Wilkes County (restarted 10/17)

[dantheremaining]

This is good stuff, bro. Sounds like you did some time in the civil air patrol yourself.

[223shooteresc]

thanks for the new chapter, but I don't see that he messed up

[dantheremaining]

yeah, i wondered about that too...I assumed he just felt responsible for the cadet.

[AeroRat]

Yup. Made it up to FO2 before college got in the way and the flight folded (as did the squadron and, eventually, the group). Major bummer there.

And you are correct. He didn't actively screw up, but being the senior man he was technically responsible.

[AeroRat]

The Calhouns lived well back from the road, down a long stretch of twin dirt ruts. Now and again she would see Mrs. Calhoun as she walked to the mailbox at the road, an older heavyset woman with coke-bottle glasses and sometimes a cane. There was some debate as to just how blind she was - she had been known to wave at the cows in the back six, or at trash blowing across the road - but she was friendly to the point of distraction and, despite seldom leaving the house, surprisingly adept at keeping up with local gossip.

Evelyn hadn't seen her for a few days. Evidently she hadn't been out much - she'd ventured out to check the mail earlier and found the Calhoun's stuffed to capacity, and out of equal parts curiosity and neighborly courtesy she'd gathered the contents to finish the delivery herself. And Ranger needed a walk besides, so she'd found his leash and piled the uncollected mail into a plastic grocery bag.

She took her time leaving the house; she double checked all the windows and doors. She filled up the bathtub, having always heard it was important in an emergency, and spent the better part of the mid-morning hours watching the shadows recede under the climbing sun. The cow remained sprawled behind the fence. As the day wore on a cluster of vultures circled down to to pick at its bloating innards. She tried not to think about it, with little success.

At first she thought the stray dogs had been around. On closer inspection - at least as close as she could bear - she had recognized that the gashes were too even. Not clean, per se, but not what she would expect from ripping and tearing. More like the kind of wound that would come from a knife or a machete.
Her gut said it was Roy. It made sense to her. She'd offered him six kinds of insult in front of friends. He wasn't the type to take that well, much less with an audience. More than once in the night she'd crept to her window and look through the blinds when she thought she'd heard the rumble of the truck approaching.

Still, cutting up livestock struck her as a bit much. Even for a dim-bulb local. The sort of rash action that could results in a lot of trouble from a lot of people. Not like their usual 'victimless crimes' of peppering road signs with birdshot or tailgating people who drove the speed limit. The people in Longbranch would stomach a lot of shit from their young. They wouldn't look lightly on killing and mutilating cattle. That was the sort of behavior that might encourage certain coarse-tempered farmers to get tight-lipped about that pile of fresh-turned dirt, questions regarding their nocturnal use of their tractor, and that pickup under the old tarp that wasn't in their barn last week.

For a while she stood in the door frame, looking out. Then she set the locks, went to the kitchen to collect the mail, and whistled for the dog. She adjusted his leash - she hated it, but she wasn't willing to risk him outside otherwise - and, presuming yesterday's unseen visitors weren't far gone, took up the lever carbine from the table. She pushed down enough to see the dull brass casing settled in the chamber and set the hammer in the half-cock notch. Ten rounds of .357 was enough to ruin anybody's day. Moreover, she didn't plan on meeting up with Roy and his merry idiots without enough bullets to go around. Presuming she ran into someone else she wanted something with a little more reach than double-ought buckshot would allow.

Settling a straw hat on her head, she locked the front door. A deep breath got her moving off the porch and they went through the gate and across the driveway, past the cluster of mailboxes and onto the long drive that led to the neighbors'.

The urge was strong to run, to pour on the coal and haul ass, to get this errand - which seemed less advisable by the minute - over and done. Suddenly, with the heat washing over her and the sun on her arms she wanted nothing more than the cool, comforting darkness of house. To curl up on the couch with her dog and watch another movie. To retire from the world until it all got sorted out.

It wasn't too late. She hadn't made contact. It would be a simple thing to return the letters to the box and wait for Mrs. Calhoun to come along and get them herself.

She couldn't do that, though.

Because, despite her general dislike of humanity and her natural reclusive tendencies she needed to see other people. After Clower, after Roy and his small-time tyranny, after stumbling over one of her half-butchered cows in the backyard and what was for intents and purposes a communications blackout she needed the presence of people to hold onto a sense of normalcy that was slipping faster by the day.

She wondered what life would be like in a week. A month. Maybe before too long things would settle down. Her aunt would come back from visiting friends. The telephone lines would clear. The constable would catch up. Roy and his friends would wind up in the county pen, maybe. Life would go back to being a string of minor irritations, and when fall rolled around all the neighbors would barbecue in the evenings and their children would make the circuit on Halloween. There would be television without warnings scrolling across the screen and the radio would play music again instead of evacuation instructions.

She hoped it would. For that reason alone she wouldn't cut and run.

Besides - she smiled a small, private smile - she wasn't just Evelyn Wright. She was also Blonde Stranger, ninety-odd of pounds of terror with a '92 rifle, third Saturday of the month when the cowboy-action shooting club got together. Even if she hadn't been able to attend since she lost her uncle and even if they'd sold off most of his guns and accoutrements to pay bills. She still had hers, though everything had all been boxed and gathering dust in her closet lately.

Ranger zig-zagged across the road, nose to the ground. She supposed as long as he didn't seem concerned she didn't to worry. She kept her eyes open anyway. Just because he didn't pick it up didn't mean there was nothing out there.

The drive wound on, curving gently back and forth. Fences of of barbwire and silvered cedar posts rose on either side, backed with straw-colored grass that came up to her waist. The Calhouns owned a good chunk of land here. Considerably more than her aunt's ten acres. In the time she'd lived next door she'd never known them to plant or graze any of it; she didn't know exactly how Emery Calhoun had made his living, but he'd said once that he was content in his old age to sit on his porch and know he had some space between him and the world. He did keep a couple of horses, mostly for the amusement of his grandchildren on the rare occasion they visited.

Presently the house appeared, a white clapboard ringed conspicuously with thick-trunked oaks and bordered with a low wrought iron fence. Save the meticulously kept postage stamp of manicured green around the house he no longer concerned himself with weeds or watering. Not far distant was a barn and a small bunkhouse, and off to the right she could make out the rusting skeleton of an old John Deere left derelict in the high grass. The very picture of a quaint farmstead home.

She let herself in the gate and up the shaded walk.

She paused at the foot of the steps, feeling the tremors of uncertainty. An upstairs window was open, curtain hanging limp. There were no lights she could see, no ticking fans, no murmur of a television set from within. She pressed on, knocking.

"Mrs. Calhoun?" she called.

She waited.

Nothing.

"I brought the mail," she said.

Silence.

The door beyond the screen was open. She looked left and right and over her shoulder, uncertain as to how to proceed. Finally she tied Ranger's leash to the porch rail and told him to stay. She tried the screen and, finding it unlatched, let herself inside. She laid her carbine against the couch in the parlor.

"Mr. Calhoun?"

Old hardwood planks squeaked under her feet. In the dining room she found the table set. Fine china and crystal with silver service laid out on linen. Unlit candles stood in pewter holders. The kitchen was empty. Only the hum of the refrigerator broke the silence. In the reading room the dark drapes were drawn open in the little bay window that overlooked a concrete birdbath. A paperback romance was was open, planted facedown on little table beside a divan with a balding spot on the velveteen upholstery.

Evelyn narrowed her eyes and held her last breath. Trying to cut out all sound not native to the house and its residents. Silence. And then - there. The creak of hinges. The floor groaned in the living room. Springs compressed.

Very abruptly she regretted her decision to leave the carbine.

Maybe Ranger had gotten in. He was tricky sometimes, and quiet. But he would have come looking. And his toenails would have given him away.

Something was wrong.

Quietly she stepped out of the room. Toe, then heel. Slow. Very slow. But almost soundless if done right.

A man was sitting in a wingback chair. He was facing away and Ranger sat and his knee with a coarse hand scratching under his throat. The carbine was exactly as she'd left it.

"Mr. Calhoun?"

Something like a sigh.

"He's not here."

"And - "

"She's not here, either."

The voice was at once soft and heavy, tinged with - what?

No longer concerned with stealth she moved around. His name was Danny, she thought. She'd only met him once or twice. He was a small man, middle-aged. One of those who looked as if he'd lived more lives than could be reconciled with his years. He'd been on the Calhoun's payroll doing odd jobs as long as could be remembered. An intensely private man, her only other impression was a coffee-shop rumor that he'd once been in prison.

"My God," she said.

His eyes were sunken and dark and he looked as if he hadn't slept in days. The lines of his face were graven deep and when he looked from the dog he fixed her with what she'd heard termed a thousand-yard stare. He wore a short-sleeved khaki workshirt, the front of which was miscolored almost black. His arms from the elbow down were splotched with the same color. He held her gaze for a moment before he turned his attention to Ranger. His fingers moved absentmindedly to the scruff of the dog's neck.

"What happened," she said. "Where are they."

"Gone," he said.

"Gone where."

He indicated one of the back windows with a partial roll of the head. Evelyn followed the gesture, disbelieving. A small square of wrought iron fence had sprung up in the yard underneath the largest of the trees. Inside were two plots of newly broken earth, not yet settled.

She grabbed the carbine and flipped it around. The hammer came back to lock with an oily click. Danny didn't so much as flinch.

"What did you do."

"Two days ago," he said. Slow, as if every word was an effort. "Late. After dark. She came out to the bunkhouse. She was wearing a dress...fancy. Church clothes, I guess. She said 'You've always been good to us'. She went back inside afterwards."

A short silence. She didn't take her finger off the trigger. He looked at her with his haunted eyes. His lips moved but there were no words. Finally he held up two fingers, then twisted those into a mimicry of a pistol and touched them under his jaw. Then he looked at the dog.

"He had been sick," he said with a voice that threatened to break.

Evelyn moved sideways, keeping the muzzle of the '92 fixed on the back of the chair. With no small effort she began to back herself up the stairs.

"You don't move," she called.

At the top she began trying doors; she'd been in the house before, but never on that second floor that she could recall. The master bedroom turned out to be the one she'd seen open from the front, the one with the curtains hanging out. She hesitated, gathered her nerve, and pushed.

It was a full minute before she could comprehend. The white bedsheets were dyed a dark maroon, a color that carried up onto the wall. After a moment she resolved two splintered holes in the wood of the headboard, which itself was spattered with small pieces -

She turned her back and slammed the door shut. Then she slid down the wall, feeling like she'd been punched hard in the gut, but worse somehow. A punch was something external. This was more personal, the shock more intimate. She slumped over on the rug and cried.

She knew then, somewhere deep in the reaches of her soul, that the world wasn't coming back. It was nothing she could put to words. She just knew. She wondered if it might have been different somehow. Two days ago she'd been tearing off to the airport to pick up an easy three hundred dollars on a call-out. If she'd made the connection...if she'd realized something was amiss then...she would have gone the other way. Walked the dirt ruts to visit the Calhouns. It would have been nothing, then. Now it was everything.

She knew more than people allowed her credit.

She knew what Reelfoot could do from the news. She knew that it was a death sentence even as the host lived out their last few pitiful days. Perhaps more importantly, she knew what it was to be alone, hopeless, and helpless. Not from Reelfoot, but there were other devils yet.

Wiping her eyes, she dragged herself downstairs and sagged into a heap on the couch. Ranger came and put his head in her hands.

"I did the best I could," Danny said.

Neither spoke for a long time. The shadows shifted and lengthened in the sitting room. Sometime in the late afternoon she realized she should go. She got the carbine and the dog, but at the gate she unclipped his leash. Life was too short a thing to be suffered in confinement.

They were safe and home before she realized she'd meant to ask about the cows. It seemed unimportant now. She washed her face and hands in the bathroom sink and sat with Ranger on the couch watching the news. The virus was still going, as evidenced by the county-by-county map to which the networks had all become so attached. Footage shot from a helicopter showed a city burning. Another channel was doing a story on the sanitary necessity of mass graves.

Evelyn felt the tears coming. To cut it off she stabbed at the remote until she found a channel playing something - anything - that wasn't the outbreak. That wasn't death and suffering and misery. They wound up in the back of beyond of cable television, a channel she'd never seen before that was running Gilligan's Island reruns in Spanish with subtitles for the Mexican-impaired.

She watched until the early morning with Ranger asleep by her feet. And she kept her phone on the end table, plugged into a wall charger, waiting for a call that wasn't going to come.

[223shooteresc]

hope she makes it, sounds like she has the makings, good chapter

[dantheremaining]

Great chapter. Keep 'em coming!

[Bearcat]

Finally had time to read it. I like it so far.

[AeroRat]

The Civil Air Patrol base of operations was in actuality a small complex, formerly under the ownership of the Texas Department of Transportation as a maintenance depot. Among other features it boasted two open-ended Quonset huts, a three-acre lot bounded on all sides with a ten-foot fence topped with razor wire, and a red and white banded antenna array. Disused by the state but too good to sell to private interests, the facilities were rented to Wilkes County Composite Squadron for the princely sum of one dollar per month. The agreement was good in perpetuity until the unit moved elsewhere or the buildings fell down.

The parking lot out front was filling steadily when the two junior officers returned. A cadet emerged from the enclosed lot, settling his cap on his head, and dragged open the gate. The Exploder passed through, followed by a nondescript white Econoline. The former was loaded with the flight's radio gear, the latter with the personal effects left behind in the short-notice evacuation of cadets following White's removal by ambulance to the hospital.

The shelter manager, a heretofore unseen national guard major, had been less than enthused to learn that a minor riot had occurred. He'd been less enthused still upon learning that one of his civilian volunteers had been injured in fairly severe fashion. Newly swamped with refugees needing aid and a dwindling number of qualified people on his rolls he'd been admittedly sore when Harper had explained in no uncertain terms that the rest of the flight would be departing in short order.

If there was any truth to the rumor mill there had been...words.

But in fairness it was the only feasible course; much as they prided themselves on community service, it would be a hard sell for a military officer to explain why he'd kept underage volunteers working after the incident. It would be harder still to explain to White's parents - one of which was presumably waiting now inside the CAP office, the other gone to the hospital - as to why their son was working in a shelter where armed military police were required to keep order.

There would be inquiries of all involved. Maybe even charges; scuttlebutt said a couple or refugees who'd been in the hall had personally seen a beefy-looking CAP lieutenant breaking heads after the excitement kicked off. He'd asked an MP afterwards and the man just shook his head and chuckled. He didn't know how that was going to pan out.

Mike parked behind the building and slid out to meet the group. "Radio gear in this one," he said in a voice more gruff than he intended. "Personal gear in the van."

He went inside to find Harper. The captain's door was shut. He didn't try to the knob to see if it was locked, but by the raised voices on the other side he guessed Harper was dealing with parents. Mrs. Senior Member Brand was particularly on pitch, plus a few others he didn't recognize. He knocked, and when summoned went inside.

When he came out Shifty was standing at the top of the rear access ramp. The cadets had finished moving the radios inside in fairly short order and had moved on to sorting the gear piled into the van. There had been no time to organize when the two went back to collect; everything got picked up out of their quarters and thrown in without any real respect for ownership.

Mike leaned against the rail, feeling the cumulative days of sleep deprivation tugging at him. Settled deep in his bones. Not an immediate and pressing feeling, but one content to lurk at the edges of consciousness. To wait for a lull where it could creep in closer still. It occurred to him that he hadn't put much thought towards what he was going to do after the shelter. He had a plan, of course, something he'd drawn up in better times for emergencies or disasters such as this. Not unlike an envelope of reserve cash people kept squirreled away at home. Something to help ease the crunch when it came.

It was an unsettling notion that the time had come to open the envelope. That the plan was an exercise in theory no longer. Though nothing was said he imagined Schipper was thinking the same; they'd discussed before their what-if plans for the end of the world.

Shifty fished his snuff can out of his blouse pocket and put a pinch in his cheek.

"Ain't that some shit," he said.

"Yeah," Mike echoed. " Ain't that some shit."

The cadets were making good time. Most of the van was unloaded now. Neither officer spoke. There was a strange finality to the scene, and Mike wondered if this was something he'd see again. He felt like a man on the center of a see-saw, the world rolling uncertainly beneath his feet, uneasily balanced for the moment but listing close to the point of no return. Pretty soon it was going to take a pretty hard spill one way or the other. He'd already rolled pretty badly himself.

He flipped open his cell phone and selected Cindy's number. With his thumbnail he punched in the characters of a short text message. He read it three times to make sure it was passing coherent and hit send and after a minute the phone beeped. No telling when she'd get it.

Either way, as soon as they got done here he'd be dropping off the face of the earth. A quick detour to the apartment to pick up his stuff. Just throw it all in the Exploder and go. Maybe stick around long enough to change clothes. Then haul ass for her parents' place out by the lake.

Assuming he didn't get run over or eaten by zombies he'd be home free.

Zombies.

Shit.

In better times he might have smiled. Instead he thought about a girl with a lumpy face and a mouthful of broken teeth. He thought about White being tied down to the backboard before the paramedics hustled him out to the ambulance. He thought of a shelter growing exponentially while the trickle of resources going in slowed to a trickle. And of Reelfoot - the engine that drove the whole damn mess.

And he couldn't explain any of it.




There wasn't much in the way of conversation on the ride back to town. Mike left the radio off; nothing there but static and alerts anyway. Four, five days ago he'd been able to switch it on and have half a dozen stations. The better part of a week felt like an eternity. Somehow he couldn't quite get his mind around how it used to be. Get up in the afternoon. Go to work. Get paid. Go home. Sleep. Rinse and repeat. He stared out the windshield, aware that he could probably miss a whole herd of dancing pink elephants in his present state. The exhaustion was catching up fast.
If anything Little Mexico looked even rougher now than when he'd come through last. He parked at the curb beside the familiar house and Shifty got out. He took his pack out of the backseat and stood with it hanging by one strap.
"Well," he said. "Been fun."

"Not how I'd call it, but it takes all kinds."

"Heh. I kinda figured I'd have something witty here....I guess not."

"Good luck to you." Mike extended a hand through the open passenger window.

"You too," the flight officer shook. Gunfire cracked from the next block. He grinned a lopsided grin. "Sounds like the party's already started...we'll be seeing you on the far side."

He sketched the barest imitation of a salute and disappeared into the house. Mike made a three-point turn in the driveway and aimed the Exploder towards the apartment complex.

Far side of the apocalypse. Not too far off, given the shape of things on the wrong side of the tracks. As he turned for the apartment he began to notice thing he's missed on the way. Windows boarded up with fresh plywood. Parked cars riddled with bullet holes. Broken glass in the street. The garbage problem, already significant, was multiplying exponentially with the termination - 'temporary suspension' was the official line - of trash collection services. Still, the area was far from abandoned - now and again he could catch a flutter as someone looked between blinds or furtive movement behind gapped privacy fences.

Truth be told, he'd feel a lot better if he had his AK with him. Or the pistol. Hell, a pointy stick would be better than what he was carrying now.

He didn't get any greater sense of safety when he bumped across the railroad tracks. People were more in evidence here, but...not the people he was used to seeing. Not the dinky midsize-town people who made up the local populace. Refugees, more like. Desperate, dirty souls who watched him pass with expressions of privation and veiled anger.

He realized that he hadn't peeled the CAP magnets off the side. Too late, now. He damn sure wasn't going to get out to remedy the oversight. He was just going to have to represent The Man for the time being.

At an intersection two blocks from home he encountered a snag. An older model Buick at the stop sign. Louisiana plates with a frame from a dealership in Shreveport. A smattering stickers covered the lower edge of the rear windshield. The front two seats were occupied, the driver hunching forward over the wheel, the passenger looking back at him. The back of a small child's head was visible in the backseat beside a pile of travel bags. Even with the windows up and the air conditioner blowing he could hear mechanical whine as the driver tried to get the engine turning over.

Mike waited, figuring they'd get it soon enough.

They didn't and he cut around, blowing through the intersection blind. He was halfway down the next block when a man in black walked up the stalled Buick and bashed in the window with a pipe wrench. He reached in and dragged the driver out and the wrench rose and fell. The passenger screamed - high pitched; a woman - as she was dragged out. A gunshot cracked and the carjacker joined the driver in a heap on the ground. The screaming changed tone but didn't let up.

Jesus.

He didn't stick around to see if there were others. Not until he reached the parking lot did he take his boot off the accelerator, and not until he'd been sitting a few minutes in his assigned spot with the motor ticking did he snap out of it enough to get himself upstairs.

Behind the power curve he told himself. Watch it.

His first stop was the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face and toweled off. Only then did he switch on the lights, and when he stood up the face in the mirror was that of a stranger. The eyes were closed and hostile, the mouth drawn in thin line. Unfriendly. Definitely unfriendly. Predatory, even. He shook his head and was searching for a q-tip to address a week's worth of earwax when there was a knock at the door.

On the way he caught himself and doubled back to the narrow nightstand. He took the Glock out of the top drawer, pinched back the slide and dropped the magazine and, finding both loaded, tucked the pistol under the tail of his unbuttoned blouse. So far as he was concerned there was nobody local he wanted to talk to and nobody who needed to talk to him.

Cops, maybe?

Oh shit. Could cops come after bystanders for leaving the scene of a crime? Could they find out so fast? Were there any cops left in the greater Everett area?

With his nerves on fire he moved to the door and looked through the peephole.

Styles. Jamison fucking Styles, the shithead from across the commons. Mike had inadvertently associated with the man on several occasions, usually long weekends when the complex-dwellers with nothing better to do congregated by the volleyball pit to grill sausage and chicken and get blackout drunk. He found little to like about the man initially. He found even less once Styles lost what little balls he'd had, shacking up with the world's ugliest vegan and decided meat was murder, beer wasn't good unless it was some kind of unpronounceable import, and that driving anything other than a hybrid was the mark of a sexually-insecure cowboy wannabe.

Inexplicably, Styles had also decided himself and Mike were friends - usually meaning when something went wrong over at Casa Freakshow it was their good-buddy redneck neighbor who had the answer, or tools to lend, or the expertise that would save them hundreds over calling and paying for a professional. On one occasion he had asked for Clower's employee discount for ten gallons of 100LL aviation gasoline, to what end Mike could only guess. Another he came knocking at 3AM to borrow a plunger, mysteriously never returned.

Maybe he'd just wait this one out.

"Hey Mike - " the voice was muffled. "I know you're in there. I just saw you drive up. Hey, open up. I have a question."

Mike checked his watch. Pushing on five o'clock. He needed to gone at first opportunity, and he definitely wanted to be settled in with Cindy and her bunch before nightfall. Somehow he doubted the state of things outside was going to get any better once the sun went down.

He bit the bullet and opened the door.

"Hey, you're home."

Mike said nothing, hoping the serial killer he'd seen in the mirror hadn't rubbed off just yet. There was an uncomfortable silence while Styles held onto his perfectly practiced kiss-ass smile. He noted the other man kept a hand out of sight behind his back. Could a weapon be concealed in skinny jeans? Doubtful. But cause for concern no less.

"What."

Styles looked from side of side, almost guilty.

"Look, I know you're one of those survivalist guys - "

"Used to be," he said, curt. "I sold off all my shit and ate my last MRE for the fourth of July."

"Oh." Styles didn't look convinced. "I needed to buy some food. And a gun."

"Good luck." He moved to shut the door. Styles went on.

"This place is getting dangerous. There's people screaming all night, and shooting. It's these out of towners. It's not safe to go out, even out there," he gestured to the commons. "It's like Black Hawk Down, only worse."

"Is that right."

Yeah. Look, I'm asking because I know this your thing."

"My thing."

"Guns and food and storing up shit like a squirrel? Yeah, your thing, man. That's what you do."

"Sorry. I got nothing. I just came back to pick up some clothes and I'm gone."

"You're leaving?"

"I ain't sticking around. That's for damn sure."

"What's that?" Styles pointed into the apartment.

"Probably a box of shit. Most people with houses got at least a couple." Mike glanced at his wristwatch, presently against the doorframe. He didn't have time for small talk now.

"Is that water?" Styles moved to step into the apartment. Mike blocked him, guessing he'd spotted one of his reserve cases.

"No. There is no food here. There is no water here. I sold all but one gun and it's going with me when I leave."

Styles adopted a hurt expression. Then his mouth seemed to pinch. He slammed an open palm against the wall outside.

"Bullshit!" his voice was low, barely above a hiss. The anger of a man who'd decided he was being denied something rightfully his. "That's bullshit and you know it. You've got supplies, but you don't care. You and your corporate mindset, always fucking everybody else. There's people out here that are fucking starving. They kill each other over a coke. They - " he held up an open hand and then clenched it as if to stop himself.

"Look," he said, taking out his wallet and peeling it open. His voice was lower now, a forced calm after the outburst. "Here's a hundred and seventy eight dollars. It's all I've got left. That's gotta be worth something, right? Right? What does that get me?"

"A bubba sporterized Mauser ten years ago."

"Take it. Give me whatever, I don't care. Just...do something."

"Do what? I don't have anything to sell. I told you, I'm here for clean underwear. What exactly do you want me to do? You want to paw through my tighty-whitey drawer?" Mike took half a step forward into the gap, hoping his advantage in size would drive off the unwelcome visitor. "I'll be gone in an hour. Kick down the door and be my guest."

"What are you hiding?" Styles didn't retreat. "I see you've got some bottled water and you go all nazi. What have you got in there? What makes your life more valuable than ours?"

"Fuck off, Styles. I ain't got time for this shit."

"I'll pay you back afterwards." Fingering the bills again. "Five times this much. Ten times. I swear. You know I'm good for it."

"You don't get it," Mike sighed. "I don't have things to sell you and no amount of money real or imagined is going to let me pull a quick fix out of my ass. Sorry. But I think you're fucked."

He shut and locked the door. On the other side Styles kept pounding, pleading first, then threatening, finally trying a futile return to his version of reasoning. Eventually he went away.

In the interim Mike began making his getaway pile. First was food and water - four cases water, sixteen cans of tuna, sixteen cans of beans in varying flavors, a couple of bricks of foil-sealed lifeboat rations, powdered milk, whatever was on the spice rack, a half bag of venison jerky, and two boxes of macaroni and cheese. That about cleaned out the pantry. The fridge was already empty, save a gallon of expired milk that he dumped down the sink and a jar of sweet midget pickles. He finished off the latter and trashed the jar.

Next up was garments. Those were easy enough - he took a green nylon deployment bag from the bottom of his closet and began laying out what he'd need with an eye towards durability and comfort during hot weather. The heavier garments went into the bottom, socks, underwear, and white t-shirts on top. With those he threw in a handful of books, two hats, and a pair of flip-flops that went with his toilet kit. What medicines he had went in a mesh ditty bag and he cinched the drawstring.

Last was his modest arsenal; one Chinese MAK-90 semi-auto rifle with five thirty-round magazines; a thousand-odd rounds of mixed full metal jacket and hollowpoint 7.62x39mm Russian ammunition, split about even between two .30-caliber ammo cans; one Glock 17 with four nineteen-round magazines; another ammo can, this one with five hundred rounds of 9mm full metal jacket and a couple of cartons of decent hollowpoints floating around on top of that; one plain nylon holster; one four-cell pouch for the AK magazines; another three-cell for the pistol.

He went to the blinds and looked out. The common area was deserted. Across the way the apartments were closed, the blinds drawn. The sky was beginning to assume a color that hinted at the proximity of dusk, and unless he wanted to stick around another night he figured he needed to be going.

Cautiously he opened the door and looked out. Left and right, not a soul in anywhere. He locked the apartment and hurried down to the parking lot - not running; runnings drew attention - and brought the Exploder around close to the stairs. He had to drive across the lawn to get there, but he didn't expect there'd be any complaints. Tire marks on the grass had to be way down there in terms of complaints lately.

Ten minutes. Loaded and gone. He could do it easy. Had he not known better he might have felt an excitement of a sort. Like this was going to be the start of some great adventure. He allowed himself to take the stairs two at a time, and emerged on the upper breezeway beside an empty snack machine and the maintenance storage closet. Around the corner -

Shit.

Jacey Styles. The Manimal herself, looking irate. Parked in front of his apartment. Come to try her hand at bargaining where her counterpart had failed, he guessed. She wore short-shorts for which she really didn't have the legs and a tank top for which she didn't have the build. She also possessed the jaw of a professional wrestler, presently aimed his direction over crossed arms.

"Jami said you wouldn't help us." An accusation, not a question.

"I said I got nothing to sell. I told him a couple of times...he didn't get it. I can tell you, if it'd make you feel better."

"He said you have water."

"Last I checked the tap was working. Everybody's got water. For a little while. You mind getting out of my way? I got places to be."

She sidestepped, planting herself between him and the entrance.

"Don't be a dick, Mike. This is serious."

"This is serious? No shit? I been gone since Sunday to a shelter full of people trying to outrun the black fucking plague and you're telling me this is serious? I appreciate your concern and your thorough evaluation, not to mention your insightful situation report, but I ain't your limpdick boyfriend and I ain't your daddy. You know got a problem, put on your big girl panties and deal with it."

"How can you say that?"

"How?" he muffled a snort. "I'm an adult. And the world is just full of harsh realities. Stuff like 'Santa Claus is a lie' and 'your goldfish really didn't go live on a farm with Grandpa' and 'by the time you hear the whistle it's too late'. Sooner or later you figure out nobody's going to walk you through the hard parts, and you either figure it out or you don't. Best way to learn is to do. I suggest you start doing."

"There's nothing left in our apartment," she said. "There's no food. There's no gas left in the car. What are we supposed to do?"

"You got legs. Walk your ass out. People did it for thousands of years before they bred one fast enough to catch a horse and smart enough to figure out internal gas combustion."

"You don't care." Her voice carried a trace of surprise. As if there had been a point where he really had. "You're going to just leave us here to die. We don't matter to you."

"The people who matter to me are halfway across this county. I mean to be there with them at some point today, so if you'll excuse me I got - "

The eyes betrayed her. A flicker at something over his shoulder, then back.

He turned in time to see Styles, silent so far and listening in for God knew how long, closing the last few steps with a baseball bat cocked. Basic instinct told him he needed to do something. Fate didn't give him the window.

The world rolled hard, his vision already beginning to dim around the edges as the concrete walkway came up to greet him. He tried to rolled onto his side as Styles beat him about the ribs with the bat. Tried to raise an arm that wouldn't budge.

Motherfucker...he meant to say. But somehow his mouth wasn't answering to his brain. Or maybe it was his lungs. Maybe everything. Styles kicked him in the side.

"Cocksucker!" he screamed, punctuating the statement with the point of his shoe. He swung the bat again, and again, and there was a satisfied, victorious note in his voice when he tossed it away and bent down. Mike felt hands searching his pockets and his keyring drawn out. Styles picked up the Glock, knocked out of his waistband by the fall.

"This didn't have to happen," he was breathing hard, gesturing with the dangerous end of the pistol. "You could have shared. You could have done something decent for once in your fucking life. But it doesn't matter. Greedy fuckers like you always get what's coming to them."

But it didn't matter. Mike wasn't around to hear him anyway.

[Laager]

Ouch, I'm guessing that situational awareness went right out the window on this one.

[223shooteresc]

wow, didn't see that one coming, thanks for the chapter

[dantheremaining]

Excellent chapter. Very real. This same situation is something I've considered at length for my own SHTF plans. Our five-minute-drill: wife keeps overwatch while I load the truck. I could go on about this subject for hours. Suffice it to say, none of your neighbors should know what you have stored in your house.

[Laager]

dantheremaining - excellent point, I can't remember the number of times I've heard someone tell someone else that if things go "wrong" they are coming over to his house, cause you have all those guns and camping equipment. I just sat there and kept my mouth shut, but was thinking that he (as well as his family) were up the creek.

[AeroRat]

Suffice it to say, none of your neighbors should know what you have stored in your house.

Correct. That said, it can be somewhat problematic to keep things quiet. Not so much among preppers, per se, since a solid majority probably wouldn't crack you over the head and steal your stuff (at least not this early in the zompocalypse). Although in one instance of my own experience, an associate with whom I'd never discussed shooting of any kind deduced that I owned guns. Why? Because he saw me one day with an army surplus ammo can. Didn't have ammo or gun stuff inside, but the conclusion was drawn no less.

Much as I love me some army surplus ammo cans, there's a lot to recommend the practice of 'grey storage'.

Also, keeping stuff quiet is much, much easier when you aren't quartered with or near multiple people; guy I used to room with had a big mouth, so even with me sneaking new purchases into the house all his office coworkers were brought up to speed within a couple of days. If you haven't experienced it yourself there's very little that can rival the unease of walking into a roomful of people with whom you barely associate who know where you live, how to get there, and what's in your closet. Or said roommate throwing a party and leading a parade into your bedroom to 'take a look at the arsenal' and explain to said visitors that 'we have guns in this house'. Coincidentally, said roommate also out-and-out asked for the combination to my gun safe at one point. In case he needed one. Strange, since he had a few of his own, but I digress.

When things fall apart you really, really don't want people coming to your place with the idea of eating your food, claiming your guns (had the same roommate tell me if shit went down, he decided he'd be using my primary zombie-busting carbine with all the nifty doohickeys ( ) and the high-capacity clips ( ) and bullets that set things on fire ( )...I wished him good luck and started storing said carbine with the bolt and charging handle removed) and presumably thinking you'll be a good sport about it. I'm not a good sport, evidently.

Also, yes. You definitely need somebody to cover for you. Even the best-prepared lone wolf won't make it far.

***

Back on topic - the last piece of Block I will be up tonight, probably around midnight (central standard time). Work is presently underway on Block II (about 3/10 rough completion at this point). No idea when that'll be hashed out and ready to post, but I'm grinding away at it, so...hopefully not too far out there.

Meantime, you guys aren't going to hurt my feelings any by discussing stuff here. I don't imagine this is ever going to be mistaken for a technical survival/manual, but if you see any screwups that I don't adequately address, call it. I got thick skin. I won't cry (much). And I'll need stuff to read while I'm figuring out how the rest of this is going to go.

So if you haven't already, sharpen your pointy sticks (and pointy questions). Can't tell you everything for plot reasons, but if you're wondering about any stones left unturned I can fill in some of the blanks. Probably.

[dantheremaining]

Sometimes our characters have to make mistakes to keep things interesting. I liked it.

You're right about people inferring, though. I live in a development where I can stand between my house and my neighbor's house and touch both walls. There's hardly a subtle way to get ammo cans and gun cases from my front door to the back of my truck when I go to the range. But I suppose that's why we have guns and ammo in the first place. If you didn't have anything worth protecting, why have a gun to protect it? If you don't think people will kill for a bag of rice, you're not paying attention to the world around you.

And that is all I will say about that. Aerorat, the floor is yours.

[AeroRat]

From the end of the driveway it was two-point-six miles exactly to the Longbranch city limit sign. Across that distance, however, there was a change that went beyond geography. She didn't know why she went, exactly. Only that she had to get out of the house, away from the gloom of nonstop outbreak coverage, her aunt's oppressive absence, and the looming specter of two mounds of fresh earth under a broad oak in the Calhoun's yard.

The ride was the best part. Instead of her S-10 she took her uncle's Power Wagon, a monster truck compared to the little Chevy and one of the few possessions he'd left where the practicality of hanging on measured favorably against selling it for bill money. And practicality aside, there were other reasons.

On the road, rolling with the windows open and the radio off, she could still think back and grab bits and pieces of how life had been when she first arrived - sixteen, socially uncertain, unwelcome at home and unwanted elsewhere. As lost as she was capable of getting and without plans, aspirations or hopes. A forsaken soul in a strange land.

She had learned to drive in the old Dodge under her uncle's patient tutelage, scratching paint off the lower panels in the pecan bottoms, figuring out how to use mirrors and parallel park and knocking out the left tail light the time she tried to back through the gate after an otherwise-successful run to the feedstore. She had frozen then, waiting for the outrage that was sure to follow; her prior experiences in control of a motor vehicle were terrifying affairs, her mother serene in the passenger seat until some potential hazard prompted her to scream out seemingly at random, her stepfather altogether uninvolved until she screwed up.

She waited, expecting fury.

Her uncle slowly took the cigar from his mouth and peered into the rearview mirror. He scratched his head.

"Is it bad?" she'd asked.

"Well," he said. "You found the gate."

Despite herself she laughed.

Sometimes, if the wind caught just right, she could catch the woodsmoke smell of the cigars or the spice of his aftershave. Like maybe if she looked fast enough she would see him on the other side of the cab, wrapped in a caramel-colored barn coat with his old crushed felt hat back on his head and the tip of a stogie held out in the slipstream.

She though of him especially on the cold mornings, remembering when he'd been up before the sun to feed the cows. In time she had adopted the habit and gone along, though she could never get the hang of flinging fifty-pound sacks of feed or square hay bales. Sometimes he took small-time work feeding cows for other neighbors. He stood in the back and tossed feed while she drove at a crawl through the pastures, a long tail of black cattle ambling along behind. Afterwards they would go the cafe in town for donuts and she would walk from there to her first class.

Out of curiosity she looked sideways. He wasn't there today; he never was, in all the times she'd checked. Only Ranger, front feet on the armrest with his head out the window. Squinting into the airflow with his ears back and his tongue out, sneezing occasionally.

She'd often wondered at the connection between the two.

When Ranger jumped the fence and became her dog Charlie Morgan had less than a year to live. None of them knew it then. But one fine morning they stepped outside in the pre-dawn darkness and he stopped at the bottom of the back steps, made a half turn, and collapsed. The ambulance from the senior center in Longbranch was there within minutes, lights and sirens ripping the morning apart. She'd needed both hands to keep the dog back while the paramedics loaded the limp figure on a gurney and sped off for the medical center in Everett.

She didn't go to school that morning. Instead she sat on the back steps with Ranger pulled in close and waited. And knew.

In hindsight she decided the two were somehow related, whether or not that was really the case. She liked to think it was meant to be. It made her believe that there was some sort of order in the world, a greater plan supervised by a loving and forgiving God, contrasting sharply with the fickle, bloodthirsty drill-sergeant God favored by the pastor of her parents' church.

They drifted past the city limit sign at a stately thirty miles per hour. Beyond the green marker stood a white mesh billboard with WELCOME TO LONGBRANCH welded in an arch across the top. A scattering of civic organization roundels crossed the lower half and at the bottom POPULATION 753 stood out in rusting red letters. There was no other traffic on the road.

Even before Reelfoot Longbranch was a dying town. The sort of place where the quaint pastoral visions of small-town America slammed into the harsh reality of a fading local economy, a declining birthrate, and a population heavily weighted towards the elderly. The largest employers within the city limits were the retirement home and the school, the former languishing for lack of funds and help, the latter slated for closing sometime in the next few years with the student load of two dozen or so being bused elsewhere in the county.

The main drag was a straight shot, one end to the other. On either side three feet of concrete elevated the sidewalks above street level. Down its length a quintet of stoplights swung slowly on their cables, cycling in unison over the four empty lanes. At the far end of town a steel bridge spanned the river, the highway curving away southerly on the other side. The drag was sparsely dotted with parked cars. She saw a few windows lit and movement in the form of the odd pedestrian. She took it to mean the town was safe enough. Quiet - but not unusually so for Longbranch in the evening.

Evelyn slowed and nosed the old Dodge over into a parallel spot in front of the five and dime and killed the engine. She got out slowly, suddenly aware of the openness of the place. It was a heady sensation after the time spent indoors, and the visibility made the high grass along the Calhouns' driveway seem claustrophobic by comparison.

And she felt a strange sadness. Longbranch was her home like Dallas had never been, and even with the world on the downhill slide to hell she thought it maintained a certain sense of aged class. She produced a leash from under the seat.

"Go for a walk?" she said to the dog.

They climbed up onto the sidewalk, neither in any great hurry. The sun hung low in the west, painting the empty street in pastel shades of orange.

They started at the east end and walked towards the sunset. She counted the bricked facades of familiar places as they went. Bellmont's Hardware & Lumber, where she had tagged along on various repair and improvement projects, occupying the choice real estate at the corner lot so westbound drivers couldn't miss it. The Lone Star Cafe, red-checked curtains drawn across the picture windows, the glass papered on the side by faded flyers and advertisements. Leal's Sporting Goods, where her uncle had been a weekly regular. He bought his guns there and his ammunition at the hardware store, which was cheaper. A gap where a furniture store had once been, long out of business. Cracked and starred windows looked in over a dusty showroom strewn with trash.

At the corner they stopped, looking south down the cross-streets to the dingy houses. Few were lit. Further on the boxy, cream-colored silhouette of the old folks' home. The ambulance usually parked out front was gone, the parking lot empty.

They went north.

Across the street, Creede Feed & Ranch Supply. Around the back was the loading dock where - happily - she'd managed to avoid adding any more dents to the truck. The dinky video store next door, bleached and outdated movie posters still framed beside the entrance. A small antique store that used to be run by an old man with an electric larynx - good place to go treasure-hunting until he died and his kids turned it into a repository for worthless crap. Marchand's Drug; if she shaded her eyes against the glass she could make out the soda fountain and the row of barstools. The curiously named Big Picture, a theater with a stage and single screen that sold the world's worst hot dogs and overpriced popcorn. The billboard advertised a live revue by a small-time comedy show she'd seen at least twice.

Set back off Main Street were the bars - there were two, both with their loyal customers - and the pool hall, and the auto body shop built into an old service station with adobe walls and a curved side comprised entirely of glass panes. On the south side a small meat market and the dinky no-name grocery store with a clerk who sometimes didn't card for alcohol sales.

On the western edge of town they followed the bank of the river as far as the old bridge, a rusted iron trusswork with a deck of rotten planking. She stood on the footing with her hands shoved in her pockets while Ranger sniffed around the base of the BRIDGE CLOSED sign. Barn swallows dove and wheeled between the banks, lighting occasionally on the mud nests that plastered the supports and girders. Down in the river, in the shallows, she watched the shadows of perch flitting through the light. Another day she might have been adventurous and gone down the embankment to walk beside the water, maybe as far south as the dam and the old mill. Ranger loved the water.

Instead she whistled and took the slack out of his leash.

On the way home she followed the sinking sun in her mirror. It was a blood-red ball, half sunken below the horizon. The tops of trees and power lines stood black against the glow.

What was strange is how nothing had changed on the surface. The sun rose and set. The fields along the highway wavered in the breeze. The birds still sang.

To the casual observer there was nothing at all amiss.

She put the Power Wagon in the garage and pulled down the door, regretting now that she hadn't driven it more often. Nothing was harder on machinery than having it sit idle, as her uncle was fond of telling her. She thought maybe there was something to that. How maybe it applied to people as readily as cars and tractors. She'd come to Longbranch too late to make many friends in public school, skipped most of social events there up to and including her graduation and what passed for a prom. After her uncle had died she'd stopped visiting his friends and cut back driving the old Dodge to once a month, and between job hunting and getting trained at Clower she hadn't had a weekend free in months.

One way or another she'd effectively walled herself off and let the world go by.

She regretted it now.

But there was nothing to be done about it. If she got tomorrow, she promised, she'd do better.

She unclipped his leash inside the fence and went up and sat on the warm concrete porch steps. The problem was fear. With a very few exceptions she couldn't recall a time she wasn't at least a little bit afraid of something, some horrible consequence. Real or imagined. The result of something she'd done or hadn't done. The lingering effects of a genetic perfectionist streak against which she'd never measure up but couldn't tune out.

Folding the leash, she watched Ranger make his circuit of front yard, investigating fence posts and the old pecan stump and marking and remarking. Presently he finished his round and came to the paving-stone walk. He stopped just out of arm's reach and cocked his head. She snapped her fingers and patted the step, to no avail.

Very slowly the dog took a step back. His lips peeled away from his teeth and he began emitting a low growl, not unlike those she'd heard sometimes at night when there were unexpected visitors or strange animals outside. A danger warning.

The fine hairs stood up on her neck and arms.

"What?" she said, pushing off. "What is it? What's wrong?"

She heard it then. Something moved in the house. In the living room. A clumsy, heavy footfall. Glass broke.

"Stay," she ordered, splitting her attention between the dog and the front door. Very slowly she stepped up onto the porch and turned the knob.

The smell hit her first, an odor not unlike meat left out that had soured and begun to spoil. She narrowed her eyes. The sun was sinking fast, casting the living room in shadow. On instinct she reached for the overhead light switch. The rocker clicked. The room remained dark. She tried again with the same result.

The rolling blackouts had caught up.

Then she felt the change. The indefinable certainty that something had stepped into the space with her. Something foul and unnatural, like she'd felt Saturday night at the tank farm. The presence of another in close proximity without the warmth of life.

For the briefest of seconds she saw a silhouette step through the opening to the kitchen. It seemed to pause, and there was a sound like air forced out of a bellows.

It charged.

Evelyn backpedaled until she ran out of porch. For a moment she was airborne. She landed hard on the walk with the wind knocked out of her, stunned, and the ghastly intruder came flailing out in pursuit. In the gathering darkness it was hard to make out any identifying characterics. She recognized that her attacker was human, shorter than herself but stockier, and female. It flew off the porch and landed hard on her abdomen, broken fingernails tearing at her face.

And just as quickly it was knocked aside, sent rolling by a brown and white blur that came tearing out of left field. Through the stars behind her eyes she heard his growl over the tearing of cloth. She pushed herself up and gained her unsteady legs.

Unstable but determined she mounted the steps and pushed through the living room, barking her shin against the couch and coffee table and crunching glass beneath her shoes. Her outstretched fingers touched the banister rail and she took the steps two and three at a time, careening around the last corner into her room. She dropped to her knees beside the bed and felt underneath until she gained a hard plastic case. Throwing it on the mattress, she popped the thumb latches and grabbed for the contents. She blinked involuntarily as 160 chalk-white lumens turned her bedroom into daylight. Fumbling, she picked up a magazine and shoved it into the grip of the pistol, jerking the slide back and feeling the first round sliding home.

She ran down to the front yard, suitably armed, and grabbed for Ranger's collar. With considerable difficulty she got the two combatants seperated and physically dragged him towards the fence, trying as she did to offset Ranger's not-insubstantial momentum and defensive urges long enough to lay the pistol sights on the interloper.

In the glare of the weapon light it began to rise - haltingly, stiffly jointed. It exhaled again and shuddered around towards the light, and in doing so revealed one final surprise.

The mortal remains of Beatrice Morgan stared at Evelyn with one milky, unseeing eye and half of a face. The jaw hung slack, the exposed teeth glinting a faint pink in the spotlight of the LED. Black to the elbows, the bony arms swiped for her niece as she stumbled forward.

Evelyn fired. The shot went wide, gouging into the lawn low and the right. She tried to correct and put a hole in the gatepost. She began to retreat, pulling her dog by the collar. Where she was going she didn't know. Only that she needed to get away, and that for reasons beyond her understanding she suddenly couldn't hit shit.

The Calhouns'.

She could find help there.

"Ranger!" she shouted, and turned to run, secretly terrified that he would try and stand and fight. To her relief she heard him huffing along beside her in the dark. Barking, even. She supposed they were hitting all kinds of rare mileposts tonight.

They circled the house like a slapstick gag in the Saturday cartoons she'd watched as a girl. They cleared the gate and swung wide of the garage, facing down the long dirt ruts.

She hadn't run in a week. It was easily half a mile to the house. This was going to hurt.

She didn't feel it, though. She didn't feel anything but the overriding urge to put distance between herself and the stumbling horror at home.

Dark shapes flickered in her peripheral vision along the way. About halfway another one stumbled out of the tall grass to tangle itself in the barbwire. She threw a bullet at it, not slowing to see whether the shot was good.

Up ahead a greenish light bobbed in the road, casting a wan glow against a pair of legs. As she closed the gap she made out Danny, hissing Coleman camp lantern in one hand and a breakover shotgun in the other.

"Run!" she gasped as they drew abreast and passed him by.

"The barn!" he yelled after her, following suit. "Go to the barn!"

She didn't stop. Well behind her she heard the barking report and Danny swore. She broke stride and wheeled around, bringing up the pistol. He was trying to juggle the lantern and the shotgun, fumbling a thin shell from an elastic cuff on the butt. A third - one she hadn't seen - was staggering closer. She threw up the Walther, settled in her grip like it had been poured there, and fired.

It was a strange spectacle. An instance of ballistic zen.

As if in a daze she watched the bullet as it cleared the muzzle and took flight. To her amazement it made contact, burying itself into the thing's right thigh. It collapsed facedown in a rut and flopped like a fish out of water. Danny didn't stick around for the show to admire her handiwork. He loped to her and pointed to the barn with the barrel of the broken gun.

"In there," he said. "We can bar the doors from the inside."

Evelyn didn't argue.

The Calhouns' barn was much larger than the one behind her house. She held the lantern up and studied the new hideout while he wrestled a bar across the side door. Built in a cruciform shape, the wing in which they'd sought shelter was lined with stables. Most appeared empty but she heard horses nickering somewhere in the gloom. Ranger's white markings picked up the propane light as he trotted off, nose down and sides heaving, lost in a world of new and exciting smells and dark corners.

Danny snapped his breakover together with an oiled click and she remembered the pistol in her hand. Finger off the trigger a small voice in her head admonished. Her lungs and legs burned. Her mouth was dry. Her aunt's face ruined face flashed in her brain like an out of focus film projection. A thousand questions crowded her mind.

"The hell," she managed.

Danny didn't answer. Since last they had spoken she had wondered at his gesture - at the two fingers pressed up under his jaw. She had secretly wondered if it was a murder-suicide or a double-murder. The distinction seemed less important now. Details aside, she grasped now the haunted emptiness in the eyes and the failure of words.

"Reelfoot," he said, finally.

"No - " she shook her head. "Reelfoot kills. It makes you sick. Not a zombie..."

He looked at her, impassive.

"Shit," she said. "It makes you a zombie, doesn't it?"

"More or less. Like people-rabies."

Neither spoke. Danny catching his breath. Evelyn trying to catch up with a world that had taken a sudden and violently upsetting turn. The realization struck like a lightning bolt.

"Ranger!" she called. The dog moved silently out of the darkness, wheezing when he stopped beside her. She knelt and took his jaw in her hand, studying his muzzle. If it was like rabies...and if he'd bitten her aunt hard enough to draw blood... She dropped the magazine from her pistol and emptied the chamber, then used the light. She didn't see any red. Was that good enough?

She doubted it.

He tried to lick her face and she pulled back. She sat down on the bare dirt, afraid again. The Border Aussie laid his head on her leg and whined.

"How long does it take?" she asked.

"I don't know. A couple of days. It comes on pretty quick."

"Do you have an empty stall?"

"Yeah, a bunch. Does he have his shots? If he has his shots he might be fine."

She tried to remember. Strong chance he did - ever since she'd been allowed to keep him she'd always stayed on top of vaccinations. Still, those shots were for regular rabies. She didn't know much about Reelfoot. Hell, she didn't know anything about it. None of the available news stations ever bothered to explain the virus in any detail. Not when there was perfectly good carnage to report.

The barred door rattled heavily. By the sound there were two or three out there now.

She wondered about their chances of getting out. If years of bad zombie movies were any indication, farmhouses offered lousy odds for survival. Barns...she was less certain. There were fewer windows and the walls were thicker. By turns, the doors were larger. Hopefully sturdier, too, but if one came down it'd be like opening a floodgate.

She turned the magazine over in her hand, thinking. How many times had she fired? A full mag was fifteen - she mentally kicked herself for not grabbing her spares out of the case - and she thought somewhere between four and six between the start of the attack and their holing up in the barn. So twelve left. Conservatively, ten. Worst case scenario she needed two. She didn't know how many shells Danny had left for his shotgun, but by the look of things it was a .410 and probably not a whole lot of a good against a determined infected.

What time was it? Darkness cut their survivability by an unhealthy margin. Daylight would improve their chances, if only a little. She absentmindedly stroked Ranger's fur, the dog now gone silent. He perked briefly as somewhere far away a coyote howled. Another picked up the cry.

"Do you have any buck for that?" she asked.

"This?" Danny hefted the shotgun. "No. Just number nine."

"None?"

"I keep it for possums and snakes," he said, exhaustion evident in his voice. She wondered if he'd slept since last she'd been here. Probably not much, and he'd been on the raggedy edge then. "I really wasn't expecting this."

Was anybody? she wondered. Bird flu, pig flu, Spanish influenza...those she could understand. The dynamics of a mass sickness and die-off she grasped, at least on paper. The thought of a later stage where the afflicted became ambulatory and violent was something else. How did it spread? By blood? By air and water? She'd seen people in news clips of Asian cities wearing surgical masks and respirators, but most of them were probably dead now. Optimistically, she reasoned, they might only have a couple of days left themselves. They'd know soon enough.

More coyotes joined the chorus. Ranger stirred and rolled onto his side. She smiled sadly and smoothed the fur over his swelling ribs. Worrying wouldn't do much good here. The night was early yet. Midnight would be an achievement. And dawn was long way off.

[AeroRat]

Happy Halloween, all.

[Laager]

Great chapter........Happy Halloween to you as well.

[223shooteresc]

good stuff thanks

[Nancy1340]

Some people will always bite the hand that feeds them.

Very good chapter, thanks.

[d1chet]

God bogged down with school and completely forgot about this. Since I'm now done I'm going to go back and reread all that's been posted

[AeroRat]

No biggie. I got bogged down with Block II.

There may be some changes to the format, but nothing serious. Maybe an occasional additional POV segment. We'll see how that shakes out.

And no, I am not dead. Yet.

[Nancy1340]

AR, will sure be glad to see this story revived. It's one of my fav's.
Thanks

[d1chet]

Finally caught up. Really enjoyed the story from Mike's perspective, which goes hand-in-hand with my only gripe being that I wished the entire story was from his perspective. This is still a good story nonetheless, wish it didn't fall off again.