King peeked again. The zombies still kept their distance from the man with the guns, but more were coming; dead humans, dogs, cats, squirrels. The Viking calmly reloaded, still mumbling under his breath.

"Patty cake, patty cake, baker's man . . . "

"What's he doing?" Chino whispered.

"Playing patty cake."

Chino grunted. "Whole world's gone crazy."

"There're still people in charge. You know t.i.to and his crew?"

"The ones holed up inside the public works building?"

King nodded. "I was talking to him three days ago. Went out there and traded six cases of beer for some gasoline. They got a ham radio."

"How they working it? Power been out for a week."

"Generator," King said. "They heard some military general got parts of California under control. And there's a National Guard unit in Pennsylvania that's taken back Gettysburg. Could happen here, too."

Chino frowned. "That would suck. I like the way things is. Do what we want, when we want. We got the guns."

"Not as many as that guy." King nodded at the Viking.

Both men peeked out of the bushes again. The zombies inched closer, circling the park bench. Some now carried rifles as well. The Viking put down the Garand, and picked up a grenade. His eyes were steel.

"Open fire," one of the zombies commanded. "He is just one human."

With one fluid movement, the Viking pulled the pin and tossed the grenade toward the undead. There was a deafening explosion. Dirt and body parts splattered onto the gra.s.s. The Viking threw a second grenade, but one of the creatures s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and flung it back. The explosive soared towards the bushes-the bushes concealing Chino and King.

"s.h.i.t . . . " King shoved Chino forward. "Move your a.s.s!"

The grenade failed to detonate, but neither man noticed. They were too busy dashing from the shrubbery-and directly, they realized too late, into the firefight. The M-1 Garand roared, and the zombies returned fire.

"Motherf.u.c.ker," Chino shouted. "We done it now!"

Bullets plowed through the dirt at their feet and whizzed by their heads. Chino and King opened fire, helping the Viking mow down the remaining zombies. Within seconds, all of the dead were dead again.

The Viking turned his weapon on the men.

"Whoa!' King held up his hands. "We're alive, yo. Don't shoot!"

The Viking didn't respond.

"Chino," King whispered. "Put your gun down."

"f.u.c.k that." Chino spat in the gra.s.s. "Tell that puta to put his down first."

King smiled at the Viking. "We don't mean no harm. h.e.l.l, we just helped you."

"Why?"

King blinked. "Because you were in trouble, man. Why you sitting out here in the open like that, Mister . . . ?"

"Beauchamp." The Viking's shoulders sagged, and he put the rifle down. "Mark Beauchamp."

Chino lowered his weapon, wondering what King was up to.

"Why you out here on this bench, Mr. Beauchamp?" King's eyes flicked over the stranger's a.r.s.enal. He licked his lips. "Wouldn't it be safer trying to find some shelter? Come wit' us, we can hide you."

"No." The Viking shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm waiting."

"Waiting? For what?"

The Viking's eyes turned gla.s.sy, and King realized the man was fighting back tears.

"I had a job at the Ford stamping plant, just south of the city. Wasn't what I wanted to do with my life, but it was okay. Fed my family. Had a wife, Paula, and four kids. My son's twenty-one. My daughters are fifteen, fourteen, and five months."

The Viking paused, and despite the tears welling up in his eyes, he smiled.

"I think raising my boy was easier than the girls."

King nodded.

Chino shifted from foot to foot, his finger flexing around the trigger. Was King just going to talk the guy to death?

"I was at work when it happened. I heard it all started in Escanaba, but it spread to Detroit fast. By the time I got home, Paula and the kids were gone. No note. Nothing. The evacuation order didn't go out until a day later, so I don't know what happened."

His face darkened, and then he continued.

"There was blood in our kitchen-a lot of blood. I don't know whose it was. And one of the windows was broken. But that's all."

"Sorry to hear that," King said.

"I spent the first twelve days looking for them. But then I got an idea. We used to come here. I'd sit on this bench with my daughter, Erin, and we'd play patty cake. So I'm waiting, see? They'll come back. Paula wouldn't just leave like that. She knows how worried I'd be. I'm waiting for my family. I miss my kids."

"And just shooting zombies?"

"Yeah. I've become a pretty good shot. Used to have a kick-a.s.s pellet gun."

"What about the birds, man? How you gonna shoot them?"

"Haven't bothered me yet. And my family will be here before the birds show up. You'll see."

King glanced at Chino, then back at the Viking. He tried swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Sure you won't come with us?"

The Viking shook his head.

King slowly approached the bench. Chino tensed. Here it came. King had the guy off guard. Now he'd pop him, they'd grab the s.h.i.t, and get the h.e.l.l gone before more zombies came back. But King didn't waste the guy. Instead, he shook his hand.

"Good luck."

"Thanks."

King turned back to Chino. "Come on. Let the man wait in peace."

Chino's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Say what?"

"You heard me," King growled. "Let him be."

King trudged across the gra.s.s, and Chino ran to catch up with him. He grabbed King's arm and spun him around.

"The f.u.c.k was that all about? We could have smoked him."

"No," King said, his voice thick with emotion. "We ain't touching him."

"Why not?"

"Because," King sighed, "I miss my kids, too."

An artillery sh.e.l.l whistled over the city. The explosion rumbled through the streets.

Beneath it all, they heard the Viking playing patty cake.

About the Author.

Brian Keene is the author of over twenty books, including Darkness on the Edge of Town, Urban Gothic, Castaways, and many more. He also writes comic books such as The Last Zombie and Dead of Night: Devil Slayer. His work has been translated into German, Spanish, Polish, Italian, French, and Taiwanese. Several of his novels and stories have been optioned for film, one of which, The Ties That Bind premiered on DVD in 2009 as a critically-acclaimed independent short. Keene's work has been praised in such diverse places as the New York Times, The History Channel, The Howard Stern Show, CNN.com, Publishers Weekly, Fangoria Magazine, and Rue Morgue Magazine. Keene lives in Central Pennsylvania. You can find him online at www.briankeene.com.

Story Notes.

Keene's zombies are as gruesome and horrific as any you'll encounter and, scarier still, they can think. Instead of mindless wandering flesh-and/or braineaters, his world is suddenly full of aggressive, weapon-wielding monsters. The genesis of these zombies is explained in novels The Rising and City of the Dead. Keene's zombies are not the result of a vague virus, alien infestation, or unexplained plague, they are actually demon-possessed and form an undead army with a leader who has an agenda that includes not only destroying Earth, but a.s.saulting Heaven itself.

The Hortlak.

Kelly Link.

Eric was night, and Batu was day. The girl, Charley, was the moon. Every night, she drove past the All-Night in her long, noisy, green Chevy, a dog hanging out the pa.s.senger window. It wasn't ever the same dog, although they all had the same blissful expression. They were doomed, but they didn't know it.

Bz buradan c.o.k hoslandk.

We like it here very much.

The All-Night Convenience was a fully stocked, self-sufficient organism, like the Starship Enterprise, or the Kon-Tiki. Batu went on and on about this. They didn't work retail anymore. They were on a voyage of discovery, one in which they had no need to leave the All-Night, not even to do laundry. Batu washed his pajamas and the extra uniforms in the sink in the back. He even washed Eric's clothes. That was the kind of friend Batu was.

Burada tatil icin mi bulunuyorsunuz?

Are you here on holiday?

All during his shift, Eric listened for Charley's car. First she went by on her way to the shelter and then, during her shift, she took the dogs out driving, past the store first in one direction and then back again, two or three times in one night, the lights of her headlights picking out the long, black gap of the Ausible Chasm, a bright slap across the windows of the All-Night. Eric's heart lifted whenever a car went past.

The zombies came in, and he was polite to them, and failed to understand what they wanted, and sometimes real people came in and bought candy or cigarettes or beer. The zombies were never around when the real people were around, and Charley never showed up when the zombies were there.

Charley looked like someone from a Greek play, Electra, or Ca.s.sandra. She looked like someone had just set her favorite city on fire. Eric had thought that, even before he knew about the dogs.

Sometimes, when she didn't have a dog in the Chevy, Charley came into the All-Night Convenience to buy a Mountain Dew, and then she and Batu would go outside to sit on the curb. Batu was teaching her Turkish. Sometimes Eric went outside as well, to smoke a cigarette. He didn't really smoke, but it meant he got to look at Charley, the way the moonlight sat on her like a hand. Sometimes she looked back. Wind would rise up, out of the Ausible Chasm, across Ausible Chasm Road, into the parking lot of the All-Night, tugging at Batu's pajama bottoms, pulling away the cigarette smoke that hung out of Eric's mouth. Charley's bangs would float up off her forehead, until she clamped them down with her fingers.

Batu said he was not flirting. He didn't have a thing for Charley. He was interested in her because Eric was interested. Batu wanted to know what Charley's story was: he said he needed to know if she was good enough for Eric, for the All-Night Convenience. There was a lot at stake.

What Eric wanted to know was, why did Batu have so many pajamas? But Eric didn't want to seem nosy. There wasn't a lot of s.p.a.ce in the All-Night. If Batu wanted Eric to know about the pajamas, then one day he'd tell him. It was as simple as that.

Erkek arkadasnz varm?

Do you have a boyfriend?

Recently Batu had evolved past the need for more than two or three hours' sleep, which was good in some ways and bad in others. Eric had a suspicion he might figure out how to talk to Charley if Batu were tucked away, back in the storage closet, dreaming his own sweet dreams, and not scheming schemes, doing all the flirting on Eric's behalf, so that Eric never had to say a thing.

Eric had even rehea.r.s.ed the start of a conversation. Charley would say, "Where's Batu?" and Eric would say, "Asleep." Or even, "Sleeping in the closet."

Charley's story: she worked night shifts at the animal shelter. Every night, when Charley got to work, she checked the list to see which dogs were on the schedule. She took the dogs-any that weren't too ill, or too mean-out for one last drive around town. Then she drove them back and she put them to sleep. She did this with an injection. She sat on the floor and petted them until they weren't breathing anymore.

When she was telling Batu this, Batu sitting far too close to her, Eric not close enough, Eric had this thought, which was what it would be like to lie down and put his head on Charley's leg. But the longest conversation that he'd ever managed with Charley was with Charley on one side of the counter, him on the other, when he'd explained that they weren't taking money anymore, at least not unless people wanted to give them money.

"I want a Mountain Dew," Charley had said, making sure Eric understood that part.

"I know," Eric said. He tried to show with his eyes how much he knew, and how much he didn't know, but wanted to know.

"But you don't want me to pay you for it."

"I'm supposed to give you what you want," Eric said, "and then you give me what you want to give me. It doesn't have to be about money. It doesn't even have to be something, you know, tangible. Sometimes people tell Batu their dreams if they don't have anything interesting in their wallets."

"All I want is a Mountain Dew," Charley said. But she must have seen the panic on Eric's face, and she dug in her pocket. Instead of change, she pulled out a set of dog tags and plunked it down on the counter.

"This dog is no longer alive," she said. "It wasn't a very big dog, and I think it was part Chihuahua and part collie, and how pitiful is that. You should have seen it. Its owner brought it in because it would jump up on her bed in the morning, lick her face, and get so excited that it would pee. I don't know, maybe she thought someone else would want to adopt an ugly little bedwetting dog, but n.o.body did, and so now it's not alive anymore. I killed it."

"I'm sorry," Eric said. Charley leaned her elbows against the counter. She was so close, he could smell her smell: chemical, burnt, doggy. There were dog hairs on her clothes.