He sat and drank and thought. He kept on scanning news reports for something. Anything.

The drinking continued until noon. Ted should have been in bed long ago, but instead, he was pleasantly s.h.i.tfaced. The redness in his ruddy cheeks was a deep hue, and yet his eyes hardly strayed from the TV. He absorbed every news broadcast there was. Information. He craved information.

His telephone rang around two and again around four. Ted did not bother to answer. His answering machine clicked on, and voices were recorded. He ignored them. His cell phone rang twice, but he had left that on the counter in the kitchen. He sat and watched practically all day with the exception of going to the bathroom. And as the day moved on, it became obvious to an inebriated Ted, all alone in his apartment, that there were some serious things not happening in the world.

"n.o.body," he burped out at one point. "n.o.body at all. f.u.c.ked up, man. f.u.c.ked up."

The sun dropped out of sight, and Ted marked the absence of light by mechanically switching on a nearby lamp. His phone rang several more times in the evening, and at last, perhaps around eight o'clock, he got up, marched around his apartment and ripped both landlines out of the wall. He baseball pitched his cell phone into the toilet. The phones were a distraction. With three quarters of a very large bottle of booze flooding his system and senses, Ted did not need anyone to distract him. He would not report to work later. What he had discovered was more important than work. It was far more important than anything.

It was awesome.

But Ted wanted to beat the boys in the bas.e.m.e.nt to the punch. He wanted to be the one to announce to the world that, in case you haven't noticed, not one person in the whole world had died. Not one. What do you think about that, Dave?

A smashed smile spread across Ted's face. To be interviewed by Dave Letterman would be awesome. He could call the studios in an hour, already forgetting how he had disposed of his means of communication. Ted returned to the sofa and sat down with the weight of a drunken ogre. He spied the TV and decided to keep it on CNN for the rest of the night. Just a little more proof was all he needed to confirm his suspicions.

Just a little more proof.

Then, it hit him. Like a comet blazing a path straight through the s.p.a.ce between his eyes. The ultimate in proof. What better way to prove you couldn't die anymore than by shooting yourself on TV! That was the cat's a.s.s in Ted liquored up mind. He mulled over it. Oh there would be a few non-believers in the audience who would think it were all special effects, but Dave would sure as h.e.l.l be impressed!

He sat on his sofa with CNN on, scratching his upper lip with his lower teeth.

"Better have a test run," Ted declared aloud. He staggered to his feet, threw out his arms for balance and staggered towards the kitchen. He had something there. Just the thing. His father's snub nose .38, already loaded and ready.

Ted got the gun from the kitchen cabinet over the fridge. He checked the rounds and smiled tightly. Holding the gun in his right fist, with sense enough to point it away from himself, he got back to the sofa and planted himself once again. He placed the gun on the coffee table before him and stared at it.

Gun black. Snub nosed. An ugly name for an ugly piece of metal.

"Jesus," Ted muttered to himself. Was he really going to f.u.c.king shoot himself? The idea was great in the beginning, but now that the gun was out and right before him, not even the confidence bestowed upon him by the old magician Jacky D. could stop the sudden shrinkage of his s.c.r.o.t.u.m. Ted stared at the gun for a long time. It was one thing to think about doing it, but it was another to actually have the b.a.l.l.s to do it.

And what if he was wrong?

Ted swayed on the couch.

Where would he shoot himself that would cause minimal damage if he was wrong about his a.s.sumption? He drank on that thought. And he drank more when he could not come up with somewhere to shoot himself that would potentially kill him if he didn't suspect he couldn't die. If he shot himself in the head, he ran the risk of brain damage. Anywhere in the chest could produce similar grave after effects-if he lived to tell. Ted snorted. Of course, he would live! The proof was on TV and in the morgues and ER wards of New York!

He picked up the gun, hefted it and placed it at an angle underneath his chin. A rush of fear went through him. If he pulled the trigger now, the dice would be rolled and there would be no going back. No reset b.u.t.ton. Christ, he thought darkly, how did the suicides of the world do it? To be driven to a place where taking their own lives was the final solution to their problems. It struck him to be something of a paradox. The courage they found to do themselves in was a monstrous thing, and yet it wasn't enough to carry on living, to face the fears that drove them to the edge in the first place.

But what did Ted really know about it?

Looking ahead at the wide screen TV, he adjusted his grip on the pistol and took a breath. His finger tensed on the trigger.

He would find out.

Chapter 57.

The light was fading outside, and Tony was feeling good about it. It only took him a moment to realize that Ol' Jack was doing his rounds. That made him smile. One could count on Mr. Daniels. He sat off to one side on the same L-shaped couch as an equally pickled Death. The forty ouncer of sour mash whiskey had slowly disappeared between the two of them in the final hour of daylight. Death did not talk anymore about being p.i.s.sed off with people, and Tony did not debate the matter with him. How could he? It made sense, what he was saying. The last thing most everyone ever felt before dying was pain, and Death was the fireman to the rescue. Now that the fireman had decided to stop working, it was clear to Tony just how important that individual's role was. He remembered watching the news in the hotel room with Lucy not so long ago, and he recalled his slow uptake on what was happening. n.o.body dying. Anywhere. How long would it take for someone to figure it out? How long would it take for the crazies to take advantage of it? How long did they have left?

But what could Tony say to convince the man next to him to return to work?

"Hey."

Tony glanced to the still paralyzed and now smashed Death on the couch.

"You got s.h.i.t to do," Death informed him.

"I do?"

"Yeah," Death wiggled a finger at the door. "They'll be coming soon. They'll try to get through that door."

"More of those things?"

"Yeah."

"Sweet Jesus," Tony grumped, pulling himself up off the couch. "Why can't you just go back?"

"What?" Death smiled wickedly. "And miss the fights? I got a ringside seat here, buddy!"

"a.s.shole," Tony muttered under his breath. He made his way to the door and bent over to look out through the broken window. The darkness was deepening. "Looks dark out there."

"They'll be coming sooner, then," Death said picking at the label on the whiskey bottle.

"How do you know?"

"They usually do," Death informed him. "It's a dead thing. Same with them eating the flesh of the living. Romero got that part right. Why couldn't you be him? The conversation would've been a lot brighter, methinks."

Tony straightened up. He placed a hand on the door and held his bat in the other.

"Why am I going outside, again?"

"Look around," Death told him. "Find a hammer and some wood. I'd barricade the house up real good if I were you."

"I won't have time for all that."

"You should've thought of that before you started drinking with me," Death scolded.

Shaking his head in annoyance, Tony yanked open the door and plunged out into the night.

"Bring back something t'eat, eh?" Death hollered after him.

Tony grabbed his crotch and gave it a quick, meaningful squeeze. Death could eat that, he thought darkly. He slammed the door behind him and looked about. Tony ignored the place where the bear had fallen. He peered out into the greying dark and the swirling snow. Dead things gathering. Just his dumb luck. He should have never taken this insane job in the first place. It was going to leave a scar. He could feel it. The snow went into his eyes, and he squinted against it. He kept one hand on his bat and the other against the wall of the cabin as he trudged around to the back. It was darker behind the cabin, but Death was right. There was a shed back here. Small, padlocked and practically knee deep in the fallen snow Cursing, Tony stomped his way to the shed and dropped to his knees. He began to dig, clawing at the base of the door and heaving snow. He had it cleared within moments. He stood and studied the small padlock on the door's latch. It was a simple thing. Perhaps, there was a key back in the house somewhere. It would take time to find it.

Snarling, Tony stepped back and smashed at the lock with his bat. He struck it hard, but the lock held. He smashed it, again, grunting. Still it held. Swearing, he went to war on the padlock, swinging and striking and smashing it with all of his desperate strength. The lock and wood surrounding it eventually surrendered to his blows, and the padlock dropped into the snow.

I'll look for it in the spring, Tony thought angrily and yanked open the shed's door.

He was in luck.

Whoever the owner of the cabin and shed was, he was something of a carpenter. It was cold and shadowy inside. The air smelled sweet of sawdust, and for a moment, Tony just stood and breathed in that wonderful scent. It brought him back to reality, grounding him against the forces that were ma.s.sing beyond the snow and gloom. All manner of tools hung on walls or lay on shelves. A modern Black and Decker Workmate stood in a corner of the shed, opposite an old but still serviceable wooden bench. Old fashioned buck saws, axes and hammers hung here and there, and on the wooden bench was a bare tin can, dull in the fading light and full of two and three-inch nails. There were shelves full of the tools any skilled woodsman would have at his disposal, but Tony could not name them all. He quickly scanned for what he needed. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up a hammer and nails, jamming them into his deep pockets, and then gathered up planks of heavy wood from one corner of the shed. Grunting and swearing, he struggled with the materials, carrying it all back to the cabin where Death lay waiting with his whiskey. Or what was left of it.

Death came awake with a fright when Tony banged opened the door and dropped everything in the entry way. He stood there for a moment, slap-wiping his hands and gazing at Death with a disgusted look.

"Sorry to disturb your rest, your highness."

"Suck on my royal k.n.o.b," Death retorted. "Found some stuff, did ya?" His words were slurred and unsteady.

But Tony was gone, again. Death grumbled to himself about respecting elders in his day, even when the elders were p.i.s.sed out of their gourds. Not with Mundanes, though. Oh, no. They were just too G.o.dd.a.m.n special to wait around and listen.

But then, Tony was back, again, with another load of wooden planks.

Death blinked at him. "Father Time must be f.u.c.king around here somewhere, the old c.o.c.ksucker."

"What?" Tony gasped, not listening. He was feeling his arms with the second load of wood, and this time he brought along a mean looking hatchet.

"Nothing," Death muttered. "What cha brings us?"

Tony held up the short axe with a grim smile.

"Nice," Death nodded.

"There was a chainsaw out there, too," Tony said closing the door behind him and shoving a thick piece of wood up underneath the doork.n.o.b. Selecting some long nails, he began pounding them into the wood, bracing the door. "And a bunch of other sharp looking things. I think f.u.c.kin ninjas live up here in the summer."

"Why didn't you bring the chainsaw?" Death wanted to know.

"No gas for it. I looked."

"No gas?" Death regarded his almost empty bottle. "Jesus. Christ. Almighty."

He watched as Tony moved from the main door to the one window next to it. He hoisted up a broad looking wooden board and positioned it across the window frame. In moments, he was hammering away, nailing it into place.

"Industrious little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, ain't cha?" Death remarked, watching the man work through p.i.s.s-hole eyes.

"You just lie there," Tony said as he quickly worked. "And don't move."

Death gave him a drunken salute.

"d.a.m.ned if a bunch of snow zombies is going to take you away from me," Tony muttered under his breath. "f.u.c.k that."

"Did ya see any out there?"

"No," Tony said, and that was the truth, but on the second trip, the hair on the back of his neck was standing up. His spine chilled, too. No, he did not see them, but he sensed them sure enough. And sensing them was probably just as potent. His legs felt weak, and he was certain it wasn't merely the cold. There was a growing fear there, as unwanted as a cancer, and it was moving north. Already he could feel his s.c.r.o.t.u.m tighten and his stomach knot up. He stopped for a moment, feeling the weakness in his legs transform into energy for fleeing. He began hammering at the wood harder, putting his shoulder into each swing. Sometimes he connected with only an edge of the nail head and sparks flew. He began to miss the nails more and more, and still he hammered away at the wooden beams. The energy in his legs flowed into his arms, and he harnessed it, pounding away at the wood.

"Tony," Death called to him.

He whirled about, hammer at the ready, wide eyed and sweating rivers.

There, on the couch, watching him with perhaps the first genuine smile Tony had ever see on his features, was Death himself. His breath hitched in his throat.

"Tony," Death said in a voice that did not betray anything about the amount of booze he had consumed, "slow down. Slow down, man. You're doing more harm than good."

"They'll get you," Tony blurted out. "They'll get us."

"They won't," Death said calmly.

"Why won't they?"

"Because I have a few tricks."

Perhaps it was Death's relaxed form on the couch that did it. Perhaps it was the calmness in his voice. Whatever it was, Tony got a hold of his fear.

"You got something? Like in the car?"

Death nodded. "Like the car, but not quite."

"What is it?"

This brought a frown. "I ain't telling you, man! But I will tell you this. When they come, they'll be surprised. And there won't be a d.a.m.n thing they'll be able to do about it."

"So I can relax?" Tony asked.

"f.u.c.k, no, you can't relax," Death blurted out. "But you can hold up on trying to put the hammer through the wall. Okay?"

Tony's shoulders heaved upwards with the deep breath he drew. He felt the heat flow into his cheeks now. He was afraid, and Death called him on it. When was the last time he had actually lost it in front of someone? With the exception of f.u.c.khead Freddie, he could not recall.

"Sorry," he apologized and meant it.

"No need for that," Death a.s.sured him, "but don't stop hammering, either."

Tony nodded. He got back to fortifying their position. He thought about all the people he had seen on the news in accidents or disasters. He thought of his mother back in Halifax.

"They ain't getting you," Tony vowed under his breath.

And swung his hammer.

Chapter 58.