When I sit down about five feet from the zombie, the vacant eyes stare at me. Its arms try to pull it forward. I ignore the moans erupting from its mouth. Who was this person? I'm not big on spirituality these days, but surely the person is no longer in there. One would hope, but what if the person is still there somehow? Knowingly decomposing in their own bodies, never able to satisfy an insatiable hunger? I shudder at my own questions, and just in case, I show it some mercy and put an arrow through its head.

I have no idea how long I sit and stare, watching as the buzzards fight for their newest food source, but when I do finally stand, the sun is more west. It gleams off windshields, and emphasizes the rusting vehicles amassed together casting shadows on the highway. I edge toward the woods on a spur of the moment decision, perking up as the sun streaks through the trees, making them glow brightly. A distinct trickling alerts me to running water.

Coming upon the small creek, it is music to my ears. I look around to make sure I'm alone and strip off my clothes for a dip. I take a few small toiletries from the pack and wash the best I can. The water is cool for this time of year, and a refreshing change from the pond. I take my time washing my locks, massaging my scalp. I learned a long time ago shampooing all the time will dry them out and make my scalp itch. I don't do it but every week or so. I put on jeans, staying in only my sports bra to soak up some sun across the grassy bank.

I'm getting closer to Clarksville, and I need a plan. It is highly unlikely that I will just go in, arrows flying, without knowing what is truly going on. I sigh, realizing that I can, in fact, do that. I have nothing left to lose. My best bet would be to just drive to the base. Zombies be damned.

I languidly run my hand through the creek. A twig snaps and a snarl breaks me from my daze. I leap up with my pack in hand, all in one swoop. Ice sweeps through my body as fresh zombies run wildly toward me. They move like normal people, without jerky or slow movements. Unlike normal people, their skin's pale blue. Their mouths hang open with bloody drool. Open wounds crusted with blood show their injuries. I grip my crossbow, knowing it's useless on these zombies. They are frightening.

I dash in a panicked run in the opposite direction, thundering through the trees as they crash and growl behind me. The machete on my pack slaps my thigh, and my dreadlocks hop from shoulder to shoulder. The tall undergrowth whips at my arms and face. With every bound and spring through bushes and wood debris, hurtling smashes of the running dead follow their roars of frustration, cutting me deep. It's bone chilling, and every small hair on my body stands on end as fear rushes through me. The rough brush makes them slow, but it slows me down as well. I push on, not giving up momentum.

Breaking through the trees, I take a precious second to find Rhonda. I've come out too far ahead. The SUV sits about thirty yards down. If I run down the tree line, zombies will pop out like jack-in-the-boxes. I run in that direction anyway. The movement in my peripheral vision causes alarm. I hurtle myself to the driver's side of the vehicle to yank the door open, slipping on wet grass, catching myself by holding tight to the handle. Jumping in, I slam the door just as several zombies hit the window.

On the passenger side, one of them opens the door. "Fuck!" I jerk up the crossbow, and shoot him in the forehead. At close range the arrow goes straight through, splattering gunk on the inside window and door. It goes limp as I start Rhonda. He falls backwards, blocking the others as I mash the gas and Rhonda lurches forward. The momentum slams the passenger door shut. Wiping the cold sweat off my forehead, I sigh through my heavy breathing. That was close.

By this time, the zombies crawl, claw, and mewl all over the SUV. I drive through some shallow ditches. When I hit a deep trench, the car bounces up and down, front to back. This causes a mechanism in my seat to break. I begin sliding backward and forward. Without the seat belt I bounce up and down in the seat awkwardly because of my pack. I laugh manically as the adrenaline makes me high. A clearing is visible through the trees, and I make for it, swerving around and veering under thick branches, laughing all the way, because this shakes zombies from Rhonda as if I'm in my own version of a video game.

Arms and hands beat at the driver's window frantically. White clammy hands have sickly blue veins running up the forearms. The fingertips smear blood on the window. A head pops into view with drooping eyes darkened with blood and maroon stained teeth. As it smacks the window, I'm suddenly jerked forward, hitting the steering wheel. A loud metal clanking follows the crash. I'm vaguely aware of the deploying airbags. The impact causes my seat to slam forward and back again. I look up to see a zombie between Rhonda and a tree through a thick cloud of engine smoke. I try to keep my eyes open but darkness sweeps me away.

I'm floating on a boat. The wind picks up to catch my sail. The salt from the sea and the smell of leather brings me comfort. What an odd combination? The sun beats down on me. I let it warm my face. The wind fades as I float.

Spots dance in front of my eyes, and I feel the sun again. I catch a noise at the other end of the boat, and look toward it. Malachi reclines there, smiling his lazy cat smile. I gasp as my eyes feast on him. The sun makes his brown hair gleam shiny auburn. The love and acceptance he had always shown me radiates from him in waves. Wearing the green shirt I like best on him and simple khaki shorts, I return his smile.

"Malachi, I miss you," I whisper as the wind blows through my locks, sending them flying around my body. That's when I notice they aren't locks, but my hair. Light, free, and blowing in the wind. His eyes shine with pleasure.

"You'll be okay, Kansas. I love you, always." Tears spring to my eyes, hearing his voice laced with love. My stomach drops with hollowness as my anguish rises to the surface. I choke out a sob, and reach for him.

"My dad?My mom?" His face crinkles with worry as he shakes his head slightly, looking out into the sea. Away from me.

I think I stumble, but I'm fading into myself. "No!" I demand and struggle to stay with him, knowing this is only a dream.

Chapter 11.

I'm aware of a burning sensation on my face and chest, making it hurt to breathe. As I start to move the aches spring to life in my body. "Ugghh " I groan as the muscles in my chest, back, and arms squeeze together. Straightening my legs, my right knee cracks as thoughts of the wreck flood back to me. I'm laying down in a square metal van. Checking my surroundings, the only light comes from small windows on each side of the van illuminating bins and benches along the walls. I'm on a small mattress that takes up most of the space, leaving a walkway. I meet the eyes of the bandana guy, his reading material forgotten as he stares at me, waiting for a reaction.

My breathing picks up as claustrophobic panic sets in. I shut my eyes to keep the walls from closing in on me. When I open them, I spot a door behind him. He's still frozen, as if waiting for me to say something. I glance at the bins containing various guns. I lick my dry lips at the sight of them. I hate guns, but will do what I have to do, if I need to use one.

He braces himself on the balls of his feet, guessing my plan. I spring up in one leap, ignoring my screaming body, grab a gun, and knock myself into him in one fluid motion. The doors must have been slightly open because we tumble out. As we hit damp earth and decomposed leaves, I land on top, but he grabs for my wrists, immediately flipping me over.

His weight crushes me, but I manage to jerk my hands away. Grunting, he grabs a hold of my wrists and knocks the gun away. He's worried about the gun, underestimating my body. I struggle feebly, kicking up with my feet. My legs end up entangled in his as he fights to hold me still. He's strong and equally big. I ram my head forward to head-butt him. When our heads crack together, he releases my wrists, and struggles to untangle his legs, blinking rapidly. As my own spots clear, I ball my fists and punch him in the gut. It's like punching a hard punching bag packed with sand. He lets out a deep grunt; more surprised than hurt. I take that second to roll away from him. A huge mistake because he pounces on top of my back, holding me down and knocking the wind out of me. Gasping for air, the moisture of earthy grime soaks my jeans. The decaying leaves are slimy against my skin.

With my heartbeat thundering in my ears, I spit, "Let me go!" over my shoulder. Beyond him, tall, mature trees completely block out the sky.

He pushes my face into the ground. More than angry, I open my mouth to protest and it fills with wet leaves and dirt. Dirt goes into my nose and eyes.

"I don't want to hurt you," he gasps, so close to my ear I can feel his breath, his deep voice reverberating through my body. He has a soothing, soft southern accent, as if his family lived in the south for generations. He puts more pressure on my head, effectively diminishing the soothing part. I also hope that's a gun pressed against my thigh. For that, I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of backing down easy.

Continuing to breathe dirt infused oxygen, I go limp in his hold. He waits as his hot breath tickles my skin in heavy huffs of air.

When he thinks I'm complacent, he relaxes his hold. I tense my arm and throw my elbow back as hard as I can and connect with his jaw. A shock shoots through my elbow and arm from hitting him with my funny bone. I scramble in the general direction of the gun. Blinking dirt out of my eyes and sucking in clean air, I locate and snatch it up, ignoring the electric waves in my arm. I fall back on my butt with a thump.

Rubbing his jaw, his eyes wide, he spots the gun. "Don't, you'll draw " He cuts off suddenly as I fumble with it. It's a big gun, too large for my hands. I know there's a safety somewhere, but can't find it. Taking a quick peek, I find him watching me. A flash of disbelief runs across his face before he breaks into a cocky smile. The bandana has fallen off in the scuffle, and his brown hair frames his face. He crosses his arms, making them bulge. I find a little spring button on the gun and assume it's the safety. Triumph surges through me, but when I push it, the clip pops out of the handle. It apparently isn't the safety.

He snorts, trying to hold back laughter while I stare at the traitorous gun. "You could have at least pretended to know what you're doing." Amusement is clear in his tone.

My eyes narrow as I palm the bullets and throw the gun at him. The gun barely misses his head. As I jump up to run, he calls out, "If you want to leave, you can. I told you I'm not going to hurt you. Good luck staying alive without any weapons."

I pause and try not to sway on my feet. He hadn't hit me. He was just preventing me from hitting him, and he moved me to safety from the wreckage and presumably battled zombies in the process. I swipe at my face with my arm, coming away with mud. "Anyone else with you?" "No," he says, bitterly.

"Not planning to roast me over a fire?"

His eyes narrow, scrutinizing me up and down as a slight smile crosses his face. "Nah, you wouldn't feed me for long." My own eyes widen with rising panic, but he seems to figure out this isn't a joke because his lips lose the smile as they screw up in exasperation. "No. Never crossed my mind." He sighs with weariness, but sounds sincere.

I don't know why, but I believe him. "Okay." My world goes black.

I'm back on the mattress when I open my eyes. Bolting upright I ask without thinking, "Where's Rhonda?" My voice is hoarse and raspy with pain. With a fuzzy head, I casually lay back down.

"Rhonda? There wasn't anyone else," he tells me.

I clear my dry throat, "Um, Rhonda is my vehicle." Running my hands over my face, I realize it's clean of dry mud, and glance at my clothes. They're caked with crud. My sports bra is worse for wear with a few blood spurts from shooting the zombie at close range. My stomach is as clean as my face. I don't know what to think about this guy cleaning mud and whatever else off me.

His eyebrows rise, amused, "You named your car? You must be lonely."

"I named it a long time ago," I mutter, shrugging it off and ignoring his comment. "Is it drivable?" I close my eyes not really wanting to know the answer.

"Totaled, I would say. Want to call your insurance representative?" he jokes.

I flinch from the word "totaled." The flinch causes a sharp pain through my head.

The simper falters. "You're in pain. I have some ibuprofen. Couldn't give it to you passed out." He rummages through a leather duffel bag, and I can't believe how courteous he's being. I practically beat him up. Even though he shows no sign of it, guilt settles in the pit of my stomach.

I ignore it as something more pressing invades my brain. I don't have my crossbow or any of my stuff. Feeling exposed and vulnerable without any weapons, I start to tremble slightly, wondering at his motivations.

With big rough hands, he passes me three pills and a jug of water. His knuckles are scarred and have a few healing scabs. The pills say Advil on them and are coated, not capsules. He watches me inspect them. Avoiding his gaze, I toss them into my mouth with a gulp of water. My throat aches, but the water feels good.

"Thanks." I clear my throat, "Sorry. About earlier."

He's got a gun in a million pieces. I assume he's cleaning it. It may be the gun we quarreled over. He shrugs off my apology. "I would have done the same. Just glad you don't know how to use a gun. You could have drawn hundreds of them, or even worse, shot me." He thinks for a second. "Cannibals stay away from the dead zones. Unlike you. Although, I've only heard of cannibalism happening once. Pretty rare." I can tell he's curious about my comment before I passed out. Dead zone must mean we're in an area with a lot of them. So, why is he here?

I shake my head, "I had a pretty bad go of it. I panicked without my things, and I've had the Honda since before the outbreak." I pause before going on reluctantly, "I'm not accustom to someone coming to my rescue." It feels strange, explaining myself.

"Yeah, okay." He nods with a furrowed brow, pointing past my feet. "Your stuff is there." My eyes follow his finger to my pack and crossbow. "Everything else I could find is in the front."

"Thanks." I look at him in a daze. "I'm Kansas by the way. Call me Kan."

"Kansas."

I swallow, realizing it's the first time someone has called me that in a very long time. "I'm Rudy," he beams. The smile transforms his whole face. He has even, white teeth, and dimples set in a sun-kissed masculine face with a softly square chin. Sideburns stop short at the bottom of his ears and stubble makes up the rest of his strong jaw. He's rugged, but judging from his stubble, he likes to be clean shaven. The bandana is still missing, and his hair falls forward. It's thick and drops in soft brown waves above his shoulders. There's an indention in the waves from the bandana. Looking to be in his late twenties, this guy probably hasn't ever had a problem getting what he wants. I'm envious that he hadn't missed the best years of adolescence to zombies.

"You're named after a state?" he asks so suddenly it shocks me, maybe because I'm staring. I wipe my hand down my face, assuring myself there's no drool. Must be some kind of hero worship.

"Actually, the city. Kansas City Sunshine Moore is my complete name." He looks thoughtful as if my name isn't anything out of the ordinary. I go on anyway, "I'm not kidding. It's on my birth certificate." I sigh, not knowing why I feel compelled to tell him something so personal.

"I like it. I think it suits you," he mumbles, before changing the subject. "I figured you headed this way. I'm glad I followed you. The famished that were after you would have eventually gotten to you. They were so deranged, they didn't even notice me or that I was shooting them. There were about fifteen of them. I had to break a window to get in."

"Thanks for helping me," I offer warmly. "Same with earlier, in the street." I add, although I had that under control.

"Yeah, closer you get to Clarksville, the more famished you will come across. I've been observing just near the army base, the famished seem more organized there." He explains, putting the gun back together with practiced ease.

That explains why he was in the right place at the right time. "I heard that too, and came to see for myself. Famished?" I ask, scraping caked dirt off my jeans, brushing it onto the floor.

He stares at me. "The newly turned zombies. The old nasty ones people call putrids. I've heard them called by different names. Forsaken, living dead, walking dead, undead, stragglers."

"Wouldn't they all be considered famished?"

"Yeah, but the new ones aren't slow and as decomposed."

That explains it. The famished describes them all right. "I also heard they're keeping the living to eat somehow?" I'm amazed and disgusted at the same time, and slightly impressed with his knowledge. Of course he hasn't been holed up for four years. I bet Harley, Nadine, Bridget, and Kale also knew these things. They played off my ignorance. This makes me angry again. The house fire gives me little satisfaction of revenge.

"Yes," he says bluntly. "It's a big army base. It was part of the Coalition. I was there for three years before men who acted as soldiers came in to take over. They weren't soldiers. I had friends that were soldiers, friends they killed. Thrown out to the famished like sacks of Alpo. They killed anyone who wouldn't comply with their ways. That's why the famished flock to it. It's structured to save food. They use it to get the survivors to comply."

This is quite a bit to take in. He made it to a quarantine. That in itself is amazing, especially after what I saw coming here. "So, you just left?" I ask, suddenly full of curiosity.

He sighs. "I didn't want to leave anyone there, but I had to. For help. I know a soldier, but he is really adamant that I stay out of it. I have a friend back at that base she's like family. I'm sure she is waiting on me to get her." He gulps audibly, his Adams apple bobs.

"What about the Coalition in Birmingham? Surely, there is help there?"

He shakes his head. "Other quarantines have been infiltrated. More soldiers, dead. My soldier friend won't tell me, but I believe they are using all of their resources to keep Birmingham from the same fate. Also, to keep an eye on all the little leftover pockets of " He cuts himself off abruptly. Clears his throat, "Anyway, I had to leave without her, but outside the base, there are hundreds of famished. I barely escaped when everything was still in chaos. I don't even know if she's alive or not." From his tone, I can tell he lives with guilt.

I look down and pick at my cuticles. I don't know how it would feel, to not know if someone is dead or alive, but it is better to know than not. I know for a fact everyone I loved and cared about is dead. Including my friends. I know because I had ventured out to look. I nearly went crazy, being alone that first year.

"Sorry," I tell him wholeheartedly. I too, have guilty feelings. "I killed my mother when she was...famished. She was attacking my dad. I put off killing him before he turned, but when he did... I killed him too," I blurt out, remembering their faces in my mind. I've told this man two personal things in less than ten minutes. When I meet his eyes, I know we understand each other. I tear my eyes away looking around, anywhere, but at him.

For the first time in four years, someone knows things about me. I don't really know how I feel about this. A strange thing, because being alone makes a person very self aware.

Noticing my surroundings, I see he has an arsenal. His big hunting bow leans against the locker bins. Hanging from a hook, a few tall holsters hold several arrows each. A few bins hold boxes of bullets for various guns. The guy is some kind of GI Joe. I smile, imagining him in full army gear.

I peek back at him. He's watching me when he says, "Couldn't imagine having to do something like that. I did have to kill someone I was acquainted with at my apartment building."

"Is that where you were when the outbreak hit?"

He looks away, his jaw clenches a moment before speaking. "No. I was in jail." I open my mouth to ask him how he got out, but he already knows it's coming. "Just so happens, my arresting officer had the keys on his belt. He had been trying to get at me through the bars. Killed him with a cot pole."

I don't ask him the details of his arrest. He's clearly uncomfortable talking about it. "Must have been gratifying." I smile, trying to make light of it.

He smiles too and it reaches his eyes, deepening those glorious dimples. "Once I knew I wasn't hallucinating from dehydration, it kind of was."

"Thanks," I tell him. Everyone has a story. I assume no one likes telling them.

"I can drive you to Birmingham, if you want," he says, changing the subject.

He's piqued my curiosity and given more information than he could possibly be aware of. I shake my head, "I'm going to Clarksville. I need to rest first. I don't want to look in a mirror, but the airbag burns on my face and chest sting. I'll be out of your way soon." I wince as the ache throbs in my head. The ibuprofen's kicking in, thankfully. I grab my pack to get food before remembering the food is somewhere else. "I'm going to get some food from the front." I start to get up only to have him gently push me back.

"I have something back here," he starts ticking off his fingers. "Spam? Ramen noodles? Tuna " I cut him off with my hand.

"You have ramen noodles?" I ask, trying not to show my excitement.

"Yeah, I'll even cook them if you want," he laughs. The sound echoes through the van. I really have to stay focused my twenty-four year-old hormones are getting the best of me and make me feel weird. No, not weird. Alive. I should just thank him and leave.

I don't because I'm curious as to how he's going to cook them. "I'll help."

"Nah," he gets up to pick through a locker, and goes to the front, where a small electric camping stove sits in the corner. Dad had bought one, but it copped out on me a few years ago. This one plugs into an outlet, running on battery power from the van.

The van is completely square, very dim, and smells of metal and fumes. "What kind of van are we in?"

"One of those armored money trucks," he looks over his shoulder, grinning. "I was very lucky. I found it with the keys and a tank full of gas."

I nod, impressed. It isn't a bad idea. I bet it guzzles gasoline. Looking to the back, he has several five gallon barrels. I notice my gas cans sit next to his.

"There are different kinds of armored vehicles. This one was used to transport money from the look of the bins and gun ports. The vault and cab are separate too. This one wasn't used by any of the major security companies. It's just plain black." He pauses, pouring water into the small pot, "I like the armor, steel ram bumpers, and front grill guard. It's large enough to live in the back, even for a couple of people. It's perfect for our current situation. Runs over famished with ease, anyway."

It is a great find. To pay him back for helping me, he can have the gas he rescued from my SUV. It's not like I'll need it. I do have to find another car. I want to trust him, but a part of me is skeptical. Exteriors aren't what they seem, never have been.

Chapter 12.

Over noodles, he tells me we are in the middle of the woods. A spot he chooses frequently because he only gets an occasional roamer in this area. Fine by me, so I lay down and recognize my pillow from Rhonda the Honda. It was considerate of him to grab my things. I still don't know how much stuff he retrieved, but I'll find out tomorrow. I also manage to put on clean clothes jeans and a faded black t-shirt.

Rudy has a small nightlight plugged in the outlet, and it glows softly as the sun sets. I turn to my back and close my eyes. A soft strumming begins on an acoustic guitar, surprising me. Rudy's playing low, in a pattern I've never heard before. It flows gently around the vault hypnotizing me.