The man squawked, sounding and looking like a frightened chicken as the flashlight bounced off his face. The light went out and darkness reclaimed the room. Timmy ran. In an instant he was past where the man was, his eyes focused on the soft glow at the front of the store. Then something slammed into his back, sending him sprawling across the floor.

He tried to get up but he couldn't breathe. Chester had swung blindly with the bat and it had knocked the wind right out of him. But it looked like his luck was in. The bat had connected as he was running away from and not toward Chester. He heard something clatter to the ground. The bat, he a.s.sumed. Chester was mewling in the darkness.

"Fhucking brat broke my toof. Fhucking brat. "

Timmy made it to his hands and knees. Small droplets of blood fell to the floor, spattering a dancing Snoopy card - "Wish you were Deer!" He had bitten his lip when he fell and it would smart like h.e.l.l later.

If there is a later. He started crawling toward the door, still a good piece away.

Chester was on the move again. Timmy risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw a dark figure moving cautiously toward him, both hands covering his face.

An eternity later air came rushing back into Timmy's lungs. He scrambled to his feet and started running. Chester was moving faster as well, mumbling between breaths.

"Open the door ... and ... therth ... the peoples ..."

Timmy ran, his bag of goodies flapping wildly against his legs. He could see the door.

"Gonna git ya ..."

He didn't dare look back now, but he was sure the voice was - "Closer ... almosth dere ..." Chester gasped.

He could see the door clearly now.

Oh s.h.i.tf.u.c.kjesusmother!

He'd forgotten about Hardly Deadinsen. The big zombie stood on the other side of the door, its maggoty face pressed against the gla.s.s, searching for treats. Timmy picked up the pace, his thin legs madly pumping up and down.

"Too late," Chester wheezed.

He gave an inarticulate shout and threw himself at the door as hard and fast as he could, combined with a blind yank at the bolt somewhere above his head. The revolving door released, then all too slowly spun and pulled him outside, while pushing the zombie inside. The bag caught on the door frame and tore open, spilling pills, candy bars and batteries all over the ground. Timmy followed, falling a.s.s over tea kettle on the sidewalk, adding a few more cuts and bruises to the bill.

From inside he heard Chester grunt as he slammed into something. Then he heard Chester scream. And scream.

By the time Timmy gathered up the items from the ground, the CVS was once again silent.

Chapter 30.

Introductions.

Jon stood behind the podium, his best bulls.h.i.t smile plastered firmly in place. Deerkill's newest breathing residents filled half the seats in the meeting hall, formally known as theater four in the Lowes Multiplex. Word of his arrival had spread quickly, and people were curious.

Mayor Hart wound up his introductory speech. Earlier, Jon overheard two women in the back of the theater refer to him as "Mayor Biggie". Apparently the self-appointed administrator of Deerkill was quite the ladies man. He was a bit older and heavier than Jon, with a seventies p.o.r.no star mustache. And if Ann Landers and her friend were to be believed, he packed quite a weapon between those chaffing thighs. He looked every part the clown, and Jon knew it would be a mistake to underestimate him. Anyone who could look as useless as that and end up running a town had to be more than he appeared.

"Electricity is back on in most of the town, as I'm sure you all figured out by now, and that's good news. Enjoy it. Half the world or more may be trying to eat us, but that don't mean we can't still play Xbox. Right, Timmy?"

The crowd chuckled politely and Jon saw a young boy a few rows back blush. Even sitting down, Jon could tell he was all elbows and knees. He wore a Bart Simpson T-shirt, with 'Eat My Shorts' written underneath the little scamp and his skateboard.

It's him. G.o.ddammit, it's him.

"We still need to clear out everything north of Laguna Drive to the highway." The Mayor held up his hand to quiet the few murmurs of protest. "Now I know that no one's seen anything, but better safe than sorry. And idle hands and all that." He produced a clean looking handkerchief and blotted his brow.

The boy was with a woman; more than pretty enough to hold Jon's interest at any other time. He was in the dream. Standing beside that mailman. He was almost sure of it - almost. He didn't remember exactly what the boy in the dream looked like. But he was wearing the same T-shirt as Timmy there; same age too.

"And we are in luck," Mayor Biggie continued. "Mr. Tanner and his friend, Sunshine -"

"Bill. My name's Bill, not Sunshine."

The Mayor's smile slipped just a bit. "- and his friend Bill here, have decided to join us for a spell. He - they - seem competent and willing, two qualities we can always use here. We're giving Jon Tanner and his friend the job. Mr. Tanner?" Mayor Biggie made an overly magnanimous gesture and Jon limped up to the podium accompanied by a smattering of polite applause.

Jon smiled. "Thank you. I'm not used to speaking in front of a crowd, but I guess we're all doing things these days that we're not used to." A few chuckles. "We came up from eastern Pennsylvania. Things aren't any better there, as I'm sure you know. Sunshine and I ..." Jon shot him a quick look and Sunshine decided to keep quiet. "... we put some hard miles behind us. And we'd like to stay put here for a while. We hope you'll have us."

As with all town meetings there were cookies and orangeade in the lobby. Jon munched on an Oreo and smiled at Annie.

"We live about a half-mile from here."

"Just you and your son?"

"Stepson, yes." Annie absently played with her hair, making Jon smile.

Some things never change. She was still pretty up close. Nice body, perky t.i.ts. Eyes are a little gla.s.sy. She's probably on something.

"I haven't seen his father since the trouble began."

Jon's smile grew a bit wider. "What a shame."

"Mr. Tanner, I wonder if I might have a word with you." Mayor Biggie rested a meaty paw on Jon's shoulder. "If you'd excuse us for a minute, Annie?"

"Of course. I should be getting back to the house anyway." She smiled at Jon. "Mr. Tanner, if you're all settled in, Timmy and I would love to have you over for dinner tomorrow night?"

"That sounds wonderful. It's been a while since I've had anything that didn't come out of a bag or can."

"I hope I don't disappoint you. Tom does an amazing job of providing fresh produce and meat for our community. But I'm afraid he's a better provider than I am a cook."

Mayor Biggie gave a hearty laugh. "Don't you believe a word she says, Jon. Annie here cooks even better than she looks. I may bring home the bacon for the good people here, but no one fries it up in the pan like her. Now, if you'll excuse us, darlin', I need to bend Mr. Tanner's ear for a bit."

Jon took Annie's hand in his. "I'll be looking forward to it."

Inside his office away from the good people of Deerkill, Mayor Biggie discarded his saccharine smile and pompous swagger.

"You seem like a smart man, Mr. Tanner." Biggie went to the cabinet behind his desk and took out a bottle of J&B and two gla.s.ses. "The people here all have safe, secure homes, more or less, with plenty of food and clean water. We even have a nice stockpile of medical supplies and some of what I like to call specialty items." He handed Jon a gla.s.s and gestured to a chair. "Please."

Jon sat.

"By specialty items ...?"

"Cocaine, weed, ammo, morphine, smack, guns. h.e.l.l, we even got fifty pounds of sweet Italian sausage just yesterday. The thing is, Jon, that -"

"Nothing worth anything comes cheap," Jon finished.

Mayor Biggie nodded. "That's right, son. Nothing is free. I run this town partly because I have connections."

Jon smiled. "You know a guy who knows a guy."

Mayor Biggie didn't. "Something like that."

"Mr. Mayor, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested in some of those specialty items. Despite my fine speech out there, I'm not planning on staying. I'm going west, and I'd like to be going with cocaine, morphine and whatever else I can get my hands on."

"My 'connections' can probably get you anything you need. But their price is high. I'm not sure if you'd be willing to pay what I'm asking."

Jon leaned forward, looking directly at Mayor Biggie. He was getting tired of waltzing around here. "Let's cut to the chase, Mayor. What are you looking for?"

Mayor Biggie raised his gla.s.s and smiled.

"Why, blood, Mr. Tanner. I'm looking for blood."

Chapter 31.

Orphans Wilbur sat at his desk, a heavy wool blanket draped over his shoulders. The Kansas Baptist Children's Home was too cold and drafty in the winter, and too hot and stale in the summer. He was happy to bear the burden because, like him, his bank account was fat and growing. The only hot things in the orphanage this winter were its books. Praise Jesus, he'd be cooking the books for some time to come.

A strong gust hammered the orphanage and the lights flickered and dimmed again. A doosey of a blizzard blew in just after supper and by the sound of the wind rattling the windows it was planning on staying for breakfast - cornflakes on Tuesdays.

Twenty-seven small and very cold children resided under his roof at the moment, ranging in ages from eight to fourteen - thirteen girls and fourteen boys. Most were not technically orphans, just discarded; abandoned by parents with other priorities, like crack. Wilbur didn't have any children of his own, praise Jesus, and nothing about this place made him regret it. No, sir. If the last nine years had taught him anything, it was that children were nothing more than little b.i.t.c.hing machines - like wives without benefits. Not that he was married, praise Jesus.

He picked up the week's dining schedule from his desk, red pen in hand. The children's menu was provided by the State every month, together with the stipend check. This week's menu called for twenty pounds of bacon, fourteen dozen eggs, various lunch meats, blah, blah, blah. There's what should be and there's what is and never the twain shall meet. He crossed out bacon and eggs and wrote 'hot cereal' in the margins. 'Lunch meat' fell victim to 'rice and beans', and dessert - 'ice cream and Jell-O' - simply went the way of the Dodo. A balanced meal was one of the many casualties of Wilbur's creative accounting, here at the home for rug rat returns.

Maybe I'll requisition fresh eggs next month, or a few turkeys for Christmas.

Not that he'd be there in December. Decembers were spent with Mother in Miami. Spending so much time with these d.a.m.n kids was depressing, and Wilbur looked forward to his time away with Mom. Sunshine and family, that's what it's all about.

A crash from the downstairs, followed by m.u.f.fled shouting, interrupted his happy thoughts. What in holy h.e.l.l is it this time? He didn't bother getting up. One of the few rules that even he couldn't bend required at least one registered nurse on the premises 24/7. Yolanda had night duty this week. The children hated her, Wilbur knew. He couldn't blame them. He couldn't understand a word she said. She was always shouting and recently she took to calling him 'white devil' when she thought he couldn't hear her. If he wasn't paying her next to nothing, she'd have been history a long time ago.

He flipped on the TV, intending to drown out the storm and the children. Sean Hannity appeared in all his HD glory, gently explaining why the Center for Disease Control was a p.a.w.n of left wing Democrats. Wilbur loved his new TV. Thank you, State of Kansas.

"Don't you find it odd, Congresswoman, that almost all reports of these allegedly 'walking dead' are coming from so-called 'red districts'?"

A black woman sat across from Hannity, dressed in a blue pants suit.

Wilbur rolled his eyes.

"I'm not sure what you're getting at, Sean. This ... this ... whatever this is, is not a political issue. It's a public health and safety issue and it's becoming more apparent every hour. These reports of people attacking loved ones, people waking up from comas and killing indiscriminately - the YouTube videos - all this points to a growing epidemic. An epidemic that has broken out under a Republican Administration, I might add."

"You're not suggesting, Congresswoman, that the Dobbs Administration is somehow responsible ..."

"I'm suggesting that when this whole thing -"

The TV winked out along with the lights, plunging the room into darkness.

"Cheese and crackers." Wilbur sat at his desk, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Even over the howling wind he could hear commotion downstairs. He found the phone in the dark and hit the intercom b.u.t.ton. The intercom system at the orphanage was not exactly high tech. Essentially an open line with speakerphones, it allowed Wilbur to hear what was going on at the other end at all times, rather than just when Yolanda was speaking.

"Yolanda! What's going on down there?"

Shouting - and moaning? - drifted through the speaker.

"Yolanda!"

Something big fell, the sound coming through both speaker and floor.

"Yolanda!"

No Yolanda. He left the intercom on and searched the desk drawer for the flashlight. Power outages were as common as hunger pains here, and Wilbur kept a flashlight in every room. Like everything else, the flashlight was purchased on the cheap. It flickered on, splashing weak yellow light across the floor. The wind outside kicked up some, momentarily drowning out the racket downstairs.

"Cheese and f.u.c.king crackers."

Wilbur got up and made his way to the hallway. The office door swung shut behind him, cutting off Yolanda's final words - not that he'd have understood what she was saying, Jamaican accent or no.

The children's dormitory was two flights down. Even with the electricity on Wilbur tended to take the stairs. It was good exercise. Besides, he didn't trust that deathtrap of an elevator. It pa.s.sed inspection last month by the grace of two Benjamins and a state inspector who was putting two kids through college.

The emergency lights that were supposed to kick in when the electricity went off, didn't. Wilbur was forced to rely on his trusty flashlight. It wasn't easy to negotiate the stairs. Outside his little yellow circle everything was pitch black and light kept jumping around, casting distracting shadows along the wall and stairs.

He took them nice and slow. He was halfway down to the first floor when he heard the stairwell door open. The unmistakable sound of running children drifted up and then was cut off with the sound of the door swinging shut. Wilbur shone his light down the stairwell but it was too weak to illuminate anything more than a few feet away. Have to remember to get some new batteries next time I drive by the WaWa. Maybe one of those big flashlights too, like Mom keeps in the car ...

Wilbur heard little feet hit the stairs and frowned.

"Who's in here? And why aren't you in bed? Answer me."

The sound of footsteps got louder and the dirt-smudged face of Emma Smith swam into view. At eight-years of age, she was one of the younger brats here but she was a veteran nonetheless. She stopped when she saw him on the landing. She's always dirty, that one. Wilbur shone the soft light directly on her face. She was dressed in the white sleeping gown that all the children - girls and boys - wore to bed.

"You're old enough to know better, Emma. No moving about after lights out."

Emma stared into the light for a few moments. She's bleeding. There was a large cut on her bare shoulder and blood colored the left side of her nightgown, giving it a dark purple cast in the light. Her eyes reflected the light, making them look silver. Why isn't she blinking? Wilbur unconsciously took a step backwards.