I carefully move down the last couple of steps and put my back against the wall. The wind pulls upwards and the little flashlight dims to nothing before going out. I shake it but nothing happens. "You gotta be kidding."

I reach out from under the tarp and feel the sandstone surface of the wall and use it to guide myself further into the cellar. I step on something metal and lose my balance, falling around a corner into what feels like shelving. My shoulder sends a bolt of pain and I start to gasp but a noise cuts my agony short. A low howling moan. My heart stops and my eyes open wide in the pitch black. I hold my breath and listen for the source of the howl. It comes again in the same place and I feel the air in the room move against my face. My mind races. It has to be the wind pushing through the cracks in the floor above. I know it is the wind. It has to be. But my G.o.d, it sounds like... I crouch down against the wall and hold the rifle with my knees. I pull the cleaver from its sheath and hold it at the ready. Jesus Christ, I hope that moan was the wind. If there's a Zed down here...

My ears pop as the pressure drops and the storm hits. The sound of small rocks spraying against the house is joined by heavy impacts of tree branches pummeling the dilapidated building. I duck my head and pull the tarp around me. If the cellar doors fly open, it will be the proverbial s.h.i.t storm down here. Something brushes my arm and I swing the cleaver out from under the tarp but find nothing but air. The floor above shakes hard and dust fills my nostrils. I pull my bandana up and breathe through my nose. Something very big slams the house and the floor shudders again.

Then just as quickly, all is silent. I hold my breath and listen. My ears are ringing as another low moan comes from the corner of the bas.e.m.e.nt and I hold the cleaver in front of me like a crucifix. Something above me breaks with a loud crash. A heavy board lands flat on the floor upstairs with a jarring smack. I keep my grip on the cleaver, my ears straining in the dark. I hear no footsteps. I hear no breathing. The moan is silent. But the goose b.u.mps continue to run over my skin in wave after wave. I have to get the h.e.l.l out of here.

Holding the cleaver in front of me, I try to retrace my steps in the dark. My body spasms involuntarily as I remember the feeling of something touching me earlier. I swing the cleaver back and forth just to make sure. My right foot dances forward feeling for what tripped me earlier. My grip tightens on the cleaver handle, ready to deliver as much force as possible without swinging it. The tarp wrapped around me falls off. I leave it where it lands.

My toe finds the first step and I start going up. My breathing is fast and shallow as I tell myself over and over again, 'Nothing here, nothing down here,' I take another step and reach up for the cellar door.

Daylight comes from between the gaps in the cellar doors illuminating the cross piece of the latch. With the back of the cleaver, I flip it open and push. The door swings halfway before hitting on something outside. I hold it open with my shoulder and lay the rifle on the closed door and toss my pack out behind it. With a quick shove, I wriggle through the opening into the devastation above. I feel something brush against my foot and I land on the cellar doors, pushing and kicking to get whatever it is off of me. A strand of honeysuckle blows away in the wind.

Again, my body convulses as my hands feel all around me for bites... or leeches... or cooties or... My boots are covered in s.h.i.t, but the rest of me is unsoiled and unharmed; or at least no worse than when I went in. I sheath the cleaver, grab my pack and rifle, and survey the damage. Another shudder rolls through me as I look at the cellar doors. I'll take the tornado next time.

A large maple tree leans across the overgrown front yard and into the window I had been looking out of earlier. Its top is broken off and lies in the overgrown backyard. The front door is still accessible and the stairs are still in place.

From the side of the house, I hear a gasp, almost a cough. I can hear it clearly against the calm, cold and damp air. I step quickly to the wall of the house and check the end of my barrel for s.h.i.t or mud. All clear.

Again from around the corner comes a noise, this time a great gurgling inhale. It sounds wet and painful and then again, another cough. I raise the rifle to my shoulder and step out quickly. Pinned to the ground by one of the maple tree branches is a Zed; a naked female Zed. She is young, probably early twenties. The twister has not only stuck her to the ground but has also torn all of her clothes off. A tree branch runs through her left shoulder, pinning her to the underbrush like a kid's bug collection for science cla.s.s. One leg sticks out at an impossible angle. Her hair is in pigtails that stick straight out from the sides of her head.

"Christ," I mutter to myself. "It ain't like it's bad enough to have Zed sneaking up on you all of the time out of nowhere but to have f.u.c.king airborne zombies flying all over the place... well... I just don't know."

I lean my rifle against the house and pick up a heavy piece of green maple branch. It is about three feet long and big enough around that I need both hands to hold it. I'd just shoot her but then anyone and everyone would know where I was. As I stand near her head, her jaws snap and her arms reach to grab me. "Ignore the man behind the curtain," I tell her and bring the branch down hard into her face. Her skull and the branch bounce and her arms flail more intensely. She snaps her jaws again but her teeth are now gone. Her broken leg flops up and makes a popping noise as I bring the branch down again. And again and again until finally she is still.

I find a length of heavy wild grapevine and hack off a section with the cleaver. Inside the house, I tie it off to a rafter upstairs and let it hang down the stairwell. I stand on the first step and jump. It snaps through. I repeat this on the second and third steps. The fourth is st.u.r.dy and refuses to break so I split it up with the cleaver. Just for good measure, I take out the fifth step as well. Zed can use stairs but he can't climb a rope.

I pull myself up the grapevine and settle down in the corner of the undamaged room. I am exhausted. My shoulder has returned to complaining and all of the adrenaline from earlier is long gone. I want to go to sleep but my arm will need tending and I need to eat.

I rummage through my pack and find the mystery can and the remnants of a tube of antibiotic cream. "Two great tastes, one candy bar," I tell myself.

As I strip off my jacket, I look outside. From my view on the second floor, I can see that the dirt road is blocked by fallen and splintered trees for as far as I can see. If the three or more bears return tonight, they won't get far, at least not by driving.

I dig out my med kit and find the tweezers and an old dental pick. As I start probing each tiny hole in my flesh for birdshot, I can't help but wonder if Goldilocks made it home. The tweezers find the first small lead pellet and I hold it up against the dying light of the day. "Can't wait to see her again," I say aloud to no one and nothing. I flip the tiny b.l.o.o.d.y pellet out into the filth of the room.

After probing all of the tiny holes in my arm, I slather on all of the antibiotic cream I have and hope that it does the trick. The last of my cotton gauze sticks down to the ointment and blood. I hurry to put my jacket back on to fend off the cold evening air.

My stomach rumbles as I roll the mystery tin around in my hand. "It's been kind of a s.h.i.tty day I guess," I tell the can. "Met a pretty woman... who shot me. Found a quaint rural two bedroom, no-bath fixer upper... that got destroyed by a tornado. Aaannd... I met another girl who was nekkid... but she was of the undead variety and I had to beat her to death with a log."

The can has a good weight to it. "Heavier than beans maybe," I tell myself. I shake it and it sloshes. "Or it could be some nasty a.s.s sauerkraut." I flip it up into the air and catch it. "But then again, it's kinda been a good day. I didn't die when that crazy b.i.t.c.h shot me. I didn't get trapped in the bas.e.m.e.nt full of c.o.o.n s.h.i.t. Aaaand the flying naked Zed girl didn't land face down in my lap. Sooooo.... mebbee... mebbee it was a good day."

I hold the can aloft and study it more. "So are you half empty or half full?" I ask the can. I chew on my bottom lip and listen to my stomach rumble again.

I put the can back in my pack. "f.u.c.k it," I tell myself as I settle in to sleep. "Too much excitement for one G.o.dd.a.m.ned day. I don't think I've got it in me to go through anything else." Cleaver on the left, .45 on the right, single shot by the cleaver, rifle by my head. I pull my poncho over me and put my head down on my pack as a pillow. Tomorrow will be a good day for a mysterious breakfast. Maybe I'll have a little treat tomorrow.

Chapter 6: You Can Check Out Anytime You Like.

Flinch, jerk and sit up fast. Jesus f.u.c.king Christ. My shoulder is stiff and sore and my bladder is full enough to make my back teeth float. A nightmare slides off the top of my head like a trowel of wet cement and I struggle to remember where I am. I'm not home. I'm not on the farm. But I do hear engines.

I shake in the cold air and stiffly get up to look out the window of the house. The noise is coming up from the dirt road in front of the house. Indecipherable voices yell above diesel engines as tires spin and tree limbs crack. I grab my little rifle and pack. Everything hurts. I may even have a slight fever. I look back out the window. The big tree that fell yesterday obstructs my view of the action the same as the fallen trees across the dirt road obstruct the path of the three or more bears returning to their fort. "Go ahead," someone yells and a motor revs. I can see a wiggling of branches as a tree is drug backwards and to the side of the road.

Another voice booms from further away, "You boys think you're work'n for the county?" It's followed by a short, strange laugh.

I gather up my things quickly and check out the front window again. I don't know why I'm following the woman from yesterday. But I do know that one of these guys will be headed into the house for some reason. I know they'll see my cleaver job on the steps, the vine, the fresh boot tracks in the s.h.i.t. I know they'll come in here if for no other reason that I don't want them to.

I check the magazine on the little rifle. I don't carry the clip completely full most of the time so as not to wear the spring out. Which is wishful thinking since the little Ruger and all of its parts will live longer than I ever will. I quickly stab three more rounds into the 10 shot clip and stick it back in. A quick quarter pull of the bolt shows bra.s.s up the pipe. c.o.c.ked, locked and ready to get the f.u.c.k out of Dodge.

I grab onto the grapevine and slide down the stairwell and into the living room. My shoulder hurts like h.e.l.l but I'm moving too fast to give a d.a.m.n. A few quick steps and I'm out the door, around the corner and out of sight. At the edge of the yard, I stop and stomp my feet, depositing a few chunks of c.o.o.n poo that were stuck to the arch of my boots. I look back at the road and continue on, making a zigzag run up a short hill back into the trees.

A giant s.h.a.gbark hickory tree stands just short of the top of the hill and I duck in behind it. I dial the scope back up to 9 power and look back down to my broken little hotel. A brindle pit bull bounds into the yard and sniffs where I stomped my feet. Two men in muddy fatigues stroll up behind him, their rifles slung across their chests. The one on the right whistles at the dog and yells, "Come on, Archie, let's go." The dog looks back at him and continues to chew on a piece of s.h.i.t. The man waves his arm at the dog, "Come on, you s.h.i.t eat'n face licker. Let's go, boy. Hunt'em up."

Archie stands and sniffs the wind. He looks in my direction and squares his shoulders. My little .22 wouldn't even slow him down unless I hit him with a real lucky shot. I remain motionless, hoping that he won't be able to wind me with a mouth full of c.r.a.p.

"Archie," the man yells again. The dog spins and bounds around the corner of the house to where I left the Zed body. As the two men inspect the full dead naked Zed girl, Archie turns and sniffs in my direction again. A deer path runs away from my hiding place and into the trees. I could try and just slip off. But if I make a break for it and Archie bolts, it'll go badly.

I stay frozen to the back of the tree watching them through the rifle scope. The men and dog are less than a hundred yards away and Archie remains staring in my direction. I become stone. I become tree. I become nothing.

The two men duck in behind the back of the house and light up a cigarette. One man peeks around the corner while the other one smokes. Archie sniffs the dead naked Zed woman and prances back and forth.

I jump when a single gunshot echoes up from the road. The two men wrap up their break and turn quickly with Archie to disappear around the corner. Another gunshot follows and then more and more. I continue watching through my scope, unable to see beyond the house.

The gunfire intensifies as I see the first Zed enter the back yard of the house and turn towards the road. He is followed by another and another. The rifle and pistol fire comes in even bursts now as the yard becomes quickly overrun by the sprinting and the rotting, the highly mobile not-alive and not dead.

I take my eye away from the rifle scope and look out across what I can see of the overgrown field behind the house. Silhouettes of stumbling and running figures take shape as the second wave, the shufflers, move in. These are the scratch and dent Zeds who drag broken legs and sport large chunks of missing flesh. Some are run through with fire pokers and pool cues; others twist as they walk with claw hammers or short axes sticking out of their shoulders or ribs. A howl goes off back near the house as I hear what must be a mounted .50 coming to life. "Must be getting hairy down there," I mutter. "Bad place to get caught too with no exit for the vehicles. I sure hope this isn't what I think it is." I put the thought out of my mind.

The shuffling Zed haven't noticed me so I step around the tree and pull out Mr. Happy. Sure, I could run and p.i.s.s at the same time, and Lord knows I've done it before, but this ain't my first Zed rodeo. I've got time. No need to panic. As the tension in my gut releases, I look around the tree to make sure I don't have a sprinter bearing down on me. I sing quietly to myself, "Here comes Johnny with his p.e.c.k.e.r in his hand, he's a one ball man and he's off to the rodeo." I think of the day before yesterday when I first spotted Goldilocks back by the hanging tree. The hanging tree apparently put in by these a.s.sholes.

I keep watching around the corner as I go. Nearly finished and the pleasure spreads across my body, dropping my shoulders in relief. But it does nothing for the feeling sitting in my chest like a stone pulling me inward. It is the feeling of being called in out of the waiting room at the dentist's office. It is the feeling you get when the doctor tells you it is malignant. The feeling you get when the E on the gas tank finally does mean Empty. It is the black hole gravity created by the death of hope.

I watch a shuffler with no fore-arms pull a face plant into a mud puddle. I snort out a quick laugh and shake my head. But goose pimples cover my body. This is probably it, the front end of the The Wave that I've heard about, the ma.s.s of Zed washed in from the East Coast by the Atlantic tsunami.

I close my hot dog stand, grab my pack and take off at a jog. No sense in tearing off on a dead run but no sense in taking a leisurely walk either. I need to think. I need a plan. But the plan is simple if only because it is the only option. I sure hope Goldilocks wasn't bulls.h.i.tting about that fort and the four other people. Things out here are fix'n to get harder. Even if I have to kill her and her buddies, the only chance I've got now is to find a place to hunker down.

After a few minutes, I slow down to a walk and take a pull off my canteen. As I look up into the forever cloudy sky, I wonder if people are still flying. I haven't heard a plane in many moons. But that would be the only way I could really make it out of here. Get west and get to the deserts or the mountains. Go where Zed can't. I look around at the empty fields, the tree lines, the patches of brush. I've been plugging due west for a long time but I haven't crossed the Mississippi river yet so I must still be in Illinois. That'd put me about a thousand miles away from where I need to be. Now would be a good time to be abducted by aliens.

Chapter 7: Bowling for Zed.

The walls of the compound don't look like much through the roving eye of my rifle scope. They are built of logs laid flat and notched like those of a giant log cabin with the bark left on. They look to be about 10 feet high and hastily thrown together. Heavy red wet clay fills some of the gaps between the logs as c.h.i.n.king. The roofs of several buildings that lie within the compound are visible over the tops of the log walls. Across the front is a set of aluminum cattle gates stacked one on top of the other and covered with thin sheet metal. The gate hangs open and swings back and forth slightly in the breeze.

"Knock, knock," I whisper to myself. "Who's there?" I answer. Goldilocks walks around the corner of the swinging gate cradling the pump scattergun in her arm. Behind her comes a tall thin man with gla.s.ses and long hair. They both look to be in their late twenties, about my age. "Orange," I say to myself. "Orange who?" They are arguing about something. The man throws his hands open in frustration and talks to the sky. "Orange you the b.i.t.c.h who shot me the other day?"

I am nestled down in the honeysuckle across the road from the compound with my poncho hood up to camouflage my upper body. I'm sitting on an embankment checking things out, trying to decide what to do. I can still hear the gunfire from down the dirt road but things have quieted down considerably. I'm not in so much of a rush but there are bad things coming.

Goldilocks is staring at the ground. The long haired dude has gone back in. I catch a whiff of something cooking. Something with onions and broth, something hot. h.e.l.l, it might even have meat in it. Non huma.n.u.s caro, hopefully.

Goldilocks spins on her heels and charges back into the compound leaving the gate open. I could walk right in, I figure. But considering one of the people inside has already tried to kill me, my arrival might yield a mult.i.tude of varying responses. "It doesn't look like she's terribly popular anyway."

I jump as a small spindly maple tree about 20 yards to my left thrashes wildly. I can make out the shape of a Zed heading my way. f.u.c.k it. I jump up from cover on the embankment and leap down across the clogged ditch into the road and make for the gate.

The Zed behind me is tangled in the brush but he's winded me and starts to let out a long, low moan to call in his millions of friends. I stop at the front gate, swing the Ruger up to my eye and put one neatly through his right cheek. He drops in a heap as I swing the gate shut. I make it a point to not look behind me as I put the crossbar down across the gate and set the sliding bolts into the ground. I'd just as soon not see it coming if someone's about to unload a round of buckshot into my back.

To my left, a stack of barrels has been set up to collect rainwater. As long as I'm locking the front door, I won't get shot in the back. Hopefully. Once I'm done though, I'll be fair game.

As the last long bolt slides downward into a piece of pipe set in the ground, I throw myself backwards in behind the barrels. I half expect a shot to follow my landing but no one shoots at me. I pop the clip on the Ruger and slide another sh.e.l.l in to replace the one I put in the Zed. "Hate to come up one shot short."

I crouch behind the barrels for a while. And nothing happens. No voices, no footsteps, no shots. I'm vulnerable on two sides so I slide the big .45 out and put it in my left hand. I point it off to one side and the rifle out to the other. I might have only a split second to fire and live if they jump me from both sides at once.

A few feet away, I hear a click. My throat constricts, my breathing stops, my ears strain, and my eyes search the edges of my peripheral vision for the slightest movement. I bring both of my guns up slightly, ready to aerate the first thing that moves. It must have been someone clicking off a safety. Or c.o.c.king the hammer of a single action. Or...

I hear another click. And then two more. Something pops like a twig burning in a fire and someone mutters, "Jesus" under his breath. A familiar odor hits my nose but I can't quite place it.

From only a few feet away, a low calm voice comes from over the barrels, "Hey man, you gonna hang out behind them barrels all day or do you wanna come out and smoke a bowl?" The clicking of the lighter snaps again and more twigs sizzle under a butane flame. "It's c.r.a.ppy weed," the voice tells me with held breath, "but we got a lot of it." The skunk bud fumes roll over the top of me in an exhaled cloud.

I get up on my knees and turn to face the direction of the voice. I lean the rifle against a barrel and rise slowly with the big .45 leading the way. A broad man, almost Samoan looking with his dark complexion and wild wavy black hair stands with a pipe to his lips. He's wearing a grey and black checked flannel shirt, jeans and work boots. He's a few years older than I am, probably in his early thirties. A rifle is slung across his back and a machete hangs from his belt in a homemade sheath fashioned out of cardboard and duct tape. He smiles as he takes the pipe away from his lips. "Man, put that thing away. Tyler's gonna freak out and..." a coughing fit interrupts his warning. I look behind him into the compound but I don't see anyone else.

As the man coughs, I lower my pistol. As I do, an arrow falls from the sky spinning end over end. It clatters down on the rain barrels with all of the force it might have had it been thrown overhanded by an eight year old.

The large man in front of me stops coughing and shakes his head as he rolls his eyes. "That one ain't right," he says and points his thumb towards the house. "That's Tyler. Boy ain't got the sense G.o.d gave a sack of lettuce. Smarter'n all h.e.l.l but just... ain't got no sense," he shrugs with a quiet laugh. "I'm Kevin,"

I holster the .45 and shake his hand, "I'm Billy."

"Betty and Daisy are around here somewhere," Kevin says as he pokes at the marijuana pipe with the end of his thumb. "And I hear you already met Karen."

I rub my shoulder as I answer, "Yeah. She introduced herself the other day." The light brown fabric of my jacket is torn and b.l.o.o.d.y.

"Yeah," Kevin says. "She's a little f.u.c.ked up in the head, I reckon." He looks at me and smiles, his eyes are completely bloodshot. "But I guess we're all a little messed up these days."

I walk back to the barrels and pick up my rifle. "Karen, huh? Didn't get her name the other day. Seems like a bit of a misnomer. Seems like she might be the ant.i.thesis of caring."

"That or just the antichrist," Kevin says as he loads a fresh bowl into the pipe. "You wanna little... medicinal marijuana for your shoulder?"

"Nah," I wave away his offer. "I sure could go for a cigarette if you got one though."

He lights the bowl and takes another deep drag. "Nope," he says holding the smoke in, "ain't got no cigarettes. Tons of s.h.i.tty dope though. You can smoke this s.h.i.t all day and not get a buzz. Here."

I take the pipe and lighter from his hand. "Well, h.e.l.l," Kevin says in a long drawl. We walk toward the gate. A scaffold is set up next to the wall, just beside the gate. As he climbs the ladder to look over the side, he turns to me and says, "Thanks for lock'n the front door. Can't seem to impress upon some of the folks round here that they need to shut the G.o.dd.a.m.ned gate behind them. It's like raise'n a buncha G.o.dd.a.m.ned kids half the time."

I follow him up the ladder. The log wall hits about waist high as we look over the side. A shuffler is banging on the front gate. "Watch this," Kevin says and whistles to the Zed. "Come'er, mellon head." As the Zed moves to stand below us and howl his displeasure, Kevin reaches into a box sitting on the scaffold and takes out a bowling ball that has been drilled and attached to a length of chain. It is a bright orange kid's bowling ball, probably only a nine pounder. The chain is attached to a short length of shovel handle forming an odd flail like weapon.

Kevin lets the ball drop over the side of the wall to the end of its chain. "Ever play Whack-a-Mole as a kid?" he asks. I shake my head yes. "This is way funner." He swings the bowling ball in a full arc and three quarters of the way through the swing, he straightens his arm and bends over, bringing the ball through at high speed. The orange globe squares the Zed in the left ear, knocking him motionless to the ground.

"If you don't put some oomph behind it, it just knocks them out for a little bit. But if you really crank on it, you can pretty much scramble everything above the eyebrows."

"Bowling for Zed," I say as I fire up the pipe.

"Bowling for Zed," Kevin repeats. I don't know him from Adam. He could be sucking me into a trap, keeping me still for a sniper shot... anything. But there's a great calm around the big man. His flannel shirt flaps around in the light breeze along with the black wavy hair. On the makeshift machete scabbard are written the words, "Pig Sticker". Everything feels relaxed and low stress. I guess if I'm going to buy it today, there are worse ways to go.

"I thought I smelled something cooking earlier. I'd be happy to trade some intel for some grub."

"Intel?" he repeats as he pulls the ball up and drops it in the box. "What? About the shoot'n up the road? We already know a little about them guys."

"I know a lot. Not about those guys, though. More about what's coming. And when."

"Yeah, well... h.e.l.l. We'll feed ya regardless. We brought some stuff, found some stuff. I think the girls are make'n some kind of soup. Tyler managed to kill a groundhog or someth'n in some kinda... Wile E Coyote live trap he made. But yeah man, we'll eat."

I look over the side of the wall an exhale. "Think you could do me one more favor?"

Kevin laughs and looks out over the road leading into the compound. "You can sort that psycho b.i.t.c.h out yourself."

"Fair enough," I smile and pa.s.s him back the pipe. "As long as I'm not stepping on anyone else's toes."

"Sheeeit," Kevin says as we climb off the scaffold, "I'm surprised my old lady hasn't knocked the s.h.i.t out of her yet. You just don't f.u.c.k with Betty."

"I'll keep that in mind too."

The long haired guy I saw earlier, presumably Tyler, is standing at the door to the house smiling as Kevin and I approach. He's holding another long arrow fashioned on to some kind of short wooden handle. "It was your lucky day," he says as we enter the house. "I was. .h.i.tting targets all day yesterday with this atlatl. You must have protection from high up."

I let Kevin move up in front of me. "If I do have an angel," I tell Tyler. "Ten bucks says she's red with black wings and talons."

Karen emerges from behind Tyler and fixes me with a stare that could punch holes through leather. She pushes past us without saying a word.

"But what could you do with ten dollars now?" Tyler asks. "Money is worthless. I mean, if you're going to bet, we could bet like, a million dollars. And it'd be worth the same as ten dollars. In fact, a good roll of double-layered, quilted toilet paper would be worth as much as a million dollars. Unless of course, the million was in small denomination bills in which case you'd technically have more to wipe your a.s.s with than you would a single roll of toilet paper. Although, there again, I'm not sure how well money would work on a.s.s wiping. The double-layered quilted stuff..."

"Tyler," Kevin snaps and holds up his hand. "Jesus Harold Christ, man." Tyler stops talking and smiles broadly. His gla.s.ses are thick and his beard is spotty and uneven. He's wearing a Ramones t-shirt and a wrist.w.a.tch with a dozen different k.n.o.bs and b.u.t.tons. "This is Billy. Billy... Tyler."

I watch Karen cross the courtyard to one of the outbuildings. She walks without looking back but knows that I am watching. Her head is held ever so slightly too high and her shoulders look uncomfortably thrown back. Her hips sway from side to side slightly as she moves.

"b.u.t.ter," Tyler says.