Beads of sweat poured down Isaac's head and face. His labored breaths hissed out of his mask as he and Sticks ran through the halls. Visibility was becoming increasingly problematic as the smoke grew thicker and obscured the emergency lights. To make matters worse, while most of the risen gave chase to the Patriot monstrosity, some stragglers remained which made every corner and doorway a risk.

The two men knelt in the middle of a long hallway and away from walls and windows. Sticks wheezed and panted as he looked behind at the blackened void. Isaac, meanwhile, checked his weapons and took some moments to catch his breath.

"They're not following." Sticks said in a loud whisper.

Isaac didn't reply. Sticks tapped Isaac's shoulder, which instinctively caused Isaac to turn and shove him backward. The skinny man hit the ground with a soft thud. But he recovered and gestured backward, "They're not following."

Isaac motioned to Stick's earpiece. His eyes went wide and he frantically turned the mic on.

"Stan! Bill! Ow-..." Sticks nursed his shoulder briefly from a swift punch from Isaac. But he got the message and spoke quieter. "Are you still alive?"

Isaac gestured forward and the two proceeded. Radio silence followed, with a flip blips of static.

"Stan?" Sticks replied as he called out to Nosering. "Stan, if you're trying to call us, we didn't get that."

Silence.

Sticks suddenly felt a firm hand grip his arm and pull him toward a wall. He raised his weapon and drew in a sharp breath. Isaac's masked face drew in close. Close enough for Sticks to see Isaac's cold dark eyes staring through him.

"Quieter." He uttered darkly.

"Okay..." Sticks said, trembling under the hand. Isaac nodded and released.

As the two proceeded, Sticks could finally see what Isaac saw. Several figures wandered through the hall. Their strides were cautious. Deliberate. Not the bumbling steps of one of the risen. As they drew closer, their boots made a heavy sound.

Isaac pulled Sticks into a classroom and quietly shut the door behind them. He then crouched low and pressed his back against the wall, quickly scanning the room for hostiles. The figures approached, flashlights piercing the darkness and smoke as they shined through the windows above Isaac's shoulder. Their footsteps resonated hollowly as they approached the door. Muffled voices spoke carelessly in the dark. All the meanwhile, Sticks remained frozen to the ground.

After a few moments, the boots moved away from the room and the hall fell silent again, however briefly. Static played over the radio again until the voice of Nosering spoke up, panicked and winded, "Where the hell are you guys? Are you still upstairs?"

Sticks' eyes lit up. He looked up at Isaac, who gave an approving nod before replying quietly. "We are. We're in a classroom. There's people walking around."

"Did they see you?" Skullface's voice responded rapidly.

"I...I don't think so." Sticks replied. "What's happening? Who are they?"

A long pause. "Is the New Guy there with you?" Skullface asked, finally. Sticks confirmed. "There's a room on the second floor. It's where they control the lights and the scoreboard for the gym. Get over there and you should be able to climb down to the first floor. Stan, Eddie, and I will meet you."

"Eddie?!" Sticks shouted, right before a quick jab from Isaac. "Is he chasing you?"

"It's hard to explain," Skullface said. "I think he's trying to help us."

"Or he's being very polite and wants to smash the Franks before he smashes us." Nosering replied, between breaths.

"Hurry to the gym. We'll meet you there." Skullface replied.

"C...copy." Sticks added.

Isaac gave Sticks a nod and checked the door. It was clear. He motioned for the lanky man to follow as he inched his way back out into the hall, this time, sticking to the walls. His hands looked for any signs that could point the way. He found plaques for rooms, boys' and girls' restroom signs, and a bunch of random motivational posters. It wasn't until he reached the hall that he found what he was looking for: an indicator for the direction of the gym.

Sticks was about to follow it, but Isaac redirected him. "Too much smoke in that direction." Truthfully, however, it wasn't just the smoke that gave Isaac pause. It was those people. Who knew how many more of them there were and what those people planned to do if they found Isaac.

Knowing the general direction of the Gym helped Isaac navigate the halls of the second floor. With the path relatively clear, Isaac's search for the control room turned successful. His hand tested the doorknob. Cold; Unlocked. Confidently, he opened the door and stepped in. There, he saw a small room that housed little more than a booth, a sound mixer, lighting controls, and an unpowered desktop computer.

Sticks followed, quietly closing the door behind him. But when he looked back at Isaac, he saw the man lowering the semi-automatic rifle and readying his hunting rifle. Like a cat creeping up to its prey, Isaac took a few steps forward, poising his body for a strike. When Sticks looked past Isaac, he saw an assembly of Eastern Front men, some of whom he recognized, with weapons pointed right at the booth. In the middle of it all stood a tall, dark, and muscular man with a shaved head and a stone-cold face. Beside him, a shorter man with an eighties haircut and a pair of black aviator glasses. On their knees beside them were Nosering and Skullface, with rifles pressed directly to their foreheads.

"Mr. Singh," Morgan called up toward the booth over the radio. "Let's talk."

There she was. klak. klak. Her boots on the tile. Her light wasn't helping the matter, and for a moment, he considered just pulling the trigger. Two of them. Two would mean trouble. Two would mean more will come. More would mean the stinkers. Trouble. Trouble... he couldn't trust her. Sure, sure. Not looking for trouble. klak.

"Like the others. Right..." Easy... easy... game-face. (cosmetics, foundation, $6.99, aisle 6 -- 'beauty products.') "Shut up!" Sometimes that voice was just too present. too close. Bad timing. Did I say that out loud? The light... her light (C-cell batteries, checkout #3 display -- place where you just whacked Dude with an Edger -- $24.99, aisle 17 -- 'garden implements') "I said cut it OUT!" ...was still lingering close at-hand, so that he couldn't focus. klak. The gun wavered in his hand a little, aimed at her (general location.) The barrel of the gun looked big... dangerous. Dirty. Like it was ready to deliver infection and pain. The fact that it quaked slightly in his (nervous? sick?) hand did her no favours, though the fact that he wasn't pointing directly at her, but only vaguely at her, was of some consolation.

"y-you just need to go. Away from here. Take your friend and leave. I-I just don't want to have to kill him. Or you. But you can't stay. Can't. I'm just not done, see? If I was done, you could stay, and it'd be swell." His face loses all emotion. "But I'm not. So you can't. Go." (bullets, security counter, no listed price [NFS!] -- you can always replenish...) "SHUT. UP!"

March 15, 2018 - Framingham, Massachusetts - Walmart

The room was spinning and he felt the cold on the open wound beginning to seep in as the blood began to drip all over the tiles around him. He blinked a few times as his eyes finally came somewhat into focus and he looked up to see his attacker crouched holding a gun and he could hear Bri approaching. He tried to free himself without gaining too much attention from the gunman but he was still kind of out of it and the more he struggled the more he felt himself losing consciousness. He had to help her, he had to do something but at the moment he was completely powerless to do anything. He could call out to her, he could warn her of the gun, but what would this guy do if he did that? He could try to tell her to run but would this guy shoot her in the back? He did hit Grant in the back so it's possible. He was getting desperate to step in, he struggled once more to no avail. His eyes began to well as the image of Bri being shot ran through his mind over and over again. He couldn't let that happen, he wouldn't. "Please--" his voice was weak but sincere, "Sir. Please. Don't hurt her." He pleaded. "Tell her to go. Do what you want to me, but please don't hurt her." He didn't know what else to do, he wasn't strong enough to break his bindings and he didn't want to risk her safety by calling to her or allowing her to do something heroic. So he pleaded and stared at the man as he laid in a growing pool of blood becoming dizzier and more light headed by the second. He felt tired, he felt weak, but he fought the urge to close his eyes and sleep until he knew that Bri would be safe. At least for now.

March 15, 2018 - Framingham, Massachusetts - Walmart

Bri crouched momentarily, placing the flashlight on its end, beam reaching for the ceiling. It cast her immediate surroundings in a dim, dusty grey light, brushing the edges of each shape in a soft blur.

Somewhere under the layers of adrenaline, her heart sank a little for the man with the gun. The way he spoke, the tone in his voice… she’d heard it before, or at least variations of it at work. There was something broken about it. But then, weren’t they all a little broken now? Survival changed you. For better or worse, it changed you no matter who you were before. Those that say it doesn’t are lying.

“We’ll leave, you have my word,” she reassured him in gentle tones, leaving her machete on the ground near the flashlight. She couldn’t see details, but the way his hand lightly shuddered was enough for her to put her weapon down. Any sign of a threat from her wouldn’t be received very well, for sure. “May I go to him? I’ll check him over and make sure he can walk and then we’ll be gone before you know it.” The young woman didn’t wait for an answer. Prudent to be cautious, yes, but she had no idea the extent of Grant’s injuries. For all she knew, he could have minutes to live. Slowly, casually, keeping her hands in a meek way, she knelt next to her best friend and tried to assess without touching him. “Grant? Where does it hurt? Can you move?” she asked calmly.

Grant did his best to look around to where Bri was. "What are you doing?" His voice was a bit raspy when he answered her, "You need to get out of here." He could feel that he was getting colder and he knew that he was injured enough that he might slow her down and that was the last thing that he wanted. He knew that if she tried to untie him that it would leave her even more vulnerable to an attack from this guy and he couldn't have that. Of course he said he just wanted them to leave but could he really be trusted? He did hit Grant in the back of the head and then hog tie him.

He could still feel the blood trickling down his head and dripping off the side, and he was sure at this point there was a sizable pool that had formed, those head wounds always bled so much. To Bri it must have looked awful. "Take my bag and go before he gets you too." He knew that she probably wouldn't listen but he also knew that she would know he was serious. Even in his worst moment his only priority was to protect her from danger, it was all that he could think about at the moment.

Checkout Counter #6, Walmart, Framingham, Mass.

She was close. Close enough that he could smell her. (Degree Antiperspirant, $3.99, aisle 3A.) Wait. Was that her? Blood on the floor. His. Grant-package's. (Band-Aid brand plastic coated self-adhesive bandages, box of 50, $5.99, aisle 3B.) No. Nonononononono... Not her. Something else, smelly. His focus was on them, on her... but his ears were elsewhere. (St. Elsewhere, box-set, season one, $29.99, aisle 28) **quietly, almost hissing** "not NOW, dammit..." He could pinpoint a sound now. It was in women's underthings, just inside the main entrance. **still very, very quietly** "Your fault. Your fault. Your. Fault. Yours. Bad. Yourfault. You and Grant-package. 'least two of them. Stinkers in the naughty garments. Leaker needs new hosiery... cleanup, aisle 2 please..." Very, very slowly, with his off-hand, Ryan reached into a coat pocket and withdrew a set of dikes (Milwaukee, $11.99, aisle 17, Automotive) and as he swivelled the wavering gun barrel toward the ladies' naughty garment section, held them out for the woman to take. Held them as if touching her or touching them while she touched them would mean certain transmission of cootiees. "Cut him out. There'll be more coming. Always more. Always when there's fresh meat. Aisle 10. Delicatessen / Butcher..."

@The DudeMan @Lady of Lore

If the fact that ten or eleven hostile men stood with their weapons trained on the booth wasn't disquieting enough, the silence that followed Morgan's full, booming voice certainly did the trick. But Isaac stood toward the back of the room, unwavering with his scope trained directly on the large man.

"Isaac Singh," Morgan called in a louder and more forceful voice that crackled over the radio and filled the highly resonant gymnasium.

"Where's Gordon...?" Isaac growled back over the radio, watching Morgan's face very closely. The expression never changed.

"Gordon? He left for Michigan yesterday. Where's Doctor Harper?"

"Dead." Isaac replied, tersely.

Still no change in Morgan's face. Just a solid line where his lips were intended to part. His brown eyes stared back up at Isaac, almost as if he was intentionally staring straight through the scope.

"We lied to you." Morgan said, flatly. He paused, as if waiting for a response. He received none. "You and several others tested as viable candidates for Gordon's program."

"What did he do to us?!" Sticks called out, pleadingly.

"Tests." Morgan replied.

The voice of Nosering sounded hollow and distant to Isaac, but still as sharp and crass as ever. "Yeah, no shit!"

"Our lives have ended. Our species is ending. There's no good guys or bad guys anymore. Just survivors. People like you, Isaac. People like me."

"What did they do?" Isaac barked.

"A few weeks after we took back and stationed up in Fort Devens, Gordon and Harper told us the situation. We didn't know how far the infection spread. How serious it was. Humanity's population has dropped and I don't know about you, but nobody is looking to breed anytime soon." Morgan's face shifted for the first time. It looked grim. His voice dropped into a poignantly hushed tone. "I lost most of my best men in the following weeks. Infection. Hunger. Suicide. What have you lost, Isaac?"



"Everything..." Isaac muttered to himself.

"We don't have time for theories in back rooms. No time for animal testing. Doctor Gordon needed live testing and humanity needs a cure now!" Morgan's voice grew louder. Isaac could feel the ground itself shake. For a moment, his weapon lost its sight as he regained his balance.

When he brought the scope back up again, he saw the hulking figure of Patriot charging the line of men. They raised their guns and fired, but the swollen mound of flesh and muscle simply soaked the shots.

Startled but stalwart, Morgan motioned to one of his men beside him, who shouldered his rifle and drew out a device that was some sort of hack-job of a megaphone with an FM radio. With a squeeze of the trigger, the radio activated silently and the rampaging Patriot came to a halt. He scrambled in place for a moment, drawing his massively swollen hands to his ears, clawing at his own face before collapsing.

Skullface and Nosering took advantage of the chaos to retreat to the bleachers for cover. Isaac could hear Skullface calling out to Morgan over the radio while Nosering screamed obscenities.

"This is what your idea of saving humanity is? This is what you signed them up for, without their consent?!" Skullface barked.

"Stan. Greg. If I asked if you'd risk being turned in order to save humanity, would you have done it? Would any of you?" Morgan asked before looking up at the booth. "Would you do it, Isaac?"

For once, Nosering had no words. No snarky comeback. No quips. Sticks' face was grimly pale. Isaac shook his head and muttered over the radio to the backdrop of the monstrosity's groans of pain. "No."

"What happened to Eddie is bad. It's probably too late for him, and I hate losing another good man to this goddamn disease. But this is necessary. All of this."

"I will burn this goddamn place to the ground. Every damn inch." Skullface replied darkly.

"You already have!" Morgan shouted back.

A roar of thunder echoed Patriot's cries of pain, shaking the ground and walls. Isaac found himself glancing back and forth between Skullface and Morgan.

"We're running out of time. Isaac, I will be honest with you going forward. But I will not apologize. I did what I did for humanity's survival. Now you can shoot me, you can run and let me take Mr. Scott and Mr. Smith, or you could come with us. But no matter what you choo-"

"Over our dead bodies you rotten piece of sh-" Nosering interrupted.

"-this is ending now. Make your choice."

Isaac exhaled a slow breath. He could feel his finger edging slowly away from the trigger. His eyes caught the hardened stare of Morgan, even from a distance. They caught the large hulking mound of flesh and muscle struggling to stand, struggling to escape. He saw Skullface and Nosering readying sidearms from behind the bleachers. Most importantly, he caught the widened, fearful eyes of Sticks. He was rocking in his corner, silently pleading. "Don't let him take me. Please...please."

"Isaac!" Morgan shouted.

"Sabh Gunavanthee Aakheeahi Mai Gun Naahee Koe..." Isaac whispered as his finger slid back to the trigger. He altered his aim, quickly scoping the megaphone device before squeezing. The explosive sound filled the gymnasium as the bullet ripped through the device and the hand of the man carrying it.

Almost instantly, Patriot's hands released from his ears and with rage-filled eyes, he charged the line of men. They opened fire, ripping through his head and face, but his massive form plowed through. Morgan attempted to evade, but Patriot lined himself up for the charge. Morgan turned as he followed his remaining men toward the exit, firing burst shots. But the hulking figure swung one massive arm and knocked Morgan into a wall. As the back of his head and neck collided with a heavy thud, Morgan's skull smashed like a hurled watermelon. The remains of his body, collapsed into a helpless pile of meat and bones with blood dripping down the wall.

As Patriot reached the exit of the gym, his stride stumbled. Wounds catching up on him, his figure collapsed and slid with a greasy squeak on the gym floor. Skullface and Nosering escaped from the bleachers and cautious scanned the gym as they approached the body. Isaac grabbed Sticks' arm and pulled him toward the edge of the booth. He found some sturdy microphone cables and made a makeshift rope, tying it to one of the desks. The rope dangled at least seven feet above the ground, but it would do. Sticks climbed down first. Isaac picked up the rifle he had dropped and shouldered it on his other arm before climbing down.

As Sticks ran over to Skullface and Patriot, Isaac made his way quickly to Morgan's body. After quickly scavenging through his pockets, Isaac found nothing of value except a fully loaded handgun, a Heckler & Koch Handgun, which he pocketed immediately.

"It's pouring out there." Skullface said over the radio. "I'm going to find us a ride. Keep your eyes open, our guys are probably still out there."

"Still calling them 'our guys'?" Nosering asked.

Skullface didn't answer. He checked the door briefly, then headed outside. Nosering and Sticks, keeping a close formation, followed behind.

Isaac trailed behind, switching from hunting rifle to the semi-automatic. It felt like forever since he had seen the outside, even if it was only a few days. He drew in a breath and stepped out, only to find that visibility was extremely low. Between the smoke from the fire and the heavy rain, Isaac could only make out a few feet in front of himself. The deafening from gunfire left him aware solely of his heart's rapid drumming, a sensation that his ears, fingers, and toes echoed in kind.

When the door shut behind Isaac, a shadowy figure overtook him, knocking him flat onto the pavement. As Isaac struggled to recover, he felt a foot kick him in the ribs, sending him onto his back. Pain ripped through Isaac's body, but his senses sharpened as his adrenaline spiked again. His eyes focused on the shadowy figure when it leaned in, with the light of the fire lending itself to half of his face. The man's shades were pulled to the top of his head and his murderous gray gaze stared down at Isaac.

He grabbed Isaac by the jacket and pulled Isaac's masked face close. With one hand, he forced off so he could stare Isaac straight in the eyes. "I told you I wouldn't forget that your fucking face was the last thing Jacobs saw."

Shades' fist collided with Isaac's nose and mouth, causing Isaac to briefly slip in and out of consciousness. But with a shake and a slap, Shades woke Isaac. "Now you can look me in the goddamn eyes before you meet him in Hell."

Isaac felt his senses returning. He swung clumsily, causing Shades to drop him onto the ground. With a cough, Isaac slowly crawled his way onto all fours. "Mila always said you were the worst batman. Worse than Clooney."

"Come on!" Shades motioned as he hovered over Isaac, beckoning him to strike. Without hesitation, Isaac faked a swing and spun, drawing a knife from his side. Shades quickly caught his arm into an armbar and forced Isaac to drop the knife. He threw Isaac back to the ground.

"You killed Jacobs, you son of a bitch. You killed Morgan. And all you can do is joke? You're pathetic!" He shouted over the rain.

Isaac coughed again, laughing quietly with what little breath he had. "Alright, Iceman. You win. You can be my wingman anytime."

"FUCK you!" Shades screamed, drawing out a sidearm. He pressed it straight up against Isaac's head. However, the snap that Isaac heard next was not a gunshot, but rather the cracking of metacarpal bone. As the gun dropped, Isaac glanced up at Skullface, who tossed a screaming Shades back a few steps.

Shades lunged toward Skullface, but the lanky man was no match for the tall and broad-chested figure that was Skullface. With little effort, Skullface stopped his attack, struck Shades' face with two blows, and body-slammed him down to the ground. The broken glasses flew off of Shades' head, sliding across the ground. Skullface repeatedly kicked Shades in the head, knocking him unconscious before turning back to Isaac. He strolled back to Isaac, crushing Shades’ cheap lenses under his boot on the way.

"You good?" Skullface called out to Isaac.

"No..." The bloody-nosed man replied, attempting to recover his senses from the beating.

"Good. Let's move." He said, picking up and offering Isaac his mask.

Isaac half-stumbled, half-ran as he followed Skullface as closely as he could across a sopping wet field. His feet tripped over wire and obstacles designed to slow the risen. But his tenacity and drive to put as much distance between himself and the burning hell of a school behind him kept him upright despite the slew of issues that were plaguing him, such as the swelling of his nose and mouth, the swimming of his head, or the loss of equilibrium from the trauma, the drugs, or the smoke inhalation.

His mask offered little comfort, even as it protected his eyes from the chilling rain. With each breath, the visor would fog, cloudying an already poorly-visible situation. Fortunately, Isaac wouldn't have to travel much further. As his feet cleared the last line of defensive barbed wire, a Jeep Wrangler with a very anxious and eager driver, Nosering, was waiting for him.

His hands gripped the rails for stability and with a pull from Skullface, Isaac climbed into the back of the Jeep. Skullface surveyed the school, watching with mixture of remorse and satisfaction as the roof began to collapse. With a nod (perhaps an affirmation, or perhaps a farewell to his friend), he tapped the side of the vehicle and hopped into the back, sitting across from Isaac.

"This is Massachusetts Avenue." Skullface shouted to Nosering as he rolled the sopping wet mask up his face, past his lips. "I've driven this route hundreds of times. Take this South to 111. That'll take us to Boston."

"Any where the fuck away from here is fine with me!" Nosering shouted back.

Skullface, fed up with how wet his mask was, took the entire thing off. For the first time, Isaac could see his whole face. Strong jaw. Shaved head (like most of the Eastern Front, Isaac had keenly noted). The man was clearly in his late twenties and extremely fit. He had a sort of skin-head biker gang look that, were Isaac to be very frank, would cause him, in normal circumstances, to steer clear of.

He watched Isaac as the man sat back, droopy-eyed under his mask. He gave the outside of Isaac's knee a pat. "Hey. You're bleeding. You're going to want to take care of that sooner than later." He drew out a first-aid box from one a compartment in the back and motioned for Isaac to remove his mask, a task that proved more difficult than the man had anticipated. Skullface leaned forward and tugged the mask forward and up, revealing a face soaked with rain, sweat, and blood.

"Here," he offered Isaac a damp towel to soak up the blood, which he took silently. "Can't tell if you have a concussion," he added, "but I don't think getting the shit kicked after you after you've been in a drug coma for two days is something the doctor would prescribe." He motioned to the box. "Supplies are in here. Don't use them all. And don't get your blood all over everything."

With that, he climbed over to the back row of seats, calling back to Isaac one additional time. "Watch our six. I don't know where the rest of Morgan's crew is, but they might try to follow us."

Isaac closed his eyes momentarily, leaning his head back against the side of the Jeep as he stretched his legs out. Despite the cold air whipping him and the chilling rain soaking him through the roofless Jeep, Isaac could only focus on the swelling in his head and face. When he reopened his eyes, he caught the final glimpses of the reddish blaze disappearing in the distance, leaving only a smokey trail of destruction in the sky.

For the first time in days, Isaac had a moment to stop and breath. He took in a lung full of air, feeling it chill his chest with a bitter but welcoming bite. "Cold front." He muttered, though evidently louder than he expected.

"No shit, yeah?" Nosering called back at Isaac. "What else you got for us?"

Isaac turned glanced in the distance, where beyond the rain he could see the last remnants of sunlight falling beyond the horizon. "Temperatures are going to drop quickly over night. Fifteen degrees. maybe more."

Nosering laughed, "What the hell are you, some kind of weather man?"

"Yeah." He replied, wiping the last of the blood away from his nose.

"No shit!" Nosering replied with a laugh. "Gonna have to stop calling you New Guy and start calling you Weatherman."

It made no difference to Isaac, either way. Names were not something worth keeping anymore. "We've had a stagnant system for the past few days with a lot of sun to warm up the ground. But a low pressure cold front is moving in, cooling the hot air and causing precipitation. This rain will turn to ice. Possibly snow if it gets cold enough.."

Silence. Nobody enjoyed hearing that it was going to rain ice on a vehicle already completely open to the elements. Worse, there was no real safe cover anywhere and they had to stay on the move.

"Well goddamn, it's like I turned on the radio. Whaddya have for sports?" Nosering laughed. And then stifled his laugh as the impact of Eddie's death finally hit him.

From that point on for the next few hours, the drive would be completely silent.

A sensation akin to jagged glass tearing through his cranium gave way to echoes of shouts, gunfire, and squealing tires. Isaac felt his physical form floating, trying to establish a semblance of homoeostasis. Against a backdrop resembling the explosive drumming of a Fourth of July finale, a heated exchange between the echoes began to take form.

"Not cool! NOT cool!" Nosering screamed the Jeep drifted on icy roads, dodging parked cars and opened doors.

Skullface squeezed some rounds into the icy void behind the vehicle. "Just keep ahead of them, Stan, and keep your eyes on the road."

"Oh sure, I'll keep my eyes on the damn road. Hey look, ice! And snow! And dead bodies! And shitty cars parked in the middle of the fucking road! I love this goddamn road!"

Skullface grumbled as the headlights of a cargo truck came into view again. Isaac pulled him down just as a stream of bullets soared overhead. The crack of weapon fire followed close behind.

"We need to get off this road and into cover! Find a trail!" Shouted Skullface.

"No!" Isaac shouted back, uncharacteristically. His scruffy face, the lower-half covered in frozen blood, glared darkly. He repeated again, lower and more threateningly. "No..."

Skullface fired back at the truck, shooting out one of its lights. "They WILL catch up to us. We have to go around these damn cars, but they can just push right through."

"I'll take my chances!" Isaac's ghostly voice shouted back.

Skullface grabbed him by the coat and pulled his face close enough for Isaac to feel the heat from his breath. "You have no idea what you're talking about. What Tim and his company will do if they catch us. We need to get to Boston."

Isaac's hand grabbed Skullface's wrist, attempting to prey his hand off of his jacket. He failed. "Whatever they're capable of," Isaac replied with an icy gaze, "Is nothing compared to what's out there. Look at me and listen to me right now. If we go into the woods, we will die. Don't do it."

Skullface stared long and hard as Isaac, long enough for the truck to gain ground again and for a bullet to ricochet off of the metal frame of the Jeep. "Stan!" Skullface shouted, "Off-road. Now." He shoved Isaac back, and scoffed, "watch our six."

"Here we go!" Nosering shouted as he turned hard on the icy road and peeled toward an opening into the woods. Only, he hadn't expected the sudden drop in elevation. The vehicle careened downhill, out-of-control, with the sides and front of the vehicle scraping against trees and low-hanging branches. Isaac gripped the frame hard and braced himself with his legs, but the final drop was steep and the vehicle landed semi-vertically at the bottom of the hill. The impact threw Isaac out from the back of the vehicle.



At once, the echoes of the shouts and the terror that Isaac had felt gave way and the sharp grating pain in his skull took the form of a bleeding cut from his forehead down to the edge of his right eye. The floating sensation gave way to consciousness. His fingers, swollen and cold, began to move, digit-by-digit. He tested his legs: sore, but functional. Isaac drew in deep breaths. No lung obstructions, no broken ribs. Finally, he opened his eyes, fully expecting to find himself lying on the cold ground covered in frozen mud. Instead, he found himself propped up against the Jeep with his form covered in patchy flurries of snow.

A shiver rolled through Isaac's body as his damp clothes clung parasitically to his form, stealing his metabolic heat. But without the covering, Isaac would be exposed to the elements. He decided to endure the discomfort and rise, with support from the Jeep's door.

From the other side of the vehicle, Isaac could hear digging. Skullface was striking the ground with his knife, trying to free the Jeep from the hold of the icy ground. He had made some progress, which left Isaac wondering how long he had been unconscious.

Isaac drew out his knife and knelt beside him, hacking weakly at the ground. Skullface simply waved his hand. "Don't bother." So Isaac stood over him, watching. Beyond them and the Jeep, which was still stick semi-vertically on the hill, was an expanse of thick, leafless trees and a fog of snow. Isaac leaned against the vehicle for support and shivered, crossing his arms tightly against his chest.

"You probably think you were right," Skullface said. "Should've stayed on the road. Now we're stuck here and we're going to die from the cold."

Isaac scoffed, "It won't be the cold that kills us."

"Well, I'd have made the same choice again, if I had to." Skullface replied, defiantly.

Isaac let it drop. "What's in Boston?" he asked.

Skullface, accepting the conversation change, went back to digging. "The Eastern Front is bigger than you think. Our base at Ft. Devens is for securing the supply routes to Boston and all the way down to Baltimore. I'm sure Morgan told you something about this."

"I never bothered to ask," Isaac replied.

Skullface paused for a moment, then kept digging. "The short of it is, when the military orders broke down and this country stopped being a country, some of the ex-military grouped up with a bunch of local gangs and made its own network. Not owned by the government. Not owned by the military. Just a bunch of ex-cops, ex-military, ex-gangbangers keeping ourselves alive and away from those death camps."

Skullface looked up at Isaac, "You came from one of those camps. You know what they were like."

Isaac did not feel inclined to talk about it. He simply nodded his pain-ridden head very gently.

"Boston is one of the main hubs of the Eastern Front. Morgan had some connections up there. I need to get there before Tim gets there. With Morgan gone, someone needs to take over Fort Devens. We can't lose that supply line."

Isaac gave a grunt of disapproval. But before he could reply, his eye caught the silhouette of a person making their way toward them. He searched for his rifle, but only found his sidearm. Hastily, he scoured around the Jeep and found the weapon resting right where he was seated. Without hesitation, he drew up the weapon and stared down the scope at the ghostly pale figure of Sticks. He waved his arms to show he was not hostile.

"It's just me! Don't shoot!" He called out. "Where's Stan?"

Skullface took a break from digging and stood, slowly. "I thought you both went out to go take a piss." He replied.

"We did, but..." Sticks replied. "He said he heard something this way. I thought he was coming back to check up on you guys."

Isaac lowered the weapon, but made his way over to Sticks, speaking sternly. "What did he hear?" he replied.

"I dunno. Crying? I think he said he heard someone crying." Sticks replied. "Why?"

Isaac felt his heart stop. He swallowed hard and drew in a deep breath. "Which direction did he walk?

Sticks motioned to where he was. "We were down that way a bit. I saw him walking that way." He moved his hand from North to Southwest of their position.

"What's going on?" Skullface said, sternly.

Isaac glared back at Skullface as he readied his weapon. "You're about to find out what's going to kill us."

Those who succeed in the world possess a combination of two qualities: drive and potential. There are those in the world with ample potential and with the right push, achieve magnificent things. There are also those with low potential, but with a strong enough drive to surmount their barriers and achieve greatness. Stanley Scott possessed neither of these traits and subsequently was doomed to amount to nothing.

This was the final evaluation given to Stanley's parents from, what Stan called, a decrepit old witch (subsequent years would evolve the term "witch" into the more derogatory alternative). He remained, what faculty called, a "black sheep" among the more studious and disciplined peers of Father John V. Doyle School. Attempts to keep Stanley on track with his academics were frequently met with outbursts, often disrupting essential class time for students and creating a breakdown in classroom authority. Subsequently, his academic tenure extended little further than his first year of high school before he broke away from the faith and his future and sought, as his parents and teachers described, comfort in "the Devil's hands".

"The Devil's hands" were, specifically, the Pagan's Motorcycle Club, where his tasks involved running errands and occasional mechanical work. Despite Stan's less-than-glowing reviews in the academics area, one key trait that stood out above all else was his steadfast loyalty. Stan was a talker, but he never "talked", and he became a figure that was more reliable than he was tolerable.

For all of the talk he received about preparing for the future, Stan's Catholic family and school hadn't prepared for the apocalypse. Rather, it was his choice to join the Pagans that lead him to the Eastern Front, who kept him safe and sheltered as the world collapsed around him. He received word from some former Pagans members who also joined up with the Eastern Front that no one from their town of Coventry, Rhode Island - even the unsinkable Witch - survived. He tempered the pain of loss with a smile and a cynical laugh at the irony.



"Ten bucks says we freeze to death before Bill gets that Jeep out." Nosering said, hugging his frozen wet jacket tightly to himself. He stood several feet away from Sticks, back turned as the wiry man attempted to urinate against a thick tree covered in frozen rain. Sticks, however, said nothing.

"Shit, I don't know about New Gu-...my bad, Weatherman, but me - I like it better when it's raining ice and not raining bullets." His teeth chattered at the end of his sentence. To his amusement, he watched as his breath formed a cloud, drifting out in front of him before fading into the distance. The imagery reminded him of the smoke inside the burning school, which caused his skin to crawl with a pins and needles sensation. He could feel every injection site up and down his arms and legs. Anxiously, he scratched and laughed out loud.

"Man, I knew this guy back in Coventry - Johnny. Used to brag about how much he smoked. Said his dad smoked all the time and lived until 100. 'Burns out all the bad shit' he used to tell me. So he smoked everything. Cigars, cigarettes, weed. If he could light it, he'd smoke it." Nosering turned around as Sticks finished. He laughed at his own memory and continued, "He had a smoking competition with some of his buddies: who could smoke the most before they got sick. He won."

Sticks blinked at him, unsure of what he was supposed to say. Nosering decided to go right for the punchline, "Between you and me, I think we breathed enough of that shit back there to take his record. Here's to you, Johnny." Nosering motioned a cigarette puff and exhaled a cloud. The two men laughed heartily. Just as Nosering was about to give Sticks a pat on the shoulder, he heard a noise in the distance. He had noticed it prior, but assumed it was just the wind. Now, he was convinced it was something more.

"Do you hear that?" He asked Sticks, who shook his head silently. "God, I hate saying that shit. You ever watch those slasher movies? That's exactly what people say right before they get killed. Goddamn it, Weatherman, why do you have to spook us with the whole 'The woods are going to kill us' shit." Nosering lowered his nasally voice to attempt his best gruff Isaac impression. Sticks laughed again, but the sound persisted. In fact, it was growing louder.

"I swear to God, if that's someone's kid...I..." He grumbled and tightened his grip on his gun. With an elongated utterance of "shit" that persisted with a dejected exhale, he gave a nod. "I'll meet you back at the car. I'm going to go check that out."

Every instinct screamed out at Nosering as he took steps deeper into the woods. The crying was growing louder. It was shrill and irritating, but then again he found all children to be shrill and irritating which, he reasoned, made it more authentic. Still with every step, he muttered to himself, "This is it. This is how I die. Like a cheap fucking horror movie. Some Frank is going to come bite my head off. Or maybe Tim. Heh, well, if it's Tim, then at least I can tell him to bite me without him thinking it's some kind of invitation."

The crying stopped. Nosering paused, bringing up his weapon and exhaling another cloud. "Here we go..." But as he waited, alone with his body and feet covered with a thin layer of wet flurries, there was nothing but the silence of the wintery woods. He lowered his weapon and heard the cry again. It moved. "Damn." He muttered, and proceeded to search.

"Come on, little kid" He began to call out after a while. "Tell me where you are. Don't kill me when I find you. I like living. Living is good."

The sound that came next startled him. It was his name. Particularly, a static-filled, very adult male voice calling his name directly into his ear. His heart slammed against his chest and he took deep breaths before responding. "Bill! Shit, damn it, you nearly killed me."

"Get back here now!" Skullface replied over the radio.

"You're not my real dad!" Nosering mocked and laughed.

"Stan, I'm being very fucking serious. I was wrong. I was very wrong." Skullface replied.

"Bill, what the hell are you talking about?" Nosering replied, nervously.

Skullface spoke gravely, "Stan, the Franks aren't the only thing that's turned. Every goddamn animal is out to kill us."

The realization hit Nosering like a ton of bricks. He froze in place as he saw his realization manifest itself before him.

"Bill..."

"They're smart, too. Shit, I didn't have time to let New Guy explain. People were shooting at us. The animals, Stan, they're very smart."

"Bill..."

"They can trap us. Some of them make sounds like children because they know we'll come running."

"Bill, I'm staring at a very unhappy puppy right now." Stan finally explained, raising his weapon and backing away from, what he would describe as, a Wolf on steroids who made sure to never skip leg day.

"Bill?! What do I do. Do I run? Do I shoot it? Damn it, Bill, I don't want to die." Nosering said as began to side-step away from the growling wolf monstrosity. It watched him with cold eyes, shifting briefly between its low growl and its high-pitched, very human-sounding whine. It was taunting him. It wanted him to know how stupid he was for falling for its trap.

It didn't need to remind him. He was well aware. "Damn it, damn it, damn it, shitshitshitshitshit. Staaaay boy. Staaaaaay!"

"We're on our way! Don't shoot it unless you have to. It may be traveling alone."

"Wolves are packhunters", Isaac explained, coldly. "It's not alone. He's dead."

"Goddamn it, New Guy, shut up and run faster!" Skullface replied.

Nosering exhaled, trying to keep his composure. "Heeeey, little buddy. I know I look like a very tasty walking treat right now. But if you look inside yourself, you'll see that man and dog are really best friends." He continued to back away from the best slowly. "You can understand me, right, buddy? I...I told my mom I always wanted a dog. A husky. Saw one at the pound, looked just like you." He cursed at himself, "Damn it, Stan, don't talk to the big-ass wolf about the pound."

He looked up again. The wolf's ears began to raise. Its snarling stopped and it watched him curiously. "A big ol' husky, a good boy...just like you."

The wolf growled again. Nosering panicked, "Oooooor girl! Could have been a girl."

"Stan, we're almost there!" Skullface yelled over the radio. Just then, Nosering heard rustling around him. At that point, all of his worst fears were confirmed. He was going to die. "Bill, Greg...I don't want to dog food. Please don't let this be the way I go. Man, we just got out of that school. This isn't fair."

He could feel a hot tear fall on his icy cold cheek. He kept his aim tight on the wolf in front of him. "It's not fair!" He shouted again. The wolf's ears fell backward and its jaws opened, letting out a growl and a human whine.

"Yeaaah, mock me for crying, you bitch." Nosering said, bringing his finger closer to the trigger. "You wouldn't be the first."

"...Stan," Skullface said, quietly. "Stan, there's four of them around you. New Guy has them scoped. We can't get closer..."

"Tell him to take them out!"

"They're ready to pounce. He can take out one. I can't shoot that far."

"I don't want to die here, Bill. I don't want to die!" Nosering pleaded. "You tell New Guy to figure it out, and figure it out fast. After all the shit, after all THAT shit, I'm NOT going to die."



"I can take one shot before they're on top of him. He's dead." Isaac told Skullface.

The man paced, arms crossed. "I'm not losing him, Isaac." Skullface said, "I'm not. Not one more good man is dying today. You heard him, figure it out."

"No hesitation." Isaac said, coldly. It was a phrase that resonated well with Skullface, remembering his talk with them on the staircase of the burning building.

"Bullshit." He hissed. "Bull. Shit. You will not shoot him. Do you hear me?"

"Guys?!" Nosering said over the radio. "Guys, have you figured it out yet?"

"Better he get a bullet in the head than to suffer what those things will do to him. I've seen it. They toy with their meat. I'm ending this now."

"Isaac! Don't do it!" Skullface said. "Don't you do it. I saved you. You owe me. You owe him!"

Isaac said nothing. Already he had Nosering's head in his scope. His finger edged toward the trigger. Skullface's hand grabbed Isaac's shoulder hard, pulling the arm away from the gun, "This is on me, you hear me. Us, this forest. That's on me. But killing him? That's on you."

Isaac stared hard at Skullface. "I take the shot. You run. As fast as you can."

Skullface glared at Isaac, but released his shoulder. The man quickly rearmed himself and took aim. The wolves were circling, testing Nosering. But they were ready to pounce.

"Guys, now!" Nosering shouted.

"3..." Isaac said.

"What do you mean run? Do you mean run to the Jeep or run to save him, Isaac?" Skullface said.

"2..."

"I don't want to die. Please, guys, please don't do this to me!" Nosering cried.

"Isaac! You're not going to shoot him! DON'T SHOOT HIM!" Skullface yelled, forgetting to turn his radio off.

"SHOOT ME?! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!" Nosering shouted back.

"1..."

"Don't! Shoot him!" Skullface said as he prepared himself to run.

"Don't shoot me!" Nosering yelled. "I swear to God, I'll haunt you, goddamn it!"

"Go get him!" Isaac said at last as he squeezed the trigger. Accompanying the echoed crack of gunfire was the horrific yelp/scream of one of the wolves. In the distance, semi-automatic gunfire could be heard as Nosering opened fire.

The recoil from Isaac's shot jammed the rifle into his already sore shoulder, causing him to drop the weapon. He scrambled to pick it back up again, wincing as he looked through the scope. All he could see in the distance was a cloud of snow, dirt, and blood. He searched for Nosering or Skullface, panning his view left and right. Two wolves flanked the cloud of smoke. Isaac scoped one of them and squeeze a round, striking its hind quarters with a well-placed shot that send the animal careening to the ground.

From the smoke emerged Skullface, who fired a couple of rounds into the ground. He was pulling on Nosering's arm. He fired again at the dirt, screaming out as he pulled. Finally, Nosering emerged with animal jaws clamped tightly on his right leg. Skullface drew out his sidearm and finished off the wolf, then took Nosering's arm and dragged him across the ground again.

Isaac rose from his spot silently and shouldered his hunting rifle. He drew out his handgun and proceeded toward the two, watching for anything on their flanks. When he caught up to them, he brought the gun down toward Nosering, who was shaking violently.

"He's in shock! They took his leg." Skullface said.

Isaac watched as Nosering breathed rapidly, squirming and thrashing about. Tears streamed down his face as he screamed inhuman sounds.

"He's going to change..."

"No!" Skullface shouted. He began searching his pockets.

Isaac pointed the gun straight at Nosering's head. "You tried and failed."

Skullface looked up as he kept searching, "Stop trying to shoot him!" He shouted as he pulled a familiar looking syringe from his pocket.

Isaac paused and briefly searched his own pockets. The syringe was gone. "You stole..."

"It fell out of your pocket when you were flung from the Jeep. Now shut up and keep him still." Skullface said, trying to maneuver around Nosering's thrashing.

"How's that supposed to help?"

"I don't fucking know, okay? Eddie was shot up with this shit. He looked hideous, but he was still Eddie. Maybe this will save him." Skullface was desperate. He batted away Nosering's arms and looked at the leg, which was bleeding profusely onto the snow.

"He's going to infect you." Isaac said, coldly.

"He's kicking his blood around like a madman. You probably have some on your face. We're all screwed. Hold him down!" Skullface commanded.

Against Isaac's best instincts, he knelt down onto Nosering's arm. With his free hand (and still holding the gun to his head), Isaac pulled his mohawk and held his head to the ground.

Skullface hold Nosering's lower-half down and tugged his pants, exposing some bloody flesh on his thigh. Dark streaks of infection already began working its way up. He jammed the needle straight into the muscle and push some of the contents of the syringe in. Immediately, Nosering froze, as if he had become sedated. As the fluid pumped its way into leg, the skin began to gray, turning hard and scaly. The leg swelled and Nosering let out another harsh scream. As the scale spread, it made its way to the base of his thigh, hardening the skin around the opening and keeping the blood in. Nosering's leg kicked Skullface's arm away, launching the syringe several feet away.

The shaking resumed. His eyes rolled back and he coughed phlegm and blood. Isaac released him and stepped back, holding out his gun, but the convulsions slowed and Nosering went back to screams.

Skullface stepped away looking, for the first time to Isaac, unsure of what to do next. Nosering just continued to scream for an entire minute before his lips motioned into words. He drew breaths, screamed, and mouthed words again. Eventually, the screams formed into words.

"You assholes were going to shoot me! You were going to shoot me! Fuck you! Fuck everything. Fuck the world. Shit shit shit shit!"

"Stan. Stan, we're going to bring you back home." Skullface said, as Nosering's eyes slowly began to shut. "Stan!"

Gregory Smith locked himself in the vehicle, trembling from the cold and fear as his eyes panned the surrounding forest. Isaac's warning brought a much more bitter chill than the breeze and it left him nearly paralyzed with fear as he clutched a semi-automatic rifle close to his chest. Every rustle above sent his heart pounding as he watched for ravenous wildlife.

Gunshots resounded from the distance, bouncing off of the icy-snow covered trees and the cold, frozen surface. Multiple gunshots. Then, nothing. Silence. An eerie silence that lingered like death over him. Another frigid breeze clung to his body while his thin, wet clothes lent no support or comfort against its bite. He shivered, teeth chattering, and watched nervously.

Minutes past. Fifteen, twenty. He was convinced after the gunshots that it was over. That Bill and Isaac were ambushed on their way to Stan and that he would die from starvation or hypothermia out in the frozen woods. Instead. their forms emerged from the darkened forest as the first peaks of sunlight crept up past the horizon. Three men, two on foot and one riding on someone's back, came into view. Isaac kept some distance, guarding their hasty walk back while Bill carried an unconscious Stan carefully toward the vehicle.

Greg stood up, looking down at Stan, who was paler and ghostlier than usual. When he looked down further, he could see why. A gray mass replaced his thigh with no trace of his leg below where the knee would have been.

"Is he dead?" Greg asked, quietly. Fearing the worst.

Bill glared at Isaac for an uncomfortable pause before looking up at Greg. "Not yet. Let's get moving."

Greg shifted slowly. His cold body trembling still as he climbed out of the vehicle. Bill and Isaac scavenged the vehicle for supplies. Bill glanced back at Greg momentarily, then took his jacket off. "I'm going to be carrying him, I don't need it."

Too chilled to argue, Greg grabbed the jacket and put it on quickly. It reeked of sweat and leather, but it was dry and warm on the inside. For a moment, Greg caught a glare from Isaac. The icy gaze looked down at the rifle that he was carrying, which he held very close to his shivering body. With little more than a gaze of contempt, Isaac put his mask back on, shouldered his backpack, and returned to patrolling.



The journey back up the hill proved arduous for the group, but most particularly for Skullface. His steps grew increasingly labored as his exhausted, sleepless body carried Nosering like a wounded animal up a rather steep incline. Yet he still managed to keep ahead of Sticks, whose skinny form was breathing laboriously as it climbed, and Isaac, whose bruised and likely concussed body was proving to be difficult.

Solace finally came as the snow thinned and the rays of light beamed into the forest from the approaching clearing. Upon reaching the top, the men collapsed on the dirt on the side of the road. Heavy breaths and groans exhaled from all, but most notably from Nosering, who began to yell out from pain and shock from his severed leg.

Skullface reached out to Nosering, who grabbed his arm and held it tightly, tugging and fighting in a panic.

"Stan! Deep breaths, Stan. Deep breaths. You're alive. You're okay! We made it." He gripped Nosering's arm tighter, pulling up to a slightly seated position. "Look at me! Look right at me!"

Nosering groaned from the pain, shaking and hyperventiling all the meanwhile. But his eyes met with Skullface.

"Look at me," Skullface said again, firmly but calmer. "You're alive."

"It hurts! Goddamn it, Bill, it hurts like hell!" Nosering cried.

Skullface nodded. "I know."

Nosering looked over at Isaac, who was the last to crawl his way up to a seated position. He exhaled heavily through his mask and stared down the road.

"You were going to shoot me, you asshole!" Nosering barked toward Isaac.

Skullface looked back at Isaac, then over to Nosering again. "We need to get moving. Stan, I'm not going to lie to you. Your leg is in really bad shape. I don't know if you'll make it as far as where we're going. And it's going to hurt like hell."

"You're not going to make him try to shoot me again, Bill! Not after this!" Nosering cried out in pain, swearing out loud. "Where the fuck are we going to go now?"

"Get off the road." Isaac said through his mask and labored breaths.

Skullface picked up a Nosering slowly, ignoring the excruciating wails, and glanced over at Isaac. "We can't go back into that forest."

Isaac lowered his weapon after peering through his scope for confirmation, "We need to get off the road now."

Nosering screamed out and Sticks struggled to stand. Skullface tried to take a step, but lowered to his knees. He squinted off into the distance, looking for what Isaac was seeing. What he caught was the outline of a truck coming their way. Tim...

"We can't run. We'll have to fight." Skullface said.

He lowered Nosering to the ground and picked up his rifle, taking a strong kneeling position for stability. Isaac moved to his stomach, feeling his form sink with a crunch into the snow. He eyed the vehicle through the scope. Once again, his heart was racing in his chest. With a slow, deep breath, Isaac steadied his aim.

Within moments, the vehicle made its way fully into view. Isaac moved the scope up to the driver, but immediately, Skullface shouted. "Wait. Wait! That's not Tim."

Isaac remained skeptical, keeping his sights trained. But he waited, patiently, for the inevitable dangerous twist that he had come to expect. Fortunately, it never came. Skullface stood and waved an arm to the patchily armored vehicle, a van with its roof missing and armored plating along the sides.

The vehicle came to a halt. From the passenger side, a punk-rock woman stood up. The sides of her head had a close shave, but showed her hairs true dark black color. The rest of her hair, a vibrant mixture of red, greens, and purples, was haphazardly brushed forward. For a woman who was likely in her mid twenties, she looked barely older than a teenager. The obnoxious way she chewed her gum certainly didn't alleviate her of that image.

"Gomez!" Skullface shouted gleefully toward the woman.

"Fester!" She shouted back with a snarky grin.

Between some groans of pain, Nosering coughed and laughed, "It's funny because he's bald."

"Buzzed, not bald, you idiot." Skullface said. "How the hell did you find us?"

The woman crossed her arms and leaned back a little bit, cocking an eyebrow. "Who the hell said we were looking for you? What, you think we're some kind of rescue party?"

She leaned forward onto the armor plating, "Some dipshits set Bromfield on fire. We went to see if there was any shit worth saving."

Despite his mask, Isaac cold see Skullface's stoney look. The woman, Gomez, could as well. "No shit," she replied to Skullface's unspoken statement. "Well, Lewis is going to be pissed."

"I need to get to Lewis right now. Have you seen Tim?" Skullface replied urgently.

The woman smirked, "Tim? Which Tim? I know a bunch." Seeing the seriousness on Skullface's masked face, however, she changed her tune. "No. Am I supposed to be looking for him?"

"Nevermind. Stan needs some help." He stepped aside, revealing Nosering and his scaly leg. Gomez reeled backwards and drew a handgun. "Holy shit, Bill. He's changing."

"No!" Sticks said, moving to stand between him and Gomez. Skullface raised his hand. "Wait. Look, we know they were doing weird shit at that school. Right? Well, apparently they were making some kind of drug to stop the infection. Stan got bit. I gave him the drug. Now his leg is...whatever that is."

Gomez stared hard at the group, sucking on her well-chewed piece of gum. She gave it a pop and then grinned at Skullface. "What the hell, I dig it. Get him in here. If he tries to eat us, I'll shoot him myself."

"Why's everybody trying to shoot me today?!" Nosering cried out as Skullface carried him to the vehicle.

Gomez shifted her gaze over to Isaac, "What's this guy's deal? Looks like he wants to kill all of us and take our car. You wanna go, you piece of shit?!"

"Go, easy." Skullface said. A phrase that gave Isaac pause as he wondered whether the man was saying, "Go easy" or if he was referring to Gomez as "Go". Isaac detected a hint of affection in his tone.

The women smirked, "I'm just fucking with him. Come on, we'll take you to Boston. First we gotta make a few stops. We're hitting up Natick."

"Natick?" Skullface added as he and some unknown men loaded Nosering into the vehicle. "What the hell is in Natick?"

"Stores, you dumbass. We're going shopping. And your buddy needs a bunch of medical shit." She smirked again, "Hurry up. It's cold as balls out here."

Grant did his best to look around to where Bri was. "What are you doing?" His voice was a bit raspy when he answered her, "You need to get out of here." He could feel that he was getting colder and he knew that he was injured enough that he might slow her down and that was the last thing that he wanted. He knew that if she tried to untie him that it would leave her even more vulnerable to an attack from this guy and he couldn't have that. Of course he said he just wanted them to leave but could he really be trusted? He did hit Grant in the back of the head and then hog tie him.

He could still feel the blood trickling down his head and dripping off the side, and he was sure at this point there was a sizable pool that had formed, those head wounds always bled so much. To Bri it must have looked awful. "Take my bag and go before he gets you too." He knew that she probably wouldn't listen but he also knew that she would know he was serious. Even in his worst moment his only priority was to protect her from danger, it was all that he could think about at the moment.

Checkout Counter #6, Walmart, Framingham, Mass.

She was close. Close enough that he could smell her. (Degree Antiperspirant, $3.99, aisle 3A.) Wait. Was that her? Blood on the floor. His. Grant-package's. (Band-Aid brand plastic coated self-adhesive bandages, box of 50, $5.99, aisle 3B.) No. Nonononononono... Not her. Something else, smelly. His focus was on them, on her... but his ears were elsewhere. (St. Elsewhere, box-set, season one, $29.99, aisle 28) **quietly, almost hissing** "not NOW, dammit..." He could pinpoint a sound now. It was in women's underthings, just inside the main entrance. **still very, very quietly** "Your fault. Your fault. Your. Fault. Yours. Bad. Yourfault. You and Grant-package. 'least two of them. Stinkers in the naughty garments. Leaker needs new hosiery... cleanup, aisle 2 please..." Very, very slowly, with his off-hand, Ryan reached into a coat pocket and withdrew a set of dikes (Milwaukee, $11.99, aisle 17, Automotive) and as he swivelled the wavering gun barrel toward the ladies' naughty garment section, held them out for the woman to take. Held them as if touching her or touching them while she touched them would mean certain transmission of cootiees. "Cut him out. There'll be more coming. Always more. Always when there's fresh meat. Aisle 10. Delicatessen / Butcher..."

@The DudeMan @Lady of Lore

Oh. Oh God, not NOW!! Dammit, they’d cleared the store! Where had they come from?! Of all the worst possible times…
But of course it was now. Long before the world fell apart, people thought it cruel and unfair. Little did they know how good things were.

“Quiet,” Bri hushed Grant as she swiped the pliers from the crazy-man’s hands and set them to work on the bonds holding her friend, whipping her head around every once in a while to check the surroundings… and the man with the gun. The way he spoke, the aisle numbers, something about him not being ‘done’ with something, made her wonder if he’d worked here before everything went to hell. Had he been here this whole time by himself? Could explain the severe mental instability—

A wet, ragged groaning from the ‘naughty garments’ aisle interrupted her musings just as the pliers clipped through the last of Grant’s bonds. She almost flinched instinctively as something knocked over a stand, worried Gunman might lose it and pull the trigger by accident. Bri stuffed the pliers in her jacket pocket and crouched over Grant, hands gently but purposefully checking him for injuries. “Pain? Nausea? Sleepiness?” She found the gash in his head, patting it with a cotton pad. “Can you move? You may need to move…”
Her heart was present, but her mind was already on the impending rotter situation.
Grant was down. She’d HAVE to fight. No way around it. Could drag Grant to safer place if need be. Leave basket behind, can grab it once the risen are taken care of. The addition of Gunman made it more complicated. Unstable. Unpredictable. Unknown. Can’t trust to help her. Had to protect Grant from him, too.

Her thought pattern ended abruptly, that adrenaline-fueled clarity kicking in. Hyper-aware of everything, she turned an ear upwards, listening.
They were getting closer.
“Stay down, G, I’ll be fine, ok?” she hissed at Grant as she tiptoed over to pick up her machete once more. Bri came to stand beside Gunman, but not too close, her movements slow and steady. “Hey,” she whispered, gesturing towards his gun with a shake of her head. “Too noisy. That’ll draw more, we need to stay quiet. Use something else. We need to hunt them down before they get to—”

Too late.

What rounded the corner looked more like giant moldy SPAM than something that used to be human.
And it brought friends. Just four. But even one was dangerous enough.

Bri didn’t hesitate as the small pack of rotters broke apart, two heading for Gunman, one with arms stretched out towards Bri in a death-hug. The last one gurgled from behind the others, awkwardly attempting to move forward. She glided towards ‘hers’, noting the ‘new item, half price’ tags dangling from its clothing, the way its gaping mouth hung at a weird angle as if its jaw was broken. She punched a hand against its chest to keep it at arms length, feeling its ribs give beneath her palm with a soggy SCRUNCH as she jammed the tip of her blade through the bottom of its jaw. It was an easy push upwards into the brain.

Gore drizzled downwards.
Bri waited for it to fall, smashed its head with her boot heel just to make sure, and turned around.

“Hey,” she whispered, gesturing towards his gun with a shake of her head. “Too noisy. That’ll draw more, we need to stay quiet. Use something else. We need to hunt them down before they get to—”

"...what draws more, Grant-package-friend, is out-of-towner backpackers shopping for batteries."

He was already watching the old-lady-stinker approach from between two end cap displays (Spice up YOUR cooking with 'Shake & Bake!,' $1.19 each *SALE* choose from Turkey, Chicken and Fine Herbs.) She was wearing a rain coat and one rubber boot. The other foot was missing, her uneasy movement supported by the gleaming white bone of her lower leg. "They have rubber boots available in all sizes... aisle 23..."

She gurgled in reply (Listerine, $3.29, Aisle 2A) "Shut UP!" as Ryan quietly set the pistol on a nearby cash register station (Checkout #4, beer & alcohol purchases at #20, please...) and drew his trusty bat (Easton "Big Barrel," $250, sporting goods - out of stock) and in one fluid, golf-swing motion shattered her jaw, teeth spraying (Chicklets, $.89, Checkout impulse-buy side caps, multi-fruit flavours!) and followed that swing with a second that dropped grandma.

The second one had been a girl, maybe Ryan's own age. From the level of decay and bloating, it was hard to tell what she may once have looked like, but there was no denying the fact that she was naked, save a pair of flip-flops. He was distracted by the flip-flops so badly (how? how did those stay on??) that she nearly walked right up to him. Only the bump of her left elbow against his sternum broke him of his daze, and Ryan hit her in the face with the butt-end of his baseball bat, staggering her back. She howled wetly, a sound that seemed to come from underwater and a mile away, before Ryan's bat met her left temple, and she was on the floor.

November 11th 2017

James spent the early morning at the ATF office, he was going through some files and prepping for an upcoming raid on a local motorcycle club that suspected of gun smuggling and trafficking some serious drugs into Boston. He wanted to make sure he had his ducks in a row before committing to any sort of action. James was taking the afternoon off to help his mom and dad out with taking care of his nephews, as his brother and sister in law where out of town at a medical conference in Michigan. James was planning on taking them camping, letting his parents have some time off from watching the kids.

James got up from his desk and walked towards the stairs and proceeded to walk down two flights of stairs to the main lobby. He exited the building and walked over to his 1994 Chevy Silverado 1500 extended cab, it was red with the classic design of the white strip going from the hood to the tailgate. Once in, he started up his truck and started to drive to his parent's place. He had the radio going, it was set to a news station and they were talking about how people were being abducted, mainly the homeless. JD was sure that Boston PD was looking into things and if it was serious enough they would have called in the FBI, he would however look into things when he got back to work after taking his nephews camping.

Once JD got to his parent's place, his mom, Ava ran up and gave him a hug and said that the CDC was placing some cities under lockdown and Boston was one of those cities, and that Samuel was at the store getting supplies. James told her he would go and check on him to make sure he got everything he needed. He got back into his truck and drove over to his father's military surplus store.

Late November 2017

It had been a few weeks since the city was place under lockdown, James and his parent as well as his nephews were hiding out inside of his parent's bomb shelter. They had enough supplies to last a couple of months, the one thing that they will need once the power goes out is fuel for the bomb shelter's generator. James was the only one that would be able to go and get it as he was the most fit and the fact that he had the most experience using firearms that they had gotten from Samuel's store. It wasn't until the end of November did the power go out and they needed to the generator running. A couple of weeks and their supply of fuel would be empty and he would have to venture out and get some more.

The radio and tv news reports had all made the same statements that people got sick and then they died and within a matter of minutes to an hour they came back to life. James really didn't want his nephews to go out until things got better. James knew that his parents were worried about John and Linda since they couldn't get a hold of them since Boston went into lockdown.

With Grant's hands and feet free he was able to roll to his back and nod to Bri that he understood. He could hear the rotters but he did see them, at least not yet, his vision was still pretty blurred but he knew they were close and that Bri and Captain Cheapshot were fighting them. He felt the gash on the back of his head, it was smaller than he initially thought but those head wounds always bleed like hell. He had just started to sit up when he heard the low growl of one of the risen just above him and before he knew it he was on the ground half out of it and unarmed fighting with it.

As the world around him blurred he had laser focus on the creature atop him. It was foul. Its grey, shriveled skin had decayed long enough that where lips once were there was only a toothy maw chomping at his face as he held it back by the forehead and chest. Its hair was stringy and dirty white, its body somewhat mushy to the touch. Grant struggled to push it away from him in his weakened state, not only was it heavy on top of him but he was afraid if he tried to push it too hard that his hand might go through it and he didn't know what would happen if that happened. He looked around him for anything he could use to hit this thing in the head but nothing was in reach, at least nothing he could see. He could feel himself losing this fight as it dragged on. The creature's hands clawed at Grant's chest unable to make it through his coat, for now.

And then he felt it, the skin on the dead man's head began to rip and slide under Grant's hand bringing the dirty, rotten teeth closer and closer to Grant's face with each passing moment. "Help!" He called out in his panic, he was going to die this time and he knew it.

He walked -- never run, there's a muchmuchmuch better chance of falling or losing focus and slipping up. (Alaska brand ice melter, $3.99, automotive **Now on SALE! BOGO**) Through the checkout aisle, over to where Grant-package was on the floor, giving the rotter a noogie. He looked silly, all panic and slimy ooze on his fingers. It would be a tricky shot, hitting the crawler without also plastering Grant-package. Ryan took a good swing with the bat, aiming real carefully, and stove in the corpse's brain-pan.

He whirled about, ichor dripping from the Easton's yellow-and-red lettering, and stepped back to register #4 to retrieve the pistol he'd left there a moment ago. Then, he withdrew two tissues (Simplicity! brand facial tissue, 2-ply, $.99 each, aisle 3) and wiped the bat clean, discarding the tissues in the nearby waste-paper basket. Littering was against company standards, and was a misdemeanor offence, thank-you-please. Also, it simply wouldn't do to have fallen-blood and brain-matter on his bat.

Listening intently, he remembered Grant-package-friend saying there were four. He counted the ones that had fallen. Old-lady-no-leg. One. Girl-with-flip-flops. Two. Noogie. Three. Three corpses! Ah!Ah!Ah!Ah! (Sesame Street, "Count with the Count," children's colouring book, check-out end-cap # 1 & 3, $2.69 each. Other titles available!) "Nonsense. Enough." He whirled about, looking and listening, smelling the air for any sign of the last walker.

"Grant-package-friend, you sure there were four?"

Aromas of death and diesel punctuated a salty East Coast breeze. It accompanied the pungent leather of well-worn seat covers and the crisp, metallic hardtop of an M35 series cargo truck. A sudden lurch threw Isaac's body forward and gave him a bonus whiff while the heavy brakes rendered the vehicle to a groaning halt. Slowly, the weakened and weary man's eyes peeled open and beheld the blurry silhouette of a smooth, feminine face whose lips peeled up into a smile.

"Pow..." came the sound beyond those smiling lips while the woman's beady eyes came alight. From the corner of his eye, Isaac made out the shape of two fingers pointed like a gun. It was slowly pulled away from his forehead and brought in close to the woman's face, where she blew on the tip with a widening grin and a playful wink. She nodded eagerly and mouthed the words, "You're dead."

"Go." Skullface interrupted and leaned in between the two, gesturing beyond the rear window of the cargo truck to some vague shadows in the distance. The woman, Gomez, followed Skullface's pronounced jawline until her gaze met his target.

"Tim?" She inquired between chomps of her long-expired chewing gum.

He squinted, trying to focus. "Could be," he muttered, "He'll follow our tracks. Damn snow." After a long moment, he gave Isaac's shoulder a clap and turned around, facing the vehicle's occupants. To his left, Isaac was keenly aware of Sticks, whose boney form huddled over a canteen. Across from Sticks were two burly men of little consequence to Isaac. And finally, there was Gomez, who shifted her seated position across from Isaac into a textbook mockery of a manspread.

"Last stop before we head to Boston! Get what you need and get out fast. Got it?" Skullface announced as he unlocked the truck's rear hatch. Gomez flirtatiously pushed past him. Her thick boots landed into a layer of moist snow with a muffled crunch. She spun around and spread out her arms while shouting at the truck and two other SUVs parked in front of it.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" She shouted and then paused dramatically, gesturing toward one of the SUVs, "...And Stan! Welcome to Walmart!"

March 15, 2018 - Framingham, Massachusetts - Walmart Checkout Area

Panic had set in as the deadman's scalp continued to slide off his skull in Grant's hand and the rotten toothed maw drew closer and closer to Grant's face by the second. This was it, he was going to die in Walmart of all places. He turned his face away when the stench became unbearable and he looked to Bri who was downing another rotter unable to help him. As far as last things to see go, Bri certainly was one of the best things he could think of. He had accepted his fate.

He closed his eyes and waited for the end. Tink. He heard the bat ring out as it struck the deadman's head and hit with enough force to knock the corpse almost completely off of him. Shock. Relief. Confusion. Pain. He was experiencing so much all at once as he kicked the body the rest of the way off and began to crawl backward, looking around to see the guy that had just attacked him with his bat in hand over the corpse. He was in disbelief, why did this guy help him after attacking them?

Then he heard his attacker call out to Bri, something about another stinker and a shiver ran down his spine. Grant scooted back until his back was against a solid surface and as luck would have it his hand found his hatchet on the ground next to him. He looked away from the guy with the bat just for a moment as he grabbed his hatchet and then looked to the man with the bat and threw it. Grant had gotten pretty good with a hatchet while in college, there was this bar he used to go to that had axe throwing range. The hatchet spun through the air toward the batter and then sailed just past him and into the forehead of the last shambler, dropping it to the ground like a sack of potatoes. "Found it." He jested as best as he could, before he groaned in pain and held the back of his head.

So then, it was all over. (Never over. Never OVER. Over where?) He didn't really know what to do with himself after the last of the shoppers had been dispatched. (Dispatch! Dispatch -- this is bus 412, where are you, dispatch?) Realizing he was still carrying the bat, he made himself busy, by returning it to the aisle from whence it came, but then agonized over putting used merchandise back on the open sales floor. That was for Customer Service to attend to.

Uncertain, he held onto the bat, using it like a walking cane. thrumm. clank. thrumm. clank. thrumm. clank. He found himself back up at the checkout lanes, where Grant-Package and Grant-Package-Friend were hugging and cleaning up. He stood awkwardly, before remembering he needed to sweep and clear. Where had the shoppers come from? He went down the short hall to the office (Larry's desk, Larry had not clocked in today.) and flicked through the monitors (Miami Vice, 7PM Thursdays! Golden Girls, 4PM weekdays on CTV!) and then he found what he was looking for. The #3 loading dock door was wedged open, a shopper half-in, half-out (50/50 tickets for this week's draw are available at Customer Service! Gwen used to be really good at selling the 50/50 draw tickets. Gwen Lawrenson, employee of the month Feb. 2016.)

He made for the loading dock, and helped out the shopper. ('Our customers -- we appreciate YOU!' Ryan wore that button on his usual overshirt.) Confirming the loading dock was closed and safe, he made his way back out to the checkout. Didn't really know what he was supposed to say to these shoppers. It had been a long time since he had seen these kind of shoppers. He stood a long time before he spoke, and when he did, it sounded like he hadn't used his voice in a long time.

"Hi." The pause was long enough to run a freight train through. "I'm Ryan. I work in Electronics and Home Furnishings." He swayed slightly, like he was thinking of moving on, but just stood still, swaying slightly. His eyes never quite met theirs. "Sorry about your head, Grant-Package. Didn't know if you was... were a good one, or a bad one."

@The DudeMan @Lady of Lore

March 15, 2018 - Framingham, Massachusetts - Walmart Checkout Area

“Well, Ryan…” Bri huffed a little as she hauled Grant slowly to his feet, trying to keep her body upright, front-facing and one arm free in case their new ‘friend’ needed a stabilizing knife to the face. Struggling to support Grant gave her some verbal cover as she tried to come up with a polite response. Weird how fast your casual communication skills disappear when your only blessed source of chatting knows you like the back of his hand. They could have a whole conversation with a single look. Who needed words when you were that close?
She supposed a name exchange would be a good start.

“Briana, Grant,” she gestured in introduction, still keeping a wary distance. Cool and calm. Clearly Ryan hadn’t had much interaction either. “I guess thank you for the help with the rots.” She shot Grant an understanding look. “I don’t blame you for swinging at us first, asking questions later. Can’t be too careful. But we’re not here to hurt anyone or cause problems,” she finished quickly, in case he was rethinking his apologies for Grant’s attack. “Just needed a few supplies.”

The edges of Bri’s vision began to smooth out as the adrenaline faded. She hesitated a moment before sheathing her knife in a clear sign of ‘I’ll Trust You Enough For Now’, and nodded to the basket of items on the floor near Ryan. It had spilled, sending socks, spices and a few other items Bri had gathered rolling. “Promise we didn’t take more than we needed, but we DO need it, and then we’ll leave you in peace.”

Making sure Grant had a solid hold on the checkout counter, she very slowly went about gathering her strewn items and tucking them into her backpack, every movement deliberate as she narrated what she was going to grab next the closer she got to Ryan. As the last of the adult pre-moistened washcloths was zipped away, Bri gave him a small smile and backed away next to Grant. “Electronics, huh?” She threw her best friend a look, an ironic glint in her eye. “Maybe you know how to fix an old CD player? I found one a while back, got the batteries for it, just can’t figure out why it won’t work–”

Through the boarded up front doors of the Walmart came the sound of a vehicle, a voice following shortly.

Bri froze.

When she’d said she understood Ryan’s fear and uncertainty about strangers, she’d meant it. Because the only thing potentially worse than rotters…was other people.

She looked at Grant, then Ryan, who’d suddenly become part of their group in her mind because he was less of an unknown than whatever was outside in that car. Grant wasn’t much for a fight right now, and Ryan had proven to be something of a loose cannon…but he did know the store, and that was a point on their side.
“I’m assuming no one wants to meet the newcomers?” She quietly crept to the front doors, peering through a shard in the wood paneling, but the glass was too fogged and shattered to see anything. “Ryan? Know somewhere we can hide in here while we wait for Grant to heal up a bit?” she whispered.

Never count your wounds…

A lifetime ago, a flippant colleague of Isaac, who suffered the tiresome but common condition of an overabundance of wealth and severe starvation of humility, bestowed his twice-daily, broken-clock wisdom as he sat solemn-faced with his dimpled chin resting on the edges of his pressed fingers. He spoke four prescient words with an uncharacteristic whisper, face half-lit by the red embers of the dying fire, “Never count your wounds.”

He was accompanied by four men, two at each side of him, all weary and recently unburdened of their climbing equipment. Isaac sat across the fire from the man a short distance away. He was lying, sprawled on the grass and rock, while staring at the bespeckled night sky. It was a simpler world, then. Or at least, it would be for the next few days and nights, though he did not know it then. Back then, Isaac’s pains were more abstract. Spiritual. But they were, what the youth of his day liked to call, First World problems.

Perhaps it was the elevation, with only half a day's hike left to the mountain peak. Or maybe it was the third-person perspective of hindsight that often accompanied the memory of days before a disaster. But it seemed, to Isaac, that the moon and stars were closer in those days. Almost reachable. And so, while his worn and weary colleagues grumbled about this ache or that pain, Isaac found himself pinching out with his thumb and index finger to pluck Dubhe, the heart of the bear, out of the night sky.

It was the icy breeze on that Thursday, March 15th morning that made Isaac reminiscent of his former colleague’s unusually sage advice. The wind that rushed into the truck brought a fresh, prickly perspective to the discordant choir of Isaac’s pains. Not just the pains of the recent few days; drugged to unconsciousness, choked with smoke, punched to the ground, thrown from a tumbling vehicle, and forced to hike through a forest in freezing temperatures; but also the pains of the past few months since he was suddenly alone, trapped in a ranger’s cabin at a mountain’s peak. The amalgamation of hurts he felt as his chilly damp clothes clung to the scabs and bruises of his battered form mixed with the numbness he felt, inside and out, could only be described as post-apocalyptic - a term that long since manifested from the threshold of science fiction into empirical fact.

Isaac’s addled mind and body operated as if on auto-pilot following Skullface, Gomez, and between the two burly extras he would posthumously refer to as Thing 1 and Thing 2. Thing 1’s statured form blocked Isaac’s view of the boarded doors and windows. Isaac peaked through the crack of daylight between Thing 1’s trunk of an arm and the flak jacket that hung loosely on his upper form. Through it, he caught a glimpse of Skullface pushing ahead to the makeshift barricade, gesturing to his lips for everyone to be silent. A command that was immediately and petulantly ignored by his companion.

“Knock, knock, fuckers!” Gomez cackled and squished her expired gum with a squeak. She glanced playfully at Skullface, “Not going to ask ‘who’s there?’”

Skullface let loose an audible growl and gestured hurriedly to the door. Stealth was out of the question now. This had to be a raid. In a rush that caught Isaac immediately off-guard and forced him into a stumble backward, Thing 1 stiffened up straight and charged forward. Before Isaac could recover, Thing 2 pushed forward and knocked Isaac aside, sending him sprawling like a concussed ragdoll into the snow. Fresh blood trickled into the thin layer of snow that blanketed the Walmart parking lot and Isaac felt a new fresh sting join the choir like an overeager freshman tenor.

Isaac rolled dizzily onto his back and stared up at the snow-speckled sky. Every inch of him was too painfully numb and weary to bother with the cascade of succeeding events.

“Never count your wounds,” whispered the voice of an asshole. For all of his properties, accounts, degrees, and investments, those four words contained the richest sum for the short remainder of that man’s existence.

“Rest in pieces, Nate,” Isaac muttered. He reached a hand up to the floating specks and snatched a large snowflake from the sky.