Today he'd be trying out the game room. It wasn't as fancy shmancy as the one he had before Z-day, but it would have to do.

For starters, the walls weren't completely soundproofed. In a world of concerned citizens and law and order, that would be a problem. But the times they were a-changing. Deerkill was largely empty and most of his neighbors were neither curious nor alive. As for the few that were living, well, these days people tended to treat screams the way they used to treat car alarms - unpleasant and annoying but not worth paying attention to. That's why he had chosen this house. Location, location, location.

Recessed upright against the far wall of the room stood two modified Murphy beds. Both were equipped with thick leather straps - the kind that were all the rage in asylums, prison hospitals and certain Korean ma.s.sage parlors. Above each bed, as well as in each corner of the room, he had installed spy cams to film his activities. A small 'remote caddy' was fixed against the wall between the two beds. All the cameras were connected wirelessly to the TiVo which in turn was hooked up to three large-screen televisions. Using the remote, Jon could direct the camera angles for maximum effect. It took him some time to get the hang of it, but after some practice and reliance on the male chromosome, he could easily manipulate the cameras.

The one thing that bothered Jon about the room was its sterile feel. It felt too clean. Unused. But we can fix that.

Inside the car, Jon turned on the portable TomTom. A few dead undead littered the street in front of the house and driveway. 'Zb.u.mps' he had taken to calling them. The one directly in front of the car had been run over so many times he couldn't tell it had once been human. He could, however, see that the treads on his tires were still good.

TomTom estimated that he would reach his destination in less than twenty minutes. But GPS devices, as good as they were, didn't take into account roaming undead, abandoned cars, armed gangs and broken gas lines. Figure maybe two hours, if he was lucky.

He'd probably return empty handed. It wasn't likely that his prey was still alive or, if so, living at the same address. Survivors tended to move around these days and they weren't leaving forwarding addresses. He turned onto the highway and switched on the XM radio. ZNN radio was running another story about the cause of the plague. The White House denied reports that the virus resulted from a batch of swine flu vaccine that had mutated.

"We don't even know that it is a virus," the spokesman stressed. "What we do know is that it originated in Colorado, in a Democrat district. A district which voted twice for legalizing gay marriage. I'm just sayin'."

Jon switched on the CD player. 'It's the end of the world and we know it' by R.E.M. kicked in, and he turned up the volume. He had made a few post-apocalyptic CDs last week, and this was one of his favorite songs.

Strange that the idea of hunting people he knew never occurred to him before. The thrill of being able to kill just about anything, dead or undead, must have distracted him. After a while, though, the fun factor grew a little thin, and he found himself taking greater and greater risks in order to keep the adrenaline pumping. That could be trouble.

Three nights ago he left the house with an aluminum baseball bat, a .38 special with no reloads, and a pair of night vision goggles he had picked up in a Wall Mart. He thought it would be interesting to see if he could sneak up on a zombie. He'd spotted one almost immediately - before he even had a chance to play with his new toy. The zombie stood in front of a 7/11 with its back to Jon.

It should have been easy. He could move without making a sound when he had to. It was a skill that had served him well over the years. But he didn't get closer than twenty feet when the zombie turned and started lumbering towards him. Jon had bludgeoned it to death - redeath? - with the bat, but if there had been more than one of them ...

Hunting this guy was a neat solution. It kept things interesting and didn't dramatically increase the risk factor. He parked a block away from the building, took out his denim knapsack and began walking down the street. As he turned the corner onto Dean Street his walk turned into a limp. Like so much of real estate in the new world order, it looked deserted.

"h.e.l.lo?" he shouted, his voice shaky. "Anyone? I've got food. Fruit. Some Scotch. h.e.l.lo? I just want someone to talk to. h.e.l.lo?"

A few houses down, Jon saw a curtain move. It wasn't like fruit and liquor were hard to find. The undead might roam the earth, but Bottle King hadn't gone to rust yet. Knowing where the hooch was and having the stones to go out and get it, however, were two different things.

In the end, it was the prospect of company more than anything else that doomed Jerry Platt, Esq.

Chapter 35.

Consult There were hangovers and there were hangovers. This was definitely a hangover. Everything was blessedly dark. Jerry wasn't ready to make the effort to open his eyes.

Scotch doesn't give you a hangover. Nausea washed over him and small explosions of pain blossomed behind his eyelids - the familiar post-game fireworks show. And pretty girls want a guy with a good sense of humor, and money can't buy you happiness.

That guy - Jerry struggled to remember his name - Jon. He remembered watching him from the doorway, walking down the street bold as you please, shouting for help. Jon was the first human Jerry had seen in over a week. Not that he was exactly scouring the city for company. He tended to poke his head out less than the proverbial groundhog.

Before, he could care less about anyone who didn't have him on retainer. Jerry was never a people person. But he wasn't J.D. Salinger either. He missed occasionally slinging the s.h.i.t over drinks, b.i.t.c.hing about the Jets or sharing inappropriate comments about the women in the room. So he figured what the h.e.l.l? After making sure no undead were tracking the stranger, Jerry had waved him in. And a full bottle of Scotch later, here he was.

Where am I, exactly?

Something didn't feel right. He slowly opened his eyes to a bright, blurry and painful world. Instinctively he reached over toward the nightstand to find his gla.s.ses, but his hands wouldn't move. Fighting off another bout of nausea he tried again.

"What ...?"

Something held his arms in place. He tried sitting up. No go. He went to swing his feet off the bed. Not happening.

"What ...?" It came out as a soft croak, but still felt overloud to his alcohol-enhanced hearing.

"That was some night."

Each word hit Jerry like a nail and he moaned in agony. The world went gray for a bit.

"What happened? My arms ..."

A blurry face swam into view and a few seconds later Jerry felt his gla.s.ses being gently slipped on. It hurt to keep his eyes open but at least most of the world was in focus. Jon smiled down at him and winked.

"You're obviously a guy who appreciates good Scotch."

Jerry reflexively screwed his eyes shut. "Shh. Not so loud," he half whispered, half whined. 'What's going on, what happened last night?"

He cautiously opened his eyes again; a little shocked to see Jon's face so close to his.

"Well, here's the thing," Jon whispered. "The thing is, you drank a lot of Scotch. And a fair amount of flunitrazepam. That's a funny word, flunitrazepam. Reminds me of marzipan."

"Flun ... fluinitr ..."

"Flun-itra-ze-pam," Jon softly repeated, still smiling. "The kids used to call it roofie. You know - the 'date rape' drug?"

Jerry blinked, trying to clear his head.

"You gave me ..."

"Don't worry." Jon pulled his head away and walked to the other side of the bed. He laughed. "I didn't rape you. I'm not a f.a.g. Hope that's not a disappointment to you."

Jerry tried unsuccessfully to move his hands. With much effort he was able to raise his head enough to see that they were strapped to his side, and he was strapped to a table.

"What are you doing? What's that?"

Jon moved to the side of the bed and was fiddling with an IV stand. A bag of clear liquid with a slight yellow tint dangled from the stand, about half full. Jon looked at the bag and gave it a gentle tap.

"I'm increasing the drip. It's mostly saline, to help keep the old blood pressure up. But I added a little something to help with the pain."

"I'm not in any pain and I don't need any painkillers," Jerry growled. "Now let me out of here."

Jon laughed. "Painkillers? Who said anything about painkillers? This is a little something I picked up in my travels. It's called Poppin' Fresh by the few people who even know - excuse me - knew about it. A derivative of a drug called Precedex. Very hush-hush." Jerry saw Jon give the bag a gentle squeeze before walking away.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Where are you going? Get me the f.u.c.k out of this."

"Don't worry," Jon shot back. "Just going to run the generator, turn on the cameras and get my stuff. I'll be right back."

Cameras?

Jerry pulled against his restraints and immediately regretted it. Fire shot up both wrists and for a moment he was sure both arms were broken. When he opened his eyes again he tasted blood on his lips.

"What the f.u.c.k -"

Jon walked back into the room carrying what looked like an old tool box.

"That'll be the Poppin' Fresh," he chirped. "As I was saying, Precedex was originally made for people in intensive care. A pain killer's painkiller, if you know what I mean. But there was this fascinating side-effect. It made people more sensitive to electric shock. Can you imagine that? I mean, who the f.u.c.k isn't sensitive to electric shocks to begin with, right? I know. But this s.h.i.t made them sensitivier!" Jon gave the bag another soft squeeze. "Well, it's no surprise it didn't take the CIA long to find enough quacks willing to forget about the Hippocratic Oath and develop a derivative. That would be Poppin' Fresh here. It's highly experimental. The conspiracy nuts say it was used on those f.u.c.kwads in Guantanamo Bay. You wouldn't believe how many corpses I had to kill to get my hands on this stuff. Supposed to increase sensitivity in the nerve receptors. The receptors that communicate pain."

Still smiling, Jon leaned down until his face was just inches from Jerry's. "So tell me, does it work?"

"Listen. Why are you doing this?"

Jon laughed. Jerry saw him open the tool box. He took out a box cutter and a Swiss army knife, laying them both on a small cart, like the ones the hospitals used to deliver food to patients.

"Can you believe a bunch of sandn.i.g.g.e.rs were able to take down the Twin Towers and crash into the Pentagon armed with box cutters? I mean, Jesus Christ, Jerry, can you believe it?"

Jon bent down and Jerry momentarily lost sight of him.

"I'll tell you what though," Jon continued. "I learned a lesson from 9/11, d.a.m.ned if I didn't." He stood up again, holding a pair of green hospital scrubs out in front of him. He gave them the once over. Old, faded stains had left discolored patches and Jerry briefly closed his eyes, not wanting to think about how they got that way.

"I know," said Jon as he slipped into the scrubs, not bothering to tie them at the back. "Not exactly sanitary. Sorry about that. But with zombies infesting everything from K-Mart to St. Joseph's, sometimes one has to make do with what they have."

Jerry cried out as he felt a soft hand gently tap his cheek.

Jon laughed. "Jesus, you are really wound up, Jerry. Open your eyes, please."

Jerry opened his eyes. "Now, what was I saying? Oh, yeah. Lessons learned. If there's one thing I learned from 9/11, Jerry, it's that one doesn't need a lot of fancy hi-tech stuff to get the job done. That's a lesson I took to heart."

Jerry watched him pick up the box cutter. "Please, I'll do whatever you want. You don't need to do this," he pleaded.

"You don't remember me, do you?" Jon asked. "I thought by now you'd remember. You must be racking your brains out trying to figure out who I am."

"I never saw you before last night ..." But uncertainty began to creep into his thoughts.

Jon leaned in, once again eclipsing Jerry's world with his face. "My name is Jon Tanner. And somewhere in your beautiful oak paneled office, there's a file labeled "Tanner v. Tanner."

Jerry moaned softly. "Oh G.o.d." He remembered Jodie Tanner.

"You f.u.c.ked my ex, Jerry. You remember that, don't you? She told me you f.u.c.ked her right in your office. Right on your desk. Divorce lawyer pushes s.l.u.tty client over his desk and bangs her until he explodes, a regular Penthouse letter of the week."

Oh f.u.c.k. "Listen, Jon, it wasn't like that. She -"

Jon laughed. "You're not here because you f.u.c.ked my ex, Jerry. You're here because you f.u.c.ked me." Jon slid his thumb over the cutter's b.u.t.ton and Jerry saw the small razor sharp blade pop out. No old stains there. All shiny and new. "You f.u.c.ked me out of my house."

Pain unlike anything he had ever felt exploded on his left side as Jon quickly flicked the blade across the back of Jerry's hand. A small part of his mind was amazed to see the smallest line of blood. The razor had hardly scratched him.

"You f.u.c.ked me out of my two cars." Snick. The box cutter left a trail of fire on Jerry's right leg. He was beyond noticing anything now. His whole world was red agony and screams.

"You f.u.c.ked me ..." Snip "... out of everything." Whisk. Snick.

Jerry screamed and screamed until he had no voice. And then he screamed some more.

Jon rinsed off the box cutter and left it on the edge of the sink. Jerry lay on the table, spattered with blood but breathing. So much to do. It had been an exquisite ten minutes. Remarkably, Jerry wouldn't even need st.i.tches.

Jon brought a folding chair into the room and set it beside the bed. He sat down and gave a small sigh of relief. Feels good to take a load off. His shoulders and thighs ached, more from manhandling Jerry from his office to the playroom, than from any of the fun work. He picked up the Swiss army knife from the cart and absently snapped the small corkscrew back and forth, finding the slight click it made when folded back into the knife to be quite soothing.

It's going to be a long night.

Chapter 36.

Breaking Up Annie bounced nervously on her feet, the chafing dish cradled under one arm as she worked up the courage to knock on Jon's door. It didn't take her too long. Corpses scattered on the street, and the mess in his driveway didn't exactly make her feel like enjoying the great outdoors. She gave a tentative knock.

The other night had been magical. Well, sc.r.a.ping gore off the walls and dragging two corpses out to the backyard threatened to put a damper on the evening, but dinner was wonderful, and Jon, Jon was amazing. Seeing how well he got on with Timmy made her feel warm and safe. The things he did to her later, and she did to him, made her feel warmer, if not safer. She gave another knock.

Let's be honest. The c.o.ke and ecstasy went a long way to making the night special. Maybe. But she knew what she knew. Jon was a good man; a man she could love. That he was able to feed her less romantic desires only added icing to the cupcake.

She felt tired and jittery, like she always did when the c.o.ke wore off. Having her back turned toward the corpses didn't do anything to calm her nerves. Creeped out, she tried the door.

Why would he just leave them here? Annie had been with her share of men. Leaving dishes in the sink and laundry on the floor was one thing. Not sc.r.a.ping human remains off the driveway was another.

The door opened and she stuck her head inside.

"h.e.l.lo, Jon?" Nothing. The house felt empty. "Jon? I brought leftovers."

She felt silly standing in the doorway talking to an empty house. I'll just pop inside and leave the food. Taking a quick glance over her shoulder and making sure the dead were dead, Annie stepped into the lion's den.

It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the light. The shades were all drawn and heavy curtains hid the large bay window in the living room. Annie preferred to keep all the shades up and curtains open at her house, so that she could see what was going on outside. Feels like he's in lock-down mode. She set the chafing dish - baked sweet potato and sliced rib eye steak - on a bench beside the door.

"Okay. I'll just leave it here," she half-shouted to the empty house.

She really meant to leave, but baby, it's cold outside and last night's activities left her feeling parched and exhausted. She didn't relish the walk back to the house, keeping the eyes in the back of her head open for trouble. The living room opened up to the kitchen. Even in the dim light she could make out yellow walls and the side of a large white refrigerator. Picking up the chafing dish, she headed to the kitchen.

It was a small, narrow room. Big enough for a table for two set against the wall, but it would never be mistaken for an eat-in. Not by humans, anyways. The thought struck her funny bone and it was all she could do not to laugh out loud. There was a small bathroom at the other end of the kitchen, and next to the bathroom a closed door leading to a bas.e.m.e.nt, she guessed. One of those old wooden signs that you could pick up at any beach resort town in Jersey hung above the doorway. A picture of a fat pirate with a sword in his mouth. 'Bluebeard's Inn' it read.

Annie set the dish on the table and took a gla.s.s from one of the cabinets. The door-less cabinets displayed their contents: blue plastic gla.s.ses, bags of potato chips, cans of Hormel Chili, Mac 'n Cheese, Crystal Light lemonade mix, a large tin of peanuts with a small Ziploc bag of sugar lying across its top - probably to protect against ants.

The sugar baggie got her thinking about c.o.ke again. The back of her throat felt hot and raw, and she quickly downed two gla.s.ses of water. She closed her eyes, enjoying the brief respite. She wished Jon were here. A little afternoon delight. She stifled a giggle.

And why are you so afraid to make a noise now?