I smile. "Yes. New York. My home is very far removed from what you have around here."

"You might think that we're completely isolated from the rest of the world, but it's not true, that's not our way. Separate but not isolated. We are not yoked to the world the way you are. So we were aware of the sickness, the "African Rabies," as they called it. We read the reports in the newspapers, listened to the radio and even watched the news on the television in the store in town. As more and more truth came out about what the disease truly was we were...cautious. But it seemed as far removed from us as...well...as New York City.

"It was in March, after that first winter. It was a hard winter, and I suppose if it hadn't been we would have seen them sooner and maybe been able to prepare ourselves better. I was up at 4:00 a.m. preparing for my morning ch.o.r.es. I was walking into the milking barn when I heard an odd sound in the pasture. I raised my lantern and that's when I saw my first...plague victim.

"In life he had been Jonas Yoder, a Mennonite from up the road. Jonas was a good man, I had known him all my life. There he stood in my pasture, mouth open, moaning, and what must have been a pitchfork wound through his chest."

Elder Miller looks deep into my eyes to the point of discomfort. "I suppose something you need to understand, being from the city, is that the first victims we ever saw were our friends and neighbors. People we had known our whole lives. I've read your 'survival guides' with faceless pictures of the undead. These were faces we had known and welcomed into our homes for years. You need to understand that to understand us."

I nod, and he continues. "It was still an hour or so from daylight, so I was very aware of the need to get back inside. I wasn't sure how Jonas got into my pasture, but I felt sure he couldn't get back out on the side closest to my home. I went back inside, locked the door and waited for sunup with my wife.

"Sunrise brought a horrifying sight. Jonas wasn't alone. There was Rebecca his wife. Further out in the pasture I noticed members of the King family, the Beilers and a few people from town-some of them familiar, others not. I also saw the gaping hole in my fence on the side closest to the road. That's how they had gotten in.

"Even worse they had gotten into the barn through some loose planks I had intended to fix in the spring. They were in the stalls with my work animals. The sounds were awful. I could hear my horses crying out as their flesh was torn. The sound drew the undead into the barn to feed. By the time my son arrived there must have been over thirty of them in the barn."

"So what did you and your son do?" I ask.

Otto Miller chuckles. "We simply did what needed to be done. We fixed the fence."

I laugh with him. Here was a man who faced the worst disaster in history with the simple truth he had learned all his life-if there's a hole in the fence you have to fix it. The world was going to h.e.l.l but the Amish remained unchanged.

"We knew enough not to get close, we knew about the danger of the bites. But they were in the barn, so my son Amos locked them in and we went to work fixing the fence. We couldn't afford to have any more on our land so we strengthened the fence, added braces and chicken wire.

"So at this time it was just you, your wife, and your son?"

"He had brought his wife and two children with him. After we fixed the fence he went out to the neighbors and brought back everyone he could find and convince to come. We are blessed with a large home that was often used as a meeting place. By the end of the day there were sixteen of us. We were able to bring a few more of our fellowship in over the next week or so. We grew to thirty-three members in our home."

"That seems like a lot of people to house, let alone feed."

Mr. Miller straightened in his chair. If I didn't know of the humility of these people I would have thought there was a touch of pride in his response. "To be Amish is to know how to provide for your family and those you are in covenant with-even in the most difficult times. That is simply our way. Your infection simply allowed us to do for one another what we had always prepared to do.

"Canned goods were brought from other homes. There were still chickens in the coop, so we had eggs and the occasional fowl. We had to keep the birds inside the coop most of the time, though, their movement attracted too much attention from the infected and-we feared-would attract attention from survivors as well."

"You saw other survivors from outside your community?"

"Occasionally. It is very difficult to know the intentions of those outside of the fellowship. We did our best to remain out of sight-as we always had-but occasionally they would come to the house looking for help or refuge."

"Did they get any?"

"We wouldn't turn them away empty, English. That wouldn't be Christian. But we would give them some food, some water and send them on their way. 'A cup of cold water in Jesus' name' is what the Scripture commands. They received that and more.

"However, we were very aware that our supplies were limited. It was just gardening season and while we could grow plenty for ourselves it would be some time before we could harvest. And we had no idea how long the ordeal would last. We knew it was best to not attract attention to ourselves. It was then that we realized we could use the infected to our advantage. Just like with our livestock, we would release them from the barn every morning and let them into the pasture. The sight of them was enough to keep the curious away."

"So you would let them out of the barn by day? What about at night?"

Otto Miller looks at me like his next answer was the most logical and obvious. "We would herd them back into the barn. We had always done it with our livestock, it just seemed natural to do it with the undead. Also, we were uncomfortable with the idea of them roaming at night."

"I've interviewed survivors all over the world. No one else ever reported 'herding' the zombies. How did you..."

"Herding is something we've done all our lives. We were able to modify the cattle chutes that we had used to guide livestock into wagons for market. We would walk in front of them, guiding them to the barn and then use a rope ladder to get ourselves into the hayloft and back out of the barn."

It seems time to ask the question that I've been waiting for, the question that makes the survival story of this Old Order Amish community so unique. "So was that when you came upon the idea to...make use of them?"

"As spring wore on and summer was coming we became aware that we might be in for a long stay. The infected had killed my workhorses and while we wouldn't need as many crops, a few acres of corn and wheat would go a long way towards providing for us over the coming winter.

"Abraham Schrock was with us and he was an exceptionally skilled woodworker. One night as the women were putting the children to bed he showed me his plans for a new type of yoke. He estimated it would take eight of the infected to pull a plow and we would have to learn how to direct them but it seemed possible. He had brought his woodworking tools and within a few days we were ready to test the new yoke out."

Mr. Miller catches my laughter. I shake my head and comment, "You actually farmed with zombies."

His glare narrows at me. "What would you have me do? These were infected people who I had known all my life. It's not in our way to 'remove the head' as your news reporters so eloquently put it. The Word of G.o.d tells us, 'if any would not work, neither should he eat.' Well, they had already eaten my livestock. It was time for them to work."

We are silent for a moment. I use the time to collect my thoughts and clarify my notes. Finally I break the silence. "So how well did it...work?"

"Better than you might think. It took two men with ropes to hold them straight from the sides, one man to guide the plow from behind and one or two of the little ones in front to...encourage them."

"Little ones?" I ask.

"The children. We found that they made good lures for the infected-like dangling a carrot in front of an old mule. Yes, our children work, they do their share. They are strong and capable and never were in any real danger-no more danger than being trampled by a horse and we have known too many of those losses over the years.

"At any rate, the crops were in the ground. It would be a late harvest but there was still plenty of time. That winter there would be grain for flour, bread for the table, warmth in the home."

"It sounds almost ideal. You're an amazing group to have survived so well."

"We know it was the Lord's blessing. In fact, that fall we decided to hold a feast-a harvest festival. We prepared food from our crops, killed a few of the chickens and gave thanks. I remember it was the Sabbath-Sunday. We do not work on the Sabbath so the infected were kept in the barn all day.

"I suppose that's why 'they' came. They didn't see the infected and the children were playing in the yard under the trees. The adults were inside on the porch talking when my grandson brought the men to us."

He shakes his head and looks down. "They were scavengers. Vile men who were simply moving from town to town, taking what they wanted. Killing. Raping. Here they had come...on our Sabbath. On our day of thanksgiving.

"They had guns. They walked into my home and ordered us to the center of the sitting room. There were only five of them but...it's not our way to fight and with the women and children there it would have been...improper. They needed to see that our faith was strong, that our ways were steadfast.

"I spoke up and told them what I had told the other visitors over the months. We had food and would share and could provide them with water and even directions but they could not stay. They merely laughed.

"One of them spoke up. I supposed he was their leader. From his swagger and his large gun I suspect he was used to others kowtowing to him. He said, 'Well, I'm sorry, Old-Timer, but that's just not going to work for us. You see, we're going to stay for as long as we want and take what we want.'

"Those words were emphasized with a glance towards my daughter-in-law. I saw Amos bristle and step forward. I raised my palm to him and he backed down...as he should have. The outsiders just laughed.

"One of the other men must have realized that Amos was her husband, he pushed him with the b.u.t.t of his rifle and Amos...poor Amos...always with the temper. He swung a fist at the man. The blow connected and he knocked him to the floor. That was when the leader stepped forward...put his gun to the side of Amos' head and pulled the trigger."

Mr. Miller stops and lowers his head. He removes his gla.s.ses and wipes his eyes, all the while in silence. I know enough to realize it's their way in prayer. I know better than to break the silence.

He sighs. "My son was gone. All those months among those undead, what some consider monsters and yet here these 'uninfected' had brought the worst plague upon my home. My wife was in tears, holding our son. His wife in tears beside her. My grandchildren simply looking on...frozen in the moment."

"I'm sorry," I offer, knowing my words mean nothing. "You have my sympathy."

"I think it was then," he continued, "that those men began to speculate on whether or not this would be as easy as they had thought. One of them said, 'We don't need this trouble, there's too many of them. It'd be a waste of ammo. Let's just take what we need and get out of here.'

"That must have sounded agreeable to their leader. He shook his head and looked back at me. 'We're going to need food. All we can carry.'

"'The women will pack it for you,' I told him, glancing over at Katie Schrock. She nodded and went to the kitchen to prepare the bags for them.

"The man tapped me on the chest with the barrel of his gun. 'You're Amish, so I don't suppose you have a car, but you must have horses around here somewhere. We're going to need transportation.'"

"I tried to tell him the horses were gone but he didn't believe me. In earnest, I didn't want to delay his leaving us so I didn't offer much more of an explanation. Finally he raised his weapon at my daughter-in-law and tapped the barrel against her head with each word: 'Where...are...the...animals?'

"I looked him in the eye-just as I'm looking at you now, English, and I told him quite simply, 'They're in the barn.'"

The words just hang there and we sit in silence as I let the full weight of them press down on me. I cannot help but think of the "scavengers" as they walked out to the barn and wonder what images of riding off into the sunset filled their minds.

Otto Miller stands and takes his hat in hand. He nods a "good-bye" my way and walks out of the room. I surmise that in his mind the interview is over. He has told his story. The rest is actually common knowledge in the area, told in hushed tones by the "outsiders." Mr. Miller led his scavengers to the barn, held the door for them as they walked in, closed it behind them and braced it. m.u.f.fled screams were heard and one or two shots were fired. The next spring he added three new members to his plowing team.

Otto Miller is a simple Amish man. His plain homemade clothes identical to those worn by his father and grandfather. His life as it always has been, revolving around his family, his fields and his faith. Whatever else he has done is between him and his G.o.d and certainly not open to the speculation of an outsider.

The Summer Place By Bob Fingerman

Bob Fingerman is the author of several works of zombie mayhem, including the recent novel Pariah Pariah and the graphic novels and the graphic novels Zombie World: Winter's Dregs Zombie World: Winter's Dregs and and Recess Pieces Recess Pieces (which has been described as " (which has been described as "The Little Rascals meets meets Dawn of the Dead Dawn of the Dead"). Other recent works include an ill.u.s.trated novella called Connective Tissue Connective Tissue and the post-apocalyptic "speculative memoir" and the post-apocalyptic "speculative memoir" From the Ashes From the Ashes. His first novel was Bottomfeeder Bottomfeeder and other graphic novel work-for which Fingerman also provided the art-includes and other graphic novel work-for which Fingerman also provided the art-includes Beg the Question Beg the Question, You Deserved It You Deserved It, and Minimum Wage Minimum Wage. Fingerman has also provided art for periodicals such as Heavy Metal Heavy Metal and and The Village Voice The Village Voice and did covers for Dark Horse and Vertigo Comics. and did covers for Dark Horse and Vertigo Comics.

Fire Island, just off the southern coast of Long Island, is a bit of a mystery-no one really knows how it got its name. Historian Richard Bayles has proposed that the name resulted from a confused understanding of the Dutch term for "Five Islands," as there are a number of small islands in the vicinity. Other stories suggest that the name comes from the fires built by pirates to lure pa.s.sing ships onto the sandbars, or from the island's rich autumn foliage, or even from the rashes caused by the poison ivy that grows there.

Our next story, as you might have guessed, takes place on Fire Island. "My wife and I used to rent a summerhouse on Fire Island and it struck me what a great setting for a horror story it would be during the off-season," Fingerman says. "Come October it's pretty desolate. And there are no cars. It's a weird place, like a sand-strewn version of The Village from the old series The Prisoner The Prisoner."

Fingerman never was a bike messenger like the protagonist, but as with much of his work, elements of autobiography found their way into the protagonist's personality. One way they're alike is that they both have some sympathy for zombies. "They didn't ask to be what they are and even though they want to eat humans, there's no malice," he says. "They're the average schmuck of the monster world. I can relate."

I'm looking at the red ring of fresh, shiny tooth marks on my right palm, some highlighted by small dots of blood. Not a lot of blood; in fact, quite little. But enough to have me concerned. It's times like this I get nostalgic for teta.n.u.s. Remember teta.n.u.s? When you were a kid and you'd go tearing around a vacant lot, some future construction site or some such, and you'd catch your tender young dermis on a rusty nail. Teta.n.u.s! Adults had warned you! You'd get visions of lockjaw and freak out. The grownups had cautioned you that infection with teta.n.u.s would cause severe muscle spasms and that those would lead to "locking" of the jaw so you couldn't open your mouth or swallow. It could maybe even lead to death by suffocation. Teta.n.u.s! Ah, the good old days.

Teta.n.u.s is not transmitted from person to person.

I wish I could say the same for this current unnamed affliction.

That part also sucks. I don't even know what to call this. The scientists and doctors hadn't come to a consensus by the time the broadcasts had ceased. So, what's the official cla.s.sification? What's the name? I never understood the concept of naming a disease after yourself just because you discovered it. Why would you want your name a.s.sociated with pain and suffering evermore? What was Parkinson thinking? If I was a doctor and I chanced upon some terrible malady I'd name it after someone awful-Hitler's Syndrome or Bush's Complex. At any rate, what would you call this latest-and likely final-pathosis? Zombification Zombification sounds kind of stupid. And if it's brewing, if you're infected but zombification hasn't blossomed into full-blown zombiehood, what then? What do you call its period of gestation? sounds kind of stupid. And if it's brewing, if you're infected but zombification hasn't blossomed into full-blown zombiehood, what then? What do you call its period of gestation?

I'm not man enough to go all Bruce Campbell on myself and lop off the offending extremity. Not yet. But why bother? It's in there, doing its thing, circulating. I guess. I remember hearing about this guy who was bitten on the ankle by some totally poisonous snake-in South America I think it was. Anyway, he knew he had about three minutes before the poison killed him. The guy was a lumberjack or something-maybe he was decimating the rain forest. Maybe the snake was protecting its turf. I can't remember that kind of detail. But he acted decisively and took his chainsaw to his leg and cut it off at the knee. And he lived. The guy lived. He cut it off before the poison could reach his heart. I couldn't do that. I can't. So I'm a-goner.

Why should I be any different?

Still, I feel so stupid.

I bandage the bite, more for the psychological comfort it provides. I just don't want to keep staring at it. Still, there goes my s.e.x life, not being one for ambidexterity. I step out onto the porch and look down at the asphalt walkway. I'd call it a road, but no cars were permitted here. Sure, the occasional emergency vehicle was allowed-they didn't call it Fire Fire Island for nothing-but no civilian automobiles. During the summer, just a few short, endless months ago, this road was teeming with the pasty and the tan, the fit and the flabby, all making their circuits to and from the beach, most of the guys toting coolers and cases full of cheap, low-octane suds. I never saw anyone with food. All of these beachgoers, the rare quiet ones and the common boisterous types, seemed to sustain themselves purely on beer and greasy wedges from the local pizzeria. Island for nothing-but no civilian automobiles. During the summer, just a few short, endless months ago, this road was teeming with the pasty and the tan, the fit and the flabby, all making their circuits to and from the beach, most of the guys toting coolers and cases full of cheap, low-octane suds. I never saw anyone with food. All of these beachgoers, the rare quiet ones and the common boisterous types, seemed to sustain themselves purely on beer and greasy wedges from the local pizzeria.

I'd kill for one of those mediocre slices right now.

The walkway is mostly obscured by slushy sand-just patches of buried blackness showing through here and there. I used to sit on this porch, reading-or at least pretending to read-and scoping the hotties. Right before the current, ultimate, nameless pandemic came and ruined everything, the Girls Gone Wild Girls Gone Wild epidemic had swept the nation. Formerly normal girls, ones with a modic.u.m of propriety, would suddenly whip off their tops and bounce up and down. All it took to loosen them up was ma.s.sive quant.i.ties of alcohol, a bit of flattery, and the materialization of a video camera. How many parents cried themselves to sleep at night because of those DVDs? epidemic had swept the nation. Formerly normal girls, ones with a modic.u.m of propriety, would suddenly whip off their tops and bounce up and down. All it took to loosen them up was ma.s.sive quant.i.ties of alcohol, a bit of flattery, and the materialization of a video camera. How many parents cried themselves to sleep at night because of those DVDs?

Guys with oversized Dean Martin fishbowl snifters of frozen margarita would chant as these local girls made bad would frown, then giggle, then comply and let their b.o.o.bs out to Neanderthal choruses of "Whoo-whoo-whoo!" "Whoo-whoo-whoo!" Maybe that was a portent of the looming b.e.s.t.i.a.l decline of mankind. Nah. But it's amazing how fast a s.e.xy girl can become an abject object, all desirability drained away in mere moments. Maybe that was a portent of the looming b.e.s.t.i.a.l decline of mankind. Nah. But it's amazing how fast a s.e.xy girl can become an abject object, all desirability drained away in mere moments.

I don't know.

I thought coming back to Fire Island would be a good idea. Isolated, especially in the off-season. I liked the whole no cars thing. Back in the city, when it was really beginning to get soupy, the maniacs in their cars were more dangerous than the zombies. The roads were choked with panicky motorists attempting to flee, causing all kinds of mayhem along the way. What did they expect? Light traffic? Idiots. Of course all the roads were clogged. And every poor pedestrian schmuck one of these amateur Dale Earnhardts nailed would rise as one of the undead. Brilliant. Broken dolls peeling themselves off the pavement to wreak havoc on the ones who struck them down. Or whoever was convenient.

I used to be a bike courier, right after that movie Quicksilver Quicksilver came out-but not came out-but not because because of that movie. Never let it be said I was influenced to take a job because of a movie. Remember that thing? Kevin Bacon as a hotshot bike messenger, for the like five minutes Hollywood was convinced such a lame-a.s.s job was cool. All those dumb movies about urban iconoclasts. Anyone for of that movie. Never let it be said I was influenced to take a job because of a movie. Remember that thing? Kevin Bacon as a hotshot bike messenger, for the like five minutes Hollywood was convinced such a lame-a.s.s job was cool. All those dumb movies about urban iconoclasts. Anyone for Turk 182 Turk 182?

Anyway.

Even after I moved on from that gig I remained an avid cyclist. My legs conditioned for endurance, I avoided the main arteries and biked all the way from Elmhurst to Baysh.o.r.e, Long Island, which is a pretty long haul. I don't know how many miles-my odometer fell off somewhere along the way-but a lot. Especially when you consider the meandering back road nature of the trek. None of that "as the crow flies" convenience. En route I could see things worsening citywide, the zombies increasing their numbers at a dizzying pace. Be fruitful and multiply Be fruitful and multiply, I thought, ever the heretic. Even taking this shunpike route I avoided many a close call and witnessed many horrific sights. Amazing how many variations on the themes of evisceration and dismemberment there are. I splashed through more than a few puddles, and I'm not talking water. Having learned the hard way how to avoid hitting pedestrians, getting doored in traffic and other hazards of the bike courier's trade, I managed to eschew ensnarement by the hungry undead.

At least the zombies are slow.

And can't ride bikes or drive cars.

Yet.

When I got to the marina-actually, that sounds a bit grand. The wharf? The dock? Whatever-where the ferries left for the island, I realized there wasn't exactly going to be regular service. What was I thinking? Panic doesn't make for cogent planning, but you'd think on that interminable bike ride I'd have flashed on the notion that maybe ferry service to the island was terminated. Oddly, the ferries were still docked. Empty. No one was around, which was rather eerie. Not a creature was stirring, not even a zombie Not a creature was stirring, not even a zombie. Forgive me, but Christmas is coming. Call me sentimental.

Anyway, I boarded one and got as far as the bridge before I realized I had no idea how to pilot such a craft. I don't even know how to drive a car. And I had the bra.s.s to think those anxious drivers idiotic. Here I was, way out in Long Island, not my bailiwick, with no plan and nowhere to go. I was exhausted, too. I walked over to the vending machine to score a refreshing beverage. I'd earned that. The machine was dead, not accepting currency, paper or coin. I kicked the machine, shook it, then basically beat the h.e.l.l out of it. I needed to vent. As it lay on its side, its front came undone and it spilled its innards in a cacophony of tinny-or would that be aluminumy-clanks. I chugged three cans in a row of Ocean Spray cranberry c.o.c.ktail and felt better. I then stuffed a bunch in my backpack, and as I was about to check the grounds for more comestibles I spotted some interested parties dotting the periphery.

Not human.

The ruckus I'd made was the clarion, the dinner gong. I might as well have shouted, "Come and get it!" while tinkling a comical outsized triangle. If I'd entertained even fleeting hope that these callers were reg'lar folks, their herky-jerky locomotion quashed it in a trice. I gathered up a few more cans-delicious refreshment could double as solid projectile, if need be-and mounted my bike. But I wasn't sure where to go. I made a few quick figure eights around the parking lot, then made for the private boats. Many of those were missing, but a shoddy-looking motorboat was moored to the jetty. I stepped down into it, and when I didn't go straight through the bottom decided I'd be a seafaring boatnik after all. I grabbed my bike and loaded it into the dingy little dinghy, then tested the motor. A few yanks on the cord and it sputtered to life just as the lifeless approached. Mazel tov! Mazel tov!

I'd never steered a boat of any size before, but for a first-timer I didn't do too badly. I managed to follow the basic course I'd remembered from all our trips on the ferry and within, oh, maybe two hours or so I made it to Ocean Bay Park, the d.i.n.ky community we'd rented in.

We.

I remember the concept of "we."

"We" was pretty sweet. I was part of a "we." I had a wife. But guess what? She became one of those things right at the onset. On her way home from work she got bit. Well, more than bit. Consumed. I got a call from a cop who kept pausing to vomit noisily on his end of the line. He vomited, I wept. Then she came back and tore into the officer. Or at least I think that's what was going on. It sounded crunchy and wet. He kept screaming until, well, until he stopped. It was a really moist call. I'm being flippant, but sue me. It's all I have left. If I'm not flip about losing her I might just...

Anyway.

I might just what?

Kill myself?

That's a laugh.

All I know is I heard her moaning before I got disconnected-moaning and chewing. I got the picture, even without the benefit of a camera phone.

So after ramming into the side of the dock-starting it up I could work out, stopping not so much-I got out of the boat, dizzy and nauseous. I lay there for a while gasping, trying not to hurl. I must have looked like a fish out of water. It was mid-October, still not too bad temperature-wise, but drizzling. A good alternative name for Fire Island would be Rust Island. Back in the day people would ride their bikes all over, but always these ratty, rust-speckled wrecks, and here I was with my almost top-of-the-line mountain bike. Like it mattered. But at the moment I felt annoyed that my precious bicycle was going to be ruined by the elements. Priorities, young man, priorities priorities.

Fog was rolling in, obscuring everything. If there were zombies afoot I wouldn't see them coming-or hear them. I hastened my pedaling and raced to our house. I say "our," but really it was just a rental. And now that I was no longer part of a "we," "our" seemed moot, too. I approached the dwelling that was little more than a shack and slowed as I heard footfalls.