About forty-five minutes into the drive, the sun barely lights up the sky, and I realize we're rolling into my hometown and gasp.

Reece glances my way, "What's wrong?"

"This is my hometown, where I grew up. I also spent the last four years here."

"Really?" Mac looks around with renewed interest.

Reece says, "Good. Where are the 'all you can get' department stores?"

I laugh, "There's a Wal-Mart and a Target right off the interstate."

The sun shines brightly, which means there are no signs of famished as the van pulls in the Wal-Mart Supercenter parking lot, empty of cars. Not a single one. Old scorch marks adorn the lot from body disposal. Litter blows all over like leaves in the fall. Reece, Mac, and I glance at each other. Usually, places like this show more signs of outbreak panic. I'm surprised at this because I've always avoided where there could be many zombies in one place. Reece drives by the entrances; both doors wide open with no visible movement inside the store. He backs the van into an entrance as far as he can go.

Being parked inside of a Wal-Mart has potential for some comic relief.

My mouth opens to crack a joke until Reece says, "Mac, you take medical supplies. Kan, you go look for any camping gear you can find. I'll take household items and hardware," his voice all business and commanding, now that we're here.

Sunlight bounces off Reece's tattooed bald head and causes a double glare in his sunglasses. His leather vest squeaks as he opens his door. "Keep alert." Mac and I nod, getting out.

Since the air is warmer in here than outside, Mac pulls his red hoodie off, throwing it in the back. I almost leave my jacket in the van, but slide on my battered army pack taking stock of myself. My machete hangs from its normal spot on the right side of the pack the Bersas and a hunting knife adorn my belt.

I take a deep breath through my nostrils, making out a faint trace of decay from the living dead with a strange, bitter stench. We stand in a row listening for any sounds of lurking zombies.

"Smell it?" I whisper, glancing to Mac. His brows draw together, and his bottom lip sticks out as his tongue runs across the inside of it rapidly. I can see him perfectly in the light of the open glass doors, sandy blonde curls puff up on one side as if he had run a hand through it. His white T-shirt seems extra bright.

Blue eyes search around intently before stopping at me, burning bright as he flashes me a smile, and tugs on one of my long dreads. "Nothing to worry about. It's not strong and it's warm in here. Not an ideal place for the undead," he reassures me.

I return the smile before letting my gaze seek movement. Light coming in through the doors illuminates enough to make out aisles. The darkened shadows seem to drift outward as I watch.

Reece walks a few feet away searching down the closer aisles. A croaked moan cuts through my awareness seeming to bounce from walls to rafters. I freeze at the sound as the hair on my arms stand on end. A thick slithering comes from between the cash registers. Clearly in no immediate danger, I walk toward the sound without another thought. I can't see what it is from the darkened area.

"Sunshine," Mac says quietly close to my ear as he moves to stand in front of me, protectively, before clicking on a small flashlight. I pull my gun as I catch sight of what lays in the flashlight beam. I slide back the rail with ease, silently chambering a bullet.

"Don't waste your ammo," he says as the light flashes the length of the zombie on the smooth, tiled floor.

It looks up at us with eyes filmed over a milky color, but darkened black with settled blood. Well on its way to becoming a putrid. With all of its hair still intact, skin sags around his eyes and jaw. One arm reaches out toward us, clawing the air. A few of his cracked fingernails have already fallen off. The bottom half is nothing but gnawed bones with hanging nerves. Thickened blood smears the floor beneath him leaving a trail from where he had been dragging himself. With the other arm completely missing, the flailing one has a huge bag strapped around the shoulder with a few ripped strips of a faded black shirt sleeve.

"Holy shit!" Reece breathes, approaching from behind. "Damned thing is ugly. Might be the source of the smell."

I doubt it. It's not old enough for the decayed smell in the air. Judging from how rapidly he can move his arm, if he had legs he would be able to run.

Mac hands me the flashlight. "He was hanging onto that bag for dear life." He observes, bending over with a knife. The famished's hand grabs at him. Mac automatically steps on it as if it's a pesky cockroach. Holding the arm down with his combat boot, Mac slits the bag open. I shine the light on its contents. Liters of rubbing alcohol and dozens of boxes of cold medicine spill out.

Mac scoffs in unison with Reece. I say, "Someone must have been sick." Reece holds back a snort of amusement. I glance at him sharply. "What the hell is so funny?" He only raises his bushy eyebrows. I must be missing the obvious.

"No one was sick, Sunshine. This dude was going to cook meth. Explains the weird smell. Might be why he is so hyped for an older zombie." Mac explains as he straightens, stomping his boot to the famished's head. "Fucking redneck." Disgust oozes from his tone as the zombie wiggles. He stomps again, this time a crunch sounds, splattering fresh gore. Specks of it hit my jeans.

I cock an eyebrow at Mac crossing my arms. "And you aren't?" I joke.

He smirks, "Okay, backwoods redneck." I nod as though I approve.

Reece sighs warily, not trusting this location. "Let's finish in here."

Sticking the gun in the front of my jeans, I make my way to the back where the sporting goods section is located. The place has been looted. People looted for anything they could carry. I doubt I'll find ammunition here. Getting closer to the back, the rank smell thickens. It's also gotten darker, but I still have Mac's small flashlight in my back pocket.

My eyes widen as I realize there are aisle racks moved around; arranged to make up separate rooms. Judging by all the garbage and sleeping bags, someone lived here, and by the way it stinks, for some time. I notice more empty bottles and cold medicine packaging. Mac was right. The pre-zombie had been cooking meth. Everything that I came for has been used at some point. I decide against taking anything, believing we have enough of this stuff anyway. The only question that remains is where are the other occupants? I assume they escaped an attack.

A shuffle sounds in the next aisle. Freezing as a groan floats down my own aisle, sending goose bumps up the back of my neck, I turn to see a putrid turning down my aisle at the very end. Excitement surges, and I start walking closer to it when several more turn into the aisle.

I stop to watch as they walk jerkily slow. The first one's head cocks to one side as if curious about me. It reminds me of a dog waiting on a treat. This one had been a woman, the hair a gangly mess of missing chunks. Her skin still bluish in color, would soon turn green and textured. These putrids aren't that old, but older than the meth-addled zombie. This might be a good time to try a Molotov. I pull a jar out of my pack, stabbing a slit in the top with the hunting knife before re-sheathing it in my belt, and then dip the cloth to thread it through the slit. A few twists of the cap, and I light the rag with a lighter.

Tossing it to the floor in front of the putrid, the glass busts, making the moonshine splatter and catch fire instantly. The flame spreads on the floor and up the putrid's body in a licking wave as it follows fumes, spills, and splatters.

I quickly figure out why this is not a good idea. It only makes the zombies come at you while on fire. Blinking at my own stupidity, I note it slows them considerably. Time to get out of here before the burning smell hits me.

A snarl erupts from behind me, before I am slammed in the back, falling forward to the floor. A frustrated grunt escapes me when I catch myself on my knee as pain splinters through it. My huge pack smacks me in the head, but keeps the famished from getting a lock on me.

Holding myself up with my arm, I kick out, scrambling away from the zombie. When I get myself turned around, the famished is on top of me again. We fall, with me on my back, awkwardly because of my pack, as I hold the famished away from me by its neck, and the machete clangs on the floor. The zombie's hand entangles in my dreadlocks. My scalp feels like it's ripping from my skull. I yelp, feeling its clammy skin almost to the point of slimy. Trying not to cringe away from it as thick drool drips down my neck from its mouth, I use all my strength trying to keep its mouth away from me.

Another inhuman snarl, and I know at least one more comes for me. The fire from the flaming putrid gives me enough light as the second zombie tumbles into me from the side. Throwing my elbow at it, I knock it away from me.

The first zombie's mouth snaps way too close to my face as I grapple with my Bersa in my left hand. Pulling the trigger, I get a clean shot to the head, turning my head before the gore shower sprays me. The shot still resonates in my ear as the stench of burning putrid becomes thick in my throat, tasting of foul death.

Gunshots echo from the other direction. Reece and Mac. The zombie wastes no time jumping on top of me, but not before I put my feet in the air bending at my knees. Aches spring in my joints with the weight of it. It's breath smelling like rotten meat and soured blood turns my stomach as I swallow the extra saliva, threatening to help release the its contents. Stained black teeth bite the air in front of me as I push up with both legs with all my strength. Having the desired effect, the zombie disappears sideways as I kick it able to aim my gun at it immediately, squeezing the trigger.

The putrid torch reaches me, a keening sound coming from its throat. I kick myself away from the already dead famished, easily surfing backward from the slick, zombie blood. One shot to the putrid's head, and it slumps on top of the dead zombie. Still on fire. Standing up, smoke fills my lungs, and I put my hands on my knees, trying not to hack.

When I'm able to gulp air, relief washes through me in a strong tide, bringing exhaustion with it, but I still have an aisle of slow zombies coming at me. Their scuffling sounds ten times louder now that my famished brawl is over.

An explosion drowns out the putrid parade, then another right after. The double sounds boom inside my ears causing instant pain, and shake the building violently. They are going to bring the Wal-Mart tumbling down on top of us, all the while, making us deaf.

I cover my head and ears as debris flies all over me. Some of the putrids have fallen over from the explosions, making it smell like burnt cheese mixed in a used, restroom toilet. I don't have time to worry about Mac and Reece, I just have to get to them.

I turn to run in the other direction, slipping on blood, and my boot squeaks on the slick floor. I catch myself on a rack, my right arm windmilling. The rack tilts slightly causing items on it to tumble down onto me, and crash to the floor. Luckily, nothing hurts. Either that or my adrenaline keeps me from feeling it. Regaining my balance, I let go of the rack in order to keep running. The rack smashes down behind me.

Coming around a corner, I smack into a body, and strong hands grab my arms. "Kan!" It's Mac. His stark white shirt glows from the fire, and it reflects in his wide eyes.

"Shit! Famished and putrids all over. We need to leave!" I shout the obvious, my hearing still filled with static.

He pushes me out of the way. "Yeah, I know," he shouts back, pulling his gun to fire rounds into the aisle I just emerged from. His shots make my ears ring all the more. I think he just wants to shoot something.

"You're wasting bullets! Will you give my ears a rest? They are going to start bleeding!" I shout some more.

"Whhuuut?" he yells, mocking me by cupping a hand around his ear. Smiling at his joke, he grabs my arm. "Let's go," he says urgently. We look around every aisle while hurrying to the van.

Mac shoots more putrids on the way out. I ignore them as long as they aren't in our way. Reece has already started the van, and waits on us. We jump in, and before we can even get the door closed, he peels out of Wal-Mart.

"Kan, are you all right?" Mac asks first thing, looking me over. Neither one of them look as appalling as I do covered in zombie crud and guts. It's already starting to dry on my skin. "There were probably a hundred putrids. They came out of nowhere. Must have been hiding out of the sun. Reece lit the bombs, so we could get to you." He's breathing heavy. Hell, all three of us are strung out on zombie battle adrenaline.

Reece chimes in merrily. "Those bombs work perfect!"

I'm trying to calm myself, just glad he didn't blow us up from the old meth lab. My ears are still muted, but I can hear faintly. "Yeah, I heard them. I thought the building was going to collapse, or worse, explode with us in it," I say, and Mac flinches back from my loud talk. I can tell he wants to make another joke, but I go on with a lower voice, "People had been living there. I found used sleeping bags and empty cold medicine packaging." Mac looks at me sharply. "I'm guessing they were the famished I ran into. We should've pulled a Tallahassee, and played a banjo," I joke as my hearing returns, thankfully.

"Maybe we can go to Bill Murray's house," Mac sniggers.

"Yeah, and smoke out of his hookah," Reece says as if it's the greatest idea ever. We all laugh, trying to shake away the close call. I don't want to think about how close. We are all too familiar with the consequences of such trips like these. There are always risks.

Looking at my jacket, zombie muck congeals on it. I sigh. That's karma for you. I strip it off with my T-shirt. Reece hands me a towel, and I wipe my face and scrub at the gore. Mac takes off his white T-shirt, and gives it to me before pulling on the red hoodie from the back of the van.

"Thanks." I smile in appreciation as I slip on his shirt, slowly because he's watching, and not bothering to hide it either.

He shrugs, looking a little disappointed, "I'd rather you be without it."

I grin at him, "Dick for brains." My jacket goes over the T-shirt. I'm not letting it go. I'll scrub it when we get back to the community. Stained or not.

"Those people were living out in the open. Without any protection, they drew in putrids. I wonder why they didn't get eaten alive?" I reason out loud.

"One of them could have been bit, didn't say anything to the others, and things escalated," Reece points out.

Mac looks out the window as we pull onto the road, heading for another destination. "Maybe. My guess would be, they were living in a Wal-Mart. Using and cooking methamphetamine. Got taken by surprise trying to escape with any supplies they could grab, hence the zombie with the bag. It could also explain why the doors were open, and no vehicles in the parking lot. Maybe someone managed to escape."

I shake my head, "Lovely," I say dryly. They nod their agreement. Breathing normal again, my adrenaline high is dissipating quickly. I really shouldn't voice this, but I do anyway. "That was fun."

Mac shoots me a grin because for once, I'm not being sarcastic.

The Target department store is much easier. This time we do a little banging around. No putrids to deal with, but Target has been looted of most of the food and electronics. The things people take to priority, when the shit hits the fan, never ceases to amaze me. I'm able to get a few more sleeping bags, baseball bats, and white T-shirts. I get enough for the whole team in case they need them. Mac also picks up some jeans and socks for everyone.

Upon looting a home improvement store, Reece demands our attention, because he finds several wooden pallets in the back of PVC pipes. The most we've ever come across. We pile the van full, having to keep the hatch open, and tie them down securely.

Reece looks at all the leftover pipe we have to leave behind, not to mention another few skids of chlorine and hydrochloric acid. He rubs his stubbly tattooed head in mounting frustration. "I don't want to leave these."

"We don't have anywhere to store it at the community. Not to mention, the gas it would take going back and forth per load," I reason. This is true. Reece does not have any more space in his room or at his booth. Last time I walked through his room, it was packed to the ceiling. We had a hard enough time finding a secret place to make them. I have to admit barely having a hand in it. Reece is determined to master this skill, always having his head in a book or trying a new recipe. His interest is astounding, and he's come a long way from our first little cherry bomb that wouldn't blow up my own hand if we tried. He's only grown more attached, as if he's addicted.

I can understand his frustration, since we've had a hard time finding exactly the right things in the right amounts. Looking at this find, it's a complete gold mine to him. I sigh, tapping my foot and picking at my cuticle. "Reece stay here. Mac and I are going to drive up the road a ways."

Reece and Mac both peer at me in question. I try not to smile at the hope in Reece's eyes. "Why?"

"I'm not making any promises, but we need to find a semi with an empty trailer. And gas."

Mac speaks up, "You know how to get one started?"

"I've never tried, but I'm up to the challenge."

Three and half hours, a handbook, three battery exchanges, four different trucks, and an endless string of curses later, I pull the van back into the home improvement store delivery docks. Catching sight of Reece leaning against a brick wall, I grin from ear to ear, but it slips when I realize he's a mess, watching a burning piles of bodies.

The semi rumbles behind me as the amateur driver comes to a stop. Jumping out of the van, I ask, "What happened to you?"

Reece points to the trees behind me. "Famished." He tried cleaning himself up a bit, but he looks spooked. He grins letting me know he's okay, gesturing to the semi. "Took you long enough."

Looking back, Mac stands behind me studying the burning corpses. He's not in a good mood. From the look on his face, Reece's comment burns like a lit fuse in his brain. Mac finally turns a glare on Reece, the fuse must have ended. "She got you the semi, so you can continue your pyro tendencies. Who gives a fuck how long it took? If it was up to me, we'd be back at the community by now." Reece straightens as tall as he can, hackles rising. Mac points to me and I flinch. "She was almost electrocuted."

"I was not almost electrocuted. I knew it was a live wire!" I jump to my defense, mostly because he's right. Continuing on quickly, "Besides, we were all almost killed today." I gesture to the burning bodies as Mac moves to stand in front of me. "We need to load the semi and get out here before anymore famished show up."

He stares at me for a long moment, before looking back to Reece, "You're driving the damn thing."

After everything is loaded in the truck, I ride with Reece in the semi while Mac drives the van. On our way back to the interstate, the reference books I have at my former house pop into my mind.

"We're close to my old house. We should see about those books while we're here."

He immediately wants directions. "Your boyfriend won't be happy, but I don't care."

"Don't get your hopes up Reece. I set fire to the house. The books were in the bunker. I have no way of knowing if they survived. If they didn't get it put out, then the house could have collapsed." I don't relish seeing it for myself. Even though Mac already knew what happened, I tell Reece about Harley, Nadine, Bridget, and Kale.

Reece nods, "They shouldn't be a problem. I have a pipester for a distraction." I grin at his made up name for the bombs. I have him park where I parked Rhonda the Honda the night I set the fire. Mac pulls up beside us, getting out he does a good job of keeping his mouth shut, his way of making up for his uncalled-for outburst.

Reece goes out about three hundred yards the other way to detonate the bomb. I will be able to see if the Lollipop Gang goes toward the sound. It will take them more time to try to figure out what happened.

Ten minutes after Reece throws the bomb, he comes back. Maybe they moved on? Which was what I'd wanted them to do by way of fire. Finally, Harley, Nadine, and Bridget scurry toward it. Guess they had to figure out what to do about the sound. I almost laugh that they decide to go together.

I sprint forward with Mac and Reece following. We make it into the neighborhood, and dart between fences. When I see my house, I stop. It's burnt, but still standing. Scorch marks crawl up the bricks like ghosts of the flames. The windows are boarded up.

"I'm guessing this is it?" Mac asks with excitement.

I shoot him a look, "You're excited?"

He nods, "Yeah, another piece of Kansas puzzle." I laugh despite myself. Of course he would see it that way.

I lead them up the walk, through gate, and peer around. They are living here. Clothes dangle from my old clothing lines. A pain pierces my chest, I want to leave.

"Reece, keep watch," I say. "I need to get something out of the house."

Going up the patio steps, Mac follows. Burnt wood and old things drift to my nose as I go inside. Peering around, my heart lurches at the sight of my family home from the old life. Everything's destroyed. I can see straight to the front of the house from where walls have collapsed. A hole takes up the kitchen floor. I remember the tequila spilling onto the floor catching fire.

I swallow, hoping what I came for made it. Mac squeezes my hand. I look at him, glad for his reassuring presence. Checking the floor, I walk toward the master bedroom. The model jewelry box lies on its side on the floor, scorched, but being on the floor kept the fire from ruining it. When I open it, I find the precious metals have melted somewhat, but they're still valuable.

"Smart," Mac comments.

I sigh, "If I was smart I would have gotten them before setting the house on fire." He just smiles at me and helps me shove gold, silver, and diamonds into our pockets a string of pearls that had been in my mother's family for generations.

My dad, being a traditional man, gave my mother gemstones on the proper wedding anniversaries. For their fifth year, he gave her a charm bracelet with a dangling sapphire. A new charm was added every year after that. For their fifteenth, ruby earrings. A platinum ring with an emerald for their twentieth. An imperial topaz charm for the bracelet on their twenty-third year of marriage. Their last.

"Looks like your mom was a lucky woman," he whispers as I realize I was explaining all of them out loud. A flash of her passed out with a bottle between her legs goes through my mind.