Playdate The stale, fetid stench that had taken up residence in the tunnel seemed to give the darkness real weight and it pressed down on Timmy, causing him to crouch without thinking.

"Jon? Please." He barely whispered, terrified something else might respond to his plea.

Without the flashlight Timmy couldn't even see the truck right in front of him. He didn't think zombies could see in the dark - you didn't think they could run either - so if he didn't make a sound he might be okay. But not making a sound meant not moving, and he didn't relish the thought of making the dead Eisenhower Tunnel his new home.

He tried listening for footsteps. Completely blind and alone, he imagined a thousand small noises. Things scurried by his feet and whooshed overhead. Something seemed to whisper by his face, causing him to take a short step backwards. There's nothing. Jon's a f.u.c.king a.s.shole and a coward. Nothing here. That made him feel better, so he thought it again. A big, f.u.c.k a.s.shole-eating f.u.c.k. That made him feel even better - even made him feel like laughing.

More moments pa.s.sed, and when nothing jumped out of the dark to devour him Timmy started breathing a little easier. Feeling his way in the dark, he gently b.u.mped into the truck. There was room enough for him to crawl under the cab, he remembered. Crawling on hands and knees underneath a fuel truck in a pitch black tunnel, however, wasn't something he was keen on doing. That left up and over. If that d.i.c.k Jon could do it, he could do it, no problem.

Something moved. He held his breath and listened.

The soft noise clawed its way through the dark. A kind of sc.r.a.ping sound, something being dragged across the asphalt.

What is that?

His imagination didn't wait for him to reason it out and immediately began supplying all sorts of interesting answers.

His hands reached out and found the metal runner board to the cab. It stood just under the midsection of his chest, but the darkness magnified its height and Timmy felt weak and hopeless. A soft thump close behind spurred him into action.

Something hit one of the cars. That's what that was.

He placed both hands on the runner and pushed himself up. He slipped, shin sc.r.a.ping painfully against the runner board. He sucked in air and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the new pains de jour to subside. Another soft thud, close.

Fender bender in the Eisenhower.

Ignoring his sc.r.a.ped shin as best he could, Timmy finally managed to scramble up on the runner. His hand found the door handle and he anch.o.r.ed himself to it and pulled. Locked. That f.u.c.ker locked it. Panic bloomed inside him, setting off the adrenaline tripwire.

More sc.r.a.ping. Footsteps? It sounded much closer. He felt along the door and found the open window. Reaching inside, he searched for the b.u.t.ton, his hand slick with sweat. Another soft sc.r.a.pe and he knew it was right behind him.

Putting both hands inside, he tried to hoist himself inside the open cab window. He got his upper body inside when something grabbed his ankle.

Timmy screamed and a soft roaring buzz answered him.

Something flew into his mouth, making him choke. Coughing and hacking he kicked out with his feet. Now he felt flies landing on his face and the back of his neck. The thing outside tugged hard on his ankle, making him suck in more air and causing the fly to lodge deeper in his throat. He kicked out again and this time his foot connected with something, just as he felt a blow into the back of his ankle.

The world exploded in a riot of pain and confusion. Timmy screamed, not caring who heard him or what might crawl in his mouth. He kicked out blindly and connected again. Suddenly his legs were free and he hauled himself into the truck. Falling inside, he scrambled away from the window as fast as he could and toppled into the back of the cab. The roar of the flies redoubled and something soft and wet fell across his lap. He screamed again and something outside thudded against the door. His hands went to his lap to push the thing away. He felt something matted and sticky. It's hair, hair. It's HAIR!

Still choking, he tried to sit up.

The driver's side door was the only way out of there. He had to get back in the front, open the door and jump out. He managed to disentangle himself from ... from the mess in the back, when he heard something fall heavily into the front seat. He gave another shriek and fell backwards, landing again on a soft and squishy object.

The thing in the front seat hissed, and Timmy p.i.s.sed himself. It was trying to get back there with him.

Wants to play. It wants to play, that's all.

There was no place else for him to go. All he could do was scrunch as far back in the corner as possible and ... His hand brushed another hand. He screamed louder. He pulled his hand back but not before he felt something hard and cold. Metal.

Frantically he sought out the dead hand again. The thing in the front was rapidly becoming the thing in the back. It was halfway over the front seat and while he still couldn't see anything, Timmy knew it was a matter of inches away now.

His hand found the metal and he tore at it.

"Gun, gun, GUN!" he shouted, not knowing what he was saying.

He took the gun in hand and pointing it in the general direction of the windshield he began firing. The noise inside the cab was deafening.

He screamed and fired and fired. Nine times. He ran out of bullets but not screams.

He sat there in the back of the cab with his new friends, screaming until it felt his throat was bleeding. He couldn't hear anything now. Both eardrums were blown and blood trickled out of his ears and onto his neck. A few flies settled in for a taste.

His ankle throbbed, his pants were soaked with p.i.s.s and his shirt was stained with vomit and things that did not bear thinking about.

But Timmy was alive.

Sort of.

Chapter 44.

Mail Call WELCOME TO COMFORT COLORADO!.

FRIENDLIEST LITTLE TOWN.

THIS SIDE OF THE DIVIDE.

Jon sat on the curb underneath the sign, enjoying a steak sandwich made from Annie's leftovers. Man, that girl can cook. He washed it down with a bottle of Heineken. The old Jon drank American, but what the f.u.c.k. The times, they were a changing.

Essentially two large neighborhoods flanking a main street that housed the entire commercial district, Comfort was about as close to a one-horse town as they came these days. In addition to the Broadway Diner, Comfort was the proud home to a Starbucks, Joe's Hardware & General Store, "Comfort's Books", a wine shop, a few other businesses, and two nail salons. I could be in the town of Eden, population two, and there would still be two nail salons.

And, of course, the post office.

The late afternoon sun, little more than a hole in the sky bleeding light, held no warmth. Still, always one to appreciate the light at the end of the tunnel, Jon enjoyed it enough. He felt bad about the boy; father missing, stepmother abandoning him, and now that piece of bad luck in the tunnel.

"Poor kid."

Washing down the last bit of sandwich, he took a few moments to check over his guns and ammo one final time. Ten boxes of ammo for the Browning BLR. He loved that rifle, the only lever-action rifle worth having - quick, accurate, powerful and fun. Thirty-six rounds for the nine millimeter, his 'up close and personal' companion. Locked and loaded. Let's get this over with while there's still some daylight.

The cozy town of Comfort beckoned, and it was time to answer.

A mile later and three bullets lighter, he stood in the middle of Main Street, just outside the post office. A dead zombie lay at his feet, gun smoke lazily hovering over the hole in her head. Dressed in a yellow waitress uniform, she'd followed him from the Broadway Diner. He hoped she'd shamble away and leave him be. He wasn't crazy about broadcasting his presence with gunfire. But she kept d.o.g.g.i.ng him, moaning incessantly for the last four blocks, and he had to put her down.

With the exception of the undead waitress, Comfort had been as quiet as a ghost town.

He stood outside the small post office in the fading light, debating his next move. What am I doing here, really? A vision, a chance run in with the boy - none of that explained why he was here.

The meteorite wouldn't help him, as far as he knew.

"Might even kill me ..."

The quiet town swallowed Jon's words so quickly that he wasn't sure he'd even spoken them. So what was he doing here?

Boredom. Boredom. And curiosity.

The truth of it was the apocalyptic honeymoon was over. The narrow escape from the tunnel reminded him of why he started killing in the first place. It had been ... well, it had been thrilling. Killing excited him - used to excite him. Now zombies turned his one true pleasure into a ch.o.r.e.

Everything felt routine these days. Killing the lawyer and Annie helped for a bit; and his time in the tunnel definitely upped the pucker factor, but otherwise life with the undead had become more of the same ole same ole. At least the meteorite gave him a sense of purpose, something to do. Besides something not easily put into words that drew him here.

"Whatever."

He c.o.c.ked the pistol and started for the post office.

Just as he reached the door a zombie shambled around the corner. His dead eyes met Jon's. George Potts wore the same dusty blue uniform, no shoes, and a little more than half a head. A worn leather mail bag dragged on the ground behind him.

Why, h.e.l.lo, Mr. Potts.

They stood there for some time, two gunslingers on an empty street. Comfort's favorite civil servant continued to do nothing. Jon took a few tentative steps toward him, and stopped. At some point George Potts started glowing.

Not started. He's always glowing.

It's just getting darker.

The street was all shadow now, and Potts started to really shine. Jon swallowed and took an involuntary step back. He looks like the janitor for Three Mile Island. That thing is hot, hot, hot. Suddenly boredom and curiosity didn't seem the great motivators he'd thought they were.

When I get my hands on that rock I can kill them all. He knew it was true. It felt true.

Destroy the rock and every walking corpse goes back to being just a corpse. Would they just die? Burst into flames? Explode? That would be something to see.

"What the h.e.l.l." Jon walked briskly, taking aim at Potts. "Shine on, you crazy mailman."

Before he could pull the trigger another zombie rounded the corner. The shadows made it impossible to be certain, but she had a familiar look about her.

The woman from the dream.

Hardly thinking, he adjusted his aim and squeezed off two shots, hitting the woman in the chest and head. She went down faster than Snooki on DVD outtakes. He swung the gun back to Potts.

"And now ..."

Two more zombies appeared. Pa.s.sing Potts, they made a bee-line for Jon. Three more quickly followed.

He lowered the gun and took a few more steps back.

Undead filled the streets. He turned to run and saw dozens more coming down the road. Comfort, Colorado turned from ghost town to spring break for the undead.

All thoughts of radioactive glory forgotten, Jon ran to the post office.

He threw himself against the door, half-expecting it to be locked. Instead it swung in easily and he stumbled inside, catching himself on a counter covered with certified mail receipts and overnight slips. He jumped the counter and sprinted to the back room.

Where the h.e.l.l did they all come from?

He spied a door in the back and prayed. He hit it running and it flew open. Outside again, he found himself in the back lot. Pausing to get his bearings, he heard way too much moaning coming from the building.

He who fights and runs away ...

He lit out for the side street, running as fast as his middle-aged legs could take him. Ahead, dark houses lined the street with false promises of shelter.

Chapter 45.

Timmy's Turn Getting out of the cab was no easy feat for Timmy, and he'd gone a little bats.h.i.t crazy. Being trapped in the truck with three dead things and Lord of the Flies made bats.h.i.t crazy inevitable.

He didn't remember much, just 'waking up' and finding himself weakly pushing against the driver's side door. At some point he remembered the door handle and then he was free. Free to wander down a pitch dark tunnel filled with cars, dead pa.s.sengers and a few not-so-dead residents. Yay.

His eyes felt hot but no tears came.

She bit me. She bit me!

He was burning up, feeling hot and dry one second, cold and clammy the next. Sweat came in waves, soaking through his shirt. His breathing, shallow and uneven, sounded overloud in the dead tunnel. Darkness prevented him from seeing the wound but it didn't stop his imagination from supplying the pictures. He imagined great ragged gaping wounds, torn flesh in the shape of a small mouth, maggots and blowflies settling in to enjoy the rot. He'd never been so scared or felt so much pain in his life. But the tears never came.

Despite the pain he made good time. That's because I'm turning. Zombies don't stop moving because of a little pain. Fear and loathing washed over him and he moaned softly.

Uh oh.

His thoughts drifted in and out and he found himself thinking about the rock. He needed it - needed it because Dad needed it. A wave of nausea elicited another moan.

And now maybe I need it too.

"I'll find the mailman and I'll get that rock. Everything's going to be okay."

A picture of the undead mailman swam into his mind. The zombie was standing on a street, surrounded by other zombies ... a lot of zombies.

"How do I know that?"

Neither the tunnel nor its guests answered.

Minutes or hours pa.s.sed, and he eventually found himself on the other side of the tunnel.

Near dark outside, the fading winter light was still a welcome sight, until he looked down. The leg wound didn't disappoint. The bite, about the size of a half-dollar, was on the fleshy part of his calf; bruised, black with blood and white around the edges. Looking at it made him feel faint and elicited another soft moan.

This is his fault.