"Anyway, long story short, I finally get to my street and as I pull up to my house I see the place surrounded by a dozen or so of those motherf.u.c.kers. They're all milling about, but gathered around something on the lawn. At first, I was like, 'what the f.u.c.k?' and start fearing the worst. Little did I know that not in my wildest dreams could I have imagined 'the worst.' I start turning toward the house and, as I come up the driveway, I see that the thing on the ground is Fran Johnson from next door. She's lying on the ground and her clothes are all pulled open and there's blood and guts and who knows what else spread all over my lawn. Now, I'm still thinking that this is some kind of joke, like a Halloween prank, but the look on her face told me that it was all real as s.h.i.t. These animals had torn Frannie to pieces and, from the blood on most of their faces, they looked like they had, as weird as it sounded, been eating her. I mean, f.u.c.k me..."

He chuckled in disbelief.

"Anyway, as soon as these f.u.c.kers see me coming, a whole slew of them, all pasty-faced and bleeding gashes, come lurching across the lawn, toward the driveway. Unable to stop, and not really wanting to for that f.u.c.kin' matter, I hit the sidewalk and plow straight through them sons-a-wh.o.r.es. I mean, I slammed into 'em. A handful goes under the front wheels and their bodies make loud thumping sounds under my wheels as I run right over them. The others bounce offa my fender like bowling pins."

Weaver lifted up the bottle and drank again to both wet his whistle and to calm his nerves. In a moment, he cleared his throat, swallowed, and continued talking.

"I slide to a stop near the front door and I'm about as scared and p.i.s.sed off as a cat in a washin' machine. Not really thinking about whether it could or would be dangerous, I jump out and get a clear look at the situation-Frannie torn open on the lawn, the blood, the people I'd run over starting to get back to their feet, the whole mess-and I know somethin' ain't right, y'know? I mean, I'm just f.u.c.kin' smart like that.

"Then, I see Frannie move..."

Weaver paused long enough to take another pull on the bottle.

"So, I dive back into the car and pull an old tire iron out from under the seat. I get back out and just start swinging. I mean, I'm cavin' in heads and breaking off f.u.c.kin' limbs."

Weaver looked over at Cleese in the waning light and smiled.

"You'da been f.u.c.kin' proud of me, man."

Cleese grinned and nodded.

"Anyway... It was about then that I hear my Dora screaming from inside the house and I panic! I start beating my way through the crowd of these sons-a-b.i.t.c.hes. I must have flattened a football team's worth or so, I swear to f.u.c.kin' G.o.d! So, with my adrenaline now pumping, I make it to the front door and kick the motherf.u.c.ker down. Inside, there are one or two more wandering in the front room and entryway. I lay them out and go running through the house and up the stairs toward our bedroom. I get to the doorway and I see Dora..."

Weaver's voice cracked suddenly, tied tight with emotion. His eyes welled up with tears that he quickly swallowed down. Bolstering his resolve, he looked out across the compound and continued.

"I see her... and she's surrounded by like four of those things. The only thing I can figure is that they must have gotten in through the back patio door, coming over the fence from the neighbor's house. They were all gathered around her, trying to negotiate the furniture, knocking it over and scattered s.h.i.t off of the dresser as they did whatever they could to get at her."

Tears were streaming freely down the big man's cheeks now and Cleese didn't blame him one bit. Weaver was a tough guy, but... every man had c.h.i.n.ks in his armor and they usually were gathered somewhere around his heart.

"I'll never f.u.c.king forget the look on her face as I came into the bedroom, Cleese," he said wiping away at the tears which had gathered in his beard. "Her eyes were wide-scared, scared as I'd ever seen her-and her face was covered in these scratches. It's kinda funny... Through all the commotion of those things in the room and the ones that were trying to break in outside, through all of that s.h.i.t, I heard her softly say my name when she saw m..."

Weaver's eyes brimmed over with a new wellspring of moisture and his voice cut off, suddenly sounding constricted. He coughed softly and cleared his throat and did his best to continue.

"And that was when they got a hold of her. I remember her screaming as they dragged her down to the floor. I mean, she sounded so f.u.c.king scared. By the time I was able to beat 'em off of her, she was gone; torn apart. There was blood everywhere." His voice trailed off into nothing. "There was just so much blood..."

Cleese looked deep into his friend's face, but quickly realized that he was no longer telling the story for his benefit. He watched as tears freely spilled out of Weaver's eyes, rolled down his face, under his gla.s.ses, and soaked into his already wet beard.

"Later, Emergency Rescue crews showed up in the neighborhood and started rounding up The Dead. I never saw if Dora came back or not. I a.s.sume she did, but I wasn't there to see her... or take care of her. I was taken out to the EMT vans and checked out for any bites or signs of infection."

Weaver wiped at his running nose and took another drink from the rapidly emptying bottle.

"Anyway, once things were relatively safe, they took survivors off to some of the Shelters. There, they had some real doctors check me out and, once they saw I hadn't been bitten, they let me go. The only problem was... I had no place to go. With Dora gone, my life meant s.h.i.t. It was f.u.c.king rubble, man. So, at first, I joined the cleanup crews and helped trying to get things back under control. For the longest time, I went out on the 'house to houses' and I'll tell ya... I took great delight in watching each and every one of those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds I came up against being put down. h.e.l.l, I still feel that way some times. With every one of them being killed, it's like a little bit of my pain, a tiny bit of my grief, gets washed away. My heartache seems a little more tolerable anytime I feel as though I had even a small hand in putting those f.u.c.kers back in their G.o.dd.a.m.n holes."

He paused again, obviously trying to get control of his emotions. He took another shot and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Cleese idly thought that, before this night was out, he was going to need to go get that other bottle from his Crib.

"It wasn't too long after that that things settled down and we got back to what we all remembered as 'normal.'"

Weaver turned and looked Cleese in the eye.

"But... who gave a flyin' f.u.c.k? A lot of us had no place to go. Most of us couldn't-and wouldn't-go back to our homes. h.e.l.l, everything at my house only reminded me of what had been stolen from me, of what I'd lost. I'd heard from some guys on one of the cleanup crews about this guy Weber and his plans for this League thing. When it looked like it was a go, I signed up right away. It seems that I still needed to see some blood spilled before I was ready to call things square," he chuckled and shook his head. "Once I signed on, it was pretty apparent that I was no fighter. f.u.c.k, I usually come out on the losing end of a pillow fight. So, since I'd always had a head for organizational s.h.i.t, I volunteered to head up their armory. And with that, The Chest was born."

Weaver lifted the bottle in a half-hearted toast and drank deeply.

"I've been here ever since."

"Jesus..." was all Cleese could muster. He went over Weaver's story and had to admit, it was something. One thing wasn't clear though and that was closure. "So, are things about even between you and The Dead, Weaver? Are things any closer to being settled?"

Weaver looked at Cleese, his normally jovial face now grim and set in stone.

"Well, I've considered that a time or two, to be honest. And after a lot of thought, I've decided that things will never be even or settled between me and those f.u.c.kers, Cleese. Not ever. Never. Ever... Ever..."

Cleese nodded and looked away, somehow understanding. Some men, when everything important in their lives is stripped away, have only the pain and the anger left. Their anguish becomes the one thing they can count on and they cling to it like a life preserver because, in a lot of ways, that was exactly what it was. Cleese didn't fault them for feeling that way. Everyone walked their path in life and they held the things that worked for them close, the things that nurtured and protected them. Anger and hatred could oftentimes be as rea.s.suring as a warm blanket on a rainy day. However, sometimes that comforting blanket wrapped around them, weighed them down, and dragged them to the depths of despair. Cleese silently hoped Weaver was the type of man who could one day learn to let go.

"It's one of the main reasons why I appreciate the work you do," Weaver continued. "I mean, you cut a swath through those f.u.c.kers and nothing seems to affect you," Weaver laughed and slapped Cleese on the thigh. "You're a badda.s.s, Son, and you're able to do the very thing I wish I could have..."

"And that is?"

Weaver looked away, up toward the piece of sky where he liked to think the love of his life waited for him to one day return to her.

"Save my Dora, I guess."

Ridgeway Elementary Before...

The afternoon bell rang out across the crowded playground, signaling the end of the lunch recess period. The sharp, shrill sound made many of the children playing there jump in their shoes. Some of the more excitable girls squealed in surprise and then immediately cupped their hands over their mouths as if trying to catch their voices before they could be heard. b.a.l.l.s bounced and swings swung, but all that soon came to a stuttering stop once the Yard Duty Teachers blew their whistles and gently herded the kids toward the main building. There were a few stragglers- that was to be expected with children of this age-but the women soon had the ma.s.s of waving arms and runny noses all heading in the right direction.

Chikara Pressfield walked toward the red brick facade of Ridgeway Elementary School, stopping every now and then to gather up an abandoned jump rope or orphaned Four Square Ball. She tried to soak up as much of the midday sun as she could since it would be her last chance of the day to feel the warming rays of the sun on her skin. The rest of the afternoon would be spent in her cla.s.sroom, her time monopolized by what she'd come to think of as "her kids."

She'd been teaching at Ridgeway for most of the school term, having received her teacher's certificate the prior year, and she'd come to really enjoy her new vocation. In college, she'd ridden an athletic scholarship for all it was worth and at one time even thought herself destined for the pro tennis circuit. She had a backhand that was-or rather, had been-pretty devastating, if she did say so herself. But after a car wreck had more or less shattered the elbow of her left arm, those dreams had been set aside. After months of rehab and a heart full of tears, she'd found that she'd been unable-and unwilling it would seem-to invest the kind of energy it took to make a full recovery. Now, incapable of competing on a professional stage, teaching became the best of a set of limited options.

At the large double front doors of the school, she dropped off the playthings in the bins kept by the entrance to the playground and-as she was the last one in-turned to shut the doors behind her. The midday sun had just reached its epoch and was beginning its long slow slide toward the horizon. Birds could be heard chirping in the trees that lined the soccer field, their song joyful and carefree. Momentarily, she envied them.

As she pulled the door closed, through the gla.s.s she noticed a man standing far across the playground outside of the fence which encircled the perimeter of the school. She continued to watch him for a minute or so as she absentmindedly straightened her long black hair with her fingers. The door's lock clicked into place and a chill abruptly rippled down her back. Shaking it off, she turned and headed down the hallway to the stairs and up to the second floor where her small cla.s.s waited at the end of the hall.

As usual, her cla.s.sroom was in a total uproar. The children, still bristling with excitement from the play yard, were jostling one another and bouncing around the room like pinb.a.l.l.s. She opened the door, which was flanked on either side by large bulletin boards, and stepped into the room. The cla.s.s was in the midst of learning the countries of the world and each continent was represented on the corkboard by a.s.sorted maps and pages carefully cut from National Geographic magazines.

Along the far left side of the room, a whiteboard stretched from floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Across the top was taped a banner which read "Word Wall." Underneath it were all of the letters of the alphabet arranged in orderly rows. Slips of paper with handwritten words on them were taped beneath each corresponding letter.

At the head of the cla.s.s to her immediate right, a large chalkboard was mounted, the day's lesson plan written in Chikara's swirling scrawl. She approached her desk as the door closed with a hiss behind her, and the cla.s.s immediately began to settle down.

"h.e.l.lo, Miss Pressfield," the children called to her in a sing-song tone as she took her position before them. Quietly, but firmly, she redirected the children's energies back to their studies.

"Ok, settle down now, boys and girls," she said, smiling warmly. This being the first real cla.s.s of her teaching career, she couldn't help but love them all dearly. Despite her best efforts to conceal how she felt, her affection for them was readily apparent. "Can anyone remember what we were talking about before recess?"

A pond of blank faces met her gaze.

"Oh, come on, you guys... we were just talking about it."

Sheepishly, a hand rose at the back of the room. The boy had a crew cut and a soft, round face. He was new to the cla.s.s, having just arrived from St. Louis a month or so ago. From what she'd seen, the kid was pretty smart.

"Yes, Jeffrey."

"We were talking about the... Messopotavia and Youfrageous Rivers."

"Well, sort of."

The cla.s.s giggled and hid their faces behind their hands.

"We were talking about the Tigress and Euphrates Rivers in Mesopotamia. What many call the Cradle of Civilization. Good job though..." She cast a playful frown toward the rest of the cla.s.s. "No one else remembered even that much."

The kid's laughter stuttered to an embarra.s.sed stop. Behind a tapestry of faces, Jeffrey blushed and looked down toward his desk. It seemed that Jeffery, like many of the boys in her cla.s.s, had a bit of a crush on his teacher.

Chikara considered the whole idea quite cute.

"Does anyone remember anything else from our discussion?"

Before any of the children could answer, the Public Address System crackled overhead. A few thumps later, and Princ.i.p.al Borden's voice was heard, peppered with static.

"Excuse the interruption, Ladies and Gentlemen, but we have an announcement."

Chikara held a single finger to her lips as a sign to the children that they should be quiet. As the children had been taught, they dutifully repeated the gesture.

"We have been notified," he continued, "that due to some road closures, we'll be staying after school today until everything is cleared up. Thank you."

The cla.s.s collectively groaned and shuffled in their seats.

"Ssshh," Chikara said and tapped her finger against her lips. The children again mimicked her. As the Princ.i.p.al began talking again-something about parents having been called and "how everything was ok" and for them "not to worry"-she walked over to the window and looked out at the schoolyard from over the fire escape that ran up the side of the building. The area was empty. A sudden gentle wind swirled and gently pushed the swings to and fro as if invisible children who occupied them were enjoying a ride.

As her eyes drifted across the slides, carousels and Jungle Gyms, she noticed a small group of people congregating outside of the school fence. Just a few of them stood there, but the sight seemed incongruous with the hour of the day. Parents never started gathering until near the time school let out. The sight of folks waiting out by the fence now just seemed odd. At first, they appeared to be talking to one another, but as she watched them more closely, it looked more like they were simply standing and staring at the school from behind the cyclone fence.

At the far end on the right, she noticed the man she'd seen earlier. He wore a black tie and looked as if he'd spilled something (coffee, maybe?) on his white shirt. The dark stain splashed across his chest and down the front of his pants. His manner seemed agitated as he ran his hands obsessively over the wire, but his eyes remained fixed on the school. Seemingly by accident, he found the break in the fence which allowed entrance to the school's grounds from the street and he hesitantly took a step through.

A light tugging at her shirt sleeve brought her back to the cla.s.sroom. She looked down and saw a young girl with long black hair parted in the middle looking up at her with a questioning gaze.

"Yes, Carolyn?"

"Is everything ok? Are we in trouble? The Princ.i.p.al said we have to stay after school."

Chikara looked up at the cla.s.s and saw an a.s.sortment of small worried faces looking expectantly at her.

"No," she said softly. "No, everything is fine. He just said there was some problem with the road; perhaps a traffic accident of some sort."

"Miss Pressfield?" said a small j.a.panese boy named Yoshi who was proving himself day by day to be the clown of the cla.s.s.

"Yes, Yoshi?"

"Uh... I'm scared."

Chikara looked around the room and a good portion of her kids were nodding their heads up and down aggressively in agreement.

"Oh, Yoshi," she said and walked over to pat him on the head. "There is absolutely no need for that..."

As she spoke, she turned her head for one last look outside. Across the soccer field, she saw that the rest of the group of people were now following the man with the stain on his shirt through the fence and slowly making their way toward the school. She mused that maybe they were some of the children's parents who'd heard about whatever was happening on the roads and had come to fetch them. Even as the words were formed in her mind, somehow she knew that wasn't the case. Feeling her stomach becoming uneasy and electric, she stepped away from the window.

Abruptly, the cla.s.sroom door opened and Mrs. Walters from the fourth grade cla.s.s next door poked her head in. The woman was older than Chikara and stockier. She had obviously dyed blonde hair set in a style that made her look a bit like a "biker mama." Her clothes more or less confirmed the a.s.sumption. She smoked like a train and the throaty, coa.r.s.eness of her voice and heavily lined face were evidence of that. Since arriving at Ridgeway, she'd come to be the closest thing Chikara had to a friend amongst the staff.

"Chikara," she said, her voice trembling just a bit, "may I speak to you a moment?" She roughly jerked her head back the way she'd come. "Out here... in the hall."

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please open your free-reading books and sit quietly for a bit while I go speak with Mrs. Walters." She turned toward a boy with a bowl haircut at the front of the cla.s.s. "Luke, you are in charge while I am gone. Please see to it that everyone is reading."

She walked toward the door and said, "And please... don't worry. I'm sure this is all nothing to be concerned about."

As Chikara came through, Mrs. Walters stepped back. She nervously looked up and down the hallway while waiting for the door to close behind her.

"What's going on, Helen?" Chikara asked, trying to follow the other woman's gaze.

"Something is up, girl," was the only answer given.

"What? Wait. What are you talking about?"

"Did you hear that letch Borden?" she asked. She'd long been complaining about the Princ.i.p.al and his "hands on" approach with some of the female staff. "Well, he was lying..."

Chikara looked at her confusedly.

"About ten minutes ago, I was talking to Phyllis in the office," Helen continued. "She said that Fred got some kind of frantic call from the police just prior to him making that announcement over the PA."

"The police?" Chikara asked, unbelieving. She took a quick glance behind her and peered through the small window set in the door. Predictably, the children were not reading but rather, talking amongst themselves excitedly.

"Yeah!" Helen shook her head up and down excitedly; eyes opening wide enough to show the whites around the irises. "Phyllis said that right after the call, Frank got on the radio and called Jessie, the new janitor, and told him to start locking the doors that lead into the building. After a few minutes, she said that Jessie stopped answering his radio. Weird, huh? She didn't hear much else, but after that, Frank's tone changed... He just sounded really freaked out."

"Wait... That makes no kind of sense. We're supposed to..."

"I know! We're supposed to always keep those doors open during regular school hours."

"Surely, Phyllis misunderstood."

"That's what I asked her. But she said she heard him talking to the janitor plain as day. I'm heading down to the office now to see what I can find out. I just wanted to tell you what was going on before I went."

Chikara rubbed a hand over her face in an effort to make sense of it all. For some reason, the image of the people gathered outside flitted across her mind's eye. When her attention came back to the moment, she saw Helen looking around nervously and wringing her hands.

"G.o.d, I need a smoke."

"Well, if you learn anything," Chikara said, looking back over her shoulder at the door to her cla.s.sroom, "come back and tell me, ok?"

The older woman nodded briskly and gently touched her friend's arm rea.s.suringly. With that, she hurried away, her heels clicking against the hard tile floor.

Chikara took another look up and down the hallway and then pulled open the cla.s.sroom door. As she stepped inside, twenty-three pairs of terrified eyes snapped up to look at her. The kids were obviously frightened, their initial anxiety having escalated to an almost full-blown panic. Kids have always instinctively known when adults were lying and, as a result, grown-ups were not to be trusted. They'd all heard the worry in Mrs. Walter's voice and in Chikara's absence it had fanned the flames of their unease.

Chikara tried her best to smile as she walked toward her desk at the front of the room, but then she caught sight of Roger at the far end of the room. The little boy (with his Dumbo ears and large round gla.s.ses) was a human polygraph. The kid could smell bulls.h.i.t a mile away. He'd caught on to her early in the school year when she'd tried to tell the children about Santa Claus. She decided, given everything she'd been told, that honesty would be the best policy.