CDC Center. Fort Leonard Wood, MS.

Three men were talking in the control center, various monitors lit up around them. There were over 30 monitors and they were split in half, but every monitor from the 1st and 2nd floor, along with the perimeter cameras were off-line and black.

Two of the men involved were armed men in blue security uniforms in various forms of tidiness. The third man wore a lighter blue service outfit with barely visible, dark blue pinstripes. The man with pinstripes was in the middle of speaking, somewhat nervously. "I told you. It's not something I can stop. I'm a fucking tech. I'm here to make sure the whole system is working properly, and, well. It is. This happens every 9 months, when the people in there are supposed to be removed while the rooms are sanitized. I played around, but can't find any way to actually stop it."

The next man, one of the guards, spoke up in a more assertive tone. "Well. Bottom line is that in 20 minutes, those doors are going to open. That means people we don't know, more mouths to feed and more fucking coming back to life if something happens. I don't know them or trust them. We don't know if they were criminals or what. I plan on staying here until help comes. Staying here and living. I told you guys before, they have FOOD in there. We should have gone in there and taken it weeks ago."

"Taken it and what Bradley? Left them to starve? Killed them?" The second guard spoke up but didn't seem to have and punch or conviction behind his words.

"Horace, you don't have any god damned common sense. If they get out, we're going to die. Sooner. No food. Or shit, they might damn well come after US for what WE have." Bradley looked over at the tech and said, "Anders, you're supposed to be the smart one, how the fuck come you can sit there and not see this for what it is?"

Anders didn't look up from a screen, it was a room with an empty bed and nothing going on, but he didn't have the resolve to look Bradley in the eye. "I just can't...do that. I'm not a killer."

"Fine, fine. You guys are right. I'm just, nervous, you know? I want to live. The best thing to do would be--what the hell is room # 5 doing?" He pointed at the screen, although neither Anders nor Horace needed to be directed to screen five.

Horace looked up and raised an eyebrow, turning to look back at Bradley. "I don't see an--" He hadn't turned fully to face Bradley when the round took him in the temple, spraying some of the computers with red bites and pieces.

"W-w-what the. Holy sh-shit what. Bradley you fucking... Why?"

"You wouldn't understand," he pointed the gun at Anders who began to protest but the first syllable hadn't even made its way off his tongue before the second shot ripped through the front of the tech's head.

Without a word, or taking a moment to clean up, Bradley simply walked out of the room and into the armory next door. He pulled out 2 more 9mm glocks and ten 15-round magazines, loading them in place. There weren't that many people, but he'd rather be safe than sorry. He looked up at the countdown on the screen and there were now 16 minutes remaining. He moved to sit on the floor at the end of the hall, wishing he had a joint or a drink, going over his gear every so often.

Silently, he hoped they'd all just step out at once so he could get most of the killing done quickly and be done with it. He just wanted to eat and go to sleep. "Fucking tired of this shit," he said to himself.

Abandoned house. Southwest Missouri.

Gunfire echoed about the ruined stone walls of the abandoned cellar their little group had taken refuge in. They were cornered, only one way out and it was flooded with the undead. Terry gave a loud curse, tossing another improvised incendiary out into the massing crowd of walkers, a number of them lighting up, flailing around briefly, catching a few more, only for the flames to die out as they collapsed, barely making a dent in the flow. They were running low on time and ammo, and frankly, it wasn't looking good in the slightest. A shout of 'reloading!' was heard, followed by a few more. There wasn't time. The flow was coming in too strong. Terry's mind rushed, crowbar seeming to leap from his belt to his hand as the first few zeds made it to the cellar doors. The first was met with a bar of iron, skull splintering and brain quite literally flying out of the back of its skull at the impact. But more just kept coming, no matter how many heads he bashed in protection of his friends, all still firing into the horde. The pile of bodies was slowing them... But not by enough.
"Fuad! Get your ass over here!"

Fuad. He had to save that little foreign bastard, if anybody. Another few heads cracked, one behind him exploding into bone and brain as the man he sought blew it to pieces with his shotgun, already making his way over.

Fuad looked back, shaking his head and fighting down panic as he watched Terry lighting the undead. He told him a few times to make EXPLOSIVES, because last Fuad checked, fire could kill HIM too. And he knew Terry would see it his way and stop eventually. Maybe tonight, if he died. Or whenever old age took him. But he wouldn't do it simply because something like logic came into play. Not Terry. He put his shotgun away to conserve rounds and looked about. It wasn't looking promising...

He was actually thankful for the light of the fire however, because the streams of light from various flashlights created odd affects and messed with depth perception, so a constant stream of non-LED light was actually a godsend of sorts...even it was only to see the swarms of zombies coming down. Several member had fallen and Fuad couldn't help but think to himself, as he brought his own crowbar smashing into the skull of a zombie with sickening, brutal efficiency, that they were going to die if they didn't come up with a way out.

"I'm right next to you, you old fuck, do you have your glasses on?" he shot back, his accent having noticeable arabic tone to it, but the form of his dialogue was impeccable, almost articulate. Where Terry was bullheaded, strong and more stubborn than smart, Fuad was the opposite; dexterous, quick and thoughtful. Where Terry channeled his rage into the face of of whatever stood before him (most likely with his crowbar or fist), and he had what could only be called tunnel-vision as he looked for more things to kill, Fuad was always looking at the whole picture. Could they win? Was this a real threat? He often had to verbally drag Terry away from situations because truth be told, there were times when it was obvious to Fuad that if he weren't there, Terry would simply have fought until either all the zombies in the world were dead, or his crowbar broke, along with his hands and whatever else he could smash then broke, until he was dead.

Fuad reached out with the metal gauntlet, grabbing another by the throat and pulling it to the ground to dispatch it a bit easier. Then he saw the window. "Watch my back guys," he said to whoever hadn't fallen still, mainly to Terry. He climbed a solid metal table and unlatched the window. Normally, this would be a serious no-no. Opening a window, let alone crawling out of it in an area that you know is crawling with zeds while unable to defend yourself was a sure way to die.

He'd take his chances there as opposed to either being eaten and turning, or lit on fire or smoked out by Terry. He opened the latch, pulled himself up so his feet were off the table, and peeked out...

Terry gave nothing but a snort, backing up with Fuad and ensuring his back was clear- No one else was able, after all. Barely any of their group survived, excluding Fuad and Terry themselves, and all of them were cornered deeper in the cellar- They wouldn't last long.

"Hurry up, Fuad! They're hording in like flies to shit! And if I don't fit through that window, I blame you!"
Because what other sensible option was there?

Thankfully, the fields proved clear where Fuad looked out, a clean run off of the little farmhouse's land and into the main road, leading all the way to a nearby city- An admittedly very, very long journey on foot. But it was their best option by far. A number of grunts from Terry suggested the zeds were closing in, causing him a bit of trouble- And an ominous lack of gunshots came from their companions, shortly followed by screams of agony. They were on their own, now...

Fuad yelled "going up" but wasn't sure Terry would have been able to hear him between the fact that his body was on the other side of the window, and it was loud as shit in the basement. He felt a loud crash more than heard it inside the cellar, but he simply pulled himself up and focused on that. He yelled into the window, "get your fat ass up here," and then moved to the side of the building to peek around the large country house.

He was shocked. There were easily 30 zombies that he could see, not including those cut off from his view by the house, or already inside. He moved back and saw Terry's head and arms coming out, and couldn't help but chuckle. "At least if you get stuck, you'll die and the house will burn down around them as they eat your old, fat ass." With that, he moved to help Terry up.

The old man huffed, having only a slight bit of trouble fitting through the window before climbing free, kicking a zed or two in the face on the way. He snarled over his shoulder at the house, gesturing for Fuad to move away and rummaging in the satchel at his side a moment, tossing something.... ominous, in the window behind them. With a flick of his wrist, a match followed it in, and he set to hauling some serious ass away from the farmhouse.

As they ran, Fuad couldn't help but look over and tell Terry, "I was joking about the fat ass thing. I can tell you've been counting calories."

Terry simply flipped him off on the run. The two barely made it out of range in time before flames flickered in the basement of the farmhouse behind them- shortly before they apparently found something explosive. With an air-rending blast, the house pretty much exploded. Must have caught a gas main... Wood, glass, chunks of earth, stone, and zombie bits flew everywhere, almost entirely on fire. The wall of heat and pressure hit Terry and Fuad full in the back, sending Terry flat on his face, and no doubt sending the smaller Fuad flying. Poor guy.

Fuad hit the ground and found himself face first in the cold, wet October dirt. He spat some out and rubbed his lips, giving a few little spits before turning around. It was a fucking disaster. Most of the home was gone except one sliver of a wall and fire was everywhere, illuminating the night brilliantly. Some of that fire appeared to be moving or walking around, shambling aimlessly as if alive. And it was. Well, it was undead. The zombies were ablaze but still focusing on the sights and sounds. Fuad couldn't guess for sure if they were actually confused, so much as the sheer volume of sensory information had them reacting to too many things at once. Hopefully, they just burned out. Sometimes, they would live after being set aflame and simply be disfigured and reek of burnt flesh. The fire had to be long and intense to really "kill" the infected.

Fuad wasn't really religious, but he gave a quick moment of silence and paid respects to those that didn't make it out.

Terry groaned, getting back to his feet and cracking his neck, rubbing at his shoulder and grinning wickedly at Fuad.
"Not so proud of your damn walking bombs now, are ya, my little hajji friend? You people need a vest for something like that, right?"
Terry you racist shit. But oh, the humor.

"You redneck piece of shit. I'm not Iraqi. Sure as hell not a terrorist. And then the Shiites--you know what. Nevermind. I know you're not too fond of syllables and words other than fuck, shit, kill and," he went on to make a series of several animalistic grunts and growls. "So here: fuck off. And what do you know about Iraq, weren't you fighting the Krauts in World War 2 anyway?"

Despite the content of the conversation, both men found themselves smiling...but neither of them would admit it. 6 or so months of surviving together, living through disaster after disaster and wave upon wave of undead, and constantly battling and avoiding human bandits had developed into a unique relationship between the two.

From the outside looking in, the two could almost be viewed as bad people. Heartless. Cold. They showed almost no remorse after losing several other people in a manner of minutes. The truth of it is that both stopped feeling anything for new people many months ago. Somehow, it seemed that no matter what, those around Terry and Fuad died. Both saw it, realized it and had come to terms with it in one way or another, but they never talked about it. They'd talk about anything BUT that.

It seemed that laughing at one another, making light of the death and misery around them that came in so many forms, the only thing they had to stay sane were things like that: the joking, ribbing and making light of everything. Well, they also had each other, but good luck convincing THEM of that.

CDC Center. Fort Leonard Wood, MS.

Jon laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, tapping his fingers on the chest. This was the 5th day in a row now where there had been no activity from anyone outside of the room and that worried Jon to an insane degree. He knew something was wrong, even before. They'd come in and clean, sort things out or do maintenance when he was drugged, most likely gassed; and they'd also answer the comm systems at all hours of the day, but not recently. Even before that however, things seemed to get off of their schedule and he could detect shortness and stress in voices of the attendants.

Jon's room was rather plain and modest. There was a bed, the small but full sized kitchen, a small bathroom with a shower and a small side area with a small table and single chair. In that room was also a treadmill and some books. Jon kept it simple. He wanted computers and news papers, but that was a sever no-no, as anything that allowed outside communications was forbiden. There were no windows, only a couple flourescent bulbs mixed with some form of "day light" that Jon assumed helped the body cope with not having direct sunlight, almost like lizards and snakes get when kept as pets. He assumed the doors and walls were soundproof because never once had he heard anything outside of the confines of his walls. Not even thunder.

He looked over at the shower, then the small dresser, debating what to do. He sat up and yawned, looking around. His eyes once again feel to the large, orange envelope that was on the counter next to his bed, the sealed envelope that was there when he came into the room and hadn't moved since, at least on his account. It simply said "Jon. Open upon release only." He'd seen and read many envelopes like this before but this one was more intriguing as there was generally no wait period, or at least not a wait that stretched for nine months. He shrugged and sighed, then decided to go take another shower...

Meanwhile in his own room, Will gave a sigh, letting his hand slip from the intercom, shaking his head. Five days with no response. -And- today was supposed to be cleaning day. For the past nine months, he'd been gassed at almost the same time on this day, every month. When he came around, there was usually a fresh needle mark on his arm, his room was clean, and the fridge was re-stocked with the items he'd requested a day previous. The lack of activity was... Disturbing, to say the least. No response, no cleaning, no food. After a brief moment, he couldn't help but give a snicker. Maybe they were all on holiday.

"Five an O, favor of silence."

This was muttered in an undertone as he made his way to his bed, flopping down spread eagled on the (Rather crappy) mattress and simply staring at the ceiling. There wasn't much left for him to do at this point. He was showered and dressed, mostly out of habit. After all, he wasn't going anywhere. Lazy people would probably just sit around in their P.J's, showering once a week tops... Suppose strict living habits for a number of years for 'Public Image' did that to a person. He ran a hand down his face with a groan of boredom, resorting to talking to himself yet again.

"What do you think? From the White House to a piece of shit stone room, not a family member in sight... Could have been a kidnapping... Nah, too well provided for. Lack of contact is driving me nuts, of course. Wonder if the Redskins won the superbowl?"

As sad as he knew it was, particularly to the people he was certain were watching on the other end of a screen- Or had been at least- he kept on with the self-conversation, the same one he'd had with himself since the first month of his imprisonment in this.... Strange place. He'd had a conversation or two over the intercom, sure, but never anything personal, and asking about the outside world had always led to hours of silence on the other end. With a shrug, he flopped off of the bed, landing on his hands and toes and setting to doing pushups while talking to nobody but himself. Oh, boredom, how you wreck a man's mind...

Jon got out of the shower, dressed, and went to sit back on the bed. He clicked the comm and asked for assistance, but again there was no answer. He stared at the envelope, then to his dwindling food supply hoping that one of two things happened: technical difficulties or that all the shit outside calmed down, and they simply had other things to worry about for a few days.

Jon's gut told him it was neither of those.

He sat, starting at the door, and his gaze went to the envelope again. He hadn't looked at the thing more than twice in the months he was here, not until the communications stopped. He started to look at numerous times a day after, wondering if he should just do it. Then, there was a noise that Jon hadn't heard in the room before and because of that fact, common sense didn't kick in for a moment. There was a loud, distinct CLICK and THUNK as the door unlocked. Without thinking, he moved to the door, ready for whatever came in while he hand reached up and snatched the envelope. He opened it and tossed it aside, pulling out a small sheet of paper while keeping his focus on the door.

He took but a second, read the message 3 times and then grimaced. He tore the note into three pieces, sticking one part in his pocket to dispose of later, sprinkling another on the floor and the other he put in his sock. Overboard? Paranoid? Yes, a little bit. God bless the CIA training. At least he didn't eat all or part of the thing...

He took a moment and simply stood there, then after a few more moments, he grabbed the handle, slowly pulled it down and began to open the door...

He almost missed it, drowned out by the sound of his own voice as he continued to argue with himself, in the midst of his usual workout routine. Crunches, pushups, ghost boxing- But then it was there. A click and a thunk. He'd heard that kind of sound before, if in different situations. Mechanical door locks? His gaze shot to the door, then, and he almost bolted for it, before a tiny thought in the back of his head told him to pause. Think a moment, look around. He'd need stuff. Everyone always needs stuff. First and foremost, something he simply wouldn't feel -right- without. It took but a moment to bolt to the footlocker at the end of his bed, digging through it and pulling free a small bag, and a larger box, long but slender.

What took a short moment or two longer was rapidly stripping, then throwing on clothes he was far more comfortable in. Jeans, a t-shirt, hiking boots and a windbreaker- An excellent outfit in his mind. The box he simply picked up, holding it loosely in hand and darting for the door. Something made him remain... cautious. That little human instinct to sniff out potential danger. So he paused by the doorframe, slowly, carefully cracking the door open and peering out of it. Nothing but a long hallway... Rooms up and down it similar to his own, yes... But no one -in- it yet, that he could see. So saying, he took a deep breath and stepped into the hall, glancing side to side- Only to be faced with what he hadn't seen a moment before. A man seated at the end of the hall, staring right at him, with a gun aimed a bit too steadily for his comfort. But... nobody would shoot the president's son, surely this man knew? Still, he cursed, dropping the box and raising his hands slightly as the man stood up.
"Woah there guy, let's not do anythin-"
He was cut off by the explosive crack of a gunshot, cursing just as explosively as he felt the round rip past him, setting his ear to ringing. With another sharp curse, he dove back into his room.
"WHAT THE FUCK GUY!?"
He made another brief bolt, snagging his box from the hall and sliding back into the room.

Just as the shot went off, Jon opened the door. It was immediately evident that the door was soundproof because he only heard part of the gunshot. He didn't react, because the man was armed and Jon wasn't sure what else was going on. The man was focused down the hall, so Jon wasn't immediately worried. He could only guess what he was shooting at and wanted to make sure. Then the guard started to speak, yelling loudly. "Whoa whoa. Sorry. I'm the CDC Sec Team. Sorry, Security Team. This area was compromised and we don't know what's coming out of each room."

The man took a deep breath and Jon could see him mentally composing himself before continuing. "If you can hear me, just step out of the room, slow, hands above your head, and get on you knees. Once we confirm you're not infected, we'll get you cleared and onto the roof for extraction."

At this point, Jon saw movement directly across from his room, as the door swung open. A younger looking kid stood there and by the look on his face, Jon could tell he had no clue what was going on, partly from the fact tha the doors were soundproof, and mainly because the boy looked like he was some form of cyber geek more at home in his grandmother's basement than a CDC facility. The man stood there, looking at the guard stupidly, unsure of what to think of a man holding a gun.

The man didn't say a word, he simply turned towards the young man and pulled the trigger.

It was the second time today Jon heard a very distinct CLICK. Unlike the first, this was the click of a firing pin striking a round and not firing, a misfire. This time, he wasted no time. He burst through the door and caught the man as he was clearing the round. Bradley saw him coming and swing the pistol at Jon's face in a sideways strike. It was short and well aimed and Jon knew this man had some degree of training. Simply being able to react showed discipline, but the fact that the blow was accurate, quick and didn't extend too far indicated to Jon he would have to be careful. Jon met the blow with a vertical forearm block and closed on the man, wanting to press the advantage and keep him on the defensive. He threw 3 short jabs, the last of which got through but didn't seem to phase the man. He actually surprised Jon by also stepping forward where most men would have tried to take a step or two back and gain some composure.

Bradley threw a jab and hook himself, using the gun to add weight and blunt force behind his blow. The two ducked heads and threw several more rapid, intense exchanges before Jon managed to sneak in a forceblock at the guard's elbow as he swung the pistol out in a wide hook attack. Between the force behind the blow, and the force of the block, the elbow made a loud crunching sound and bent the wrong way slightly as it hyperextended. The following reaction from Bradley was to release the gun that went clattering down the hallway, followed by a quick grunt of pain. Jon swept two more punches aside rather easily now and stepped in with a tremendous headbutt that caught his opponent square in the nose, smashing it to the point that Jon already felt blood on his head a fraction of a second later.

The man fell so fast that Jon lost his footing, maybe on some blood, and fell at Bradley's feet. Bradley couldn't see through tears, but he could feel the man fall and knew he had a split second to react. He threw a lazy punch at his attacker with his bad arm to gain a second if possible while his other reached for one of the other pistols under his arm. The punch was batted away and the pistol whipped about, his finger already ready to squeeze off a round. The movement was intercepted however, but the finger still squeezed off a round, pinging off the walls down the hall. Jon pinned the arm to the mans side with one hand while bringing down an elbow violently, smashing the man's upper arm and ripping apart the shoulder socket.

In the same motion, he brought that elbow towards the man's head, connecting with his temple. The blow was clean, powerful and lethal, and it made a disgusting, almost wet crunching sound as the man's head shot to the side. He was either dead or unconscious at that time, but Jon threw 3 more blows, two to the mans face and the third was a deadly forearm shot to the throat of the man underneath him. If he wasn't dead before, he was now.

He sat back on the man, head up as he felt himself relax. He exhaled loudly, stood up and simply gave an almost gratified sounding, "Fuck..." He then proceeded to begin to go through the mans pockets, after taking a moment to wipe blood off of his hands and face, and onto the mans shirt sleeve.

Will stepped further out from behind his door, jaw slightly agape. He'd watched the entire display, not entirely sure on what had just happened. He'd seen the gun move towards the geek, and at least -thought- he'd heard a click... So had the murder been justified? He... Thought so, at least. With a quick shake of his head, he steps clear into the hall, revealing just what had been in the box by raising it and aiming it towards Jon. A bow and arrow- Comically large in the boy's hands, and yet he drew it smoothly, not quivering at all holding it back- aimed cleanly towards Jon's chest.
"Who the -fuck- are you?"
Just in case, he kept watch on the geek out of the corner of his eye, seeming more concerned about the murderous Jon than anything, however. But then, there was distance between them, and he could let the arrow fly before Jon stood or grabbed a gun... So he felt safe enough, really.

Jon looked over at the kid and while the bow and arrow stood out to him, the more important thing was that he recognized the face as the one in his orders. "I'm Jon Erikson, I'm with the CIA. We need to talk, you and I, but hopefully you'll put that bow down and not go all William Tell on me. Sound good?" Jon really hoped that the first few minutes out of his cell would not involve him beating a man to death, AND having to be potentially shot while disarming and possibly injuring his HVT...

Abandoned Apartment Building, Southwest Missouri

Silence. Ever since much of the fighting between the living and the dead died down, bringing with it the hideous cacophony of gunshots, desperate screams and moans, silence ruled Missouri. From the streets of the big cities to one particular room... At least until something broke. Out of the entrance into a ventilation shaft, a curious form crawled out and stood not very high, putting on its childish backpack again. It was Valentina. Looking quickly around the room, she realised she was alone - which had, weeks ago, became the best blessing she could ever wish for, and even better, that the door was blocked amply by several furniture: A huge king-sized bed with a cabinet and table stacked on top of it. The only light that allowed her to see was coming from her flashlight, which she tried not to think came from her elder brother, Vertov.

The air was cold. Being indoors did little to keep Valentina warm. The room was dark, and she could never get used to it, to being afraid whenever she did such a thing. Footsteps stomped in the ceiling, and there was a crash below the floor. The apartment building was haunted by the dead. "Ugh..." She could barely shrug the thought of sharing an apartment building with a horde of biters (as she calls them) just a few doors away, even if she was well barricaded from them.

Sweeping her flashlight around the room, she found stacks of some stuff in a corner. Quite faintly, she thought someone might have tried living in the room, and there was a door leading to another. Pulling her revolver out of its holster, she tried not to think that it came from her elder sister, and pointed it at the door. There was banging inside. Valentina could not help but to breathe heavily. Crossing her arms at the wrists to support her gun arm like how Lieutenant Hugh taught her to do, the act relieved the ache in her arms quickly, having been exhausted from crawling and climbing the vents. There was banging inside, methodical banging. Something was howling and wailing inside ceaselessly. The girl tried not to wish that Daddy was with her.

Gripping the knob and twisting it with her left hand left her defenseless - months before she had learnt to switch to shooting with her left hand because of her blind right eye - but she had no choice. It was either be defenseless or completely blind, and the fear that she would lose her only working eye would leave her paralysed with fright. After pushing it open, letting the door swing open noiselessly, she brought her revolver up quickly, only to discover an empty toilet. The window was open, and the wind was strong. The medicine cabinet was slamming shut and opening again as a result. It angered Valentina. She hates being frightened like that. Marching up to the window, she shut it tight, making sure to lock it tight. The last time she didn't do it had costed her a safe place to sleep, forcing her to wander in the night without sleep and with a mind horribly flayed by sleep deprivation, fear and stress by morning.

It was the first time she had ever dared to enter an apartment building, and she did so out of desperation, not that she had ever stopped being desperate ever since her last friend, Lieutenant Hugh, was killed by a Biker gang. She tried not to remember. For weeks she had been running and hiding, stealing and even killing. She thought it would all go away when she dared to enter the dark places where even the Biker gang that killed her strong soldier friend would not dare to go. In the months that follow she would be proven wrong. There would never be enough food, as every room where vast stores of it could be found were occupied by too many of 'them' to be raided. Again, she wished for her family to be with her again, but sensing tears starting to form in both her good and bad eyes, she stopped - she never knew she could stop thinking about something until she had to, ever since Valerie sacrificed herself for the family.

With the room seemingly safe, Valentina thought about moving her 'secret places' into the vents and the room, which she wanted to become her new 'sleeping place' or sleep spot. Hiding things, Valentina thought, was like setting up a game of treasure hunt, and even better, without ever giving the hunters any clues. It became something she was good at, as it turns out, from all those games she would help to make possible whenever the relatives came to visit from Russia. She knew that it would be an exhausting task, having already tired herself after exploring the vents for half a day with nothing to pull or push around. Her closest secret place had big guns - guns bigger than pistols that she could not yet use, even one that was alot heavier than her Hello Kity backpack - not to mention many replacements for her equipment whenever she needed them. There were cans of food that she could not yet open - somehow, for the life of her, she could never find a can opener, and her knives won't cut them open. She couldn't help but to feel too weak or dumb to get those things open.

After clearing the toilet, she wanted to look through the piles of things at the corner of the room, where the bed used to be. Coming out, she saw that they were by the mattress, which looked a little filthy, and when she crosses the room, she thought she saw someone, or something, walk by her. It felt as though someone was gripping her heart and lungs when she realised and pointed her flashlight and revolver at it... Only to discover a dressing table with an oval mirror.

Mirrors are bad. It was what Valentina believed in. But it had been months, many months, since she looked into one. She had nearly forgotten how she looked like, willfully trying to forget. She was mesmerised by the dressing table, but afraid of it. She kept the flashlight away, afraid to see. Yet she was curious. She wanted to see. It had been too long. The feeling was welling up in her. She inched closer, and finally gave in. After sighing in submission, she inched closer to the dressing table, and sat down on a stool beside it. After another moment of hesitation, she noticed a grip where a lightbulb used to be, just large enough, and set Vertov's Tactical Torchlight there.

Before Valentina looked, she closed her eyes. She remembered stories that Mother used to tell, stories that she would repeat in her head to herself every day so that she would remember with crystal clarity. Cinderella and The Ugly Duckling. Chicken Soup stories. Removing the pirate eye patch thing she managed to scrounge up from somewhere, she took a deep breath and looked.

Nothing changed. There was no princess or swan in the mirror, no miracles that used to happen in the church she went to what seemed like forever ago. A milky white right eye. The frowning scar down her left cheek. Tears fell, and the utter sadness that was stuck in Valentina, forbidden from coming out by the constant need to run, hide and fight came back overwhelming. No longer caring about the reanimated stomping above the ceiling and below the floor, she cried and screamed, and with her revolver, smashed the mirror, producing a rippling crack. She cried into her own arm, and could only be more sad when she realised it was her own arm, and not Daddy's, nor Mommy's, not even that of Lieutenant Hugh. There, she cried herself to sleep.

February 18th, 2017;

The ceiling fan provided the only noise in the reception office. It's dull combinations of whirr's and whooshes did nothing to help the dry heat that had overtaken the office. A lone man sat, curiously examining the file of one Marrianne Ellenheart. The man, apparently oblivious to the summer heat, scratched his chin thoughtfully. His grey suit and tie blending in with the dull office furniture around the central table he sat at, as he stared evermore into the intriguing profile that lay before him.

~~

Name: Marrianne Ellenheart

Occupation: N/A

Government affiliation: N/A

Age: 9

Gender: F

Reason for enlistment: Executive request

~~

He could not seem to get past that little detail. Who in their right minds would pull a seemingly random girl off of the streets upon 'Executive Request'? What kind of mad Executive would request such a thing anyways? He shook his head and closed the file, pushing it from his mind. He retrieved the green 'APPROVAL' stamp from a container to his left and stamped the now closed file. Their were stranger cases than this, and whatever the higher ups were planning had to be important. So he saw no reason for disapproval.

March 3rd, 2017;

The man in the grey tuxedo had clearly lost his composure. His breath came in short gasps, and sweat dripped from his pours. This was not, however, an effect of highly unnecessary heat. No, what had caused the man's state of uncomfort and panic on this particular day, was the creature that was lurking in the halls just outside of the janitor's closet the man had forced himself into. He tried to silence his breathing, but that caused him to lose more of his already fleeting supply of air. He became more exasperated, and that in turn caused a bead of sweat to roll down his cheek and land in the mop bucket below his feet. The faint splosh sounded out, and the soft steps of the walker outside of his sanctuary seized.

The man allowed himself a slow swallow and a small prayer. The creature began to approach the janitor's closet, an awkward shuffle of feet were all that sounded its arrival. The man was unable to think. He kicked the janitorial door open, knocking the creature to its back. The decayed, and rabid face looked to him with an expression of sheer malice. It launched itself through the air, landing on his chest.

It began tearing and ripping at anything it could get its hands on. The creature teeth bit down on his chest, incurring a scream of terror and agony from the man.

Strangely enough, his last thoughts were not of home, or his family, but of the little girl he had cleared for the CDC program a month earlier. He wished he could have taken her place, and his last moments were those of jealousy and agony, intertwined within a netting of broken hopes..

The CDC Facility, April 7th, room 304

Marriane woke up in tears, she had, had another nightmare. She cried out for someone to help her, to comfort her in her time of need, but there was no one. Yet again all she had was the comfort of her teddy, and the company of a man named silence and a girl known as imagination. After a few minutes her tears turned to whimpers, and then even those turned into soft memories. She got up from her bed and slowly walked to her bathroom. She retrieved a paper cup and poured herself a glass of water. She weakly returned to her bed, cup in hand, greeting her teddy who awaited her loyally. She smiled and placed the cup on he bed side table. She squeezed her teddy for a while, burying her face into it and closing her eyes. She dreamed of better times, and wished for the day her sister came to get her to arrive. She already had planned out the entire first day they would spend with each other upon reunion. They would go to her favorite park, and there they would have the most beautiful picnic. It would be fall, and the freshly fallen leaves would crinkle in under her toes as she pranced through the beautiful landscape they created.

She was so excited...

And she could not wait..

New York. November 3, 2015

Imagine a room... rectangular in shape. Plain walls painted in a peculiar off white color that tickle your eyes. Not exactly white... but not entirely anything other than, it just simply was. Florescent bulbs that hang in rows from above illuminate the ceiling and make the room itself glow. On one side are two adjacent windows where the sun drifts lazily inside while the other holds a single door... the only way in or out. Propped on the far side is a large plasma screen, ominous almost, staring down at you playing images that you neither understand or want to understand. Although it stands what seems like a football field away, you can still feel the heat off it's surface. There in the center of the room lies a table, blacked rimmed, plastic lined with paper likened to wood. It stretches the length of the room, stopping just shy of the tube. On either side are dark cushioned seats with wheels and in these seats are men and women. Sweaty, weary, cold... trapped. They're all looking in one direction: Away from you... away from him.

He sits restless as he does most days in the office where his hours are spent on his ass. He left leg draped lazily across his right, his right hand twiddling with a number two pencil, his left lying on the arm rest of his chair. His head remains motionless but his eyes swing left to right and right to left desperate to find something to hold. His breathing is a little too steady for his liking. It's slow, patient, waiting... as if his body had decided to sleep but his mind is awake. In this state of restlessness his eyes begin to bounce from one person to the next all of them seemingly as restless as he is. Their arms are crossed or splayed or tied behind their heads. Some of them are twiddling with pencils as he is, some of them pulling lazily at the corner of a slip of paper. Some are scrawling notes among the rest of the unintelligible noise covering their pages. All trying to remain cool, calm, collected. There's this heat beating down on them all making the room not just stifling but wholly uncomfortable to sit in and while they try to ignore it... he simply has to. It's become a part of his life, to sweat and sit and watch... shit. Listen to the droning on of people he never truly cared about and try to collect their words and put them together like a puzzle. He hated it and so did everyone else and yet, here they all were.

"These people..." He turns to look at you. "Business men and women. Powerful and yet here we are crammed in this little room staring up at some television like it has all the answers. They spent years for this. Studying, cramming their tireless brains with information that they'd never use and all this only to remain a step ahead of the next man." His smile widens as he lets out a soft chuckle and steals another glance at the room full of suits. "Idiots. Too busy looking toward the future to realize whats happening in front of them... to busy to notice that the man next to him has been there step for step... And I haven't looked at a single book." He looks back at you holding the same smile. "I'll let you in on a secret..." He says as he jabs his pencil at you. " I have a peculiar taste... an appetite of a different kind if you will. You see I crave people... the way they think and act, display themselves in public as opposed to the way they show their true selves in private. You want to know whats the most fascinating subject in the world?" His pencil is now turned toward the rest of the room, the tip being jutted in their direction. "They are. Every one of them... different... unique... like your favorite dish but different every time. Take the man on my right for example." You both turn toward him. "Elderly man with graying but styled hair, wrinkled skin, tight lip and a visibly brown nose. His suit is tailored to fit him for every inch he's slaved for. Expensive but not nearly as comfortable to wear as it looks. The collared button up squeezes at the neck and is pressed further by that brilliant red tie holding it all together... a gift from his daughter no doubt. There's stiffness around the shoulder every time he leans too far to the left or right, the right arm hesitates before every move and the left... it's remained where it was since he's taken his seat. Same for the pants which are just shy of being too short. They're black just like the rest of the suit with nay a single thread out of place. The shoes, shined one too many times, have been tapping against the rug unceasingly. The lace which he's failed to hide, tumbles about in the air with every lift of his foot, the knot keeping the leather in place loosening ever so slowly." He pulls your attention back to him with a tap of his pencil. The elderly man turns as well, his foot holding still as he does so before continue when he's turned back toward the screen. "Maybe military. He's fought for everything he's gained, ate the ass of everything he couldn't and now he sits one the edge of what he calls the epitome of his life... right on the fence where he could finally hold in his hands what he's been looking for or... somehow in some spectacular fashion lose it all. He's nearly seventy although he doesn't look the part. Years of discipline prepared him for that: How to look like you haven't worked your entire life for a title... And for what? For the man he's been staring at across the room? Oh... don't tell me." He looks at you with a sly smile spread across his lips. "You didn't think he was staring at the television the entire time. You really believe he tied those shoes himself and left the threads out like that? Please... he's too disciplined for that and the scent on his nose is ass." He rolls the pencil in between two knuckles, catching it between his index and middle finger. Rolling causing the pencil to twist in hand. His smile holds as he slowly tears his gaze from yours and places it on his next meal.

"Now her... She's something else entirely. Beautiful blonde hair, straight at the root, curled at the tip framing the smooth silk skin of a young female body. Her lips: Full, blood red, parted slightly. Her nose doesn't bend, it curves back and meets the eyes in the middle. The eyes... well they're looking at something else... Let's fix that." As the pencil spins between his fingers, he pulls the tip down toward the surface of the table and breaks it. The lead is torn from it's wood shell and bounces to the side before dropping to the floor. The noise draws the attention of a few in attendance, the elderly turns to look at him as does the woman. "Green. Green eyes." He holds her gaze and refuses to let her look away. Seconds pass before anything happens but then suddenly a change begins and you see it... and he feels it. Blood begins to rush to her cheeks, the corners of her lips begin to turn, there's a slight trembling under her skin. Her breath quickens which in turn makes her chest rise a little more and strains the blouse obscuring her form. The blouse itself... it's formal yet loose but just so. The "V" cut in the center isn't large enough to reveal anything but it's just enough to tease the imagination, to hint at the shapes underneath. It blossoms at the bottom and seems to fold into the dark skirt that clings to her thighs. Ending just above the knees, her slender legs slide out from underneath, like the soft dunes of dessert hill billowing past her calves and ending at a curve just above the ankles. Soft, silk like sand... Like a dessert... a dessert in need of rain.

"How long since it last rained...? He seems to ask with his eyes to which she replies "Forever..."

"You see, she's only just begun her journey, her climb through life although she's taken a particularly different path from our friend here." He gestures toward the elderly man once again who seems to have already forgotten his presence. "Young and beautiful. Holds herself in a different light in this very room... or at least tries too. Focused, strong, professional. In private, she's probably soft, distracted, maybe dreamy... maybe a slut. Physically she's fit, clean and most of all..." He turns toward you, leaning in as if to share another secret. "...She's delicious. Something to worship and at the same time punish. She'll do anything to move forward... perhaps... feed my appetite."

The tapping against the floor suddenly stops and he gestures for you to look. Turning, you see the elderly man has noticed that the laces have come undone. Grunting silently, he bends over slowly and takes up the stray ends in his weathered hands. The woman doesn't notice, her gaze still on our friend as her lower lip disappears into her mouth and her teeth clamp down seductively. She's pulled her hair to the side giving you both a better look at her face, her cheeks still a rose red, her eyes searching for something you can't see. The man, whose still bent over, works with routine hands, feeding the tip of one end through the loop created by the other before pulling on both and tightening the fresh knot. He slides a thumb across his work, wiping away the dust that wasn't there and tucks everything away and out of sight. The finished product is clean and refined just as it has been for the past seven decades. Your friend smiles, his eyes still on the woman.

"It's time to eat my friend."

The elderly man begins to straighten himself out but having misjudged the distance between himself and the edge of the table, slams the back of his head. The entire table shakes violently as he stumbles out of his chair and falls to the ground unconscious.

"Daddy?!" The girl rises to her feet, dashing around the entirety of the room while the others look on in confusion, unable to move. She drops to his side lowering her head next to his and listens for anything. Breathing... maybe a heartbeat if she moves to his chest. In her bewilderment she fails to recognize the latter and yells for another to call an ambulance while she attempts CPR. However, with his weight on his back, his ability to breath is hindered simply by one thing, that brilliant tie around his neck. The beholden man, who had sat across the room is the last to stand up, almost as if to fight the urge to act as the man's daughter had for fear of discovery. His hands grip the edge of the table itself, his knuckles turning white while he covers the gaping hole in his face with the other.

"He can't do anything nor can the daughter for both are too stupid to realize the truth of the situation. He's about to lose everything he's worked for and the're going to kill him. Luckily for them both..." He looks down at the woman who looks up at him, tears forming in her eyes as she realizes just how helpless she really is.

"...I'm hungry..."

Suddenly the room begins to shift. The lights flicker violently above. The table begins moving on it's own stripping stacks of paper and stray pens from it's surface and tossing them into the air. The chairs begin to crumble, the wheels pop off and roll away as the fabric seems to burn without flame, curling up on itself and turning to an ash grey. They break apart and tumble to the ground in pieces followed swiftly by the table. The paint on the walls begin to peel, turning from the off white into a charcoal black. The television slips and crashing to the ground, the windows burst, the bulbs fall and break, the people disappear and finally... the dust settles. What stands before you now is a radically different room, one that's been scarred by fire, abandoned and forgotten. On the ground in place of the woman is a single can of peaches. It's colorful surface stands out in the dark room, the metal lined top glinting in the sunlight slipping through the windows.

"...Jesus I'm hungry..."

MIssouri. November 3, 2017

Luke sat at the opening of a cave that he and Ryan had found. It was night time and as usual Luke agreed to take the first shift mainly because he liked to sit and gather his thoughts, but also being in the outdoors he enjoyed looking up at the night sky taking in the stars. The world was in the dumper and tomorrow wasn't promised to anyone, but it was moments like these that Luke just took in the beauty around him and remembered that God was still in control, because he was the only one who could've painted a tapestry like this.

As he studied the stars Luke's mind began to drift back to the night he left the Amish...
_________________________________________________________________

Luke approached Elder Joseph Perkins home. He was very pensive about all of this, but it was time. Over two years ago the community took him in and trusted him now it was time for Luke to trust someone besides the Hansons who took him in, and he could think of no one better than the man he came to view as a father figure. Not to mention Luke needed his gear back.

Luke knocked on the door and Elder's Wife Laura answered. He said, "Evening Mrs. Perkins I'm sorry to be leaving so be coming to your home so late, but I was wondering if I Elder is still awake and that I could talk with him. This is very important."

Laura replied, "Of course Luke come in."

Luke said, "Sorry ma'am this is a private matter that I need to speak with Elder about. Please I hope you can respect my wishes."

Laura nodded somewhat concerned and replied, "Of course Luke I'll go get him you can have a seat on the swinging bench."

Luke bowed his head slightly and said, "Thank you." Luke took a seat on the bench and waited. As he did Luke looked at the stars and he never really noticed them until this moment. Here he had been here for over two years and he never really looked at the sky and realized how wide open this area truly was. It was even more wide open than the farm he grew up on. Just then he heard the door open and saw Elder Joseph walking out carrying a Bible.

Elder said, "Good evening Luke. How are you?"

Luke shook his head for a moment and said, "Not good Elder I'm afraid. In fact I'm not sure where to begin to be honest"

Elder sat next to him and said, "Try from the beginning that usually works best for me."

Luke replied, "I'm gonna miss your wisdom sir."

Elder looked concerned and Luke said, "You see Elder Joseph my real name is Aaron Miller. I was a former Government Agent and I faked my death. I know certain secrets about our Government and if those secrets ever became public knowledge people might lose faith and those in power could lash out. Not to mention it could undermine our Government inspite of the fact that what they did was wrong. I've done everything in power to protect myself from being found, but even that power has limits, and over the last two days I've noticed certain unmarked black cars in the area. I'm afraid that it's only going to be a matter of days, or maybe even hours before they move to bring me in. They won't care who is in the way ,or if they have the right to do this or not. In fact if they have to they'll wipe this community off of the map just to make sure I'm dealt with."

Elder took it all in and showed no real expression. Luke could've been talking to him about the weather the way Elder reacted. Elder asked, "What can I do to help you?"

Luke took a deep breath and said, "I told The Hansen family about this already and they said they gave you my gear. I need it back and I need to go for the good of the community. If I don't leave soon you all will pay the price for your compassion for me, and I can't handle that."

Elder stood up and said, "Meet me at the barn."

Luke went to the barn and waited for a few moments. He saw Elder Joseph approach carrying a couple of items and he opened a shed next to the barn. Elder Joseph then pulled out Luke's back pack and bow and black fedora. Elder put the extra items in the back pack and handed it to Luke.

Elder said, "It's some of Laura's homemade bread and strawberry jam."

Luke smiled and said, "I'm really gonna miss her cooking." He put on his back pack and bow, but before he could put his hat on Elder Joseph said, "Wait a moment Luke. Please bow your head."

Luke bowed his head Elder Joseph put his hand on Luke's head and said, "May the Lord bless you and keep you safe. May The Lord guide your steps and empower you Luke to serve in his name. May The Lord look upon you with grace and give you peace my brother. Amen."

Luke nodded, crossed himself and said, "Amen thank you Elder Joseph I'll never forget you all. Blessings to you and the community."

Elder Joseph replied, "God Speed to you..." he smiled and said, "Luke."

Luke tipped his hat and was on his way into the night.

---

Luke smiled as he remembered that night and pulled out a bottle of water. He raised it up and said, "To you Elder Joseph. All things considered so far so good. God Bless you sir."

The girl was screaming. She couldn't help it, didn't understand how dire the situation one. How that biological response was drawing more than just the attention of humans, to love and care for it. Thankfully for child and mother both, it had reached the ears of a certain duo moments before the shambling horrors, although not that it might make that much of a difference, now the dead were starting to swarm the bridge.

"What the actual fuck Marcus." The voice and tone was one he'd become very much accustom to over the last few weeks, fluent, but warped in the well known fashion of someone who's first language was latinised Spanish, with that fire and spice that was not entirely uncommon, but particularly strong in this one woman in particular. Her outburst was timed exactly to her bringing a military-grade tomahawk down, spike end, into the temple of a zombie, before shoving it off the weapon, over the side of the bridge to the wreckage strewn road below.

He replied only with a grunt, one swing from his blade decapitating two of the more decomposed zeds, muscles built from a lifetime of weights and sport making easy work of the weakened flesh, not that he'd have much difficulty killing an actual human. In the time before, his friends had known him as a gentle giant, a powerhouse focused on legitimate work and pursuits. Now he wasn't so gentle, and the ability to snuff our the hostile hoards came easy, as if it was all that he'd been working for. If he hadn't been moving around, a small hill of corpses would have already been built around him, even as the number of bodies stumbling towards them was quickly becoming hoard worthy.

"Seriously, if the bitch doesn't know to escape a broken vehicle in the open...it's not our job to have her." The latina paused for a moment, lining up another blow to the next threat, but having to duck beneath a sudden grasping sweep of an undead arm, coming up, dangerously close to its mouth, but axe-head first,it was dead before it could even snap at her once. With no immediate threats, she turned to glare at Marcus, but the warning glance he gave her, between kills, went some way to scolding her for questioning him. It was a glance that bother punished her for being selfish, but also made it clear this wasn't for the woman cowering, but the child that had no part in this mess. Nevertheless, she swore loudly in Spanish, before turning back to the chaos encroaching upon them.

"Come on now Florida, no rest for the wicked." When he actually spoke, using a nickname that brought back memories of sunnier shores despite the situation, it was more lighthearted than she expected, bringing a slight smirk to her features as the pair continued to fight, slowly being pushed back to the car in question, over the wrecked and abandoned vehicles of different kinds.

"Money don't grow on trees." It may not have been intended as a reference, but her own voice took up the song as a swing from her own weapon took the top of an undead skull off, the military grade of the blade coming free almost immediately, the human bone providing worryingly little resistance against the weapon. She used the momentum to carry herself up in a jump, atop the roof of a car, swinging below at a zed which went for her feet.

"I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed." Marcus continued, before with a grunt, throwing the debrained zombie in his hands at another two, sending all three of the living dead tumbling off the bridge. It likely wouldn't finish off the two without machete wounds to the head, but it would disable them, at least for as long as they would be here, assuming they'd make it out alive.

"Ain't nothing in this world for free." Her words barely heard over the screams, the mother joining the child as the dead grew closer to the car, despite the efforts of the pair. Maela didn't quite understand what was keeping the mother from helping them, given they were being rather heroic, but she reminded herself they weren't putting all this effort in for some useless adult, but the child unfortunate enough to be in her care. That brought little solace as the press of her dead forced her to hop back one car. The hand weapon went back to her belt, the metallic feel of her bow, familiar by now, in her hands, an arrow notched and fire, clean through the socket of a walking corpse, and then another.

"No I can't slow down I can't hold back."

"Though you know I wish I could."

"No there ain't no rest for the wicked, Until we close our eyes for good." The finished the chorus together, even as they were driven back to the last car, their backs slamming against it. Maela finally contemplated her own death, it wasn't like she'd woken up planning to die this day, but then, very few ever did. She suspected this was a good as any. She was back to the hand weapon again, carving into the zombies even as her arm began to tire. A collection of at least five layering the ground around her. The press of the cars on the bridge funneling them, to the advantage of the two humans who could take them on one at a time. Given enough energy and weapons, the dead were no match for the living, but she was running out of the former, and a clumsy swing, followed by a corpse tumbling off the bridge, weapon still buried in is forehead, lost her the latter. She managed to down another by shoving an arrow in its eye, but then it's husk fell on her, dragging her to the floor, sure that it would be moments before another would come to finish the job. It never came though, even if, when Marcus hauled the corpse off her, she was sure he was just another zombie come to eat her face, instead, a welcoming hand lifted her up. To which she surveyed the scene around them.

"We go them all."

"Looks like it."

"Shit...we're good."

"Or, there were less than we thought, either way worth a drink or t--" He was cut short, along with the the child's crying, when a gunshot resounded from the car. Both of them paused for a moment, not quite believing the sound, before Marcus was scrambling towards the window, gazing in, before yelling a curse to the skies, breaking one of the windows with an enraged punch, the fate of the child they had risked their lives to save, sealed. It was some moments before either of them spoke, Maela watching more zombies trickle towards them in the distance, drawn by the shot, in stunned disbelief, although it was her who finally broke the silence.

"Bitch's car looks well stocked, maybe this wasn't all for nothing."

---

Months Later

Maela watched the stars as she recalled their first of many crazy stands. It had become clear, Marcus wasn't the best survival partner in terms of pragmatism, even if the brute force he brought to the table would be hard to find still among the living, but she thought now it was probably what kept her human, his optimism, or at least morality, in the face of all this darkness. It was after that day she'd started to share her skills, confident he wouldn't abandon her even if he thought he could. From a selfish perspective, she now knew he was the kind that wouldn't just leave her to save himself, it brought some level of personal conflict when she tried to think of what would happen, should the situation be reversed.

The truth was, she didn't know what upset her more, that she would abandon him, or that increasingly, she grew closer to not being able to.

Abandoned Apartment Building, Southwest Missouri

Valentina woke up where she fell asleep - behind a dressing table with a tell tale smashed oval mirror. Not even sleep would deliver her from her misery, as in her ceaseless nightmares, everything that happened that brought her to this state of things happened all over again, mercilessly, drowning and choking. She woke up feeling clammy and hot and rotten, and faint memories of better mornings only made it worst. She woke from her nightmares, only to return to another, the memories of her unfortunately close unfortunate past disguised as nightmares still fresh on her mind.

Despite smashing the oval mirror, Valentina accidentally caught a look of her blind right eye on a shard, and quickly turned away, the instinct having long became a knee-jerk response. Angry, she swept the shards away, not caring that she had cut herself slightly - she had suffered worst things, such as being branded by a Biker gang leader, and a cut was a small price to pay for not looking at her milky white iris again.

The damage, however, was already done. Getting up, Valentina did not make it very far. Aching from sleeping on a stool and table, she slumped down on the filthy mattress by the pile of things she found yesterday night. It actually felt comfortable, having never slept in a proper bed for weeks. With only misery for company to snuggle with, Valentina could not help but to descend into her memories once again as it had, like a disgustingly beautiful parasite, wormed itself into her head...

"But Daddy, why are we going to the gas station?" Valentina queried, curious as to why they were driving an extra distance to shop for groceries. Though it meant an extra half hour travelling time, Valentina did not actually mind - it meant seeing something different outside the car windows, different people, different buildings, different dogs, cats, cars. Things seemed different however. Everyone was in a rush, and everyone was doing a lot of shopping lately. It seemed odd to Valentina, as it wasn't even the 4th of July, nor Thanksgiving nor Christmas yet, "Why aren't we going down to Sa'at's Mart anymore?"

"Things are changing, Lapushka." Valentina's father replied curtly, his eyes watching the road sternly, as if he was afraid he might actually hit something. Valentina was puzzled by her father's reaction. He would normally smile, and he would normally look... lively and radiant despite the strands of grey hair on his beard and scalp. Valentina loves it Whenever he called her Lapushka or Solnyshko or Dochenka. This time, however, there were lines all over his face, and he was constantly rubbing his temples. It was different this time. Valentina rarely saw her father doing that, and only when he was in his office at home, making phonecalls and scribbling a lot of stuff on his notepads, "Mr Sa'at is no longer around."

"Is he in Turkey to visit his family?" Valentina asked - Salman Sa'at, as she knew the family's favorite shopkeeper, was always flying back to his home country, just like how she and her family would every year. To this question, her father did not reply, but was still busy concentrating on the road, rubbing his forehead. There were even more lines on his face, as if her question had added them there. "Why aren't we buying the groceries as a family?"

"Mama had to buy other groceries from elsewhere with Vertov and Valerie, Doch..." To Valentina's other question, the father replied. The girl, however, noticed an odd look on his face, as if her father had lost concentration of the road for a moment. His eyes were peering elsewhere, somewhere far away, but when Valentina looked where he was looking at, she saw nothing. For a moment, she found her own gesture stupid, however, as the car was going rather fast. Silence reigned again as soon as her question was answered, and Valentina returned her gaze to the left of the car. She loved riding shotgun as it was the best place to look out. Which was when she saw a whole bunch of people, and the way they walk she thought was funny and weird. They looked like they hadn't eaten for days, she thought as her car whipped past, and soon the bunch of people was gone.

When they reached the gas station, it was so difficult to find a place to park that Valentina's father had resorted to parking partly on the sidewalk at the carpark. Even the girl knew it was a little off and wrong, but she didn't want to argue. After they got out of the car, they held hands and began walking. The girl found it hard to keep up with her father, as he was walking briskly, faster than his usual pace. "Valentina, you must listen to me." Her father said quite out of the blue, "I vant you to take everything, everything, you understand? It doesn't matter vhat you take, just take them." Valentina was puzzled by her father's strange instructions. On every other grocery days, she knew her father to be more meticulous with the spending, and would normally provide a list of things to buy. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Daddy-" Which was when the father stopped all of a sudden, pulling on Valentina to make sure she followed. On the horizon of the street, something huge was coming closer, fast. There seemed to be explosions in the distance, and seconds later, Valentina realised that it was a huge truck, smashing past cars and lorries and even people. The crimson hue of blood paralysed her. All of a sudden, she felt weak and cold, faint. It was coming closer, quickly. The violence. She had never really seen such a thing before. Her father had to carry her and run back to where they came from. Vaulting over a stone fence seperating the carpark from the street outside, her father laid her down and hid. Bangings, louder each time.

"Don't look, my Lapushka!" Her father said as he ducked and covered his ears, anticipating an explosion. He had seen was the truck was carrying. It was an oil tanker truck, and it was smashing its way towards the gas station.

Valentina was dazed, her ears singing. She felt faint. Could not think. She had seen people smashed against the bumper and grill of the truck, falling to pieces, screaming in the distance. She wondered if it was over, and decided to peek over the stone fence they were hiding behind, her father's instructions barely registering, and even then her brain was at a standstill.

A huge explosion. A tiny, miniscule glass shard, once a part of a window made in a far away factory to be mounted on the gas station window, freed itself from its place along with millions of its brothers. Propelled by the explosion that resulted from the violent crash, it flew yards, across the street, sidewalks and over the stone fence, and finally into Valentina's right eye.

Half the return journey was spent in burning, hellish pain, crying both blood and tears, unlike anything she had ever felt before in her short life. Not even the warmth of her father's caring embrace could mitigate, even slightly, the insanity raging through her nerves. His words fell on ears that listened only inwards before becoming faint as nothing outside the crucible that was her eye and the glass shard within it mattered in the moment. She spent the other half of her return journey (and the rest of the day) unconscious and unable to savour the last few rays of light registering in her right eye. It was a message that did not require her surgeon to tell her.

June 17th, Zeigenbien Food & Farm Supplies, Waynesville, Missouri

The crisp, and clean morning air greeted a solitary man. He watched lazily as the 'undead' horde that had been ever growing since he had taken up residence here, shambled aimlessly about the parking lot below. The man paused a moment, breathing in the beautiful air that surrounded him on this fine mid summer morning. He then let out an unexpected and throaty chuckle. "Well, the end of man sure has done a wonder on the quality of the air around here now has it boys?" The man, who had been dressed in a standard constable's uniform said as he turned to his undead companions. All three were former subordinates of his, and were currently held down by metal chains that were attached to steel chairs that had been bolted to the floor of the roof.

All the man got back were snarls and stifled grunts. The three creatures desperately fought against their bonds. The Constable wondered at how they saw him. Did they see an old friend? Or was he simply a morning snack for these three zombified officers? He shook his head of the thought and steeled himself to his duty. He loaded his double barrel slowly, trying to put as much time between him and the inevitable as possible.

After a several long moments of extended gun loading and silence, the constable pointed the shotgun at his first subordinate. " Sorry Jay.." He trailed off, swallowing a lump of sadness as he continued, ".. say hi to Margie and the kids for me, will ya? I got'sa feelin' I'll be seein' ya shortly.. Old pal.." A tear rolled down The Constable's cheek as he pulled the trigger.

Jay's grey matter litter the floor behind him, and The Constable moved to the next man. He continued this pattern, giving each man his own personal 'good-bye' speech before sending them off to whatever awaited them on the other side.

When he had finished, The Constable walked towards the edge of roof's edge. The tears he had held back so bravely in front of his men forced their way out and he fell too his knees.

Constable Dylan Harper couldn't remember how long he had sat their, simply crying, unable to bring himself to his feet. When he finally did finish he turned to see the only remaining member of his 'Zombie Resistance' that had started out with such high hopes. Harper's eye's were red from the hours of crying he had just completed. He looked to Ivy Ellenheart and smiled. "I believe it time we made our way out of this shit hole, whadd'ya say Girlie?"

"Agreed." Ivy replied, and with nothing more than a nod she turned to leave the roof.

July 1st, 2017

The last few months had been taxing on the psyche of young Marrianne Ellenheart. The almost complete solitary confinement had pushed her to the edge of her sanity. Things had gotten better in the last few weeks however, a man named Anders had begun answering her numerous calls through the intercom. They had, had several hour long conversations about his family and hers. She spoke in an excited tone about the day she would be let outside again. Anders had lied to the girl out of sympathy, telling her that her family would be waiting to see her out.

For the last two weeks Marrie had lived in this state of bliss. Every afternoon at one she would sit in front of the intercom and talk with Anders about the outside, and how life was going for him. Anders told the girl good things, things that she needed to hear, and, for now, both were content with this state of ignorant bliss.

Marrie had drawn many pictures of what she thought Anders looked like. The pictures were strewn about her room. She had told him about the pictures and he had replied by telling her he would give her a special present when she was released if she had guessed what he looked like. Marrie was ecstatic about this, and began drawing even more furiously. Her small rooms was littered with at least twenty different variations of the man. At dinner time she would leave the pictures in her dirty tray for him to look over later. He would then give her hints about what she had gotten wrong the day after. This was a game that had, up until now, kept her mind off of the loneliness she had felt before. Marrie was beginning to show signs of recovering from the detachment, and Anders had been the sole cause of this recovery.

It was now one o'clock, and Marrie sat obediently in front of her intercom, waiting for Anders's voice to sound from the other side. Her little finger held the 'listen' button down, she dared not release it, for fear of missing him.

A minute passed..

Ten minutes passed...

Half an hour..

An hour..

Two..

Marrie began to panic. Was Anders alright? Had he taken a day off? No, he never took days off, he even said he would be here yesterday. The little girl began having trouble breathing. Slowly her state of panic worsened, and worsened. Her breath grew shorter, and shorter. Her hand fell from the listen button and she lost function in her limbs. Marrianne fell to the floor and began seizing. Luckily for the little girl, nothing in her immediate vicinity had the ability to harm her, and the seizure passed with time.

The small girl's mind became blank and she lay in place for a short while, she was completely unresponsive for a whole minute. Afterwards a female voice sounded over the speakers in the roof. "Ms. Ellenheart, are you alright?"

The girl suddenly snapped to attention and brushed off her clothing. "I am good, thanks." She replied simply. Marrie then crawled into bed and slept until 7am the next morning. When she awoke, she had no memory of where she was, or how she had gotten there. Luckily, Anders, who had been too busy to speak with her the day before, was able to calm her down with some effort. They have, since then, continued their talks without incident.

December 18th 2015.

The man sat at his desk inside the CIA South Regional Office in Oklahoma City, going over the diagnostics of a test server that they'd be shipping off to Europe. It was a typical boring day, starting with going through emails, prioritizing them and then scheduling the day and rest of the week, knowing the emails tomorrow would change the majority of the schedule anyway. Thus was the life of Jon Erikson, a Computer Maintenance Tech for the CIA. Although the title sounded mundane, there was a lot to what Jon did and on top of that, he was amazing at his job. He would build, install, set up, and then integrate servers all over the world, servers that needed to be isolated from the public, safe from the highest levels of intrusion and be networked to the upper levels of the US governments, along with that of other nations on occasion.

A lot of money was spent on Jon because he was aggressive with his job, opting to go well beyond the normal CIA book of "how to train a tech" and get involved in things like cyber security, hacking and staying up to date on what was going on in the cyber world at all times. Initially, the higher ups didn't want take the time, or spend the money, training him. That was until Jon went home and in 8 hours, hacked into a CIA database and collected all of the personal data on the director of operations himself. He sent his boss an email asking, "how much would terrorists be willing to pay for this on e-bay?"

As soon as the investigation was over and Jon was released, he was given a lot more flexibility in his schedule.

Some days were simply answering emails and trouble shooting remotely, and on those days he DID feel like a glorified comp tech, but they were also a bit of a relief from the every day stresses. And to be honest, Jon didn't like dealing with people. He preferred to do things along and would rather work remotely so he just didn't have to deal with people and their daily crap.

He looked outside and threw on a spring jacket, getting ready to head to lunch when the PING sound of an incoming email could be heard. The title was "SERVER - OCONUS" and Jon immediately groaned. He opened and read the email and his response was a somewhat loud, and annoyed "mother fucker." A few other people in the office looked at him for a moment, but one of the guys in the office who Jon actually talked to, Austin Boggs, came up over to him and clapped him on the back, asking "what's the good news?"

Jon threw his hand towards the screen, indicating to the email. "They're sending me to Turkey. Tomorrow. Un-fucking-believable."

Austin simply laughed at that and again gave him another clap on the back. "Oh man. Happy Christmas man. I guess that's why you get paid the big bucks, huh Mr I-Build-All-The-Top-Secret-Computer?"

He stared at the screen, shaking his head for a moment longer then sighed before turning to look at Austin. "Well. Looks like you're going to take me out and buy me lunch, since I'm going to be leaving early to pack my shit."

"Man we're CIA, didn't they teach you to keep your go back packed at all times?"

"Yeah, remember I had to go to Mexico a last week? My shit isn't even clean yet. And you're such a tool, those go bags are for when shit hits the fan. That's my stealth, ninja shit. Not my Fixing-Server attire."

"Yeah, because when shit hits the fan, they're going to call the CIA South and say 'quick, we need some of your deadliest techs to come and save the day!' Happens all the time Jon. We're all actually a bunch of super spies, ready to go take down super villains at a moment's notice."

Jon shoved Austin, timing it perfectly so that Boggs was pushed into and almost knocked over the big water jug on its dispenser. "Don't kill my dreams, asshole. I'm going to be the first person in this office with a confirmed kill."

"Yeah, confirmed to kill a bunch of time," Austin shot back as the two entered the elevator, heading towards lunch.

Abandoned Apartment Building, Southwest Missouri

Most of the supplies Valentina had scrounged up here and there were moved into the vents of her new sleep spot, everything except the one thing that was huge. Looking left and right and keeping her revolver, which wasn't even fully loaded, Valentina snuck across the street and into the thick bushes of a park. The air was cold; it was early morning. Spending her entire existence trying to eke out a low-profiled, meagre existence was exhausting. No matter how young and energetic she was, she would feel sleepy not long after the sun was down. The various aches and bruises were easy motivations to sleep. Between nightmares and the risen dead outside waiting for her, there was simply nothing that could motivate her to sleep.

Switching on Vertov's tactical flashlight, Valentina began navigating between the stems of the bushes. There were various potholes threatening to sprain her ankle, which she avoided just barely. It was a forest within a forest. Then she saw it, slightly dull from dirt. It was something bigger and much heavier than even Lieutenant Hugh's rifle. Heaving it out of the biggest pothole where it was stashed with both her hands, Valentina nearly fell over, but after positioning herself better, managed to stand the humongous gun on its butt. Looking at it again, the girl was still in awe of its size. It wasn't much shorter than her - had she been a few years younger, she would have been dwarfed by it. It was far too big for her to be used, and far too complex. However, she had naively decided to keep it for when she grew up.

After spending some time sitting in the cosy confines of the bushes, an activity which she enjoyed even better than her memories of playgrounds, Valentina tore through the bushes and back out into the street, hugging her giant gun. Looking left and right again, not for incoming cars but the reawakened, she believed herself to be alone and started jogging towards the 'entrance' to her new sleep spot. Weaving past abandoned cars and trash, however, something snagged her foot and sent her tumbling. In her fall, she could feel something sharp, perhaps the jagged edge of a car wreck, slicing through her cheek, and immediately, worrying numbness where she was hurt.

"Ow!" Crying in pain, she hastily groped for her tactical light and waved it about, only to find herself surrounded by the reanimated and panicking. To her, they might as well have appeared out of nowhere, though in truth she had spent long enough a time dawdling in the bushes for several to wander by. Pulling out her revolver even as she could feel hands on her ankles, anticipating unpleasantly something to bite down soon, her hands shaking in pain and shock, she pointed it at the monster which had snagged her, set the hammer and pulled the trigger - where the conscious failed, her reflexes, 'trained' by trial and error, took over. Then, turning, she fired her revolver a few more times, until she had but one left. Out of four Mr. Biteys, three fell, but it had carved a way out for her.

Without wasting time, without even holstering flashlight nor revolver, Valentina hugged her giant gun again and made a dash for it, encountering more on the way, but dodging them with practiced skill. A fast biter, however, gave chase unrelentingly, forcing Valentina into a panicked sprint. Panting hard, she flew right into the ventilation shafts and disappeared from the streets.

Inside in the vents, she lay to rest, but as she calmed down, the adrenaline in her blood faded away. Her cut cheek no longer felt numb, but instead felt like the last time when her face was cut... Trying not to think, Valentina began pushing the huge gun in the direction she wanted to go.

By the time she was done, she was sweating and aching all over again, and extra dirty - ever since losing her last bathtub at the national guards camp, it could only be between dirty, extra dirty or downright filthy. There was no longer such a thing as being clean anymore.

The work she had to put into the giant gun had distracted her from her new wound (if her various bruises weren't counted), but with everything put in order, the throbbing pain had returned again with renewed strength. While she couldn't see the wound, her imagination filled the gap. The girl could imagine a giant, gaping chasm down her face, and she could feel it lying down next to her frown scar. Valentina couldn't help but to feel miserable over the prospect of having another scar on her face - ironically, it was her old frown scar that stopped it from crippling her emotionally.

Valentina remembered her parents' assurances - that no matter what she would always be beautiful. When they were gone, and when Lieutenant Hugh followed them, she found it harder and harder to believe it. In fact, in the pit of her stomach, she could feel an uncomfortable but empowering feeling, a strong feeling welling up that made her mad, but no matter what she could not think of the words to express it.

Sitting behind the dressing table again, the girl sighed at the prospect of looking at her face and went ahead. Assessing her own wound was an ardous process owing to her scars, but it was made bearable only by the cracked oval mirror, which had turned the reflection of her face into a defective jigsaw puzzle.

Catching a glimpse of her left cheek, where she could feel the wound acutely, Valentina realised that it was very close to her frown scar, and so could not avoid looking at it. While she had learnt that the new wound was not as bad as it felt, the sight of her old frown scar disturbed her. It was far more damaging than her new wound ever could be, for it reminded the traumatised little girl of what had caused it...

Muddy Lawn Outside Suburban Home, Southwest Missouri, 13 April 2017

A smelly, rough ogre-like man threw Valentina to the muddy ground. She gasped in fear and pain as she hit the floot. Her hands and feet were bound. Her parents were forced to kneel before her by other bad men. As it turns out, the ogre was the leader of a bandit group that attacked the girl's family, and he wasn't very happy with the outcome of their latest raid. Valentina's Daddy had single-handedly taken out a whole squad of his bandits, and he was going to make him pay for them, every single one of them.

Pulling Valentina by her shirt, the bandit leader pulled the little girl to her knees before grabbing a huge clump of her blonde hair, pulled it hard, making poor Valentina scream.

"Don't you hurt her, you piece of-!" Before the father could finish his sentence, one of the bandit leader's lackeys threw a fully wounded punch. It threw the strong but helpless man off his knees, but that was soon corrected by the bandits standing beside him.

The bandit leader pulled out a mean looking knife that was bigger than any that Valentina had seen before, and jabbed it at the girl's cheek, threatening to cut her, but instead of doing that, he pressed his face against the hair of the little girl, taking in her scent, rubbing his own unwashed cheek against hers as he planted kisses down the the cheek and neck of the little girl. Valentina cried as the rough and broken skin of the ogre's skin rubbed against her silky face. "I'll kill you, you dog!" The father howled uselessly as the mother was wailing without stopping.

"If it hadn't occurred to you yet, you fuck, you can't do shit to me!" The bandit leader. He pressed the sharp tip of his huge combat knife against Valentina's left cheek to make his point. A trickle of bright red blood came out, "I want you to beg! Beg for her life!"

Looking down, as if to consider his options, the father then threw the bandit leader a defiant look, deciding that Valentina could not afford to lose any confidence in him, that he couldn't afford to let her see him in a compromising state. For his bravery, the bandit leader placed the barbed tip of his combat knife in the left tip of Valentina's tips, and yanked his blade left, carving a downward line. Valentina screamed, and screamed, with each little inch of her cheek violated, she screamed like never before as blood was spurting out, dripping from the downward line carved into her left cheek. Her parents screamed with her, incoherent, unintelligable, like animals to be slaughtered for meat.

"Ooh! Look how unhappy you've made your daughter now!" The Bandit Leader said sarcastically, and his lackeys laughed without remorse nor mercy, "Beg, you stupid! Or you'd make her more unhappy!" The ogre placed his now bloodied knife on the other tip of Valentina's lips. Valentina shivered in pain, tears mingling with copious amounts of blood. "If you won't make her happy, then I will, and I know exactly what would put a smile on any gal's face..." The dreaded knife went lower, seemingly getting caught on Valentina's buttons, the ones just below her neck. With an artful swing, several buttons fell off, revealing more of Valentina's pale, untouched flesh. Then something worse happened.

Her father begged.

Luke stared out into the woods from the opening of the cave. He looked at a small clearing towards the bottom of the hill, and again nodded while smiling. His mind drifted back to hours just after he had left the Amish Community.
_________________________________________________

Luke was making good time though the plains of the Amish Country. He reached the top of a knoll and took a look around. Luke took it all in and smiled. The sky was wide open and filled with stars. The sleepy community looked so peaceful and inviting. The lights of the city in the distance stood out to him, and Luke determined that the city was his destination. By the time he reached there it would be well after midnight, and there would be no one on the streets. He could maneuver about with little or no issues, and if anyone was following him he would know it. Just as he prepared to follow the slope of the knoll down something caught Luke's attention. In the valley just below him there was a house with lights on. In the daytime it looked like any other house within the community, but at night it stood out like a sore thumb.

Luke realized that this house must be the place where the agency was running their stakeout from. Luke had one of two options; One, get away from the area and hope they didn't see him. Two, approach the house and gather some intel, but run the risk of getting caught. Luke closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he exhaled Luke said, "Let's hope you know what you're doing Porter."

Luke made his way off the side of the knoll and towards the house. Luke shook his head as he knew there was no doubt that the house was an Agency hideout.

Electricity, the water pump outside is rusted to the point it won't ever work in this lifetime, the windows and siding are all brand new.

As Luke went to take another step forward he heard the sound of a bolt being pulled into place. Luke then realized that his days of running may have just come to an end.

Keep your calm Porter. This guy has the drop on you and is ready to fire. Time to play it cool and see what happens next.

Luke raised his hands and put them out to the side as a voice said, "Oh give it a rest with that hands up crap. If I wanted to take you out I'd have done it by now."

Luke smiled and lowered his hands. He turned to see his friend and mentor Allen Farrell standing there holding a rifle. The two men smiled at one another and Porter said, "Hello Allen."

Allen put the rifle to the side and said, "Hello Aaron, or should I say Luke Porter." Luke nodded as Allen said, "Gotta admit you've done a great job staying off of the grid. Well done."

Luke replied, "Coming from you that's high praise thanks, so they sent you out here to bring me in?"

Allen said, "Well think for a moment kid." Luke gave Allen a strange look when he called him "kid". Allen chuckled and said, "To me you'll always be 'kid'. Anyway, why would they send someone you know and are friends with to bring you in? Not to mention leaving you so many obvious clues unless...."

Luke smiled and replied, "Unless the Agency doesn't really want me caught. This is mainly to keep the politicians happy and off your back."

Allen said, "You get your gold star for the day. Goldman is still my supervisor and he doesn't want you caught either. Not to mention I'm working with a team that couldn't catch John Dillinger in his current state. You're staying off the grid kid, you haven't done anything to harm the Agency, and you're helping others when you can." Allen shook his head and said, "Frankly we could use a few more like you in the world."

Luke asked, "So does this mean I'm free to do whatever I want?"

Allen shook his head as he replied, "I wouldn't go that far kid. The politicians and certain people in the Agency want you taken out, but Goldman and I are able to slow things to a crawl. In some cases we're able to stonewall for months at a time. Just keep on doing what you do, and know you got people watching out for you. Out of all the people I've ever recruited and trained you're my favorite."

Luke was somewhat shocked by this revelation by his mentor. Allen was a hard teacher and at times a bully, and to hear him make this announcement was very humbling for Luke.

Allen continued, "There's no doubt in mind if you stayed with it you would've had the corner office about this time, but you obeyed your conscience. That on the surface seems like idiocy, but you did what you felt was right and I respect that Luke."

Allen looked his watch and said, "I figure you got another 12 hours before we realize you're gone from here. Better make use of the time."

Luke asked, "Will these people be left alone?"

Allen nodded and said, "You have my word kid. These people will be left in peace. They'll never know we were here."

Allen dropped the rifle to the ground and stepped towards Luke. The two men embraced and Allen said, "Good seeing you again kid. Be safe and stay out of trouble."

Luke replied, "Thanks for everything Allen."

The two men broke their embrace and Luke walked away.

Luke and Allen's paths never crossed again, but it gave Luke a sense of peace through the years that he and Allen had one last chance to say goodbye.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Luke raised his bottle of water once again and said, "Allen Farrell, a pain in the ass and a real jerk sometimes. However a great teacher and my friend."

Luke took a swig as he watched out taking in the peace of the nighttime.

April 14th, 2016
Washington D.C.
First Police District

—

Samantha heard of the sounds as if she were standing far away. Someone was breathing. Not the normal breathing, but hurried, panicked, desperate gulps of air, as if the person was going to drown if they couldn’t keep the abnormal rhythm going. There were sounds of sirens in the backgrounds interspaced with the screams of people. Gunshots echoed around, an ambient-like noise that swelled into the already fortissimo discord.

Feeling a strong grip on her shoulder, Samantha’s trancelike state was shattered, as she went for her gun. The standard issued sidearm that had been given to all special agents had served her well today.

“Take it easy!” A man outfitted in police S.W.A.T gear shook his head. “Take it easy. We don’t want to draw any more of those things here.”

When her mind was able to process again, she leaned back against the office wall. She could feel Joseph’s, an officer that was aiding her with an assignment, gaze. The Bureau had sent her to assess one of the crazies. From what she’d just witness, these people — these things — weren’t human by any means. The basic human psychology, with respect to emotional triggers that many criminals she had worked with possessed, was vacant in this suspect. Hell, it was vacant on his face.

The folder she had been given labeled his psych as a severe case of dementia and an affinity for biting. That’s how the first doctor went who was in ICU. This was all a week ago. The parameters within the initial report had all changed. Samantha had an inkling of what was going on here, and she’d diagnosis herself as crazy if it hadn’t been for the fact she put a bullet in the man’s leg and he kept coming. Only a shot to the brain put him down.

“Agent Walker,” Joseph said. “We’ve got to move. Radio’s squeakin’ about a quarantine zone. That’s where we’re going.”

“He kept coming after I shot him in the leg.”

Joseph frowned as he looked at the corpse lying before them. “From the noise outside, I don’t think you’re the only one whose killed someone. The radio’s been buzzing with news similar to this. Jesus, fucking zombies,” he said. “I thought the news was spitting the same old bullshit like always. The misses thought the same.”

Taking a steadying breath, Samantha stood up as she checked the chamber of her firearm. The weapon was hot. “Looks like there were right this time,” she said. “You head back to your department. I need to get the the bureau. They’ll want a first hand account on … this.”

An explosion thundered as the office windows imploded in. Samantha was rocked off her feet. Her chest constricted as she covered her head, shards of glass showering from above. The acrid smell of burnt metal and gasoline wafted over her.

Joseph was no better off. He grunted as he heaved a wooden office desk off and away from him. “Agent! You alright?”

Samantha heard a high pitched ring in her ear. She heard herself say she was as she staggered over to the window and looked out. Down below, dozens of shambling figures moved with the unison of seasoned dance partners as flashes from rifle muzzles sent projectiles tearing into their unfeeling flesh. It was surreal. All of it. Just the past week, Samantha had been watching a zombie flick with her friend. She remembered joking about it and how it could never happen. Today proved her wrong indeed.

Joseph looked out the window. Since he manned his post, which was weeks ago, radio chatter was his only window into understanding what was going on. It had mostly come from district two. Officers were going on about how these crazies were eating people. Dragging them onto the ground and taking a big, wide chomp. Narcotics was to blame in the beginning. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Even worse, where was Lauren? He hadn’t been able to reach her all day.

Grabbing Samantha’s hand, he dragged her away from the window. “We’ve got to go, Walker,” he said. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I ain’t staying around to find out.”

"So..."

The voice you hear now is strained and muffled... and dark. There's this weight in every breath that escapes the lips you can't see and as it reaches your ear, you can feel it. There's this hatred...or fear....or maybe it's a hint of regret. You're not entirely sure what it is but you find it impossible to ignore. "You're still here huh? Listening to my ramblings..."

Two glass lens turn toward you, the sunlight drifting into the dark room glinting off the fragile surface. They sit in cradles of plastic and leather separating you from the face of the man underneath. You can't see him but something tells you that you're not ready for what you might discover, that you don't want to see, that it'll be different from what you imagined him to be. The knowledge he possessed, the candor, the way he could pull you away from anything and keep your focus on him... like the woman, like everything he's hungered for. But imagination is all you're left with as you stare at the figure. He's sitting again, but this time his back is pressed against the cold bleak walls of a scarred room. There's no heat here, no mumbling to fill the silence in the air, no awkward whites or flickering lights and no television to watch. It's simply himself with his thoughts... and you. Driven by curiosity, you strain to get a better look at who or what he is. Beneath the gas mask hangs a black scarf that clings to his neck, not too tight but close enough to keep the heat inside. It's pulled up to his chin and folded over a few times to better keep it's shape and hold itself in place. Below that are a few layers of thermals that sit beneath a dark brown denim jacket. The jacket itself has seen plenty of use evident by the faded colors and the patch work of stains and dirt caked on every inch of fabric. Khaki pants follow, just as weathered though there is significant fraying around the knees and the trim along the bottom. He has on dark hiking boots of some generic brand. Despite what the tag may have said about the material, it's held it's own and kept the socks and feet beneath protected. Besides the mask you find nothing out of the ordinary about him and his attire. There are a few stray straps and harnesses wrapped around his hip and shoulders, no doubt carrying what little equipment he has on. The glint of some metal hidden behind him draws your attention... perhaps a bladed weapon of some sort... or maybe-

"I know what you're thinking." His husky voice interrupts your thoughts, drawing your attention to the glass lens starting back at you. "All this talk about other people and yet you don't know a single thing about me... who I am, why I'm so suddenly important." There on the ground next to him is a pack, opened already as the can of peaches had been laid on the floor before. However, instead of going for the peaches, his hand disappears into the pack and produces a tin about twice the height of a soda can. "Besides having the odd craving, what sets me apart. What's my history... who am I?" The top is unscrewed and laid on the ground between his legs and as his fingers reach in, they pull out a thin slice of bunt meat. He holds it between two fingers in front of himself for a while, admiring the beauty present in something that you don't quite understand. The edges are highlighted behind rays of sun, stray specks of dust drifting by lazily as he begins to twist it in front of him. "Who am I..." His free hand goes for the bottom edge of the mask, his fingers wrapping around the frame. You watch almost in a dream as he pulls it up and over his head.

Suddenly it's very warm.

This time the room before you is clean, open and bright. You're standing in the modern dining room. There's a contrast of colors between sparse furnishings and fixtures; black against white against grey. Although the scheme is monotone, its strong and stands out, basking the room in brilliance. The room itself is open. There are no walls here. No ceiling just the floor. Tiles of rectangles and squares stretch the length between invisible walls and end where grass begins. This strange room sits in the middle of an empty prairie where tall grass is in abundance. The sun above hangs lazily in the sky basking you with heat you'd been missing since you were in Missouri. There are a few spots of clouds in the sky, a stark white against the light blue spread as far as you can see... but that's all you can see. There's nothing else in the distance save for the single room. In the center of this room is yet another table. It's surface is made of some kind of dark wood you've never seen before, although you've hardly laid eyes on many types of wood. The smell however captivates you. You breathe in the scent of a rain forest far away. You can almost feel the moisture in the air, hear the calling of animals you don't know the names too, feel the touch of fresh bark against your skin.

"What you smell is in fact Agarwood." Startled, you look up to see him who's sitting at the other end of the table. "More expensive than you know and hardly as satisfying... but something about eating on it..." There's the usual dinner setup before him, the plate hidden underneath a silver cloche and matching utensils laid out with more perfection that normally necessary. The fork, spoon and knife have been spaced with precision and are all pointed in the same direction while lying atop a napkin with a peculiar fold. What makes things all the more strange is the fact that he's done the same with the two plates he's set up on either side of him. However, it's not the arrangement of the table that catches your interest. Before both plates sit two people in particular. To the right is a woman, tall and slender with black hair and deep green eyes. Her skin is a pale white, milky almost and seems to blend in with the sunlight of the prairie. To the left is a young girl. Dark hair... grey eyes. She has the beginnings of freckles spotting her cheeks, braces lining her teeth, and skin like her mothers. Her mouth parts, her lips begin to move and you quickly realize that she's saying something.

"You made dinner again?" She pulls the cloche off her plate, setting it aside as she stares down at the dish in front of her. Trapped steam billows up in a cloud and dissipates in the air revealing her meal: rice, green beans, slices of meat. "Hm... not bad. At least it looks edible." She smiles as she stabs the fork into one of the slices and throws the piece in her mouth. The woman does the same as well, both of them chewing, eyes closed, breath held. The one on the right swallows first and slowly opens her eyes.

"Delicious." She turns to look at him, her own smile splayed across her lips. "Thanks for this." He nods as she prepares to feed another bite into her waiting mouth, a combination of everything on the plate.

"I'm sure you're expecting me to entertain you with these two beautiful women.. share what it is about them that makes them tick, share why their dish is unique. Surely its their eyes... those deep windows of emotions, so clear and beautiful... like a pool of water you can drown in. Maybe it's their skin, flawless and pure, soft and flowing endlessly as it conforms to their body describing their every curve with perfect detail. Maybe it's the scent of them, a subtle whiff in the air that's hardly overpowering but intoxicating all the same. A scent that transports you to... an open field of tall grass where certain fragrant flowers grows in abundance." As the words slip from his mouth, you notice Lilac shrubs sprouting from the field surrounding the room, blooming, pushing it's petals out in the sun and filling the air with it's nectar. It's blends seamlessly with the Agarwood. He smiles at you knowingly. "Maybe it's all these things put together... in one... perfect... body." He turns to look first at the woman on the right and then glances too at the girl on the left. He gives them each a strange look, like there's a fire in his eyes, a hunger that's only gotten stronger, more voracious. You see a slight urging in him, in the way his body is leaning slightly forward, the way his fingers play with the knife... twisting it... like the pencil. "Perfection..." He whispers as he lets the uncontrollable desire take over, lets the craving burn in his gut.

"But... in truth... it's none of these things..." He turns to look at you with this pained expression on his face... a hint of confusion. He pulls himself away, shutting off what he wants, what he knows, everything. The grass and Lilacs begin to shrivel, the sun dissolves behind thick black clouds. The sky above disappears as you realize the room around you has become closed. Walls have sprung up to finish the room, doors and windows in their proper place. Walls are covered here and there with the odd decor, shelves holding small treasures and pictures of people you've never seen before. There's a chandelier hanging above the center of the table providing dim lighting and as you look around you realize it's nightfall... and it's raining. "These two here... they're unique because they're mine. That is Claudette. my daughter." He says turning to look at the girl on your left. "A treasure in my eyes. Smart... wise beyond her years. Like the flowers in the meadow, something beautiful waiting to blossom... I want so much to be there when she does. I want to hold her hand when her eyes open to the world, when she learns and flies and falls and cries. When she realizes her flaws... I want to be there to turn them into something more than that, into something she can use." He stares at her for a long while, watching her as she slips another bite between her slender lips. "But the world has a way of fucking itself in the ass... I'll never get to be any of the things she needs me to be..."

"And this... this is Anne. My wife, the one and only, first and last." He's staring now at the woman on your right, at Anne, looking at her now with a very different perspective. "You want to know about her? She is strong. Is focused. She's beautiful but her beauty isn't a weakness... it's a strength and she wields it like no woman I've seen before. She can see through me and because of that... she's knows me. Knows... everything...Everything. It's strange to think how transparent I've become to one person in particular. You see I've spent my entire life looking at others, studying them, being them. But when it comes to her... She sees me...all of me." He watches her now, the only person who knows the truth about him and it's strange, it's frightening, and he's infatuated with it.

"So what can she see?... Before the Rise as they call it, I was in fact a family man. A business man... A consumer of man."

"I'm sorry to hear about James." Anne's soft voice is anything but apologetic and as his name is voiced, he looks at you with a knowing smile. Stabbing his fork into a slice of meat, he brings it up to his lips and as he's about to slip it into his mouth, you realize... it's gotten cold.

"No... we're not."

Calloused, blistered dirt caked hands feed the thin slice of burnt meat between dried cracked lips. As he begins to chew, you find yourself staring into faded grey eyes burrowed deep in a sullen face surrounded by circles of sleep. The skin is no longer peerless but jagged and scarred, stained and rough. His chin is covered in strands of stray hair that's just an inch shy from being a beard. It's evident he hasn't payed much attention to his hygiene or taken the time to stare at himself in a mirror.

"Who am I?" He smiles... the same dark smile you've seen a hundred times now. "My name is Abel... and I'm the villain."

The first nights were all a blur due to shock and sleep deprivation. Most of the days were spent running at a jog pace, putting distance between him and everything. On the fourth day, he stopped in a small clearing in between sprawling, new subdivisions and sat.

He looked around him, making sure he wasn't near anyone or anything, and he found himself panicking slightly when suddenly it hit him. He needed a plan. Running just to run and stay alive wasn't a solid plan, he needed something more, at least something to run towards.

He heard two gunshots fired far off in the distance and was roused from his thoughts. Death was everywhere and it was worse than he could have ever imagined. One would imagine that in a time of crisis like this, people would come together, nations would find a common cause, and trivial conflicts would be over looked. At first it seemed that way. People helping, offering shelter, donating things and giving excess things to those in need.

Then, bad things happened. Yes, amidst something like in infection that reanimated bodies, OTHER bad things. Nuclear weapons were fired. Countries were at war. Minor looting broke out. Then, not even an hour after he'd left Phoenix and made it out to the suburbs, 2 fighter jets ripped by over head, followed by a larger bomber of some sort (or at least that was his guess). Both dropped payloads over the city.

The. Whole. Fucking. City.

It was shocking, awe inspiring and terrifying, and that was only added to when the force of the explosions pushed everything outward, and eventually, he was forced to hide inside an abandoned car as dust and debris moved past him. He laid there, moving in and out of half-sleep, until things outside calmed down and he felt it was safe to exit. He looked around and didn't know what to think, what to make of the situation. He jogged off east, never looking back at until the city was out of his sight completely.

That was about, what, 9 or 10 days ago now, and he sat in the field, alone and with nothing but a bat, a sword and a backpack with some clothes and food. The only thing he could think of was "head east," but that was too vague. Then he thought of something. Find a small town, or maybe an isolated house somewhere and either see if they'd let him in, or if it was abandoned, stay there and find a secure and safe place to sleep.

It wasn't long before he chanced upon a new home off of a two lane highway, a two story yellow house with no vehicles parked anywhere. He made his way to the door and on it was spray painted was "Empty. Enjoy. Pray hard." After a quick walk through the house, he made his way upstairs, closed a door behind him and laid in a bed. He was about 3 thoughts into figuring out a plan when sleep over took him.

It was the best sleep Fuad could remember in a long time.

And that sleep was ruined when he was roused by a violent shake. He suddenly became aware of the words around him, people yelling. "Get the fuck up, slow."

"Now!"

At first he thought they were police, but even in his sleepy state of confusion and shock, it immediately became apparent that they were not. They were guys in clothes, armed randomly and there was shouting and arguing below, on the first floor.

There arguing below intensified as Fuad heard men arguing about something "being mine" while another said the same. Then some others laughed but Fuad was shoved and one man who was holding a shotgun commanded "gimme your shit Osama."

The other who didn't seem to be armed added "poor habibi, looks like no virgins for you."

He reached for his back, debating grabbing his sword when the argument downstairs intensified and gunshots were fired. Both of the men looked out the door, towards the stairs and Fuad wasted didn't hesitate. He picked up the sword and slammed it up with all of his force into the man with the shotgun. The sword went in through the man's stomach, just below the belly button and came up through the back of the man's shoulder blade area. There was no hollywood scream or spray of blood.

But Fuad would never forget how disgustingly hot and wrong the blood felt as it immediately spilled out onto his hand. It took a moment for the other to realize what happened, but Fuad was quicker. He grabbed the shotgun from the man's weak grip, aimed it in the general direction of the other man and pulled the trigger, just as more gunshots were fired below.

By sheer luck, the buckshot round took the man clean in the neck and lower face, and at less than three feet, the damage was devastating. "Holy fuck," he said.

Sometimes Fuad still saw that in his nightmares.

Thinking quick, he grabbed all of his gear, the shotgun and looted the bodies, then closed the door. He took a moment to listen and no one seemed to be worried about upstairs, since there was chaos below. He opened a window, climbed out and dropped down into the grass, sneaking away.

His hands didn't stop shaking for several hours that night...

United Nations Office, Geneva, Switzerland
Late September 2016

It was a mystery as to why Petra ever had an official office in Geneva. She hadn't been in it in a year and was, at this point, afraid to go in imagining that some gnarly, dusty, cob web monster had set up shop between the stack of five to seven box high case file maze. In reality, it was regularly attended to by the cleaning staff who were given specific instruction not to move her work, but to just tidy up around it. She had an assistant, albeit one who she had never met, that made sure everything stayed organized by year and mission.

Despite a slight sense of annoyance at being called in by her superior, she was somewhat happy to see him again. They had worked closely on her first mission to Africa in the DRC and, though she was a little bias, she thought of him as a good person, professional and honest, who was good at his job. Not to mention, he was decent in bed, at least from what she remembered.

“Petra, Jean's ready for you now.” She was distracted. She stared out of the window and at the front drive where the flags of the one hundred ninety three UN member states were raised side by side. No matter how many times she saw it, she couldn't help but be filled with a sense of pride for her work and work of her peers. She was startled out of thought when she felt a hand gently touch her shoulder. She turned and saw Jean's assistant and gave her a little smile. Petra ran her hands down the front of her suit. She hadn't worn business attire in God knows how long. She followed the assistant back into his office and stopped about five feet from his desk.

“Petra, long time no see,” Jean said. He went to her and gave her a soft hug. She didn't return it. “Please, have a seat.”

Petra took one of the chairs directly in front of his desk and took a moment to look around his office. On his desk were pictures of his wife and two kids.

“Wow! Your kids are really growing up! How's your family doing?” She asked, attempting to make small talk.

He returned to his seat. “Uh, they're doing well.” He paused before pulling out one of his desk drawers. He dug around for a file and when he found it he brought it out and plopped it on his desk. “Do you know why I asked you here?”

“To tell me what a fabulous job I'm doing and that I've been promoted?” Said dryly.

He cracked a smile. “I read your UNISFA report on the situation in Abyei. You did good work there. Lives were saved due to your influence and --” She had to cut him off there.

“I didn't do anything. The displaced citizens and the military personnel have all the credit. They worked hard together to establish security there. My TEAM and I just helped them organize a bit.” She put her elbows on her knees and leaned forward.

“Well, regardless, we've started reducing the military presence and the SPLMs are withdrawing.”

“We've still got a ways to go, but yes. Both good signs.” Petra was all business.

“I heard what happened to you back in February. How's your shoulder?”

Petra slouched back into her chair and sighed. She grabbed her right shoulder with her left hand and rolled it around a bit. “It's doing ok, surprisingly. There's a huge scar where the medic thrashed the stitching, but after a month of healing I was able to start rehab. I'll never have the mobility I had before, but the doctor's say I'll regain most of it. I still get some pain, but it's good.” Petra had her own way of dealing with the pain.

___

By early 2016, UNMISS or United Nations Mission in the Republic of South Sudan was getting ever closer to completing its mission of bringing peace and security to what was the newest country in the world. They had reduced the number of military personnel from eight thousand to seven thousand. It was something to celebrate, which was why Petra's oldest pal Melanie, a French nurse who was then working with Doctors Without Borders asked her to visit. Being stationed in Abyei, she hadn't had a chance to explore much, so Melanie had promised to give her a tour of all the new development that had taken place in recent years. To end the tour, Melanie drove her out into the desert and away from the capitol to introduce Petra to the family of Sudanese that had been hosting her stay there at their ranch. Before long it was night time and Petra was asked to stay over. Everyone knew you didn't travel at night in these more remote areas, as cattle raids and tribal conflicts were still fairly common.

To make a long story short, Petra woke up a few days later in a makeshift doctor's office. When you were this far outside of the city, you were lucky to be treated in a tent on a cot AND have a 'physician' that had, in addition to a basic understanding of first aid, the know how to stitch you up and put you on a morphine drip. They usually only trained people in how to administer shots for malaria and tuberculosis.

She looked down at herself and her surroundings. She felt woozy and could only see out of her left eye. 'What the fuck,' she thought. She had a bad headache and when she tried to sit up pain seared through her right shoulder and side. She howled in agony, at which point the doctor came rushing in, gently pushing her back down.

“Now, now. Calm down miss.” He had a big-toothed grin.

“Wha... what the fu....ck happened t'me?” Her memory was fuzzy.

“You don't remember, miss? Two nights ago you were staying in a farmhouse not far from here. It was attacked by cattle thieves. You and the rest made it out safe, but you were shot in the shoulder by a loose bullet. The driver, an older French woman, crashed the car. In doing so, you got a few cracked ribs and a small bump on the head!” She didn't like how he was explaining it so joyously. She reached up to feel her face and head. This 'small' bump had caused her right eye to swell shut. He reached for her IV and adjusted for more morphine.

“Well... where is everyone else?” She asked.

“They were taken to other facilities, but don't you worry! We'll fix ya up real nice!” The morphine hit her and her pupils dilated before she slowly drifted back asleep. That was her first taste, and boy, was it delicious.

___

“I can't believe Melanie got you involved in that.” Jean looked concerned.

“It wasn't her fault. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cattle raids are totally random.” Thinking about it made her itch. Not only was the morphine a fix for the physical pain, but it helped to dull the emotional pain as well. The drug didn't discriminate. Years of being witness to torture, rape, children killing children... all was forgotten with one simple injection, at least temporarily. She only had that unnamed doctor to thank.

“Well, do you think you'll finally settle down now?” Petra was confused by his question and she didn't answer right away. In the past it would have been a firm no. He knew that from when he tried to embark on a serious relationship with her six years prior. While she had always been focused on her career, she had always wanted children and it wasn't a secret to him. “I know in the past you were too concerned with your job, but you're twenty nine. If you still want to adopt, there's no better time than right now.”

“Oh, here it comes.” She was a tad on the cynical side.

He sighed, remembering how shitty her attitude could be at times. “Petra, you've been requested by the New York headquarters. One of their inter-governmental aides to the USA abruptly resigned and relocated to Canada. Given your extensive experience in allocating workers, aid, and funds to the different UN missions, they think you'd make a perfect replacement. Not to mention you started out there as an intern before your time in the DRC.”

Petra didn't respond. She had refused to take a desk job her entire career, believing she was needed on location at the various missions she was chosen for. Though Petra had made sure never to give up too much information, she knew it must have been prompted by her UN mandated therapy sessions. She rubbed her face with her palms before standing. Knowing she wouldn't have a choice in the matter she started to turn to walk out of the office.

Jean stood and rushed to catch up with her. He stood in front of her to stop her. “Look. You've seen enough. You've lost enough. It's time for you to take a break. This will look great to the adoption agencies! It's your chance to have the child you always wanted. You'll look much more stable this way.”

While she couldn't deny that fact, the thought of being relegated to a single place, let alone in a country of utter abundance, depressed her. She looked down and gently nudged him aside before exiting the office, and then the building.

She got a text from him minutes later. You start in January. Take care of whatever you need to take care of.

When she got back to her apartment later that day she went to the bathroom and stripped. She looked at herself long and hard in the mirror. She leaned forward and squinted her eyes. She was looking for something, but wasn't sure what it was. She reached for the medicine cabinet and once open she stared at the contents for a few seconds. She pulled out a small, zippered black bag and set it on the counter top. She looked back in the mirror then back to the bag before grabbing it and heading to her bed.

She sat down with the bag in front of her for a few seconds before unzipping it. She pulled out a syringe and a small glass bottle that read 'Morphine Sulfate,' and set it in front of her. She took the cap off the syringe and the vial, tilted the bottle upside down and pushed it through the rubber cap. She pulled the plunger back, and filled it with just over one hundred milligrams of liquid. Last, she attached the needle and cleared any air bubbles.

Petra took a deep breathe and put her legs out straight in front of her. She pinched the muscle of her left thigh, stuck the needle in slowly and administered the drug gradually. When she was done, she laid back and closed her eyes.

___

Roughly four months later she was in her office in New York with a headache. She pressed the intercom on her phone to call her assistant. “Hey Adam, could you bring me some ibuprofen please?” He was a well groomed young man. Always quick to respond if she needed anything, but not the sharpest tool in the shed either.

The assistant walked into her office moments later with the pain killer. She nodded her head in thanks before downing the pills as quick as she could. When he didn't walk away she looked up at him. He smiled down at her. “Hey did, you hear about the news on twitter?” Even though she had never really been one to personally use any form of social media, he asked so excitedly that she had to bite.

“Nope. What is it?”

“People keep saying there are real life zombies! ZOMBIES! Can you believe that?!” He was almost bouncing with joy.

She raised an eyebrow. “Come on Adam. That's just a hoax. The net is full of stupid bull shit like that. You don't need me to tell you that.”

“I know, but it's fun to entertain the idea!” He winked at her before turning and practically skipping back to his desk.

A few minutes later he popped his head back in. “OH BY THE WAY PETRA.” She rolled her eyes at his volume. “You have a meeting Thursday with some guys from DC. They want to discuss some funding thing with you.”

“Finding funds isn't my job... just deciding where they go.”

“Well, you can't cancel. It's handed straight from the Office of the High Commissioner.”

___

Thursday came quickly. The two men weren't in there long before he heard Petra yelling. He winced. It was too bad that two big, strong, good-looking men had to deal with her attitude, he thought. Ten minutes later they each had one of her arms and were carrying her out.

“Hey! What's wrong with her? Where are you taking her?” Adam kept up pace behind them to the elevator.

“She complained about a migraine then passed out. We're taking her to the hospital.” Man One answered nonchalantly.

Adam furled his brows and stood with his hands on his hips. He was confused.

___

The first seven days in the white room were the worst for Petra, but seemed to whip by in a blur.

Either the facility staffers hadn't done their homework, or Petra had just done an excellent job of keeping it quiet. They were constantly in and out of her room that first week to tend to her withdrawal symptoms. No one had anticipated having to deal with a woman that had been abusing morphine for several months. It wasn't fucking pretty. She required round the clock care, and several times her condition was touch-and-go.

On the eighth day she opened her eyes and found herself staring at a white ceiling. She rubbed her eyes before sitting up in he bed. She couldn't think about where she was or how she had gotten there. She merely stood up and started moseying around the room, checking the place out. It had a small kitchen, with fully stocked fridge and cabinets and a small bathroom with sink, shower and toilet.

Her first clear thought was 'Man. I'm hungry.'

There was a small table in the center with one chair. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and a granola bar from one of the cabinets and sat down to eat. Completely forgetting everything she had ever learned about dehydration, she took it all in much too fast in an attempt to satiate her hunger. Five minutes later she was heaving over the toilet. When she was done she fell back against the wall, exhausted. When she felt a little less queasy, she shakily brought herself to all fours, reached up to turn on the shower, and climbed in, clothes and all. Being in the shower had always made her feel better when she was sick or hungover.

Thirty minutes later she walked out, undressed, dried off then went out into the room to look for clothes. Tucked in the corner at the foot of her bed was a chest with a few drawers in it. It seemed to be filled with mostly under garments, t shirts, and yoga pants. She just grabbed what was at the top and put it on. She collapsed onto her bed and went back to sleep.

The next day she was much more lucid. She finally walked over to the door and discovered it was locked. She yanked and jiggled the handle and even screamed at the door, but it wouldn't open. When she finally gave up she noticed an intercom next to it. She pressed the button and leaned in really close.

“Um... hello?” There was no answer. “What's going on here? What's happening? Why am I in here? Why can't I get out? Who are you?” She paused. Still no response. “I'm a human rights officer for the United Nations! You can't keep people locked up like this!” Screaming now. She continued on with the same thing for several days, angry at this situation. Angry she had been taken. And what for? Why was she being held here? No one offered her any answers.

Three weeks in she started to notice things. Her food and water supply never dwindled. When she left out a dirty dish or clothes, they were always picked up, clean, and put away before she got the chance to do it herself.

The worst thing about being in here was that there were few distractions. You were always left alone with your thoughts. It made her itch for a fix. Three weeks with nothing!

One month in she made the conscious decision to resign herself to it, temporarily. Yes, she was being wrongfully imprisoned, but she wasn't suffering, unlike many people she had seen before. Maybe her calmness was the result of the mandatory therapy sessions the UN made her attend. She had never done much talking, but did do a lot of listening. She tried to remember other coping strategies the therapist had given her. This was going to be a good chance to get clean and to set her intentions right again.

Eat healthy on a regular schedule, exercise every day, never skip a dose of medication, get eight hours of sleep a night, journal, meditate. She grinned wondering what the doc would have said if she knew about her 'medication.'

There was one shelf fixture in the room. On it were various books, out of date magazines, several empty composition notebooks, and several pencils that had been filed down to no more than four inches long. She had never paid much attention to any of it, but she went to go grab a notebook and pencil before sitting down at the table. She drafted a routine.

Eat small meals every three hours. Regulate your blood sugar. Drink plenty of water. 30 minutes of cardio a day followed by 15 minutes calisthenics. 20 minutes of reflection or meditation every day.

The routine kept her sane in the months that followed, that, and knowing that even though she was alone in this room there were others out there. Whenever she had a bad thought or memory about her life, she wrote it down. Needless to say she went through a lot of notebooks filling them with memories from her childhood and experiences she had in her time with the UN. Over time she realized that being imprisoned here had probably helped her a lot. She got clean, mentally and physically. All of the guilt and resentment had been devouring her, but in here she didn't have to worry about any of that. She'd never truly forget any of it though, would she?

One day she woke up from a nightmare drenched in sweat. She went to shower and change and when she came out she noticed something was different. The room was dirty and hadn't been cleaned in a while. There were dirty dishes on the counter and clothes on the floor. She tied her hair back and walked over to the com.

“Hello? Anyone out there?” She didn't ALWAYS get a response. When she woke up the next day it was the same and continued on the next and the next. Always no answer. No sound. No meditation this time. No breathing exercises. Fuck that. She started to realize something was seriously wrong. The anger and resentment that had disappeared these last months returned at the thought of being alone. The fear and rage set in. She felt a sort of strange passion that she hadn't felt in years, similar to the passion she had as a youth to 'save the world,' except this time it was about saving herself. She started to tear her room apart. Maybe that would get them to notice.

Trinity Episcopal Church, Diocese of West Missouri
Day 238, Tuesday, 8:59 am

Danny woke from a sound sleep. For a few moments he forgot that he wasn't at home snuggled in his comfy bed. He rolled up to a sitting position and twisted his torso side to side a few times. He had fashioned a small bed from various seat cushions and altar rail pillows, but it still wasn't enough to keep his back from getting bent out of shape. He yawned and stretched his arms and legs before removing all of the hangings he had been using as blankets and standing up. There was a definite chill in the air with the low temperature outside, so he rushed to his closet, shed his robe-gown, and quickly pulled on his black pants and black long-sleeved shirt. He turned to the chest next to it and pulled out a pair of black socks and his white collar. After he pulled on the socks he took the collar to the small bathroom off the vesting sacristy and stood in front of the mirror. Not much daylight could reach the interior of the bathroom, so he had placed some votive candles and a box of matches inside. He lit one before buttoning his shirt and affixing his collar. He leaned forward and smiled at the mirror. He turned his head from side to side and ran a hand over his stubble. He'd need to shave again soon. He pushed both hands through his hair and looked at it accusingly. It was at least two inches longer than he liked to keep it, but he decided that he was too lazy to cut it today.

He walked back out and to the chest he had taken his collar from. Atop sat a liturgical calendar. Today was an ordinary weekday, but tomorrow was the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi. He always looked at it as one of the more bull shit holy days, on which the church always held an event called Blessing of the Animals. Much as the name describes, people would bring their pets to be blessed by himself and the Rector. He chuckled thinking about it.

Next, he glanced over at his to-do list. On 'Tally Tuesdays,' his chores centered around taking account of his supply stores and checking his fortifications. Still feeling pretty cold, he went back to the closet and pulled out his heavier sarum cassock, which would insulate him quite well, and slipped on his black shoes. He put his pocket knife in one pocket, his cigarettes and matches in the other.

He unlocked the vesting room door and walked out to the marble altar, listening as his foot steps echoed on the slate floor. He walked down the stairs to the altar and made his way to the church entrance, passing by the ghosts of parishioners in the pews. The ten stained glass windows had been haphazardly boarded from the inside with broken down pews that some of the first visitors after Valentine's Day had erected, but still allowed for enough light through the cracks to at least see where you were going. When he got to the narthex he pulled back the glass doors and went over to the votive candle fixture. He glanced at the crucifix hanging above it before lighting three candles. He knelt and prayed for his sister and parents. Not realizing how dangerous the situation was going to get, they had all agreed the first week that all three would hole up in the family home and that he would stay in the church. Assuming that everything would be back to normal in a few months, he had made plans to get to them. Things never went back to normal though. They only worsened.

When he was finished with his prayer he went to the church entrance. The heavy wooden doors had been locked, then chained and locked again with a padlock. He yanked it a few times before continuing his rounds. He went to each window in the place and tugged at the planks to make sure they were secure. If there were any loose, he made note to fix it later. When he was done with that he made his way to the working sacristy. At one point in time, this was a busiest area in the sanctuary, where the altar guild kept liturgical church decorations, the eucharistic ministers kept everything needed for communion, and the outreach volunteers organized community fundraisers, and food and clothing drives. He smiled remembering all of their faces. He walked to the back of the room where there was another door that opened to two sets of staircases, one that led down, and one that led up. He kept a flashlight just past the entrance and turned it on before he made his way downstairs to the basement. This is where all of the food was kept.

Trinity was home to one of the largest food banks in the area. It was something he had always been proud of, and something now that was keeping him alive. Once upon a time the rows of shelves were completely stocked with donations of canned and packaged foods, and bottled water. Needy families could come down with a shopping list once a week to pick out what they needed. When Valentine's Day came he left the doors open for weeks to offer people shelter and food. He lost a lot of sleep trying to organize and ration everything appropriately. At first, everyone and their mother made a stop by to be saved and get right with their maker. The Rector had been on educational sabbatical, so he enlisted the help of a few regulars that had come to stay to get everything set up for the end of the world. Eventually though, everyone left him, whether it was to look for lost loved ones, or seek out government help and safety. Despite the fact that he wanted to leave himself and search for his family, he knew he had to stay. He got a few stragglers in months three and four, but by the end of month five he was forced to lock the doors permanently.

He reckoned he had about enough food left for himself to last through the end of the year, not to mention a pretty vast supply of communion wafers and wine. He grabbed a bottle of said wine and a can of lima beans before going back upstairs. He dropped them off at the entrance to the sacristy then he went up the top staircase.

Before he opened the door to the roof he switched the flashlight off. When the cold air hit him, he cringed and hugged himself. The roof over the sanctuary was flat, the only exception being the area over the church entrance which vaulted up to form the steeple and bell tower. He looked up toward the sun. It felt good on his face. Danny had reserved the roof for water collection. He had every manner of tub, container, and can set out to collect rain and snow.

“WOoooooo death, WOOOOOOOOO deeeeath, won't ya spare me over t' another yeaarr...” No use in spending the next few hours in silence. Singing always helped pass the time. He walked over to the left edge of the roof and looked out over the land. Desolate, abandoned.

“Well what iiis this, that I caain't seEEE with ICE cold hands takin' hooold a meee...” He walked from one side of the roof to the other looking over the rest of the church campus, buildings, yards, and parking lot. Nothing out there but about ten dumbshows shuffling along with nowhere in particular to be. He wondered if his family was out there somewhere wandering around among the living dead.

“Well Iii am death, none can excel, I'll open the doorr to heaven or heeeellll...” He tilted his head back and belted up at the sky. When he got his fill of the view, he started the collection process which consisted of dumping anything in smaller containers into a singular larger one, carrying that larger one back down to the working sacristy and emptying it into the stopped sink. Repeat as necessary.

When he was done he locked everything back up and took his bottle of wine and can of beans to the table in the working sacristy. He grabbed an empty can he had rinsed and set by the sink to dry and filled it with water. He drank it fast before sitting down. Now plenty warm from the work, he removed his cassock and rolled up his sleeves. He opened the can of beans with his pocket knife and twisted the cap off the bottle of wine. He ate in silence and later returned to his 'apartment' in the vesting sacristy with what was left of his bottle of wine and put his cassock back on. He set down the bottle of wine and looked at his three best friends, Cherry, Hugh, and Lex.

“Well, what's it gonna be today, ya'll?” He picked up Hugh and took him back out to the sanctuary and set him on the altar. He climbed up himself, took a cigarette and a match from his pocket and lit it up before lighting the two altar candles. He took a long drag and sighed as he blew it out before sitting and placing Hugh comfortably in his lap.

After a few minutes of tuning the five string banjo, he started plucking away. “Some bright moornin' when this life is ooo'eeerrr, Iii'llll fly away...” He played and sang as loudly as he could. He wanted to fill the empty place up with sound again.

September 17th, Dominic's Gas 'N Go:

A light chill crept up behind the woman as the sun tucked behind the horizon, signalling the arrival of the night. She glanced behind herself as the cold overtook her. She wiped the sweat from her forehead as she turned to her partner and nodded. Dylan smiled at her. It was time to head inside, the dead became more active at night. The woman packed her tools with a swift efficiency, she then followed Dylan into the station's interior.

Moments before she had finished pulling down the final metal sheeting that reinforced the glass panel doors, she happened to glance up at the exterior of the former truck stop. Outside were two column of now empty fueling stations. A single lamp lit up the otherwise dark fueling area. The woman wondered at how that lamp had lasted for so many months, but her attention was soon torn from the determined light bulb as she noticed a small child. It was a young girl, the woman recognized her as a geek immediately. The crippled way she stumbled forward is what gave her away, it was possible that she was a goth, but the woman doubted it. Goths usually walked in straight lines, while this zed simple stumbled forward, almost as if caught in a perpetual state of 'almost falling'.

The woman's thoughts moved to her sister as she finished closing the final metal sheet, as she padlocked it to the floor she wondered at her health, and if the staff at the CDC facility were keeping her healthy, or keeping her at all..

~~~

Marrianne

~~~

September 17th, CDC Facility, Moments after night fall

"Someone shut that girl up!" Demanded The doctor to Ander's right. "At this rate she is going to get us all killed!" Sweat shone off of the man's fore head, tensions had risen to a breaking point. Several RA3's had broken through the main doors, Ander's had locked himself in the office's with the surviving staff, but the sound of complaint from D5 had given away their position. The child's wailing could be heard as plane as day through the speaker board. Anders' clicked the talk button and tried his best to sound calm.

~~

"Marrie, Honey, what seems to be the matter?" Marriane could barely hear Anders' voice over her own crying. Just moments ago she had, had the dream again. This time it was more vivid than ever. She was just about too leave the facility, just about to see her sister, when, no one was there. In the dream she sat for hours, waiting, but no one came. Until finally a man in a black leather jacket walked up too her and touched her shoulder. When she tried too look at him, his face had always been fuzzy, but his voice had been clear as day. "They don't want you too come back Marrie, you are going to stay here forever...

No

One

Wants you..."

And then she had been awake, and crying. She screamed help into the intercom and then proceeded to continue her wailing. It had been horrible, but Ander's had come, he always came.

After a few moments her wails became sniffles, and in a whimpering tone she replied. "Is she gunna come Ander's? Is Ivy gunna come?"

~~~

For a single moment Anders had no idea what the girl was asking, and that moment gave enough the voice of an office clerk enough time to travel through the system and into Marrie's room. "Oh god! It hurts! Some body help! AAAAH!" Anders' quickly turned his attention to the front door. An undead had broken through, and now had locked it's jaw onto Sheryl Judy's arm. The woman screamed in pain, and unbeknownst to Anders, the Intercom's 'Speak' button had stuck.

~~~

Suddenly a woman's scream rang over the speaker. Marrie desperately pressed her finger against the speak button and called out to the other side. "Anders! What is happening!? Why is she screaming!" But the young girls plea was not heard, for the other end of the system was being blocked by a stuck button.

"Sheryl are you..? Oh god! Sheryl!" Anders' voice rang out, he was clearly under stress and the young girl began too lose control. What was happening? Why were they screaming? Suddenly there were three gunshots and the loud, demanding voice of another man was heard.

"Hurry, god fucking dammit, all of you! Get to the second floor!"

Then the woman again. "Please no! Let me live! Cut off my arm! anything but-" Then a gun shot, and then a small 'click' as the talk button from the other end of the system released...

CDC Center, Ft. Leonard Wood, MO
Third Floor

The fifth day with no sound, no contact. Petra was becoming extremely paranoid and had taken to scheming in her composition notebook. Getting out of here had never been so important to her in these nine months as it had been in the past few days. She wasn't eating regularly, was OVER exercising, never dressed in anything more than a sports bra, shorts, and socks and was spending too much time and energy thinking about what she would do when she got out – who'd she see, the answers she'd obtain, the people she'd bring to justice for locking her up in this place and causing her all of this mental anguish. Her stress level was high, to say the least.

She was laying belly-down on the floor scribbling notes when she heard a click, the only sound she'd heard in what felt to her like a lifetime. What could it have been though, and where did it come from? She sat up and rubbed her palms over her face and her eyes. Dark circles indicated she had lost a bit of sleep. She ran her hands through her hair to detangle it a bit while standing up. She looked around at all of the appliances and even to the bathroom thinking that's where the sound originated. It wasn't until a few minutes later she put two and two together. It was the sound of a door unlocking! How could she mistake that? Her eyes widened and her mouth turned up into a wide grin, the first one she'd had in a while. She was excited to finally get an answer as to why she'd had no contact.

She didn't hesitate from bounding over and swung the door open as quick as she could! With the rooms totally soundproof, how was she to know about what was going on out in the hallway? She had just barely gotten her head out to take a glance when a shot ricocheted down toward her end of the hallway. Instinct and past experience meant there was no way she wouldn't recognize that sound. Just as quickly as her head popped out past the door frame, it popped back in and she was quickly on all fours with her right hand over her head for cover.

Her breathe became more labored and intense as she sat trying to make sense of what had just happened. She tried to calm herself down and was a few seconds later able to focus on the other sounds she was hearing. The hallway was the perfect amplifier, and she could hear an obvious scuffle going on. Still on all fours, she peeked her eyes past the frame in the direction of the noise to see two men fighting. Her situation had gone from relative peace to sheer confusion.

This was all getting quite shocking for her. A few moments later one of the guys, who looked like he might have been some kind of guard, got taken down. Hard. She shook her head from side to side and closed her eyes tight. When she opened them back up there was someone else in the hallway with... a bow and arrow?!

By now her adrenaline was pumping, instinct was starting to take over, and there was no time to think, only to react. She had just seen one person die. Was she really going to watch a second killing? Was there even enough time to stop it? Before she realized it, she was back up and headed to the book shelf. She grabbed the biggest, heaviest book she could find, which ended up being a random seven hundred page, hard back novel. She ran back out and this time all the way into the hallway. Luckily, with her room being almost all the way at the opposite end of the action in the hallway, she was put in a good position to be effective, and probably hadn't been heard scuffling around yet since she only had socks on her feet.

Much like someone would toss the shot in shot put (minus any spinning), she turned her body slightly to the right, firmly planted her feet, and twisted her torso to the right. Her right hand was locked and loaded with the book, right arm all the way up, elbow past her ear. She used her left arm, out in front of her now, to get the momentum going, twisted back and vaulted the book in the direction of the guy with the bow. If she had aimed it as well as she thought, it would hit him square in the back of the head, effectively distracting him and maybe even stunning him enough to make him accidentally drop the weapon.

If it missed and he turned to shoot at her, she'd probably have just enough time to escape back into her room, but for now she stood there watching the book fly toward the other end of the hallway almost in slow motion. Nothing else existed in her world except the book. She had to stay at least to see if it hit...