Jerry sat down in the street and lit a cigarette, started coughing. Blood squirted out of the holes in his neck. The Raiders spilled out of the trash truck. Three of them rushed Jerry and tore him apart. They looked funny to #24, trying to stuff gobbets of steaming meat into their toothless mouths and into their rubber food-tubes.

"Raiders! Sound off, you c.o.c.ksuckers!"

#24 growled at the PDA duct-taped to his forearm and tapped the touchscreen. Green dots on the map were friends. The red spot on the edge of the map was hot. Move closer, get warmer. Feels good. When you were hot, you got to fight.

"#24, you're my quarterback, baby! Are you the only one left? f.u.c.k... The transmitter in the truck is toast, I'm rerouting through here. I can't see s.h.i.t on the satellites, and my air support is a f.u.c.kin' noob. And I'm pretty much talking to myself right now, huh?"

#24 counted his comrades, tapping the touchscreen six times... Two Raiders still lay in the back of the truck. One flopped from the waist down. The other one's head was twisted around backwards, and could only bite his own back.

"OK, helmet-cams are live... Fall in, b.i.t.c.hes, it's medication time!"

As one, the Raiders jerked to attention. Their medpaks whined under their helmets, pumping drugs and barrages of electroshock to jump-start sluggish, decaying synapses. Shreds of Jerry's septic gut dangled from the facemasks of the three backsliders, but they shambled into the huddle.

The new guys were stripped. Slim green metal tanks jutting out of their chests, stuffed with C4 bricks.

They marched in staggered formation along both sidewalks, hugging the scorched brownstone townhouses and concrete lofts that lined Haight Street.

On their screens, the meaningless map glowed red in the direction of west. #24 took point with a sixty-caliber SAW in his hands.

The Dungeon Master spoke in his ear, coaxing them around piles of wrecked cars and b.o.o.by traps. "Okay, you're coming up on the park, go left, you're getting warmer..."

#24 didn't need directions. His brain glowed, pulsing in time with the Red Zone on the map. The light from the intense shocks sparked behind his dull gray eyes and through the bulletholes in his black and silver helmet, making him look like a wrathful, d.i.c.k-swinging G.o.d of the underworld.

The mix downstairs rudely cut out, and Bob Marley's "Iron Lion Zion" shook rat t.u.r.ds out of the record store's rafters. It was their burglar alarm.

The pizza feast disbanded with fire drill discipline. Even the kids grabbed guns. Tweak pulled a metal chain to drop the steel curtains in front of the store, but something roared out in the street and burst through the plywood and plastic windows. It burst in midair before crashing at their feet. A canister flooded the loft with yellow smoke.

Eagle pulled on his mask and pushed Lester's chair away from the gas. Gracie herded the kids and the pedal-pushers towards the rooftop stairs, but she dropped dead before she could say the words.

Eagle shouted, "Masks! Get your masks" Most of them had masks or filters around their necks, but the gas rolled over them before they could spit out their pizza. Half a dozen of them died in a sprawling pile at the foot of the stairs. A kid rolled on the floor clawing at her mask, drowning in her own vomit.

Lester slid out of his chair and tumbled to the floor.

Eagle took his gun out and looked for something to shoot. His goggles were fogged up. All he could see was smoke. The white stuff that killed everyone thinned out into cotton candy streamers oozing down the stairs. Black smoke came from the roof. Shooting from outside, but almost all of it was. .h.i.tting the building.

Eagle charged down the drawbridge stairs just as a car crashed through the portcullis and plowed into the electronica section. n.o.body was driving the burned-out Subaru wagon, but four Oakland Raiders were pushing it.

The second the Subaru crashed through the wrought-iron gate, a ring of claymore mines on the cashier's counters popped up like sprinklers to shoulder height before exploding. Thousands of steel ball bearings flew out like a multiball monsoon in a tight, utterly devastating radius.

Two Raiders stumbled into each other as their perforated heads drained like dribble gla.s.ses. Tweak capped a third with a shotgun, but the headless Raider self-destructed and doused the DJ with flaming jelly.

The fourth Raider had dozens of steel pinb.a.l.l.s embedded in its armor, but it gamely came over and climbed the stairs. Dragging a huge machinegun on one arm like John f.u.c.king Wayne, #24 clomped up the steps as Eagle tried in vain to figure out how to raise the drawbridge.

He looked at the pile of people behind him. Dead kids with guns and pizza in their hands. The roof stairs were on fire. He put away his gun and picked up the last pizza box. Olives, artichoke hearts, and anchovies, less than half-eaten. Why did n.o.body appreciate anchovies?

"Hey, Sherman, hold up, man! It's me, Eagle. The pizza guy." He waved his chipped wrist at the approaching zombie Raider. Like he deserved to live, while these chipless n.o.bodies deserved to get ga.s.sed in their own home.

As if the Dungeon Master, looking at him from behind his game console, would see a human being at all.

#24 lifted the gun to Eagle's head, then froze, looking down. Eagle felt s.h.i.t pushing at his sphincter. Sweat popped out of his forehead.

"I'm not fighting you," he told #24. "n.o.body here wanted to fight you. They just wanted something to eat."

#24 scanned the loft, from the neat pile of bodies by the stairs to the harmless, hopeless pizza guy standing in its way. Looking back at the dead bodies for a long moment, it finally turned to Eagle and raised its gun.

"Hey, big guy, you want a slice?" Eagle held out and opened the box.

And he wanted to say, Please, in the head, if you have to Please, in the head, if you have to. Which was to say, Please, I don't wanna come back Please, I don't wanna come back.

Looking past the camera goggles, stared straight into #24's runny gray eyes. Just pouring his soul out. Being human. The only thing he'd ever been.

#24 gurgled, and a rope of spittle dripped down from its steel-plated jaws.

"Huck... anchowies..." it said.

And Eagle was running even before the barrel dropped, running and laughing with tears in his eyes, thanking G.o.d in whatever form it chose for this awful moment of mercy and grace...

...as the Dungeon Master went click click click click click click, stomped his feet. Went click click click click click click again. Repeating it over and over. again. Repeating it over and over.

Staring furiously at the game that utterly failed to obey him.

Betrayed, with every click.

Fifteen minutes later-as he click click clicked click click clicked-a text window popped up on his primary screen. MUCH IMPROVED.

Good news. Was Was good news. It was good to be useful. He got recognition, bonuses and perks all the time. He deserved them. Because he was the best. good news. It was good to be useful. He got recognition, bonuses and perks all the time. He deserved them. Because he was the best.

And yet, with his free hand, he grabbed at his straggly goatee and tugged until the pain cleared his mind, then reached out and grabbed the joystick again, squeezing and squeezing the trigger.

On the screen, #24 suddenly locked on a worker and shot him in the back, cutting him in half. His crew went on bagging and tagging the bodies, all green tags. Definitely not an equipment failure.

"I shot you," he said to the screen. "I told you to shoot. I gave you a f.u.c.king order..."

The replay of Eagle staring down his favorite Death Machine ran on a corner screen until Sherman kicked it in.

It made his foot hurt like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

War was just so unfair.

Are You Trying to Tell Me This is Heaven?

By Sarah Langan

Sarah Langan is a three-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award. She is the author of the novels The Keeper The Keeper and and The Missing The Missing, and her most recent novel, Audrey's Door, Audrey's Door, won the 2009 Stoker for best novel. Her short fiction has appeared in the magazines won the 2009 Stoker for best novel. Her short fiction has appeared in the magazines Cemetery Dance Cemetery Dance, Phantom Phantom, and Chiaroscuro Chiaroscuro, and in the anthologies Darkness on the Edge Darkness on the Edge and and Unspeakable Horror Unspeakable Horror. She is currently working on a post-apocalyptic young adult series called Kids Kids and two adult novels: and two adult novels: Empty Houses Empty Houses, which was inspired by The Twilight Zone The Twilight Zone, and My Father's Ghost My Father's Ghost, which was inspired by Hamlet Hamlet.

Benjamin Franklin said, "Fish and houseguests start to stink after three days." It can really be a strain, sharing your living s.p.a.ce with another person, and so the decision to have a child is one of the biggest gambles a person can take-you're essentially inviting a complete stranger to come live with you for a few decades and to be a major part of your life until you die. Most of the time it works out pretty well, at least we like to think so, but there are exceptions-children who are desperately unhappy no matter what you try to do for them, who run away, or get mixed up in crime. Parents torment themselves over how they should handle situations like this-Do you draw the line somewhere? Try to enforce strict discipline or maybe ship your child off to a prison-like reform school? Or do you provide unconditional love and support and hope that somehow they find their way in the world? Sometimes nothing you do seems to work.

Our final story tells of a parent who was in just such a predicament, and who is trying to reach his wayward daughter in the wake of a zombie apocalypse. He knows that his daughter is not the child he might have wished for, but he loves her nevertheless and is willing to do anything to protect her. Or at least...almost anything. After all, the world can be a terrifying place, a place full of monsters. anything. After all, the world can be a terrifying place, a place full of monsters.

I.

He Gets Bit The midday sun slaps Conrad Wilc.o.x's shoulders and softens the blacktop highway so that his shoes sink just slightly. It's a wide road with a middle island upon which Magnolias bloom. Along the sides of the street are parked or crashed cars, most of them rusted. He's got three more miles to go, and then, if his map is correct, a left on Emanc.i.p.ation Place. Two more miles after that, and he'll reach whatever's left of the Louisiana State Correctional Facility for women. He'll reach Delia.

Along the highway-side gra.s.s embankment lies a green traffic sign that has broken free from its metal post. It reads: Welcome to Baton Rouge-Authentic Louisiana at Every Turn!

And under that, in scripted spray-paint: Plague Zone- Keep Out!

Conrad wipes his brow with the back of an age-spot-dappled hand and keeps walking. He's come nearly two thousand miles, and he buried his fear back in Tom's River, along with the bodies. In fear's place came hysteria, followed by paralysis, depression, the urge to do self-harm, and, finally, the enduring numbness with which he has sustained his survival. But so close to the end, his numbness cracks like an external skeleton. His chest and groin feel exposed, as if they've loosened from their bony cradles, and are about to fall out.

"I'm almost there, Gladdy," he says. "You'd better be watching. You'd better help me figure out what to do when the time comes, you old cow."

"I am." He answers himself in a fussy, high-pitched voice, then adds, "Don't call me a cow."

Another quarter-mile past the city limits brings him to a kudzu-covered 7-Eleven. It's the first shop since the Hess Station in Howell that doesn't look bombed out or looted. "Water. Here we go, Connie," he mumbles in that same, wrong-sounding voice. "See? It's all going to turn out great!"

He shuffles toward the storefront on a bent back and spry, skinny limbs, so that the overhead view of him appears crablike. He is sixty-two years old, but could pa.s.s for eighty.

His reflection, a grizzled wretch with a concave chest and hollowed eyes, moves slowly in the jagged storefront gla.s.s, but everything else is still. No crickets chirp. No children scream. It's too quiet. He grabs his holster-empty-and remembers that he lost his gun to the bottom of the Mississippi River two days ago, and has been without water and food ever since.

"This looks like Capital T trouble. Right here in River City," he says in the high-pitched voice. It belongs to his wife Gladys. He's so lonely out here that he's invented her ghost. "Keep walking, Connie."

He knows she's right, but he's so thirsty that his tongue has swollen inside his mouth, and if he doesn't find water soon, he'll collapse. So he sighs, angles himself between the shards of broken doorway gla.s.s, and enters the 7-Eleven.

It's small-two narrow aisles flanked by an enclosed counter up front. Dust blankets the stock like pristine brown snow. A morbidly obese woman with a balding black widow's peak and chipped purple nail polish stands behind the counter, holding a bloodied issue of The Enquirer The Enquirer. "Zombies rise up from Baton Rouge Ghetto!" the lead article screams.

"Hi," Connie says.

The woman drops the magazine and bobbles in his direction. Something has eaten most of her abdomen and in the weeks or months since her death, the wet climate has not dried her out, but instead made a moldy home of her. He pictures lizards, crickets, even unborn children flying out from her gaping hole. Her ap.r.o.n, which presumably once read, "Thank Heaven for 7-Eleven!" now reads: "Heaven-Eleven!"

"Are you trying to tell me this is heaven?" Conrad asks.

She lunges at him and the force of her weight against the three-foot-high counter opens her stomach, spraying the shrunken Big Bite Hot Dogs' spit gla.s.s and Enquirer Enquirer with gangrenous green fluid. with gangrenous green fluid.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to tease you," he grunts as he wipes his face and pitches toward the darkened gla.s.s refrigerators in the back.

Behind him, Heaven figures it out and climbs the counter, then falls to the floor and crawls after him on a leaking stomach.

Conrad tries to pick up his pace, but he's so dehydrated that his heart is a trapped bird in his chest, fluttering and in pain.

Do zombies eat cold meat? Do they dream of electric sheep?

"Shut up about the poor, innocent zombies and find the water, Con!" he hisses, only he's too tired to use Gladys' voice, so now it's just him, talking to himself, which strikes him as sort of sad.

Behind, Heaven pushes herself to her feet. Her lips spread into a grin, and then keep spreading until they split open. The heat has turned her blood to thick soup that doesn't run.

He hurries, but his heart's not in it. Literally. It's pumping spastically, as if to Muzak-his wedding song forty years ago: With all of your faults, I love you still. It had to be you!

Lovely young Heaven lunges and swipes at him. He reaches the refrigerator, whose shelves are lined with new world gold, and lifts a gallon-sized container of Poland Spring Water. Though Heaven's gaining, he chugs for one second... two... three... as he rounds the second aisle and doubles back toward the exit.

Just then, something cracks. "What the-?" he asks.

Gla.s.s skids like sand under Heaven's feet. To his shock, she isn't shambling anymore; she's running. Bad luck. Runners are rare.

"Hurry up, Con," he pants, but he's rooted there for a second, water in hand, as her voluminous flesh bounces and thuds. He's wondering if maybe this is the second coming and he got left behind, because Heaven's lips have split length-wise like a hag's c.l.i.t, and inside, all her teeth are gold.

She dives, fast this time. He doesn't know she's got hold of his denim jacket until she reels him into a festering embrace. She's strong and tall-his toes don't even touch the floor, so he uses her body as a hinge and kicks up as hard as he can. His knees slop against her chest, hooking gristle as something cracks (her ribs? her hardened kidneys?), and she drops him.

Back muscles screaming like cop sirens, he dives over the counter. His hands find the twelve-gauge on the shelf beneath the cash register, and he reaches over and presses it against Heaven's ugly face before his physical mind ever recognizes that it's a gun.

"I'm sorry, Heaven" he intends to say as he squeezes the trigger. But instead, Freudian slip: "I'm sorry, Delia."

The mention of his daughter's name trips him up. He hesitates as he shoots, and by luck or intention, she knocks the gun out of the way. He hears the sound of shattering gla.s.s, but doesn't see what the slug hit. All he can see is Heaven as she sinks her gold teeth into his shoulder, down to the bone.

There's no time to think. He reaches inside her open belly with both hands and pulls her spine until it cracks. She hugs him tighter and then lets go, falling backward and in half.

"I loved you where the ocean met the sky," he tells the thing named Heaven, though he does not hear himself say those strange words. She blinks, only her eyelids aren't long enough to cover her rot-bloated eyes. So she watches him, perhaps seeing nothing, perhaps seeing everything, as he pulls the trigger and her head explodes.

When he's finished, he stands over her remains while his shoulder bleeds and infection worms its way through his heart and into his frontal lobe. "I'm sorry, Delia," he tells her, "for that bloodl.u.s.t. For Adam, and not testifying. For not believing you that time you called. Especially for that. I'm sorry for everything," he says. Then he staggers out, a d.a.m.ned man down a long, lonely road that is almost over, toward Delia.

II.

How Rosie Perez Foretold the End Some blamed c.o.c.kroach feces. Others, the hand of G.o.d. Whatever it was, n.o.body who got the virus survived. It attacked the immune system first, then it devoured the entire frontal lobe. The sick forgot who they were or how to walk, and eventually, how to breathe. After they died, the virus worked its way into the hindbrain's instinct center, and kept eating. Then something funny happened. They woke up, only this time, the virus was in charge, and it was hungry.

Fox News broke the story on April 1, 2020. At first, everybody thought it was a joke: the dead rising from embalming and autopsy tables, sick beds, bas.e.m.e.nt bedrooms. They spread the blood-borne disease with their bites. It started in Baton Rouge, but quickly spread to all of Louisiana. Overnight, hospitals throughout the south were full. A week later, national radio signals and satellites were offline. Two weeks after that, the army disbanded and went rogue. By Easter, America had dissolved.

Conrad had only been walking for three months since the world ended, but it felt like years. He didn't like to think about the old days. They were bittersweet.