Young Writers Society

Becka Count
Ashville - March 4, 2011 8:20am


They were everywhere. They were behind her. They were moving in from the sides. She felt them closing in, the space between them and her shrinking. She didn’t look at them, didn’t make eye contact, not that it would have made a difference. Old habits die hard. Eyes forward, posture stiff and movements jerky, she jogged across the parking lot with a forced consistency to the former dentist’s office. Don’t look at them and maybe they won’t look at you. She repeated it over and over in her head, knowing it was a lie and that they were already shuffling on their way towards her. Almost there. Already she was scanning the face of the building. The concrete barrier that once housed flowers was an obvious start. A good lift and stable. There was also a window with a decorative frame, now worn down from the elements. Her eyes flicked around the window as she continued her approach, looking for foot holds beyond it. There was crown molding just under the decorative ledge, which was about half her height under the roof. Her eyes snapped back at the crown molding. She didn’t trust it to hold her weight. She zoned back, looking at the entire building again. Over the door was a solid covering made of wood and designed to look like a house roof, complete with shingles. That she trusted. She weighed the distance between it and the ledge above it. It would work. Getting to it from the window might be a trick though. Even if she stood at the edge of the frame, it would be a decent sized jump. She was at the flower bed.

Time was up.

Moving quickly, she hoisted herself up onto the flower garden and got a start on the window as the shuffling of feet crept closer behind her. Don’t think about them. She reached up as far as she could, ignoring the pain in her shoulder and armpit, and grabbed a hold of the top of the window frame. There was no way it would support her. Don’t think about it. She didn’t have time. They were coming closer. Don’t think about it. She focused on her task, and let muscle memory took over. She jammed a foot against the side of the frame, using the pressure and the top fo the frame to hoist herself up. She pushed off the top of the frame with her fingers and stretched them up above her head as the foot that wasn’t jammed against the side jerked up to rest on the top of the frame, followed immediately by her other one. Before losing balance became a threat, her fingers found the molding. Her toes gripped the top of the window frame and her fingers were clung to the molding, using it for balance. They were at the flower bed now, at least one, maybe two, pulling themselves over it. Don’t get distracted. A few more steps, and they would be able to pull her down by her ankle. Focus. She heard cracking wood and a sudden give, and that was the final word to any thought she had. She felt the wood begin to give under her feet again in what would have been the final split, and the world went into slow motion. She bent her knees out to the side for a heartbeat, then sprung away, arms stretched forward like superman. For a moment, she was flying, and the world was silent. The only thing that existed was the covering.

Then with a whoosh and an audible oof!, she was not. Her mind scrambled just enough to make her fingers grip the side of the shingled covering to prevent herself from sliding off as she reoriented herself. She felt as if the air had been sucked from her lungs and heard herself gasping, trying to reclaim it. An agonizingly long moment passed in which she was immobile and they were not, and finally her brain put itself back together. Sucking in another breath of air, she pulled her legs up over the edge and out of reach. Panting and holding a hand to her aching torso, she looked at the small crowd that had gathered around her. Not exactly a swarm, but nevertheless were more than she felt comfortable with. One of them was groping its hand along the semi-busted window frame. What, was it looking for any bits of flesh that may have fallen off of her? She rested her head back against the wall and sighed, getting her breath under control enough that she could start moving again.

A few slow breaths later and she stood up on her knees, despite her body’s protest. Her muscles were tired. She’d been on the move since just before dawn. She’d lost count of the number of buildings she had climbed, number of gaps and alleys she had jumped, the number of parking lots and streets she had crossed. Whatever the number, it was enough that she was tired. Her body was tired. Her mind was tired. She needed rest. A look out in the direction she had come told her otherwise. Slowly but surely, she had been gathering a fan club. Further out, beyond her immediate crowd at the dentist, was a scattered group of others coming, a couple of which she recognized as having picked up earlier in the day. A few seconds, and they would be with the fan club currently stretching their arms out below, trying to reach her. She looked back at the building and up at the roof. She took another breath, a final goodbye to her short rest, and stood up, reaching for the ledge that would allow her to reach the roof.

Apparently, she had overestimated her height. She jumped, and for a brief moment, her fingers skimmed the edge, and then it was gone.

Crap.

Okay.

Now what?

She jumped again, even inched as close to the edge of the covering as she dared and got “running” (one step) start, both with similar success. She looked back out at the parking lot. Her remaining fan club was arriving. Silently and with an air of resignation, she slid her back down the wall and sat.

Now nothing.

Or at least, nothing for now. She slid her pack off her back and checked inside for the pair of guns. One had a kick, the other she could shoot. Both were loud. She fished out the Colt and slid the backpack on again, sighing. For now, she would rest. They couldn’t reach her. It was as safe as any other spot, albeit slightly too close to the “not safe” line for comfort. Didn’t matter. She closed her eyes. She would rest, and when she was ready, she would shoot her way out. As if in answer to her thoughts, one of the ammo boxes in her pack shifted down slightly with a soft clicking rattle. Three years and she could count on one hand the times she’d had to use her own supply. Always before there was someone else. A group. A partner. Someone. She sighed again. The sound of the shots would draw others, she knew. She’d have to be quick. She'd need to find a place to run/jump for before she fired at all. She'd have to figure something out. For now, though, she could rest.

So she did.

Kevin Scholler
Ashville Suburbs - March 4, 2011 - 5:15am

Never could tell how they knew you were there. Sometimes they’d brush past you as if you didn’t exist, and sometimes they’d turn and look you right in the eye from half a click away in the dead of night.

This was, apparently, a case of the former. A whole group of them stumbled past without a single one of them glancing my direction. I clutched my rifle to my chest; barrel pointed at the ground, butt pressed firmly to my shoulder.

The shakes were gone. I was focused. Ready. Good to go.

And already wanting more.

They shambled by. I slipped out from the shadows of the overhang, the morning mist cool against my arms and face, and crossed the street.

Without looking both ways--shame on you.

I ignored him. Focus. Get in, get out. I had already picked out my target. It was a nice little house--pretty much identical to the ones directly adjacent to it--but this one was in significantly better condition. Only three windows broken, and--more importantly--the door was shut. That meant either someone was there--seriously doubted it--or it was more or less undisturbed--unlikely, but more likely than the former.

I trotted up the steps of the house and hunkered down for a moment, bracing my Ruger on the railing of the patio and surveying the area a moment.

Clear.

’Til you turn your back, at which point a zombie will sink its teeth into your shoulder. Ass.

I let the Ruger dangle from its sling as I spun to the door, trying it first and finding it locked--promising. I dropped to one knee and fished around in my belt pouch for a moment, withdrawing a small leather folio and unzipping it before setting it on the ground. Tucked within it sat a dozen or so small steel picks, and I set to work determining the best ones for the task of picking the deadbolt.

I had it open in twenty seconds flat, my second choice of pick and first choice of torsion wrench doing the job nicely. I left the door closed as I packed the kit back up, tucking it away and shouldering my rifle.

I took a deep breath and held it for a moment, centering myself.

Focus.

I opened the door as quietly as I could--It squeaked a little, which wasn’t bad given three years of unmaintained solitude. I strode through the door with purpose, moving in a crouch and eyeing each corner of the room, scanning for targets. The living room was clear. I headed for what I guessed was the master bedroom; all the way down the hall, the door mostly open. I peeked into each room, satisfied that there were no shamblers in a locked home, and stepped into the master bedroom. To my right was the door to the bathroom; bingo. I took two eager steps into the room before i noticed the door shut behind me, and I froze in my tracks as the cold, hard barrel of a pistol tapped painfully to the base of my skull.

“Shit.”

I'd made a serious error. I was fucked.

Seal Mitchell
Ashville - 4 March 2011 - 5:37am

Seal pushed the barrel of her beretta into the back of the man’s head. He was too short to be Jordan, didn’t appear to be a zombie, and wasn’t anyone she recognized--she would have no trouble killing him. Maybe. After she found out what he knew about her family.

She shoved the pistol forward, forcing the man forward with it, “Keep your hands where I can see them.” Seal kicked the door closed with her foot, stopping his escape.

Kevin dropped his rifle, letting it dangle from its shoulder sling and raising his hands in the air, lacing them behind his head. “Yeah, yeah. Do what you’re gonna do.”

Seal kept the gun on his head with one hand and she reached down and checked his ankles for other weapons, “Who are you? What do you know about the Mitchells?”

“Look. I don’t know shit about the people that died here--I’m just here for some medicine for my knee. Back off before you hurt yourself, kiddo,” Kevin said, sighing inwardly.

Seal smirked audibly, cocking the gun and replacing her other hand on it, “Don’t fuck with me. You’d aren’t exactly in the best position to be a smartass.” She kicked the back of his knees, making him fall to them on the ground, “How do you know they died?”

Kevin yelped in pain and collapsed to his knees, bending at the waist to clutch his knee for a moment. He rested his head on the surprisingly-plush carpet of the bedroom, mentally noting with an inward smirk that it was the first time he’d ever been on his knees in a bedroom in his life.

He stayed there for a moment before gathering himself. “If you can’t be a smartass with a gun to your head, when can you, you hateful bitch?” he said into the carpet.

“If you can’t be a hateful bitch when someone’s broken into your family’s house, when can you?” She leaned over him and put her knee in his back, still holding onto the gun firmly. Her mouth moved towards his ear as she started to speak, but she was distracted by something poking her in the thigh. She reached onto his side, under his shirt, and removed a pistol much like her own. She dropped the ammo and put it in her pocket, emptying the lodged bullet afterwards. She slid the gun into the back of her pants. She wasn’t concerned about the rifle on the sling, he would be dead ten times before he were able to get that thing ready and pointed at her. “Now, how do you know they died if you don’t know them?”

Kevin sighed inwardly again. “Because--you vicious skank--I don’t know if you noticed, but the world kinda ended. Everybody’s dead.” He hesitated a moment. “Also, there’s a knife on my chest, if you’re frisking me. You suck at this.”

“Don’t flatter me, skank’s don’t get paid.” Seal heard it as it came out--a joke she probably would have made with her friends, but it was a little awkward with a stranger. “Trust me, if I were frisking you, you’d know.”

Seal took her eyes off the man for a moment and looked around the room, noticing for the first tIme she had let her guard down completely to anything else that had been going in the home, “Are you alone? Don’t lie to me, I still have the gun.”

“If I wasn’t, would you still?” Kevin turned his head to look at her from the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow.

Seal thought about it for a moment. He was annoying, but he probably had a point. She wasn’t usually this unguarded, but the events of the morning had really thrown her, “Fine.”

She removed herself from his back and stood up, but left the cocked gun at her side, “Who are you, anyway?”

Kylie Harris
Ashville: Rockos | March 3 - 10:30 PM | March 4 - 8:30 AM

10:30 PM

Kylie had followed him. Derrick. She couldn't say why, well maybe she could. Because he was her man and she was going to get him sooner or later, because she had always been one to sneak down the stairs when she heard raised voices after her parents had sent her to bed. But that didn't stop her heart from drumming in her chest. That room. Kylie crossed the hallway quietly and tested the handle; did privacy even exist anymore? She slipped inside, into a dimly lit room and took a step toward the cot.

She stopped. She had her answers before she'd even spoke to him; a morphine bag elevated above his head. Doped up smile plastered to his face. He turned his head toward her and a giggle half escaped his lips. "Tell me, Sister Morphine, when are you coming round again?" Kylie quoted the words under her breath and then shook her head in disgust. A drug addict. Well this game had just got interesting. "What's that?" Derrick asked, his words thick and slurred as he tried to keep his eyes on her but they kept sliding away and he pulled the sheet around his neck with a sudden guffaw. "I'll be seeing you when you next need a hit." Kylie took another step toward the cot, a smirk forming on her face. Just a little kick. She could smack him about and he wouldn't remember a thing, just for the satisfaction of- of what? Of-

The sound of gun-shots blasted through the room. Kylie spun back and hurried out to the sound of howling - though whether it was Derrick or some other man, she didn't know. She reached the bar and Rocko was there and other men, grabbing guns and running out. "What's going on?" Kylie demanded, pulling the beretta from her belt.

"Seems there's some bad blood between some of my men and some of yours." Kylie went still, her eyes freezing on Rocko, fingers tensing on the gun. Had she read him wrong? Was she about to be stripped of her protection and property, all in the same night, just hours after barely getting away by the skin of her teeth? "But don't you worry yourself, stay out of it, miss. We'll sort them out." The bar man gave her a smile and still unsure, Kylie followed him out into a night lit up by gunfire.

It all happened very quickly. This wasn't like the fights with the zombies, their limbs dragging across the floor and dead eyes looking up at you before you stuck a bullet in their head. This was a fight of men and the figures moved quickly, one moment here, another there, all running in flashes of fire and strips of moonlight. Kylie hung back in the doorway, trembling softly but unable to look away. She didn't want to look away. It was strangely fascinating and it was over almost in an instant.

"Casualties?" Kylie asked as Nathan shuffled over to her.

"Two on on our side. Anderson's dead and Ferris got shot in the leg and his shirt's all covered in blood. Says that bit's not his though, looks dried. Says he shot an ambler while taking a piss 'round back." Kylie nodded in mild relief and felt stronger, more in control as Rocko approached to talk to them.

Kylie listened without being sure what to think; it was Addler. Malcolm Addler and his men, all dead except for the man himself. "Want me to fix that for you?" Nathan was a bundle of anger, just looking for a target to uncoil at. Kylie shook her head though. No. "He's not worth wasting bullets." She felt indifferent to the man who'd tried to kill them - except a passing curiosity about what the motives of the men had been - and the only solid emotion she felt was a pressing need to be moving on.

8:30 AM

They'd been on the road for almost an hour now and Kylie was irritated to hell. The reason - no Derrick. He'd cleared out while she was sleeping and when she went to look in on him that morning, there was no sign other than an empty morhpine bag. They had the girl with them though, in the other truck. Nathan was keeping an eye on her and he'd switched his men over; Moore instead of Ferris. Nathan's truck was leading the way this time.

"That's another for Ferris, boy is steaming today," Moore commented as the shot rang out.

"Well of course it's another for Ferris, he's propped up in the back with a bung leg and a shit load of guns." Masters shook his head and turned to watch out the window as the young man sitting in the back of the truck in front of them put his weapon down and selected another.

"Well I think our girl here had better get a move on or it'll be team Harris burning up the chowder, mm mm mmm."

"I don't burn it," Kylie objected but her mind was distracted as her eyes stayed glued to the parking lot. She already had a solution in sight - there was no possibility that Kylie would be the one making supper tonight. Not because she was a bad cook or because she loathed cooking (though both were probably true) but because she didn't lose. Gripping the wheel, Kylie suddenly made a hard left and entered the parking lot, her foot slamming down on the juice.

"What the-"

"Hey look, I didn't mean, I meant-"

It was like 1999 when her daddy let her take the car for a spin in the parking lot. The tires squeaked and then she roared forward, eyes on the prize baby. Eyes on the prize.

The zombies didn't even know what hit them. Masters and Moore were cheering her on now as she backed up to give them another taste, the vehicle brushing up against the wall of a building.

"Masters take the wheel. You'd better be counting these, Moore." Kylie pushed the door open and climbed out top even as the zombie lurched toward them, fingers reaching for the truck, low moans spluttering from their throats. Kylie grabbed a gun and loaded.

It felt good to let off steam. A bullet for you and one for you; one for your girlfriend. Bullet in the head, in the eye; a stray one ricocheting off the building.

"Oy Harris, there's someone on that ledge!" Kylie thought she'd missheard him over the noise. What she thought he must have said was that there wass another one on that ledge and since she was running out of road kill on the ground, she lifted her eys up and trained her gun on- a girl?

"I get bonus points for saving her life," Kylie called back before pursing her lips thoughtfully. She couldn't very well leave her there, it wouldn't be sporting, no. If she was going to do the hero thing, she had to do it propper, else Boskuy would never agree to the bonus points. We'll drop her off at the settlement, not far away now, then she's their problem. "Pull up alongside."

Kevin Scholler
Ashville Suburbs - March 4, 2011 - 5:40am

“So who are you, anyway?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I hesitated a moment--for the first time it dawned on me that sarcasm might not be the best course of action. “...Derrick. I’m Derrick.”

She nodded. “Well look, there’s really nothing here so...just look for whatever it is you came for and get out.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said. I climbed to my feet very slowly, testing my weight on my knee before standing straight. I dusted myself off instinctively. Kill the bitch. Fucking kill her. She humiliated you. I turned my head to look her up and down, my eyes finally settling on hers. “You’re cuter than you sound.” I smirked.

She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips, “Really? That’s really the route you want to go right now? I should have shot you to save the world from bad pickup lines, apparently. Just go.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that cute.” I extended my hand to her--palm up, fingers splayed. “You have my gun.” My knee was on fire, but I stood tall, regardless. Kill her.

She loosened the front of her jacket a little as she answered, and my eyes instinctively darted down between the V of her jacket. It was good to know that guy still existed in me, but I squashed him quickly and met her eyes once more.

“I do,” she said. She made no reach for the gun, or any indication she cared about it--it was clear she had no intention of returning it. At least, not yet, perhaps.

I smiled and twitched my fingers a bit. “You can even have the magazine and the ammo. Besides, you owe me for that wanton and unwarranted assault on my knee.” I resisted gritting my teeth, trying desperately to find that patient, calm, and cool demeanor that had gotten me through so many painful first dates in the past.

“I hate to break it to you, but I owe you for nothing. Go on, do whatever you came to do, and if you’re a good little boy maybe you’ll get it back. Right now, it’s fine where it is.” She answered, unemotionally.

I cocked my head to the side, letting my smile widen a little. “Fine.” I slowly and deliberately slipped the sling of my Ruger over my head and set it on the bed, then unsheathed the knife on my chest--KILL HER--and set it beside the rifle. I ejected the magazine and set it separately from the two weapons, then pulled the charging handle back and removed the bullet from the breech. “There. I’m disarmed,” I said.

She smirked, “That’s how I like my men.” I might’ve returned her smirk three years ago. She watched me closely, evidently waiting for my next move.

I gestured to the door standing open behind her, my hand still extended before me. “I’m gonna take a step in that direction. I need to use the little boys’ room. Either step aside or back up, one of the two.”

“Don’t close the door,” she said after a moment of examination. She turned to the side and backed up a little, clearly out of my path, but still alert.

I cocked an eyebrow as I stepped forward, hands swinging easily at my sides. As I passed her, I slowed a moment and considered going for the gun clenched tightly in her hand. My eyes drifted from the gun to her eyes, and I caught myself tensing for a move. Instead I smiled, letting the thought fade. She was out of reach, on guard, and her nose was just too damn cute to take an elbow from a former kickboxing club captain. I stepped past her, mumbling “Didn’t take you for a voyeur, Princess.” I stepped into the bathroom, turning my back to her and leaning over the sink for a moment. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. After a long moment I opened my eyes and looked into the mirror. I sighed to the stranger and reached out to open the medicine cabinet, a silent prayer on my lips that I’d find what I was looking for.

Tanya Carr
Ashville Suburbs | March 4, 2011 | 5:45am

The sky wasn't lit up with a fierce glow, and neither was it a peaceful canvas, painted to look like the heavens on top of a fairly dull Earth. It was clouded over; the red and orange rays that indicated dawn seemed more like they were burning up the sky in a blood-filled inferno; more like Hell than Heaven. Tanya made a brief gesture to herself as she looked at the sun, still not halfway up the horizon. To her head, to her heart, and the other side of her chest; the sign of the Cross.

"May the Lord preserve me from the Devil, Master."

Ashville was a town of ruins. While Tanya tracked her new 'target' through its streets, she found a billboard knocked over from what seemed to be the roof of the mall. The mall itself was was a dilapidated twenty-storey affair; well much less now probably, considering the state of it. The billboard had a girl posing provocatively; something about an underwear store. Tanya stomped down on it firmly, creating cracks in an already weakened surface.

A doll clapped at her as she passed by a toy store; somewhere, she could hear a bell ringing. She was glad when the man--Derrick, wasn't it?--skipped the main town altogether and made off towards the suburbs. Something was wrong about that place; something that made even her skin crawl with an unpleasant feeling. Perhaps it reminded her too much that there used to be people there, not very long ago either. Or perhaps it reminded her that most of the world was like that town right now; ghastly and dead, and struggling to survive in a twisted way other than what God desired.

She knew they had called it down on themselves; the Master had told her so. And yet, and yet, she couldn't stop feeling pity. She just couldn't. She had been lucky to be raised in the hallowed hallways of her clan; her family. They were her family, now. Not even her parents could be called family anymore.

This distinction she felt sharply as she watched Derrick enter a house; a family home, not much different than the one she used to live in before the Judgement. Her parents had loved her, true. But they hadn't loved each other. They were sinners; they treated love like it was something simple, something you could have and forget as quickly as a...she didn't know how to describe it. But they could've stopped loving her, too. In the end humans weren't capable of real love, the Master said. It was only to the Lord that you could give love; and receive love in return.

Only to him must you show compassion. Only to him must you show love. Remember this; your targets are nothing more than animals. They are nothing more than savages, marked by the Devil's favour. They, of all people, do not deserve to be pitied.

Derrick was a person, true. He was actually not very different from other people she'd seen; people who died from the bites, or turned into zombies. But he was Marked, all the same; he had to be taken care of. And so thinking, Tanya lurked outside the house the man had entered, not registering the low keening moan that echoed around her until she saw the first of them, lurking out from the shadows and prying the house's door open with its rotting hands.

Malcolm Addler
Rocko's - 10:30 March 3

The bitch wandered off soon after Malcolm sat down, leaving him with the jarhead and the girl. They sat in silence Malcolm and the Yank holding their own unofficial staring contest. Neither man wavered, holding their own under the pressure.

“You army-types finally got bored of hiding?” Malcolm asked the soldier, who answered with an indignant grunt. “Finally decided that enough of the shamblers had starved that you could risk your necks again.” Malcolm took a swig from his glass, still meeting the soldier's unflinching stare.

“I don't think the infected can starve.” The girl interjected.

“Wheesht.” Malcolm hissed before taking another drink. “Now if you ladies don't mind, I need to get back to the boys.” Addler left the empty glass on the table and climbed to his feet. He turned round to face his own table and what he saw could provoke only one response. “Fuck.” The men were gone.

“Donald, you cunt.” Malcolm whispered under his breath as he frantically forced his way towards the door. He was a few paces away from the door when a shot rang out. Malcolm rushed the last few steps and drew his pistol as he kicked the door open. Malcolm's eyes adjusted to the dark as he strode out, flicking the safety off and chambering a round. One of the yanks lay on the ground, clutching his leg and crying in pain. The boys stood around him, Donald holding his pistol to the man's head.
“What the fuck?” Malcolm roared, getting the attention of his men. Donald looked up and smiled a shiteater grin.

“Opportunity seemed too good to pass...” Before Donald could finish his justification the roar of a machine gun filled the yard. Blood burst from Ripley's chest and the rest fell to the ground like a scythe had cut through them.

“No. No. NO!” Malcolm cried as he ran forwards. A yank stepped out of the darkness, a light machine gun in hand. Malcolm raised his pistol and emptied three rounds into the man's face. He fell back in an explosion of blood as Malcolm dropped to his knees by his men, tears beginning to form on the edge of his eyes.
“Not again. Not fucking again.” He whispered as he checked for heartbeats.
Donald was gone, Baker was gone, Upshaw gone, Common gone and Ripley was hanging barely, his breath coming in short, sharp wheezing. Hot tears streamed down Malcolm's face as he raised Ripley's head up.

“Please don't do this. Please don't leave me, not alone, not on in this fucking shithole.” No response came as the beat became more and more faint. “Come on, we were going to find a way home. You can't leave me alone.” Malcolm continued to cradle Ripley's head, oblivious to the shouts coming from Rocko's men as they poured out of the bar. Ripley's heartbeat went and the wheezing stopped.

“Mal, drop the gun.” The voice of Brett demanded, though to Addler it was barely above a whisper. “Mal, fucking drop it.” Brett shouted, prodding Malcolm in the shoulder with the barrel of his rifle. Addler cried in feral rage and spun round, dropping Ripley's head, he grabbed the barrel of Brett's gun and pulled the man towards him. Brett stumbled forwards, off balance and with met halfway by Malcolm's fist. The scarred knuckles crushed Brett's nose and the guard fell sideways, blood falling from his nose. The other guards leapt in, slamming the butts of their rifles against Malcolm's back and sides. Under their relentless hail of blow Addler fell to the ground and curled into a ball, his arms protecting his head.
It was fucked, everything was fucked and Malcolm was alone.

Seal Mitchell
Ashville - March 4, 2011 - 6am

Seal’s attention immediately moved from watching the guy in the bathroom to the beating noise down the hallway. She stuck her head out the door of the bedroom in time to see rotting fingers wrapped around the upper portion of the doorjam. She had locked the door after she came into the house, so the undead was having a bit of an issue breaking in.

“Fuck!” Seal turned back into the room and grabbed Derrick’s rifle off the bed and tossed it to him in the bathroom, followed by the magazine. “If you fucking shoot me I swear to god I will haunt you.”

Derrick smirked and loaded the magazine into the ruger, “Wouldn’t be any different than any other day, sweatheart. Pistol?”

Seal sighed--she really didn’t have much, if any, intention of giving the pistol back. An extra small weapon would be really useful. But, the chances of there only being one zombie on the other side of that door were slim to none and she knew she’d need help if she was going to survive it. She pulled the magazine from her pocket and the pistol from the back of her pants, sliding them together.

Derrick had made his way out of the bathroom, sliding the pill bottles into his pocket and throwing the rifle over his shoulder. Seal handed him the loaded pistol. He cocked it, “in the future, you probably shouldn’t fuck with a man’s weaponry.” He opened his mouth again, probably to add something smart alec about a man’s “other” weaponry, but apparently thought better of it. He peeked around the doorframe to the front door.

“Look, do you want to bitch or do you want to live? Because, personally, I intend on making it out of this house without wanting to feast on human flesh.” Seal slid behind him and watch the show going on near the front door, holding her beretta up beside her, cocked and ready to shoot--as if this would do much good.

Picture.

The door broke free and Seal didn’t even take the time to weigh the options as she remembered the family photo in her brother’s room. Everyone was dead--except MAYBE her brother. And that picture...she could use it to ask if anyone had seen him.

She turned and immediately darted down the hallway to her brother’s room and to the broken frame. Seal threw the frame on the ground and stomped on it lightly to finish breaking the rest of the glass free. She dumped the broken glass into the floor and ripped the photo out.

Before she had time to react, the glass in the window immediately behind her was shattered and what she assumed was the sharp “claws” of rotting fingers swiped the back of her neck and her right shoulder blade. The sharp pain in her shoulder told her it was more than just a fingernail--whatever it was had cut through her jacket, her tank, and right into her back and she was pretty sure it was still lodged there. Glass.

Seal yelled with the quick shock of pain, but quickly turned around to a zombie climbing in through the window and smacked it in the face with her pistol as hard as she could. She could feel blood rolling down her chest and arm, but whatever had happened didn’t seem to be impairing the use of her arm so she immediately lost concern for it, silently cursing herself for being this unguarded today. Coming home probably was a mistake.

The sound of the zombies working their way through the house and fighting with Derrick was prevalent--even down the hallway. The zombie in the window was momentarily stunned from the pistol-bitchslap, and Seal took the opportunity to pull her knife from its sheath and slice through it’s severely decomposed neck. She watched its head hit the ground, “Not today, bitch.”

Shots fired in the hallway. Seal slid the picture into her back pocket, noting the blood that had dripped down onto it, and ran back out into the hallway to a cluster of zombies around Derrick.

Toni Bowen

The Settlement - March 4, 2011 - 8am

The grey of pre-dawn had been wiped out of the sky since Toni had scrambled breathlessly up to her post. Her shift partner (Jamie Carrock, not really a friend, but close enough for this place) had given her a disapproving look, and handed over the second pistol. God knew how he’d managed to pick it up without drawing attention to her absence, but she was relieved that he had.

Said pistol was holstered on her hip now, a weight she still wasn’t used to. In theory, she’d been taught how to use the thing, but she was fairly certain that if she ever managed to hit anything she aimed at, it would be some kind of miracle.

She shifted her weight, tapped a little pattern on the side of her leg. Behind them, the sound of early morning activity rolled across from the tents. The clang of cooking pots, the chatter of voices, the wail of a baby. The settlement woke early - tent walls were too thin to keep out the sunrise.

A gust of wind tugged at her hair, and she dragged her fingers through it, pulling out the slowly deteriorating hairtie. Grabbing at the loose strands, she attempted to hold it all still long enough to retie.

“Hey, what’s that?”

Toni jumped, snapped around to look at Jamie. He was shading his eyes from the sun, staring off down the road.

“Over there.” He pointed.

She followed the finger. Some way off, where the road rounded a corner, a figure - or, wait, two figures? - had just stumbled into sight.

“Shit.”

This way. They were coming this way.

She bunched her muscles to run, and the movement made the gun move against her side. She froze, reminded by the unexpected movement. Guard duty. You couldn’t just run, not on guard duty.

Jamie snatched his gun up, raised it towards the closing figures - but as he did so, one of the two broke into an awkward lope.

“Wait, Jamie! They don’t run!”

He looked at her, and back at the closer figure. His gun dropped a little, and then all the way to his side.

Side by side, they stared blankly at the two.

The near figure was closer now - close enough for Toni to start recognising the shape. Tall, broad and bulky - one of the field workers. They’d waved him out of the Settlement just an hour or so before.

He was limping, but still trying to run.

Behind him, it shuffled on relentlessly.

“Toni, we’ve got to take that.”

“At this distance? You’ll hit him!”

Jamie opened his mouth, closed it again, gestured slightly with the gun. They stood awkwardly, staring. Toni loosened her gun in its holster, but didn’t draw it.

The runner closed on the bridge. Fifty yards more and he would be clear.

Forty-five...

Forty...

He tripped.

He tumbled, head over heels, sending up dust.

He scrambled back to his feet, stumbled two steps, and dropped to his knees.

Jamie swung his gun up, sighted on the zombie.

Toni wasn’t sure which order things happened after that. There was a bang, and a flurry of movement, and the sound of Jamie swearing loudly. The runner was up - and he was down again - and he was screaming.

Jamie flung his gun aside, sprang towards the fallen man.

It was almost on the guy. Almost? Hell, it was there.

Reluctantly, Toni drew her gun.

There was a kind of surreality to the whole thing. Behind her, incoherent voices at some indeterminate distance. Ahead of her, Jamie reaching for the runner, moaning and swearing and oh dear god.

And beyond him, it, kneeling over its scrabbling, struggling prey.

She squared her feet.

Raised the gun in front of her.

With one thumb, slid the safety off.

Squeezed, very gently.

The gun seemed to leap in her hands, and she flinched at the force - nearly dropped the thing. Someone, somewhere - was it Jamie? - called out.

“Holy fuck.”

It crumpled, knocked back by the shot. Toni’s arm dropped to her side, the gun loose in her hand, and stared in disbelief, as someone legged it past her, calling backwards,

“The doc! Someone get the doc over here!”

Dr Bernard Grahams
The Settlement - March 4, 2011 - 8:10am

“God oh god... I didn’t mean-- I’m so sorry-- God...”

Bernard assessed the situation.

There were two casualties: George Milton the fieldworker and one of the guards, Jamie Carrock. The first was suffering at least one physical trauma. The last was “just” psychological -- he would have to wait.

He knelt next to George. Before he arrived someone had the good sense to cover him in a blanket. The muscular man shivered beneath it like a child. Bernard resisted the urge to reassure him. False hope helped no-one.

“Doc, you gotta help me,” George said through gritted teeth.

His shirt was soaked in his own blood. Jamie had fired as he tried to stand up -- just bad luck, really. It looked like the blood was coming from his shoulder. That was treatable. But first Bernard needed to know whether he was worth treating, or whether it was already too late.

“I can patch you up, George, no problem,” said Bernard. “But you need to show me that leg of yours. Is it just a scratch or something more?”

“I, uh, I dunno.”

Well that was clearly bullshit. These days everyone paid more attention to their bodies. Bernard reached down and tugged up the ragged legs of George’s jeans. His left leg was clear -- just scratches from running through brambles. His right leg, however...

“George,” Bernard sighed. “George, I’m so sorry.”

George bit his lip and his face crumpled. It was something Bernard would never get used to: a grown man crying. With his good arm he reached up and grabbed Bernard’s shirt. Before the doctor could do anything George drew him close.

“Make it quick,” he said.

The next moment Toni was pulling Bernard backward, a movement so fast he slipped out of George’s grip.

“You okay, Doc?” she asked.

“Fine,” Bernard replied. “I just--”

Toni coughed. “Desmond is here.”

Desmond, dressed as ever in his black robes, had just arrived. He looked from Bernard to George Milton and back again. Bernard pursed his lips and shook his head. No, Bernard said in his mind. This one needs your help.

“George Milton,” Desmond intoned. “Your flesh bears the Demon’s Bite. As you accepted when you enter this settlement, you will now be given a choice. You may choose--”

“--give me the Bullet!” George whimpered, desperation cracking his voice. Desmond frowned and held up a hand for silence.

“You may choose Banishment or the Bullet. Make your decision now, but be aware that your choice here is final.” Desmond lowered his hand and looked to George expectantly.

“The Bullet,” George said. Where he found the strength, Bernard did not know. “And give my belongings to my brother.”

“Let it be so.” Desmond turned to the cowering form of Jamie Carrock. “Mr Carrock, do you want to be redeemed?”

Jamie looked up. His face was pale and it looked like he was shaking. Bernard suddenly realised he hadn’t checked either of the guards for bites. But admitting that to Desmond was not something to do lightly...

“Mr Carrock. I need you to shoot this man.”

Bernard’s insides turned to ice. What was this, some sort of torture? He had let Desmond have his way a lot of times in the Settlement, but he wouldn’t stand for this. Oh no.

“Desmond, I have to object.”

“Object?”

“Yes. Jamie is my patient and your orders are not in his best interests.”

Bernard held Desmond’s glare for as long as he could before he broke away and looked at the ground. There was something terrible about those eyes. Something that repulsed him.

“Mr Carrock, you will shoot this man.” Desmond repeated his order, firm and unyielding. “While you live within these walls you are in my flock. There is no higher authority than me.”

Bernard watched helplessly as Jamie got to his feet and stood over George. The pistol shook violently in his hand as if the gun itself was fighting against this moment. Bernard tried to look away but he couldn’t.

It was quick.

There was a crack. George’s body convulsed and then went still. Jamie cried out, screaming to the heavens to forgive him. Forgiveness came.

Desmond clapped. “Well done, Mr Carrock. You are redeemed.”

Bernard turned away in disgust. He walked back to the medical tent and sat inside in the darkness trying to work out what he’d become.

Kevin Scholler
Ashville - March 4, 2011 - 0615hrs

They were coming.

Through the boarded up windows, through the front door that I’d carelessly left ajar.

They were coming.

“Fuck!” The Firecracker knew it too, and even as I turned around to face her, my rifle was flying to my face. Even dulled by withdrawal, I had the presence of mind to catch it before it hit me in the chest. The magazine followed quickly, and I snatched it out of the air and loaded it into the rifle. “If you fucking shoot me I swear to god I will haunt you.”

If I shoot you, you’ll be fucking dead, bitch. I smirked. “Wouldn’t be any different than any other day, sweatheart. Pistol?”

She hesitated a moment, obviously weighing her options, but then she sighed and loaded my Springfield before handing it to me, butt first.

PULL THE FUCKING TRIGGER.

I let me smirk crawl into a genuine-ish smile. “In the future, you probably shouldn’t fuck with a man’s weaponry.” I opened my mouth, almost letting out a “Or I’ll kill you,” but I caught myself.

“Look, do you want to bitch or do you want to live? Because, personally, I intend on making it out of this house without wanting to feast on human flesh,” she said.

I chambered a round into the Springfield, and not a moment too soon. Down the hallway I saw the first of the shamblers stumbling through the door; it must have been a “fresh” one, because it dripped onto the hardwood floors with each step.

I drew a bead on its forehead, trying to compensate for my uncharacteristically shaking hand, but she beat me to it; the crack of her pistol echoed throughout the room for a moment and the zombie fell in a heap, the bullet entering its cheek and blowing out the back of its skull.

Foolishly determined to lead the way even if it cost me my life, I stepped into the hallway. I left her behind, either confident she could care for herself or not caring if she could, and put the next zombie that stepped through the doorway down the second I saw its head. I surveyed the living room for a moment, kicking the front door shut and bolting it before surveying the living room. Shadows drifted across each window as rotting fingers wrapped around boards that wiggled and bent with the inhuman strength of the corpses that pulled them.

I swore softly and glanced over my shoulder at the sound of gunfire and squeal of pain from the bedroom, but I had more pressing matters to attend to.

They were coming. Death on two (if sometimes less) feet. They would not stop, and their numbers would not dwindle no matter how many we killed; they would bolster. We were dead if we couldn’t find a way out soon. They would be drawn by the sounds of their fellows dying by our bullets, and they would crowd the doors, the windows, even along the walls trying to get to us. With no second story to the home and no room access, it was only a matter of time before they got through. Our ammunition would run out long before their numbers did.

Kylie Harris
Ashville: On the Road | March 4 - 9:30 AM

Kylie didn't think much to the baggage they'd picked up. It sat in the back of the truck, arms wrapped around its legs and eyes fixed on some unknown point off in the distance. Kylie had examined it shrewdly and decided the petite frame wouldn't lend itself to fighting. It also wasn't likely to be a scientist. Sadly it seemed that scientists were a species of human who didn't survive chemical disasters very well. The irony wasn't lost on her.

Already she'd decided to place the onus on the entire group. If Masters hadn't pointed it out, it would still be standing on the ledge and Kylie wouldn't have to sit here looking at it. As she took in the details - rusty brown hair, almond eyes. Petite - she supposed that it wasn't fair to keep on thinking of the girl as an 'it'. But she hadn't found any use fo her yet so it was difficult to upgrade her from the status of baggage. They might as well have stopped for a zombie as well. At least they could have been used for tissue samples.

"Did you have a skilled job before?" Kylie asked. She was ninety percent sure the girl would answer in the negative; she didn't look old enough to have had much of a working life before. The girl confirmed this with a shake of its her head.

"I was studying," she explained simply. She flipped her body to turn it inward, toward Kylie, and the blonde waited for her question.

"You haven't been here long. If you weren't here when the outbreak started, why come now?"

It was a good question, but one that was easy to ask. There were next to no soldiers in the area, this being the epicentre of the outbreak. Most of them were working further out now to try and control the edges, but the epicentre was given up for lost. Kylie was surprised they'd run into as many people as they had - she'd not expected to see anything alive before they got to the settlement.

Kylie took a pen out of her pocket and began to roll it across the roof of the truck. She rolled it forward and backward at an even pace, rolling to a rhythm she held in her head.

"Have there been any advancements in the infected?" Kylie carried on rolling the pen as she thought about this. She'd been thinking about it a lot. The infection worsened over time, a person got bitten and gradually they took on different symptons. Their blood warped and changed until it matched the strain of the virus, but it didn't stop there. It advanced.

Without a lab, she hadn't been able to study her samples further in an uncontaminated environment. It was irritating to have to rely on other sources but Kylie was good at working with whatever she had to hand.

"What-"

"Changes. Alterations. The infected I have had an opportunity to study were all in the early stages of the virus. But here you have subjects who contracted it years ago. What is the end result of this transition?" Kylie was exploring whether the virus might be lethal in the long term. Of course the flip side of that was it might produce increasingly alarming results and she was interested to discover what those might be. After she contained and cured the virus, it might even prove an advancement in medical technology.