Del eyed the delicacy as he strapped a collar around Patrick's neck. A leash trailed halfway down the man's back.

"No, thanks."

"Suit yourself, but it was pretty good."

Del picked up the end of the lead as Patrick shuffled into the hall. The two men made their way down the corridor through three sets of guards and doors onto an elevator. When the metal doors slid closed, Patrick leaned against the back wall and took a deep breath.

"Do you want to know what really happened?" Patrick asked.

"To what?" Del pressed the button that would take them to the roof.

"The real story that wasn't in my records. What happened to my family on the last day of their so called lives."

Del shrugged as the elevator rose.

"I used to be a soldier, a good soldier. Did they mention that?"

Del nodded.

"I had three girls. Maggie, Taylor, and Jill. They all favored their mother, my wife. She was the love of my life until she met someone else while I was off saving the world." Patrick scratched his nose on his shoulder and strained to get more comfortable in his restraints. "She decided she wanted to leave me, but she didn't want the girls. Her lover didn't like children."

"Why didn't you get custody and let her go?" Del tilted his head, trying to understand.

"I would have been OK with that, but she had already made other plans. The man she'd fallen for had a farm outside the city." Patrick motioned with his forehead toward where Del thought the city gates should be.

"I thought outland farms were extinct," Del said.

He scratched the back of his neck with a well-clipped fingernail. Laboratories raised all the livestock for consumer consumption. The elevator continued to rise.

"Not that kind of farm." Patrick cleared his throat. "He raises shamblers and sells them on the black market."

"Who would buy black market shamblers?" Del wrinkled his nose as if a skunk had trotted into the small space.

"Anyone without a conscience looking for cheap knock-offs to use as scare tactics or terrorist cells."

Del thought of his own squad. The paperwork for the original ten had been stamped in bold blue and red with the words "guaranteed free-range." The facility had paid the wranglers a pretty penny for quality. The squad wouldn't be as effective had they been farmed.

"How do you know all this?" Del asked.

"Because Mary, that was my wife, told me before I locked her in the attic with the kids."

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open to reveal a short hallway leading to an exit. Patrick shuffled forward as Del shook the correct key free from the others on the chain. He unlocked the last lock and let in a fresh breeze. Patrick filled his lungs with air and exhaled in a long, slow breath before continuing.

"She hadn't wanted me to have the girls. She said I had deserted her too many times while I was trying to do my duty, and she was bitter. She met this guy, and he talked her into setting the girls free. That's what he called it. Setting them free."

Patrick took a step toward the edge of the roof as he gazed up at a flock of drifting clouds. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" He motioned toward the sky with his chin.

"Yeah," Del said distracted by the man's words. "But what did your wife mean by setting them free?"

Patrick turned and pierced Del with a scowling glance.

"She had injected them with the infection. They were turning into zombies. She was taking them to the farm. That's why I locked them in the attic before they changed. I couldn't let her take them to the farm and be sold. I couldn't let her get away with it. They could have grown up, gone to school, gotten married. I could have had grandkids."

Patrick dropped his chin to his chest and let out a long sob. Leaves murmured in the slight breeze as a small bird twittered to rest on a branch. Del shuffled his feet in the gravel and chewed on the inside of his lip.

"What happened next?"

Patrick lifted his head and huffed before continuing.

"After the girls turned, they attacked their mother. They didn't leave enough of her to turn." Patrick lowered his voice to a whisper. "I had to put them down before the authorities came and carted them off to be trained. Do you have kids?"

Del shook his head.

"Not yet, but we've got one on the way."

Patrick pursed his lips into a small smile. He stared at the passing clouds.

"Why didn't you tell someone?" Del asked.

Patrick let out a bitter laugh.

"I wanted to during the trial, but the dump truck they assigned to my case told me I'd be charged with slander in addition to murder if I took the stand. So I kept quiet and watched the rest of my life go up in flames."

A brisk wind flapped Del's coattails.

"How come the story never made the news?"

"You won't believe me if I tell you," Patrick said, shaking his head.

"Try me."

Del crossed his arms and waited. Patrick shuffled toward the edge of the roof. Del wouldn't have blamed the mad if he'd tried to jump, but he doubted Patrick would leave the rest of his story untold.

"Have you seen the safety billboards?" Patrick asked.

"You mean the ones with the guy in the suit surrounded by half-naked women?"

"Yeah," Patrick snorted. "That guy is the head of the Community Safety Council. He's the one that deploys the troops to outbreak sites. He decides where to build up the walls and where to tear them down. He's the one that pardons the criminals and hires the guards for the city. I'm guessing he even hired you."

"You're saying Theodore Marquet owns the farm?"

Patrick nodded.

"Do you have proof?"

Patrick shook his head and dropped to his knees on the gravel rooftop.

"The only thing I have is a vague idea of where it is."

"Well, that's a start, but without proof, I don't think anyone will believe it."

Del ran a hand through his hair and glanced at his watch. Patrick had an hour to live.

"You believe me?" Patrick asked, squinting up at Del.

"I don't know," Del answered. "But we'd better head back inside."

Del helped Patrick stand, shuffled him back to his cell, and unlocked his restraints. Slipping the pen from his pocket and tearing a piece of paper from his notebook, Del handed the items to Patrick through the slot.

"Write down what you know about the farm. I'll see if there's anything I can do to postpone your extermination."

"Hey, man," Patrick said. I'll write down what I know, but you don't need to postpone anything. I'm ready to die. I don't want to hear my girls screaming in my nightmares anymore."

"I've still got to try," Del said, tapping the door before jogging back to the office.

Del's attention to detail had earned him high praise in every job he'd held. He circled the pristine room looking for something to sabotage and wished he'd been more of a slacker. He had oiled the trapdoor that morning. The harness wasn't necessary, so there was no point slicing it to ribbons. He couldn't even lock the door and lose the keys because the closest guard station had a spare set.

If Patrick had shared his story last night instead of this morning, Del might have had time to fashion a replacement for the prisoner. The previous exterminator had managed it twice with a sculptor and a slab of pork. No guarantee accompanied such a proxy. The third time the man had attempted the ruse, the management had discovered his scheme. They exterminated him along with the original quarry.

Del shouted in frustration at the situation and heard his squad moan in reply. Overfeeding them was out of the question. He knew from watching during the original outbreak their appetites never diminished.

The clock chimed once. Fifteen 'til the hour. Del trudged from the room to retrieve the prisoner.

"Please, put your arms through the slot," Del said in a flat voice.

Two arms wiggled through the opening.

"Don't look so down," Patrick said as he palmed the pen and paper back to Del. "I'll see my girls soon."

"Don't you want to live?" Del shackled the man's arms before opening the door and attaching the collar.

"Nobody lives forever. And besides, there's not much left in this world for me."

"Do you have any regrets?" Del snapped the leash to the collar.

The lights in the room buzzed. A fly crashed into the bulb. Patrick tilted his head and twisted his mouth into a frown before answering.

"I can't say I regret marrying Mary. I'd never have had my kids. I can't say I regret being deployed. I saved a lot of people." Patrick blew out a breath and tilted his head. "I guess I regret not seeing what was coming. I could have saved my girls."

The ankle restraints swished along the floor with his every step. Patrick nodded to the guard behind the glass as they walked past. The light at the end of the hall flickered. Without another word, the two men traversed the final corridor. When they reached the extermination room, Del stopped.

"We can keep walking."

"No, I need to go. And you need to be around for you baby." Patrick flicked his chin toward the closed door. "Is this the place?"

Del led Patrick into the room and strapped him into the leather harness. Unfastening the restraints, Del tossed them on the desk. He watched as the leash slithered to the floor. A stack of paperwork waited for his signature.

"Any last words?" Del asked.

Patrick smiled.

"If I walk." Patrick swallowed. "Don't let me walk for long."

"I'll do what I can," Del promised as he squatted, grasping for the trapdoor's handle and pulled.

The silent wheels rolled in the tracks. Del stared into the milky eyes of his squad. Their bony fingers seemed to lengthen as they reached toward their prey. Why did they have to be so competent?

"And if the opportunity ever comes, take out the farm," Patrick whispered. "Just not at the expense of your family."

Looking up at the man swinging above him, Del gave a slight nod. The clock chimed the first eleven. Del walked to the crank and turned the handle.

"Goodbye, Patrick."

Patrick spun in the harness and saluted as Del lowered him through the trapdoor into the waiting arms of the squad.

Rebecca Snow is a Virginia writer whose cats could conquer the world if they didn't sleep so much. Her stories have been published in a number of anthologies and online. You can find her blathering on cemeteryflowerblog.wordpress.com. She's stalkable on Twitter @cemeteryflower. You can also follow her on Facebook. Look for the bloody handprint. Originally published in Library of the Living Dead's Live and Let Undead, "A Mile in His Shoes" is currently being expanded into a novel.

Anna Taborska Picture This Picture this: you've been hanging around for years in Uncle Geoffrey's stinking dark house, waiting for the old codger to pop off so you can inherit his loot. You've wasted your youth listening to his plaintive gibbering and cleaning out his bedpan. Finally, you can't stand it anymore. You wait until he's asleep and then you put his pillow over his face and push down hard until he stops kicking. Then you dig a hole at the bottom of the garden and bury him in it. At last you're free to live your life the way you deserve.

But Uncle Geoffrey comes back. And he brings with him Aunt Mildred, cousin Hildegard and a dozen other decomposing occupants of the local cemetery. They shuffle grimly towards the house. You try the back way out, but are stopped by a rotting corpse with green guts dangling from its bloated belly. You bolt the doors and secure the windows, but from somewhere to your left you hear the sound of breaking glass.

Then the front door comes flying off its hinges, and enter Uncle Geoffrey, his face grey and his eyes still bulging from the strain of breathing mucus-covered pillow instead of air. He moves towards you stiffly, rigor mortis turning his fingers into talons and his legs into rigid planks of wood. He's drooling down the front of his gown, and his bloodshot eyes never blink. From the way he's staring at you, you can't tell if he's overcome with rage or if he just wants to rip your head off and eat your brains.

You fumble with the shells of the shotgun you've just wrenched from the cupboard in the corner. You aim at Uncle Geoffrey's head and pull the trigger. Uncle Geoffrey's head explodes. But Uncle Geoffrey just keeps coming...

Anna is a horror writer and filmmaker. Her debut short story collection, FOR THOSE WHO DREAM MONSTERS, will be coming out later this year. You can view Anna's resume and watch clips from her films here: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1245940/ Ally Thomas Zombie Wolf The Next Generation Excerpt By Ally Thomas Copyright 2013 Ally Thomas

Introduction.

The following is a short excerpt from a new paranormal fantasy series by Ally Thomas entitled, "Zombie Wolf".

Here's a synopsis of the first installment, "Zombie Wolf: The Next Generation #1" to be released later this year or in 2014: At twenty-four Zachary has been through many zombie outbreaks and knows how to stay alive. He's been so good at killing zombies for so many years that he makes a living at it. He claims it's the reason he has the nickname the 'Zombie Wolf' because he's a werewolf who kills zombies. However, that's not all there is to it. Zachary is no ordinary werewolf.