A Brief History of the Near Future

Book One: The Fish House

Act One: Itch, Scratch, Bite

Chapter 1: Chase

Chase doesn’t normally go out on Sundays, because he usually opens the kitchen on Monday morning—but Brittany asked him her very own self, and Chase thought quite the world of her, so he decided what could it hurt? It’d been a good month since he’d pulled such a stunt, and every once in a while a young body has to let off some steam. He figured it’d be good for him to go have a beer or two with some 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 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 the invitation, he practically skipped over to Shauntie’s, as he imagined all sorts of pleasant scenarios.

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 he slid in next to them and ordered a pilsner.

“I’ll be damned!” Kevin said as he clapped Chase on the back. “Look who made an appearance!”

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

“Oh, you know, 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 such expensive 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.”

“I’m agreeing!” Kevin backed away, then turned on Chase again. “We get it! Brittany’s bright, she’s got a good attitude, and she’s a certifiable smoke show! There’s no reason you shouldn’t be friends—but you’re just not in the same league! It’s not 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 Chase’s and Kevin’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? You remember how you asked her if she wanted to go hiking?” Jamal cut in.

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?’!”

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

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 outside for less than half a cigarette,” Kevin observed.

Wide-eyed 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, crystals—or whatever else she does in her spare time,” Jamal said. “Leave ‘er to her own kind! Leave her to Soft Hands.”

“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, then took a long obvious drink from his glass.

“So that’s the plan?” 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 pity at Chase. “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. “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.

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. His tender heart skipped a pitter and tried to catch itself with some extra heavy patter.

“Hey there, short-stack,” Chase began. “How’s your night?”

Brittany turned to Chase, wearing the smile she smiled when everything was getting on her nerves. Chase knew the look. His stomach sank to see it. Still, she set a gentle hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m doing 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 fine—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 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 like to be plagued by nightmares. Is there nothing for the poor, the buggered, the defeated? Yet, the prayers went unanswered, so whenever some believer ballyhooed about god, she invariably turned away with a sneer.

“Oh, not much,” Chase began 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. He told her it still needed a ton of work. There were a lot of cosmetic items that begged his attention. He also meant to paint it before he put the seats back—but in mechanical terms, the vehicle was totally road worthy, 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. She gave Chase another pat on the shoulder, and interrupted, saying, “I’m glad you got your car working.” Then added, “I’m gonna go have 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, some ten 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. “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 this girl,” she began. “Look,” she turned his chin back so they were staring at Brittany once more. He could see her through the back window, as she yelled at Soft Hands, with a cigarette between her polished fingers. He could just hear her voice—though he 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. They’d be really good fore each other—if they’d just take 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,” she stared.

“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. “You just don’t get it, do you? Not every girl is made for every boy.”

“Then 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 said.

Chase locked eyes and glared at Mayzee. Did she mean to hurt his feelings? “You know, I may not stand a chance, 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 said with a sweet soft smile. “Don’t take it personally. We can’t all be strong and silent. Most of us are weak and talk too much,” she said. 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. It was for the best. 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. Chase assumed driving home drunk would easily qualify. There was always the chance that Mr. Chen wouldn’t catch him—but it was impossible to know with Mr. Chen. He was such a sneak. And if he happened to catch Chase doing something so stupid as driving drunk, it’d be the broom for sure.

Chase was walking next to the creek as it passed under the interstate, which could be a bit sketch—but he was a full-grown man, 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, and 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 effort, as she simply laid there and took it. Likely it didn’t even register with her. Likely, she was high as a kite.

Chase grinned away his uneasiness as he began to walk 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. He just wanted to get past the couple. He was half a dozen steps beyond the two when he accidentally kicked a small rock. It 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.

Despite the smallness of the noise, it caught the vagrant’s ear, and so he turned his attention.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and Chase 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—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. They turned north, away from the creek, and into a residential neighborhood, getting closer to where Chase lived. He thought he could distance the sicko pretty quickly, 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.

Chase ran down an alley and ducked into an alcove. He scrambled up the fence with the assistance of a thick willow. The bloody man 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 key in the lock, then struggled to open the door. 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, into the 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 Vagrant down, as he swore and cursed. The junkie snarled, howled, and railed incoherently as he continued to scratch, bite, and kick.

Mr. Chen and Craig both came to the door as the neighbor’s lights came on. Mr. Chen tried to separate the combatants with his broom, while Craig helped Chase hold the bloody vagrant down. It wasn’t long before police, paramedics, and the fire department were there with sirens and flashing lights.

It took two cops and a firefighter to pry the meth-head away from Chase and Craig. The brothers stopped fighting immediately—but not the junkie. 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. They told him to call if the bites or scratches looked like they were getting infected, but otherwise said he should be fine with nothing more than a little neosporin. The cops took his story, and since the junkie was bloody all over—and still banging at the window of the cruiser—they were fairly convinced that Chase did nothing wrong. They also promised to go under the overpass and have a look for the lady. Finally, the cops and paramedics pulled away—as the lunatic continued to smash his face against the window of the squad car.

chapter 2: EXPECTATIONS

Chase, Craig, and Mr. Chen had barely made it to the kitchen when there was a knock on the door.

Mr. Chen turned from the water he put on for tea. He mumbled as he shuffled his way back to the entrance, as the twins stood from the table and followed. “What is it now?!” he complained, and peeked through the peehole at two men in black suits. “What do you want?!” he called to the strangers.

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

“And who are you?” Mr. 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 man in black asked.

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

“What if I told you it wasn’t just some meth-head?” the stranger replied. “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 officer said. “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 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 going around, that’s making people crazy,” he said.

“A what?” Mr. Chen asked.

“A biological. We’re not sure where it came from, or exactly what it does, but we have grave concerns over some of its effects on people,” 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 Mr. Chen.

“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 a zombie?” Craig asked.

“There are some similarities, though we’re certainly not using that word,” 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 his wife, and mauled his own daughter. That was about dinner time yesterday. And now his daughter is exhibiting similar signs of distress,” he paused, then began with his own questions. “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.

““They’re awful close to fifty-fifty,” Special Agent Dodd answered.

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

“Pretty much a hundred…” 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 called phalanx. It’s a simple pill,” Special Agent Dodd began. “Beyond that I can’t tell you, because the science doesn’t stick with me. Even if I knew the names, I couldn’t tell you what the drugs are, or what they do. I only care that they work.”

“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 snap,” he stated. “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. But if you come with us now, we will do everything we can to make you comfortable. You’ll 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’ve known this type for years, 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 red sore. “But if I become a zombie…” Chase 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 for getting bit. 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.

“Well, that’s a damned shame,” Special Agent Dodd frowned. “If you’ll come with us,” he pointed to the car. “We’ll get you treated immediately. 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 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.

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!”

“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 have to stay in this little room.”

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

“Of no,” Special Agent Kenzie chuckled. “There is no refusing,” he 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.

Special Agent Dodd shook his head. “I’m sorry for the ruse,” he said. “That’s just something I got it from a book,” he shrugged. “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. Imean, it’s not quite that in your favor—more like 44 to 56—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. “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. They start to bite. That happens to everyone, whether they turn or not. They all get the urge to itch, even if they are one of the few—the very few—that don’t act on it. So with that fact in mind, do you think we should just leave you out among the public?”

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.”

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 questions. “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 stared. “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?!

“Well, if you’re praying type, now’s a good time to get after it.” Special Agent Dodd slapped the bars of the cell, then added, “We’ll get one of the orderlies to bring you something to read,” and with that, the special agents left.

CHAPTER 3: BROTHER TROUBLE

Craig and Mr. Chen watched as the car with Chase and the Special Agents went up to Limit, then turned toward the freeway. Scratching his head, Craig turned to go inside.

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

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

“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?!”

“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 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. “Some of us have to be up in the morning!”

“Your dumb brother got arrested for fighting with some cranked up vagrant,” Mr. Chen pointed at the youngest.

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

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

“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!

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

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

“I poked my head out the window,” Kaleb shrugged. “I figured it was all over when the sirens arrived and none of you were dragged off. I figured the rest was just details—but it keeps going on,” 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 you 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!” 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 didn’t last. 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! Eeyah! 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 was starting to feel itchy.

Sometime before sunrise, a doctor came in with three other men. One was just an orderly, while the other two were dressed in riot gear, fully padded with helmets and thick leather gloves.

“Hello, Chase. I’m Doctor Fateh,” the Indian said.

“Hello, doctor,” Chase replied and stepped up to the bars.

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

Chase gave a nod.

“And how are you feeling?” he continued.

“Restless,” Chase admitted.

“Are you getting the itch?” the doctor asked.

Chase frowned. “I suppose so,” he admitted.

Doctor Fateh gave a critical nod. “Well, that’s all we’re going to do right now. We’re just going to take a little blood,” he smiled. “These two are going to hold your arms while I take your blood. 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 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, slapped Chase’s left arm several times, then stuck the needle in a visible vein. Chase flinched, but the padded men held him still. The doctor took several milliliters, then pulled the syringe. “Thank you, Chase,” he smiled, then stepped away.

The orderly approached with a small ball of cotton. He pressed it against the slight bubble of blood that coalesced, then taped it to his arm. “All better,” he smiled, then turned and followed after the doctor.

Now that the two were out of range, the men in riot gear let go of his arms. Chase rubbed his wrists, which 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 pretty 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 doctor and two padded men did just that—but the orderly returned shortly with a box in hand. The box was full of books. “I haven’t read many of these,” the orderly began. “I just brought what looked interesting, along with some titles everyone knows.” With a smile, the orderly 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; whatever military types might like to read. “Mind if I take two?”

The orderly 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, then set the others back with a sigh, and pushed the box out as far as he could. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” the orderly 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 orderly 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.”

“Thanks,” Chase repeated and held out a hand. “I’m Chase Chen.”

“Specialist Hakeem,” the orderly smiled. “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 that, the orderly left.

Chase turned the books over and gave them a second examination. He set one down and cracked the other open, as he laid back on his cot. He barely made the second page before the door to the cell block popped open yet again.

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.

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—but they were already gone. “You let me out, you louts!”

Chase stared at the cop, curious that he should recognize the man. It was Officer Lars, the cop that got bit by 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.

“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, took up his book, and ignored the cop.

The cussing continued for several minutes, but died off as Officer Lars found it impossible to make good on his threats.

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, some time around ten. Instead, he woke to the sound of screaming neighbors a little after seven o’clock. He threw off his covers, ran to the window, and searched for the source of the commotion.

Across the street, a teenage boy was raging at a door; punching, kicking, and screaming incoherently. A large old lady ambled down the walk, with two dogs and leashes and lit cigarette between two fingers. 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 ddog did his business on a nearby tree. She exchanged a few words with an approaching mailman. After a few beats the mailman decided his flyers, letters, and bills were more important than the issues of the screaming teen. 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—which is what woke Craig. He poked his head through his curtains as the mailman struggled against the teen. The lady with her two little dogs stepped down the street and began to juggle two leashes and a cigarette while she fished for her phone.

Craig turned from the window, put on his pants and shoes 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 leave that man alone!” he yelled. “By the beard of Lincoln, you leave that man alone!”

Across the street, the mailman was much larger and not afraid to fight—though he took some early damage from the teen. For a bit the two grappled—until the mailman finally managed to force the boy away.

On the sidewalk, a young couple had stopped to ponder the combatants. The mailman stood his ground as he stared at the raging boy. Frustrated, the teen let off a scream, then turned and ran at the young couple on the sidewalk. He threw himself over the low fence and half tackled the young man. They grappled and tripped off the sidewalk onto the side of the street—a very wide and much used street.

Mr. Chen and the boys lived not far from the massive structures of downtown. They lived where the buildings just began to shrink down to become individual houses interspersed with smaller commercial properties—and they didn’t live on a side street. They lived on the south side of an avenue with 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.

Several drivers checked their brakes. One honked, and another swerved into the other lane. The girlfriend kicked and screamed at her boyfriend’s attacker—which wasn’t helping the poor boyfriend much.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Dew neh loh moh!” Mr. Chen continued to curse at the raging teen. He let himself out the waist high gate and onto the street. He raised his broom and told the teen what he thought of him in a fine mix of languages, as he stood in the near parking lane. Likely, the old man would have crossed the street and joined the fight, if not for the rush of traffic.

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

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

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; turned to Mr. Chen, snarled, and ran into the street—despite traffic. He made it across the first lane, but was clipped at the knees by a passing corvette convertible. He rolled over the windshield, over the seats, and on to the rear of the car.

Craig and Mr. Chen both stared on in horror. They were sure the boy was dead.

The corvette screeched to a halt. The driver turned and the crippled teenager scratched his arm. Screaming bloody murder, the driver abandoned his car—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. The tires squealed and the truck grunted as it collided with the curb, then took out an electrical box and pinched it up against the brick of a used bookstore. Sparks flew and Craig could hear—could almost 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 in a complete snarl. There was an ever growing mob on the street gathered around the accident. The raging teenager was finally still and 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. He scratched at several, as only his legs were broken. It took four of them to get him on a gurney, his head and hands pinned with straps.

He wasn’t the only one trundled into an ambulance. The paramedics also took the mailman, the boyfriend, the girlfriend, and also the driver of the corvette, since he complained of getting scratched.

Craig and Mr. Chen watched as the ambulances took the wounded. “Why they go that way?” Mr. Chen asked, as the lights went west, 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. “Because that’s the way to Fort Carson, and Evans Hospital!”

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

“Because it is some sort of zombie thing!” Craig’s heart raced as he realized that Special Agent Dodd had ben telling the truth! “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 as she lit another cigarette, then turned, and continued on her way with her two 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 leave with their sirens blaring, on to the next job. Finally, there was nothing left to see, except the remains of the morning’s adventure.

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

But Mr. Chen ignored him. Instead, he stood on the front porch and stared over the bit of city that they could see. He turned to Craig, and finally replied. “Listen,” he said as he locked his son’s eye. Living so close to the city center, Mr. Chen was used to sirens, but today there seemed to be a disproportionate amount. “I don’t know about zombies,” he began, “but this is certainly something very bad.”

With one final muttered curse, Mr. Chen turned and carried his broom back inside.

“What’ll we do?!” Craig asked.

“I call Mr. Wiezcykyi again,” Mr. Chen said.

“Hello,” the lawyer answered.

“Where’s Chase?” Mr. Chen asked.

“I’m doing my best,” Mr. Wiezcykyi replied. “You gotta give me a little more time….”

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

Mr. Wiezcykyi sighed. “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 come here to 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 to no effect. Indeed, it barely made him feel better. He dialed Mr. Wiezyckyi again, but the call went to voicemail. He looked up at Craig and tried to keep the worry out of his face. “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 garage. He shook the gas can, which was half full, and checked the generator; then wheeled it inside and put it in the kitchen, next to the fridge.

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

“If we run it sparingly, we have enough for a couple weeks,” Mr. Chen said. “Most important thing is keep the fridges cold.”

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

“Hiya! I just told you we need to be 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!”

“Eyah! Stupid boy no back up imortant info! Well, we turn generator on tonight,” Mr. Chen replied. “Charge your phone then. She’s not even in town. Let’s think of people here first.”

Craig nodded. “We should 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!” and with that he disappeared. When he came back, he had flashlights, a radio, and spare batteries.

While he was gone, Craig had started filling mason jars with tap water.

“Ahh, good thinking!” Mr. Chen smiled. “I go get boards and nails.” When Mr. Chen came back to the kitchen, there was a case of quart mason jars along with an assortment of other jars, bottles, and containers filled with water. They took up half the counter space, stacked in a precarious manner.

“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.

The tub was filling. 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 face. “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 out in the sink.

“You call the reataurant?” Mr. Chen asked.

“Yeah, I just spoke with him,” Craig said.

“Next, go around the corner and get more gas,” Mr. Chen said. Maybe it not so crazy at the gas station just yet.”

“Only if we turn the generattor on and recharge my phone,” Craig began.

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

Craig gulped, finished filling the tub, then put on his heavy coat and thickest gloves. He grabbed the half-full gas can, then relit his joint in the alley and 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, he stepped into the store, ignored the clerk’s stare, and gave the man ten bucks for gas. With jitters and a stream of curses slipping through his lips, he filled the can, then stepped away from the station without bothering to go in for his change. After that, he nearly ran back through the alley.

Thanks to the heavy coat, thick gloves, and nerves dialed up to eleven, Chase was a sweaty mess when he 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 Craig’s face. “One hour and off!”

Craig nodded. An hour was more than enough charge to talk with Virginia.

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 bit better than cardboard. The soldier’s name was Armand, and he looked familiar, though Chase couldn’t say from where. Did they know each other? If they did, the soldier wasn’t saying. Chase wondered if perhaps it was one of Craig’s friends, since the Army was his branch, but it wasn’t a friendly look. Chase decided it was probably just because he had the sickness, and let it go at that. Besides, the soldier didn’t stick around. He simply set the tray on the floor, stared for an extra long second, then slid the tray closer before he turned and walked out. Indeed, by the time he finished his mediocre breakfast, Chase had forgotten all about the soldier named Amrand.

After that, a chaplain came in, set a stool well out of arms reach, and had a chat with any of the prisoners that were still capable of speech—and also willing to speak to a man of the cloth. Some of them had no interest in his company. Chase welcomed the conversation, except that the man had the terrible habit of turning everything into a confession. Still, concentrating on the chaplain kept the itchy restlessness at bay.

The chaplain didn’t stay long, and since Chase had to guard his words with the man, he wasn’t sad to see him go. The day wore on. Chase couldn’t stop the itching. He got really angry about little things that shouldn’t have bothered him. He got annoyed at the dim buzz of the light—and when Officer Lars across the hall started up with the insults again, Chase just stared murder back at the copper. If not for the iron bars in the way, he would have attacked him. Indeed, when they put a late lunch through the gap in the door, Chase snarled and yanked it out of the orderly’s hands.

“Oh damn,” Specialist Hakeem sighed. “You okay in there?” He asked.

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

“Shit,” Specialist Hakeem said as he shook his head. “Listen, 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, that’s it. We ain’t seen anyone come back from the snap.”

“But the itch—well, I can tell you only got the itch, because you ain’t trying to get through these bars just yet,” he shook his head. “Look, you gotta struggle. You gotta remember your words,” Specialist Hakeem advised.

With that, he turned, and went out the way he came.

“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 glared and wanted to murder the man, as his fever continued to grow. Eventually, after a few long minutes, the calm center of his self won out—in large part because there was no actual way to get at the cop. Chase forced himself to lay on the cot and ignore the continuing insults. He opened the first book and puzzled over the strange marks. 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 running through the lights ground against his nerves. He couldn’t believe how loud the lights sounded. He did everything he could to ignore the harsh thrum emanating from the bare bulb above him. Then, after a time struggling with the impossible ink and page, 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.

Ah, better!

Still, he could hear the bulbs in the hall and the other cells. But they weren’t nearly so grating since he had a little distance. He 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.

Mr. Wiezcykyi 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?”

Chase closed his eyes and grit his teeth against the irritation of 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 turned to the bars.

“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.

Chase was still running hot and a delirium spun through him. He groaned as tears streamed down his face, then stomped to the bars and grabbed at the lawyer.

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

Immediately, the soldiers grabbed him and trussled him down the line of cells until they came to one that was empty.

“What’s the meaning of this?! Unhand me at once!” Mr. Wiezcykyi protested as they pulled him into a cell. “This is unconcionable!” he 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.

Once he was locked in the cell, the soldiers ignored him.

Unsure exactly what was going on, 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.

Armand stopped and grinned at Chase. “Well done,” he said through the bars. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t let us down,” he sneered.

Angered, Chase jumped up and flew at the bars. He grabbed at Armand—but the soldier had backed out of range.

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

With a smirk, Armand turned on his heel and followed the other soldiers out.

Chapter 7: Double

Up at The Fish House, Kaleb shuffled papers and hoped that lunch would be better than breakfast, when he got a rather unusual call from his brother, Craig.

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

“Not bad, but not good,” Kaleb said. “We had a twenty top at seven that cancelled, and a number of other reservations have all called off. Breakfast was about half as busy as usual...”

“Not surprised,” Craig stated. “Probably because of all the zombies.”

“The what?”

“Zombies—or at least something very much resembles zombies,” Craig continued. “That’s what got Chase last night. We had another one, across the street, just after you left.”

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

“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 noted, and wondered when his brother would finally get to the point.

“Fear is the mind-killer,” Craig replied. “Improvise, adapt, and overcome. After that, there’s not a lot of room for freakin’ out. Not if you want to survive.”

“I’d keep that in mind, but then I’ll have you around to remind me,” Kaleb answered.

“But of course you will,” Craig smiled. “Get home quick.”

“I’m not coming home,” Kaleb replied. “You’re coming to work.”

“I’m not coming in!” Craig countered.

“What the hell, Craig?!” Kaleb yelled.

“I should think we have bigger proble—” Craig began.

“There’s no bigger problem than keeping this restaurant running!” Kaleb cut in. “You know, I can’t believe you! You and your brother are always coming up with something to get way from work! I wonder what dad has to say about you calling in?!”

“Don’t bring him into this!” Craig replied. “Beside, who do you think put me up to calling you?”

“So you’re saying dad knows about these zombies?” Kaleb asked.

“I wouldn’t say he’s as convinced as I am,” Craig noted.

“So you just want the day off?! Is that what all this zombie crap is about?!” Kaleb snapped. “You’re pathetic! I really should tell dad!”

“You leave dad out of it, or I’ll tell him 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,” Craig answered.

“Doesn’t mean we don’t need you!” Kaleb replied. “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—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 noted. “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 a zombie,” Craig answered.

Kaleb stared off into oblivion. “Craig, you done lost your damned mind! 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 hospital?!”

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

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

“Zombies don’t scratch,” Kaleb noted. “They bite.”

“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. “And pretty much anything in the ocean.”

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 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—although they refused to put any real work into it. They refused to do more than the absolute minimum. Most of the work was always 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 father’s favorite curse, then remembered what it meant and who it referenced, and cut off halfway through. “Sorry, mom.”

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 stepped away from the bubbly Swedes and walked toward the kitchen.

“You all right?” Kaleb asked.

“I’m fine,” Mayzee stated. “It’s just tourists.”

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

“What?!” Mayzee snapped, her hands going to her hips. “We agreed I don’t have to work the bar any 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.

“And just like that you’re going to do it?” Kaleb asked as he followed along. He knew he was risking her cooperation, but he half wanted her to refuse. “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?”

“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. “I had to skip my Dutch Bros just to make it this early!”

“I’m glad you came at all,” Kaleb replied. “I’ve had three people call off, and Mark is refusing to answer his phone, so I think we’re short four this 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 the special dishes they wanted,” 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 whispered. “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 fifty bucks if I could 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, and their one female companion, a svelte blonde with large eyes and big white teeth. For a long second, she 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 smiled 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?!” the young viking complained.

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

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 near Swede said, and grabbed her arm. He pulled another fifty bucks out of his wallet, grabbed the other one off the table, and thrust them at her. “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. The dinner 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 and 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 next day’s mise en place—but it was so slow! He decided to ignore the grisly videos of people attacking random strangers in the streets. “Why are you watching 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 sounded accurate. Kaleb shook his head, then went about his business. It got on towards close, and he thought they might make it through the day without any more headaches—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!” He put on his best smile, walked behind the bar, and approached the lone woman at the far end, all dolled up on a Monday night. “How are you tonight?” he asked.

“A little pissed off,” the 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. “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 said. “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.”

“That’s 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 said.

“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?”

“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 50 years. You’re going to tell me one beer in 50 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 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—but before he could speak; he heard screaming, the crash of dishes, and a general commotion increasing in the dining room. Kaleb, Chef, Jamal, and Kevin all piled out of the kitchen to see what the ruckus was all about. 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 man was stood over Brittany and pummeled her, as the few tables shirked away. An old regular, Mr. Murphy, tuged at the arm of the young behemoth, while Officer Delaceya cowered behind an occupied table. Lorraine tried to calm the stranger, while one of her male friends stepped around so he could intervene. The attacked snapped at Lorraine, tough he continued to abuse poor Brittany. He snapped at anyone nearby, with vicious snarls, scratching and biting; while the rest of the customers simply gaped and cried out in astonishment. He raked the arm of Mr. Murphy, then bit Brittany’s arm.

Kevin, Jamal, and Chef went in immediately, as Brittany screamed bloody murder. Kevin grabbed the man’s arm. The berserker turned on the cook. For half a second, it looked like Kevin would be easily overwhelmed—but Jamal was there, and he’d been a wrestler for years—and since Kevin had him distracted, Jamal had an easy time putting the berserker in a standing full nelson.

The crazed man howled unintelligibly as he struggled against Jamal—but the cook’s hold was too strong. Jamal walked the belligerent to the front doors as Chef and Kevin held them open. “And stay out!” Jamal yelled as he threw the man toward the parking lot. For a long second, he prepared to continue the fight.

Motion at the far end of the parking lot caught Jamal’s attention, and he noticed several others running at the door. One of them let out a howl as it careened forward, and he realized there was violence in all their eyes. The belligerent man gained his feet and turned back on Jamal. With a snarl, he started forward once more.

Jamal bolted back into the restaurant. Chef chelped him close and lock the massive wooden doors. Wide eyed, he turned to the others. “There’s more of them out there! At least a dozen!”

Sure enough, the crazed man banged against the doors, trying to get back in. His assault was joined by the others. “By the beard of Van Buren!” Chef swore as the others stared on. “Well?! Someone call the cops!”

Kaleb turned at Officer DeLaceya. She had her phone pressed against her ear. 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 the phone.

“Well, it’s a solid door, so like as not, they won’t be getting through anytime soon,” Chef said. “Let’s get a couple tables up against it just in case.”

Having a task, the room turned and began to shift chairs and grab at empty tables. Eriq, a friend of a regular, was feeling the fear and wanted the table closest to the door, despite the glasses and half eaten plates still upon it—but he could remove those 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 a good fifty pounds to the large man—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 door, 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?!”

immedidately, 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 and increasingly louder. The phone was still ringing with hopes that someone might pickup. Brittany cried as Mayzee led her to the office, so she might bandage her friend. Kaleb had no idea what he should do. His whole world was falling apart—

“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, with a shit-eating grin on his face, and Renata on his arm.

chapter 8: A Breach in Protocol

The four enlisted men had on padded gear, developed for urban warfare, similar to what SWAT teams wear. 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 a flight of stairs, and then outside, where there was pit dug in the earth.

The pit was twelve feet deep with reinforced walls of cement and rebar. After giving it forty-eight hours to cure, command decided the pit was ready to house the growing population of insolent aggressors. For the last several hours, this squad in thick padding had dragged one belligerent after the next from the cells of the hospital to the edge of the pit, then lowered them in as gently as they could. Command was adamant that they do no permanent damage to those that snapped.

The current zombie was a monster, maybe six and a half feet tall and over 250 pounds of mostly muscle. He was in fatigues—just a private—but a rather large and strong one at that. He was in good shape, and they all struggled to keep the beast under control. Halfway up the stairs, Seymour lost his grip on the monster’s right arm. The large zombie fell onto his back and nearly pulled Watts down on top on of him. “Ulysses S. Christ!” Armand swore, as he pulled a baton. He rained several vicious blows upon the large beast, striking him center mass. He might have wondered if he did any damage, except that he heard the cracking of bone. “Get his arm, Grant dammit!”

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

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

“He’s a wheezing mess,” Major Ing approached and stepped to the edge of the pit. “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 mother fucker, and almost dragged down Watts. 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 Watts. “Did he bite you? Did he scratch you? Did he break flesh?”

“Sir, no sir!” Watts answered. 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.

“Very well,” Major Ing turned back to Armand. “How many more are down there?”

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

Major Ing stepped close and stared at the men as they continued to heave, as they continued to try and catch their breath after 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 through the gate in the chain-linked fence, all topped with concertina wire. He followed on Ing’s heels as they slowly stepped along the wall of the hospital, and wondered what was up. He figured it wouldn’t be about the coke money. That was still two weeks out, and never mentioned on base. No. Whatever the Major wanted, it’d be about the current thing: these insolent aggressors, as they were euphemistically named. The enlisted men all referred to them as the snapped—but no one got away with calling them zombies.

“What do you make of this, Armand? You think we’re doing the right thing, leaving these bastards alive?”

“Sir, I think it’s a waste of resources and dangerous to boot, sir,” Armand answered.

“Truth be told, this whole shit-fest is falling apart,” Major Ing claimed and scratched the back of his neck. He 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,” 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 what must be done.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Armand grinned.

“I always thought you were a sharp one, sergeant,” Major Ing tried to smile. “Do us both a favor and leave your captain and lieutenant out of this. Those two are a couple soggy waffles,” he 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.”

“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 around 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?”

“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,” 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 them I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Chapter 9: The Siege Begins

Although the banging continued, the front doors were thick and made of a 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.

Still, the sound was something terrible as the zombies continue the attack the fortification; but Chef, Craig, and any of the others with an idea of solid construction knew the doors would hold—at least for a day or two, at least for a few more hours—and so the occupants of the The Fish House ignored the banging of the doors, or did their best to try.

“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.

Officer Delaceya shook her head. “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 defended, as he split his attention between Officer Delaceya and Kaleb.

“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?”

“About that,” Craig smirked. “My brother, Chase, was attacked last night. After the fight, a couple DIA came to take him—”

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

“Defense Intelligence Agency,” Chef answered.

“Thank you,” Craig smiled at Chef. “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, 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.

“No, a truck did that. But it was because of the 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, 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.”

“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.

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.

“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. They 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.

“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.”

“You bastards!” she snarled at the cooks between her tears. “You dumb bastards!” she cried, then melted into Kaleb’s soft 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 he confused them. Anyway, Chase was an old friend of Mayzee. He’d talked to Captain Ham 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 draw attention?! Are you not making enough money to keep your nose clean?!” Major Ing had 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 my venture again and I’ll end you.” For several long seconds, Major Ing just stood over Armand and glared; his nostrils flaring, and his face turning red.

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 white powder. He tried his damnedest not even to think about her. 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—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 faring any better. He was actually doing worse, since Chase was managing to sleep. Sleep meant that Chase was getting over it—though some still snapped. The odds improved when the sick actually managed to get some shut eye. Armand stared hostility at the young man in his cell, disappointed to see him sleep. The ones that stayed up, they were in real trouble. They always snapped. They snapped—or they managed to sleep. Sometimes they slept then snapped—which always made Armand happy. He hated almost all of these dumb fuckers, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The door to the cell block popped open, and a dozen soldiers escorted several large blonds down the block of cells. Armand turned and saw Banner among them, a wide dumb grin on his face.

“Raise the tariffs, McKinley; you find enough of ‘em?!” Armand asked.

Banner stepped from the train of soldiers. “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. He didn’t care that it was inspired by Mayzee. He like it none-the-less.

Upon seeing the cells, the large Swedes balked and attempted to turn around—but the soldiers separated them, and forced them down the line. 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 that fighting would only leave them worse off.

Once they had the Swedes in the cell, the other 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.

“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. 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 voice called out from 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 bringing in more is to keep you here,” Major Ing stated. “We have no more room and there are simply too many cases to follow,” he claimed.

“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. 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, and he’s ordered all soldiers to their posts and the fort sealed tight.”

“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 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’m just going to make it official!”

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

“What makes you think we’ll ever have a cure for this?” Major Ing countered. “We still don’t have a cure for cancer, the common cold. Hell, even TB is making a come back!”

“Don’t 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 seperate the two. 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 turned and glowered at Dodd’s partner. “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. Sergeant Sabino, get a rifle on every man in this unit. Lieutenant 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 smiled. “You want the pit, it’s all yours.”

chapter 12: the siege continues

Everyone was gathered in the dining room. Chef frowned as she noted the detritus of interrupted meals scattered across several tables. The banging at the door continued. The lights were still on. If it weren’t for Craig, the drapes would still be open. Indeed, if it weren’t for Craig, they’d all be leaned against the window, gawking.

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 curtains 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 seemed light and ephemeral-but the new blood red drapes made it seem overly serious and darkly dramatic in contrast. Still, Mr. Chen had insisted. “We will leave them open, until we want our privacy,” he said, then told her stories of the old country, and how the government had spied on its friends and enemies alike. “In the end, as a government turns more and more tyrannical, all the people are enemies,” he told her. After that, the drapes had grown on her. They offered the place a seriousness she had not seen before, and gave it a gravity more akin to what it what was; a massive conglomeration of stone, steel, and heavy tempered glass.

Chef stared about the room and noted the fidgety energy of its occupants. She squinted at them and tried to see their strengths. It was time to bring them to their senses, and put them in the frame of their better selves.

Still, they were civies. Perhaps it’d be best if she started off soft.

“All right then,” Chef 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 queasy smile and a nod of acknowledgment.

“For those of you that don’t know me, let me introduce myself. I’m Chef Candice Chen, I’m the executive chef of The Fish House. This is my father’s house, and in his 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. Whatver it is, I’m not interested in finding out.”

“Due to our continuing difficulties, I hereby cordially invite you one and all to stay the night,” Chef said. “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: 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. 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 that will be escorted out. Am I clear?” and with that, Chef Candice glared around the room.

““Sir, yes sir!” Craig said.

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 shut off all the exterior lights and doublecheck the other doors, to make sure they are all secure. After that, we’ll see if they 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? Sorry. 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 ever so gently 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 anything more; but before she could speak, Craig stepped next to her and glared across the room—as he bristled with weapons. Craig was large and formidable, and although Eriq was larger, he flinched from any possible confrontation, then turned away 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. 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. Then 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.”

Nest, Chef caught Kaleb with a handful of dishes. “Lock up the shop. I don’t want anyone just helping themselves. We might be at this for a while, and who knows what other survivors we might have to take on. Let’s be sparing with our supplies.”

Kaleb gave a nod, then turned to the shop, and closed it up.

“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 as it continued on the other side of the door.

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 said as he picked up the line. He seemed bothered, perplexed, but mostly curious that work should be calling on is day off at such a late hour.

“Oh! Am I glad to hear you!” Renata sighed, a great tension sloughing 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?”

“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 shop?!” he asked, assuming what he felt could be the asbolute worst. “Renata, what’s going on over there?! Did Chef pull the plug?! Is everyone getting fired?! What’s with all that racket?!”

“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. “Is it Kevin, or Brittany, or any 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, his skepticism getting 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. He let out a grunt and a curse. The phone scuffed. There was a donk, as the phone crashed to the floor—and with that, the line went dead.

“Hello…? Hello…!?” Renata cried, but there was no one there. Worried about Alej, she lowered her head, and bawled for a good dozen breaths.

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

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 all okay, babe,” she said as she stared at the door and rubbed Renata’s back. “Everything’s going to be okay,” she assured, though she eyed the door with growing suspicion. “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 ring.”

“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?”

In answer, Lorraine held up the receiver.

“Looks like the cell towers are down. I was talking to my sister when it died,” Eriq stated.

“Where’s your sister?”

“Philadelphia,” Eriq answered. “She says I’m sounding crazy. Maybe she’ll believe me when she can’t get through.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she’ll think you’re playing some elaborate prank,” Renata sulked.

Eriq ignored the complaint. “I got no bars, and the wifi won’t connect.” He shrugged.

“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.

chapter 14: rooftop

“So what are we doing?” Officer Delaceya asked, as she climbed the ladder to the roof.

“I’m not doing anything,” Craig said, 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.

Officer Delaceya 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?”

“No, we’re not going to shoot ‘em!” 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 away from Officer Delaceya, then walked to the east edge of the building.

She followed, without any more questions, and wondered what she might see. Whatever it was, she was sure it’d be a mess. The cry of distant sirens sounded, along with the bark and howl of a hundred dogs.

“That’s trouble,” Craig noted as he looked down from the edge of the building. “There’s more of ‘em coming up the hill.”

The neighborhood around The Fish House was mostly dark, but there was enough ambient light from the rest of the city so 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.”

“Look how fast some of them are,” Craig noted, somewhat astonished, as several of the shadows ran up the road. With a frown, he looked out over the rest of the city.

The Fish House sat on a small hill, maybe a hundred feet up, as the city stretched out beneath it. Downtown was clearly visible behind the freeway and Fountain Creek. The river and the road ran parallel to each other on a north-south track. Between here and there were a half dozen blocks of single family homes with the occasional cluster of commercial shops.

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 unseeable creek, set deep in its 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 powerful scope. Usually, downtown was a calm and prosaic sight. 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 isn’t dead,” 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 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.

“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. It’s just a heat wave, or something equally unfathomable. Maybe its a full moon, or Mars and Saturn are in a difficult aspect, so violent crime spikes for a week,” 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?”

“Six years in. A year and a half 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 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 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 all 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 mistifying 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 consistant 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 wth lights 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. “Now that the lights are off, let’s get downstairs and see if we can’t disperse these bastards. They seem to be drawing more and more to the front of the building.”

Chapter 15: Running In Circles

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

“What are you doing?” Craig asked.

“We need a place to put Brittany,” Chef answered. “She’s got scratches and bite marks all over her from the one that got inside. We need a place for her to sleep.”

"Was anyone else scratched?” Craig asked.

“Probably. It was something of a skirmish,” Chef shrugged. “It’s fine. This room is big enough for three or four... What brings you upstairs?”

“Well, the lights are off, but those assholes are still at the door. 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 back 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 those five seconds. But there was nothing to do about that. Risks would be taken.

Officer Delaceya manned the rope as it hanged off the balcony. 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, then bolted from the parking lot. He dodged a zombie that shuffled and moaned near the gate, then sprinted down the steep street. There were several coming up the road, but he 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 more than a second to consider it. He though he could dodge, though he’d still be in striking distance; so he decided to go through the small man instead.

Like a running back, he smashed into the zombie—simply bowled over the beast—and continued on his way. Good thing too. There were nearly two dozen of the creatures that chased after him. Some were slow, but a number were runners.

Craig made it to the back of the hill. He grabbed the rope and began up the steep hill. A couple dozen zombies followed, though they couldn’t manage the slope—until one grabbed the rope and began to climb up it.

“Hurry, hurry!” Officer Delaceya cried. “One’s got the rope, and she’s coming up right behind you!”

Craig was young and strong, so it wasn’t long before he was over the balcony. The one behind him, a young female in good shape, 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; so 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.

“Jesus,” Officer Delaceya blinked away from the sickening thud. She closed her blade, then wrapped Craig in a hug and pecked him on the cheek. “I’m sure glad to have that over,” she smiled and made eyes at the young man.

Craig smiled, nodded, and slowly pushed her away. He realized she was a pretty thing, once one could look past the hard demeanor—but then, he had Virginia to consider. “Looks like we did it,” he said, and stared at the mess of milling zombies as they struggled in vain to make it up the steep slope. “That’s what you get, you rude bastards!”

It would have been fine, as most turned and twitched and moseyed off in some other direction—but some at the fringe 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?”

Craig shrugged, he was about to say it didn’t mean anything, when a scream and several bright flashes erupted from the very same house.

POPOP! POP!

A gun sounded, 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.

“Well, some of those bastards are coming back up the hill, so...” 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?” Officer Delaceya 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.”

It doesn’t make any sense," Craig shrugged and shook his head. “But then, who’s to say it was survivors that shut off the power?”

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. “The zombies 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 the generators!” she realized. “We gotta shut off the generators!”

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, as she cried all the more. Apparently, the banging on the front doors had resumed. By all indications, some of the zombies had returned up the hill and were assaulting the place once more.

With a grim nod, Chef agreed to shut off the generators. “Renata, put out a half dozen tea candles, and aske the guests to shut off their phones.”

“The phones are useless anyway,” Renata stated, as she walked away.

Shaking her head, Chef turned back to Craig and Officer Delaceya. “So how do we disperse them this time? You can’t go back down the hill. You cut the rope, and there’s still a couple dozen milling around out back anyway, so you’d never make it back up.”

“I’m not coming back this time,” Craig began. “Before I left, dad and I got the generator out. I gotta get home before he turns it on,” he explained, with fear in his eyes.

Chapter 16: Fresh Air

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 away that quickly devolve 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. There were six soldiers, and two of them were more than enough to manhandle the toothy Swede out of the room; while the other four chuckled and made lewd comments.

Chase frowned at the commotion, as he imagined the worst—but there was nothing he could do from behind locked bars. Now, fully awake, he decided to crack a book, then wondered why his light was out. For a time, 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 once more, and a furtive Specialist Hakeem slunk into the room.

As he passed, Specialist Hakeem gave Chase a slight nod, then continued to one of the other cells. A conversation ensued in snatches of whisper; then the distant cell creaked open, and Chase saw Special Agent Kenzie step toward the door to the cell block, followed by Specialist Hakeem.

“Special Agent Kenzie, did you get scratched?” Chase asked the man.

“No sir,” the special agent said, without breaking stride.

Speicalist Hakeem 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 nodded. “I guess they’ll have to let me out in the next few days,” he grinned.

Specialist Hakeem frowned, and a worried expression came over his face, as he stepped to the door of the cell. He pulled his keys and fumbled through them.

“What are you doing?” Special Agent Kenzie asked, as he turned and approached.

“What do you think is going to happen to these people under Major Ing and his underlings?” Hakeem said as he put the key in the lock. He paused and stared at Chase. “If I let you out, and you scratch me, I will kill you.”

Chase frowned. “Maybe I’ll just wait for the next person to let me out.”

“I just need you to know I’m serious,” Hakeem replied. “You don’t want to stay in here. They’re about to start liquidating the snapped, and I doubt 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. “What’s changed?”

A number of high ranking officers either have the itch or have snapped. Needless to say the good ol’ chain of command is suffering some broken links,” Hakeem smiled and 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.

Chase nodded, “Five years in the navy, two of it served on the open ocean.”

Kenzie gave a nod and smiled at Hakeem.

“What of these others?” Hakeem asked.

Kenzie shook his head. “We don’t have time to baby-sit.”

Hakeem shook his head. “We can’t leave ‘em here. Not if their healthy.” There was a long pause as the two men stared at each other. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Its the dumb shit to do—” Kenzie snipped, then shook his head and began again. “But you’re right. Leaving them here may just be a death sentence. But don’t take no itchers.”

“Only if they can speak,” Hakeem stated. “He can watch him,” 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.

“I don’t think anyone knows,” Hakeem shrugged.

“Well, I don’t see why it should worry me,” Chase answered. “I got over it once. I can get over it again.”

A couple of the cells were empty. A few had snapped—or were deep in the throes of the itch—including Mr. Wiezcykyi. The lawyer reached through the bars, and pawed and hissed at the open air, but the normally wordy lawyer had nothing coherant to say. Kenzie and Hakeem both agreed the could not risk letting him out.

“Sorry, ol’ friend,” Chase said as he kept his distance. For some reason he felt vaguely responsible for the man. “Without any words, we can’t risk taking you along.”

They came to the cell with the Swedes.

“And why are there three in this cell?” Chase asked. “Oi! Blondie! What’s with the long face?!”

The three blonds approached the bars as they spoke with each other in hushed viking. There were several fat brushes on their faces, and a fair amount of dried blood.

“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 or shrieked. Nor were they worried about her scratches.”

“Why do you think I came in right after they left with her?” Hakeem said as he stared at the Swedes. " I hate to say it, but I hope she can keep them distracted for a little time more.”

“You boys speak English?” Kenzie asked the three young scandanavians.

They glanced at each other, then furtively shook their heads. “Ja,” the little said, then introduced himself. “Danel.” His massive friends were named Bjorn and Bjergsen.

“Let ‘em out,” Kenzie said, and Chase nodded in agreeance.

“And what about this one?” Hakeem asked as they came to the cop’s cell.

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 was never scratched,” Chase said. He didn’t like the idea of letting out Officer Lars, but he knew the special agent was right. Besides, chances were, the officer would cool his jets once their were no bars between them.

“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.

With a glint of hostility in his eye, Officer Lars turned from Chase and gave a furtive nod. “All right,” he said. "Open ‘er up.”

The seven men left the cell block and entered a room where two men held several guards at gunpoint. They were tied and gagged. “Jesus, Hakeem!” the first one said. He was a liuetenant by rank, and his name tag said Todd. “You were just supposed to get the special agent out!”

“Well I couldn’t leave these others!” Hakeem replied. “What happens to them under Major Ing?!”

“Well, we don’t got weapons for all them,” the second one said, as he passed a pistol to Kenzie. He was a private first class, by the name of Selwyn. “Come on. Let’s get out of here while the getting’s good!”

With that, the nine men slipped into a corridor and began down the hall. Chase felt like he was the only one not talking, though he noted that Officer Lars was keeping his peace. The three Swedes whispered amongst themselves in their foreign tongue, while Kenzie and the rest talked shop. Chase missed the first thing said by Kenzie, but he caught Todd’s reply. “If you want to go after Ing on your own, be my guest. But the rest of us are making a break for the city.”

“It’ll be a court marshal and halfway to hell if you’re caught for breaking rank,” Kenzie said.

“It’s my conscience on the other side,” Todd replied. “I’ll take my chances with a tribunal, assuming there will be a tribunal. This whole state is falling apart.”

“Rumor is, there’s a hundred thousand men inbound for Denver,” Hakeem joined in. “I say we go north and tell ‘em what’s going on here—”

“Let’s get out of this hospital first, then we’ll consider what’s next,” Kenzie replied. “Since vengeance it out of the question.”

Lieutenant Todd led the way, while Private Selwyn brought of the van. “There’s a west exit, and I’ve got a couple boys watching the line. They plan to slip away into the city with us,” Lieutenant Todd told them.

“Well, I can’t thank you enough for getting me out,” Kenzie began. “But I gotta admonish you for abandoning your posts.”

“We ain’t abandoning shit,” Private Selwyn snapped. “Colonel Cooper and Major Ing are abandoning the fine people of Colorado Springs and those that snapped under our care! We’re risking our lives to go out there and serve the city!”

“Save it for the court marshall, private. That’s assuming we live through this,” Kenzie replied. “How long do you think we got before they notice we’re missing?”

Chase about jumped out of his skin as an alarm blared and lights flashed to life.

“Well, that answers that,” Kenzie said, then ran after Lieutenant Todd, who now springting down the hall. Chase began after them, but heard a kerfuffle behind him. He turned to see Private Selwyn on his ass with one hand on his face—while Officer Lars grabbed at the man’s gun. He jumped at them, and knocked the gun aside, though it put him in a vulnerable position.

“Dumb faggot!” Officer Lars swore, as he slammed Chase into the wall. He turned and it looked like he’d go for the gun—except one of the Swedes had it and was pointing it at them. With another curse, Officer Lars turned and ran back the way they’d came. “They’re going wes! he screamed. “I got ‘em here, and they’re going west!”

“Fuckin’ turncoat!” Selwyn spit, as he lifted himself off the ground. “You okay?” he said to Chase, as the twin pushed himself up and began after the others.

Danel held the gun out to Selwyn and said, “should I have shoot him?”

“Probably,” Selwyn said as he took the gun, then cursed as he ran after Todd and the others.

They could see the exit when a man and a woman in fatigues came around the corner. The newcomers were swarmed by Kenzie, Todd, and Hakeem; and fell under a rain of blows before they could pull their weapons. Chase snatched the pistol from one of the fallen men, as Bjorn took the pistol off the fallen woman.

Lieutenant Todd pushed the door open and Chase felt the cool evening air whip down the hall. It felt so good after being cramped up in the stale basement. 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. Chase returned, and Kenzie followed after him.

“What is it?” Kenzie asked, as he returned to the small knot at the door.

“The’yre refusing to leave,” Chase stated. “They say they have to go back for Danika first.”

“So why are they pushing Danel out the door?” Kenzie continued.

“They want him to go with us, with hopes that he can get word back to their people,” Chase stated.

“Well, let’s bring him along,” Kenzie said, then grabbed the smallest of the Swedes—who was still quite large, almost the size of Kenzie himself.

For a split second, the other two Swedes watched as their friend was pulled away by the big special agent. “Hey!” Chase called to the two remaining Swedes, and held the pistol he’d confescated out to Bjergsen. “You’ll probably need this more than me,” he said, then gave them both a pat on the shoulder. “If you make it out, come to The Fish House,” Chase told them.

“The Fish House,” the one smirked, then followed the other back into the hospital.

Chase turned and sprinted after the mutinous soldiers and wondered if they had actually saved his life—or had they simply duped him into playing a fugitive? For several whole seconds, he was troubled by the thought, until he remembered Danika shrieking her head off as half a dozen men led her out of the cell block. No. he was convinced that getting out was the right move.

Chapter 17: Craig goes home

The survivors at The Fish House talk weapons. Craig and Delaceya drink beer. Craig goes home.

“Take a break,” Craig said. “How many flashlights do we have in this place?”

“Two or three, plus whatever anybody else is carrying—which is pretty much everybody,” Chef answered. “Who doesn’t have a phone?”

“Good point,” Craig nodded. “We’re shutting off the generators.”

“You think that’ll get ‘em away from the door?” Chef asked.

“Maybe not all together,” Craig said. “But I think it’ll keep any new ones from coming up here.”

“New ones?” Chef stared. “What do you mean, new ones?”

“More and more of them keep coming up the street,” Craig informed. “It’s gotta be the lights.”

“How many are out there?!” Chef replied, standing.

“Too many.”

“Let’s pull the drapes, then the lights go off everywhere except for the kitchen,” Chef said.

Craig nodded. “That should do the trick.”

“You get the lights,” Chef said. “I’ll talk to the people.”

“Very well,” Chef continued. “Do you have a weapon?”

Officer Delaceya reached in her clutch and drew out a snub nose 38 special.

“Good. You have the first watch at the door,” Chef smiled. “Run along then.”

“I can watch it from here,” Officer Delaceya noted.

Chef glared but let it stand. “Craig, go upstairs and see who wants a drink.”

“Can’t do, Chef,” Craig replied. “I have to get home and warn dad. Mayzee’s on the bar tonight.”

“Sorry, Mayzee,” Chef shrugged. “It’s a hard night. Pour as long as they want—but not for that one,” she pointed at Officer Delaceya. “She’s underage,” she stared.

An anger flushed through the copper, but she thought it best not to argue. Instead, Officer Delaceya shifted her gaze back to the shake of the door.

“Staff can also have a drink—but just one—just to take the edge off,” Chef continued. “Get a round for our guests first.”

“Yes chef,” Mayzee said.

“Brittany,” Chef continued and pointed about the dirty tables. “This is unacceptable. Clean it up. Kevin and Jamal, same goes for the kitchen. I’ll come help with the dishes when I get a minute. First, I have to see to the generators. What about you, Kaleb? What are you going to do?”

”I have a feeling we’re all staying the night here, so I’m going to see what I can find for bedding,” he said.

“Good idea,” Chef nodded.

“What weapons do we have?” Craig asked.

All eyes turned to Officer Delaceya. This time she stared back at them.

Craig recognized the tension and turned to the officer. “You know anything we have is legal, lawful, and totally above board,” he said. “Or do you have any plans to open an investigation?”

Officer Delaceya shrugged and shook her head. “I’m off the clock,” she began. “I stopped my official duties when i came back inside.”

“Well, I’ve got a sidearm in my office, and an SKS in the basement,” Chef smiled.

Mayzee shook her head. “I got a nine, but I left it in my car,” she noted.

“I got a 357 in my bag,” Jamal said. “Kevin’s got a .22.”

“Not bad,” Craig smiled. “This is Colorado Springs, so quite likely there’s a couple more guns among the customers. Kaleb, try to suss out who has what. See if they won’t held the good officer with guard duty? She won’t be good all the way to morning.”

“Says you,” Delaceya glared.

“Well, it shouldn’t fall to your shoulders alone,” Craig noted. “Anything else? Anything else we need to address before the lights go out?”

“What about Brittany?”

“Fuck you, Kevin!” Brittany roared and stood to her feet.

The lot of ‘em stood, half expecting an altercation between the two. Chef got in the way. “All right, everybody. Let’s all calm down. Brittany’s only showing mild symptoms, which might or might not have anything to do with turning. It could simply be the aggravation,” she stared at Kevin. “We have hours, don’t we?” she looked to Craig.

“I mean, she hasn’t turned yet,” Craig shrugged.

“You will tell us if you feel any different?” Chef asked.

Brittany swallowed and gave a solemn nod.

“All right, people. Hop to it,” Chef said. “The lights go off in five.”

With that, they all got to work. Craig followed Chef to the basement. “You know, I always thought dad was daft for insisting on curtains for those glorious windows. I always wondered why anyone would you ever want them closed.”

Chef smirked. “Even when you do nothing wrong, there will inevitably be a demand for privacy. I guess we have communist China to thank for that lesson.”

After they shut off the lights, they look out the windows to the zombies still coming up the hill. They talk about it, then decide to shut off the generators.

With excitement in his eyes, he turned to Officer Delaceya. “The power!” he realized.

Officer Delaceya stared back at him. “The what?”

“The power!” Craig repeated. “Look! The ones you do see about this neighborhood are all gathered about houses and businesses with generators! Like us!”

“You think we just need to shut off the lights?” Officer Delaceya asked.

“Maybe,” Craig replied. “Maybe it’s just the light. either way, we gotta shut shit off!”

They’re attracted to the power! They’re attracted to the power!” He exclaimed, then ran for the ladder. “We gotta shut off the generators!” He stopped himself short. “Oh, sweet leaders of America,” he swore. With his heart in his stomach, he turned and stared off to the south. The house was never easy to see from here, but as he moved along the roof, he found a spot where he could see the upstairs windows. He saw the light pouring out of one of them and knew that Mr. Chen had turned on the generator. “Washington on a cross!” he cursed, and ran back to the ladder.

“We have to shut off the generators,” Craig said. “The zombies are attracted to electricity.”

“Wouldn’t they be attracted to our phones?” she asked.

“Maybe,” Craig began. “I doubt it,” he continued. “I think they’re attracted to the resonating wires in the walls.”

“Sounds unlikely,” Chef replied.

“I’ve always heard it, Chase too, our entire lives—though most people don’t,” Craig answered. “Come look!” he said and led her to the back patio. Once there, he pointed out what was happening in the streets below, and how all the activity was around places with generators—or downtown, where all the power was still on.

“Well tar and feather me, and call me a Roosevelt,” Chef began. “If that ain’t the damnedest thing.”

“So you’re going to shut ‘em off?” Craig asked.

“I guess it’s worth a try,” Chef said. “I mean, if it doesn’t work, we can always turn them back on.” She led him downstairs. “Get everyone in the dining room. You go to the front and the market, and I’ll get anyone in the back.”

Chapter 16: Craig Goes Home

Set in wall between the main hall and the small market that took up the very south edge of the building was a 500 gallon aquarium full of water, salt, corral, plants, and fish all native to the South China Sea. Cocktails in hand, Lorraine and her four friends had wandered down the stairs and posted up next to the aquarium, mostly so they might observe the door, and also that Gabby might study the colorful fish in the tank.

Mayze and Renata approached the stairs that led up to the banquet hall. Lorraine broke from her friends and intercepted the two. “Is she really a cop?” she asked and nodded toward the host stand, where Delaceya had posted herself.

Mayzee ignored the question and stepped on by, though Renata gave a subtle nod as she passed up the stairs, with drinks for Mr. and Mrs. Murphy in hand.

Halfway up the stairs, the lights went out, and Mayzee cursed as she nearly dropped her delicate cocktails. “Sweet Calvin Coolidge!”

“Here,” Lorraine called after her, flicked on her phone, and pointed it up the stairs.

“Thanks,” Mayzee said, as Lorraine followed her up the stairs and lit the way.

“So now they just go away?” Lorraine asked, as they stepped into the banquet hall.

“So goes the story,” Mayzee replied, an edge of irritation touching her voice.

Several phone lights turned their way. “Well, thank Eisenhower,” Mrs. Murphy smiled and took her sidecar from Renata. “Aren’t you sweet?” she smiled at the young hostess.

Renata smiled back and put a kind hand on the older woman’s arm. “You just let us know if you want another.”

“Oh, I want another,” Mrs. said and took a long pull her on her drink. “What about you, dear?” She turned to her husband.

“Most certainly,” he answered. “My, this scratch that man gave me is burning something fierce,” he continued. “Does the house have any neosporin or the like?”

Renata frowned to hear this. “I believe so,” she said, and turned a worried eye to Mayzee. “I’ll bring it up with the next round,” she smiled, then pulled her phone out of her pocket, and lit the flashlight. She followed Mayzee and Lorraine back down the stairs, as the banging at the front door continued.

”Didn’t seem to phase ‘em,” Lorraine frowned. “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 finished as she stepped around the edge of the bar.

Renata continued to the back. “Hey, Brittany. Have you seen Kaleb?”

“Not in a minute,” Brittany said as she emptied her tray of dirty dishes at the edge of the dish pit.

Renata continued into the kitchen. She asked Kevin and Jamal, and when they said no, she asked if they’d seen Chef or Craig.

“Not since they went back up on the roof,” Kevin answered.

Not wanting to go outside, but needing to talk to someone in charge, Renata climbed the ladder. Near the top, she could hear Chef and Craig talking.

“How much fuel do we have?” Craig asked.

“Running straight? Maybe three or four days,” Chef answered. “But if we just run ‘em enough to keep the fridges cold, maybe a month.”

“Will that be long enough?” Craig continued.

“Wouldn’t matter,” Chef replied. “By then we’d be out of food anyway.”

“How much food do we have?”

“Depends on how many mouths we have to feed—but we don’t have to worry anytime soon. Tomorrow we’ll start rationing, and we’ll save the dried goods for last. If it’s just a couple dozen of us, I think we could make it well into summer before we got desperate,” Chef said. “Hey, Renata,” she smiled sympathy at the worried young hostess. “They still banging at the door?”

Renata nodded. She couldn’t hear it up here at the far end of the roof. “We have other problems too,” she said. “Mr. Murphy wants neosporin for his scratches. He says they burn.”

“That is a problem,” Chef frowned. “All right, Craig. I’m going to leave the zombies in your capable hands while Renata and I clear out the liquor room for Mr. Murphy, Brittany, and any of the others that got scratched.”

“Well, I’m thinking a bit of distraction might be all we need,” Craig smiled back. “Here,” he said, and peeled the 30-06 off his back. “I don’t want to be running with this.”

Chef took the gun. “Won’t you want this later?”

“Nah,” Craig began. “I had a feeling I might be leaving it, so when I left, I made sure to take Chase’s. My 30-06 is still back at the house,” he smiled. “Besides, Chase won’t need it. He’s got the whole army to protect him.”

“You sure do take liberties,” Chef stated.

“Not with your stuff,” Craig pointed. “Because you don’t owe me any favors.”

“Hell no!” Chef snorted. “I’ve seen how you use ‘em!” She stared her large brother as concern overcame her. “So what’s the plan? You’re just going to run by and take as many of them as you can with you?”

“Pretty much,” Craig shrugged. “And I’ll probably throw a few rocks.”

“Be careful,” Chef wrapped him in a hug. “Take care of dad.”

“What do you mean?” Craig asked as he returned the warm hug. “I’m going home so dad can take care of me,” he grinned.

Chef pushed him off as an uncontrolled snicker escaped her lips. “You play too much.”

“No such thing,” Craig smiled as he turned to Renata and wrapped his large arms around her tiny frame. “Hey, beautiful,” he began. “You take care of Chef, okay?” he said as he gave her kiss to her forehead.

It sounded suspiciously like a goodbye. Renata gave him side-eye as he let her go, then slipped down the ladder with a whoop.

“What’s got into him?” Renata asked.

“He’s covering something,” Chef said and shook her head. “Something has him worried, and it isn’t you, me, or dad,” she continued. “He’s over-compensating,” she concluded. “He used to do it all the time when we were little.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Chef answered, as she made her way down the ladder. “We’re going to finish emptying out the liquor room, so we have a place for the sickos.”

Okay,” Renata replied, as she followed Chef down the ladder. “Let me go check something. I’ll be back shortly.”

Chef gave a nod, and Renata made her way through the dark building with nothing but her phone to light the way. She stepped through the dining room, into the main hall, and up to the host stand, where Delaceya was still posted. Craig had a shot in one hand and a beer in the other. Chef might say one drink each, but in many ways, Craig was above the law. Still, he didn’t down both drinks. Instead he offered the beer to Delaceya.

“Don’t give her that,” Mayzee scowled. “She’s underage.”

“You looking to cite us twice?” Craig asked.

Delaceya shook her head. Still, she didn’t take the beer.

“Don’t want it?” he continued. “You don’t have to have it if you don’t want it,” he noted.

She thought about it for a long second, then took it from his hand. “Thanks,” she said.

“It’s not the first time you ever drank, is it?” he eyed her with suspicion.

Delaceya shook her head. “I might have drank a bit with family; aunts, uncles, and a cousin or two,” she smiled.

“Good,” Craig grinned. “I wouldn’t want to guilty of corrupting the youth.” He tapped her glass with his own. “Cheers,” he said, then downed the shot.

“Cheers,” Delaceya answered, and took a long gulp of the beer.

“Hey,” he stared her in the eye. “Take care of my people, okay?”

Delaceya gave a nod. Craig clapped her on the shoulder, then stepped among the others and hugged them all goodbye.

“I’m coming with you,” Jamal said.

“No you’re not,” Craig answered.

“You’re too slow to lose me,” Jamal stated. “And I doubt you can make me stay.”

“You’re right on both accounts,” Craig stated. “But I don’t need you, and these people do.”

“Okay,” Jamal nodded. “Just let me go down the hill with you. I’m going stir crazy just standing here. I need to get outside and move.”

“All right,” Craig began. “On second thought, come with me. That way there’s two of us to get supplies. It’s not that far to the house. If everything goes right, we could be back in half an hour.”

Jamal smiled to hear that.

“Anyone else want to go?” Craig turned and asked.

Kevin twitched and shifted from foot to foot.

Sensing his indecision, Renata grabbed his hand. “Don’t leave us,” she begged.

Kevin smiled and patted her hand. “I won’t.”

With that, Craig and Jamal approached the south door. Jamal pulled on a pair of nylon gloves, and Craig eyed him, curious. “It’s better than nothing,” Jamal shrugged.

“Wait!” Renata called and stepped away from the waiting crowd. “You’ll want this,” she said, and gave Craig his phone.

“Blessed Buchanan!” he swore, as he took the phone and slipped it into his pocket. “You’re a lifesaver, darling!” With a smile and a nod, he pushed his way out the side door. “Happy hunting!” he called, then ran out, with Jamal hot on his heels.

Jamal wasn’t expecting much. He knew there was a crowd of ‘em, but they were zombies, so what was the big deal? He wasn’t expecting them to give much of a chase—but once the first rock landed, and he and Craig had both started whooping, the bastards turned and charged at them like sprinters at a track meet—or at least enough of them. Some of them might have been slow shamblers right from the start, but at least a dozen were runners in very good shape. His heart skipped a beat, and Jamal turned and ran for the gate like he meant to steal third. He turned just enough to register Craig was hot on his heels, then peeled down the road, and smashed headlong into a child that fumbled up the street. He barely had time to notice that the boy had blood all over his face and shirt before he was tearing down the street, fully aware that there was still a crowd after him.

“This way!” Craig pointed, and ran them down an alley. “Now we got to clear a few obstacles,” he said, and hopped a chain-link fence.

Jamal was over it nearly as fast—and then they were between two houses, and back onto a proper street. Jamal slowed enough so Craig could lead, but after another block, they’d lost their pursuers. After that, they crept through yards, and darted from cover to cover, until the Chen house was finally in view—and lit like a Christmas tree.

If you enjoyed this, consider donating, because donating is love.