, literate, exceptionally written, and filled with fully-realized characters that readers can actually care about. It doesn't get much better than this."

-Gary A. Braunbeck, author of In Silent Graves

"With Keene at.the wheel, horror will never be the same" -Hellnotes

"Stephen King meets Brian Lumley. Keene will keep you turning the pages to the very end."

-Terror Tales

"Different, unique and cool-this one doesn't disappoint!"

-Domain of the Dead

"Definitely transcends your basic run-of-the-mill horror."

-The Haunted

"A must-read for fans of the living dead. Fresh, innovative and full of suspense!"

-AllThingsZombieCITY BEAD

Copyright ©2005 by Brian Keene

Special thanks to: Cassandra; Shane Staley; Don D'Auria; the Cabal; my fellow Necrophobiacs Mike, John and Brett; my overworked bodyguard Big Joe; Mark, Matt and Deena for once again being my eyes and ears; John, Shane and Chris of Drop of Water Productions; Greg Nicotero and Chad Savage (they know why); Ken Foree; Gary Klar; Reggie Bannister; Fiz, for the use of his lyrics; Alan Clark; Lisa, Ron and Kevin, winners of the fan club contest; Rich and Tim, who know what time it is; Jon Merz and Sean Terwilliger for their technical assistance; Ryan Harding for a really cool idea; and finally, to all the fans who read The Rising and wrote to me about how much the ending pissed them off... vi Other Leisure books by Brian Keene: THE RISING vii AUTHOR'S NOTE

Although New York City and New Jersey are real, I have taken fictional liberties with them. So if you live there, don't look for your house or your favorite coffee shop. You won't find it, and probably wouldn't want to know what lives there now. viii "What is best of all is beyond your reach forever; not to be born, not to be, to be nothing. But the second best for you-is quickly to die."

-Silenus

"During those days men will seek death, but will not find it; they will long to die, but death will elude them."

-Book of Revelation, Chapter 9, Verse 6

"I know that we will rise."

-Fiz, "Our Dream"

"And the city of nations fell... for the plague was exceedingly great."

-Book of Revelation, Chapter 16, Verse 19

ONE

Standing next to their battered Humvee, Jim, Martin, and Frankie stared into the distance. A cemetery stretched off to the horizon along both sides of New Jersey's Garden State Parkway, and the highway cut right through the graveyard's center. Thousands of tombstones thrust upward to the sky, surrounded by tenements and overgrown vacant lots. Tombs and crypts also dotted the landscape, but the sheer number of gravestones almost overwhelmed them.

Jim said, "I remember this place. It used to freak me out every time I drove up here to pick up Danny or drop him off. Creepy, isn't it?"

"It's something all right," Frankie gasped. "I've never seen so many tombstones in one place. It's fucking huge!"

The old preacher whispered something beneath his breath.

"What'd you say, Martin?"

He stared across the sea of marble and granite.

"I said that this is our world now. Surrounded on all sides by the dead."

Frankie nodded in agreement. "As far as the eye can see."

"How long after all these buildings crumble," Martin sighed, "will these tombstones remain standing? How long after we're gone will the dead remain?"

Martin shook his head sadly. They finished examining the Humvee for any damage suffered during their last battle with the dead, at a government research facility in Hellertown, Pennsylvania. It was an experiment at this facility that had led to the dead coming back to life in the first place. Jim and the others had been attacked outside the facility and barely escaped, and now they were back on their journey to save Jim's young son, Danny.

Satisfied that the Humvee hadn't suffered major damage, they continued on their way.

As the sun began to set, its last faint rays shone upon the sign in front of them.

BLOOMINGTON-NEXT EXIT

Jim began to hyperventilate.

"Take that exit."

Martin turned around, concerned.

"Are you okay, Jim? What is it?"

Jim clenched the seat, gasping for air. He felt nauseous!

His pulse pounded in his chest and his skin grew cold. "I'm scared," he whispered. "Martin, I'm just so scared. I don't know what's going to happen."

Frankie cruised down the exit ramp and flicked on the headlights. The tollbooths stood empty, and she breathed a sigh of relief. "Which way?"

Jim didn't answer, and they were unsure whether he'd even heard her. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he'd begun to tremble.

"Hey," Frankie shouted from the front seat, "you want to see your kid again? Snap the fuck out of it and get your shit together. Now which way?"

Jim opened his eyes. "Sorry, you're right. Go to the bottom of the ramp and make a left at the light. Go up three blocks and then make a right onto Chestnut. There's a big church and a video store on the corner."

Jim exhaled, long and deep, and began to move again. He sat the rifles aside and double-checked the pistol, shoving it back into the holster after he was satisfied. He pressed himself into the seat and waited, while his son's neighborhood flashed by outside.

A zombie wearing a tattered delivery uniform jumped out from behind a cluster of bushes. It clutched a baseball bat in its grimy hands.

"There's one." Martin rolled down the window enough to squeeze off a shot.

"No," Frankie said, stopping him. "Don't shoot at them unless they directly threaten us or look like they're following."

"But that one will tell others," he protested. "The last thing we need to do is attract more!"

"Which is exactly why you don't need to be shooting at it, preacher. By the time it tells its rotten little friends that the lunch wagon is here, we can grab his boy and get the fuck out. You start shooting and every zombie in this town is gonna know we're here and where to come find us!"

"You're right." Martin nodded, and rolled the window back up. "Good thinking."

An obese zombie waddled by, dressed in a kimono and pulling a child's red wagon behind her. Another one sat perched in the wagon, its lower half missing and few remaining entrails and yellow curds of fat spilling out around it. Both creatures grew agitated as they sped by, and the fat zombie loped along behind them, fists raised in anger.

Frankie slammed on the brake, slammed the Humvee into reverse, and backed up, crushing both the zombies and the wagon under the wheels. The vehicle rocked from the jolt.

She grinned at Martin. "Now wasn't that much quieter than a gunshot?"

The preacher shuddered. Jim barely noticed either of his companions. His pulse continued to race, but the nausea was gone, replaced with a hollow emptiness.

How many times had he driven down this same suburban street, either to pick Danny up or to take him home? Dozens, but never suspecting that one day he'd do so armed to the teeth and riding in a hijacked military vehicle with a preacher and an ex-hooker. He remembered the first time, right after his first complete summer with Danny. Danny started crying when Jim turned onto Chestnut, not wanting his father to leave. The big tears rolled down his little face when they pulled into the driveway, and were still flowing when Jim reluctantly drove away. He'd watched Danny through the rear-view mirror and waited until he was out of sight before he pulled over and broke down himself.

He thought of Danny's birth. The doctor placed him in his arms for the first time. He'd been so small and tiny, his pink skin still wet. His infant son crying then too, and when Jim cooed to him, Danny opened his eyes and smiled. The doctors and Tammy insisted it wasn't a smile, that babies couldn't smile; but deep down inside, Jim had known better.

He thought of the summers that he and his second wife, Carrie, spent with Danny. The three of them had played Uno, and Danny and Carrie caught him cheating,

hiding Draw Four cards under the table in his lap. They'd wrestled him to the floor, tickling him till he admitted the deception. Later, they sat on the couch together, eating popcorn and watching Godzilla and Mecha-Godzilla trash Tokyo.

The message that Danny had left on his cell phone a week ago echoed through his mind as they turned a corner.

"I'm on Chestnut," Frankie reported. "Now what?"

"I'm scared, Daddy. I know we shouldn't leave the attic, but Mommy's sick and I don't know how to make her better. I hear things outside the house. Sometimes they just go by and other times I think they're trying to get in. I think Rick is with them."

"Jim? JIM!"

Jim's voice was quiet and far away. "Past O'Rourke and Fischer, then make a left onto Platt Street. It's the last house on the left."

In his head, Danny was crying.

"Daddy, you promised to call me! I'm scared and I don't know what to do ..."

"Platt Street," Frankie announced and made the turn. She drove past the houses, each lined up in neat rows, each one identical to the next, save for the color of their shutters or the curtains hanging in the vacant windows. "We're here."

She put the Humvee in park and left the engine running.

"... and I love you more than Spider-Man and more than Pikachu and more than Michael Jordan and more than 'finity, Daddy. I love you more than infinity."

The phrase had haunted him over the last few days, resonating with double meaning. It had been a game he and Danny had shared, something to ease the pain of

long-distance phone calls from West Virginia to New Jersey. But one of the zombie's he'd faced during the trip had also used the phrase.

"We are many. Our number is greater than the stars. We are more than infinity."

Jim opened his eyes.

"More than infinity, Danny. Daddy loves you more than infinity."

He opened the door and Martin followed. Jim placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing the old man back into the seat.

"No," he said firmly, shaking his head, "you stay with Frankie. I need you to watch our backs out here. Make sure we've got a clear shot at escape. I'm going to leave the rifles here with you guys-just in case."

He paused, and still squeezing Martin's shoulder, raised his head and sniffed the breeze,

"This town is alive with the dead, Martin. Can you smell them?"

"I can," the preacher admitted, "but you'll need help. That buckshot wound in your shoulder ain't getting better. What if-"

"I appreciate everything you've done for me and Danny, but this is something I have to do alone."

"I'm afraid of what you might find."

"So am I. That's why I need to do this by myself. Okay?"

Martin was reluctant. "Okay. We'll wait here for both of you."

Frankie leaned over the seat and pulled one of the M-16s to the front.

She placed it between her legs and checked the rear-view mirror.

"Coast is clear," she said. "Better get going."

Jim nodded.

Martin sighed. "Good luck, Jim. We'll be right here."

"Thank you. Thank you both."

He took a deep breath, turned away, and crossed the street. His feet felt leaden, his hands numb. Gripping the pistol, he shook it off and clenched his jaw.

"More than infinity, Danny ..."

He broke into a run, his boots pounding on the sidewalk as he sprinted for the house. He turned into the yard, dashed onto the porch and drew the pistol from its holster. Hand trembling, he reached out and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.

Slowly, Jim turned it. Calling his son's name, he went inside the house.

They waited in the darkness.

Martin hadn't realized he was holding his breath until Jim vanished through the front door.

Frankie checked the street for movement again. "What now?"

"We wait," he told her. "We wait and we watch for them to come out."

The night air turned chilly, and it whistled through the hole in the ruined windshield. Frankie shivered. Jim had been right. There was something foul on the breeze.

"So how old is Danny, anyway?"

"Six," Martin answered. "He was-I mean is-a cute kid. Looks like Jim."

"You saw a picture?"

He nodded.

"How long you two been traveling together?"

"Since West Virginia. Jim got attacked outside my church. I saved him and then promised to help him find his son."

Frankie was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke again.

"Tell me something, preacher-man. Do you really think his son is alive in there?"

Martin watched the house. "I hope so, Frankie. I hope."

"Me too. I think that..." Her voice trailed off and she checked the street and surrounding yards again. Carefully, she hefted the rifle.

The stench was getting stronger.

"What is it?" Martin asked.

"Can't you smell them? They're coming."

Martin cracked his window and sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

"I reckon they know we're here, somewhere. They're hunting for us."

"What should we do?"

"Like I said, we wait. Not much else we can do. Just be ready."

They grew quiet again and watched the silent houses around them. Martin turned back to Danny's house. His jittery legs bounced up and down and he cracked his leathery knuckles in the dark. His arthritis was acting up and he doubted he'd find any medicine lying around for it soon.

"Stop fidgeting."

"Sorry."

Random Bible verses ran through his head and Martin focused on them so that he would not have to wonder what was going on inside the house.

Blessed are the peacemakers ... Jesus saves ... For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in Him, shall not perish, but have eternal life ... And on the third day, he arose from the dead ...

Martin glanced back at the house again, fighting the urge to get out of the Humvee and run toward it. He thought of the father and son who had saved them from cannibals in Virginia. The father had been mortally wounded and before he could turn into a zombie, the son shot him and then turned the gun on himself.

He gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in Him, shall not perish, but have eternal life ... And on the third day, he arose from the dead ...

... His only begotten son ... he arose from the dead ...

. . . His only son ... arose from the dead ...

Martin froze.

"Frankie, I-"

A gunshot suddenly rang out, shattering the stillness. It was followed by a scream. Silence returned and then a second gunshot followed.

Both had come from inside the house.

"Frankie, that was Jim screaming!"

"Are you sure? It didn't sound human to me."

"It was him! I'm sure of it."

"What do we do now?"

"I don't know. I don't know!"

Martin's mind whirled.

He shot Danny and then himself! He got in there, and Danny was a zombie.

His only begotten son arose from the dead!

Frankie shook him.

"Fuck this shit! Come on, Reverend!"

They jumped out of the Humvee, weapons at the ready, as the first cries of the undead drifted to them on the night wind. The zombies appeared at the end of the street and the doors to the houses began to open at the same time. The undead poured forth.

Martin's voice cracked. "It-it was a trap. L-look at all of them ..."

"Shit."

Frankie raised the M-16, aimed and fired three shots in quick succession. One corpse dropped and five more took its place. With a horrendous cry, the zombies charged.

Martin turned back to the Humvee, but Frankie grabbed his arm.

"Move your ass, preacher-man!"

They ran toward the house, to see what had become of their friend. More gunshots echoed from inside as they approached.

Above them, the newly risen moon shined down upon the world, staring at a mirror image of its cold, dead self.

TWO

The house was silent.

"Danny?"

Jim crept forward, his heart still pounding in his chest. The floorboards creaked under his feet, and he held his breath. The living room was empty. Danny's movies were stacked neatly on a shelf, next to a row of video games. A thin layer of dust covered the coffee table and end tables. One of the sofa cushions had a crusty, reddish-brown stain in the middle and flies crawled over it.

"Danny! It's Daddy! Where are you?"

He walked into the kitchen and the smell hit him. Whatever was inside the garbage can was long since spoiled. Flies swarmed over its surface.

They crawled on the refrigerator, trying to get inside the airtight appliance as well. The incessant buzzing seemed loud in the silence. Jim gagged. Holding his hand over his nose and mouth, he backed out of the room and into the hallway.

He tilted his head from side to side and listened.

There was a sound above him, like something being dragged across the floor.

He went to the stairs.

"Danny? Are you there? Come on out, son! It's me!"

Only a week before (though it now seemed like a year), Jim had had a particularly vivid nightmare about this moment. In the dream, he'd reached the top of the stairs, and limped toward Danny's room. The bedroom door creaked open and his son stepped out to greet him. A zombie.

At that point, Jim had screamed himself awake.

He wouldn't be able to do that this time.

If ...

The top of the stairs lay hidden in shadows. The noise was not repeated.

Jim limped up each step, his second wind almost gone.

When they'd crossed the border between Pennsylvania and New Jersey, Frankie had asked him a question. Now the conversation ran through his mind.

"Have you thought about what you'll do if we get there and Danny's one of them?"

"I don't know."

But he did know.

If...

Pausing halfway up, Jim slid the magazine out of the pistol and checked his shots. Only a few left. But he had enough. Enough for Danny-and for himself.

If...

He continued upward, the stairs creaking with every step. The sound came again. A footstep? He stopped, listening. A hallway with four doors waited at the top of the stairs. Two of the doors led to the bedrooms; one belonged to Danny and the other Rick and Tammy. The third door led to the bathroom. The fourth led to the attic.

The sounds came from the attic. Unmistakable now,

they were the sounds of hesitant feet. Of someone trying to walk very carefully and quietly.

"Danny, it's your dad! Are you there?"

He reached the top and crept toward the attic door, passing by the bedrooms as he did. His breath hitched in his chest and the blood rushed in his ears. When he called out, his voice cracked.

"It's okay, Danny. You're safe. Everything's all right now. Everything is going to be fine."

The bathroom door burst open, and his dead ex-wife flung herself at him.

Tammy was a grisly sight. Her bathrobe hung open, stained with dried bodily juices. Decay bloomed, spreading across her rancid flesh. Most of her thick, dark hair was gone and the few clumps that remained were matted and greasy. A worm dangled from her gray cheek and another burrowed through her forearm. Brownish-yellow liquid ran from the corners of her eyes and mouth and dripped from the open sores on her body. Her right breast hung down to her belly button, revealing the rancid meat inside. It swayed with each step she took. Something squirmed inside the dark folds of her groin.

"Hello, Jim!"

The corpse's foul breath clung to him. Too close to shoot, Jim smashed her in the face with the pistol butt, shuddering in revulsion as rotted teeth fell out onto the carpet.

He took a step backward as the zombie staggered, swollen legs struggling to support her bulbous weight.

"I'm here for Danny."

"You're too late," the now toothless mouth slurred, "Danny's dead!"

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!"

"Danny's dead! Danny's dead!" She danced around

the hallway, arms flailing, and chanted in a singsong voice. "The whelp is dead! Your son is dead!"

"You're lying. Tell me where he is!"

"Poor Jim. Did you come all this way just to rescue your son? Too late!

His spirit is in torment, far beyond your reach. He burns in Hell like all your kind. His body has joined us, and now it's your turn! I will send your soul in search of his so that one of our brethren may flee the Void and inhabit you. There are so many of us waiting. So many. More than-"

Jim raised the pistol, but the thing that had been his ex-wife was faster. She lunged at him, grabbing his forearm with both rotted hands.

Bony fingers pulled his arm toward the creature's mouth. The zombie's remaining teeth snapped together as he jerked away. Jim punched her in the face. The skin was cold and moist, and his fist sank through the surface of the thing's cheek. He pulled his dripping hand away with a wet, sucking sound.

Locked in a struggle, they grappled back and forth. The days-old gunshot wound in his shoulder burned. He felt blood leaking out around the amateur stitching. The zombie forced him back a step. She took another bite at his arm, narrowly missing. Jim slammed the creature against the wall once, twice, three times. Picture frames fell to the floor, shattering. Something inside Tammy popped, and black liquid erupted from her mouth and nose. The stench was overwhelming.

Freeing his arm, he swept the pistol around and fired, not bothering to aim. One ear disappeared, along with a portion of her scalp, but the zombie simply laughed. Jim's ears rang from the explosion. Tammy lumbered forward again.

"Did you know that she still loved you? Oh yes. I can see it in here."

The zombie tapped her forehead. "She planned on leaving Rick so that the three of you could be a family again. But then you got re-married."

Jim screamed. An all-consuming rage swept over him. The veins in his neck and arms throbbed, and his body shook in anger.

"Shut up, you god-damn bitch!"

This time, his aim was true. The bullet left a small hole just above Tammy's eyes. The back of her head splattered across the wallpaper. He fired again and again-and again. His finger kept squeezing till the gun clicked empty. He stood over her corpse, looking down, and the gun slipped from his numb fingers.

"I'm sorry, Tammy. I wish things had ended differently between us. You may have taken Danny from me, but you didn't deserve this."

The hesitant shuffling sound behind the attic door repeated itself.

Stepping over Tammy's remains, Jim started toward it.

"Danny?"

The door creaked open.

His son stepped out into the light.

"Danny!"

The tiny figure was silent, and then-

"Daddy? DADDY?"

"Danny! Oh my God ..."

The six-year old boy's hair had turned white. Not gray or silver, but snow white. There was a strict demarcation halfway down the length of his hair. Midpoint to the end was still brown, but the rest was white.

"Danny ..."

Danny ran to him and Jim hugged him tight, crushing his son against his chest. Both sobbed uncontrollably. The emotional weight crushed Jim-the disbelief that he'd actually found Danny alive, the overwhelming tidal wave of relieved shudders descending down his spine, and just the sheer feel of his son in his arms.

"Oh, Danny. I can't believe it."

"Daddy, I thought you were dead. I thought you were like Mommy and Rick and-"

"It's okay, son. It's okay now. Daddy's here now, and I'm never leaving you again. It's okay. I promise it's okay. You're safe now. That's all that matters. Shhh."

There were black circles under Danny's eyes, and he'd lost a lot of weight. Jim felt his son's ribs sticking through the thin Spider-Man pajama shirt. He ran his hand through the boy's white hair. What had happened to him?

What happened to my son? What the hell happened here?

Danny pulled away. "Daddy! You're hurt!"

"It's okay. It's not my blood. It's ..."

Danny looked down at his mother's corpse and then buried his face in Jim's chest. He shuddered.

"You-you shot Mommy?"

"S-she wasn't your mother anymore, Danny. You know that, right?"

"Daddy, I was so scared. The monster-people came, and Mommy and I hid in the attic. Mommy got sick and then Rick came and I hurt him-I hurt him bad with his bowling ball so he wouldn't get Mommy, but Mommy never woke up, and when she did, she was one of the monster-people too, so I locked myself in the attic again and I blocked the door just like on TV, and Mommy kept trying to get in and-Daddy, WHERE WERE YOU? You said you'd always protect me, but you lied! You lied to me, Daddy!"

Jim squeezed him tighter. After a moment, he wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"I was on my way, Danny. I left as soon as I got your message. I ran into some very bad people, and I got delayed. But that was a very smart thing you did, calling my cell phone. You were very brave, and I'm proud of you."

"Mommy said you wouldn't come. She said you didn't love me."

The familiar old anger surged through him, and for one brief second, he didn't regret shooting her reanimated corpse.

"When, Danny? When did she say that?"

"After she woke up again. When she was trying to get into the attic."

"Well, she was wrong. That wasn't your mother talking. And now that I'm here, nothing is going to ever hurt you again. I'll die first. Some friends of mine are waiting outside. But we've got to hurry, okay?"

Danny's cheeks were wet and puffy.

"I love you, Daddy. I love you more than 'finity."

Fresh tears rolled down Jim's face.

"Me too, buddy. I love you more than infinity, too. You don't know how long I've been waiting to tell you that again."

The door crashed open downstairs. Danny jerked in his arms. Jumping to his feet, Jim pushed his son behind him and reached for the pistol, still lying on the floor where he'd dropped it. Too late, he remembered that he was out of bullets.

"Get behind me, Danny."

A voice called out from below, "Jim?"

"Martin?"

"I'm here, Jim! Where are you?"

"Upstairs."

Then Frankie's voice, "Move it, old-timer! They're coming."

The door slammed shut with a bang.

Danny cowered behind him. Jim knelt down and looked him in the eyes.

"It's okay, Danny. These are the friends of mine that I mentioned. They helped me come find you. Let's go downstairs, and I'll introduce you to them. Okay?"

"Okay." Danny nodded.

They were halfway down the stairs when the zombies' cries reached Jim's ears. Frankie and Martin were dragging the couch toward the front door.

As Jim reached the landing and Danny stepped out from behind him, Martin froze, staring at the boy.

"Come on, Preacher! Help me move-" Frankie paused, then followed Martin's stare.

"Hi," Danny stared at his toes, his voice trembling. "I'm Danny."

Both the preacher and the ex-hooker gaped. Then, Martin's warm laughter filled the room. "Well, I guess you must be! You really do look just like your father. Hello there, Danny. I'm Mr. Martin. It's very nice to meet you."

Smiling broadly, he walked over to the stairs and shook Danny's hand.

Danny smiled back at him and then glanced at Frankie.

"Hi, kid. I'm Frankie."

"Frankie? That's not a girl's name."

"Well, I'm not a girl," Frankie countered with a wink. "I'm a woman."

"Oh."

Still beaming, Martin hugged Jim. "See? I told you this was God's will. He came through for you. He delivered your son."

"You think maybe God could deliver this fucking couch over to the door, too?" Frankie asked, trying to push the sofa. "Those things are gonna be here in a second."

"We've got company?" Jim fought to keep the alarm out of his voice. He didn't want to upset Danny further.

"Yeah, we've got company," Martin answered. "Lot's of it."

"The whole damn neighborhood is dropping by," Frankie muttered. "It's like an undead welcome wagon out there!"

Jim grabbed the other end of the sofa and helped Frankie position it against the door. His shoulder throbbed as he pushed. Outside, the shouts and cries increased. The stench of rotting flesh enveloped the house like a cloud, making them all gag.

"Little pigs, little pigs, let us come in!"

Danny shivered. "That's Tommy Padrone, the big kid from down the street. He walked around outside every night and hollered that over and over. I stuck my fingers in my ears, but I could still hear him. It was scary."

Jim frowned, wondering what other hells his son had faced while he was dealing with his own nightmarish journey.

"Martin, that thing got a fresh magazine?"

The preacher nodded.

"Good. Give it here."

Martin handed him the rifle. Its weight felt good in his hands.

"Take Danny upstairs. Go to the attic and close the door behind you."

"Daddy, I want to stay here with you!"

"I'll be up in a minute, squirt."

"You promise?" Danny sulked.

"I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Okay. Come on, Mr. Martin. I'll show you my baseball cards and stuff."

Jim waited until they'd disappeared up the stairs before turning to Frankie.

"So just how many are we dealing with here?"

"Like I said, the whole damn neighborhood. We didn't stick around to count heads. It's not good."

The clamor outside grew louder.

Jim shook his head in frustration. "Why didn't the two of you stay in the Humvee? You would have been safe. Now you've led them to us!"

"Well excuse the fuck out of me! We thought you were in trouble. Martin thought maybe you ..."

"Maybe I what?"

She shook her head. "Forget it. Okay? We've got more important things to worry about."

"I'm sorry. It's just-he's safe, you know? I can't believe he's safe.

And now I'm afraid it was all for nothing. I may have found my son only to watch us all die."

"Well then you'd better give me that M-16 to go along with mine, because I sure as shit intend to put up a fight."

Jim was quiet, appraising her. Then he smiled.

Fists, hammers and crowbars began to batter the door.

Frankie returned his smile.

"Let's do this shit."

Jim positioned himself at the bottom of the stairway. Frankie crouched down behind the recliner. The pounding on the door increased, rattling it in its frame. In the kitchen, a window shattered. Then another. The stench of decay wafted into the house, stronger now. They struggled to keep from retching.

"Remember-" Jim started.

"-Aim for the head," Frankie finished.

The door splintered, and a dozen arms forced themselves through the crack. The couch slid an inch, then two. Glass shattered in the kitchen, and then the living room window exploded. A zombie clambered through it, jagged shards ripping its flesh. Frankie raised her M-16, fired, and the zombie tottered to the floor minus most of its brain. Another one crawled through the opening behind it.

"Throw down your weapons, humans! We will make your deaths quick. You have our word."

"I got a better idea," Frankie shouted. "Why don't you all fuck off?"

"Bitch! We shall rip out your intestines and wear them as a necklace. We will feast on your hearts and livers. We will-"

"Here comes the boom, mother-fuckers!"

Frankie squeezed off another shot at the second zombie in the window. Its head disappeared from the nose up. Glass crunched under booted feet, alerting her to the creatures in the kitchen. Five of them started down the hall toward the living room. Behind them, she heard the kitchen door crash open.

"Shit!"

She turned and fired, choosing aimed, single shots rather than spraying in panic. Rounds tore through the zombies and also into the wall behind them.

At the same time, the sofa blocking the front door slid backward. The creatures swarmed into the house, only to drop under Jim's barrage. More took their place and fell on top of their comrades. Still more replaced them.

"Swarm them!" a zombie shrieked. "We can overrun them with our numbers."

"Better get upstairs!" Frankie shouted, squeezing off another three-round burst toward the kitchen. "They're coming in on all sides now."

"No way. I'm not leaving you here by yourself!"

"Bullshit! That's your son up there! You mean to tell me you came hundreds of miles just to die down here without him?"

Clenching his teeth, Jim aimed at the doorway and emptied his weapon.

The rifle grew hot in his hands. The zombies that weren't mowed down jumped back out the door, taking cover behind the hedge.

"Look," Frankie reasoned, "if you've gotta die-and it looks like we're going to-then die with your son, not down here with me."

Jim slammed another magazine into place and glanced at Frankie.

"God damn it. You're right."

"Well then go!"

He ran up the stairs. Crouching, Frankie laid down a burst of cover fire and then duck-walked from the recliner to the foot of the stairway, taking his place. She retreated a few steps upward as more zombies entered the house.

A bullet plowed into the recliner, littering the carpet with tufts of foam stuffing. Another tore through the stairway's wooden railing.

Outside, in the darkness, she saw a muzzle flash.

"Shit, they've got guns too."

She waited for the next shot, saw the flash before she heard it, and fired through the open doorway in the shooter's direction. The flash was not repeated.

"One down, eighty or so to go."

More zombies poured in through the kitchen.

Suddenly, she felt a pair of clammy hands upon her ankle, clawing at her through the banister. She screamed, jerking her foot away. The zombie's ragged nails scratched her skin.

"Come here, cow!" the zombie taunted.

She swung the M-16 and fired. The headless corpse toppled to the carpet.

Still shooting, Frankie retreated to the top of the stairs.

"Jim, if you've got a plan, now would be a good time to share it!"

The zombies started up the stairs after her.

"And these are my Yu-Gi-Oh cards." Danny held the shoebox proudly.

Martin was amazed that Danny was reacting so calmly. He himself felt like hiding in a closet and pissing in his pants. Still marveling at the boy's resilience, he picked up a bright green, heavily muscled action figure from the floor.

"Who's this mean-looking guy? Wait a minute; I know. He's the Hulk, right?"

Danny rolled his eyes. "No, he's Piccolo from DragonBall Z."

"Oh," Martin muttered, aware that he'd just gone down on Danny's cool-meter. "I knew that."

He glanced around the room, saddened at the signs of a young boy forced to hole up here for the last week. Dirty bedding, a rumpled pile of clothes, empty water bottles and cookie bags, and scattered toys.

Gunshots rang out below and they both jumped. It was followed in quick succession by several more single shots; then changed over to the roar of automatic fire.

Danny gave the door a worried glance. Martin tried to distract him.

"You know, Danny, your father really missed you."

"I missed him, too. I didn't think he would come. I didn't think I'd ever see him again."

"Oh, he came all right. And he didn't let anything stand in his way, either. Not a thing. Your daddy is one tough cookie. You wouldn't believe what we had to go through to get here."

"Monster people?"

"Yes. But it wasn't just them, Danny. There were other bad people too.

But your daddy never stopped. He was determined to find you."

More gunfire exploded downstairs. Martin clutched his pistol and tried to look calm.

"Mr. Martin, if you're my daddy's friend, and you helped him come find me, then how come I never met you when I went to his house in the summers?"

"Well, that's because I just met your father, after all this-well, after he left to come get you."

"Why?"

"Why?" Martin straightened his stiffening legs. The sounds of combat grew louder, and he had to raise his voice. "Well, because that's what God had planned for us. That's what God wanted me to do. Do you know about God, Danny?"

Danny nodded. "A little bit. Mommy and Rick didn't go to church. I know that he lives in Heaven, up in the sky. I thought that's where dead people went, but now I know better. When people die, they don't go to Heaven. They become monster-people."

Martin flinched, not sure how to respond. He picked up the action figure again.

"They still go to Heaven, if they know Jesus. Those

things out there-they aren't people, Danny. They're just shells-kind of like these toys. Like Piccirilli here."

"Piccolo." Danny corrected him.

"Sorry, Piccolo," Martin corrected himself, still trying to distract the boy. He walked over to the attic window and peered outside, trying to judge the distance to the house next door. It was too far to jump, he decided. Zombies swarmed below them, carrying a variety of weapons.

"Do you see anything?" Danny asked.

"Not really," Martin lied. "But I'm not afraid because the Lord is with us. He's always with us, Danny. Always. He lives inside your heart, and he sees everything that you do and knows everything you think. You might think that, with all of the bad things going on outside, He isn't there, but I can assure you that he is. He's always watching over you."

"Like Santa Claus?"

A frantic pounding on the door interrupted Martin's response. He crept down the attic stairs, pistol shaking in his arthritic hands.

"Wh-who is it?"

"It's Jim!"

He opened the door. Jim burst in and slammed it closed behind him.

"Daddy, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, buddy." He scooped Danny into his arms and gave him a hug.

But Martin heard the lie in his voice. Everything was far from fine. The sounds of gunfire, both Frankie's and their attackers, was constant now, as were the angry cries of the zombies.

"Where's Frankie?"

"Downstairs. We don't have much time."

"How many are there?"

"Too many."

"What are we going to do?

Jim shook his head. "I don't know, Martin. I don't know. What about that window over there?"

"I checked it already," the preacher answered. "It's too far to jump and the zombies are waiting at the bottom."

"Damn!" Jim slammed his fist into the wall. Danny flinched, staring at his father in concern.

Martin frowned. "We're trapped, aren't we?"

Jim didn't respond.

"Jim? Tell me now, man! Are we trapped?"

Slowly, Jim nodded.

From below, Frankie shouted, "Jim, if you've got a plan, now would be a good time to share it!"

THREE

Laughing, the demon lord Ob looked out through eyes that had once belonged to a scientist named Baker.

Undead carrion birds hovered above him like a dark cloud, blending in with the night sky. The rag-tag paramilitary group was decimated, beaten by Ob's superior forces. The remains of burned-out tank husks and other vehicles littered the blasted landscape. Wisps of curling, oily smoke still rose from a few, the former inhabitants smoldering inside them.

Inanimate zombies lay scattered across the ground, each one brought down by some form of head trauma. Dozens more thrashed in the mud; appendages severed, bodies cut in half, destroyed-but still moving. Hordes of the more mobile ones swarmed about the lawn, feasting on the fallen and wounded humans.

Not all the humans were being killed. Ob had ordered several dozen rounded up, stripped of their weapons, and herded inside the complex.

They would be questioned as to the location of other survivors and then used for food-livestock. It wasn't that his kind needed to eat-at least, not while in spiritual form. They had gotten rid of that flaw eons before. But still, like any other physical life form, they needed energy, and when they took over these empty human shells, that energy was drawn from food. Eating the living served three purposes. It was an affront upon Him, the Creator, the one who had banished them to the Void. It allowed them to convert the flesh to energy while in human form, even without a digestive system, since his kind processed food on a different level. And it served to dispatch the humans' souls, killing them and enabling more of his kind to take over the bodies.

He chuckled. Gnawing on a still screaming human was much more fun than shooting them. But in the end, all the captives-livestock and otherwise-would host one of his brethren.

The battle had been over for several hours now, and the sounds of combat had faded with the vanishing daylight, replaced only by the occasional scream from the living. The dead had inherited the earth, or at least this part of it. The rest would soon follow. If not today, then tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then soon. Unlike his kind, humans were not immortal. Eventually, they would die. That was all it took. Ob and his brothers had waited millennia to exact their revenge. If necessary, they could wait a little longer. It was less amusing that way, but it could be done.

He sighed, exhaling fetid breath from lungs that no longer served a purpose.

" 'And when Alexander looked out across his kingdom, he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer.' Or something like that."

The zombie nearest to him had taken the body of a plump housewife. Gasses swelled its horribly distended belly, and the abdomen was slick and shiny. Ob admired the putrescent beauty.

"Who was Alexander?" it rasped.

"He was a human. A warlord for his time-he conquered much of this planet. I met him once when his soul passed through the Void on its way to Hell. On the field of battle, he was a great warrior. Still, in the end, he was just meat. They all are. Nothing but meat. Cattle. Cattle that used to worship us until the One, the Creator, grew jealous and washed the Earth clean with the Deluge."

He approached a pair of captives, a woman and man taken during the assault on the government's research facility. The zombies had lashed them to lampposts in the parking lot. The woman struggled while the man simply stared. Fear had eradicated what remained of his mind. He'd soiled himself. As Ob watched, the man did it again, unaware.

"Speaking of meat..." He leaned over and sank his teeth into the man's quivering neck. He burrowed deep, then jerked his head back. Flesh, veins and thick cords of muscle ripped free. He chewed, relishing the violation.

Dying, the man made no sound. Not a scream or a whimper. Flopping on the pole, he continued to stare while his lifeblood gushed from the wound. The woman screamed for him, her shrieks echoing over the cries of the damned, both dead and living.

Ob swallowed, took another bite, and swallowed again. He moved away, allowing several other zombies to eat their share. All living creatures had an aura and already, this human's life-glow had faded, signaling the passage of his soul. Within minutes, another from the Void would inhabit the empty bag of skin and tissue.

Ob considered his new body; that of the scientist named Baker. The flesh was burned black, and his midsection was an empty cavity. The charred, gory hole was the result of a point-blank machine gun barrage. The flesh he'd just eaten fell out at his feet. The limbs were still in good shape, but even so, this body wouldn't last long. Ob had rather enjoyed toying with it.

Ob grinned. It was ironic that Baker's own hand had opened the portal to the Void, had broken down the barriers between the worlds so that the Siqqusim could inhabit this world.

He shuffled over to the woman. Brownish-blond hair. Full figure. Pretty, for a human, and her beauty was accentuated by her fear. Her life-glow was strong. It always gave them away-tagged them as among the living. Earlier, he'd seen a pair of humans cover themselves in blood and entrails, trying to blend in enough to mix among the zombies and escape, unaware that their soul's light gave them away.

He smiled at the still shrieking woman and placed his hand over her mouth. Eyes wide, she squirmed beneath him.

"Stop your mooing, cow!"

"May we eat her, too?" One of the zombies smacked its lips with greedy anticipation.

Ob considered the request.

"Not yet." He brought his face close as if to kiss her. She gagged beneath his palm.

"I am going to remove my hand, because I wish to talk with you. It amuses me to do so. However, if you continue to scream, if you insist on bellowing, I will allow my brethren to cut a hole in your belly, fish out one end of your intestines, and begin to eat you, slowly from the inside out. Would you enjoy that?"

She gave a muffled cry.

"Then silence." He removed his hand.

She gasped. Her eyes darted around. She opened her mouth and inhaled, breasts rising against her bonds. Before she could scream again, Ob held up one finger. The zombie next to him placed a knife against her stomach. She stopped, sagging against the pole.

"Very good. You are learning. Perhaps your kind can be taught tricks, like the canines and felines you domesticate. What is your name?"

"M-my what?"

"Your name? What are you called? Where are you from?"

"L-Lisa. My name is Lisa. I'm from Virginia ..." Tears streamed down her dirty face.

"Liiiissssaaaa." He rolled it in his mouth, savoring the word. "Do you know who I am, Lisa?"

"Yes. I-I think so. You're that scientist guy. One of the girls in the Meat Wagon told me about you. I-I saw you when we were moving out from Gettysburg."

Ob slapped her hard across the face. She yelped, but did not scream, still conscious of the knife at her belly.

"You are wrong, Lisa. I am wearing his body, but I am not the scientist. His name was Baker. My name is Ob. Ob the Obot. Do you know that name?"

Lisa coughed. A red welt in the shape of a hand covered her cheek.

"Do you know that name?"

"I-I don't-"

His fist smashed into her mouth. Drops of blood flew through the air and this time she did scream, could do nothing but scream. He struck her again. When he pulled his blackened hand away, one of her teeth was embedded in his knuckle.

"OB! DO YOU KNOW THAT NAME? OB! OB! OB!"

"N-no," she sobbed, "I don't know it! Please don't hit me again!"

Ob's shoulders slumped. He turned to the others.

"She does not know of me. Does not know of us. None of them have so far.

We are forgotten among them. We are rumors, legends. Nothing more than fairy tales. We are what they used to make their children stay in bed at night. To entertain themselves with in television and film and literature."

He turned back to her.

"We are the Siqqusim, which means 'abominations that speak from the head' in the Hebrew language. You thought us mere spirits of the dead, but we are much more than that. The Sumerians and the Assyrians knew our true origin. Demons, your kind called us. Djinn. Monsters. We are the source of your legends-the reason you still fear the dark in this age of light. We existed long before Michael and Lucifer chose sides with their 'angels.' They were nothing more than inferior versions of us. We were banished long ago, banished to the Void by Him, the cruel one; the one your kind worships still. He lost favor with us, for he loved you better, his final creations."

One of Baker's organs fell out of the empty stomach cavity, dangling by a thread of gristle. Absentmindedly, Ob tore it away, gave it to another zombie to eat and then continued.

"Have you any idea how long we languished there? You cannot fathom it. The Void is cold, so very cold. It is not Heaven, and it is not Hell. It exists between them and does not exist at all. We dwelled there, trapped for eons with our brothers, the Elilum and Teraphim. He

sent us there! Banished us to the icy wastes. We watched while you scurried like ants, multiplying and breeding, basking in His frigid love. We waited, for we are patient. We lurked on the threshold, ever observant, waiting for the time of the Oberim, what you call 'the Rising.' The Oberim is the crossing of the border between this world and the Void, and your scientists finally provided us with the ability to do so. Their experiment opened the door, broke down the dimensional barriers. Finally, we are free to walk this earth again, as we did long ago, before your kind. It is the ultimate offense to Him-as your kind dies, we replace you here. We reside in your brain. We are the worm that burrows through his creations, these bags of blood and tissue, this ball of water and dirt! And He can do nothing about it, for it was wrought with your own hands. Your bodies belong to us! We control your flesh. We have been waiting a long time to inhabit you. Many of us are here, and many more await passage. For our number is greater than the stars! We are more than infinity! And He can only watch! Watch and weep!"

Snot ran down her face. "S-so, you're doing all of this just-just to g-get back at God?"

Ob sneered with Baker's lips.

"Indeed. That-and our own self-interest. We longed to be free of the Void, of course."

He paused in his thoughts while Lisa squirmed on the pole. The dead body of her companion started to move again. It looked at her and grinned.

Its fellow creatures began to loosen its bonds.

"Welcome, brother," Ob said.

"Thank you, lord. It is good to be free."

Ob turned back to her.

"So tell me, Lisa. If you'll pardon my melodrama, do you know who we are now? Have you gained an understanding? Did your elders teach you of these things in Sunday school?"

Her only response was a whimper. Ob flung his hands up in exasperation.

"I am attested to seventeen times in the Old Testament! Seventeen! I am Ob of the Obot! I lead the Siqqusim, just as Ab leads the Elilum and Api the Teraphim. Yidde-oni! I am Ob! He who speaks from the head!

Engastrimathos du aba paren tares!"

Cursing, he shoved the zombie with the knife out of the way. Lisa relaxed slightly against her bonds. Ob grabbed a pistol from one of the other zombies and shoved it between her breasts.

Lisa cringed.

"If you do not know of us, do not know of the Void, or of Heaven and Hell, then I will show it to you firsthand!"

She screamed.

"I told you to stop mooing, cow!"

He squeezed the trigger and then squeezed it again. And again. And again until it was empty. Only then did he let the weapon slide from his grasp. It clattered on the blacktop.

"Undo these bonds, so that the one who will soon inhabit her may be free."

He stalked away. Something ruptured inside him and dark, noxious fluid rushed from the open cavity in his abdomen, drenching his feet. Baker's body was disintegrating faster than he'd expected.

When the Rising first began, Ob's original host body had been a black Labrador named Sadie, owned by an elderly widow in Bodega Bay, California. Unable to lead the Siqqusim in such a limited form, he'd run amok, desperately seeking the body's destruction. He'd found it hours later at the hands of a fisherman who dispatched him with several shots to the head after Ob tore out the throats of his wife and children.

As leader of the Siqqusim, Ob returned to the realms of the living before his brethren. He liked to think of it as head-of-the-line privileges. He also reanimated quicker than the others, almost instantaneously. His second body belonged to a network systems analyst in Gardner, Illinois, and had served him well. The host had been in remarkable physical health and died of suffocation, leaving the body in good shape. Ob still regretted the loss of that one. It ended when a human set the entire town on fire. Ob became trapped in the inferno while crawling through a ventilation duct after some prey.

His third body was a homeless man in Coober Pedy, Australia. The man was already rotting before death claimed him. Ob only inhabited that shell for a day before a human snuck up from behind and drove a pickaxe through his brain.

His fourth had been the body of Dr. Timothy Powell, one of the men directly responsible for freeing his kind in the first place. That body had been dispatched during the recent battle. Now, here he stood, in the body of Powell's superior, Professor Baker. The almost contrived irony was not lost on the demon lord, and Ob wondered if some higher force had a hand in the fact that he'd taken possession of two of the men responsible for his release.

He searched through Baker's memories as if riffling through a filing cabinet. He saw the scientist's escape and flight, his capture by Schow's forces, and the interrogation that followed. He learned of Baker's other companions: Jim, the father searching for his son, and Martin, the elderly holy man.

These two, the father and the preacher, were not with them. They weren't among the zombies ordered to scavenge weapons and round up stray humans from the surrounding countryside. He hadn't seen them in the complex either. The possibility that two of his enemy's companions might have escaped gnawed at him. He didn't like loose ends, especially if it meant that they could warn others of his army's might.

He scanned the horizon. Could they still be out there, hiding in the night amongst the hills and trees? How delicious it would be-how poetic to destroy them while wearing the form of their friend.

Still, no matter. If they had survived, they were gone by now, hunted down and dead. Or dying. Humanity's time was over, its number finite.

The Siqqusim's numbers were not. And when this world held no more bodies for them-there were other worlds, a multitude of other living beings for them to violate. They would never go back to the Void, and eventually, they would have their revenge on He who had sent them there. Ob would lead the Siqqusim's corruption of the flesh. When the last bit of flesh had been conquered, his brother Ab would then be free to rally his own forces, the Elilum. They would proceed with the destruction of the planet's plant and insect life, possessing them in the same way that the Siqqusim did with flesh. Finally, when all life had been extinguished, they would depart for other planets, while their brother Api burned the planet to ashes with his fellow Teraphim.

But defiling the Creator's beloved creations was just the first step. Storming the gates of His kingdom would be the next. Ob would personally rip Him from the throne.

Smiling at the prospect, Ob went to inspect his army and make plans.

There was much to do. He must amass an army and prepare for the arrival of his brothers, Ab and Api. Once their way had been cleared, they would destroy every living organism on the planet, destroy the planet itself-destroy everything the Creator held dear. Only then would they be victorious, satisfied. And that would be just the beginning ...

Ron coughed.

Kevin whispered back. "You're

"Holy shit, they stink!" Ron coughed.

"Shut up, you idiot!" Kevin whispered back. "You're going to give us away."

"I can't help it. The smell..."

"He's right," Mikey said, squirming. "It's fucking hot. We've been in here for hours. My legs are cramping up."

"Both of you shut up now!"

"Fuck off. When we get out of here, you're dead, Kev."

Kevin ground his teeth in frustration. Never in a million years had he imagined that he'd spend the apocalypse hiding in the bed of a Chevy pickup truck with the infamous Lancaster brothers, Ron and Mikey. The three of them were concealed in the back, the bed covered by a black vinyl, snap-on tarp that hid them from the zombies, but restricted their movements and allowed the sun to bake them. The steel beneath their backs grew steadily hotter as the hours passed. Even now, with the sun vanished beneath the horizon, the space was scorching, the day's heat trapped inside. They heard the creatures clambering around outside the truck, and in the moments when the zombies were silent, the stench gave them away.

Before the Rising began, Ron, Mikey, and Kevin ran numbers for a crime family in York, Pennsylvania. When the shit hit the fan, York fell not only to the zombies but to rival gang factions as well. The bangers out of Baltimore and Philadelphia, skinheads out of Red Lion, survivalists from the southern part of the county and northern Maryland-all of them had decided to carve it up for themselves. So Ron, Mikey, and Kevin split.

They made it as far as Gettysburg, and after showing some proficiency with weapons and an extreme lack of conscience, they were allowed to join Colonel Schow's paramilitary forces, assigned to the crucifixion squads. It wasn't bad work; got them out in the fresh air and gave them an opportunity to live amongst a larger group. Safety in numbers. A strong sense of self-preservation allowed them to justify the most heinous things, including nailing fellow humans to crosses and watching from safety as the dead tore them apart.

When the decision to bug out and move to the government facility came down, the three of them piled into the pickup truck. As the convoy made its way north, they passed the time drinking warm beers and taking pot shots at zombies. Mikey had emptied his clip and both spares before they got as far as Harrisburg. Ron's was empty soon after.

By the time the convoy arrived at its destination, they were down to Kevin's 30.06 and a gas gauge firmly on E. When the combat exploded around them, they jumped out of the cab, climbed inside the bed, and shut the tailgate behind them. They'd lain there ever since.

"Christ, I could go for a burger right now," Ron breathed.

"Yo, fuck the burger," Mikey said, "I want a cold beer."

"Shut the fuck up," Kevin hissed.

Mikey and Ron quieted down again, and Kevin tried

to think. How much longer would they have to wait here, trapped and unable to move? He considered taking a peek outside, but immediately decided against it. The reek of rot and decay remained strong, which meant that at least a few of the creatures were still close by.

The pressure in his groin grew worse. He didn't want to hear Ron whining about the smell or Mikey complaining about muscle cramps. He'd had to piss for the last four hours and he wasn't bitching. Yet.

Gotta think, gotta think! Think about something other than pissing!

He ran through a mental checklist. Weapons: the rifle and a hunting knife. Food: none. Water: ditto (and he was getting really thirsty).

Location: fucked if he knew. Somewhere near the border of Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Prospects: pretty fucking grim. Maybe he could push up on the tarp, pop the snaps, and as the zombies descended upon them, make a run for it while Ron and Mikey played decoy.

His bladder grew more insistent. In the darkness, he squeezed the head of his penis through his jeans.

"I swear to God I'm gonna puke," Ron whimpered. "Those things stink so bad."

"Shut up!" Mikey and Kevin both hissed.

From outside came the crunch of feet on gravel. All three held their breath as the footsteps drew closer, stopping at the truck. Then-speech, like someone gargling with glass.

"Did your host know how to operate one of these? Mine was too young."

"Mine did, but we need a key. Look inside. It should be in the steering column."

The door opened, and the truck shifted as something crawled inside the cab. The stench was stifling, even though they were separated by steel and glass. Kevin wanted to scream.

He pinched the tip of his penis hard.

"There's no key," the voice was muffled. "What do we do now?"

"We'll find one of our brothers who knows how to hot-wire it, or else we'll tow it back to the facility."

The truck rocked as the door slammed shut. The footsteps faded, and moments later, the smell dissipated as well.

They waited another five minutes.

"I think they're gone," Ron whispered.

"Fuck, I hope so," Mikey sighed, stretching his legs. His joints popped in the darkness. "Kevin, you okay?"

"No," he said through clenched teeth. "I am definitely not fucking okay.

I've got to piss."

"Let's make a break for it," Ron said. "Get the hell away from here before they come back!"

As if in response, the smell returned. Seconds later, the footsteps followed.

"I can start it. This is an older model. From the Seventies."

"Good. Drive it down to the complex with the others. Ob wants a fleet. Every operational vehicle is to be serviced and made ready for transport."

They waited, listening as it crossed the wires. The zombie was humming, and after a moment, Kevin recognized it as Iron Maiden's "Children of the Damned." He stifled a laugh, and that only increased the pressure on his bladder. He bit his lip, moaning softly as the urgency changed to pain.

The truck's engine roared to life.

"There's not much fuel," the zombie called. "I may have to coast it down the hill."

"That's fine. The complex has several fueling stations. We shall accompany you."

The passenger door opened, and the truck sagged even lower as more piled in. Then the truck began to move.

"Guys," Kevin breathed, so quietly that they had to strain to hear him.

"I can't hold it anymore. I'm sorry."

He let go, and immediately a flood of warmth spread across the crotch of his jeans. It ran down his leg and into the bed of the truck, pooling around his companions. The stench, mixed with that of their forward passengers, was overpowering.

"Ohhhh." Kevin shuddered as the pressure left him. Soaked in his own urine, he gasped in pained ecstasy.

The truck picked up speed now, rolling down the hill. The urine followed the law of gravity, running beneath all three of them.

"Oh Jesus," Mikey exploded. "Stop it, Kevin! Fucking stop!"

"Did you hear something?" someone asked from up front.

All three of their hearts skipped a beat at the same time.

"What?"

"I don't know. Thought I heard a human."

"Your body's ears are faulty. Look around. I don't see a life glow anywhere."

"There's Ob. Let us stop and show him our prize. Perhaps he will reward us."

The truck lurched to a stop, and Kevin's bladder squeezed out the last few drops. The three men lay in the darkness; wet, cold, and afraid.

Ob evaluated the line of vehicles pouring into the facility as one of his undead soldiers directed them. Four-wheel drives, sedans, an M-88 tank recovery unit, several sport utility vehicles, a half dozen Humvees, a motorcycle, and a few tractor-trailers. His eyes widened in pleasure when the two Paladin motorized howitzers rolled up. Several tow trucks crested the hill. The vehicles that hadn't been destroyed, but were damaged or not operational, were being towed inside the facility, so the dead could repair them.

"Good. Very good. You have all done well." He started to turn, but a beat-up old truck coasted toward him and stalled at his feet.

In the bed, buried beneath the tarp, Ron twisted his neck, trying to work out an agonizing kink. His face slid into a puddle of Kevin's waste.

"Where did you find this pile of junk?" Ob asked.

Ron gagged. Kevin and Mikey stiffened beside him.

"Atop that hill, lord. It only needs some gas and then it will be fine."

Ron felt the cough building inside him. Kevin's urine dripped from his nose and chin.

"Hmmmm. Put it with the rest, then."

Ron fought it down and froze, listening.

"Wait," Ob called. "Why does it smell like human urine?"

Ron coughed, loudly. Another one seized him, rustling the tarp over their heads.

"In the back! They're in the back!"

"Shit!" Mikey shouted. "What the fuck do we do?"

Kevin fumbled blindly for the rifle. His fingers closed around the cold barrel and he pulled it toward him, hitting Mikey in the head. Mikey yelped in surprise and pain.

A dozen creatures surrounded the truck and ripped the tarp away. Some had been children and office workers. One of them looked like a scientist, or maybe a doctor. Others were their fellow mercenaries, killed in the battle and now fighting for the other side.

Two pairs of mottled arms grasped at Ron, dragging him out of the bed.

He twisted, broke free, and fell to the ground. His ankle snapped.

Immediately the creatures fell upon him, stabbing him with knives, clubbing him with rocks, and clawing his skin with their dead fingers.

Another corpse locked on to Mikey, its teeth seeking the soft flesh of his quivering throat. He groped at the zombie's head and pushed it back up. His fingers slid into the thing's mouth and he struggled, pulling down in an effort to break the jaw. Instead, the teeth snapped shut, severing his digits at the first knuckles. Blood spurted from the stumps. His scream was cut off as the corpse's mouth found his. They locked in a repugnant kiss, and then the zombie pushed him away, his tongue hanging from between its lips. Mikey collapsed, his screams replaced by a high-pitched gargle. Blood poured from his ruined mouth.

Another zombie leaped forward and zapped him with a stun gun.

Ob leaned his elbows against the rim of the Chevy's bed and leered at Kevin.

"Hello, meat! What do you have there? A gun? Doing some deer hunting, were you?"

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit..." Kevin scrambled backward, his back resting against the cab. The zombies surrounded the truck. He glanced around for the Lancaster brothers. Mikey was dead, his eyes glazed over even as the zombie continued to zap him with the stun gun. Ron lay on the ground moaning. His chest and abdomen were an open wound. Kevin saw the knives and rocks come up, and then flash back down. Up. Down. Then Ron's cries ceased.

Kevin stared upward in fear as Ob leaned in, clutching at him.

"Come here!"

Another zombie opened the tailgate, and several of the undead clambered in after him.

"Ohshitohshitohshitohshit..."

"Give me that." Ob gripped the 30.06.

Kevin struggled with him, jerking the rifle back and forward. The creatures on the truck grabbed Kevin's legs and pulled him toward them.

The rifle barrel landed against Ob's jaw, and the zombie leader flinched.

"Oh shit!"

Screaming, Kevin's body convulsed. His fingers squeezed the trigger.

Baker's head disintegrated in an eruption of flesh and blood and bone.

Ob went with it.

FOUR

He ignored the first two shots. They were faint, though he couldn't be sure if it was from distance or because of the thickness of the walls around him. He strained to hear them over Claude Debussy's "Arabesque #2," floating softly from the battery-operated portable stereo. One shot-maybe-followed by a second. Most likely it was zombies hunting their dinner-some unlucky bastard that had the misfortune to wander into the neighborhood. He considered checking, then decided against it.

He lit another candle and returned to his book, John Steinbeck's Cannery Row. He'd read it three times since he'd sealed the door. It was the only book inside the room, with the exception of an old issue of Entertainment Weekly, a thriller by Andrew Harper (with everything going on outside, that was the last thing he wanted to read), and Myrna's Chicken Soup collection. He hated those Chicken Soup books. Wondered if there'd ever be a Chicken Soup for the Undead Soul book. Probably not.

The muffled gunfire erupted again. This time, it didn't fade, continuing unabated for a full minute. He heard different explosions, which meant different guns. There was a brief pause and then more.

Don De Santos jumped out of his chair.

"Jesus Christ!"

His voice sounded funny to him. It was the first time he'd spoken aloud in nearly four weeks.

He listened to what sounded like a war breaking out nearby and wondered what to do about it.

Before the Rising began, Don De Santos had been a successful media consultant, one of the thousands for whom New Jersey was simply a bed and breakfast in between the daily treks into Manhattan. He had a lovely wife, Myrna, and a son, Mark, who had just started his first year at UCLA. A house in the suburbs, a dog named Rocky, a silver BMW, black Ford Explorer, and matching his and hers Honda motorcycles. Life was good, and his investment portfolio was even better.

That changed when Rocky got hit by the car. Had it happened two minutes later, he would have been on his way to catch the train and Myrna could have dealt with it. But fate hadn't worked that way. He was just pulling out of the garage; his coffee nestled between his legs and one hand already dialing the cell phone, when he heard the alarming squeal of brakes in the street, followed by a sickening thud.

Rocky had sneaked out of the garage and run into the road, where he'd met the bumper of Mr. Schwartz's Chrysler. Most of his innards had spilled into the street. At least he hadn't suffered.

Myrna dashed across the yard; shrieking like a banshee, robe trailing behind her. Panting, Rocky raised his head, looked at her, and then died. Myrna knelt over him, weeping and clinging to his fur while Schwartz apologized over and over.

"Oh Christ! He ran right out in front of me, Don! I couldn't stop in time!"

"It's all right. There was nothing you could do."

"Not my Rockeeeeee ..." Myrna wailed.

In the distance, the old air-raid siren at the fire station blurted to life, startling all three of them. Its wail eclipsed Myrna's.

Don sent Schwartz on his way, assuring him that there were no hard feelings or pending lawsuit. Then he grabbed a blanket from the linen closet and gently peeled Myrna from the dead dog's corpse. He rolled Rocky onto the blanket, nose wrinkling in disgust as more of the dog's entrails spilled out, and dragged him into the garage, unsure what to do next. He folded the blanket over the dog. The fire siren blared on, making it hard for him to think. It was answered by what would be the first of many police sirens that day. An ambulance raced down the street, and for one bizarre moment Don thought it was coming for Rocky.

Then it sped past.

"I wonder what's going on?" Myrna sniffled.

"I don't know. Go on inside, hon. I guess we'd better call Mark's dorm and let him know about Rocky."

"It's too early out there. Remember, he's in California."

"But it was his dog too. You know how much he loved Rocky."

She began to cry again.

"What will we do with-"

"I'll take care of it."

"I want to cremate him," she replied. "Let me get myself together and I'll go down to the vet's. Can you-can you put him in the Explorer for me?"

He nodded, kneeling down to cover the dog up with the blanket again. For some reason it had slipped off.

A police car flashed by in the ambulance's wake, followed by another. Don opened his mouth to comment and that was when Rocky bit him.

The dog's hair didn't stand on end. There was no warning growl or bark-no sound at all. One minute Rocky was dead, his intestines cooling on the garage's cement floor. The next, he sank his teeth into Don's hand, right between the thumb and forefinger. Screaming, Don tried to jerk his hand away, but Rocky dug in, shaking his head in defiance. The dog's eyes rolled back, showing the whites.

"Oh shit! Myrna, get him off of me!"

Shrieking, she beat at the corpse. Rocky refused to budge. His muzzle was crimson with both Don's blood and his own.

"What's happening, Don? What is this?"

"I don't fucking know! Just get him off me, God damn it! My hand!"

Myrna reeled back, hysterical. Frantic, Don glanced around the garage. A claw hammer lay perched on the tool bench, but he couldn't reach it.

"Myrna!" No response, just more sobbing. "Myrna! God damn it, look at me. Please?"

"I-I ..."

"Grab my hammer from the tool bench!"

"I-I can't."

"Do it," he roared. "Do it now!"

She ran, arms flailing helplessly, and returned with the hammer. The dog's teeth felt like rows of hot needles. Rocky regarded him while he chewed. For a second, Don thought he saw something reflected in those dead eyes, something dark. Then the dog shook his head again, burrowing deeper. Don was beyond pain now, beyond fear. He focused on the siren, still bleating in the background, as shock enveloped him.

Myrna handed Don the hammer. Slowly, with a sense of calm, he raised it over his head and brought it crashing down. There was a solid crunch as the swing ended between the dog's eyes. Then he raised the hammer back up and hit it again. Rocky let go. Immediately, the dog's jaws snapped at his leg, but Don lurched backward.

Rocky sat back on his haunches, staring at Don with clear contempt. Then the dog opened its mouth and tried to speak. Vocal cords that had never formed words before began to do so now. To Don's eyes and ears, it was like something inside the dog was borrowing the animal's vocal cords for its own purpose.

"Rrrraaarrgghh! Rowwwlll!"

"Jesus ..."

Rocky seemed to laugh.

Grimacing, Don swung again.

The dog's head collapsed as the hammer sank deep inside.

Rocky died a second time.

That was how it started. They left the dog's bloody corpse laying inside the garage. Later, while Myrna went to the veterinarian's office to make arrangements for disposing of Rocky, Don drove himself to the emergency room to see if he needed stitches and to get a shot, just to be safe.

The hospital echoed of chaos-pure, raw anarchy. Waiting and wounded patients whispered of a possible biological or chemical terrorist attack, something that was making people and animals turn crazy.

Homicidal dead ducks attacked an old man in the park who fed them every morning. A rapist cut an old woman's throat, only to have her turn the knife back on him minutes later while he was humping her corpse. A bus driver had a heart attack behind the wheel, died-and then purposely sent the bus careening into a crowd of people at the next stop. A woman shot her husband in a domestic dispute and then he rose up and shot her back, along with the cops responding to the call and the paramedics sent to revive him.

When he was finally admitted after many hours of waiting, Don watched a patient in the next trauma room flatline, then start thrashing a few minutes later, grappling with the doctor hovering over him. The EKG showed no heartbeat, even when the man began biting the doctor. Don left the hospital after that, making do with antibiotics and a gauze pad.

Myrna didn't come home that night. Calls placed to the veterinarian's office were met with a busy signal, just like the calls to Mark's dorm.

By the time Don decided to look for her, the police were ordering people to stay in their homes, and the National Guard was patrolling the streets. The electricity and the phone lines went out soon after that.

He wondered about Mark, and hoped the situation was better in California-but even then, he knew in his heart that it wasn't.

He checked on his next-door neighbors, Rick and Tammy and their son Danny, and made sure they were safe. The neighbors on the other side, the Bouchers, were on vacation in Florida. After checking in with Rick, Tammy and Danny, Don went back to his home, weeping for his wife while praying for her return, and locked himself inside the panic room.

After the fourth terrorist attack on New York City, Don had hired a security company to convert the closet in Mark's now empty bedroom into a panic room, using frame materials that were resistant to forced entry, high winds, and even bullets. He'd spared no expense. The walls, floors and ceilings were all lined with thick plywood for extra strength, and an alarm system, Modem, and phone were installed as well. The electromagnetic lock insured "top security with an ability to withstand tremendous forces" (as per the brochure), and could not be picked or pried open. An electronic keypad with a key code allowed entry only by those who knew the combination-Myrna and himself. A solar powered backup battery was installed on the roof, in case the electricity was suddenly cut off. It operated the alarms, the phone, and the keypad.

He had plenty of bottled water and dried food, batteries, matches, candles, a handgun, knife, and fire axe. He could wait out whatever was happening outside.

He'd been asleep when Myrna returned.

The keypad's beeping woke him. Somebody was on the other side, entering the code. There was a mechanical click and then a rush of air as the door slid open. The bedroom beyond was dark, but he could see her silhouette in the doorway.

"Myrna! Oh my God, honey, where have you been? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Don."

Don paused. Her speech seemed oddly muffled. Distorted.

"Well, I'm just glad you're home. I've been worried sick. I thought that maybe you were-"

"Dead?"

"Yes." He got up, his joints stiff from sleeping on the floor.

Myrna stepped into the room, into the soft glow of the candlelight.

"I'm afraid she is dead, Don. Just like Rocky and Mark. It's just me in here now. But you can join them, if you'd like. In fact, I insist!"

"W-who?"

She lurched toward him, the thing that wore his wife's body. One broken leg trailed behind her, and there was a gaping, pink hole where her nose had been.

"Myrna?"

"She was cheating on you. Spreading her legs for Mr. Pabon, the guy who owns the Mexican restaurant. Twice a week and overnight when you were away on business. His dick was bigger. Much bigger."

It looked like his wife, spewed obscenities with her mouth-her voice. It knew about their son and neighbors-but Don realized that the creature wasn't Myrna.

"You lie."

"No, I don't. It's in here." The zombie tapped Myrna's head with one broken fingernail. "It's all in here. She wrapped her legs around him when she came. You could never make her do that."

"I don't know who you are, but you're not my wife!"

"You want to know who I really am? Come here and let me show you."

Don swallowed and then ran for the pistol on the card table. The handgun was a family heirloom. His grandfather had been one of the first Hispanic soldiers to serve in the Philippines during World War Two, and had passed the government-issued Colt .45 with the eight-shot clip down to him. Next to it lay an open box of Cor-Bon ammo.

The zombie lunged for him.

He didn't bother to aim. He didn't have to. Myrna was right on top of him, clawing at his shirt. She pinched his left nipple between her fingers, trying to tear it off with her bare hands. He shoved the gun between her breasts.

"I'm sorry."

Don squeezed the trigger. Myrna jerked backward, then giggled. She twisted his nipple again, pulling on it now. Screaming, he fired another shot. The bullet passed through her shoulder. She paused, and then lurched forward, broken leg still trailing.

"You're starting to piss me off, dear," the creature said.

A low moan escaped Don's lips.

Cackling, her jaws descended on him.

He placed the gun against her forehead and fired again. The entry wound was the size of a thumb, but the back of his dead wife's head splattered across the panic room, spraying the wall with blood, brain tissue, and fragments of bone.

He hadn't heard another gunshot until now.

Don pushed away the memories. Outside, the barrage continued. He wondered who it was. Perhaps the army had finally arrived. Maybe he was saved! Maybe it was over!

He weighed the risks of leaving the panic room. But the firefight blazed on, and he had to see what was happening. He reached for the keypad, had a terrible moment where he thought he'd forgotten the code and would remain trapped inside, then remembered it, and entered the sequence. The door slid open.

Immediately, he noticed the stench. The smell of death.

It was risky to go to the ground floor windows. Too much of a chance of being spotted. Instead, he went upstairs to the attic. It would give him the best vantage point.

From there, Don looked out into hell.

Next door, Rick and Tammy's property crawled with zombies. He tried to count them, but there were too many. Most were armed with shotguns and pistols, baseball bats and butcher knives. Many were his neighbors; he spied Schwartz, the Padrone kid from down the street, and Mr. Pabon among them.

Pabon ...

She was cheating on you. Spreading her legs for Mr. Pabon.

Don smiled grimly.

"Fuck my wife, will you?"

Pabon's corpse was just starting down the strip of lawn between the houses. A fence ran down the center, and on Don's side was a long, narrow swimming pool, specifically designed to fit between the homes for the purpose of swimming laps rather than recreation. A black shape rested at the bottom of the pool but he couldn't discern what it was.

Three years earlier, Don had engaged in a private battle with his county's Board of Zoning Appeals regarding their prohibition against pools in the backyards. He'd gotten a lawyer, petitions from neighbors, the whole works, but the county government had ultimately forbidden him.

Finally, he realized that there were no laws against pools in the side yard, so he'd built one there instead, just to spite them. He and Rick had had a good laugh about it at the time.

Pabon was on the other side of the pool fence, in Rick and Tammy's yard.

As quietly as possible, Don slid the attic window open and pointed the Colt .45 at the top of the restraunteur's head. He knew that his grasp on sanity was slipping. He knew that he was throwing caution and his safety to the wind with this shot-that he would alert the creatures to his presence. But he didn't care anymore. All that mattered in that moment was Pabon. He shifted to get a better line of sight, and as he did, the zombie disappeared around the front. Exasperated, Don glanced at his neighbor's house.

He nearly dropped the pistol.

Directly across, only twenty-five feet away, an elderly black man in a minister's collar stared back at him from Rick and Tammy's attic window.

Martin pointed out the window. "Jim, come take a look at this!"

"Damn it, Martin. Get the hell away from there before you get shot!" He knelt and gave his son a reassuring hug.

"No," the preacher insisted. "You don't understand. There's a man! Look!"

Automatically shielding Danny behind him, Jim turned to the window and froze.

"Holy shit..."

It was hard to tell in the dark, but the preacher didn't look dead. He pointed in Don's direction. Then the old man moved aside, and Don glimpsed another figure- one that seemed vaguely familiar. White male, middle to late thirties, shoulder length brown hair. His shoulder was bleeding and he looked pretty rough. Rough enough that he could be a zombie, although why he wasn't attacking the preacher, Don had no idea.

Then Danny stepped out from behind the man, spotted his next-door neighbor, and started jumping up and down in excitement. Don gasped. The little boy's hair had gone white at the roots.

Whoever they were, they weren't zombies-of that he was now sure. He motioned for them to open the window and after a moment's hesitation, the old man did.

"Howdy!" The preacher had a southern accent, and Don had to struggle to hear him over the battle below. Zombies smashed the windows and climbed into the kitchen and living room. The night erupted with muzzle flashes, and Don heard muffled gunshots from inside the house as well.

"Who-who the hell are you people?"

"I'm the Reverend Thomas Martin, and this here's Jim Thurmond. Danny tells us you're Mr. De Santos."

Incredulous, Don shook his head. "What are you doing?"

"Well, at the moment, we're panicking. They've got us pinned down in this house. We sure could use some help."

"Danny, are you all right?"

"I'm okay, Mr. De Santos! Can you help us, please?"

"Okay, don't move!" He ducked out of the window, searching the attic. It had been unfinished when they'd bought the house, and Myrna had always been after him to turn it into a sewing room for her. He'd gotten as far as laying down wooden planks over the insulation.

He pulled up one of the long, heavy planks, thankful that he hadn't nailed them down, but determined that it wasn't long enough to fit between the houses. Then he spotted the aluminum extension ladder.

Puffing hard, he carried it back to the window and checked for zombies.

Most of them now seemed to be concentrated around the front of the other house. So far, none of them had shown up with a ladder or rope. Quickly, he slid the ladder out the window.

"Grab it," he grunted. "Damn thing weighs a ton."

Jim and Martin grabbed the other end, preventing it from tumbling down into the yards or the swimming pool. It barely spanned the chasm, but Don pulled on his end and they did the same, releasing the extension. "Let's go," Don urged them. "Hurry!"

Frankie's eyes stung. Her ears rang, and her hands and arms were growing numb. Still, she kept up a steady defense, squeezing off short, controlled single shots. The living room and the bottom of the staircase were littered with bodies, three or four deep. But for each one she dropped, two more creatures sprang up to take its place. They kept coming, despite her efforts. Worse, her magazine was almost empty.

A bullet whizzed by, and plaster dust rained down upon her. More shots slammed into the banister. An aluminum arrow, the kind used for target shooting, bounced off the stairs and birdshot peppered the wall next to her head. She retreated upward a few more steps, then crouched and returned fire. Three more fell-and six rushed in to take their place.

She gagged. "God damn, you things reek."

The stench of decaying flesh was thick. Wincing, she tucked her nose against her shoulder and breathed deep, preferring her own stink to that of her enemies. Then she smelled something else.

Gasoline.

A flash of bright orange light flared in the kitchen, and the zombies began to cheer. The air grew hotter and flames crackled in the background, creeping into the living room. The hair on her arms stood up.

"Oh, you motherfuckers. You dirty motherfuckers!"

"Frankie?"

Jim stood at the top of the steps.

"They lit it, Jim. They lit the fucking house on fire!"

"Come on, let's go!"

She raced up the stairs, the first few wisps of smoke following behind her. Somewhere on the first floor, a battery-operated smoke detector began to shriek. She heard the zombies chanting outside.

"The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire! We don't need no water, let these fucking humans burn!"

Jim ran ahead of her. "Into the attic. We've got a way out!"

"Burn, fucking humans! Burn!"

Frankie shook her head in disbelief.

"If they start doing Doug E. Fresh, I'm going to fall over. Talk about old school."

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "What?"

"Nothing. Forget about it. Flashback to when I was a kid. Some old school shit."

He led her into the attic. The window was open and a man beckoned to them from the house next door. A ladder bridged the gap between them.

"Who's that?" Frankie asked.

"Don De Santos," Jim told her. "He lives next door."

"What?"

"How many more people do you have in there?" De Santos called. "Are Rick and Tammy with you?"

"This is it," Jim yelled back. "Just the four of us. Martin, you go first."

The preacher hesitated.

"What's that smell?"

"They lit the house on fire. Now go. We're out of time."

Martin's eyes widened. Carefully, he crawled out onto the ladder. Gripping the rungs, he began to edge himself across on his hands and knees, silently praying as he did.

He wobbled in the center and all of them gasped, but then he covered the remaining distance. Don clutched at him, hauling him inside.

Jim stared down. So far, they hadn't attracted the creatures' attention.

The majority of them were gathered on the front and back lawns. The narrow swimming pool and the small strip of ground between the houses stood empty-for the moment. Jim hoped it would remain that way. He glanced at the black object at the bottom of the pool, but it wasn't moving. Probably leaves or a deflated pool toy. He couldn't be sure in the darkness and the weird shadows cast by the flames.

"Danny, you're next."

"I'm scared, Daddy. I don't want to!"

Jim knelt before him. "I know you don't, son, but you have to. Martin was scared too, but he made it across fine. Just don't look down.

Frankie and I will be on this end and Martin and Mr. De Santos are on the other side. You'll be okay."

"But what if I fall? What if the ladder breaks? What if the monster people see me?"

Jim heard zombies on the stairs. He grasped Danny's shoulders.

"Danny, you have to do this. You have to trust me, okay? I know it's scary, but if we stay here, the monster people are going to get us."

Whimpering, Danny peered out the window. Next door, Martin and De Santos quietly urged him on. He turned back to his father.

"I can't. I want you to come with me!"

"Danny, I don't know if that ladder will hold us both at the same time. I need you to be brave for me, okay? Be a big boy."

Smoke seeped under the attic door, and the smoke detector on the second floor wailed in harmony with the other one.

Swallowing hard, Danny inched onto the shaking ladder. He glanced back at Jim, fear shining in his eyes. Jim smiled and nodded in encouragement. Danny turned back to Don and Martin, hunkered down, and began to crawl toward them, carefully edging from rung to rung.

"That's it, Danny. That's it. Don't look down. You can do it!"

The smoke grew thicker. Coughing, Frankie and Jim pulled their shirts up around their mouths and noses.

Halfway across, Danny looked down and froze.

"Daddy, I can't do it! I'm scared!"

He hugged the frame, wrapping his arms and legs around the rungs. He closed his eyes and began to tremble.

"Come on, Danny," Martin urged. "You're almost here!"

Eyes still closed, the boy shook his head.

"Shit." Frankie shoved Jim forward. "Get out there!"

A muffled explosion rocked the lower level, rattling the house on its foundation. The ladder swayed. The crackling flames grew louder and the temperature in the attic continued to rise.

"Danny," Jim called. "Hang on, squirt. I'm coming across!"

He slid out onto the ladder. It groaned beneath his weight. Holding his breath, he crawled as quickly as he could toward his petrified son. He glanced down, relieved to see that the zombies were still clustered on the other sides of the house. Smoke poured from the lower windows.

Below him, the black shape in the pool moved. It disengaged itself from the bottom and floated to the top. A head broke the water and stared upward in surprise. A zombie. And it had been in the water for quite some time, judging by the bloating. Then Jim saw why. Its arms were missing, and there was no way for it to climb out of the pool.

It opened its mouth to sound the alarm, and water and insects gushed out before it sputtered, "Here! They're here!"

"Go!" Frankie screamed, pulling a fresh magazine from her pocket and slamming it into place.

"Come on, Jim." Martin held his arms out, helpless. "Hurry!"

The pool zombie shouted again, and Frankie raised the weapon, trying to draw a bead on it. It ducked below the water before she could fire.

Jim's heart lurched as one of his legs slipped between the rungs. Panic seized him and he slipped farther. The aluminum frame scraped his back. He dangled from the waist down, clutching the rungs. His heart pounded in his throat. Then he pulled himself back up, took a deep breath, and continued across.

As he reached Danny, the creatures began to race around the house, converging below them.

"Danny, let go of the rungs!"

Terrified, the boy shook his head. A bullet whined directly over them, followed by a second.

"Danny! Do what I say. I've got you."

A bullet slammed into the ladder, gouging the aluminum and making their ears ring. Jim grabbed Danny's waistband. With his father's presence reassuring him, Danny opened his eyes and looked back at him. More shots whined over their heads.

Jim breathed a sigh of relief. "Good boy. Now look at

Martin and Mr. De Santos. Don't look down. And go as fast as you can."

Nodding, Danny moved forward. A volley from below whizzed by them, but then Frankie returned fire.

Don pulled Danny inside. Jim raced along behind him. After crawling through the window, he turned back to Frankie.

"Come on!"

Jim and De Santos laid down a burst of cover fire, shooting indiscriminately rather than choosing targets. They alternated between ducking into the attic and then leaning out to shoot. The zombies ducked as well, scrambling for cover. De Santos shot one-handed, helping Martin steady the ladder for Frankie.

Not bothering to crawl, Frankie stepped onto the ladder and walked as carefully and quickly as she could, going from rung to rung. She concentrated, putting one foot in front of the other.

"I'm empty!" De Santos shouted.

Frantically, Jim searched his pockets. "Shit. Me too! Martin, you have any more ammo?"

The old man shook his head.

"Just what's inside my pistol, and that ain't much."

Jim turned back to the window. "Hurry, Frankie!"

The pool zombie continued shouting and then sank beneath the surface once more. More of the creatures were scrambling beneath Frankie now, pointing upward and hollering. A hunting arrow soared past her leg, missing by inches. Another clanged off the ladder.

"Fuck me running," she whispered, and began to walk faster. "One foot in front of the other. One foot in

There was a loud clang, and the ladder tilted beneath her feet. Frankie reached out and grabbed the side, but her fingers slipped. Both she and the ladder plummeted downward. Screaming, the others could only watch as she splashed into the odd-shaped pool and sank beneath the surface. Between the darkness and the shadowy firelight, they could not see her.

Then, the ripples receded and the water was still once more.

Frankie did not resurface.

FIVE

"She's gone," Jim whispered.

"Are you sure?" Martin asked.

"I don't see her. I can't see anything, between the darkness and the smoke. The power is out. But we'd have heard her by now, wouldn't we?

She would have to come up for air by now. The fall alone was enough. Or maybe she hit her head on the bottom. And you saw that thing in the pool..."

Jim leaned out the window, but another barrage of shots from the ground chased him back inside.

"We don't have time for this," Don warned them. "Those things are still outside."

Martin was insistent. "We need to look for her."

"There's nothing we can do," Jim said. "She must be dead, Martin. We've got to accept it."

"But-"

"There's no way we can go outside."

"You're right." Martin sighed.

Don hurried toward the attic door, looking uneasy. He beckoned for them to follow.

Martin bowed his head in prayer. He struggled for words, and finally found them.

"Lord, we ask that you please accept her soul into your kingdom that she may dwell with thee. Amen."

"Look," Don said. "I'm sorry about your friend. I really am. But if you don't want to join her, I suggest we get moving."

"Where?" Jim asked. "We're fresh out of ideas."

"And places to hide," Martin added.

"My panic room first." Don opened the door and listened. "I've got to reload."

"Your panic room's no good anymore," Jim protested. "They know we're in here now. They'll find a way through. If not, they'll burn this place down as well."

"Exactly. That's why I don't plan on sticking around. It's not safe here anymore."

"Then what?"

"My Explorer is still in the garage. We can all fit in that, easily."

"That's no good," Jim scoffed. "They're all over the place out there. We've seen them rip apart an SUV like it was a can of tuna!"

"I'll take my chances. Especially since helping you has directly impacted my safety here."

Jim bristled. "Listen, you son of a-"

Danny stepped between them and took his father's hand.

"Thank you for helping us, Mr. De Santos, but can you please not fight with my daddy?"

Both men stared at each other for a moment and then softened.

"I'm sorry, Danny." Don patted the boy on the head and then looked back up at Jim. "So you're his real father, then?"

"That's right."

"I think I met you once, briefly, when you were picking him up for the summer."

"Could be. I don't remember. It was-difficult-being here with my ex-wife and her new husband. I usually didn't stick around too long. It's a long drive back to West Virginia."

"West Virginia. I thought you must be from the South." He nodded at Martin. "You too. The accents kind of gave you away. Your friend wasn't, though?"

"Frankie? No, she was from Baltimore. To be honest, we didn't know much about her. She'd lost a child of her own recently, and was helping us find Danny. And now ..."

"Oh. Well, I'm really sorry. But may I suggest again that we get moving? We shouldn't be standing around here talking. They'll regroup soon."

Jim paused. "I still think it's pretty useless to go outside, Mr. De Santos. But we can't stay here either. So I reckon we'll try this your way."

"Please, call me Don."

"Okay. Don. And I'm Jim."

"Well then, Jim, at the very least, let's go down to the panic room so I can reload."

Another bullet tore splinters from the windowsill as they started down the steps. The taunts of the dead drifted to them on the breeze, along with the smoke from the inferno next door.

"Jim?" Martin's voice trembled.

"What is it?"

"What if we're wrong? What if Frankie's alive?"

Jim didn't reply.

A tear rolled down Martin's lined face.

"Frankie ..."

When the ladder gave way beneath her feet, Frankie had time only to gasp before plunging into the swimming pool. The aluminum ladder splashed into the pool next to her a moment later. Smoky air burned inside her lungs as the cold, stagnant water closed over her head.

She sank like a stone-two feet, five feet, ten feet- before her boots struck the bottom. She opened her eyes, but couldn't see much in the murky gloom. A spray of bullets ploughed through the water in slow arcs. She dove deeper, flattening out along the bottom, as the gunfire drew closer.

Her hand flailed, closing on the M-16's shoulder strap. As she pulled the weapon toward her, she saw something moving. Something close. It was black and mottled and rotting, but still mobile. The armless zombie. She'd forgotten about it. It swam toward her, kicking its legs and licking its wrinkled lips in anticipation. Desperately, she kicked again for the surface.

The yard and pool stood out in the darkness, illuminated by the blazing house. Frankie's head popped out of the water and she choked, gasping for breath. Immediately, something like a swarm of angry hornets buzzed over the surface. She heard the gunfire a half second later. She ducked below the surface again.

The water stung her eyes, but she opened them anyway, searching for an escape. The bloated creature walked toward her along the bottom, slowed by the water. Frankie darted aside and swung the butt of her rifle, colliding with the thing's head. Despite the fact that the swing was slowed by the water, the blow cracked the creature's skull. She swung a second time and it split open. The zombie sank to the bottom, the gray-black, curdled remains of its brain floating upward.

Her temples throbbed, and her lungs felt like they would explode. She swam to the side, gliding as close to the bottom as she could. She could hear them above her, their shouts distorted by the water. She hovered near the pool ladder.

From her previous weapons training by one of Schow's soldiers, Frankie knew that the M-16 was fairly watertight, but the weapon relied on a gas-operated ejection system. The first round should fire no problem.

But the others ...

Well, if they didn't, she was dead. Plain and simple. But then, she was probably dead anyway.

Teeth clenched and rifle gripped firmly in one hand, Frankie grabbed the ladder, swung her feet into the rungs and climbed for the surface.

Danny stared at the moldering corpse in horror and put a hand over his nose.

"Is ... is that?"

Don hung his head, fingers sliding ammunition into his empty clips.

"Yes, Danny," he answered quietly, "that's Mrs. De Santos."

Cringing, Danny stepped away and wrapped his arms around his father's leg, hiding his face in Jim's thigh.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Martin said.

Don shrugged, continuing to reload.

"After I-after that," he nodded to the remains, "I made sure the house was secure. I nailed plywood over the doors and windows and the garage door is chained shut. Won't stop them now, I'm afraid, but it should slow them down long enough for us to equip ourselves."

"You stayed in this room?" Jim asked.

"The whole time. Luckily, they didn't know I was in

here. I still would be I guess, if I hadn't heard you folks come along."

Jim picked Danny up and kissed him on the forehead. This man, Don De Santos, had sat here in relatively comfortable safety while his son had faced endless nights of terror, peril, and hunger alone in the attic next door. He hugged Danny even tighter.

"I missed you, kiddo. I missed you so much."

"I missed you too, Daddy."

"How much?" Jim nuzzled him.

"This much!" Danny squeezed tighter.

"How much is that?"

"More than 'finity."

They both laughed, and Martin turned away to hide the fresh tears that sprang to his eyes.

"Okay." Don pocketed the extra clips. "I'm ready. Wish I had some ammo for your rifles, but I was never much of a hunter."

Jim grinned. "Even if you were, I don't know that you'd have any to fit the M-16s. They're not exactly deer rifles."

"Like I said, I'm a city boy." Don shrugged. "There's a knife there on the table. One of you can have it if you want."

"I'll take it," Martin offered. "That way, you can carry Danny."

Both father and son seemed to like the prospect, judging by the relieved looks on their faces.

"Not that it will do much good, I guess." The preacher sighed, picking up the blade. "Unless I stick it hard enough to go through their skull."

He shuddered, remembering that he'd done that very thing earlier in the day, fending off not a zombie, but a fellow human. It seemed like years ago.

"Why is that?" Don asked, shoving bottles of water

into a backpack. "Why does it have to go through the skull?"

"Damaging the brain is the only way to kill them."

"Makes sense, I guess. I figured as much. That was what it finally took-for Myrna."

"I liked her," Danny spoke up. "She always let me play with Rocky, and she used to babysit me when I was littler."

"Well," Jim said quietly, "at least somebody was watching out for you."

"What do you mean, Daddy?"

"Nothing, squirt. It just seems like your mother and Rick didn't think. They should have gotten you out of here as soon as this started."

Danny's face clouded. "I wish you wouldn't talk bad about them. I don't like it."

Jim opened his mouth to reply, but Martin interrupted him.

"Danny, I bet you're thirsty after that ordeal. Why don't you have Mr. De Santos open one of those bottles of water for you?"

Danny shrugged. "Okay."

"That a boy."

"Shouldn't we come up with a plan?" Jim asked. "Those things outside know that we're in here."

"It will only take a second," Martin assured him.

"Make it quick," Don said. "That plywood won't hold them off much longer."

Jim put Danny down and he scampered across the room. Martin motioned for Jim to follow him outside the panic room. They stepped into the bedroom.

Once there, Jim turned to him with a grave expression on his face.

"What's up?"

The old man's whispered tones were harsh. "What's the matter with you, Jim?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean talking about the boy's mother and stepfather like that."

"Don't you dare start on me, Martin. You have no idea what they put me-us-through."

"Guys," Don called from the panic room, "this isn't the time for family politics. They're getting through!"

Martin put his hand on Jim's shoulder. "I know they took your son from you, and that's a hard thing. That's a very hard thing. But they put a roof over his head and clothes on his back. Danny loves you-I can see it every time he looks at you. But he loved them too. And for you to say that, especially after whatever he's been through, is an even harder thing. I'm guessing that little boy's hair wasn't turning white two months ago. He's seen his mother and stepfather and everyone around him corrupted by those things. He's still in shock that you showed up, along with a bunch of strangers he's never met. And now his house is burning down and we just got done making him walk the balance beam two stories above the ground. The fact that he's alive and unharmed is nothing short of God's work. I have traveled up the East Coast to help you find him, and we've been through hell together. But we did it. We saved him. So knock off your bullshit right now and let's make sure this rescue wasn't in vain."

Jim took a step backward, stunned.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I was out of line."

"Now look what you did." Martin smiled. "You went and made me curse."

Jim chuckled as they returned to the room. He went over to Danny and picked him up again.

"I'm sorry. Daddy's just tired. I didn't mean to say those things about your mom and Rick."

"It's okay." Danny smiled. "They said bad things about you too sometimes, even before they became monster-people."

"You gonna carry him?" Don asked.

"I reckon so."

"Here." He handed Jim a small hatchet. "Better carry this then, too. You can swing it with one arm."

The sound of gunfire broke out again, drifting up from the pool.

"I think that's our cue," Don urged. "We better get going!"

"Listen," Jim held up a hand. "That sounds like an M-16."

Don sighed in frustration. "We're out of time!"

"Is it Frankie?" Martin asked.

Jim shook his head. "Can't be."

"She was almost out of ammo, but it could be her-if she survived the fall."

"Martin-"

"It has to be, Jim."

Don whipped around. "She's alive?"

"Move!" Martin shouted.

"That's what I've been saying," Don snapped.

They ran for the garage.

Frankie stepped out of the shallow end of the pool and opened fire, squeezing off short bursts as she swept the weapon back and forth. When she saw that she was surrounded, she planted her feet, held down the trigger, and allowed the rifle's kick to pull her around in a circle.

"Come on, motherfuckers," she yelled. "I got something for you!"

When she let go, she grinned at the bodies lying prone around her-then started again.

Some of the creatures shouted taunts, but the roar of the M-16 drowned them out. She switched to short bursts again, so that she could re-aim the weapon. The inferno raged a few yards away, as Jim's ex-wife's home was reduced to cinders. The heat from the fire roasted her face. She squinted, her eyes watering. Empty brass jackets littered the yard, and smoke poured from the barrel. She continued firing, shredding everything in her path- afraid the weapon would fall apart, but not caring. Heads exploded, and limbs were mangled and torn. What wasn't destroyed in the first barrage was knocked down by the second sweep. The rifle vibrated, sending shockwaves through her body and growing hot in her hands.

A little girl, shorter than the rest, ducked in below her field of fire and swung a croquet mallet. Frankie stepped back, swept the rifle butt downward, obliterated the child's head, and brought the weapon back up in one fluid motion.

"Come on. What you got for me? Huh? What you got? You ain't got nothing!"

Something punched her leg-hard. She looked down and saw blood. A second bullet stung her arm. Another whizzed by, shattering De Santos's kitchen window. A zombie to her right heaved a brick at her. It landed in the yard, barely missing her. The blood continued to flow down her leg and pooled inside her shoe. The wound burned.

"Shit."

Another object struck the back of her head. A rock, she thought, even as she yelped in pain. Then she saw what it was as it fell to the ground. A white cue ball, now smeared with her blood.

She wondered how much ammunition was left, but pushed the thought from her mind. The magazine held thirty bullets, but in the confusion, she hadn't had time to count her shots. She continued firing, knowing that if she stopped to check now, they'd overrun her. Her leg felt like it was on fire. More heads exploded, their owner's bodies flopping to the ground. One zombie's right arm remained hanging by a thin piece of gristle. It gnawed at the flesh until the arm came free, then clambered after her again, swinging the appendage like a club.

"Double shit."

Frankie's head began to throb and her left knee buckled, growing numb. She looked down to see that her entire pant leg was now scarlet. The severed arm crashed against her cheek, jarring her teeth.

An undead sparrow landed in her hair and tore away a strip of flesh from the wound there. Frankie screamed. Still firing, she beat at the creature with one hand. Immediately, her arc of fire dropped to ground level, sending clots of dirt flying. Arching her back, she readjusted her fire and snatched the bird from her head. She flung it to the ground and crushed it under her bloody boot.

A one-eyed, three-legged German shepherd stalked towards her, teeth bared. Another rock struck her between the shoulder blades. Her leg, arm and head pounded. Her vision turned red.

Frankie aimed at the dog and squeezed the trigger.

The magazine clicked empty.

"Triple shit."

The circle of zombies tightened around her.

They had to shout to be heard above the noise in the garage. Outside, the creatures pounded on the door with sticks and crowbars and fists.

Danny clutched Jim's shoulder and Jim winced. The re-opened wound throbbed as Danny pressed harder.

"My God," Martin breathed. "They're all around us!"

"We've got to do this quick." Don reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. "You guys get in while I unlock the garage door. Be ready."

"Who's driving?" Jim asked.

"I am," Don answered. "You get in the back with Danny."

"If Frankie's alive ..." Martin began.

Don interrupted him. "Even if she survived that fall, they've got her by now."

"We don't know that."

"Look, do you know how many of those things are outside that door? Get real, man. You can't be sure it's her out there just because you hear an M-16!"

"We've got to look for her," Martin insisted. "She'd do the same for us."

Don sighed. "Okay. When we pull out, if we see her, we'll stop. But let's be clear. If helping your friend is going to get the rest of us killed, then I'm not stopping."

"That's bull!" Martin exploded. "You cold-hearted son of-"

"Fine, Reverend. You go outside and get her yourself. Did you two really travel all the way from West Virginia just to see those things get Danny?

Martin didn't reply.

Don clenched his jaw. "We don't have time to argue."

Jim cleared his throat. "I hate to say it, Martin, but he's making sense. I'm not sacrificing Danny. I'll sacrifice myself before I'll let those things get him."

Martin shrugged.

"Of course. We can't do that. It just seems so ..."

"I know. It sucks."

Don jangled the keys. "Okay then. Here we go."

He thumbed the remote. The alarm system beeped softly in the darkness as the doors automatically unlocked. Don tossed Martin the keys and then crept to the garage door.

"Don't start it yet," Don whispered to Martin. "We don't need to alert them."

The Explorer had been backed into the garage. Jim buckled Danny into the backseat and sat next to him. Martin got in on the passenger side, slid the key into the ignition and gave Don a nervous glance.

Carefully, Don rotated the knob on the combination lock. Sweat dripped from his forehead, stinging his eyes. It was sweltering inside the garage, and the stench of rotting flesh overpowered the usual smells of motor oil, paint cans and lawn clippings. It took him three tries, but then the lock snicked open. He nodded at Martin and let the chains fall.

Swallowing, Martin turned the key. The vehicle roared to life as the heavy steel chains landed on the cement floor.

"They're inside the garage," a zombie in the driveway shouted. "Here! They're in here! Around front!"

Don sprinted for the driver's side and slammed the door behind him. The garage door rattled on its frame as the zombies hammered against it.

"You guys ready?"

Jim and Martin nodded.

With the press of a button, Don locked the Explorer's doors, sealing them inside the vehicle. He thumbed a second button and the garage door began to rise, the electricity coming from the battery on the roof.

Smoke from the burning house next door curled through the crack. As the door rose further, they saw feet, some clad in sneakers or dress shoes, others bare and in various stages of decay.

The door continued to rise.

Don flicked on the headlights.

A dozen zombies stood framed in the garage doorway, shoulder to shoulder, blocking their exit. The one in the middle raised a Mossberg pump shotgun and fired.

Danny screamed.

Wet, cold, and trembling with pain and shock, Frankie glanced around in panic. The German shepherd hobbled toward her on three legs. To her right, six human corpses and an undead cat crept closer. One of the zombies wielded a golf club and two others brandished butcher knives.

Closing in on her left was a creature dressed in the tattered remains of a paramedic's uniform. Its skin was burned black and peeling off in layers. It clutched a small .22 pistol in one charred hand. Behind it stood another, fresher corpse, brandishing a fireplace poker. Frankie was afraid to turn and see what was behind her.

The stench grew worse as they drew closer. She held her breath. The smoke stung her eyes, making them water. Her head swam, and her wounded leg and arm felt heavy, like they were made of lead.

"It will be easier if you don't resist," the burned zombie rasped. Its voice was like sandpaper. "Not as much fun for us, but easier all the same."

"Fuck you," she choked, trying to sound brave. To her ears, the words sounded anything but.

Another corpse stepped closer. Frankie watched in revulsion as a plump worm dropped from its forearm.

"How many humans were with you?"

Frankie recoiled. Its breath was like an open sewer.

The dog growled, a phlegmatic rumble that lost none of its menace. Black fluid leaked from its eyes and nose.

The burned ghoul grabbed her arm. Its fingers felt like cold, raw sausages.

"We counted four of you, plus one in the other house. Are there more?"

She spat in its face. The act winded her and the thickening smoke made breathing torture.

"No matter." It grinned, revealing blackened, broken teeth. "We'll find out soon enough."

The grip on her arm tightened and the rest of them closed ranks. Frankie tensed.

"I hope that when you eat me, you all catch herpes."

Her hand darted for the burned zombie's face, plunging two fingers into its eyes, blinding it. The creature reared back in surprise and Frankie broke free of its grip. Without pausing, she clubbed its head with the empty rifle.

The dog leaped, white fangs flashing in the darkness. Frankie dropped and rolled. The dog fell sprawling beyond her.

Above the shouts, Frankie heard a motor turn over.

"They're inside the garage! Here! They're in here! Around front!"

The haze thickened, obscuring everything except the zombies surrounding her. Taking advantage of the distraction, Frankie plunged into the smoke.

The first shotgun blast shattered the passenger's side headlight. The zombie jacked the Mossberg's pump again, and Martin watched, transfixed as the empty shell floated through the air in seemingly slow motion.

"Shoot it, Martin!" Jim shouted.

"No." Don grabbed Martin's wrist. "Don't waste your ammunition. We don't know how long it will be before we can get more."

The creature fired again and took out the remaining headlight. Laughing, the other zombies fanned out, completely blocking the doorway.

"De Santos!" Jim punched his shoulder from the backseat. "Drive!"

Don was frozen behind the wheel, his eyes wide. Panic had gripped him, and he wasn't thinking clearly.

Danny whimpered, covering his ears with his hands.

"Well, what are we supposed to do if we're not shooting?" Martin asked.

"This." Don's paralysis snapped, and he stomped on the accelerator.

The zombie's laughter stopped as the SUV shot toward them. The fresher corpses flung themselves aside. Don mowed down the slower ones. The impact jolted the vehicle, and he prayed that the airbags wouldn't deploy. There were more bumps and then they were free, speeding down the driveway.

Thick, black smoke engulfed everything and with no headlights, Don couldn't see more than a few feet ahead. Frightened and still not thinking clearly, he squealed to a stop and glanced into the rear-view mirror. The zombie with the shotgun clambered to its feet.

"Get down!"

Jim shielded Danny with his body. A second later, the rear window shattered, spraying them with chunks of broken glass. Danny screamed again.

"What are you doing?" Martin shouted. "Drive!"

Don gunned the engine.

"You guys hit?" he asked.

"No, we're not hurt," Jim told him and then turned to Danny. "It's going to be okay. Just hang in there."

"I'm scared, Daddy. I want to go home! I want Mommy!"

"I know, squirt. I know ..."

Don squealed out into the road and the smoke grew thinner. He ran over another zombie. A satisfied thrill shot through him as he felt the crunch beneath his tires.

"You keep doing that and this thing won't make it much further," Martin said.

Ignoring him, Don spun the wheel and aimed at another figure lurching out of the smoke.

"Stop," Jim shouted. "That's Frankie!"

She limped across the yard, her clothing soaked with blood and her head drooping. Weakly, she raised her hands to signal them. A horde of the creatures pursued her.

"Shit!" Don slammed the brakes. The Explorer fishtailed, ramming into the abandoned Humvee. Jim's head cracked against the side window.

Martin rolled down the window and took aim. His hands were shaking.

"Frankie, get down!"

She collapsed, flattening herself out on the grass.

"Lord, guide my hand."

Martin squeezed the trigger and dispatched the lead zombie. He fired again at the remains of a German shepherd, but the shot passed through its breast. Don put the Explorer in park and rolled down the driver's side window. He crawled halfway out and began firing over the hood. The Colt .45's thunderous roar drowned out Martin's smaller pistol.

Jim glanced around. Zombies were converging on them from every direction.

"They're almost on top of us!"

Frankie crawled toward them. Blood streamed down her dirty face. Martin flung open the door and ran toward her.

"Martin," Jim yelled, "what are you doing?"

Don ducked back inside. "I can't get a clear shot. The old man's in the way."

Martin took two steps and fired, three more steps and fired again, steadily closing the distance between himself and the injured woman.

"What the hell are you doing, preacher-man?" Frankie gasped. "Get back in that ride before they get you too."

"I don't think so," Martin said. "You rescued me in Hellertown so now I'm repaying the favor."

Don drove up over the curb and across the yard toward them. The wind picked up, blowing the smoke away from the street. Orange flames licked across the roof of his home. Anger and sadness welled up inside him and he fought for control.

Goodbye, My ma, he thought. I love you and I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry ...

Grunting with effort, Martin dragged Frankie to her feet. Supporting her with one arm, he sighted on the dog again and squeezed the trigger. The pistol clicked empty.

"What now?" Frankie grunted.

"We've still got this." He pulled out the knife as he dragged her across the grass. Frankie ground her teeth as Martin accidentally brushed against her head wound with his thigh.

Don whipped toward them, but so did the dog. The dog was quicker. Its jaws snapped shut on Frankie's wounded leg. Shrieking, she beat at its head.

The others watched in horror, and Don was reminded of Rocky.

Martin stabbed with the knife. The blade lodged in the dog's skull, right between the ears. Grunting, he tried to free it, but the knife would not budge.

"Get it off me!" Frankie moaned.

"The blade is stuck in its skull."

A bullet plowed into the dirt by his feet. Clenching his false teeth together, Martin tugged at the handle again. The knife stayed put.

"H-hurts ..." Frankie panted. "Forget about the knife!"

"Come on."

Martin dragged her toward the Explorer. The dog's corpse trailed along behind them, jaws clamped tight on Frankie's leg, even in death.

Don fired again, and the pursuing zombies drew back, seeking cover. More of the creatures emerged from the other houses.

Jim's hand slid to the door handle. "Danny, stay here."

Danny reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Daddy, no. Don't go out there!"

"I have to. They're in trouble."

Hefting the hatchet, Jim opened the door and ran toward them. With four precise swings, he severed the dog's head from its body. Frankie's eyes rolled up as she passed out. Martin and Jim quickly loaded the unconscious woman into the cargo area of the SUV. The dog's head was still attached to her leg like a leech.

Don ducked back inside the vehicle.

"I'm empty!"

"Forget about it," Jim snapped. "Just drive."

They sped away. The zombies faded in the rear-view mirror. The fire became a dull orange glow, and then vanished as Don turned onto a side street.

Martin sighed with relief. "We made it. Thank you, Lord."

"Any ideas where we're going?" Don asked.

"Away from here," Jim said. He probed the dog's teeth, searching for an opening. Frankie's blood seeped out around them. He pulled and the jaws opened, releasing her. The severed head snapped at him instead. A long, scabrous tongue lolled from the dog's mouth.

"Jesus-it's still moving!"

"The blade must not have hit the brain," Martin said.

Grabbing the head by the ears, Jim rolled down the window and tossed it away.

Frankie's eyes flickered. Her breathing became erratic.

"Where's that bitch going with my baby?" she moaned.

"Is she going to be okay, Daddy?"

"I don't know, Danny. I don't know."

More darkened homes and a strip mall flashed by them.

Don slowed down.

"What are you doing?" Martin asked.

"The headlights are shot out. Last thing we need is to run into something."

"True."

"I'm sorry I freaked out, back there in the garage," Don apologized.

"Don't worry about it," Martin assured him. "These things take some getting used to."

Don glanced into the backseat. "How bad is it?"

"She's been shot in the leg," Jim said, "and there's a bad gash on the back of her head. This dog bite is on top of the gunshot wound. She's lost a lot of blood. I reckon she's in shock. You got any clean rags in this thing?"

"There's a blanket underneath the seat. We used to use

it for Rocky, but I guess it's clean enough. Cleaner than the clothes we're wearing at least."

"Who's Rocky?"

"Our-our dog."

Jim opened a bottle of water and washed her wounds. Then he bandaged them as best he could, tearing the thin dog blanket into strips.

To their left, the New York City skyline rose into the night, the buildings resembling giant tombstones. Don shivered. The city was eerie.

He'd grown up with a view of the skyline and lived in its shadow his entire adult life. With the exception of a blackout, he had never seen it so utterly dark. The towering skyscrapers were enveloped in blackness.

All but one.

He pointed. "Would you look at that?"

Ramsey Towers, the second highest building in New York City, was lit up like a Christmas tree, the windows flooded with light. A colored strobe pulsed from red to blue on the roof, flashing a beam into the night sky.

Jim whistled softly and a moment later, Danny mimicked him. They grinned at each other.

"Could we make it there?" Martin asked.

"There are easier ways to commit suicide," Don said. "Do you have any idea how many zombies there must be in the five boroughs? New York's population was what, eight million? They didn't evacuate until it was too late, and how many people were killed during the riots and looting?

Not to mention all the wildlife; pigeons, rats, cats, and dogs."

"That's a lot of zombies," Jim agreed.

"Besides," Don said, "it's got to be a trap."

"What makes you say that?" Martin asked.

"Think about it, Reverend. If you were in a

skyscraper, would you light the building up and let all those creatures know where you were? That's like ringing the dinner bell."

"I reckon." Martin stroked his chin. "So what do you figure it is?"

"Like I said, it has to be a trap. I remember reading how self-sufficient that building was. Supposed to be able to withstand anything. Some of the zombies probably got the power running inside and lit it up, hoping to attract survivors like us."

"Like mosquitoes to a bug light," Jim said from the back. "Look, we've got to get some help for Frankie. We're better off heading out into the country, away from civilization. Even then, we're not safe. But at least it's somewhere other than here."

"There's a hospital nearby," Don said. "They just finished building it a few months ago. We could get what Frankie needs there. Find a doctor that's still alive."

"How populated is the area it's in?"

"Like everywhere else around here. But maybe one of us could sneak inside, steal some supplies at the very least."

Jim shook his head. "Too risky. Let's get out to the country first.

Maybe we can find a doctor's office or something. What about these Pine Barrens I'm always hearing about? How far away are they?"

Don laughed. "South. If you want country, the Pine Barrens are about as country as you can get. We've got about a half tank of gas, so we could make it that far. But I don't know how we'll refill the tank once we're empty. None of the pumps will work with the power off."

"God will provide," Martin said. His voice was dreamy, his attention focused on the skyscraper.

"If you say so," Don replied. "But God hasn't done a real good job so far."

"We're alive, aren't we?" Martin tore his eyes away from the mesmerizing light of the lone skyscraper. "He has seen us through. He wouldn't abandon his faithful servants now."

Don glanced into the rear-view mirror and froze.

"Oh no ..."

"What now?" Jim sighed.

Don's voice was barely a whisper

"You guys left the keys in your Humvee."

"What are you talking about?" Martin asked. "That doesn't matter. We can find another one."

"Don't need to find one. It found us."

Jim and Martin looked out the back window.

Their abandoned Humvee raced toward them, the headlights like the eyes of an onrushing dragon.

"Fuck, who's driving that thing?" Don shouted.

"Who do you think?" Jim scrambled for a weapon. "The zombies!"

More headlights appeared behind them; as cars, trucks, and a motorcycle joined the chase.

Don wiped the sweat from his brow. "It never ends, does it? It never fucking ends."

"Can they catch us?" Martin asked.

"I sure as hell hope not." Don pressed the accelerator to the floor and the Explorer shot forward.

There was a flash in the darkness and a muffled shot rang out behind them.

"Looks like they've reloaded," Jim said. "We'd better do the same."

"I'm empty," Don grunted.

Martin nodded. "Me too. I used it all saving Frankie."

Jim reached into the back and grabbed Frankie's M-16. He checked the magazine and then thumped the seat in frustration.

"She's empty, too."

The Explorer bounced over some railroad tracks. Another explosion made them jump. The shot hit the rear bumper with a loud crack.

"We've still got the hatchet," Don said.

"Oh, well that's just great. What do we do-throw it at them?"

Their pursuers closed the distance. A red Mazda darted out from behind the Humvee and drew alongside. A zombie leaned out the window, holding an aerosol can. With its other hand, the thing held up a lighter.

Don stared in confusion.

"What the fu-"

The creature flicked the lighter and then depressed the button on top of the can. A burst of flame surged toward them, licking at the driver's side window.

"Jesus Christ," Jim shouted. "Who is this guy- McGuyver?"

Startled, Don swerved away. The driver of the Mazda followed, sideswiping the larger vehicle. There was a hideous shriek of metal as the two collided and then the Explorer ripped free.

"A homemade flamethrower," Don gasped. "I know you guys said these things were crafty, but this ..."

Danny started crying. Jim slid an arm around his shoulders, and tried to brace him and comfort him at the same time.

"It'll be okay. It'll be-"

The Humvee leapt out of the darkness, its headlights looming in the Explorer's rear windshield. The SUV shuddered as the military vehicle rammed it from behind. The Humvee accelerated and slammed into them again.

Martin's head whipped sideways, striking the window. His false teeth rattled. He winced, tasting blood in his mouth.

Don took one hand off the wheel and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

"They'll destroy themselves too, if they keep this up."

"So?" Jim held Danny tighter. "They're already dead. They don't care if their bodies get destroyed in the process. They'll just get new ones."

The Humvee crashed into them a third time, tearing their rear bumper loose. Don fought for control and skidded onto another street, lined with tall oak and elm trees that blocked out the moonlight.

"This is no good," he grunted. "I can't see shit."

"Hang on tight." Martin braced against the dash. "Here they come again!"

Danny's tears soaked into Jim's shirt. The approaching headlights filled the interior, blinding them. In the cargo area, Frankie moaned again.

"My baby ... took my baby ... let me get a fix ..."

Like a battering ram, the Humvee impacted with the Explorer, shoving it forward. At the same time, the zombie on the motorcycle raced ahead.

Grinning, it pulled in front of them, extended its middle finger and then purposely spilled the bike.

Both motorcycle and rider vanished beneath the Explorer's tires. Steel and rotting flesh met more steel and pavement. A shower of sparks flew into the air. They spun out of control. The Explorer bounced over the curb, clipped a tree, and then rocketed down an embankment toward a glass-partitioned guard shack in front of a parking garage.

Don had time to think. It's a parking attendant's booth.

Jim and Danny clutched each other. Martin's lips moved in prayer. "Thy will be done. Deliver us again, Lord ..." Then they slammed into the booth and knew no more.

SIX

In the darkness, the old man sipped wine and gazed out upon his city. It festered below him like an open sore- swollen with infection, spurting gangrenous pus, filled with cancerous cells that multiplied into infinity. His city, New York City, was dead yet living. It lived not in the shambling, insect-sized mockeries far below, but in those he had saved, now sequestered here in the tower.

His tower.

His flock.

There was a quiet rustling of air behind him. The flame dancing atop the candle flickered, indicating someone had entered the room. He did not turn around, knowing how proud and strong and sympathetic he must look, standing there outlined by New York's decaying skyline. Appearances were important. They were an illusion, and all power was built upon illusion.

Framed in the doorway behind him, Bates cleared his throat.

Smiling, the old man watched his confidant's reflection in the window.