A Brief History of the Near Future

Book One: The Fish House

or

how an insular restaurant became a haven of safety and peace during the zombie apocalypse of 2029

Act One: Itch, Scratch, Bite

Chapter 1: Chase

Chase didn’t normally go out on Sundays, because he usually opened the kitchen Monday mornings—but Brittany asked him her very own self, and Chase thought quite the world of her, so he decided what could it hurt? After all Brittany was beautiful, Chase was interested, and it’d been a good month since he’d pulled such a stunt. Every once in a while a young body has to let off some steam, so Chase figured it’d be good for him to go have a beer or two with friends.

That’s what he told himself. He said, I’m going out to have some drinks with my friends. But Chase wasn’t fooled. He knew he was going to see about Brittany.

Having somewhere else to be, Chase cleaned a little quicker than usual and got out of The Fish House a good twenty minutes faster than he normally does. He was so giddy at Brittany’s invitation, he practically skipped over to Shauntie’s, as he imagined all sorts of pleasant scenarios involving the cute blonde waitress.

Well, it’s Shauntie’s so the place is never empty, but Sunday evenings are one of the few times when it isn’t packed to capacity. Indeed, there was an empty seat right next to Kevin and Jamal; so Chase slid in next to them and ordered a pilsner.

“I’ll be damned!” Kevin said as he clapped Chase on the back. “Look who took a break from that Jeep of his to make an appearance at Shauntie’s!”

“Hey!” Jamal nodded. “What’s the occasion?” he asked as he tapped his half-full glass of amber against Chase’s fresh pour. “It’s not your birthday, is it?”

“I just wanted to hang with the crew,” Chase shrugged, then brightened as he caught sight of Brittany over Kevin’s shoulder. The happy face didn’t last. It took on a sour note when Chase saw Brittany’s idiot boyfriend sitting next to her. “Didn’t they break up?!” He muttered under my breath.

Kevin saw Chase gawking. Indeed, he’d caught Chase gazing off at Brittany with fairy dust in his eyes quite a bit these days—which was a problem in the kitchen of The Fish House when the eggs needed turning. Tonight, it was just irritating. Kevin shook his head, and said, “dude, you gotta stop makin’ eyes at that one! She’s a shameless flirt, and for whatever dumb reason, she’s stuck at the hip to Soft Hands.”

“Yeah,” Jamal agreed. “Leave her with that vainglorious idiot.”

“Vainglorious?!” Kevin let out a howl. “You take my boy’s advice! He don’t pay everyone with ten dollar words!” he chirped, and clapped Jamal on the back.

Feeling mocked, Jamal turned on Kevin. “You know I’m right! She flirts with everyone—except Alej, of course.”

Kevin backed off. “I’m agreeing!” he protested, then turned on Chase again. “We get it! Brittany’s bright, she’s got a good attitude, she’s a certifiable smoke show—but don’t let the distraction stick! She’s an unwitting siren among the rocks. She’s an unblemished apple that’s been dipped in poison by some whimsical god.”

Chase frowned. “You make her sound like some sort of otherworldly fiend,” he accused.

“I said unwitting,” Kevin countered. “Some people are a danger to everyone, including themselves. It’s a curse, not a feature. Besides, Brittany’s not in your league. You and her aren’t even a possibility,” he claimed.

“Oh, come on!” Chase said, as he rallied to his own defense. “I got a lot to offer! She’s not out of my league!”

Kevin leaned in and shook his head. “Well—you’re right on the first point, you do have a lot to offer. You could a pull a girl that hawt—”

“Hawter,” Jamal corrected.

Kevin gave a nod and barely missed a beat as he continued on. “But you can’t have that one. Brittany’s not in your league. Not a higher league! A different league!” he continued. “It don’t matter how good you are at playing short stop. You’ll never be considered for the Ryder’s Cup.”

“That don’t make any sense,” Chase countered. “Neither one of us is hockey people.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Nixon!” Kevin clapped his own head. “Chase, you’re a good guy! You’re a guy’s guy! You go hunting, you tinker with your car, you work on the respectable side of the restaurant—”

“Back of the house!” Jamal called, and mashed his glass against Kevin’s and Chase’s.

“Hoorah,” Kevin replied, took a small sip, then turned his attention back to Chase. “You need a girl with a bit of tomboy in her. You need a girl that knows that a proper road trip means at least half the nights will be spent in a tent. You want a girl that’s willing to go mudding,” he continued. “Brittany is not one of those girls. Brittany is a girlie girl. Leave ‘er to the girlie guys, like Soft Hands.”

“You remember the last time she broke up with Soft Hands?” Jamal cut in. “You remember how you asked her if she wanted to go hiking?”

Chase leaned back and crossed his arms. He saw no reason to talk about that episode.

“What’d she say?” Jamal continued his interrogation. “She said, ‘eww!’ Remember? She said, ‘Who goes outside on purpose?’!”

Chase began to protest. “Guys, come on—”

Jamal cut him off. “There was stank on it! Bless her heart, but she really doesn’t understand why people spend any time outside.”

“We all know Brittany won’t go out for less than half a cigarette,” Kevin observed.

Jamal nodded. “She’s a modern day Boo Radley. If there were tunnels connecting everything, she’d never see the sun.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Chase replied. “You make her sound like a vampire. Besides girlie girls—don’t they want boyish boys?”

For a long second, Kevin and Jamal simply stared at each other. Finally, Kevin devised another approach. “What do you talk about with that girl?”

Chase answered with a shrug. He didn’t want to get into that either.

“You flirt. It’s all about sex—and its not even sex—it’s just innuendo,” Kevin continued. "You flirt, and she flirts back, and you know why that’s the only thing you do? Because she don’t give a rat’s ass about your other activities to the same degree that none of us are talking to her about make-up, yoga, self-help books, tarot cards, crystals—or whatever else she does in her spare time,” Jamal said. “Leave ‘er to her own kind! Leave her to Soft Hands. He’s all about that woo-woo.”

“She keeps pet frogs,” Chase noted. “She’s keen on music.”

“Frogs?!” Jamal mocked. “Well, if that ain’t a match made in heaven! And I ain’t never heard of anyone that likes music!” he shook his head and rolled his eyes as he took a long obvious drink from his glass.

“So that’s the plan, eh?” Kevin asked. “You plan to bond over frogs and music?” He stared. “She listens to retrowave, and goes to the exotic pet shop on eighth. It’s not like she’s hunting through cattails in short-shorts with Megadeth on her air buds.” He stared at Chase for several blank seconds, then turned to Jamal and shook his head. “He doesn’t see it! How—how doesn’t he see it?!”

Jamal shrugged and stared at the last half inch in his glass. “They’re oil and water—but all he can see is that they’re both liquid.”

For several long seconds, the three friends sat in silence and refused to make eye contact with each other. “Enough guff from the two of us,” Kevin finally added. “Why don’t you go say hi to her and be friendly? We like Brittany. We like you too. We just don’t like the idea of the two of you together,” he finished.

“Come back to us when you get bored,” Jamal added, as he stared into his glass.

Finished with the pilsner, Chase ordered a hazy. He tapped glasses with the other two cooks, to show he harbored no hard feelings—even though he felt crushed and betrayed—then took his leave and circled among the others. He was halfway done with his second beer when he finally found himself standing next to Brittany. Oh lord, she was beautiful! His tender heart skipped a pitter and tried to catch itself with an extra heavy patter. “Hey there, short-stack,” Chase began. “H-hh-how’s your night?” he stuttered.

Brittany turned to Chase, wearing the smile she smiled when everything was getting on her nerves. Her emerald green eyes that usually sparked with mirth went flat. How many times did she have to tell people she didn’t like pet names?!

Chase knew the look. His stomach sank to see it. Still, Brittany set a gentle hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m fine. What are you up to these days?” With that, she prayed he had something to say that might rivet her attention.

Of late, Brittany felt everything was monotonous. A morass. A malaise. Everything was wrong in slippery indefinable ways that dripped through her fingers and stained her nails with the stench of a rotting society. The world continued on, as if everything was hunky-dory—or even progressing—and yet she felt the suck of an impossible swamp all about her. She was sinking, her stylish boots unable to find purchase in the thin watery muck of hypocrisy and hidden agenda she could sense all about her, though it refused to show its true nature. She could feel the grime of propaganda and malicious intent, as it gripped her calves and crawled up her thighs. Help us! She cried to the gods, late at night as she prayed for a sleep that was just as likely to be plagued by nightmares. Is there nothing for the poor, the buggered, the defeated?! Yet, the prayers went unanswered, so whenever some wide-eyed believer ballyhooed about the grace and glory of god, she invariably turned away with a sneer—despite wanting nothing more than a reason to believe.

“Oh, not much,” Chase began his answer and rubbed the back of his neck. “Just work, and working on the Jeep.” He smiled—then began to tell her that he finally got the CJ5 running. Rebuilding the transmission, and switching out a leaky head gasket were the hard parts. After that, it was simply putting in new parts: shocks, spark plugs, and plenty of fluids. Admittedly, she still needed a ton of work. There were a lot of cosmetic items that begged his attention. He needed to sand off some rust and repaint the whole thing, inside and out; but in mechanical terms, the vehicle was totally road worthy—once he put the seats back—all of which had him hyped!

Brittany couldn’t follow the description of the bits and bobs, or the intricacy of getting the various do-dads to work together. All she could think of was the grease and the way it stained his nails to the quick—even after a good scrubbing. Thank the Roosevelts that Chef made him wear gloves in the kitchen! Suppressing a shiver, Brittany mustered a half-smile, and hoped that at least she would not give offense. After all, she liked Chase. He was a nice guy. If the world ended tomorrow and they were the last two on earth—well, that was about the only way she could see the two of them ever working out—but she did like the idea of seeing him without a shirt. Just, skip the grease. Put the man in a steam for a day—maybe two. But then again, that’s not how the end of the world would go…

Brittany gave Chase another pat on the shoulder, and interrupted with, “I’m glad you got your car working,” then added, “I’m going out for a smoke.”

Car?! Chase stared after her, astonished that she didn’t realize the importance of rebuilding a CJ5. It took him countless hours of research, nearly five thousand dollars, and a heavy amount of assistance from his twin brother, Craig—to whom he owed a good deal of favors—and Brittany simply walked off in the middle of his triumph!? It was unconscionable!

Mayzee stepped next to Chase, and with a gentle finger lifted his chin, so he no longer gaped after Brittany like a fish out of water. “Forget about her,” she said. “She’d rather be fighting with her boyfriend than talking to the rest of us.”

Shocked, Chase turned on Mayzee. “Why does everybody feel the necessity to talk to me about Brittany?!” he snapped.

Mayzee shrugged. “Maybe we just don’t want to see you suffer.”

Chase pointed after Brittany, “and why doesn’t she end my suffering?”

“She’s the one person that can’t,” Mayzee replied as she rubbed sympathy into his back. “Indeed, you’re the only person that can.”

“I don’t get it,” Chase shook his head. “I just can’t figure why she’s still with that idiot! You think they’ll ever break up?! I mean—do you think they’ll ever stay broke up?!”

“Probably,” Mayzee shrugged. “I think they’re terrible together, so hopefully just one more time, and then for good.”

“They only ever seem to fight,” Chase observed with a sigh.

Mayzee grabbed his chin and stared him in the eyes. “Don’t torture yourself over that girl,” she began. “Look,” she turned his chin back so they both stared at Brittany once more. They could see her through the back window, as she yelled at Soft Hands, with a cigarette between her polished fingers. They could just hear her voice—though they couldn’t make out anything but a few emphasized curse words. “Is that what you want?” Mayzee asked. “Is that the kind of mess you need?”

“She wouldn’t be so mean to me, since I wouldn’t be such an idiot,” Chase defended.

“Yes she would!” Mayzee replied. “And do you know why she would do that to you? Because she needs the drama! She craves it! That’s why she sticks with Soft Hands. He’s glib, unaffected, and totally prepared to deal with her pyrotechnics. Indeed, they’d be really good for each other—if they’d just make the effort to be really good for each other,” she shrugged. “But you’re not that type, and her eccentricities would only make you miserable. You’re strong. You’re silent. You say what needs to be said.”

“Maybe that’s what she needs,” Chase shrugged.

“I know you want to paint this as some sort of possibility, but it’s just not there,” Mayzee shook her head as she stared at an obstinate Chase. “You just don’t get it, do you? Not every girl is made for every boy.”

“If she’s not interested, why does she invite me to these things?” Chase countered.

“She invited half the people here,” Mayzee noted.

“And why does she flirt with me?!”

“She flirts with everybody,” Mayzee replied. “Doesn’t it drive you up the wall when she’s flirting with Kevin and Jamal?”

“Jamal’s got a girl, and Kevin only ever pretends like he’s interested,” Chase shrugged. “It’s pretty obvious.”

“And yet she still does it, just the way she flirts with you,” Mayzee stared. “She flirts with me, Kaleb, Chef, even Craig in the bar. It’s just one of the ways she shows her friendship. It’s just who she is,” she paused. “Doesn’t it make you wonder that she don’t flirt with you any different?”

“Alej was different,” Chase frowned. “Back when they still talked.”

“That’s because Alej had a chance,” Mayzee pointed.

Chase locked eyes and glared at Mayzee. Did she mean to hurt his feelings? “You know, I may not stand a chance with Brittany, but having everyone throw it in my face makes me want to try all the more!”

Mayzee stared back at Chase, and offered a soft commiserating look. “That might be the smartest thing you’ve said all night,” she answered with a sweet smile. “Don’t take it personal. We can’t all be strong and silent. Most of us are weak and talk too much,” she continued. She put a gentle hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry. I know you gotta work this out on your own. I only meant to help,” She pulled Chase close and kissed his temple. “Be better than the rest of us,” she added, then turned and wandered off.

Chase stuck around for another half hour or so. He got a third drink—but abandoned it halfway through when he realized Brittany had left without even saying goodbye. Well, that did it! Defeated, Chase said good night to the few people that still remained, then began his trek home.

Chase don’t live far from work—or Shauntie’s for that matter—so he walked, in part because his car was in pieces. It was for the best anyway. The cool air reminded him that the world is not always glowing feelings and getting what one wants. He had to brace himself against the cold, but it kept Brittany out of his mind. Besides, Mr. Chen could be pretty unforgiving when one of his sons did something stupid. If dad should catch him driving home two and a half deep, it’d be the broom for sure—and with dad there was always the chance that he’d get caught. After all, Mr. Chen could be quite the sneak.

Chase was walking next to the creek as it passed under the interstate—which could be a sketchy stretch—but he was a full grown man and still rather fresh from five years in the navy, so the danger was minimal. Anyway, he had to pass a vagrant that was humping some poor comatose lady. It wasn’t a sight Chase often came across—even around the wilder parts of the inner city and during the whee hours. His first instinct was to go back around another way; but that meant either Colorado Avenue six blocks up, or behind the WalMart four blocks down, and both alternatives were just as sketch. Besides, the lady seemed to be fine with her lover’s efforts, as she simply laid there and took it. Likely it didn’t even register with her. Likely, she was high as a kite and half out of her body anyway.

Chase grinned away his uneasiness as he shambled past, all quiet-like; because what people do in the dark was none of his business, even if they do it out on the street. But the closer he got the more freaked out it made him. Heckles raised, he just wanted to get past the gross couple. Indeed, he was half a dozen steps beyond the two when he glanced back and accidentally kicked a small rock at the same time. The tiny stone bounced down the sidewalk, clicking and clacking. It was the most noise Chase had made yet, and it was barely above the slight scuff of his steps. He glared after the small rock as it bounced and bobbled along the sidewalk.

Despite the smallness of the noise, it caught the vagrant’s ear. In an instant, he stopped his thrusting and turned his attention to Chase. The hairs on the back of Chase’s neck were alight with electricity, and he could feel the man staring. He turned back toward the man, suddenly sure that everything was incredibly wrong!

In a rush, the stranger stood up. There was blood all over him. He stared murder at Chase, and for a split second, Chase stared back—then realized this bloody man wasn’t making love to some woman that was drugged to the gills—she was dead, and he was eating her!

And now that hungry gaze was locked on Chase!

Not wanting to fight some blood-crazed junkie, Chase bolted. With a snarl, the bloody man ran after him.

Speeding across the concrete, Chase turned north, away from the creek, and into a residential neighborhood. He was getting close to where he lived, and thought he could distance the sicko pretty quick, because most the vagrants down by the creek weren’t in very good condition; but every once in a while, you get one that’s young and strong, and meth’d to the gills. This creepo was hot on his heels!

Chase ran down an alley and ducked into an alcove. He scrambled up the fence with the assistance of a thick willow, as the bloody man closed, swiped as his pray, and came up short. He slammed into the fence and let out a bloody howl, then turned and sprinted down the alley.

Chase ran past the side of the house and into the street. He though he was scot-free, so he skipped across the black top and up to his own house. The buzz of alcohol and the surge of adrenaline caused his fingers to shake as he shuffled through his keys, slipped the right one into the lock, then turned the knob and pulled the door open. He took half a step through the doorway—then felt a hand on his collar. Next thing he knew he was falling backward, toppling off the patio and into the soft grass of the yard. He covered his face, as nails dug at him, as teeth bit into him.

The bloody vagrant was strong!—but not particularly good at fighting—which was a good thing, because he meant to do harm. He was simply flailing away, attempting to do a maximum amount of damage with a minimum amount of tactics. But Chase knew how to fight. He knew how to defend himself. He managed to wrestle the vagrant down; as he swore and cursed and bled from a dozen good scratches. The junkie snarled, howled, and railed incoherently as he continued to scratch, bite, and kick.

The neighbor’s lights came on. Mr. Chen and Craig both came out the front door. Mr. Chen tried to separate the combatants with his broom, while Craig helped Chase hold the bloody vagrant down—all of which was done with a good amount of cursing of the nation’s top executive office and the righteous men that served in it. “Sweet Calvin Coolidge, get a grip on his arm!” “You let go of my son, or by Roosevelt, I’ll do to you what Burr did to Hamilton!” “Blessed Eisenhower! He’s as strong as Kennedy’s hate for the CIA!” As many as a dozen of the country’s good presidents suffered such odd slanders and castigations from all three of the Chens before the police, paramedics, and fire department finally arrived with blaring sirens and flashing lights.

Emergency workers leapt into the fray. The brothers stopped fighting immediately—but not the junkie. It took two cops and a firefighter to pry the meth-head away from Chase and Craig. Indeed, the bloody vagrant bit one of the cops, and even though there were three of them, they had a helluva time getting him handcuffed and into the back of the squad car.

The paramedics checked Chase, and also bothered Craig—though the older twin had no injuries to show. They told Chase that he was lucky that no major damage was done—which is what Chase told the haggard paramedics when they first arrived—but they seemed harried and prone to talk down to people. That was fine. Chase knew it was good to take a tone of authority and politely talk down to people after such a dramatic incident. Someone had to take control, and since the paramedics meant to take care of him, and weren’t trying anything dubious, he was fine to let them lead. Indeed, Chase was quite happy to hear them say that he should call his doctor if the bites or scratches looked like they were getting infected—otherwise, he should be fine with nothing more than a little neosporin.

The cops took Chase’s story, and believed every word of it—especially since the junkie was belligerent to an extreme. Not only did the gory vagrant refuse to say anything coherent, but he struggled to such an extent that even after the cops had him securely chained to the back seat of a cruiser, he still smashed his face into the window—repeatedly—as blood smeared over the glass.

The cops said they’d go under the overpass and have a look for the dead lady. They seemed bothered by the report—but perhaps not terribly surprised. In fact, the lot of them seemed a little frayed at the edges—perhaps a little weary of the current rise in mindless assaults?

—but why would any of the Chen’s think to wonder of such things?—

The cops and paramedics pulled away—as the lunatic continued to smash his head against the red-streaked window of the squad car—and for a good seven minutes, the Chens were left all to themselves.

chapter 2: Men in Black

For the first 56 seconds all three of the Chens checked on the other’s well-being with some gentle, yet playfully disparaging,commentary. This was followed by a minute and 15 seconds of boisterousness including gloats, curses, and praise to Grover Cleveland for delivering his blessed subjects from the hands of the truly deranged. Then, for another 3 minutes and 9 seconds, the conversation gently simmered, as longer pauses caught in the air, allowing for the distant cry of sirens to catch in their ears.

Still, it was a big city. Sirens sounded fairly frequently.

Just over five minutes had passed, when one of the silences lasted about 10 seconds too long—long enough for Chase to feel a chill like none he’d even felt before. A worry struck him—and he realized this was only just the beginning of something big and terrible. His heart dropped into his stomach. Some reserve of lingering adrenaline gave him another shock, and although it wasn’t even midnight, he wondered if he’d sleep at all.

With a shudder, and a shake of his head, Chase stepped into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. He poked at the bandages that checkered his arms and chest. Half were blotched with red. A few were starting to get sticky. He eyed the worst of them: a long and mostly superficial scratch that still managed to draw blood along a good six inches of neck. There were two similar but lesser canyons to the south, as blood stretched three inches across the second, and almost two along the third. But that only describes the physical scarring. Psychologically, Chase was shook. He thought maybe not to call his injuries all that superficial. After all, some crazy man had just attacked him simply for walking by late in the night. For a second—when he first went toppling backward into the grass—he’d wondered if this is how’d he’d die. What if the crazy vagrant had been just a little bit stronger, just a little bit smarter, just a little bit quicker?

Yet, he hadn’t. Chase considered the luck of his near-miss as he gently prodded the edges of his injuries to see how much they really hurt. They were tender for sure—but he’d seen worse on others. In time he’d be fine. But for now—well—now he felt flush and exhausted all at once. He wanted a nap like nothing before, but was still wired to fight. Indeed, he half expected another junkie nut-case psycho fiend to come rushing out of the shadows and jump at him.

Chase breathed deep. His various scratches, bites, and bruises stung with the vile burning of the devil himself—pure hellfire that seared his injuries and stung worse than the vile policy of Herbert Hoover himself! “Rotten, no-good bureaucracy…” he muttered, as he sucked his breath, and tried to distract himself with what he knew of american policy during the Great Depression.

“Just look at him, admiring his war wounds!” Craig said, half boasting about himself, since he had escaped the attack without a single scratch.

Mr. Chen filed in and stared at Chase critically. Once he realized his adopted son was fine and likely to live for many more years, he gave the boy a frown and a gentle swat with the broom. “Look at you! You’re a mess! This is what you get for staying out all night and picking fights with the homeless!—”

Mr. Aiguo Chen would have continued his tirade if there wasn’t an interrupting knock at the door.

He turned from his adopted son and shuffled his way back to the entrance; as the twins followed at a respectful distance. “What is it?!” Mr. Chen complained, and peeked through the peephole. Standing there on the porch were two solid looking men of middle age, dressed in black suits. “What do you want?!” he called to the strangers.

“Chase Chen?” A heavy voice asked. “We’re here to talk with a mister Chase McAllister Chen.”

“And who are you?” Mr. Aiguo Chen asked through the door.

“We’re D. I. A., sir. Are you Chase Chen? If we could have a word, we’d be much obliged,” he repeated.

“And if we say no?” Mr. Chen asked.

“Well…” the voice began. “Please don’t say no. We just have a few questions—and maybe an answer or two.”

“An answer to what?” Chase asked through the door.

“Is one of you Chase Chen? If so, do you know the man that attacked you tonight?” the suited stranger continued.

Chase shook his head. “Just some meth-head…” he shrugged.

“What if I told you it wasn’t just some meth-head? What if I told you that man was a high ranking member of the military, a colonel in the US army?”

“I’d be surprised,” Chase replied. “He sure didn’t fight like military.”

“There’s a reason for that,” the suited man responded. “Mr. Chase, this would be much easier if we could talk to you face to face.”

“Am I in trouble?” Chase asked.

“Maybe—but not for fighting with the colonel. He’s obviously not in the right state of mind,” the officer noted.

“Who did you say you were?”

“We’re from the Defense Intelligence Agency,” the man in black answered. “I’m Special Agent Dodd. My associate here is Special Agent Kenzie. We’re part of a task force looking into a biological that’s been going around, and that’s making people crazy,” he said.

“A what?” Mr. Chen asked.

“A biological. We’re not sure where it came from, or exactly how it works, though we have a few ideas. Needless to say, we have grave concerns over some of its effects,” Special Agent Dodd continued. “Chase, were you bit by chance? Were you scratched?”

His eyes went wide, and Chase covered his arm. He gave a worried look to his twin, and a guilty glance to his adopting father.

“Not saying that he was—but what if he was?” Craig asked for his brother.

“Well, we’d ask him to come with us. We’d take him down to Evans Hospital, where we’d administer the cure, and keep him under observation until we’re sure he’s not a threat,” Special Agent Dodd explained.

“And what if I wasn’t?” Chase asked.

“Well, we’d ask for visual confirmation of that fact,” Special Agent Dodd replied. “See, the problem is, if there’s even just a little scratch on you, there’s a chance you’ll turn out like Colonel Etienne.”

“You mean like some sort of blood-crazed zombie?” Craig asked.

“We’re certainly not using that word—though there are some similarities,” Special Agent Dodd answered. “It comes with a lot of inaccurate assumptions. Listen, Chase. You’re not in trouble—but you are in danger. Last week Colonel Etienne was a strong, vibrant, contributing member of the community—and over the course of eleven hours, he degenerated into what you saw tonight. He attacked and nearly killed his own wife. He mauled his daughter and his son. That was about dinner time yesterday. Thankfully, his wife is in stable condition, but his daughter is exhibiting similar signs of distress.”

“What of the son?” Chase asked.

“We don’t know where the son is,” Special Agent Dodd answered. “What’d you call him? A meth-head? A blood-crazed meth-head? Well, that’s not far off. If we don’t get you the treatment, your chances of ending up like that are too high to ignore.”

“What are these odds?” Chase asked.

““Without the treatment? They’re awful close to fifty-fifty,” Special Agent Dodd answered.

“What are my chances with the treatment?” Chase asked.

“Pretty much a hundred percent recovery…” they could hear the special agent turn to his partner. "What was the last report? Ninety-eight point nine…?”

“What’s the treatment?” Chase continued.

“It’s a simple injection,” Special Agent Dodd began. “It’s called ‘phalanx’ and however it works doesn’t concern me. I only care that it works.”

“If my chances of ending up like your colonel are so high, why are there only the two of you to bring me in?” Chase asked.

“Well, we do have a little time,” Special Agent Dodd noted. “Even at eleven hours, Colonel Etienne changed pretty quick. Most people take a day or two, maybe even three before they finally snap,” he said. “Listen, Chase, if you refuse to come out, we will call our friends; and when we feel there are enough of us, we will come in and get you. If that happens, you won’t like it at all, and neither will your people. But if you come with us now, we will do everything we can to make you comfortable. You will have to stay with us for a while—maybe as long as a week—but after that, you’re home free. So what do you say, son? Can we come in? Then you can show us you weren’t bit, and after that, we swear to get out of your hair.”

There was another long pause, as Chase, Mr. Chen, and Craig all stared at each other. “They can’t be trusted,” Craig whispered. “We know this type, and we both know they twist the truth to their own secret agendas.”

Chase glanced at his injuries. He could feel a heat, a soreness about the glowing injuries. “But if I become a zombie…” he began.

“You’re not a stupid zombie!” Craig hissed.

“We get it,” Special Agent Dodd continued. “This isn’t your fault, and we don’t blame you at all. We understand your reticence, but this is for the greater good, so please—please open the door, and let us talk face to face.”

Since getting out of the military, Chase wasn’t normally one to go along with other’s authority, but he felt this was right. With a frown, he unlocked the door. “I was bit,” he said to Special Agent Dodd. “I was bit and scratched,” he showed the wounds on his arms and neck, despite how obvious they were.

“Well, that’s a damned shame,” Special Agent Dodd frowned. “If you’ll come with us, we’ll get you treated immediately,” he pointed to the car. “Then, we only have to hold you until we’re sure you’re not one of the unlucky few.”

Chase turned to his brother and Mr. Chen. “This is becoming the longest night ever,” he said and gave them both hugs.

“I tell you not to stay out so late!” Mr. Chen snipped—but then his expression turned soft. “You be good. I call Mr. Wiezcykyi.”

Chase gave a nod, then followed Special Agent Dodd.

“Where you take him?!” Mr. Chen asked.

“Fort Carson, Evans Hospital,” Special Agent Dodd said.

Craig and the agents got in the car and drove off. It wasn’t far to Fort Carson—which was lit like it was preparing for a war—with heavy barricades and armored units at the edge of the road. “Jesus, Mary, and Nixon,” Chase swore, as they passed by the entrance to the first gate. “You weren’t kidding,” he said, as he felt his heart sink. “This really is serious,” he stared at the barricades, men, vehicles, and the long line of sand bags that stretched off in both directions.

“We’re working against the curve, Chase Chen. Time is not on our side,” Special Agent Dodd began, than cut the conversation, so he could talk to the MPs that held the gate. They got through with no trouble, though the MPs took a serious look at the Special Agent’s credentials. Shortly after that, they arrived at the hospital, and Chase was taken downstairs into the basement.

“Hey!” Chase complained. “This is a cell! Like an actual jail cell!”

“These are very secure rooms where they normally treat military criminals, yes—but we are currently using them for the itching sickness. We did gussy it up a bit,” Special Agent Dodd noted. “We gave you extra blankets, and we’ll get you some books from the library. I can’t promise you much of a selection, but you’re sure to find something of interest. Unfortunately, until we know you aren’t a danger to everyone, you will have to stay in this little room.”

“And if I refuse?!” Chase asked, incredulous.

“Of no,” Special Agent Kenzie chuckled. “There is no refusing,” the big man said with a smirk.

“Please,” Special Agent Dodd said, and held the door open.

With a huff, Chase walked into the cell. “So when does the treatment begin? When do I get this phalanx?” he asked.

“There is no phalanx,” Special Agent Dodd shook his head. “I’m sorry for the ruse, but that’s just something I got from a book,” he continued. “If it makes you feel any better, it didn’t work in the book either.”

“Well, it doesn’t make me feel any better!” Chase raged. “So now what?! So now I just wait to become a zombie?! Is that what happens?! You stick me, and poke me, and pray to find a cure that I guarantee you’re too dumb to discover! Is that it?! You just keep me in prison until I freak out?!”

With the patience of a president, Special Agent Dodd waited for the rant to end. “I might have lied about phalanx, but everything else I said was true,” he answered. “It really is the odds of a coin toss as to whether or not you’ll snap. I mean, it’s not quite that in your favor—more like 44 to 55 percent—but that’s a lot better than you’ll get in the movies.”

To be reassured about such decent odds did in fact calm Chase a bit—as he continued to lean against the bars. Besides, he was locked in a cell, so there was nothing he could do about the unfairness of it all anyway. There was nothing to do but complain—and what good would that do? “So I just sit in here until you’re happy I’m not going to turn?”

“That and we’ll ask for a bit of blood from time to time,” Special Agent Dodd nodded. “And when I say ask, I mean that we will have some blood from you, voluntary or otherwise.”

“And if I should turn?” Chase asked.

“We’ve built a special facility for the ones that snap,” Special Agent Dodd answered. “We hold them and pray for a cure—but they’ve resisted every intervention we’ve invented so far. I know it isn’t much, but hope springs eternal.”

“Well, raise the tariffs, McKinley!” Chase cursed. “This just gets better and better!”

“Listen, I’m sorry I lied about a cure,” Special Agent Dodd continued. “I did that to get you down here—but everything else I’ve told you is true, and we’ve been very forthright in answering your questions—so answer me this; since the chance of you becoming like Colonel Etienne is just about a coin toss, can we afford to leave you out among the public, where it’s quite likely you will infect others?”

“Before you answer, let me add something more,” Special Agent Dodd continued. “Just because you haven’t turned, doesn’t mean you aren’t contagious. Before a victim snaps, they get the itch. When they itch, they start to scratch. When they itch, they start to bite. This happens to everyone whether they turn or not. They all get the itch, even if they are one of the few—the very few indeed—that don’t act on it. So with that fact in mind, do you think we should just leave you out among the public? Should we leave you to scratch your siblings, your parents, your friends and neighbors?”

Chase stared back, then asked his own question. “How long has this been going on?”

“We started seeing this about eight days ago, in Denver,” Special Agent Dodd revealed. “Four days ago, we started seeing it here. We think it started in Aspen, not quite two weeks ago. Now Aspen—Aspen’s a shit-hole. You can’t get closer than fifty miles to Aspen. National Guard locked it down late last week—not that it matters. As of this morning, we’ve seen the itching sickness in Utah, Nevada, even as far as Los Angeles.”

Wide-eyed, Chase backed away from the door. “Two weeks?” He repeated and his jaw went slack. “How many people?” he asked. “How many sick people are there?!”

“Under observation? In this hospital and others?” Special Agent Dodd considered the question. “Here, we’re in the high hundreds. Across the front range its thousands and thousands,” he guesstimated. “Needless to say, things are getting a bit cramped.”

Chase continued to stare. “That’s why you’re being so open about it.”

Special Agent Dodd nodded. “The way things are going, this is all going to be out in the open by week’s end. Anything else? Any more questions?” he asked. “Would you like some food? This is a hospital, mind you, so there’s nothing you’d enjoy,” he shrugged.

“Nah,” Chase answered then leaned against the bars and considered the unbelievable turn of events. Was he really just supposed to wait here to turn into a zombie?! He stuck a finger to his mouth and licked at the nail.

Special Agent Kenzie turned and looked at his friend knowingly. “He’s starting early.”

“It’s a good thing we brought him in when we did,” Special Agent Dodd replied, then turned to Chase. “If you’re praying type, now’s a good time to get after it.” he said, and slapped the bars of the cell, then added, “We’ll get one of the orderlies to bring you something to read.”

With that, the special agents left.

CHAPTER 3: BROTHER TROUBLE

Craig stared after the car that carried his injured brother. He wondered why Chase had gone with the special agents as the vehicle went up to Limit, then turned toward the freeway, and continued out of sight. The only thing that Craig could figure was that Chase actually believed he might become a zombie—

“You dumb boys!” Mr. Chen snapped at Craig, interrupting the young man’s thoughts, then slapped his butt with the flat of the broom. “Out at all hours! No wonder some druggie attack your brother!”

“What are you talkin’ about?!” Craig asked. He stepped into the house followed by Mr. Chen’s fury. “I’ve been home all day! Besides, we’ve been out later than this, and I’ve never once been attacked by zombies!”

“And how long you expect such luck to last?!” Mr. Chen harangued the young man. “Mrs. Chen would be so disappointed!”

Craig pouted. “Come on now, don’t drag her into this!”

“Chase brought the cops and great shame to this house!” Mr. Chen continued his lecture. “How long will we be the talk of the neighbors?! Eeyah! What would President Gabbard say?”

“They’ll get it!” Craig defended his twin. “He was the one that was attacked, and he’s a grown man! He’s allowed to be out!”

“Don’t you give me excuses!” Mr. Chen continued to rage. “You wise up! You still owe me six months rent!”

Craig rolled his eyes, as this was an argument that the old man only ever brought up whenever he was angry. Craig replied the way he’d replied for years. “You started charging me when I was fifteen—and I was dumb enough to pay you for the first two and a half years!”

“Oh, boy get lippy,” Mr. Chen glared. “Go get me a switch from the birch out back!”

Craig tsked. “That’s all water under the bridge anyway and you know it!” he replied. “You’re just mad because Chase woke you!”

“And now I got to call Mr. Wiezcykyi!” Mr. Chen continued to complain. “Eyaaah! You know how much he charge an hour?! You know how much he charge at night?!”

Kaleb came down the stairs in sweats and a t-shirt. “What the hell is going on down here?!” he asked. “You know, some of us have to be up in the morning!”

“You be quiet!” Mr. Chen snapped at the youngest of his adopted children. “Your dumb brother got arrested for fighting with some cranked-up vagrant,” he pointed.

“It wasn’t a meth-head, it was a zombie!” Craig stated. “You heard the cops!”

Mr. Chen waved him off. “You too serious! They no hold him for zombie! They take him for fighting with colonel! Eeeyah! Defense Intelligence no do zombie!”

“You think so?” Craig scratched his head. It made sense in most ways. It didn’t explain why Chase went along. He wasn’t dumb. He’d spent his time in the navy. Could it be that Special Agent Dodd had just spun an exotic lie in order to bamboozle Chase and get him into the car?

Perhaps once Chase was in the car, all the ghoulish nonsense went right out the window. Well, if that was the case, it was a good thing dad knew Mr. Wiezcykyi! He was an ace of a lawyer.

“What a minute. You’re telling me that Chase got arrested?!” Kaleb queried.

“You could have come down and helped,” Craig answered.

“I poked my head out the window,” Kaleb shrugged. “I figured it was all over when you and Chase had the vagrant twisted in a pretzel. When the sirens arrived and none of you were dragged off, so I figured the rest was just details—but it keeps going on and on, and I gotta open tomorrow,” he continued. “Why did Chase get arrested?!”

“He’s fine,” Craig said to Kaleb. “They won’t be able to keep him more than 24 hours, and dad’s calling Mr. Wiezcykyi, so—”

“Don’t call me dad!” Mr. Chen snapped and slapped Craig across the top of his head. “I weep to think of telling Mrs. Chen what’s become of her boys!”

The brothers did their best to ignore this—though it always stung when Mr. Chen brought up the missus. Still, Kaleb managed to stay on task. “Chase is my opener!” he lamented. “Great Taylor, Tyler, and Taft! Chef is gonna be pissed!”

“Well, hopefully Mr. Wiezcykyi works fast,” Craig shrugged.

Kaleb sagged, then brightened as he stared at Craig. “Hey, why don’t you come in early and help open the kitchen?”

“Open the what?!” Craig replied. “I’m a bartender, what do I know about kitchens?”

“You cut fruit,” Kaleb shrugged. “You can cut vegetables.”

Craig gaped for a long second, then finally replied. “I’m telling Chef you said that.”

Kaleb deflated. “Don’t do that—fine!” He turned and trundled up the stairs. “Let me get my phone…”

At the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Chen glared at Craig, then smacked his butt with the broom again.

“What?!” Craig asked as he brushed the weapon aside.

“Look what you do!” Mr. Chen snapped. “You upset your brother!”

“I didn’t do this! This is Chase’s mess!” Craig defended.

“Bah!” Mr. Chen snapped. “You just like him!”

“Well that goes without saying! We are twins after all,” Craig stared back at the little Asian man.

“Then why you make me say it?!” Mr. Chen glared and threatened the broom again—but the threat was empty. His face softened. Bedraggled, he set the broom next to the door, then wrapped an arm around his adopted son. “Come. Have a bit of tea while I call Mr. Wiezcykyi—then off to bed you go! Eeeyaah! Tomorrow’s already here!”

Chapter 4: Detained

Chase paced the cell. By now he felt completely sober, though there was a dull lethargy in place of his tipsiness. Despite his lassitude, he couldn’t sleep. There was an agitation about him, especially since the heat of his injuries continued to grow. Indeed, he started to feel itchy, and the only thing that kept him from scratching was to lick his fingers. It was odd, he admitted. But somehow it worked.

Sometime before sunrise, a doctor came in with two other men. They were dressed in riot gear, fully padded with helmets and thick leather gloves. “Hello, Chase. I’m Doctor Hakeem Fateh,” the Indian said.

“Hello, doctor,” Chase replied and stepped up to the bars, as he scratched himself absently.

“Have you ever given blood before?” the doctor asked.

Chase gave a nod.

“And how are you feeling?” he continued.

“Restless,” Chase admitted, then dropped his hands to his side, self-conscious.

“Getting the itch?” the doctor said, more of a statement than a question. “Don’t be too concerned. It is expected.”

“I’m afraid I am,” Chase admitted with a smirk, and a finger between his teeth. “Can you offer me any hope?”

“The fact that you’re talking is a very good sign. People don’t talk after they snap. Keep talking and you’ll be fine,” Doctor Fateh noted with a critical nod. “As for now, we’re just going to take a little blood,” he smiled. “These two are going to hold your arms. Don’t struggle and they won’t hurt you. There just here to make sure I don’t get scratched,” the doctor stated. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Chase repeated. “What do you want me to do?”

“Grab the bars as far out as possible and relax as much as you can.”

Chase did as he was told. “Now what?”

The two padded men approached and wrapped their arms through the bars. They had him pinned, but did nothing more than hold him steady.

“Good,” the doctor smiled. “And now I’m going to take some blood.” He took a needle out of his pocket and slapped Chase’s left arm several times.

“Any luck figuring what’s causing all this?” Chase asked.

“We’ve isolated several interesting proteins, but the agent of the actual change has remained elusive,” Dr. Fateh said, then stuck the needle in a visible vein.

Chase flinched, but the padded men held him still.

The doctor took several milliliters of blood, then pulled the syringe from Chase’s arm. “Thank you,” he smiled, capped the syringe, and put it in his pocket. He took a small ball of cotton out of a separate pocket, pressed it against the slight bubble of blood that coalesced, and taped the cotton to Chase’s arm. “All better,” he smiled. “Okay, now I’m going to swab the inside of your cheek…” and he did just that, “and finally I want you to stretch out your arm,” he said.

“Why?” Chase asked.

“It’s in your saliva,” Dr. Fateh stated. “You’ve been linking your fingers almost since you got here. You don’t think it magically comes out of your nails, do you?” He stared at the young man behind the bars. “Hold out your hand. I’m just going to take a scraping under your finger nail. Totally harmless.”

Hearing the doctor say this made Chase feel a little silly. He reached through the bars and splayed his fingers. One of the padded men grabbed his arm next to his shoulder while the other interlaced his gloved fingers between Chase’s and made them immobile. Dr. Fateh took the scraping and put the slight wooden file in a test tube, then sealed it. “Thank you,” he said to Chase, then turned and walked out.

Now that the doctor was gone, the men in riot gear let go of his arm. Chase rubbed his wrist and hand, although they were not much worse for the wear. He thought about saying something smart, like ‘next time, buy me dinner first,’ but figured these men were probably humorless. The military could do that to people.

Chase figured that’d be the last he’d see of them, until they wanted more blood. He figured they’d simply leave—and the two padded men did just that—but the doctor returned shortly with a box in hand. The box was full of books. “I haven’t read many of these,” he began. “I just brought what looked interesting, along with some titles everyone knows.” With a smile, the doctor placed the box outside the bars, just within Chase’s reach. “Beg my pardon if I don’t get closer,” he said.

Chase pulled the box close and began to browse. There were military books and a fair bit of fiction: thrillers, fantasy, sci-fi; all the things that military types might like to read. “Mind if I take two?”

Dr. Fateh gave a shrug. “With little else to do, I imagine you’ll get through them pretty fast,” he nodded.

Chase selected a couple promising titles: Dispatches by Michael Herr, and Replay by Ken Grimwood; then set the others back with a sigh, and pushed the box out as far as he could. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” the doctor smiled, then began to walk away.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Chase called after the young man. “Are my chances really fifty-fifty?”

The doctor turned and gave another shrug. “Seems about so,” he began. “I’m not taking a count myself, but even odds jive with what I’ve seen.”

“So they really will let me out of here?”

Dr Fateh shrugged. “They keep saying everyone has to stay at least a week, but you have to remember that nobody’s been here for longer than four days. Ask me again on Friday.”

Chase smirked, well aware of how dodgy the military could be with anything that wasn’t in writing. At least the young Dr. Fateh was kind enough to answer his questions. “Thanks for your honesty,” Chase said and held out a hand. “I’m Chase Chen.”

“Hakeem Fateh,” the doctor repeated. “Don’t mind if I won’t shake. I mean no disrespect.”

“None taken,” Chase nodded and pulled his hand back inside the bars.

With a nod, Dr. Fateh turned and carried the books away. “Enjoy those,” he said over his shoulder. “I haven’t read Replay, but Dispatches is an eye opener,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down the long hall and out the door.

Chase turned the books over and gave them a second examination. Not even liking the suggestion of being told what to do, he set Dispatches down and cracked Replay open, as he laid back on his cot. He barely made the second page before the door to the cell block popped open again—which was fine with the twin. The main character was dead by the first sentence! What kind of a book does that to the star?!

Several burly individuals wrestled a cop down the line. “You can’t do this!” the bloody cop screamed, as he struggled against his captors. “I got rights, damn you! I got rights!” he complained as he struggled against the men.

The men ignored his protests, then pushed him into the cell across from Chase. They pitched him into the room, then turned and walked out, while the officer peeled himself off the floor. By the time he got to the cell door, he was locked in, and the men that had put him in the cell were leaving.

“You can’t do this!” he screamed after them—but they were already gone. Still, he screamed, “You let me out, you louts!”

Chase stared at the cop, curious that he should recognize the man. It was Officer Lars, the first cop that tried to control Colonel Etienne, back at the house.

Officer Lars returned Chase’s gaze. His eyes narrowed. “I know you!” he snarled. “Did you tell ‘em I got bit?! Are you the reason I’m in here, you little rat?!” he lambasted. He raised a hand through the bars and pointed. “It was you, wasn’t it, you little Judas!?”

“No,” Chase denied, indigent. In pure fact, it was Officer Lars that had got himself in trouble. He’d written in his own report that he was bit—which he was, though Etienne’s teeth didn’t cut through the cop’s jacket, or break the skin. “I know it was you, you filthy traitor!” Officer Lars continued. “I’m going to beat your ass, toilet worm!”

“Screw you!” Chase replied, then realized the whole exchange was pointless. He glared through several more insults, then shook his head, and retreated to his cot. He laid down, set Replay aside and snatched up Dispatches, then ignored the indignant cop as he tried to make out the lettering of the first page.

The cussing continued for several minutes, but died off as Officer Lars found it impossible to make good on his threats, and eventually Chase was able to get through the first chapter of his book—as he absentmindedly licked at his fingers and scratched irritably all about his body.

Chapter 5: Brand New Day

Craig wasn’t scheduled to work until eleven the next morning, so he shut off his alarm clock and went to bed. He forgot all about zombies and thought he’d wake nice and slow, as the sun beamed through his window. he’d wake utterly refreshed some time around ten.

Instead, he woke to the sound of screaming neighbors and a couple little yip dogs making an absolute racket just a little after seven o’clock. He threw off his covers, ran to the window, and searched for the source of the commotion.

Seconds before Craig woke up, a teenage boy raged at the door across the street; punching, kicking, and screaming incoherently. A large old lady ambled down the walk with two yorkies, leashes in one hand and a lit cigarette between two fingers of the other. She slowed as she stared at the violent teen—pounding at the door and shaking at the knob—his language loud and unintelligible. She paused as one toy dog did his business on a nearby tree; then she exchanged a few bewildered words with an approaching mailman. After a few beats the mailman decided that his solicitations were more important than the issues of the screaming teen. Besides, boys weren’t dogs. Boys could be reasoned with. The mailman approached behind the raging young man, then gave him a gentle nudge, so he could get at the mail slot in the door. Howling like a feral beast, the teenager spun on the mailman and attacked. The lady on the sidewalk screamed and her dogs howled—all of which is what woke Craig.

Craig snapped to consciousness, threw off his covers, and poked his head through his curtains—as the mailman and the wild teen as they careened off the porch and struggled with each other. They rolled in the weeds of the yard as they cursed and snarled and kicked. The large lady muscled her two yapping yorkies down the street and away from the confrontation, as she juggled the two leashes and the lit cigarette in an attempt to fish her phone from her back pocket.

Craig turned from the window, pulled on his pants as fast as he could, and ran for the stairs. Ahead of him, he could hear Mr. Chen open the front door and curse his neighbors, as he stepped outside. By the time Craig got to the front yard, Mr. Chen was at the gate; still cussing up a storm, and waving his broom. “You two stop making all that racket!” he yelled across traffic. “By the beard of Lincoln, you two calm down before I come over there and give you something to howl about!” the diminutive asian continued.

Across the street, the much larger mailman was beginning to untangle himself from the wild-eyed teenager. He pushed and cursed and kicked his worst—though he took some early damage from the young boy. Finally, the older, larger, and more strategic mailman managed to force the little maniac away.

On the sidewalk, a young couple had stopped to mock the combatants. Now seperated, the bloody mailman stood his ground as he stared at the raging man-child. Frustrated, the feral teen let off a scream, then turned and ran at the young couple on the sidewalk. Like deer caught in the blind of headlights, the young gentleman froze, while his girlfriend cowered behind him and shrieked.

The feral teenager ignored the open gate, and threw himself over the low fence. He tackled the young man, as the girlfriend stepped away and continued to scream bloody murder. The feral youth and the young lover grappled and rolled off the sidewalk and onto the side of the street—which was a very wide and much used street at that.

Colorado Avenue was not a minor road. Indeed, the Chens lived not far from the massive structures of downtown, on one of the few roads that actually managed to cross the freeway. Moving west, the large commercial structures dwindled and shrunk down to smaller shops and garages, mixed with apartment buildings, and few grand single family homes that dated to the late 1800’s. The busy avenue boasted four lanes of traffic, two in each direction. But the street was wider yet, as there was a parking lane on both sides. It was in the far parking lane that the violent teen and the boyfriend wrestled between two parked cars; while traffic roared past at an aggressive clip. Most of traffic did not see them at all—except for the westbound lane closest to the curb. Several drivers in this lane checked their brakes and a few laid on their horns as they continued past. One swerved into the other lane and narrowly missed a truck that was creeping up on his left.

Despite traffic, the combatants wrestled. The girlfriend offered daintly kicks and blistering screams to her boyfriend’s attacker—which wasn’t helping the poor boyfriend much.

Having finally delivered his post, the bloody mailman made his way back to the sidewalk as he prepared for round two. Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Dew neh loh moh!” Mr. Chen cursed at the feral teen. He let himself out the waist high gate, and had stepped to the curb, as he raised his broom and told the teen what he thought of him in a fine mix of languages. The little old asian would have crossed the street and joined the fight, if not for the rush of traffic.

Craig wanted to get across the street himself—especially when the raging teen suddenly quit the prone boyfriend and mauled the pretty girlfriend instead.

“Don’t fight women! Fight a man!” Mr. Chen continued, followed by some ancient Japanese curse and a mean bit of Mandarin. Mr. Chen only ever used Japanese when he was mad—and Mandarin was reserved for times when he was boiling hot. Indeed, the only parts he ever spoke of either language were the curse words.

Meanwhile, the mailman set his satchel on the sidewalk and stepped forward, determined to reenter the fray.

Craig checked traffic and saw a break coming. He prepared to cross—and that’s when the unthinkable happened. The raging teen rose over the bloodied young lady. Before the mailman could stop him, he turned to Mr. Chen, snarled, and ran into the street—despite traffic.

The feral teenager made it across the first lane—only to be immediately cut off at the knees by a passing corvette convertible. Bodily, the teen rolled over the hood, then smashed into windshield, then finally flopped over the seats and onto the rear of the car—as the corvette screeched to a halt in the first lane of on-coming traffic.

Craig and Mr. Chen recoiled, both shocked by the horror of the impact. Craig was sure the boy was dead. Certainly, both legs were broke. If the boy lived, it’d be a miracle if he ever walked again!

The boy didn’t seem to care. The feral youth pulled himself across the trunk of the car and toward the seats. The driver turned and the crippled teenager scratched his face. Screaming bloody murder, the driver abandoned his corvette—and almost got mashed by an oversized truck coming the other direction—but the operator of the truck cut the wheel and slammed the brakes.

Tires squealed and the truck grunted as it collided—then jumped—the high curb. Going as fast as it was, the truck continued across the sidewalk, took out an electrical box, and pinched it up against the brick of a used bookstore. Sparks flew and Craig could hear—could feel—the electricity go out all across the neighborhood.

That’s when the sirens finally arrived. Fire trucks, cop cars, and ambulances all converged on traffic that was now in a complete snarl. There was an ever growing mob on the street gathered around the accident. Now on the ground, the raging teenager was finally still. Everyone thought he must be dead—until the paramedics tried to check his vitals. He bit the one that touched his neck, then grunted and hissed at him and his companions—as a cop came running up the sidewalk, screaming that no one was to approach the injured boy.

The feral youth continued to hiss and scratch at anyone that stepped close, unconcerned by the gravity of his injuries, which even at a distance Craig could see were quite apparent. Blood pooled in the road. The cops and paramedics devised a plan to get the maniacal boy strapped to a gurney without anymore bites or scratches. Indeed, it took four of them working in unison to pull it off.

The growling, shrieking, hissing teen wasn’t the only one trundled into an ambulance. The paramedics also took the mailman, the boyfriend, the girlfriend, and the driver of the corvette. The mailman tried to refuse, as did the driver of the corvette, since it was very much a glancing blow that merely scratched his face—but the cops insisted.

Craig and Mr. Chen watched as the ambulances took the wounded. “Why they go that way?” Mr. Chen asked, as the lights went west, through the tangle of traffic, and away from downtown and the nearest hospital. They both watched as the ambulance turned south on Limit.

“Because that’s the way to the freeway!” Craig answered, becoming even more distraught. “That’s the way to Fort Carson, and Evans Hospital!”

“Why they do that?” Mr. Chen continued.

“Because it is some sort of zombie thing!” Craig’s heart raced as he realized that Special Agent Dodd was telling the truth after all! “Dad!” he stared at Mr. Chen, and was about to go over everything they’d witnessed—but he was interrupted by a cop that came over to ask them some questions of his own.

The officer, a large and imposing man, took their statements. “Thank you,” he said and turned to leave—then spun about, remembering to ask one final thing. “On the off chance, were either of you bit? Were either of you scratched?” he eyed them critically.

Mr. Chen and Craig both shook their heads, then showed their arms. “See?”

With a nod, the officer left.

Craig stared at Mr. Chen with wide eyes. “Blessed Buchanan! The freakin’ zombie apocalypse!” he whispered, while Mr. Chen stood on the sidewalk and frowned. He waved to the large lady with the yorkies; as she lit another cigarette, then turned, and mozied on her way, dogs in tow. Craig tried to talk to Mr. Chen, but dad simply stood there and watched the wreckers take the corvette and the massive truck. He watched the cops put caution tape around the ruined electrical box—then left with their sirens blaring—on to the next job. Finally, there was nothing left to see—except for the ruined electrical box and a slick of fluids left by the truck.

“Dad!” Craig repeated, still worried that Mr. Chen wasn’t getting it.

Mr. Chen put up a silencing hand as he stared into the city. He turned to Craig. “Listen,” he said, as he cocked his ear to the wind. Living so close to the city center, Mr. Chen was used to sirens—but there seemed to be an inordinate amount of them, and coming from all directions. “I don’t know about zombies,” he finally began, “but this is certainly something very bad.” Dew neh loh moh,” he said to the world, then turned, and carried his broom back inside.

“What’ll we do?!” Craig asked as they entered the house.

“First, we bring Chase home,” Mr. Chen said. “I call Mr. Wiezcykyi again.”

“Hello,” the lawyer answered.

“Hey, fancy pants lawman,” Mr. Chen snipped. “Where’s Chase?”

Mr. Wiezcykyi sighed. “The wheels grind slowly, Mr. Chen. You gotta give me more time—”

“Are you do anything?!” Mr. Chen snapped.

“Of course I am!” Mr. Wiezcykyi replied. “They say they can’t release him! They say they got him on a week long emergency hold—”

“There no such thing!” Mr. Chen roared. “I didn’t flee Mao to come live in communist America! Do your job, or no get paid!”

Another long suffering sigh issued over the phone. “Hold on now,” Mr. Wiezcykyi answered. “I’m headed down to Evans Hospital to see if I can’t talk some sense into them—and just so you know, he’s not the only one down there. I have another client breathing down my neck, trying to get his wife back—what the hell?!” he interrupted his own train of thought. He’d come over the hill and caught his first glimpse of the entrance to Fort Carson, heavily barricaded, with vehicles and men all about. “Well if that don’t beat all…” he muttered. “Mr. Chen, I got to go. I’ll call you back as soon as I have something to say,” and with that the line went dead.

“Wait!” Mr. Chen snapped, but his next question was cut off. “Dew neh loh moh!” he cursed and dialed again—but to no effect. The call was ignored, and he knew the futility of leaving a voicemail, so he simply hanged up and turned to his adopted son, all while trying to keep the worry out of his face. “Craig, for now, we let Chase worry about Chase.”

Craig gave a solemn nod. “We have no power,” he began. “Soon, we’ll have no water.”

“I get generator,” Mr. Chen went out to the garage. He checked the generator, which was nearly dry. He shook the gas can, which wasn’t even half full. With several curses, he wheeled the generator through the mess of parts that Chase and Craig had piled about the carraige house. He kicked the seats of the CJ5 and cursed the vehicle, as he pulled the generator over the low lip of the door. He tugged the generator up four steps and finally wheeled it into the kitchen. He went back outside, returned with the near empty gas can and shook it at Craig. “You and your dumb brother let the gas get low, and now we’re nearly out!” he complained. “Eyah!”

“How much fuel do we have?” Craig asked, as he continued to fill mason jars from the tap.

“If we run sparingly, we might have enough for a week,” Mr. Chen said. “Most important thing is keep fridges cold.”

“Well, let’s turn it on,” Craig stated. “I need to charge my phone.”

“Hiya! I just told you, sparing,” Mr. Chen complained. “Use my phone,” he offered.

“Do you have Virginia’s number?” Craig asked.

“Why you no have Virgina’s number?” Mr. Chen countered.

“She put it in my phone!” Craig stated. “And that’s where I keep it!”

“Eyaah! Stupid boy no back up important info! We low on gas! No generator until tonight! And no going in the fridge!” Mr. Chen glared.

“But I didn’t get breakfast yet,” Craig complained.

“Strong boy. Good fat,” Mr. Chen pinched his stomach. “You eat tonight. You no die.”

“And what about Virginia?!” Craig continued.

“She no even in town,” Mr. Chen noted. “Worry of people here first.”

“Okay,” Craig nodded. “Well, we should certainly close the restaurant.”

“No your decision!” Mr. Chen countered. “You warn Kaleb and Chef. They decide what to do with restaurant!”

“But—” Craig began to argue.

“You warn!” Mr. Chen said. “Restaurant safer than here! Now, go be useful!” With that, the old man disappeared.

With a frown, Craig went back to filling mason jars with tap water.

Mr. Chen returned with flashlights, a radio, and spare batteries. “I go get boards and nails.”

When Mr. Chen came back to the kitchen, there were several cases of quart mason jars, all filled with water; along with an assortment of other jars, bottles, lidded bowls, and all the pots in the kitchen; all filled to the brim, with or without lids. They were stacked in their precarious manner, taking up most of the table, half the counter space, and a solid corner of the floor in the dining room.

“Craig?” Mr. Chen said, surprised to find the twin was gone. He paused, then heard water running in the upstairs bathroom. He followed the sound and poked his head in, happy that his boy thought to fill the tub. When Mr. Chen came in, the tub was half full and rising; as Craig leaned on the window sill with a joint in his hand, and blew smoke out the open window.

“You dumb boy!” Mr. Chen screamed and began slapping Craig about the arms, body, and head. “You no smoke in house!”

“But zombies!” Craig protested. “And I got the window open!”

“I no care if Jesus and Rutherford B. Hayes both return—and tear out the whole wall in the process! You no smoke in house!” Mr. Chen lambasted.

“Fine!” Craig said, and dashed the joint in the sink.

“You call the restaurant?!” Mr. Chen asked.

“Yeah, I just spoke with Kaleb,” Craig said. “I don’t think he believes me.”

“Bah!” Mr. Chen huffed. “He believe when he see! Next, go around block and get more gas,” Mr. Chen said. “Maybe it not so crazy at gas station yet.”

“That gas station?!” Craig blinked. “It was crazy at that gas station before the zombies!” he stated. “Tell ya what: I'll go get gas if we can turn the generator on and recharge my phone,” he bargained.

“Eeyah! Do as I say!” Mr. Chen grabbed at Craig’s ear.

Craig dodged under his father’s hand, and made for his room. He put on his heavy coat and thickest gloves—despite the nice weather. In the kitchen, he emptied the gas can into the generator—and shook it vigorously when he was surprised that there was so little—then went out back, and re-lit his joint in the alley.

“Tell you what,” Mr. Chen called after him. “Get second gas can and you charge your phone.”

“But—” Craig began to protest.

“No buts,” Mr. Chen cut in. “Get a second gas can.”

With a gulp, Craig agreed, then made his way to the corner gas station—as a myriad of distant sirens sounded around the city.

Head on a swivel and eyes darting, Craig stepped into the store. He grabbed a second can and ignored the clerk staring at his thick coat and gloves, despite the sunny mildness of this balmy February day. Admittedly, Craig was hot as hell, but comfort wasn’t the reason for the outfit. He gave the man too much cash, then went back outside and flinched from everyone that approached him. With jitters and a stream of curses slipping through his lips, Craig filled the cans, then stepped away from the station without bothering to go in for his change. Done with his chore, he ran back through the alley, despite the stifling heat of his hefty coat and gloves.

Craig was a sweaty mess when he finally returned. He peeled off the coat and gloves, then turned on the generator and plugged in his phone.

“One hour!” Mr. Chen said with a finger in Craig’s face. “One hour and off!”

Craig nodded. An hour was more than enough charge to talk with Virginia—and since the power was on, and the fridges were running, he made himself a bit of breakfast while he waited.

Chapter 6: Itch

In the morning, a young man in fatigues brought Chase a plate of overcooked bacon, soggy unseasoned eggs, and a biscuit that tasted just a little better than cardboard. The soldier’s name was Armand, and although Chase was half delirious with the itch, he caught the soldier staring.

Initially, Chase assumed the soldier was staring because he was in the brig with the itching sickness—but the staring continued, and it seemed to be personal. Chase stared back, figuring this Armand must be an association of Craig, since the army was his brother’s branch of service. Chase knew there were plenty of people in the navy he never wanted to see again and imagined it must be the same for his brother.

The soldier continued to stare. Irritated by more than the staring, Chase glared as he set aside the mediocre food, and accused more than asked, “DEWIYOYU?!”

The unintelligible comment caused the soldier to grin, before he turned and walk away.

What the hell was that?! Chase wondered, then spent several minutes in front of the mirror, before he finally managed to say, “hello there,” in halfway decent English.

After that, a chaplain came in, set a stool well out of arm’s reach, and had a chat with any of the prisoners that were willing and capable of conversation. There were a few that would not talk to the man of the cloth—simply as a matter of principle, of course. Chase would have been one of these, as he figured most of those boasting of their own righteousness were often much more akin to the pharisees than the one they tacked up onto a cross. However, Chase welcomed any chance at conversation—until he realized that the man had the terrible habit of turning everything into a confession. Still, concentrating on the chaplain and his obvious attempts to lay blame at Chase’s own feet for his circumstance did seem to keep the itchy restlessness at bay. Indeed, Chase managed to make a number of short remarks—but got confused quite easily as he attempted to explain himself. He trailed off and found himself staring at the walls as often as not—or glaring up at the light as the dim buzz of electricity seemed to grow louder and louder; a persistent nagging hum that refused to let off. Needless to say, it was a difficult conversation. The chaplain didn’t stay long, and once he stood and took his stool to the next cell, Chase realized that he wasn’t terribly sad to see him go.

The day wore on. Chase couldn’t stop the itching. He got really angry about the light over his cot—as the buzzing continued to grow in intensity. Across the hall, Officer Lars started up with the insults again, and this time Chase stared murder back at the copper, until the cop realized an angry glare was all he’d get. Eventually, the officer realized the futility of of his efforts and decided to take a rest.

For some time, Chase didn’t move. If not for the iron bars in the way, he would have ripped Officer Lars limb from limb—or he would have died trying. Indeed, when they put a late lunch through the gap in the door, Chase snarled and yanked it out of the doctor’s hands.

“Oh damn,” Dr. Fateh sighed. “You okay in there?” He asked.

Chase grumbled something unintelligible, then glowered at the man just out of his reach.

“All right,” Dr. Fateh said as he locked eyes with Chase. “Listen here, son,” he began, even though they were about the same age. “By now, you’re uncomfortable, agitated, irritable as all hell—but this is what you gotta do; you gotta stay sane. Whatever you do, you can’t lose your shit. Right now you got the itch, but you gotta come back. If you continue, you snap, and you never speak again. If you lose it, if you snap—well, that’s it. We ain’t seen anyone come back from the snap.”

“But the itch,” Dr. Fateh continued. “Well, I can tell you only got the itch, because you ain’t trying to get through these bars just yet. Not like that poor bastard,” he pointed at another cell, where a large man in fatigues was moaning and reaching through the bars despite there being nothing to grab. Dr. Fateh shook his head. “Look, you gotta struggle. You gotta remember your words,” he advised with a nod. For several seconds, he continued to stare at Chase, then realized that locking eyes was not helping. With a shake of his head, he turned, and went out the way he came.

A cruel chuckle drifted from across the hall. “You got the sick in you, boy?!” Officer Lars called, as he leaned against his bars, then chortled with hostile mirth. “You turning feral, you dumb faggot?!”

Chase wanted to murder the man; but as Officer Lars continued with the insults, Chase considered the words of Dr. Fateh. He changed his attention from the man across the hall to the bars that kept them separated. There was no give to the bars and no way around them, so after a brief evaluation—or what seemed a brief evaluation, though the endeavor lasted north of twenty minutes—Chase turned from them too.

Wanting nothing more than to simply stop itching, Chase forced himself to lay on the cot, to ignore the continuing insults—and also the raging burn that radiated from the scratches on his arms. He opened the first book and puzzled over the strange marks contained within. There was a reason for these words, grouped together in long chains of indefinable meaning. There was a story and a purpose behind them. He tried to ignore the itching heat that ran riot through his veins, and struggled with curious jot and curl of ink instead—all while the irritating buzz of electricity that ran through the light ground against his nerves. He couldn’t believe how loud the electricity sounded! He did everything he could to ignore the harsh thrum emanating from the bare bulb above him—then, after what felt like an eternity of irritation; he gave up on the book, pulled the cot to the center of the room, and unscrewed the bulb—so there was no longer any electricity running through it.

The roaring hum stopped. Ah, better!

Still, Chase could hear the bulbs in the hall and the other cells—but they weren’t nearly so grating since he had some distance. Having a modicum of peace, Chase laid back on the cot, and thought to get some sleep.

The hall door opened. Several soldiers, including a smirking Armand, escorted a civilian into the room. “Right this way, Mr. Wiezcykyi,” Armand said to the man, then stopped him in front of Chase’s cell.

“This is indeed Chase Chen,” Mr. Wiezcykyi said as he turned from one soldier to another. “Any of you care to explain why his light is out? Any particular reason to keep him in the dark?”

“Must have been him, sir,” Armand replied. “I can tell you that the light was on the last time I was in here, and I guarantee you that no one is going in those cells; so it must have been him, for whatever reason, sir.”

Chase closed his eyes and grit his teeth against the irritation of the visitors. He tried to ignore the contentious conversation just outside his cell—but they wouldn’t stop talking! Half wanting to scratch his own ears off, Chase stood and stomped to the bars with hatred in his eyes, and a finger in his mouth. He recognized the soldier as the worst among them—though he had no way of articulating why—and glared at Armand. .

“Ah, Chase!” Mr. Wiezcykyi smiled at the young man. “How are they treating you? Any complaints?” He asked with a smile, as he stepped close to the cell. He blinked and frowned as he got a better look at the young man. “You look like hell,” he noted. “What’s got you so upset?” he asked in a calm manner. “Are they mistreating you?” He leaned against the bars.

Running hot with delirium, Chase grabbed at the lawyer.

Realizing his mistake, Mr. Wiezcykyi stepped back, but he was too slow to keep Chase from grabbing and scratching him. “Ow! Dammit!” he scowled. ”What the hell was that for?!”

“Breach!” Armand screamed, and shoved Mr. Wiezcykyi at the other soldiers.

“What’s the meaning of this?! Unhand me at once!” Mr. Wiezcykyi protested—as the others soldiers grabbed him and tussled him down the line of cells, until they came to one that was empty. They pushed the mouthy lawyer into the cell, then turned and locked him in. “Sweet Jefferson, this is unconscionable!” the lawyer raged. “A judge is going to hear about this! You’re all on notice!” He pulled his phone from his pocket—but there was no reception this deep in the hospital. “Hey!” he yelled, as the soldiers turned and walked away. “I’m a civilian, Grant dammit, and I got rights!”

“You got something,” Armand smirked, then turned and laughed with the other soldiers, as they all walked away. Armand stopped and grinned at Chase. “Well done,” he said through the bars. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t let me down,” he sneered.

Angered, Chase reached through the bars. He grabbed at Armand—but the soldier smoothly backed out of range.

“Whoooa!” the other soldiers all began. “He’s about fit for the pit!” one of them added.

“Soon,” Armand said with a malicious grin, then turned on his heels, and led the other soldiers out.

Unsure of exactly what had happened, it still registered with Chase that he had done something very bad. He moaned and stepped back from the bars while he scratched at his own shoulder, and licked his nails several at a time. Defeated, he slumped onto his cot. Once there, he closed his eyes and did his best to ignore the fire burning through his veins.

Chapter 7: Double

Up at The Fish House, Kaleb sat at the bar. He shuffled papers, and hoped that lunch would be busier than breakfast. The phone rang and he heard Renata answer. “Oh, hey Craig! Yeah, one sec. He’s sitting right here,” she said, then turned to Kaleb, and held the receiver out to him. “Phone’s for you,” she confirmed.

“Kaleb speaking,” he said as he pressed the speaker to his ear.

“Hey buddy,” Craig began. “How’re things up on the hill?”

“Not good,” Kaleb said. “The twenty top at seven cancelled about an hour ago, and a number of other reservations have all called off. Breakfast was about half as busy as usual, so it’s down day for sure.”

“Not surprised,” Craig stated. “It’s probably because of all the zombies.”

“The what?” Kaleb asked, since he’d obviously misheard his brother. For a split second, he’d thought Craig had said zombies—but that’d be stupid!

“Zombies—or at least something that very much resembles zombies,” Craig continued. “That’s what got Chase last night. In fact, we had another one this morning, just after you left. He was right across the street!”

Kaleb rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m finding this a little hard to believe,” he admitted.

“I feel like maybe we should shut the place down,” Craig continued. “You know, give the employees the chance to prepare for the coming zombie apocalypse.”

“For the end of the world, you sure are taking it well,” Kaleb replied.

“Fear is the mind-killer,” Craig answered. “Improvise, adapt, and overcome. After that, there’s not a lot of room for freakin’ out! Not if you want to survive,” he said. “That, and I’m weeded to the gills.”

“What the hell, Craig?!” Kaleb yelled. “You said you wouldn’t smoke before work!”

“It’s the freakin’ zombie apocalypse!” Craig snapped. “I needed something to take the edge off!”

“Kennedy on a cross!” Kaleb cut in. “You know, I can’t believe you! You and your brother are always coming up with some lame excuse to get away from work! No wonder chef refused to make you anything more than a bartender!”

“Now listen here, twerp. Bartender is exactly what I wanted, and Chase is your brother too—” Craig began.

“So you just want the day off, is that it?! Is that what all this zombie crap is about?!” Kaleb concluded. “You’re pathetic, you know! I really should tell dad! Mom would be so disappointed!”

“Keep crossing a line, you little shit-stain,” Craig said cold and irate. “You leave the parentals out of this or I’ll tell dad what really happened between you and Amber!” Craig insisted.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Kaleb began to protest—but word of Amber took the wind out of his sails. “Are you really calling in?”

“You just said half the reservations have called off, including the twenty top,” Craig answered. “Don’t you find that suspicious?”

“I feel like I’d hear about it if there were zombies about,” Kaleb replied.

“I can’t help it if I found out about it first!” Craig stated. “Close the shop.”

“I’m not closing the restaurant over what amounts to a rumor, and since you’re scheduled, I expect you to be here,” Kaleb said. “We still have the other half of the reservations, and you’re the third person to call in today! I’m already pulling a double to cover for s—and if you don’t show, we don’t have an evening bartender!”

“Isn’t Mayzee in?” Craig replied. “Have her work it.”

“You know she hates the bar,” Kaleb continued.

“Well, she owes me, so she can go ahead and hate it,” Craig stated. “Besides, it’s going to be deader than you think. Do you even have power?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Power’s out in the whole neighborhood,” Craig stated.

“We must be on the generators,” Kaleb realized. “Are you saying that zombies knocked out the power?”

“Kind of—a truck took out the electrical box in front of Westside Stories—but it was because of that zombie across the street that I was trying to tell you about,” Craig answered.

Kaleb thought about his brother’s assertion as he stared off into oblivion. After a long second, he got mad at himself for even considering what he was being told. “Craig, you done lost your damned mind!” he fumed. “You’re really calling out because of zombies?!”

“You were up when Chase came home,” Craig reminded. “He fought a zombie! Why else do you think they dragged him off to the army hospital?!”

“When I left this morning dad seemed convinced that the three of you were simply duped by some special coppers,” Kaleb replied.

“They took Chase because he got scratched,” Craig stated.

“Zombies don’t scratch,” Kaleb noted. “They bite. How are scratches supposed to infect people? Does it grow out of their nails?”

“Scratch, bite—they still took him to the hospital,” Craig replied. “Besides, it doesn’t matter how you cut it, I’m still not coming in. There’s not much I’m afraid of, but zombies—”

“Oh yeah?! What else ranks up with zombies, you nimrod?!” Kaleb retorted.

“Greyliens,” Craig answered, his voice was soft reserved, as if the greyliens might hear him. “And pretty much anything in the ocean—which is why I went in the army.”

Kaleb pressed his palm to the side of his face, “You’re so dumb.”

“Maybe, but at least I’m smart enough to make it through the coming zombie apocalypse,” Craig replied. In a soft voice, he added, “Whatever you do, don’t let anyone bite you,” and with that, he hung up the phone.

“Reagan almighty!” Kaleb swore. He didn’t get it! The restaurant was the family business, and Craig and Chase swore they loved the place—then promptly refused to put any real work into it! They never did anything more than the absolute minimum! The real work of running the place was left to Chef and Kaleb—not that Chef minded—but it bothered the crap out of Kaleb! He was beginning to resent the twins for their ambivalence.

No. He already resented them for it.

How could they be so callous?! “Dew neh loh…” he began his adopted father’s favorite curse, then remembered what it meant and who it referenced, and cut it off halfway through. “Sorry, mom,” he finished, as he remembered the sweet manners and soft smile of Mrs. Chen.

Well, if Craig wouldn’t cooperate, it fell to Kaleb to clean up the mess! He went into the dining room and waited for Mayzee to step away from the only table in the restaurant—a four top of foreigners.

Bedraggled, Mayzee sloughed away from the bubbly Swedes and meandered toward the kitchen.

“You all right?” Kaleb asked.

“I’m fine,” Mayzee stated, though she was obviously not. “It’s just tourists,” she claimed.

“Well, I’ve got more bad news for you,” Kaleb continued. “You’ve got the bar tonight.”

“What?!” Mayzee snapped, her hands going to her hips. “But we agreed that I don’t have to work the bar no more!”

“Yes, but this one you’ll have to take it up with Craig,” Kaleb stated. “He called in and he says you owe him.”

“Holy James K. Polk!” Mayzee cursed—not that she even knew who the obscure president was—but she liked to swear in the same manner as the brothers. Indeed, it was something that had caught on with most the staff. “That rat fink—calling in favors,” she shook her head. “First a double and now the bar…” With a huff, the complaint died off, and she continued in to the kitchen, even more distraught.

“And just like that you’re going to do it?!” Kaleb asked as he followed after her. He knew he was risking her cooperation, but he half wanted her to refuse. “I have to admit, I was kind of hoping you’d call Craig and light into him.”

“Well I may not like it, but I do owe him,” Mayzee said.

“Sweet Eisenhower! Does Craig have something on everyone?!” Kaleb asked.

“Probably,” Mayzee turned. “What’s he got on you?” she guessed.

“Amber,” Kaleb admitted. “You?”

“Armand,” Mayzee stated. “He bailed me out big time maybe two months back. I guess your brother knows his a-holes.”

“Takes one to know one,” Kaleb smirked.

“What does that make us?” Mayzee asked.

That hit a little too close to home. Kaleb turned and walked away.

“Well traffic’s a damned nightmare!” Brittany complained when she came in ten minutes late. “There was a straight up brawl on Kiowa that had traffic backed up for blocks! I had to skip my Dutch Bros just to make it this early!”

“I’m glad you came at all,” Kaleb replied. “Three people called off, and Mark is refusing to answer his phone, so I think we’re short four for the evening.”

“Called off?” Brittany repeated. “Was that an option?”

“Not for you,” Kaleb replied.

“I’d rather be here than my cramped apartment anyway,” Brittany shrugged. “Chef got any specials today?”

“The twenty top cancelled, so we’re doing their custom dishes for specials,” Kaleb stated. “Chef’s got the count on the board. They’ll probably be there half the week.”

“Heard,” Brittany said as she followed Kaleb into the kitchen. “Hey, Mayzee!” she squealed and hugged her coworker. Mayzee sunk into Brittany’s arms, and Brittany could tell something was wrong. “What’s up?” she whispered.

Mayzee glanced at Kaleb and gave a subtle shake of her head.

Brittany took Mayzee’s hand and led her out of the kitchen. Halfway to the dining room, she stopped and stared at her friend. “What’s got your goat?” she asked.

“Craig called in, so now I’ve got the bar,” Mayzee complained. “That and these damn foreigners at 46.”

“Don’t let a bunch of tourists ruin your day,” Brittany replied. “It’s just one bad tip.”

“It’s not that,” Mayzee began. “They offered me a fifty if I get ‘em coke,” she whispered.

The air went out of Brittany. “Did you do it?”

“No, I just walked off and left ‘em there,” Mayzee stared.

Brittany blinked. “You’re not thinking…” she wouldn’t say his name.

“Not a chance in hell!” Mayzee began. “But at the same time… I could use the fifty bucks.” She said and stared at her friend.

“Mayzee…” Brittany stared back and shook her head, not knowing what else to say.

“It’s okay,” Mayzee replied, turned, and stepped back into the dining room. She approached the only occupied table in the restaurant; a high booth in the corner with three football-sized blond boys—just barely men, but all about the size of Odin himself—and their one female companion, a svelte blonde with large eyes and big white teeth. For a long second, Mayzee simply stared at them, then held her hand out and tilted her head to the side. “All right, boys,” she said.

The guy in the far corner pulled a crisp fifty out of his pocket and handed it to her with a giggle. His friends all smirked and giggled and nodded.

Mayzee tilted her head to the other side. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Give me another one,” she said.

“But why?!” a young viking complained.

“Because I’d feel guilty if I didn’t give you the scoop—but the scoop is another fifty bucks,” Mayzee said, with her hand still extended.

The Swedes looked at each other. Discussion erupted among them in a muddle of English and their mother tongue.

“You know…” Mayzee stared off into space. “Forget it,” she finished, and set the fifty bucks on the table. She turned and started to walk away.

“Wait wait wait!” The nearest Swede said, and grabbed her arm. He pulled another fifty bucks out of his wallet, snagged the other off the table, and thrust them both at Mayzee. “Okay?!” The Swede shook the bills at her, and the others all nodded encouragingly.

Mayzee stared at the bills and gave herself one last second before she did the wrong thing. Shaking her head, she reluctantly took the money. “All right, then,” she began. “His name is Armand. He’s a paranoid asshole, and I can guarantee he cuts everything with baby powder and borax. Whatever you do, leave me out of your conversation, or he’s likely to charge you double… You still want his number? You’re far better off going anywhere else.”

By now, a couple of the boys were growing impatient. They demanded the number.

With a long weary sigh, Mayzee pulled her notebook from her apron and flipped it open. She scribbled on a blank page, tore it out, and set it on the table. The nearest boy tried to pick it up, but Mayzee kept her finger on it. “Burn this,” she advised as she stared into their eyes. “Burn this—and say a holy high prayer to whatever god you worship.” She gave a serious nod, then lifted her finger, turned, and walked to the kitchen.

Having the number, the Swedes left. A couple more tables straggled in. Dinner began, and the rush was anemic—which was fine; since the restaurant was down a server, a cook, a busser, and a dishwasher. In the kitchen, Kevin and Jamal wouldn’t get off their phones. They kept showing each other videos—but it was slow and all the food came out quick—so Kaleb had a hard time telling them to knock it off. He thought about bothering Chef while she worked on the monthly inventory—but it was so slow! He decided to ignore the grisly videos of people attacking random strangers in the streets—until they insisted that he watch just one more. “Why are you showing me this?!” He asked, as Jamal pushed his phone at the young manager yet again. “It’s sick!”

“This is Denver!” Jamal stared. “Something’s up!”

“Pfft!” Kaleb snorted.

“There’s like fifty of them!” Kevin defended. “And they’re all new: today and yesterday!”

“Denver’s a big city,” Kaleb said with a shrug—though fifty such attacks in the last two days seemed excessive. For a second, he considered zombies—then cursed Craig for putting such a stupid thought in his head. “My bet is these things happen all the time, and you’re only noticing because you don’t usually watch that sort of thing…”

“Speak for yourself!” Kevin replied. “We watch fight videos with Craig and Chase all the time!”

That tracked—but Kaleb didn’t want to think about if. The implications were disturbing. Instead, he shook his head, then went about his business. It wasn’t even seven o’clock and despite being short staffed, he was about to start cutting people for the night. At least there would be no more headaches—or so he thought—until Mayzee approached on the edge of tears. “What is it?” he asked her.

“It’s the young lady that just sat at the bar,” she whispered.

“Solo?” he asked, the hackles raising on the back of his neck.

Mayzee nodded.

Kaleb’s heart dropped into his stomach. “You served her, didn’t you?”

Mayzee gave another nod.

Kaleb’s eyes went wide. He stepped quick to the bar as he muttered under his breath, “Shit oh shit oh shit!” Despite a cold sweat, he put on his best smile, walked behind the bar, and approached the lone woman at the far end. She was all dolled up on a Monday night. Immediately, he could tell she was young. Immediately, he could tell she was too young. “How are you tonight?” he asked, as if nothing was amiss.

“A little pissed off,” the young woman glared. “I take it you’re in charge of this shit show?!”

“That’s not how I would qualify us, but yes, I am,” Kaleb stated.

“You’re a little young,” the woman replied.

“Speak for yourself,” Kaleb answered. “With that being said, is there any way you’ll let me off with a warning?”

“It’s a gross violation to serve alcohol to anyone under age,” the copper noted.

“We take great pains to make sure this doesn’t happen—but even Mohammad Ali lost from time to time,” Kaleb shrugged.

“Great pains?!” the copper repeated. “All she had to do was check my ID!”

“Unfortunately, our regular bartender is out tonight,” Kaleb answered.

“There’re like twenty people in the entire restaurant, including the staff,” the copper noted. “How hard can it be?”

“You know, it’s the slow times that get ya,” Kaleb replied. “When it’s slow like this, that’s when you’re off your rhythm. That’s when the most mistakes happen.”

The copper shook her head. “All I’m hearing are excuses.”

“Because I’m begging you to excuse us,” Kaleb stated. “If an apology is what you want, then let me offer it proper. I’m sorry. We should not have given you a beer. Mistakes where made.”

Pen to paper, she glared at him. “You want to give me your names?”

“Only if you give me yours first,” Kaleb replied.

“Officer DeLaceya, badge number thirteen thirty-seven.”

Kaleb gave his name and answered all her questions, as Officer Delaceya filled out the summons. “No chance at all you’ll let us off with a warning?” He asked again.

“It’s scofflaws like you that are ruining this once great nation!” Officer Delaceya accused.

“That’s a bit much,” Kaleb answered. “First off, it was a beer; and secondly, The Fish House has been in business for nearly 30 years. You’re going to tell me one beer in 30 years is ruining this great nation?”

Officer Delaceya glared. “This might have been a fine establishment at one point, but it’s obvious to me that it’s suffering under current management.”

“Okay, fine,” Kaleb stared back. “Why don’t you give me the summons, and then you can be on your way.”

“Your license is hereby suspended,” Officer Delaceya said with a rude smile. She ripped the summons from her pad of duplicates. “See you in court,” she said, stood up, and marched across the dining room.

Kaleb put a hand over the piece of paper and watched her leave with hate in his heart. At least she was gone—or so he thought. He went to the back, so he could kvetch and beg forgiveness from Chef. Kevin and Jamal cut him off.

“Check out this vid,” Kevin said as he thrust his phone at Kaleb.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Jamal added. “And it happened seven minutes ago!”

Kaleb deflated as he moved to push the phone aside—but before he could speak; he heard the crash of dishes and a general commotion increasing in the dining room. Someone screamed.

“That’s Brittany!” Kevin exclaimed.

Jamal and Kevin were past him in a heartbeat, followed by Chef. Kaleb turned and ran after them. It was one of the rare times when staff was actually running.

“What the hell…?!” Kaleb paused as he entered the dining room, helpless against the violence he witnessed. He was not much of a fighter.

A large young man stood over Brittany and pummeled her as the few occupied tables recoiled, some of them rising to address the danger. The closest to the violence were Lorraine and her four friends. One of them, a large man named Eriq put a hand on the berserker’s shoulder, as Lorraine herself moved to intervene. The berserker threw a meaty fist at Eriq and caught him in the face, then turned and swiped at Lorraine with an open hand. Lorraine dodged back.

Mr. Murphy was the next to intervene, as he set a hand on the young assailant’s shoulder, then caught him with a well placed punch to the face—but the berserker barely seemed to notice the strike. Even as he recoiled with the force of the blow, the attacker caught Mr. Murphy with his nails and raked his forearm.

Kaleb could do nothing but stare. He noticed Officer Delaceya harboring behind an empty table, a gun in hand as she pointed it at the wild young man. Great Eisenhower! There was about to be some real bloodshed!

While Kaleb pasued and took in the scene; Kevin, Jamal, and Chef zeroed in on the atacker, and went in immediately. Kevin grabbed the man’s arm. The berserker turned on the cook and shrugged him aside—and for half a second, it looked like Kevin would be mauled next—but Jamal slammed into the large assailant and knocked him off balance. He also gained the berserker’s undivided attention.

Since Jamal had the belligerent distracted, Chef got on his back and quickly wrapped him into a standing full nelson. Despite a good fifty pound disadvantage, Chef Candice was in complete control. She was strong and no-nonsense after six years of being a marine. She marched the crazed man straight out the front door as she gave him an earful. “You feckless bastard! Disturb my store, will ya?!”

The berserker struggled and howled unintelligibly as he was pushed into the parking lot by the surprisingly strong chef.

“And stay out!” Chef yelled as she shoved the man out from under the portico.

The large man took several steps, regained his balance, and turned on Chef. He bellowed, and for a long second, she prepared to continue the fight—but motion at the far end of the parking lot caught her attention, and she noticed several others were running at them!

No—not them—they were running at her! One of them let out a howl as it careened forward, and she realized there was violence in all their eyes! It was a veritable riot!

Chef Candice bolted back into the restaurant. With the help of Jamal and Kevin, she closed and locked the massive wooden doors. Wide eyed, she turned to the others. “There’s more of them out there! Half a dozen at the least!”

Proving her assertion, several heavy objects collided with the other side of the door, followed by a continuous rain of blows.

“By the beard of Van Buren!” Mayzee swore. “Someone call the cops!”

Kaleb turned to Officer DeLaceya. She had her phone pressed against her ear, while her revolver dangled from her other hand. Wide eyed, she shook her head. “Nobody’s answering.”

Kaleb turned to the host stand. “Renata, call the sheriff.”

The young hostess picked up the phone and quickly dialed the number. “It’s busy,” she said.

“Try it again,” Kaleb insisted.

Renata dialed again, hung up, and dialed again. “Still busy!” she noted as a worried frown creased her face.

“I got it,” Mrs. Murphy said, and handed her phone to Kaleb. He put it on speaker as it rang, and rang, and rang some more…

“Nobody’s picking up,” Kaleb noted.

The banging on the front door intensified. For several long seconds, there was no other noise except for the incessant pounding at the doors, punctuated by the empty ringing of Mrs. Murphy’s phone.

“Well, they’re solid doors so, like as not, they won’t be getting in anytime soon,” Chef said. “But just in case, let’s get some tables stacked against them.”

Having a task, the room turned and began to shift chairs and grab at empty tables. Eriq, the friend of Lorraine, was feeling the fear and wanted the table closest to the door—despite the glasses and half eaten plates still upon it. He decided he could remove the detritus quick enough. He set his thick arms on the table and flung the dishes crashing to the floor, then hoisted the dirty table—as Chef turned and yelled at him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Chef glared, as she stepped toward the massive man with fire in her eyes. She was pretty big for a girl, but still gave eight inches and at least a couple stone to the large figure of Eriq—not that she cared. “We gotta live here, moron! You want us living like pigs?!” she snapped and pressed her face up at him.

Eriq backed and set the table on its feet. “No, ma’am,” he said, and shook his head.

Chef gave a nod, though she refused to smile. She turned and caught the room gawking. “Kevin, get this man a broom and mop! And what’s with the rest of you?! Don’t you got work to do?!” she glared.

In short order, a half dozen tables were stacked against the doors, and half a dozen more where on their way. The room was abuzz, as everyone seemed to be saying something—though most had nothing but questions.

Kaleb noted a pit growing in his stomach as one word repeated over and over in his head. “Zombies,” he whispered, as he helped Kevin carry a table and place it against the door.

“What?” Kevin said, and his eyes got wide. “Did you say zombies?!”

Immediately, Kaleb wanted to take it back. He stared at the cook and shook his head.

“I heard it too,” Renata confirmed. “But that’s stupid!”

Again, everyone was talking all at once, increasingly loud and shrill. The phone was still ringing, though nobody expected anyone at the sheriff’s office to pickup. Brittany cried as Mayzee led her to the office, so she might bandage her bloodied friend. Kaleb had no idea what he should do. His whole world was falling apart—

“Zombies!” Kevin repeated. “He said zombies?!”

“Well! Didn’t I tell ya?!” a strong voice called from the top of the stairs. They all turned to see the newcomer, dressed in fatigues and staring at Kaleb. There was a rifle over his shoulder, and a sidearm on his hip, along with a wicked long knife.

“Craig?!” Renata was the first to identify him. “Oh, Craig!” she cried, ran up the stairs, and wrapped him in a hug.

“Looks like I got here just in time,” Craig said as he stepped down the stairs, a shit-eating grin on his face, and a young alluring Renata on his arm. Proved right in his assertions, and stepping into the room in such a glorious manner, Kaleb wondered if he couldn’t hate his adopted brother any more than at this moment.

chapter 8: A Breach in Protocol

Armand was hot and uncomfortable. He nudged his helmet back as he followed the padded forms of Seymour, Watts, and Granby down the stairs. All four of the enlisted men wore thick padding and sturdy leather gloves. They were tasked with clearing the cells of anyone that had snapped. It was exhausting work, especially since they had to take the belligerents up two flights of stairs, and then outside, where there was a pit dug in the earth. Once outside, they had to lower the zacks gently into the pit, which was always easier said than done.

The pit was twelve feet deep with reinforced walls of cement and rebar, topped with a basic tin roof and walls on three sides; all of which was surrounded by chain-link fence adorned with concertina wire. After giving it forty-eight hours to cure, command decided the pit was ready to house the growing population of insolent aggressors.

Insolent aggressors. Armand rolled his eyes at the term—but that’s what command was calling them, and demanding that everyone else call them the same: insolent aggressors. There was a growing crowd of them in the pit, a good hundred when the day had started, and they were adding another thirty of these insolent aggressors.

Most of the enlisted men didn’t care for the euphemistic term, in part because it was so damned long. Most simply referred to the bastards as the snapped, though a few called them zack. Only the stupid ever called them zombies. Zombie implied that circumstances were out of command’s control, so zombie was punished. But then, Armand felt the situation was out of control.

Well, not according to command. According to command, everything would turn to normal in a few day’s time—or so they kept saying. Then they built a special pit to house the snapped since the cells in the hospital and the brig were over capacity. On top of that, a half dozen DIA spooks arrived five days ago, and barely said anything to the lowest of the enlisted—except to order them around. Armand didn’t know what to expect and trusted only his own observations. For one, none of the snapped ever got better. Everyone was at wits end, and feared the faintest scratch. But not Armand. He got scratched that very first day, and after one bad night, he was fine! He concluded that the ones that snapped were simply weak. As far as he could tell, this was just the universe’s latest iteration of survival of the fittest. Still, Armand knew his place, and in the current structure he was pretty low on the totem pole.

Yet the times smelled of nothing but opportunity to the ambitious young soldier. Oh, it reeked of danger and chaos at first—and although the chaos remained, the danger had shifted and become the enticing chance at a better station—if only he could keep his wits about him. For now, he was to do his work and keep his head down. He was to serve his time—and he would do it with honor and distinction, no matter how dumb his orders or the officers that issued them.

Armand adjusted his helmet, turned the corner, and continued down the stairs. For the last several hours, Armand’s squad had dragged one insolent aggressor after the last out of their cells, up a flight of stairs, then lowered them gently over the steep edge of the pit—so the miserable bastards didn’t hurt themselves. Command was adamant that they do no permanent damage to the snapped—though Armand could have cared less about them. Admittedly, it’d only been a few days, but he felt none of them were ever coming back. It’d been nearly a week since they found the first one, and the zack was still as mad as the day they locked it in the brig: a fucking loon with no sense of language or decorum whatsoever.

“Who else we got left?” Seymour asked, as he avioded looking at the massive insolent to his left.

“We take Mander this trip,” Armand stated flatly. “We’ve put him off long enough,” he mumbled. The others grumbled, but Armand was in charge, so they’d do as he said.

Of course, there was reason to put off Mander as long as possible. Private First Class Mander was easily six and a half feet tall and over 250 pounds of muscle. He was in good shape—fighting shape—and he was trouble as soon they opened the door. With a roar, he brushed Watts aside, and laid into Seymour. Thankfully, there were four of ‘em, so Granby managed to get Mander’s left arm, and Armand swept his feet—as the giant pummeled and raked at the padding of Seymour’s armor. Watts recovered and took his left leg, leaving Seymour with the monster’s right arm.

Halfway up the stairs, Seymour lost his grip. The large zombie fell onto his back, then twisted toward Granby. “Ulysses S. Christ!” Armand swore, as he pulled his baton. He rained several vicious blows upon Private First Class Mander, striking him center mass. He might have wondered if he did any damage—what with zack ignoring the blows—except that he heard the cracking of ribs and knew that the private was simply fighting through the damage. “Get his arm, Grant dammit!”

“I’m trying!” Seymour complained, as he grabbed at the large insolent aggressor. He put both hands on the man’s right arm and pulled him taut once more.

Sweating and grumbling, the four men finally managed to get Mander to the edge of the pit. It was a steep slope, so they did minimal additional damage to the large beast as they lowered his legs, then released his arms.

Major Ing approached and stepped to the edge of the pit. “He’s a wheezing mess,” he said, as he eyed the snapped private. “He weren’t doing that before,” he noted, then turned to the four enlisted men. “Anyone care to explain?”

“Sir, he got loose on the stairs,” Armand began. “He’s a big motherfucker, and almost dragged down Granby. I gave him several licks with my baton, so we could get him back under control, sir.”

“Is that so?” Major Ing looked to the others. They all nodded. the officer turned to Granby. “Did he bite you? Did he scratch you? Did he break flesh?”

“Sir, no sir!” Granby answered. With only the slightest hesitation, he loosened his elbow pads, pulled the velcro on his gloves, and rolled up his sleeves. Sure enough, his arms were clear of any marks. Not that Armand was surprised. Granby had managed to dodge most of Mander’s attacks—unlike Seymour. If anyone was scratched, it was Seymour—but Armand wouldn’t say anything. He wasn’t a rat.

“Very well,” Major Ing turned back to Armand. “How many more you got left to bring up?”

“Sir, maybe a half dozen, sir,” Armand answered.

With a frown, Major Ing shook his head. “And I figured you’d be done an hour ago.”

“Sir, we have more to drag up everyday,” Armand explained. “Today we had thirty-one to start, sir.”

Major Ing eyed the men critically as they continued to heave, as they continued to try and catch their breath after so much exertion in the thin Colorado air. “Take ten minutes and pull your shit together,” he said, then turned to Armand. “Not you, sergeant. You and I need a word.”

Armand followed Major Ing as they stepped away from the ad hoc pit. They crossed through the gate and passed the guards. He followed on Ing’s heels as they slowly stepped along the wall of the hospital, and wondered what was up. His first thought was ‘Snow White’—but this wouldn’t be about money, since that was still two weeks out and never mentioned on base. No. Whatever the Major wanted, it’d be about the current thing.

“What do you make of all this?” Major Ing began without turning around. " You think we’re doing the right thing, leaving these insolent aggressors alive?”

“Sir, I think it’s a waste of resources and dangerous to boot,” Armand answered. “They might not talk, and they’re singular in their focus, but I seen ‘em do a few things that surprise me, sir.”

“Unscrewing lightbulbs and chipping at the cement?” Major Ing eyed his underling. “Well, I’m not too concerned about a few idiosyncratic actions, but you might be right. Truth be told, this whole shit-fest is falling apart,” he claimed and scratched the back of his neck—then stopped and stared at Armand. “Word is, General Boyle and half his command have the itch. This whole operation is floppy as the ol’ man, and bound to go tits up at any moment,” he stared at the young sergeant.

“Sir, what would you have me do about it, sir?” Armand asked.

“Well, I appreciate you asking,” Major Ing almost smiled. “Just keep an eye on your men, and note any that might balk at hard orders. If the shit hits the fan, we can’t have a bunch of squeamish Mimi’s second guessing their betters.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Armand grinned. He forgot about the three men under his command, though Seymour was next to useless. Even before he said it, Armand knew that Major Ing wasn’t concerned with the lowest of the low. No. He wanted Armand to keep an eye on his superiors.

“I always thought you were a sharp one, sergeant,” Major Ing eyed the young enlisted man. “Do us both a favor and leave your lieutenant and captain out of this. Those two are a couple soggy waffles,” he said, and confirmed Armand’s suspicions, then turned and continued away from the pit.

Armand began to follow.

“That’ll be all, sergeant,” Major Ing said without turning around.

Armand gave a salute, then turned and walked back toward the hospital entrance. He looked about, and since his lieutenant was nowhere around, he pulled out his phone and checked his messages. Among them was a note from an unknown number.

We hear you have good blow. ;-)

He frowned at the directness of the message. He would have ignored it if there wasn’t another message from the same number a mere thirty minutes later:

Mayzee sent us.

A righteous anger lit in Armand’s eyes and made it hard for him to focus. For several seconds he wanted nothing more than to kick a puppy or punch a baby. Instead, he pinched his nose and called Banner.

“Hey Armand,” Banner answered. “What’s up, brother? You still in the stink?”

“Yeah, not even halfway through,” Armand answered. “Listen, I got a text from someone asking about a princess and claiming to know Mayzee.” ‘Princess’ was code for ‘Snow White’ which was code for cocaine.

“Brazen Mayzee?!” Banner replied. “You think it’s a setup?”

“Doubt it,” Armand replied. “She’s a lot of things, but I don’t think a fink is one of ‘em.”

“I hate to say it, but thinking about that girl was never one of your strong suits,” Banner noted. “You want me to send one of the toads down to CircleK with a little baker’s bag of salt?”

“Nah, I got a better idea. Why don’t you pick ‘em up and bring ‘em on base,” Armand grinned.

“Are you hearing yourself?!” Banner replied. “There’s no bringing anyone on base right now! It’s a shit-fest cluster-fuck, and we’d get pinched quicker than a turd in a firefight!”

“No we won’t,” Armand replied. “Just tell the MPs we got a scratcher.”

Banner gave that a second of consideration. “I dunno…” he balked. “Sounds a bit sketch…”

“Listen, once you say they’re scratchers, ain’t no one gonna believe a damned thing they say, especially since you won’t have any contraband on you anyway,” Armand answered. “Besides, it’s a friend of Mayzee. Isn’t it the civil thing for me to meet her friends?”

Banner whistled. “All right, then. Let’s do it your way—but I’m going to get them to pay me first,” he grinned. “Send ‘em to the CircleK. Tell ‘em I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Chapter 9: The Siege Begins

The front doors of The Fish House were made of a thick and heavy wood. Additionally, they were bolted together, and also into a heavy metal frame at the top, and again into the concrete of the floor at the bottom. They fit snug and tight and barely shook as the frustrated monsters continued to assault the simple but solid barricade. It didn’t hurt that a dozen tables were also stacked against the door.

Chef Candice wore a queasy smile as she considered the doors. Aftyer buying the building, Father had insisted that all renovations of The Fish House be massively over-engineered. In the intervening years, he’d turned the place into a bit of a fortress. Back when mother was still alive, Candice had asked Mrs. Chen about the remodeling projects that dipped so deeply into dad’s profits. Mom had confessed that Mr. Chen had grown up during the Mao’s Cutural Revolution, and although he was only a child during those difficult years, he was still quite scarred by the lengths and depths of the atrocities that occurred. Yes, Chef Candice was quite sure the doors would stand as long as they must. Still, the sound was something terrible as the zombies continue the attack the fortification.

But that was enough attention to what was outside. For now, Chef felt it was best to deal with what was happening inside. She turned to the others.

“How’d you get in?” Renata asked, as Craig made his way down the stairs.

“I put a grappling hook over the balcony railing and came up the hard way,” he smiled. “I’d have used the front door, like a civilized person, but there’s a steady stream of those bastards coming up the hill,” he frowned.

“How many are out there?!” Officer Delaceya asked, visibly shaken.

“Didn’t get a good look,” Craig answered. “After all, I came up the hard way.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Renata asked.

“They got a sickness,” Craig said “It makes them vicious and stupid.”

“Like zombies?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

At the edge of the room, Jamal elbowed Kevin. “Nobody wants to believe it, but it all makes sense!” He realized. “Think of the Denver videos!” he chortled, vindicated.

“Jesus, Mary, and Nixon!” Kevin swore, wide-eyed. “To think there’s a zombie invasion going on—and worse than that—we have one in the house!” he whispered to his friend.

For a split second, they stared at each other—until Jamal realized what Kevin was saying. “Brittany!” he hissed, then they both turned and bolted for the office—while the others concentrated on Craig.

“So what happened here?” Craig asked, as he eyed the mess about the room. “Is everyone okay?”

Everyone looked to be fine—aside from some minor abrasions and a heavy dose of fear—so Chef smiled and nodded at her younger brother. “We’re fine, but I’m not exactly sure how it all started myself,” she began. “I heard a ruckus and came running from the kitchen. We threw out the one that was in here, and got the doors locked before the others got in, but before that…” she shrugged.

Mrs. Murphy pointed at Officer Delaceya. “That little lady went outside, then came running back in, chased by the big fella. Brittany stepped in the way and tried to calm the big man, but he just bowled her over and went to town!” she explained. “Well, that’s when you came in, Candice.”

Chef stared up at her younger brother and gave a shrug.

Renata shook her head and started to crumble. “This can’t be happening,” she began. “There’s no such thing as zombies. This can’t possibly be happening!”

“And why would I make this up?!” Craig replied.

“It could be anything. It could be a lot of things,” Officer Delaceya continued to argue. “How could you possibly know what’s wrong with them?!”

“Chase, my brother, was attacked last night,” Craig began to explain. “After the fight, a couple DIA came to take him away—”

“Denver International Airport?” Mrs. Murphy asked, confused.

“Defense Intelligence Agency,” Chef answered.

“Thank you,” Craig smiled. “These two agents were kind enough to explain what was happening—not that I believed it—not at first. My dad and I figured it was just a ruse so they could take my brother into custody. That’s the way we felt about it—until this morning. This morning, another zombie caused a ruckus across the street from our house, which ended with the neighborhood losing power.”

“You’re telling us a zombie took out the power?” Officer Delaceya stared, incredulous.

“Well, technically it was a truck—but it was because of a zombie,” Craig clarified. “If you think I’m making this up, why not go outside and ask them?”

Officer Delaceya had nothing to say to that. She took a half step back and glanced about the others.

“Oh Taylor, Tyler and Taft; is this really happening?!” Mrs. Murphy asked her husband.

“We’re all going to die,” Renata muttered.

With that, everyone started to speak at once.

Craig shouted above the commotion. “THERE IS GOOD NEWS!” Everyone turned their attention back to the man in fatigues. “There’s a cure, so we just need to wait for that and we’ll all be fine. Besides, not everyone turns,” he said. “If your scratched there’s still fifty-fifty odds that nothing will happen, so don’t freak out!”

“A cure!” Renata breathed. “Are you sure?”

Craig nodded. “It’s called phalanx, and the army has it at Evans Hospital.”

“If you’ve known about this all day long, why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Chef asked.

“I did,” Craig insisted. “Ask Kaleb.”

The room turned on Kaleb and stared. A cold sweat came over the young manager. “I thought he was simply trying to get out of his shift,” he explained. “If he would have called you and told you the zombie apocalypse was in full swing, would you have believed him?!” he defended.

“I’m not saying I blame you,” Craig replied. “It’s not something one believes until he sees it. So, what do you think, baby brother? Zombies, or…?”

Kaleb glared. He hated it when they called him ‘baby brother’, so he seethed instead of answering.

“What are we going to do?” Renata asked.

“First thing we gotta do is pull the drapes and turn off all unnecessary lights, so at least we’re not attracting any more,” Craig stated. “Then we have to figure out how to disperse the ones that are already at the door.”

Chef glanced about the room, and slowly gave a nod. “All right, people! We got a task ahead of us. The only problem is; where’s the rest of my staff?”

That’s when Mayzee ran in the room with tears in her eyes, babbling about Brittany and the two cooks: Kevin and Jamal.

Chapter 10: Subterfuge

Mayzee and Brittany had retreated to the office, where Mayzee cleaned and dressed Brittany’s wounds. “All better?” Mayzee asked with a comforting hand on Brittany’s shoulder.

Sniffling and still on the verge of tears, Brittany gave a brave nod. “Th-th-thank, youu,” she stammered between tears.

“Hey,” Mayzee began, slow and calming. “You’re gonna be fine, baby! Everything’s aye okay!”

Jamal and Kevin poked their heads into the office. “You girls all right?” Kevin asked.

“Yeah, we’re just taking a break,” Mayzee smiled. “Why? What’s up?”

“Oh nothing much,” Jamal replied. “We were wondering if you could help us in the kitchen.”

Mayzee gave him a puzzled look. “The kitchen?” she repeated, smelling a rat. They seemed awfully calm after the evening’s events.

“You want to come to, Brittany?” Kevin smiled and held out a gentle hand. “I know if I were you I wouldn’t want to be alone” he smiled.

The cooks led the girls through the kitchen and into the back hall. Despite Mayzee’s reticence, all four walked into the cooler—then Kevin pushed Brittany further in, and followed Jamal as he pushed Mayzee out.

“What the hell!” Mayzee complained, as Kevin slammed the door shut and slid a bolt into the lock. “What do you think you’re doing?!” She tried to fight her way past Jamal, but he was more than a match for her..

“It’s for her own good,” Jamal said as he kept Mayzee from interfering.

“This ain’t no good for her!” Mayzee shot back. “Let her out!”

Kevin and Jamal both shook their heads and stood their ground. “She got bit,” Kevin explained. “She’s a danger to all of us.”

“By Lincoln’s sweet beard, you better let her out!” Mayzee swore.

“No can do, princess,” Kevin said.

Mayzee knew there was no way she could get through the boys on her own. She turned, and fled the scene.

“I don’t like it,” Kevin turned to Jamal. “But we gotta see this through,” he said, as the muffled screams of Brittany sounded through the door. “For everyone’s safety.”

Mayzee returned with Chef and Kaleb in tow. Chef glowered. “What do you knuckle-heads think you’re doing?!” she demanded.

“We’re keeping everyone alive!” Kevin snapped back. “Brittany got bit! It’s only a matter of time before she turns and starts attacking the rest of us!”

“So you lock her in the walk-in with all our food?!” Chef wondered. “So what do we do when we get hungry?”

“That’s not the reason she shouldn’t be in there!” Mayzee complained. “She hasn’t done anything to anybody!”

“I don’t blame you for trying to quarantine her,” Chef began, “but the walk-in is not the place for it. Let her out,” she commanded.

With a huff, Kevin pulled the bolt. Chef opened the door.

“Ayyeee!” Brittany shrieked as she flew out of the walk-in, all tears and rage. She raked the air with her nails, trying to get at Kevin and Jamal—but Kaleb got in the way and wrapped her in a hug.

“Heyheyhey!” Kaleb held Brittany and turned her in slow circles. “Revenge isn’t going to get us anywhere,” he whispered in her ear.

“You bastards!” she snarled at the cooks between her tears. “You dumb bastards!” she cried, then melted into Kaleb’s warm embrace.

“We can’t have her out among the rest of us,” Kevin said.

“According to Craig, chances are she isn’t going to turn,” Chef replied. “Still…”

Chapter 11: Weak Links in the Chain

Armand stood in front of Chase’s cell and glowered. He recognized him as soon as he’d seen him, though he would have sworn his name was Craig. Chase, Craig… The name’s were so close, no wonder that he had confused it! Anyway, Chase was an old friend of Mayzee. He’d talked to Captain Hamm after Mayzee and Armand’s relationship hit the rocks. He claimed Armand wouldn’t stop pestering the lass, and—well—let’s just say a captain can make a sergeant’s life a living hell if he feels so inclined.

Armand tried to get Major Ing to intervene on his behalf. He gave him the coke cash first, in hopes of buttering him up, then laid out his problems. The plan backfired.

“You trying to make trouble?! Or maybe you’re not making enough money to keep your nose clean?!” Major Ing screamed. “You think this Mayzee is the only bitch worthy of your man-meat?!” He stood over the sergeant and poked him in the chest. “You threaten this venture again and I’ll end you!” For several long seconds, Major Ing stood over Armand and glared; his face red as his nostrils flared. Finally, the Major turned as he lashed out with the words, “all over a fucking whore!”

After that, Armand quit calling, quit texting, quit showing up at Mayzee’s work. His heart might ache, but he was rolling in money, and there were plenty of bitches willing to do all sorts of degrading things for a line of Snow White. He tried his damnedest to not even to think about Mayzee. Indeed, it’d been months she even crossed his mind—until he saw Chase. Now, she’d come up twice, and her ghost was bringing up a heat, and a hate, he hadn’t felt in some time.

Armand wasn’t surprised Chase didn’t recognize him back, since Chase was delirious with the itch. Indeed, the itch was the reason Armand was so willing to show the lawyer in—to let him get scratched. Armand smirked to think of that. What a stupid lawyer with an impossible name!

At the far end of the cells, the lawyer wasn’t fairing any better. He was actually doing a good deal worse, since Chase had managed to sleep. Sleep meant that Chase might be getting over it—though some still snapped. The ones that stayed awake, they nearly always turned, but the ones that slept tended to get better. Still, Armand put Chase’s name on the list to be moved to the pit tomorrow; but the rag-hat, Dr. Fateh, had crossed him off before approving the list.

Armand stared hostility at the young man in his cell, disappointed to see him sleep. Behind him, the door to the cell block popped open, and a dozen soldiers escorted several large blonds down the block of cells. Upon seeing the cells, the young vikings realized there was no coke in their future and began to protest—but what were they going to do against a dozen armed soldiers?

Armand saw Banner among them, a wide dumb grin on his face. “Raise the tariffs, McKinley; you find enough of ‘em?!” he smirked.

Banner stepped from the train of soldiers as they herded the large foreigners to the far end of the hall. “Why can’t you curse like the rest of us?” he began. “Why you always got to bring a bunch of obscure presidents into it?”

Armand shrugged. He just thought it was funny. He remembered the first time he’d heard such a swear. He turned a bit sallow to remember he’d picked it up from Mayzee and her friends at The Fish House. Those dumb buggers all swore like that. Still, he didn’t care that it was inspired by Mayzee. He liked it nonetheless. Indeed, perhaps he liked it more, he decided, as he remembered the warm smooth touch of her skin.

The large Swedes became more and more adamant about resisting—but the soldiers separated them, and forced them down the line all the same. The Swedes were forced into one of the few unoccupied cells, where they screamed and tried to fight, until the soldiers convinced them with a bit of exemplary violence.

Once they had the Swedes in the cell, the soldiers turned and left. They found it easy to ignore the cacophony of howls, jeers, and crying that swelled with the coming of the Swedes. That’s just the way it was for them. After a week, these insolent aggressors were becoming routine.

Banner had a sneer on his face as he stared at the Swedes. “Mayzee’s friends were even dumber than I thought,” he said. “They didn’t think to do anything until they saw the cells?!” he practically chortled.

Armand gave a nod. “The girl is a looker,” he said appreciatively.

“I thought so myself,” Banner replied, then decided to change the subject. “Look at this,” he said, and showed Armand his phone. There was a message that read:

report immediately

It was from his commanding officer. “I’m not the only one that got this,” he said. “Apparently, they’re calling everyone to their posts,” he stared at his friend. “Everyone,” he repeated with wide eyes.

“This shit is heating up,” Armand stated. “I told you this was going to be a problem.”

“Yeah, well, I got to get across base and see the Lieutenant. You take care of that hot blonde for me?” Banner grinned, then turned to leave.

Armand followed him out. He stepped into the hall, intent on going to the cafeteria. Time to get a little chow, he thought. Major Ing came striding the other direction with a good dozen men in tow. Armand saluted as the gaggle of brass came close.

Major Ing paused as he approached Armand. “Sergeant, do you have a minute?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Armand replied.

“Follow along then,” he said and continued on his way. The troop grew as it made its way through the hospital. They were heading for the administrative wing when a loud angry voice called down the hall.

“Major!” the commanding voice snapped, and the entire train ground to a halt. “Why are you blocking me from leaving this hospital?!” Special Agent Dodd glared as he charged forward with his partner in tow.

“We’re not bringing anymore of these sick bastards in, and I know the only way to keep you from doing just that is to keep you from leaving,” Major Ing stated.

“And why’s that?!” Special Agent Dodd demanded.

“Each time you go into the city, you have a dozen moe leads to follow up, and we’re plum out of room for the bastards,” Major Ing stated.

“It’s not your call,” Special Agent Dodd replied. “We’ll see what Colonel Edwards has to say about this!”

Major Ing snorted. “You’re headed the wrong direction,” he said. “Colonel Edwards is locked in the east wing with the itch. Until he gets better—if he gets better—I’m commanding officer of the hospital.”

“I’ll take this straight to General Boyle,” Special Agent Dodd continued.

“He snapped about an hour ago,” Major Ing answered. “Colonel B. Cooper is the current ranking officer on base. He’s ordered all soldiers to their posts and the fort sealed tight—so even if you get out of the hospital, you’ll never get off the grounds of this fort.”

This was all news to Armand. A thrill shot through him and he knew his time was fast appoaching.

“You son of a bitch!” Special Agent Dodd raged. “This city needs us, and you’re cutting us off?!”

“We’re losing the fort by focusing on the city,” Major Ing snarled. “We gotta get our own shit in order before we start babysitting the citizens.”

“General Boyle and his brass refused to take this serious—but you’re making the opposite mistake,” Special Agent Dodd charged. “Don’t squeeze so hard or we’ll lose the city, which in the end will certainly swamp the fort.”

“We’re defending ourselves, not making orange juice,” Major Ing replied.

“We’re hear to serve,” Special Agent Dodd countered.

“We’re here to destroy our enemies,” Major Ing retorted. “And our enemies are currently in the basement,” he said, and began to walk on.

“Don’t you dare do it!” Special Agent Dodd said. “They’re our people!”

“They’re all but dead, and they’re adding to our problems!” Major Ing stated. “By liquidating the lot of ‘em I’d just be making it official!”

“What about a cure?” Special Agent Dodd called.

“And what makes you think we’ll ever have a cure for this?” Major Ing countered. “We still don’t have a cure for cancer or the common cold. Hell, even TB is making a come back!” With that, the Major turned and began on his way again.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” Special Agent Dodd snapped. He ran forward, and grabbed Major Ing by the shoulder. Several men jumped forward, in an attempt to separate the two. But they were only looking to break up the fight. Not Armand. He’d do the hard thing the rest of these ninnies were to chicken to do. As the others wrestled with the large Special Agent, Armand took the opportunity to grab Dodd’s gun and shoot him with it.

BLAM!

Wide-eyed and growing pale, Dodd slid to the ground and gasped as he bled out.

“Arrest that man!” Special Agent Kenzie snapped and pointed at Armand.

“Rescind that order!” Major Ing snapped. “He was defending me!” He turned and glowered at Dodd’s partner. “And what about you, Special Agent Kenzie? Are you with us, or are you with the enemy?”

Special Agent Kenzie glanced around and noticed all the hostile men, half with their hands on their sidearms. “I’m with the American people,” Special Agent Kenzie said. “My partner wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t right either,” he said in a soft and diplomatic tone, with his hands in the air.

Major Ing took Kenzie’s sidearm and gave it to a lieutenant. “See this man to the brig,” he said.

Special Agent Kenzie was led off by several guns.

Major Ing continued to his office. As he marched, he gave orders to his various officers. “Captain Gerhart, dig trenches out back, enough for a thousand bodies. Lieutenant Sabino, get a rifle on every man in this unit. Sargeant Paio, clean that up,” he said of the corpse in the hall.

Eventually, Armand was the only one left. For several long seconds, Major Ing simply stared at the sergeant. “I was going to put you in charge of hospital security, but since you shot Dodd, I don’t know that I can promote you,” he said.

Armand tried to hide his irritation. He should of known Major Ing was more of a politician than a man—but then again, he was just an officer.

“You may have saved me from one headache, but you simply gave me another,” Major Ing stated.

“Sir, since I’m causing you problems,” Armand began. “Might I offer a solution, sir?”

“I’m all ears,” Major Ing replied.

“Instead of wasting bullets on the snapped, why don’t we simply stop feeding them?” Armand said.

“To what end?”

“To see what happens,” Armand answered. “How long do they last when they’re not feeding? What happens to them? Do they have any defenses, or are they simple and stupid, the way the movies paint them? How dumb are they?”

Major Ing considered this. “Interesting,” he replied. “Yes, I think it’s best we study them, just as we’d study any enemy.”

“Sir, since you can’t put me in charge of hospital security, perhaps I can be in charge of the pit, sir?” Armand said, sensing an angle.

“All right, sergeant,” Major Ing agreed. “You want the pit, it’s all yours.”

chapter 12: the siege continues

With her cooks and servers and Kaleb in tow, Chef returned to the dining room to find her customers still huddled among dirty tables, doing little besides gaping at the door and tables stacked against it; as they rattled with the pressure from the beasts outside. Craig was the only one that moved. He closed the drapes, while Renata dogged at his heels and asked questions in such a rapid-fire fashion that Craig couldn’t possibly answer—and so he didn’t bother even trying—which seemed fine with the hostess.

Chef Candice smiled at the drapes. She remembered when dad had taken out the frilly lace curtains that came with the place and put in the thick burgundy drapes that could blot the rising sun. At first, she hadn’t liked them at all. With the old curtains that barely hazed the view, The Fish House had a light and ethereal quality. But the new blood red drapes made the place seem overly serious and darkly dramatic in contrast. Still, Mr. Chen had insisted. “There will be a time when we want the privacy. Until then, we will leave them open,” he said. His assertion hadn’t changed the mind of a young Candice. She continued to complain. Mrs. Chen had tried to explain. She told her young adopted daughter stories of the old country, and how the government had spied on its friends and enemies alike. “In the end, as the government turned more and more tyrannical, all the people became her enemies,” she explained. Still, Candice groused and glared at the thick red drapes, saying they lived in America, not communist China—but after she grew up and served four years in the marines, she came home and appreciated the heavy drapes and the reasoning behind their installment quite deeply. Besides, the drapes gave The Fish House a gravity more akin to what it actually was; a massive conglomeration of stone, steel, and heavy tempered glass.

Turning from the good work of Craig, Chef stared about the room and noted the fidgety energy of its other occupants. She squinted at them and tried to see their strengths. It was time to bring them to their senses, and inspire them to be their better selves. “All right then,” she began. “I know most of you, and most of you know me. The staff, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy. Lorraine—thank you for bringing your friends.”

Lorraine gave a nod of acknowledgement and a queasy smile.

“For those of you that don’t know me, let me introduce myself. I’m Chef Candice Chen, I’m the cheif executive of The Fish House, my father’s house; and in his continued absence, I keep it. Welcome,” she gave a long-suffering smile.

“That said,” she continued, “we are facing extraordinary circumstances. For reasons beyond our ken, some of the good people of this city have lost their damned minds and are trying to break in—so they might beat us, eat us, or whatever it is they intend to do. Whatever that is—well—I’m not interested in finding out.”

“Due to our continuing difficulties, I hereby cordially invite you one and all to stay until the current situation is resolved,” Chef smiled. “I imagine that most—if not all—would prefer that. We’re in an evolving situation, so we’ll have to improvise and adapt if we wish to overcome. But know this: in this house I am the final word. If I say something is one way, or something is another, my word is bond. You will respect it—or you are free to go.,” she glared about the room. “That’s the way it is. You will respect me. You will respect my house. You will respect my staff. You will respect my customers. Indeed, respect will be in the very air we breathe! It will be in the food we eat, and the water we drink! Anyone that offends the sweet exchange of respect will be escorted out! Am I clear?!” and with that, Chef Candice glared around the room.

““Sir, yes sir!” Craig snapped to attention, then glared at the others.

The staff began to clap, and also the Murphys, which encouraged the others to do the same, since none of them wanted to leave.

“At this time, a defensive posture is best,” Chef decided. “The doors are locked and barricaded, the drapes are pulled. Next, I’ll double check the other doors and shut off all the exterior lights. After that, we’ll see if these belligerents don’t disperse on their own.”

Chef nodded. “As to the rest of you, this place is a mess! Get these tables cleared and cleaned. After that, get to the dish pit and get the dishes done!”

“What if we don’t work for you?” Eriq asked.

“Stay out of the way, and stay out of the kitchen,” Chef said. “The kitchen is reserved for work. You want something to eat? Kitchen’s closed. You want something to drink? Kaleb, get that man a pitcher of water.”

Kaleb stood and stepped quickly to the bar. Chef smiled to see it. She waited while he gathered a pitcher and a glass, then returned, and with the greatest decorum set them before Eriq.

Eriq glared at Kaleb, then turned his anger at Chef.

For a long second, Chef stared back. For a split second, she wondered if she’d have to say something more—but Eriq glanced about the room and realilzed he was very much the only one in opposition to Chef’s terms. Eriq flinched from any further confrontation. He sat, turned, and poured himself a glass of water.

Chef set her gaze to the rest of the room. “Anyone that works gets a shiftie. Just one, Mayzee. It’s not a party. We’re just taking the edge off, okay? Also, any pastries in the pastry case will be available once the dishes are done—and be free and liberal with the coffee too. This might be a long night.”

Mayzee gave a nod.

Chef clapped several times. “Chop chop, people!” Chef concluded, as she clapped her hands “Enough gawking! Let’s get this room clean, and bunker down! Elbows and assholes! Grease ‘em up, and get to work!”

Jamal and Kevin went back to the kitchen. Mr. Murphy went with them. “I’ve scrubbed a few flat-tops in my day,” he said as he followed the young cooks.

Brittany, Mayzee, and Kaleb started on the tables, and many of the guests threw in their own effort, including Eriq.

Chef caught Renata as the young hostess stepped forward to help. “Darling, you have a special task. Get on the phone. Call your parents and tell them what’s going on—but don’t linger. After them, I need you to go down the schedule and call everyone that isn’t here. Tell them what’s happening, and tell them that if they absolutely have to, they can come here. We’ll get them in somehow,” Chef concluded. “That goes for your parents too. If they want to come here—” she finished with a nod.

Next, Chef caught Kaleb with a handful of dishes. “Lock up the shop. I don’t want anyone helping themselves to the market. That food is stable and will last us months. We might need that before this is all over.”

“That’s why you offered the pastries, isn’t it?” Kaleb replied with a nod.

“They’re only good for a few days,” Chef agreed.

Kaleb put his dishes in the kitchen, then returned to the shop, and closed it up.

Seeing that Candice had things well under control, Craig turned and moved to leave.

“What about you?” Chef called after Craig. “Where are you going?”

“The roof,” Craig answered. “I want to get a good view,” he said as he continued away.

Hearing that Craig was going to take a good look at the city, Officer Delaceya followed hot on his heels.

chapter 13: Hold Please

Renata stood at the host stand and tried to ignore the incessant banging against the front doors. She dialed her parents, left a message, and did everything she could to ignore the ruckus.

Bang! BangBaBBangBanBang!

Renata continued with her work. She left several messages, and began to worry that the rest of the world was already dead, when one of her calls was finally answered.

“Hello?” Alej asked as he picked up the line. He seemed bothered, perplexed, but mostly curious that work should be calling on is day off and at such a late hour.

“Oh, am I glad to hear you!” Renata sighed, as a great tension sloughed off her shoulders. She felt her eyes tear up with relief. “I was beginning to think no one would ever answer!”

“Yeah?” Alej replied, his curiosity multiplying. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Don’t you know?!” Renata said, astounded that anyone could be unaware of the zombie apocalypse—and then, because it was such a silly thing to assert, the words stuck in her mouth.

“Know what? I haven’t been at work in two days,” Alej answered. “What’s going on over there?!” he continued as Renata’s frenetic energy was proving contagious.

“It’s the end of the world,” Renata breathed, halfway to hysterics. Those damned beasts wouldn’t stop banging at the door!

“What?!” Alej was now fully engaged. “Are they closing down the restaurant?!” he asked, assuming that would be the absolute worst thing that could happen. “Did Chef pull the plug?! Is everyone getting fired?! What’s with all that racket?! Renata, what’s going on over there?!”

“It’s the living dead!” Renata cried. “They’re trying to bust the door down!” She finally managed between gasping sobs.

“Renata—what?!” Alej replied, unwilling to consider the absurd. “This isn’t funny. Where’s Chef?!”

“I dunno!” Renata wept.

“Okay,” Alej began, as he’d made up his mind. “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he claimed.

“Alej, be careful!” Renata said. “Don’t let them scratch you! Don’t let them bite you! It’s crazy out there!”

“All right all right,” Alej continued. “Renata, I need you to breathe. I need you to breathe, and I need you to start from the beginning. What’s going on?”

“I told you, Alej. It’s the end of the world!” Renata snapped, her frustration getting the better of her. “Everyone’s turned to zombies and they’re trying to break the door down!”

“Who’s a zombie?” Alej questioned. “Did something happen to one of the brothers?”

“No, it’s the people outside!” Renata answered. “We’ve got the doors locked, but they’re trying to beat ‘em down! They’ve been at it a good twenty or thirty minutes now and it’s driving me crazy!”

“All right, Renata. Haha, funny, funny,” Alej continued, as a rational skepticism got the best of him. “I’m coming down there, and you’re going to apologize for pulling my leg; and you’re also going to buy me a beer for the trouble.” He sounded halfway between annoyed and amused. To think that Renata—and who else at the restaurant?—would go through such trouble on a random Monday just to prank him?! Well, it was kind of endearing—just so long as Brittany wasn’t involved…

“Do I sound like I’m joking?!” Renata screamed. “Don’t let them bite you!”

“No one’s trying to bite me,” Alej replied, almost bored with the tedium of such an extravagant prank. “Look, I’m heading out the door right now. I’ll be there in twenty min—OH SHIT!” Something collided with Alej. She heard a snarl, as he let out a grunt and a curse. The phone scuffed. There was a donk, and the line went dead.

Immediately, Renata knew he’d left his apartment and had been attacked. He must have dropped his phone. Despite knowing this, the young hostess cried into the mic. “Hello…? HELLO!?” But Alej was no longer there. Worried for the kind busser, she lowered her head, and bawled for a good dozen breaths.

The banging on the door continued. Nerves shot, Renata turned and screamed at the sound, long and loud.

Half the room turned and took notice—which is to say, the whole room took notice, while half of them turned and frowned at the young girl’s troubles. Lorraine separated from her four friends. Once the dining room was clean, they had posted themselves in the lounge, in the low seats, near the massive aquarium, not far from the host stand. She came over and wrapped Renata in a hug. “Hey, now! It’s okay!” she said, as she rubbed Renata’s back and refused to acknowledge the door. “Here,” Lorraine continued, as she took the phone. “Let me try for a while,” she said. “Which one are we on?”

Renata pointed to the name below Alej. The calls continued until Eriq came over with a deep frown cutting across his face. “Any luck?” he asked.

“No,” Lorraine answered. “The last few calls didn’t even go to voice mail.”

“Are you calling cells?” Eriq continued. “Are any of them landlines?”

Lorraine turned to Renata. The young hostess gave a shrug. “What’s a landline?”

Eriq ignored the question. “I was talking to my sister when the line died,” Eriq stated. “Look at everyone else with a cell,” he continued. Sure enough, several people in the room were squinting at their devices as if they weren’t working properly. “I think the towers are down.”

“Where’s your sister?” Lorraine asked.

“Philadelphia,” Eriq answered. “She said I’m sounding crazy. Maybe now she’ll believe me.”

Renata checked her own cell. “I got no bars, and the wifi won’t connect.”

“Anyone got a signal?” Lorraine called through the room.

“It just died,” Mrs. Murphy stated, and several other nodded on agreement.

“So we can’t call anyone?!” Renata gaped.

“Not unless they have a landline,” Lorraine stated. “And that might be none of them,” she frowned. “Who else should we call?” she asked, as she dialed the next number on the list. She felt there must be something she could do—but whatever that might be, she had no idea.

chapter 14: A rooftop View

“So what are we doing?” Officer Delaceya asked, as she climbed the ladder to the roof. She wasn’t normally so chatty, but after the attack in the parking lot, she was feeling unnerved. She had sensed the berserker as she stepped among the cars, and turned back just in time to get a glimpse of the him; then ducked under his arm as he lunged at her, and ran back into the restaurant. She was finally beginning to feel herself again, now that she was climbing on top of the building after a rather handsome man in full camouflage—a man that seemed to know what was going on…

“I’m not doing anything,” Craig answered, as he climbed the ladder before her. “I just want to take a look at the city and think a bit.”

“Okay, but what are we going to do about the zombies at the door?” Officer Delaceya continued.

“Well that’s what I want to think about,” Craig said as he stepped out onto the roof and strolled out of sight, irritated.

Officer Delaceya had that affect on people. Her father taught her to be direct, and since she never knew her mother, there was no influence to temper what some must consider to be her badgering manner. Not that it mattered at the moment. After all, these were important quesions! She pulled herself to the top of the ladder, stepped onto the roof, and followed after Craig. “Should we just shoot ‘em? How many bullets do you have?”

“We’re not shooting anything!” Craig began. “Didn’t you hear me?! There’s a cure! Killing these zombies is just like killing anyone else!”

Officer Delaceya blinked. “There’s really a cure?”

“Didn’t I say there was a cure?!” Craig stared, as anger flashed across his face. “Why would I lie about such a thing?!”

“I guess I didn’t take that seriously,” she replied. “So what are you going to do?”

“THAT’S WHAT I’M TRYING TO FIGURE OUT!” Craig snapped, exasperated. With a huff, he turned from the young copper, then walked to the east edge of the building and stared out over the city.

Leaving her questions, Officer Delaceya followed. Now that she was quiet, she could hear the cry of distant sirens, along with the bark and howl of a hundred neighborhood dogs. “Holy matrimony…” she muttered, as she took in the scene.

“That’s trouble,” Craig pointed at the road that curved down the hill. “There’s still more of ‘em coming up this way.”

“Why?” Officer Delaceya asked, then answered her own question, so he might not think she expected him to seriously know. “I mean, the cooking’s pretty good, but not so much that I’d beat down the doors,” she smiled.

Craig smiled at the smart comment, but kept his eyes on the street below.

The neighborhood around The Fish House was mostly dark, but there was enough ambient light from the rest of the city that Officer Delaceya could see the silhouettes of half a dozen people walking and running up the street. As they walked, some of them howled, or screamed, or yelled unintelligibly. “That’s creepy,” she stated. “I thought zombies only moaned, or hissed. And look how fast they are,” she added, as several of the shadows sprinted up the road. “Aren’t zombies supposed to shamble?”

“I’ve never met one before,” Craig stated. “This is my first zombie apocalypse,” he added, as he considered more and more of the city.

The Fish House sat on a small hill, maybe fifty feet up, as the city stretched out beneath it. Downtown was clearly visible behind the freeway and Monument Creek. The river and the road ran parallel to each other on a north-south track. Between here and there were a couple blocks of single family homes with the occasional cluster of commercial shops: a couple hotels, a gas station at the edge of a strip mall, and several commercial garages.

The exterior lights of The Fish House clicked off. Suddenly, the world all around them was that much brighter by contrast. Usually the view from the restaurant was one of general order and the tendency of men to build sound structures. It was treetops and shingles—before a thick line of concrete cut north to south. Beyond the freeway was the unsee-able creek, set deep in her bed. Above the rise of the far bank were the commercial towers of glass, steel, and brick that made up downtown Colorado Springs. Downtown still had power. Additionally, it was lit with emergency lights of every sort, blinking and flashing, as sirens cried.

Craig pulled the rifle off his back and stared through the scope. Usually, downtown was a calm and prosaic sight—but not tonight. Tonight there were lights and sirens everywhere, punctuated by a cacophony of people screaming and yelling, as dogs barked and howled their growing concern. Traffic was congested. Numerous crashes were evident and the rules of the road seemed to be completely suspended. Cars ran red lights, drove on the shoulders, and over curbs—if they had the clearance. Others were clustered in jumbles, smashed one against another.

Craig could see people running to and fro. He watched a man run down a street, chased by so many others. The running man was too concerned with those that chased him, instead of watching where he put his feet. He tripped on a parking block, and was instantly swarmed by shrieking incoherent assailants. They pummeled and scratched the man until he was unresponsive. Finally, the attackers stalked off and disappeared around the corner of St. Mary’s Cathedral. “He’s still alive,” Craig sighed, as the man rolled on his back. “Thank god they didn’t kill him.”

“You mind if I…?” Officer Delaceya gestured to the rifle.

“Have a gander,” he said, and passed the weapon to her.

Officer Delaceya checked to see that the safety was on, then stared through the scope. “Sweet Jesus, this is wild! What is happening to these people?!” she wondered, as she pointed at a woman that smashed at a lit window. She resisted the urge to flick the switch and take a shot at the vandal.

“You’re a copper,” Craig began. “Haven’t you seen any indicators that things were amiss? A bump in violent offenders? A spike in domestic disputes?”

“Nothing to suggest this!” Officer Delaceya answered. “I mean, crime tends to rise and fall, so a slight increase in cases doesn’t suggest an impending armageddon. Crime might spike for a week, but that’s just the nature of nature. It’s just a heat wave, or something equally unfathomable. Maybe its a full moon, or Mars and Saturn are caught in a difficult aspect,” she shrugged, then passed the rifle back to Craig.

Craig rolled his eyes to hear heavenly bodies blamed for the calamity. “Are you suggesting this will end once the Red Planet is no longer conjunct Kronos the Time Keeper?”

“Why? Is that what’s happening?” Officer Delaceya asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Craig stated as he continued to glance about the city. “Kaleb’s into all that stuff, not me.”

“Same,” Officer Delaceya began. “My sister and mom can talk for hours about that sort, so I’m passingly fluent, but I rarely give it more than lip service…” she trailed off. She stared out over the city for a long minute, then continued on the topic of crime. “I mean, I guess there’s been more activity of late. There has been an increasing amount of intelligence types around the precinct—but they’re not talking to me,” she shrugged. “I’m a nobody, fresh out of the academy.”

“Spooks?” Craig wondered. “Never met many that were willing to share—especially anything useful—though I have to say the one that took my brother was willing to talk, so I guess there are good ones about.”

“You sound like you know the type,” Offier Delaceya noted.

“Ex-army,” Craig stated.

“How long?”

“Four years in. It’s been two and a half years since I’ve been out.”

“Well, thank you for your service,” Officer Delaceya stated.

Craig snorted, then stared at the cop with a derisive eye. “You trying to butter me up?” He passed her the gun again.

“What does that mean?” Officer Delaceya asked, as she gazed through the scope.

“Only three types of people ever say, ‘thank you for your service’: stooges, villains, and people that want something,” Craig stated.

Officer Delaceya frowned. “My brother’s Air Force, and my father served in the Navy for twenty odd years before he retired.”

“And despite that, I’m sure they both have much to recommend them—but I can tell you this, many of the things I did and saw in the army had nothing to do with the protection of our great people,” Craig said. “Nah, that whole, ‘protecting your freedoms’ crap is just a line they feed the plebs so we won’t notice all the war profiteers cramming money into their own pockets.”

“Heresy,” Officer Delaceya murmured. “Are you just bitter, or should I wonder what crimes you committed on the battlefield?”

“None that weren’t passingly common,” Craig retorted, “and yes, I am rather bitter about it.” Having said his peace, he clapped his trap and took the gun from her, then turned his attention back to the city. “Enough of all that tomfoolery. What do you make of this?”

“Looks like everyone’s either turned into zombies, or turned into idiots,” she answered.

“Not all of them, for sure,” Craig replied. “This town is full of survivors.”

“You mean to say, you don’t resent veterans after all?”

“Why would I resent them?” Craig countered. “Most of ‘em joined the service for all the right reasons, and some of them manage to stay good people. Besides, I am one. I may resent getting duped, but here I am,” he said. “It’s the war machine that used my friends for cannon fodder that I resent. I resent saluting, flag waving, and mystifying hymns that celebrate a courage and honor all too common in the rank and file—those that know nothing of what their doing—but quite absent among those that made any real decisions. I resent the glorification of marching down a primrose path of subjugation and death—paved with the best of intentions—but lacking reason, logic, and consistent application. I resent orders that always served the interests of the rich and powerful, and fuck everyone else.”

The distant report of a gun sounded. Pop! Popop Op! As if meaning to accentuate Craig’s heretical rant—or maybe to cut it off.

“It’s a full on war zone out there,” Officer Delaceya stated with wide eyes as she leaned away from the angry veteran.

“Well, downtown is a mess,” Craig said.

As if agreeing with this statement, several floors of lights clicked off in the Holly Sugar Building. “But look down here, in this neighborhood. It’s almost quiet—except for the dogs—and any of the houses with lights still on.”

“It’s not just the ones with the lights,” Officer Delaceya asked. “Check out that one. There’s got to be eight of them down there!”

“Weird,” Craig stated. “What do you make of that?”

“Dunno,” Officer Delaceya stated. “Maybe they got a generator too, and they just barely got their lights off?”

“Maybe we’ll never know,” Craig said as he shouldered his rifle. “But now that we got our lights off, let’s get downstairs and see if we can’t disperse the bastards bainging at the front door. They seem to be drawing more and more up the hill.”

Officer Delaceya didn’t mind anymore. She just wanted to be wherever Craig was going.

Chapter 15: Running In Circles

Craig and Officer Delaceya found Chef pulling liquor out of the liquor room.

“What are you doing?” Craig asked, curious that Chef would be pulling liquor out of the liquor room, so that one of the most notoriously abused aspects of restaurant life would be less secure in this dire time.

“We need a place to put Brittany,” Chef said. “She’s got scratches and bite marks all over her from the one that got inside. We need a place for her to sleep so she can’t scratch the rest of us.”

"Was anyone else scratched?” Craig asked.

Chef Candice stopped and stare up at her brother. With a frown, she admitted, “probably,” then shrugged and continued with her work. “It was something of a skirmish, but it’s fine. It might be a little cramped, but this room is big enough for three or four... Why? What brings you upstairs?”

“Well, the lights are off, but those assholes are still at the door, banging away. And to make things worse, more of them keep coming up the road,” Craig said as he peeled the rifle off his back. “Take this, so I can go run them off.”

“How do you intend to do that?” Chef asked.

“I’m going to go out there and give them something to chase,” Craig smiled. “Some of ‘em are runners, so I need to be light.”

”That’s awful nice of you to give up your long gun,” Chef said as she took the rifle.

“I’m assuming you’ll give it back,” Craig eyed his older sister. “Besides, you’re like to take better care of it than I will.”

“That’s probably true,” Chef shrugged. “So what’s this plan of yours?”

“I’ll go out the side door, throw a couple rocks at the bastards, and do a bit of yelling. When they all turn to chase me, I’ll run down the hill, go around the side, and climb up to the balcony.”

Chef frowned. “Sounds half-baked.”

“Well, the heat’s still on, so chances are, we’ll still get cooked,” Craig answered. “Besides, how difficult does a plan have to be in order to get it over on zombies? Aren’t they about as dumb as they come?”

Chef shrugged. “I sure hope so. Well, I guess I’ll cover you from the roof.”

“Don’t fire unless you absolutely have to,” Craig stated. “We still have the cure to consider.”

Chef gave a nod, then went on the roof and positioned herself so she could see the parking lot and half the road down the hill. She’d have to reposition once Craig got that far, but it wouldn’t be a problem—assuming Craig wouldn’t need her for five to ten seconds—but then, ten seconds could be an awful long time when life was on the line. In the end, there was nothing to be done about that. Risks would be taken.

With Chef on the roof, Craig took Officer Delaceya to balcony, where there was a coiled rope with a grappling hook. Craig secured the end to the thick stone railing, then gave the rope to the young officer. “Once you see me come around that corner, throw this out.”

“You be careful,” Officer Delaceya replied with a nod, then dropped the rope and wrapped Craig in a hefty hug. She kissed his cheek. “For luck,” she smiled.

With a nod and a bit of a grin, Craig went to a side door and slipped out unobserved. Once he was in the parking lot, he lobbed a couple rocks, whistled and yelled until he had too much attention from the milling crowd of zacks that banged at the door. They turned as Craig bolted across the parking lot. He dodged around a car to keep one of the faster ones at bay, then sprinted down the steep street.

There were several more zombies creeping up the street, but Craig was past most of them before they even registered he was there. He almost made it down the hill without any incident whatsoever—except that he came across one so immediately, and in exactly the wrong spot that he had no time to consider it—no time at all! He thought to dodge, but by the time the thought was in his head, it was already too late. Instead, he lowered his shoulder and thanked his lucky stars that the man in front of him had no time to react. Well, the man tried to grab him, but the long sleeves of Craig’s camuflagued jacket protected him from any incidental scratches. Like a running back, he smashed into the zombie—simply bowled over the beast—and continued on his way. Good thing too. There were a couple dozen of the creatures chasing after him! Some were admittedly pretty slow, but a number were runners.

Craig dodged through a gate, then threw himself over a chainlink fence like his life depended on it. He was at the back of the hill. With his heart in his throat he looked up and saw a length of rope sailing through the air. He grabbed the end and began up the steep slope as zombies flooded the yard behind him. They couldn’t manage the slope—until one grabbed the rope and began to climb up after him in a ponderous and deliberate manner.

“Hurry, hurry!” Officer Delaceya cried. “They’re climbing after you!” she pointed.

Zombies climb?! Craig thought, as a surge of adreniline coursed through his veins. He was young and strong, so it wasn’t long before he was over the balcony.

Having finished his climb, Craig turned and stared at the zack that pulled herself up the rope after him. She was in good shape and climbed rather quick. She was over halfway, and there were others grabbing at the rope behind her—but the second zombie was thick, slow, and barely past the base of the steep slope; so all the others were stuck behind him.

“I guess they’re not as dumb as we thought,” Officer Delaceya said as she cut the rope.

As it came apart, Craig grit his teeth and turned away. He didn’t want to see the lady zombie fall.

Officer Delaceya gave a snort as the beast fell, and shrieked in agony upon hitting the ground. Then the spectacle took a turn for the gruesome, as the other zombies swarmed the injured party and made short work of her. “Jesus,” Officer Delaceya cringed and turned away from the sight. Craig had his hands on his knees as he huffed and puffed in order to get his wind back. Officer Delaceya wrapped him in a hug and gave him another kiss—this time directly on lips. “Thank you for coming back to me,” she smiled, and made eyes at the handsome young man.

Confused, Craig slowly pushed her away. He liked her kissing him, but he would have preferred that it was Virginia. With a nod he smiled back at her, then dodged another kiss, and said. “I don’t know that we’re out of the woods just yet.”

“What do you mean?!” Officer Delaceya glared, intuiting that he didn’t push her away because of the zombies.

Craig didn’t answer. Instead, he stared over the balcony at the mass of zombies below. It would have been fine if they would have stayed where they were. There was no approach for them on this steep slope, though several tried. Most turned and twitched and moseyed off in some other direction—which meant that quite a few found the street and were coming up the hill again!

“That’s not good,” Officer Delaceya stated.

“Goes to show they’re more human than they appear,” Craig replied.

“I fail to see how that helps us,” Officer Delaceya countered.

“It doesn’t,” Craig agreed. “Not yet. But it’ll be perfect when the cure arrives.”

“Hey look,” Officer Delaceya pointed. “You remember that house?”

Craig followed her line of sight. “Not really,” he replied.

“That was the house that was surrounded, the one that was dark,” Officer Delaceya stated. “But now the lights are on, and the window is broke. What do you make of that?”

“I guess they must have a generator after all,” Craig shrugged. He was about to say it couldn’t mean anything else, when a scream and several bright flashes erupted from the very same house.

POpOP! POp!

A gun sounded, followed by another scream, and several more flashes.

PoP pOPoppOpoP!

After that, the screaming continued for several long seconds—then stopped.

“That sucks,” Craig stated. “But what’s that house have to do with us?”

“Do you think the zombies saw someone go in there? Or maybe they saw the lights go out and remembered them being on…” Officer Delaceya speculated.

“Are you suggesting they remember the front door?” Craig replied. “Do you think they’re coming up here because they remember the lights being on?”

“Well, some of those bastards are coming back up the hill, so there must be a why or a how...” Officer Delaceya shrugged.

The lights in the distant house went off again. Confused, Officer Delaceya turned and blinked at Craig. “And now the lights are off again! What do you think that means?” she asked.

“What makes you think it means anything at all?” Craig replied.

“Why would survivors shut off the power?” Officer Delaceya replied. “The zombies are already inside.”

Craig shrugged and shook his head. “Who’s to say it was survivors that shut off the power?” he offered, just to be contrary.

Officer Delaceya returned a confused but calculating gaze.

“As if that don’t make it weirder,” Craig pointed, as several zombies jostled their way out of the broken window. “Now they’re coming out.”

Officer Delaceya’s eyes got big. “What if it was the zombies that took out the power!” she repeated. “My god! They’re not just attracted to the lights! They’re attracted to the electricity!”

“But how’s that possible?” Craig replied.

“Can’t you hear it?!” Officer Delaceya asked him. “I mean, most people can’t, but I’ve heard it all my life!” she explained. “It’s a faint, high-pitched buzz. I usually don’t pay it no mind, because it’s always there; dull, innocuous, and constant—and so few people ever seem to notice. Mostly, it’s just a keen way to tell if the power’s out, or the lights are simply off. Hell, I can still hear it—and I think they can too! I think whatever makes them zombies makes their hearing more acute! And that buzz—” Her eyes practically bugged out of her head. “That buzz is still coming from here! It’s still running through the walls because of the generators! To them, this place is buzzing!” she realized. “We gotta shut off the generators!”

“How does that make sense?” Craig replied. “I can’t hear a god-dammed thing!”

“It’s not what you can hear,” Officer Delaceya countered. “It’s about what they can hear! They keep coming up the road, so there must be a reason!”

“If we shut of the generators, we’re dead in a week anyway,” Craig replied.

“No one says we have to leave them off. We just have to shut them off long enough so they go somewhere else!” Officer Delaceya answered. “Come on! What other ideas do we have?!”

Craig sized her up and considered her idea. “All right,” Craig said with a nod. “Let’s give it a try.”

They went inside and told Chef, as she continued to clear out the liquor room. At first, she didn’t want to hear it, until Renata found them, shivering and shaking with tears in her eyes. “It worked—it worked, until it didn’t! Now they’re back to banging on the doors!” she cried.

With a grim nod, Chef agreed to shut off the generators. “Renata, put out a half dozen tea candles, and ask the guests to shut off their phones.”

“The phones are useless anyway,” Renata stated, as she turned and bolted down the stairs.

Shaking her head, Chef turned back to Craig and Officer Delaceya. “So how do we disperse them this time? I saw you cut the rope before I came back inside.”

“I’m not coming back this time,” Craig began. “Before I left, dad and I got the generator out of the carriage house. I gotta get home before he turns it on,” he explained, with fear in his eyes.

Chapter 16: Jail Break

Chase had no idea how long he slept, only that the itch and burn of the scratches he’d received had slowly evaporated, as a deep and restful sleep overcame him. Likely, he would have slept for a good time more, if not for a ruckus several cells over—that quickly devolved into ear-piercing screams—as several soldiers dragged a tall svelte blonde from the block. She screamed and fought the whole way out—to no avail.

Chase turned and watched as six soldiers, escorted the leggy blonde from the brig. Two of them were more than enough to manhandle the toothy Swede. The other four chuckled and made lewd comments as thefollowed along. Chase frowned at the commotion. He tried to convince himself that these soldiers meant to treat her with the most delicate of care and utmost respect—but his instincts told him otherwise—bnot that he could do anything about it, not from behind these bars…

Fully awake, Chase decided to crack a book, then wondered why his light was out. He stared up at the dull bulb and thought there was something he should know about it. He set the book aside, and was about to investigate further, when the door to the cell block opened again. This time a furtive Dr. Fateh slunk down the hall.

“Doctor,” Chase said.

With a grim nod, Dr. Fateh continued to one of the other cells. A conversation ensued in snatches of whisper. Craig watched as Dr. Fateh opened the door, and cringed at the creak of the rusty hinges.

Special Agent Kenzie stepped from a cell and dusted himself off. He turned and marched fo rthe door.

“Special Agent Kenzie, did you get scratched too?” Chase asked the man.

“No sir,” the special agent said, without breaking stride.

Dr. Fateh slowed, then stopped in front of Chase’s cell. He turned and gave a nod to Chase. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Pretty damned good,” Chase smiled. “I reckon I don’t got the itch at all any more. Looks like they’ll have to let me out—and the sooner the better,” he grinned.

Dr. Fateh frowned, and a worried expression came over his face. He paused for a long second, then stepped to the door of the cell, pulled his keys, and fumbled at the lock with a furtive glance at the door.

Something about the whole situation felt off. Chase backed from the door with a frown.

Special Agent Kenzie turned. With a frown he put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “What are you doing?!” He demanded in curt fashion.

“What does it look like I’m doing?!” Dr. Fateh replied. “What do you think happens to these people under Major Ing and his underlings?” he said as he put the key in the lock.

Special Anget Kenzie gave a sideways glance to Craig. “What if he’s still sick?” Special Agent Kenzie gave a sidways glance at Craig.

Dr. Fateh paused and stared at Chase. “If I let you out and you scratch me, I will kill you.” The doctor’s eyes was grim and determined.

Chase frowned. “Maybe I’ll just wait for the next person to let me out.”

“You don’t want to stay in here,” Dr. Hakeem Fateh shook his head. “They’re about to start liquidating the snapped, and I wonder if they’ll consider you cured—or anyone else for that matter.”

Chase could see in Hakeem’s eyes that he believed these words. He gave a nod. “On my honor, no scratching,” he said. “So what’s changed?”

“A number of high ranking officers either have the itch or have snapped altogether,” Hakeem explained. “Needless to say the good ol’ chain of command is suffering some broken links,” he unlocked the door. Kenzie gave a nod and shook Chase’s hand—but once he had it, he held it tightly, as he stared at the twin intently. “We go quiet, and you follow orders, you hear?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Chase replied.

“You been in the service?” Kenzie continued, already convinced of the answer.

“Five years in the navy,” Chase nodded. “My last station was aboard the USS Frank Cable out of Guam where I served in several menial capacities.”

Kenzie gave a nod and smiled at Hakeem. “He’ll do.”

“What of these others?” Hakeem asked.

Kenzie shook his head. “We don’t have time to baby-sit.”

Hakeem turned away. “We can’t leave ‘em here. Not if their healthy. Letting them out is the right thing to do.”

“Its the dumb shit thing to do—” Kenzie snipped, then shook his head and began again. “But you’re right. Leaving them here may just be a death sentence. Don’t take no itchers though. We can’t take no chances.”

“Only if they can speak,” Hakeem agreed. “If they’re just a little itchy, he can watch them,” he said and turned to Chase. “You’re not afraid of being scratched, are you?”

“What happens if I get scratched a second time?” Chase wondered.

Hakeem shrugged. “I don’t know that anyone knows.”

“Well, I don’t see why it should worry me,” Chase answered. “I got over it once. I can get over it again.” They turned to the other cells in search of anyone healthy enough to join them. A few had snapped—or were deep in the throes of the itch—including Mr. Wiezcykyi. The lawyer reached through the bars. He pawed and hissed at the open air, but the normally wordy lawyer had nothing coherent to say. Kenzie and Hakeem both said the could not risk letting him out, and Chase could only agree. “Sorry, ol’ friend,” he said as he kept his distance. He couldn’t fathom why, but Chase felt responsible—even guilty—about the state of the man.

They continued their search for anyone cognizant and came to the cell with the Swedes.

“Why are there three in this cell?” Chase asked. “Oi! Blondie! What’s with the long face?!”

The three large foreigners approached the bars as they spoke with each other in hushed viking. There were several fat bruises on their faces, and a fair amount of fresh blood to highlight dried blood that had caked at the the corners of their mouths and noses.

“I don’t think these three are suffering at all,” Kenzie began. “The ones that took their pretty friend didn’t seem worried in the least, no matter how much she hissed and shrieked; nor were they worried about her scratching.”

“It seemed a bit strange that they should lead her out,” Hakeem nodded. “And yet, there were so many that went with her up the stairs, we figured we’d never have a better chance to rescue you,” he said to Kenzie. “I hate to say it, but I hope she can keep them distracted for a little time more.”

“Hey you,” Kenzie said to the three young scandanavians. “Do you boys speak English?”

“Ja,” the little one said, “McDonalds, America,” He smiled, then pointed to himself in introduction. “Danel,” he said, then pointed to his massive cousins. “Bjorn, Bjergsen.”

“Let ‘em out,” Kenzie said, and Chase nodded in agreement.

“And what about this one?” Hakeem asked as they came to the cell of Officer Lars.

Chase shook his head. “He don’t like me at all. He thinks I’m the reason he got locked up.”

Kenzie shrugged. ”We can’t leave him behind just because the two of you have a little beef. Not if he’s not sick. They may well kill him if he stays.”

“I can’t say I saw him even a bit sick, and he claimed from the start that he never got scratched,” Chase admitted. He didn’t like the idea of letting Officer Lars out, but he knew the special agent was right. If he was healthy, they should let him out. Besides, what were the chances the officer would still be fired up once their were no bars between them? As like as not, he’d forget the hostility and get along just fine. After all, Chase wasn’t some small and insignificant boy. He was a healthy and strong twenty-something with years of military service. Ifit came to a physical contest, Chase liked his odds.

“Officer!” Hakeem called. “How you feeling in there?!”

Slowly, Officer Lars roused, then peeled himself off his cot, and approached the bars. ”What is it?” he asked, as he eyed the group with suspicion.

“We’re getting out of here,” Kenzie told him. “But if you come with us, you gotta promise to get along with the young sailor,” he said with a thumb in Chase’s direction.

“The boy owes me for my troubles,” Officer Lars said with a glint of hostility in his eyes.

“Bury the hatchet or stay in the cell,” Kenzie stared.

“And why should I be worried about staying in my cell?” Lars asked.

“The order is to start liquidating the snapped,” Hakeem explained. “We don’t think it’ll be long before they add the itching to the list, and then extend it to everyone else in these cells.”

“So you’re orchastrating a jailbreak,” Officer Lars realized. “Well then, let’s dig us a hole in the earth,” he continued and stretched a hand to Chase.

Suspicious, Chase took the hand and shook it. Lars grabbed it and squeezed quite hard. Chase returned the pressure, knowing it was the only way to keep his digits safe.

“See now? Everthing’s copacetic,” Officer Lars said with a greasy smile.

The seven men left the cell block and entered a room where two men held several guards at gunpoint; tied, disarmed, and gagged. “Jesus, Hakeem!” the first one said. He was a lieutenant by rank, and his name said Todd. “I thought you were just getting the special agent!” Lieutenant Todd continued.

“Well I couldn’t leave the others!” Hakeem replied. “What happens to them under Major Ing?!”

“Well, we don’t got weapons for them all,” the second one said, as he passed a pistol to Kenzie. He was a private first class, by the name of Seymour. “Who gets the last weapon?” he held out a pistol.

Chase moved to take it, but Todd snagged it and offered it to Officer Lars. “Give it to copper, of course,” he smiled. “Le’ts get out of here while the getting’s good!” He gave Private Seymour a light punch in the shoulder. “Bring up the rear.”

With that, the nine men slipped into a corridor and began down the hall. Todd and Kenzie led the way. Chase hovered behind them. The three Swedes whispered amongst themselves in their foreign tongue. Hakeem floated about the middle, while Seymour and Officer Lars brought up the rear.

A warning sign came from Kenzie and Todd. The others all backed against a wall as voices carried around a corner, “…hot piece of ass…” the one was laughing as he stepped into view. He caught sight of the nine men crouched against the wall and immediately knew something was wrong. He went for his sidearm.

The other man also reached for his weapon—but it was too late. Kenzie, Todd, Hakeem, and the swedes were already upon them. They were pinned to the ground and stripped of their weapons with nothing but a few surprised shouts.

Chase held back, in case trouble developed from some other direction—which was exactly what happened Behind him, a scuffle ensued. He turned to find Lars with his gun pointed at Seymour’s head!

Chase jumped forward and shoved the weapon aside as Lars pulled the trigger.

BLOUW!

Seymour flinched and dropped to the ground.

With sheer hatred in his eyes, Lars turned his weapon on the twin—but before he could bring it to bare, Chase rotated and clothes-lined the officer. With a cough, Lars dropped the gun. He lunged forward and tackled Chase. The two went down in a heap.

Chase grappled with the older officer, surprised to find him quite so strong. He hadn’t kept up his training, and was finding himself losing a slow, long war of attrition—but there were others in the hall. All of the sudden, Officer Lars screamed and let go of Chase, as Bjorn—or was it Bjergsen?— lifted the cop off his victim by his hair.

Still, Officer Lars was a scrapper. He kicked out and caught the large swede in the chest, then seperated and sprinted down the long hall, screaming as he went. “Help! They’re escaping!”

Bjergsen—or was it Bjorn?—moved as if to follow, but Hakeem put a calming hand on his shoulder. “He’s too far, and we’re going the other way, friend.”

With a huff, the large scandinavian agreed.

Chase rolled over and snagged the gun that Officer Lars had dropped. Bjergsen—or was it Bjorn?— helped him off the ground, as the other swede attended to the downed private.

“WHAT?!” Seymour yelled at the young viking. “MY EARS ARE RINGING! I CAN’T HEAR A FUCKING THING!”

“Shiva’s tits,” Hakeem shook his head. “With with all the ruckus, it’s a miracle nobody’s sounded—” He about jumped out of his skin as lights all down the hall flashed to life and the alarm blared from seemingly every direction.

“Well, that answers that,” Lieutenant Todd said as he stood over the two prone men. He grabbed Kenzie’s shoulder and tried to pull him off the one man. “You’ve beat him senseless!” he stated. “You planning to kill him?!”

“This maggot deserves it,” Kenzie said as he pressed his gun into the bloody face of Armand. “This worm killed my partner.”

Armand’s eyes were bleary and stared off at nowhere. It was doubtful he could even understand what Kenzie was saying.

Banner was little better as he cowered against the wall. He flinched as Kenzie turned his gaze on the soldier.

“If I ever see either of you again, you’re fucking dead!” Kenzie roared, as Bjorn and Bjergsen pulled the Special Agent down the hall. Kenzie shook off the two Swedes, then turned and followed them all the same.

Despite the lights and alarms they made it to the exit without any further incidence. Lieutenant Todd pushed the door open and Chase felt the cool evening air whip down the hall. The crisp breeze felt so good after being cramped up in the stale basement for what felt like forever! With a glad heart, he followed the soldiers out into the open—only to notice the Swedes weren’t coming with them. Instead, the three foreigners were arguing amongst themselves at the door to the hospital.

“What is this?” Chase asked Danel, as Bjorn and Bjerson pushed the smaller one out the door.

“They won’t let me stay!” Danel said with tears in his eyes.

“And why would you possibly want to stay?!” Chase asked, confused that Bjorn and Bjergsen meant to go back in—while Danel should cry about having to leave.

“They’re going back for Danika,” Danel said, “but they won’t let me come with them!”

“Go,” Bjorn—or was it Bjergsen?—pointed them away. “Tell our people.”

Danel shook his head and tried to push past the bigger two, all while cursing his large cousins in his foreign tongue.

Chase gave a grim nod and gave his gun to Bjergsen—or was it Bjorn? “When you get out of there, find us at The Fish House,” he said with a nod.

Bjergsen—or was it Bjorn?—gave a nod and a salute. Chase grabbed Danel and pulled him from the door.

“And where the hell are those two going?!” Lieutenant Todd wanted to know.

“After their cousin,” Chase said, as he pulled Danel past the bewildered officer.

“Well, more power to ‘em,” Kenzie said. “Maybe they’ll keep Ing and his assholes occupied, at least until we can get across the highway,” he added, then turned south and west. “Let’s move, people, and let’s try to keep it quiet, eh?!”

Chapter 17: Craig goes home

As one first enters The Fish House, there is immediately the host stand in front of them, but far more alluring is the over-sized aquarium just to the right that forms a large section of wall between the main part of the restaurant and the small specialty store. This aquarium houses a dozen different colorful fish species, corral, and sea plants from the South China Sea—along with nearly a thousand gallons of water and salt—and gives a window into the small market that stocks a number of grab-and-go foods, artisanal fare from local purveyors, and premium imports from some 30 different nations. Day in and day out, this attraction loses its allure for the workers of The Fish House—and even the regulars tend to forget about it—but after the difficulties of a long strange day, the fish in their house were an attractive bit of sanity and sophistication.

At the moment, the aquarium is the only way to see into the market, since Kaleb locked the store over an hour ago, shortly after Craig first appeared—so it was through the aquarium and past the exotic life that Lorraine was forced to stare longingly at the excellent wares, and think about the world of yesterday, quite content to forgive the shortcomings of a daily routine she knew all too intimately, and could navigate without much hassle; or so it seemed, since the last few hours had been simply untenable. Who would have thought the zombie apocalypse should really begin as she was halfway through dinner, and complaining adamantly to a close circle of friends about the exigencies of modern urban life? Her difficulties at work and the ongoing low-key feud she had with her ex seemed insignificant, even petty, compared to the undead mob that banged relentless at the door. Staring at the unknowing uncaring fish in their tank, Lorraine wasn’t sure if she should be thankful that she had somehow avoided the initial outbreak—or should she be distraught that she was still among the living? How far would things deteriorate? Was she doomed to suffer and die a slow miserable death, running from zombies, exposed to the elements, with meager and tasteless sustenance on the rare occasions when she could find it? Would she find herself wishing she had died in the initial days of the breakout, when dying was easy, when practically everyone was doing it?!

Out of the corner of her eye, Lorraine caught a glimpse of someone approaching, and almost jumped out of he skin, thinking the zombies had managed to get through the door. But it wasn’t a monster. It was Mayzee, with a margarita in hand, half rimmed with salt.

“Thank you,” Lorraine breathed, with one hand on her heart and a wan smile creasing her lips, as she accepted the smooth blend of liquor, juice, and sugar. “I really need this,” she admitted. She took a small sip, and smiled—though the smile immediately disappeared, to be replaced with a frown. “Is Chef really going to hold us to one?” she asked.

“I think that was just for the staff,” Mayzee winked.

Indeed, Chef Candice had meant what she said, but several of the staff had argued. Shouldn’t they use all means available, including a bit of excessive alcohol, to soothe the jangled nerves of their charges? Candice wasn’t above the thoughts of her underlings, and so she allowed herself to be swayed. After all, there would only ever be one first night of the zombie apocalypse. Whatever it took to keep the customers calm and cooperative would be employed—but Mayzee was told to pour slow and stretch the time between rounds.

Mayzee stared at her generous regular and gave a nod to the phone. “Did you get through to anybody else?”

Lorraine shook her head. “Alej was the only one that answered.”

“What’d he have to say?” Mayzee queried.

“Renata said he thought it was ruse. He said he was going to come down here and see what all the worry was about,” Lorraine stated.

Mayzee smiled. “Oh, it’ll be good to have Alej around.”

Lorraine frowned and shook her head. “Renata said he was attacked when he left his apartment. Their connection was lost and she wasn’t able to get through.”

“Oh my,” Mayzee pouted. “Where is Renata?” she asked as she looked about the dining room.

“She’s been in and out of the restroom, crying out here, then running to the toilet, so she can adjust her makeup,” Lorraine explained. “Christ! That banging is incessant! No wonder the poor thing is in such a frazzled state!”

“Chef says the construction of the doors would give the Stasi fits for hours,” Mayzee replied, though she wasn’t totally convinced. “Why don’t you help me hand out drinks? The doors are going to hold with or without you.”

“Yes please,” Lorraine smiled, and put a gentle hand on Mayzee’s shoulder. The turned and took a step toward the others. “So they’re turning off the generators—and then what?” the asked as they approached the few occupied tables. “Do they all just go away when the electricity goes off?”

Mayzee shrugged and kept from looking at Lorraine. She did not want the guest to see the look of irritation that washed over her face. After all, how was she supposed to know?! But then, people were always asking servers questions to which they couldn’t possibly have the answers. With a smile, Mayzee stopped before Mrs. Murphy.

The old lady broke from her revelry and turned to the approaching girls. “Oh, thank Eisenhower!” she smiled as she took the sidecar.

Mayzee smiled back and put a kind hand on the older woman’s arm. “You just let us know if you want another,” she winked.

“But Chef said just one,” Mrs. Murphy noted.

“Darling, since when do the Murphys not get special treatment?” Mayzee replied. “You’ve been visiting the Fish House since we were tucked away on the wrong end of Cucharras.”

“I should think that was back before you were born,” Mrs. Murphy sighed. “All right, dear. I want another just as soon as I can get it,” Mrs. Murphy said and took a long pull on her drink.

Mayzee gave a nod and started to walk away.

“Oh, darling. Next time you’re in the kitchen, will you check on Phil and see that he’s alright?” Mrs. Murphy asked. “See to it that he puts a little neosporin on that scratch the man gave him—oh he can be a bit boorish about such things, so you tell him I said so, and then maybe he’ll do it,” she fussed.

Renata stepped into the room with smudged makeup and a dozen tea lights floating in a big bowl of water. She set the bowl in the center of the room and lit the candles. Just as she finished, the lights went out. A hushed murmur washed through the crowd. Expectantly, Renata turned to the door—but the banging continued unabated. ”Well, that didn’t seem to phase ‘em,” she pouted “Curse all Whigs! Now we can’t see, and the zombies are still going to eat us!” she began to cry.

“Hush, now,” Mayzee replied. “Let’s give it a little more time,” she continued. “That door’s not buckling—not anytime soon,” she added, not totally convinced herself.

Chef entered, followed by Craig. “Everybody,” Chef said in sure tone. “Please put your phones in airplane mode, or power the off, so there’s no signal going out.”

“Does that matter?” Eriq asked.

“We’re not sure,” Chef said. “We figure if they can sense the electricity in the walls, maybe they can hear the WiFi too,” she shrugged.

With a grumble, Eriq turned his phone off. “It’s not working anyway, and I might want the battery later,” he said.

As the others did as they were asked, Craig stretched and leaned against the bar. Officer Delaceya gazed admiringly at him, as he prepared to go outside. With the generators off, she could no longer hear the long familiar buzz of electricity running through the walls. Admittedly, there was a tinge of doubt about whether or not the beasts could now hear such a signal, but she thought it worth the exercise and was pleased that Craig had agreed to see the generators all turned off in order to test the hypothesis. After all, they could always turn them back on…

The call of nature caught the young officer yet again, growing ever more insistent, and she crossed her legs so as not to lose a drop, then turned and made for the lady’s room with her phone to light the way.

Chef approached the bar. With a nod, Craig turned to her and said. “So that’s it? We just keep the generators off so once we run them off, they never come back?”

“I certainly hope not,” Chef answered. “If we can’t turn them on from time to time, our food is going to thaw and spoil!”

“How long will that take?”

“If I can keep everyone out of the freezers, it may be several days—but the longer we wait, the longer we’ll have to run the generators to get everything back to the proper temperature,” Chef Candice explained.

“How much fuel do we have?” Craig continued.

“Well, if we ran the generators straight, they might last a week,” Chef speculated. “But since we’ll only turn them on long enough to keep the fridges cold, we should have enough juice for a month or two.”

“Will that be long enough?” Craig continued. “How much food do we have?”

“For the twenty people currently in the building, food won’t be a problem,” Chef replied. “The real question is, how long is your average zombie apocalypse? And might we be blessed with a short one?”

“I dunno,” Craig shrugged. “This is the first one I’ve ever experienced—but popular media makes it out like this is just the way it is now. It’s nothing but zombies from here to eternity.”

“Well, we have food for the summer, if it comes to that,” Chef stated. “Our fridges and freezers are full, and there are a fraction of the mouths we’re used to serving. Tomorrow, we’ll start with the perishables and save the dried goods until there’s nothing else left. We’ll ration—cut the waste, and save the store, so food won’t be a problem, not even a little, maybe not until the snows start falling.”

“That’s good to hear,” Craig stated.

“And here we thought it’d always be the commies that came for us,” Chef shrugged. “Hey, Mayzee. Pass me a bottle of the 291, will ya? It’s time for a nip of the good stuff!”

Mayzee set the bottle and a couple glasses in front of Chef and Craig, then returned to assembling another round of cocktails.

“So what’s the plan?” Chef asked. “You’re just going to run by and take as many of them with you as you can?”

“Just like last time,” Craig shrugged. “Only this time I don’t come back.”

“And where are you going this time?” Chef Candice was keen to know.

“Home, to warn dad,” Craig said. “Then I’m going to find out about Virginia,” he stared at his sister so he might gauge her reaction.

“Isn’t she in Utah?” Chef replied, her concern visible. “Didn’t she go out to visit friends and family near Salt Lake?”

Craig gave a cautious nod. “I called her, and she was skeptical about zombies—but she was aware that something was happening, so she said she’d pack up and go south. She said her mom lives in San Pete, so that’s where their going.”

“Where’s San Pete?” Chef wondered.

“Somewhere in the desert,” Craig shrugged. “I meant to use the internet when everything calmed, but now the WiFi is down, so I can’t even call and ask,” he grumbled.

“Well, why don’t you call her on the landline?” Chef pointed.

Craig’s eyes went wide and he rushed over to the host stand. He pulled out his phone, found Virginia’s number, and dialed. After several rings, his whole body shifted, and he talked and listened in an animated fashion. Amused, Chef nipped at the half shot of 291 that she was allowing herself, and watched her excited brother talked to his betrothed. “Well? What’d she say?” she asked when Craig returned.

“She’s still headed south, though they don’t have a vehicle anymore,” Craig stated and took the offered shot of whiskey. “They got wrecked trying to get off the interstate. She said she knew the interstate was a mistake, but her brother insisted. Now he’s got a mangled leg, so their hobbling toward the mountains south of Utah Valley,” he concluded and took a sip of 291.

Candice Frowned. “Where’s Utah Valley?”

“That’s what I asked,” Craig shrugged. “She said everyone in Utah knows, so if I don’t find her in Gunnison, I’ll find her in the mountains that separate San Pete and Utah Valley,” Craig shrugged.

“Gunnison…” Chef shook her head. “That’s a lot of names. Maybe you should write these down,” she said, then leaned across the bar and snagged a pad and pen for Craig to use. “So the brother broke his leg, eh?” Chef continued. “Did she say how bad?”

“She said it’d slow them down, but they were able to set it, and they managed to find a broom that they cut so he could use it as a crutch,” Craig answered, as he wrote down San Pete, Utah Valley, and Gunnison. “It’s going to slow them up, but she said they’re almost through the city. They got a little rattled in the crash so their going to hole up for the night, but everyone else walked away with only minor scratches.”

“Did you tell her about the electricity?”

“I told her our theory,” Craig nodded. “She said she’d trip the breaker box so they can sleep in peace.”

“Who is she with?”

“Well I guess there’s nearly a dozen of ‘em now,” Craig shrugged. “It was her, the brother, a sister, and two friends of the family—but now their holed up in Springville with a family that the brother knows…”

“Springville,” Chef repeated, and tapped the paper with the names on it. “Add that to your list,” she said, then added, “Do they believe you about the zombies now?”

Craig nodded. “They’ve seen several, including the ones that caused the crash, so she’s knows I’m not full of shit.”

“Are you going to go find her?” Chef asked.

For several long seconds, Craig stared at his older sister. “I feel like I have to,” he nodded. “I mean, I go west to Utah, then I find Gunnison, and if she doesn’t meet me there, I go north until I find her,” he shrugged.

“Okay,” Chef nodded, then wrapped him in a hug. “So long as you convince those zombies outside to follow after you, I imagine we’re fine here for now. We know what we’re up against, and you’ll be next to useless as long as you’re all worried about your girl; so go find her, and bring her back to us, okay?”

“Thank you,” Craig sighed and wrapped his sister in a hug. “For a second, I thought you might tell me to stay.”

“Would you?” Chef Candice asked. “If I told you, would you actually stay?”

Craig nodded.

“But you can’t,” Chef answered. “You gotta go find Virginia.”

I’m scared,” Craig whispered, as he held his sister close. “I’m scared I’m never going to see her again. I’m scared I’m going to get out there and I’ll find nothing but zombies.”

“None of that now,” Chef pushed him away and stared him in the eyes. “You be smart out there, you hear? Be deliberate. Be disciplined.”

Craig nodded as he stared back at his sister.

Officer Delaceya wiped her hands on a paper towel as she returned from the restroom. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll be back before we know it,” she smiled and stared intently at the handsome young man in fatigues. She heard nothing about Utah, and thought he was only going to run the zombies off. With a look, Craig made it plain that he didn’t mean to dissuade the young copper from her erroneous notion. Instead, he poured a fat thumb of whiskey into a third glass, then held the glass out to Officer Delaceya.

“No!“ Kaleb shouted from across the room, then stomped to the bar as he wagged his young finger at the three. “No! She’s underage, and she’s made it markedly clear that such hi-jinx will not be tolerated!”

Craig turned to Kaleb with a quizzical stare and said, “In english, brother.”

“She stung us!” Kaleb threw his arms out. “She pulled our license! Technically, nobody should be drinking!”

Craig turned to Officer Delaceya. “Is that true?” he asked. “You were here to bust us?”

“That was all before the zombie apocalypse,” Officer Delaceya admitted with a sheepish nod. “Anyway, I think I lost the paperwork,” she answered as she glared at Kaleb.

Craig whistled. and added, “well, that explains the outfit! And here I thought your date stood you up!”

“What?!” Officer Delaceya glared. “I’ve never been stood up in my life!”

Craig shrugged. “On the first night of the zombie apocalypse, I can guarantee that hotter girls than you were stood up.”

Offended, Officer Delaceya gaped at Craig, then punched his arm.

“Hey!” he snapped, as he just managed to keep from spilling his drink. “That’s alcohol abuse!” After a momentary glare, he held the glass out to Officer Delaceya. “So are you going to join us or not? I’d wager a full fist dead presidents this wouldn’t be the first time you’ve ever had a drink!”

With a furtive glance at Kaleb, Officer Delaceya took the glass—which was answered with a dramatic guffaw as Kaleb turned away from the bar with much waving of his arms, and shaking of his head. “Unbelieveable! Un-fucking-believable!”

“What an asshole,” Officer Delaceya glared, as she watched Kaleb storm away.

“That’s my little brother you’re talking about,” Craig said, as he clinked his glass against hers.

“You mean like you’re actual brother?” Officer Delaceya looked back and and forth between Craig and Kaleb. “But you’re not even the same color,” she observed, wondering if it was some sort of joke.

“Admittedly, but we were all orphans before Mr. and Mrs. Chen took us in,” Craig explained. “Do me a favor, and play nice with him while I’m gone.”

Delaceya shrugged. “Well, since you’re so polite about it—but you’re coming right back, aren’t you?”

“There’s much to be done,” Craig evaded, not wanting to tell her that he’d be going to Utah in hopes of finding Virginia. He already felt like it’d be an ordeal, and he certainly didn’t want to argue about how stupid it was to attempt a road trip during the zombie apocalypse. His one great hope was that the mountains would be much safer—perhaps altogether free of zombies—or so he hoped. “These are good people,” he stared at the young copper. “These are my people. Even Kaleb, okay? Be kind to them.”

Delaceya gave a nod, then downed the shot, as Craig finished his own. She was fine to pay lip-service to such sentiment, but she had no intention to honor it—until it came time for Craig to leave, and she witnessed Kaleb go out of his way to wrap his brother in a hug and tell him he was sorry for not believing him, for saying such mean things on the phone. Even she had to admit it was sweet of him to admit fault, to be in the wrong.

“Don’t sweat it,” Craig smiled back at his little brother. “The zombie apocalypse isn’t something others can tell you about,” he nodded. “It has to be experienced.”

“I was so mad at you,” Kaleb shook his head. “I still am,” he noted with a sideways glance at Delaceya.

“Well, you’ll have to be mad at me from a distance,” Craig said as he hugged his little brother back. “Take care of these people, okay? I got to go see about Virginia.”

Virginia?! Delaceya wondered. Who the fuck is Virginia?! She wondered, as a vile envy caught in her heart. Whoever she was, that couldn’t keep him for more than a day or two; and then he’d be back, and she’d see about whether or not this Virginia could measure up.

“Be careful,” Kaleb said as he held his big brother. “Take care of dad.”

“What do you mean?!” Craig smirked as he pushed his brother away. “I’m going home so dad can take care of me!” he grinned.

Kaleb frowned and shook his head. “You play too much.”

“No such thing,” Craig smiled. He turned as Jamal came out of the kitchen and pulled off his apron, then stared at the brother in fatigues. “What’s up?” Craig asked the cook.

“I’m coming with you,” Jamal stated.

“No you’re not,” Craig answered.

“I can guarantee that you’re too slow to lose me, and I doubt you’ll waste the energy needed to make me stay,” Jamal reasoned.

“You might be right, but I don’t need you, and these people do,” Craig replied.

Jamal shook his head. “I’m going stir crazy just scrubbing in the kitchen, and you can use somebody to watch your back,” he said.

“All right, then,” Craig began. “You can help us get dad back here,” he smiled.

Jamal liked that. “How is the old man anyway? I feel like I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

“Keep that luck,” Craig rolled his eyes. “He’s just as difficult as ever,” he answered. “Anyone else want to go? Anyone else got a hankering to play rough with the zombies?”

Kevin twitched and shifted from foot to foot.

Sensing his indecision, Renata grabbed his hand. “Don’t leave us,” she begged.

Kevin smiled and wrapped an arm around her. “I won’t.”

“Don’t expect us back tonight,” Craig said. “We’ll hole up at the house.”

“If you change your mind, we’ll have a look-out on the roof,” Chef said. “Come back if you have to.” With that, Chef disappeared. Craig and Jamal gave her a minute to get in place, then Craig and Jamal approached the south door, a small emergency exit. Chef disabled the alarm. Jamal pulled on a pair of nylon gloves, and Craig eyed him, curious.

“Unless you got another pair of those leather bad boys, these are better than nothing,” Jamal shrugged. “So what’s the plan? Are we just running?”

“Dodging around cars, and going over fences,” Craig nodded. “What’s the number one rule?”

“Don’t get bit,” Jamal stated.

“Or scratched, for that matter,” Craig nodded. “What’s the number two rule?”

Jamal shook his head. “I hope you don’t got a lot of these,” he complained. “I never did learn to count without my fingers.”

“Me neither,” Craig smiled. “You ready?” he asked. “Some of these bastards are faster than they look.”

With a gulp, Jamal nodded. Now that he was going out, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to…

Craig turned to the room, waved and smiled, then pushed the side door open, and disappeared into the darkness. Jamal ran after him. For a good twenty seconds, Kaleb peaked out the door, making sure that Jamal and his brother weren’t cornered and had to come right back. With a shake of his head, he stepped in and pulled the emergency door closed. “They’re on their own,” he frowned.

A few seconds later, the banging on the front doors stopped. As the silence increased, smiles spread throughout the dim lit room. Minutes passed, and whispers with them. A wave of relaxation washed through the room as the calm continued. Conversation increased. People began to use their normal voices. The worry dissipated, and a heavy tiredness weighed on the gathered crowd. The first hour passed as ad hoc beds were spread about the dining room. Most the people bedded down—but not Renata. She stood behind the curtains and stared out at the lights of the city.

Kevin couldn’t sleep either. He joined her behind the curtains. “How long has it been?” Renata asked.

“Since when?” Kevin replied.

“Since the monsters were banging on the door,” Renata replied. “Since our friends ran them off.”

“Hours,” Kevin shrugged.

“What time is it?” Renata continued.

Kevin shrugged again, “tomorrow, I think.”

“We did it,” Renata turned, stared, and smiled at Kevin. “We made it through the first day of the zombie apocalypse!” With that, she hugged him, and squealed.

“Quiet now!” Kevin shushed the young hostess. “Keep that up and you’ll wake the dead!”

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