Dead Ends

Tyler, 26

2009-09-17T21:03:00.001-07:00

Holy fucking fuck this is pure! was what Tyler thought.

"Hm...this is okay...(sniff)" was what Tyler said.

God I hope I don't shit myself and blow my load at the same time this is so fucking pure... was what Tyler thought.

"Yeah, not bad (sniff)." was what Tyler said.

*zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz* was what Tyler thought.

"Uh...uhm...how much you want...?" was what Tyler said.

*munny* was what Tyler thought.

"Naw...that's fair..." was what Tyler said as he peeled what may have been the right amount of bills from the roll in his pocket and handed them to Dingo.

*doitdoitdoitnownownowdoitnowdoitnowdoitnow* was what Tyler thought.

"Hey, uh...Dingo, you uh, mind if I uh, fix here...?" was what Tyler said as he sat next to what appeared to be a huge bag of laundry on the couch.

*cookcookcookcookcook* was what Tyler thought.

"Mmmm..." was what Tyler said as the brown liquid began to shiver and twitch in the spoon.

*spike?* was what Tyler thought as he looked around the table in front of him, his teeth clamped on the belt he had looped around his arm.

"Ahhnn..." was what Tyler said as it entered him and the ritual began.

Only you... was what Tyler thought.

"Only you..." was what Tyler said.

There was a sensation of susurrous syrup.

Suddenly, time was back.

Seconds became minutes became hours and so forth into the horizon.

Now that his mastery of time had returned, he began to plan.

"I'm going to fuck someone before these next sixty minutes are up.

This is a promise I make to you, myself."

Tyler smiled.

Tyler sniffled.

Tyler got into his car and drove West.

He knew where he was going and he was almost certain he would find what he was looking for there.

Fuck that, he had to.

He'd made a promise.

"An oath." Tyler said to himself. "The promise, which is for fucking girl scouts and window washers has just been upgraded to an oath. Capital 'O'. An Oath. That's what I'm talking about. An Oath. I Oathe to be inside someone within the next fifty five minutes."

He paused, wondered if that was the correct usage of the word "oathe" and if "oathe" was even a word and then dismissed the thought.

It would not help him achieve his goal and therefore it was not important.

He pressed a button and the song began to play.

Tyler smiled.

"What a great time to hear this song" he said aloud.

It was not an accident that this song was on at this particular moment.

Tyler had the CD cued up and ready to roll before he'd entered Dingo's.

He liked the song straight...but on the nod?

The song...made things happen.

The combination of the drug and the song...just made the impossible possible...more than that...it made the impossible...

"Mine."

Tyler smiled.

Tyler let the song drive for a bit while he looked up at the stars.

Four playthroughs and hundreds of millions of stars later, he had arrived.

"Thirty minutes..." he said to himself as he turned off the engine and the song.

He stepped out into the night, took a deep breath and walked into the bar.

He would find what he needed to fulfill the Oath here, he was now 115% certain of this fact, but, in case he didn't, there were a few clubs on the other side of town he could hit.

The first thing he did before he even looked around was nail his gaze to the juke and blaze a trail towards it.

"You...are not going anywhere." he informed the tall, brightly lit box across the room.

He arrived, his fingers danced across the screen and images flashed before his eyes; a bill flew, of its own volition, from his pocket and into the waiting, hungry, sly mouth of Juke, the God of Vibrations.

"Take my sacrifice..." Tyler whispered, smiling, "and purify me..."

The song began again, this time enfolding him and everyone around him in its sultry, wet arms.

He loved this part.

When he was in his car or his place, he was one with the song and the song was one with him, but here...here...the song became the drug, soaking into everyone around him, giving him their strength, their luck...

He could...not...fail.

He looked around for the first time and saw her instantly.

"Twenty seven minutes...twenty seven minutes..." he said under his breath as he approached the bar and his goal standing there.

"I'm Tyler. And I'd love to just fuck you forever."

She was shocked, and that was good.

She was interested, and that was very good.

"Well--" she started.

"Wait." he said simply, holding up one hand. "I love this part."

His eyes slipped closed and he let the song lift him from this place and send him back to the stars for just a moment.

He returned.

"I'm sorry, but nothing you say is going to change the fact that within the next twenty five minutes I'm going to have you up against something."

Tyler smiled.

She smiled.

He had her.

It was already over.

"I know this club on the other side of town. They have good music. We can go there for a little and then we can start fucking."

"You...really seem to know what you want..."

It was the first full sentence she'd spoken.

Tyler smiled.

The song was just ending.

It was in the silence between this play and the following nineteen that he was going to get her outside.

The thumping waves of the last moments of the song were swallowed by the noise of the room and Tyler knew he had about ten seconds.

Tyler smiled and held out his hand.

She smiled and took his hand.

As the door swung closed, he heard the first thumping wave engulf the room once again.

Over the next nineteen playthroughs, he would be drawing power from the people in the bar.

He would focus it all on her.

Shit, they wouldn't even make it to the club...

He held open the passenger door for her and when she slid in he saw just how short her skirt was.

He closed her door, walked around the car and got in himself.

Then he took her chin gently but firmly in his hand and kissed her as he started the car.

The song washed over them, so loud he could only feel her little moans in his mouth, taste them on his tongue.

He pulled away and her eyes were half lidded as if she had taken the drug with him.

And maybe she had.

Anything was possible when you played the song while you were on the drug.

Tyler smiled and began to drive South.

Three playthroughs of the song later, they had arrived across the street from the club, in front of the mouth of an alley.

He turned down the song, but didn't turn it off.

He wanted it floating his next words to her.

Four minutes was what Tyler thought.

"So..." was what Tyler said.

It was the first words he'd spoken to her since they'd left the bar.

Her attention was rapt, she was hanging off every word he'd not said.

Four minutes was what Tyler thought.

"There's the club...Smashlight..." was what Tyler said.

She didn't even look at it, but there was recognition in her eyes.

Why wouldn't there be, there were only five clubs in this town.

Three minutes was what Tyler thought.

"We could go in...maybe listen to some music...maybe have a drink..." was what Tyler said.

He could just hear her breath over the low, constant throb of the song.

Three minutes was what Tyler thought.

"Or...we could go over there, where I would kneel down and slowly use my mouth on you until you're about to die, and then, like I said before, we could fuck forever." was what Tyler said.

She didn't even speak.

Tyler smiled and opened his door, turning off the engine and the song.

He walked around to the passenger door, noticed the bouncer outside the club noticing him, and opened her door.

She got out, eyes still fixed on him and followed him into the alley.

As soon as they were deep enough in the shadows, Tyler smiled and pressed her against the wall with his body, pressed his mouth against hers and opened her lips with his own.

Without the song playing, he could hear her moans now.

He enjoyed them very much.

He breathed deep, taking her in.

Even though it wasn't playing anymore, he still felt the song in his veins, being carried along in the river of his blood.

He pulled his face away from hers.

Tyler smiled.

One minute was what Tyler thought.

"I'd like to taste you." was what Tyler said.

"Oh God..." she whispered.

Tyler knelt down, but before he could raise his eyes to her, before he could begin, he reeled, almost toppling over backwards.

Yeah, that would be great. Fall over while staring at her pussy. Fucking idiot. was what Tyler thought.

He looked up quick, but, thankfully, her eyes were shut.

The fuck was that? was what Tyler thought.

Tyler was suddenly aware he was sweating.

One minute Tyler, one minute... was what Tyler thought.

He shook his head and focused on what was before him.

He took a steadying breath and laid his hands on the outside of her legs, just above the knees, and began to slowly slide them upward until he felt the thin waistband of her underwear.

She had started panting and that was fine with him.

He gently edged the lacy construct out from under her skirt and it was black, just as he knew it would be, and it was wet, just as he knew it would be.

He laid them neatly on the ground next to her purse, his hands shaking slightly, and leaned into the warmth which emanated in waves.

As he buried his face in the fecund darkness, tasting her, running his tongue over her dripping lips, feeling her body jerk and twist with orgasm, his vision blurred for just a few seconds.

Wow, I'm in this too was what Tyler thought.

This is different, this is something else... was what Tyler thought.

This is so...good...so...strong... was what Tyler thought.

I could just live on this, thrive on this... was what Tyler thought.

This could be my new drug... was what Tyler thought.

This could be my new song... was what Tyler thought.

This could...I'd love...mm... was what Tyler thought.

I'd...could...eat... was what Tyler thought.

Matt, 37

2009-09-17T21:00:00.000-07:00

Dr. Matthew Heller was just getting into his car when his cell phone rang.

He looked down and saw the word "Molly" flash and then made the conscious decision to ignore it.

He didn't like to talk to Molly so soon after being with Cathy.

For him, it was like listening to road work and traffic jams after a three-hour hot stone massage in a fragrant, darkened grotto.

It wasn't just abrasive, it was exhausting.

All the guilt, all the questions...way too much right after his time with Cathy.

Young, supple Cathy.

God, what a lay...

Yeah, he wasn't taking any calls from Molly for a bit.

It wasn't that he didn't love his wife...no; no, he supposed he didn't love his wife.

She was just getting so...hm.

So 40.

Ever since she had turned 40, she'd just been acting so...well, 40.

She was shriller, faster to enrage.

And she cried far too much for the wife of someone who made as much as he did.

There were times when he thought there was almost an unspoken agreement that he'd earned a little Cathy, but then he thought of bringing that up in a court of law with two lawyers, a judge and his wife present.

"You see, Your Honor, I just figured that I'd sort of done my job as far as Molly was concerned and that I was due for some enjoyable sexual contact, some mind blowing sex with a younger woman...you understand...?"

He smiled.

"Of course I understand, Dr. Heller, now if you'll just give half of all you own to your shrewish, forty year old bitch of a wife, you may continue to bang your tight young lady friend."

Fuck that.

Fuck that right there.

He sighed.

Fine, I don't deserve it...Jesus...what was the problem?! Molly wasn't frigid, but sex with her was just...so...joyless. How could sex be joyless?! And how could Molly not want to have sex with me?! Not to be immodest, but I am in great shape! She should be happy to have someone as virile as me! Even Cathy says I fuck like a twenty year old! What forty year old wouldn't want that?

Molly.

Molly wouldn't.

He sighed again.

If this was all just misery, then why the hell was he still with her?

Timmy.

Timmy was why.

They were together and would stay together because of Timmy.

They promised to stay together for Timmy when he was born and it sure had been easy to say that.

But seven years later?

Time does indeed wound all heels.

He and Molly had both come from divorced homes and, man, did that do a number on a kid.

They would be together forever, for Timmy.

Simmering and seething in each other's presences until...high school? College?

God, was that ever a depressing prospect.

Stuck with Molly for another fifteen years.

Stuck with her until he was fifty two.

Christ...

He was good looking and virile enough at thirty seven to catch and hold onto Cathy (she was in deep and he knew it), but when he was fifty two?

He just didn't know.

Could he stick with it?

If he did, he might just be staring down that slippery slope in front of him with nothing to show for it but a well adjusted son.

On the other hand, he could just cut and run.

It was no guarantee that Timmy would go through the same things that he and Molly had...

No.

He couldn't do that.

He wouldn't.

He would suffer in silence, keep banging Cathy until...well, until something happened.

Eventually, something always happened.

He was pulled from the rat run of his thoughts by a sudden itching on the side of his right hand.

He scratched without looking and blinked when the fingers of his left hand came away sticky.

He looked down and saw a thick, yellow fluid on them.

"What in the fucking shit is that?"

A horn honked, startling him.

He'd been drifting into the other lane.

He straightened the wheel and glanced down at his right hand.

He swallowed hard.

The area where that woman had bitten him was oozing pus.

"Fuck me."

He pulled over to the shoulder, hit his hazards and began rifling through his glove box, looking for a roll of gauze.

He found it and wrapped it several times around the seeping wound before tearing it with his teeth and applying a small piece of surgical tape.

The bite was still itching.

He picked up his phone and was dialing Brookhaven to find out if the results from her autopsy had come in yet, to find out what this was when, again, a horn drew him out of himself.

He looked up just in time to see a skidding black SUV explode a man standing in the middle of the road.

"Jesus Christ!" he screamed in a high voice.

He dropped his phone and got out just as another car slammed into the back of the SUV.

He saw the driver burst through the windshield, bounce off the roof of the SUV and land in a heap on the road in the red puddle that had been the man the SUV had struck.

Everything was driven from his mind as the doctor inside him took the controls.

He could tell the person who had just been launched from the second car was D.R.T. based on the way he'd landed, he'd seen the dull gleam of bone yawn out from the neck, and the man the SUV had struck was more liquid than solid, spread thickly over about twenty yards of the road, but he noticed another body lying off to the side.

Maybe someone was thrown from the SUV?

He looked both ways to make sure there was nothing coming and saw that the next vehicle was at least a half mile down the road.

He raced to the prone figure and knelt by its side.

He saw it was a beautiful brown skinned woman whose throat had been shredded, utterly pulped.

"God..." he muttered.

He stood motionless for a moment and then returned to his car to call the police.

He'd dropped the phone on the passenger side floor mat when the SUV had hit the man and, when he bent down to retrieve it, his vision was momentarily clouded with billowing curtains of grey. His knees buckled and he sat down hard on the seat, biting his tongue.

The curtains drew back and his vision returned to normal. He bent, picked up the phone and dialed 911.

It rang once and then a cold, metallic voice informed him that all the circuits were busy at the moment and to try back later.

"Fuck..." he hissed.

He dialed Brookhaven's ambulance dispatch only to receive the same message.

"Fuck!"

The world swam before his eyes again and he lowered his head to the steering wheel.

He noticed the "new voice message" blinking on his phone and, slowly, pressed 1, breathing deeply the whole time.

"Calm down...slow, deep breaths--"

His voice cut off when he heard the first thing Molly said and then his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat when he heard the next thing Molly said.

She knew about Cath.

She knew about the heroin.

"Ohmotherfucker." Matt blurted all at once.

He hung up the phone, slammed the door and swung the car back onto the road, just barely registering the black woman standing by the side of the road as he flew past her.

I guess her throat wasn't shredded per se...

Yes it was and you know it was said a voice in his mind shredded, utterly pulped.

Fuck it.

He had bigger problems at the moment.

I've got to get home before--

"Ow." he said out loud.

He looked down at the makeshift bandage on his hand and his mouth went dry.

The gauze was now clotted with a virulent paste of dark red blood and feverish yellow green pus.

"Thass...infession." he muttered.

Matt swallowed, but his mouth remained as dry as ashes.

He tried to speak again but his tongue only twitched in his mouth like a slug.

"Fut." he managed.

His hand twinged again.

It felt like needles boring under his skin.

"Agh!" he barked.

He looked down at it again and saw the wrappings dripping with thick fluid.

This wasn't just blood or pus...this was...brown...this was...

For the third time in just about as many minutes, a blaring horn jerked him out of his thoughts.

He looked up into the twin suns which filled his vision and opened his mouth to say something.

Slump, 25

2009-09-17T20:57:00.000-07:00

Ow, man. Not the needle I was looking for (har har har). And speaking of which...man, already 6:40. Twenty minutes man, I'm out, I'm home, I'm fornication under consent of the motherfucking king-ed, man. Can. Not. Wait. Not that this was all that bad...Those two Jamaicans with the rum, watching those furious Africans screaming at each other in Zulu or whatever and that hot ass Latina who shared a spliff with me...this is the best job ever. And I was right, you get stoned enough and it doesn't matter what you're cleaning up. They piss test me and I'm fucked, but the Rastas said no one gives much of a shit about the night shift unless there's an explosion or something so I think I'm good. That autopsy room and morgue is reeeal creepy shit though. Real Freddy and Jason shit, man. God damn, that stung. Shit. 6:45 baby...mm hm...ow...fucker...shit. Stuff in the red bags is bad, right, but reporting this now? Shit, I only got fifteen minutes left! I got people to see, dragons to chase (har har har) and I'm not going to start filling out fucking paper work NOW. Plus, who would I tell? The Rastas? The Africans? Shit. El barrier del communicationes, hombre... Man, this job is cool. Cathy's awesome. And pretty hot. I'd love if, like, she came over and the Ding was out and I was, like, hey, you want some pot? and she'd be like, yeah...man...no way it's happening man, but, man, that would be the tits....maybe Cathy's tits (har har har). Ten minutes...agh! God damn! Don't you worry, Slump me old scoot, I've got some medicine for you, make you alllll better....then eat something and be back and ready to rock another 11 to 7. Shit, this job is perfect for me. I don't even wake up 'til 11 (har har har). Fuck. This looks swollen. Where's the fucking Bactine...ow...I guess that burning means it's working...fucker...man, Ding said he's meeting a man about some H today...fingers crossed, man, fingers and toes, fingers and toes...fucking red bag...if this shit is so dangerous, why leave it lying around for fucking wastoids like me to fucking pick up? They should like, have trained professionals and shit...ow...red is bad...red means stop...lesson learned, man...damn...three minutes...ah fuck it, I'm leaving...people to see....

Fred Valance, 19

2009-08-21T21:06:00.000-07:00

He turned off his cellphone 3 hours ago. He told everyone he was going into a fugue for the evening and not to call him. No one batted an eye at this.

His friends all do the same thing. They have their own special nickname for it. "Going AWOL," "Searching For Sunken Ships" "Visiting Relatives" and the most honest of the answers: "getting high and crying myself to sleep." Stacy was the only one who said that. She was direct. In a group full of people who spend their time trying to find new and more eloquent ways of describing how shitty everything is, no one could cut the carcass open faster and display the offal better than Stacy.

Fred believed Stacy had this power because she was a true believer. When she told you the world was nothing more than a rotting husk of biomatter you could see that she believed it. She made you want to believe it, too. But Fred knew he didn't believe and neither did most of the others. The last time Stacy told everyone she would be taking an evening alone, George and Amy had spied on her all evening to make sure she didn't try to kill herself again. When Fred heard about it he thought to himself 'Posers' and then volunteered for the next watch.

He was a poser too, and tonight he was going to revel in it. He never stopped to think about why he had to hide the things he loved from his friends. He wasn't that perceptive. If he had ever looked at himself he might have seen someone who shows all the signs of being deeply repressed. He made out with Stacy one night and she kept pausing to say 'I thought you were gay.' The third time she said it he hit her. A slap, not hard, but in anger. Things were awkward for a while after that. George and Amy never told Fred when they were going on suicide watch.

Fred put on his headphones, flipped up the hood on his sweatshirt, fixed his stare on the pavement and left for the concert. He never looked up except to cross a street, which were all empty. Every once and a while he would pass someone who seemed excessively drunk. They stumbled into him and tried to grab on to him to steady themselves, but he danced around their grasp without ever looking them in the eye. He could hear them groaning as they fell over. Fred held up his fist so they could see the big black X on the back of his hand. Straight Edge For Life, you Mindless Drunk Assholes, he thought to himself. I Have Places To Be.

The next zombie Fred stepped over grabbed his ankle and dug in with its nails. Finally coming out of his reverie he looked at the creature in horror. He kicked at the creatures head coming up to bite him. Fred's boot went all the way through the softened skull.

He looked around. For a moment he saw what he knew was a dark sort of perfection. The apocalypse was now. The world was indeed rotting, and the rot was alive.

The zombie he just killed (and whose hand still hasn't let go of his ankle) has a bloody pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. He grabbed one. He took out his Jonas Brothers concert ticket, lit it on fire and used the flaming ticket to light the cigarette. He didn't think he was a poser anymore.

As the zombies surrounded him, he wondered if Stacy still wanted to die.

Angel Perez, 44

2009-06-21T23:54:00.000-07:00

The first thing they did was tear out his tongue.

Then they filled his mouth with rubbing alcohol.

Everything beyond that up to the moment of his death was just torture.

It really is hard to look at the list of things done to Angel Perez and say, "He deserved it," not so much because his crimes weren't atrocious, but because the punishment went on for so long and involved such horrific acts that...well...it really is hard to simply say, "He deserved it."

The fact is, his crimes were heinous and he deserved the most severe punishment imaginable, but the problem with that phrase "the most severe punishment imaginable" is that the human imagination is a seriously dark and fucked up originator...especially with things the way they are now.

Before all this, the three most horrendous ends Angel Perez could have encountered in this country were death by the electric chair, death by the gas chamber and death by lethal injection, all of which, studies had shown, weren't nearly as painful as people thought they should be, but now that the entire country and most of the planet has been overrun by walking corpses, the menu is a bit more extensive.

Bad news for Angel Perez.

Angel Perez was a rapist.

A child rapist.

And a murderer.

Sixteen girls before he was caught.

Sixteen.

Ranging from eleven to seventeen years old.

He was caught during a thunderstorm burying the sixteenth in a shallow, muddy grave by the West Wall.

Problem was, girl number sixteen wasn't dead. While he was...doing what he did, he'd slammed her head against the concrete floor of the garage he was using so hard that he thought he'd killed her, but he had just fractured her skull and knocked her unconscious. So while he was in the midst of throwing handfuls of wet, bloody earth on top of her limp body, she opened her eyes and screamed as if the world was ending...which, for her, it was.

A sentry heard the sound clearly through the storm and ran over, ready for the inevitable breech, allowing the things outside the walls in, ending this farce the people inside called living, once and for all.

What he found was Angel Perez, covered with blood, sporting an erection, strangling thirteen year old Marissa Bell to death.

He pulled Perez off her blood and dirt smeared form and commenced stomping him before he realized that Marissa was still alive.

Luckily for her, the sentry, Roberts, had been trained in CPR and had been able to revive her. He then radioed for help and that was that.

Perez said he was sick, he said he needed help.

He said he was molested as a child, he said that he had no control over his urges.

He said he was sorry again and again and again.

It was then they tore out his tongue and filled his mouth with rubbing alcohol.

A week after that, thirteen year old Marissa Bell killed herself.

That's when things got really bad for Angel Perez.

There were about four hundred people living here. It had originally been a gated community on the westernmost edge of what used to be the state of Washington. It had been built overlooking the Pacific Ocean on two sides, the north and west. Beyond the West and North walls were about fifty feet of treacherous slopes, then a sheer rock face, then the ocean. Beyond the South and East walls, death. The East and South walls were secure already, but they further fortified them and posted a rotation of sentries, usually just men between 25 and 40 who had good eyes and could stay awake for eight hours at a time. These four hundred or so travelers had discovered this place before things had gotten too out of hand, but it was clear how things were going to turn out and they all knew that if they didn't find a place to settle soon, they'd be dead in a few months. From what they could piece together, the people that had lived here before had all been obscenely rich and left soon after things went national, leaving most everything intact. Why no one had settled here already was anyone's guess, but it didn't matter to them. They'd found a home.

They were a bit overcrowded but there was unspoiled food and clean, running water and independent generators so they also had electricity. By the time they had reached this place, they were all too tired, too numb to think of a next step, so they settled and decided, collectively, to wait.

For the military, for the Rapture, for the food to run out, they didn't care.

They were just waiting.

Seven weeks after they had arrived, twelve year old Alicia Moore went missing. At first people just assumed that she'd snuck out for some reason and been killed by the walking dead. Her mother, who had already lost her husband and baby boy to them just crumbled under the weight of everything and went semi-catatonic. Two weeks after that, however, seventeen year old Claire Howard went missing. This raised questions. A twelve year old might not understand the enormity of what exactly was going on, but Claire was smart and her family had, somehow, remained intact through the trek. They said that, one night, she just didn't come home. Things continued along these lines for about three months until that night Roberts saved Marissa's life.

Something happens to survivors of a great cataclysm. Plagues, wars, terrorist attacks...they alter something fundamental inside a person. In most cases, life actually does go on, eventually. There is progress, healing, rebirth; but living in the world as it was today, there was none of that. Every day, the people would look outside the gates and see themselves...their flesh shredded, their eyes dusty, their bodies torn and desiccated...walking, moaning, feeding. When a human died, they became one of Them. And They would not die, They would not tire, They were forever. There was no way to truly adapt to what was going on. One merely developed survival skills. One of those skills was the ability to numb oneself, to kill a part of you; the part of you that feels. On the road, people learned just how fleeting life was. At literally any second, your mother, father, lover, child, sibling could be taken violently away from you forever. So they learned to kill that part of themselves. In some horrible way, they had grown used to this numbness. They couldn't hurt the zombies, they couldn't punish them. But that urge was still there. Underneath the numbness...that urge was still there.

And now, there was also Angel Perez.

Angel Perez who was worse than the shambling monsters outside their gates, because he did what he did willingly, to sate his own dark desires.

Angel Perez who had been fully conscious of what he was doing.

Angel Perez who could be punished for what he did.

Angel Perez who was now the target, the focus of all the people's inchoate, abstract rage.

What happened to this man over the next five weeks might have been categorized as "indescribable", but, the thing was, it was describable.

Easily describable.

Slowly, with the aid of the three doctors among the survivors (one being Dr. Chelsea Moore, Alica's mother), Angel Perez was killed.

His teeth were removed, his fingernails, toenails, fingers, toes, hands and feet were removed, his genitals were removed, patches of skin were removed, some surgically, some...less than surgically.

One eye was removed, so he could see what was being done to him and one ear was removed so he could hear himself scream, gasp, gurgle, choke.

Things that should remain inside a human were taken out and things that should not be inside a human were put in.

He was fed spoiled food and poisoned water that induced vomiting and diarrhea.

He was force fed rocks, glass, metal shavings and other miscellaneous indigestible material.

Bone was broken, skin was burned, muscle was flayed.

And the one thing that all the people had in common: while they were carrying out his sentence, they had the blank faces of factory workers. The slack yet determined expressions of people doing a job that had to be done. There wasn't any outright enjoyment, just a air of duty.

Eventually, after five weeks, thirty five days, of punishment, the body of people came to some unspoken agreement.

All that was left of Perez at this point was a torso and a barking, rasping head.

They gathered loosely around the garage where Perez had corrupted his last victim, the place they'd chosen as his torture chamber, carried him to the gate and unceremoniously threw him outside like a bag of trash.

After that, it didn't take long; the monsters on the other side of the gate didn't believe in vengeance.

Did Angel Perez deserve it?

Who can really say?

In the end, he paid for his sins, and those that had been committed against all of humanity.

He'd become their scapegoat; an effigy, a vessel to be filled with their impotent rage and hatred...and then shattered.

A monster had been killed, and a million more took his place.

Paul & Phil, 28

2009-06-12T21:11:00.000-07:00

II.

“Do we have an exit strategy?” asked Paul, some time later over their umpteenth meal of spaghetti bolognaise.
“To be completely honest, no. I always thought we would just travel during the day so we can see them coming and all that. If they get too thick, we’ll climb something or go up some stairs.” answered Phil.
“Works for me.” said Paul.
He paused, then said, “You know, this is going to sound a little weird I’m sure, but, since all this happened, do you feel that things have…well…simplified a bit?”
“Oh absolutely,” responded Phil, “ think about it, we don’t have jobs or obligations or anything like them anymore. We have to stay alive and that’s pretty much all that’s required of us.”
“It’s very freeing, isn’t it?” asked Paul.
“Very. The stakes are higher, but the rules are simpler.” answered Phil.
They continued to eat in silence for a bit.
“You know, I was always curious how the whole power situation would go down during a zombie apocalypse. It’s weird that we still have power but we don’t have cable or phone service.” said Paul.
“How is that weird?” asked Phil.
“I don’t know. When you hear ‘zombie apocalypse’ do you think of power and running water and all that? Do you think, ‘oh, can’t text or check my e-mail, zombie apocalypse’? No, it’s all screaming and dying and dogs and cats living together…MASS HYSTERIA!”
Phil smiled, “True.”
“I thought for a moment that it was because there’s no reason for zombies to seek out power stations and fuck with them, but then again, there’s no reason for them to seek out anything else either, right? So why do we have power and water but no phones or cable?”
“Good question. Maybe since power is more of a priority, some disaster protocol was set in place? I mean, so much of our Internet is in Atlanta, but this might just be a problem with our local Time Warner place, you know?”
“Yeah. I’m glad this happened with Obama in the driver’s seat.”
“You think he has some sort of zombie apocalypse contingency plan?”
“Maybe. From what I hear he’s smart as fuck. I’m just saying that Bush would have just nuked everything in the name of his asshole Texan God probably.”
“Probably. One thing I am 100% certain about is that I’m happy these aren’t 28 Days Later zombies.”
“Fucking shit, yes! We wouldn’t last a week.” replied Paul.
“Anyway, as far as an exit strategy, not really sure. We should remember to take World War Z and the survival guide with us.” said Phil.
“Definitely. Ha. I wonder what Max Brooks thinks of all this shit. Do you think he’s as surprised as everyone else or do you think he’s feeling sort of smug?”
“I think it would take a major asshole to feel smug about something like this.”
“True, but think of everyone who said something like, ‘Oh, how’s the zombie book coming along! Yeah, that’s reeeal useful! Stupid kike!’”
“Why throw in the racial epithet?” asked Phil.
“Because deep down the person saying it knew that what Brooks was doing was right on and would not only sell millions of copies, but would also become utterly indispensable and be utilized by most of the literate human race as the sole guide to not being eaten by the risen dead before long.”
“I’ll accept that.” answered Phil in a neutral tone. “Although I think the point is moot. This guy is the son of Mel Brooks. The guy who wrote Spaceballs. I don’t know how seriously he took all this stuff.”
“Probably a bit more seriously than we did.”
“Mm.”
“What about weapons?” Paul asked.
“We don’t have anything here, do we?”
“Just some small knives. Are you proficient with anything?”
“Nope. Although I might create a weapon.” said Phil.
“Really? Like what?”
“Okay,” said Phil, leaning forward in his seat and holding his hands up, “I would have a pommel, like the handle of a whip.”
“…okay…” said Paul, a dubious smile growing on his face.
“Attached to the pommel would be eighteen loaded Desert Eagles with fishing line attached to each of the triggers.”
“Safety off.” said Paul, not asking.
“Safety off.” agreed Phil.
“Then, whenever there was trouble, I’d swing them over my head, and when I was ready, just jerk the whip handle, triggering all eighteen guns at once.” he looked at Paul, “What do you think?”
“Sounds good, but we only have sixteen Desert Eagles.”
“Oh, well then forget it.” said Phil abruptly.
“Maybe next time.” said Paul in a comforting voice.
“There might be some tools and stuff in the Superintendent’s place.”
“What’s that thing Brooks says is the ideal weapon?”
“It’s called a ‘trench spike’. They used it in World War One or Two. He says it’s like brass knuckles with a knife on the end.”
“Where in the fuck would we find one of those?”
“Max Brooks’ house?” suggested Paul.
“Probably those other two Desert Eagles as well.”
“Probably.”
“Any idea where he lives?”
“Probably not on the way to B.J.’s.”
“Maybe later then.”
“So when should we leave?” asked Paul.
Just then, all the lights in the apartment flickered, then brightened again, then flickered again, then went out. A few seconds later, there was a loud pop and they came back on again.
“You know, I can’t, with any real conviction, blame that on you…” said Philip, looking around the living room.
“But….?” asked Paul.
“…but I’m going to.” finished Philip.
“Excellent.” said Paul in a satisfied tone. “Shall we pack?”

Reggie Chilt, 34

2009-06-03T21:41:00.000-07:00

Reggie was a bus driver, or had been before the dead people.

He had a good idea to keep his bus because it was big and hard to get into unless he opened the doors.

The windows were gun proof and they seemed to be dead person proof too.

So Reggie kept the bus.

He would drive around and help save people who weren't dead from people that were.

It was just like his old job but instead of stopping at the bright blue bus stop signs, he'd stop where there were people in trouble.

Also he was now allowed to run people over with his bus.

Dead people.

He was allowed to run over dead people.

One day he helped a lady who was bitten by a dead person, but Reggie didn't know that or else he wouldn't have let her on.

Obviously.

He thought the lady had fallen asleep and when she woke up he didn't know she was dead until she bit him right on the arm.

He screamed at her and punched her and punched her until she stopped moving for good.

He stopped the bus at the next corner and kicked the dead dead person out.

He kept driving, wondering why his arm felt so cold and so hot.

He remembered his friend, Sal, talking to him right before his first day.

"You'll do great, Reg. You'll do great. You can do this and you know you can!"

He then gave Reggie a big hug and Reggie cried, but just a little.

And Reggie did do a great job, at least that's what his Boss, Mr. Roger, said.

And some people called him names like "Slowpoke" and "Retard" and "Faggot" when he opened the door to the bus and smiled and welcomed them on, but that was okay, he didn't care.

He was doing great.

But now he wasn't.

His eyes hurt and his head hurt.

But his arm didn't hurt.

So that was okay.

Now he felt more sleepy than hurt.

When it was before the dead people, he'd have to drive the bus for six whole hours before he got to go home and sleep, but now he was in charge of the bus, so he could just pull over and take a nap.

No dead people would get in if he kept the doors closed so that was okay.

He turned on his blinking "trouble lights" and slowed the bus down.

He looked around the empty and saw no people dead or alive.

He was safe.

He would take a nap and then get something to eat.

Kwashon Blumenthal, 28

2009-05-25T13:38:00.000-07:00

God, he hated being sick. Feverish, unable to swallow, wracked with chills and breaking out in unwelcome sweats. The bed suddenly was too soft; no position allowed him to lie in comfort. His sheets and pillow were perpetually damp, and he was too listless and miserable to focus on reading or even watching television. Just the endless hours passing him by, dragging slowly like codeine addicted mules through wading pools of peanut butter.

And on Memorial Day weekend no less! No justice in the world. He'd had to cancel the night out on Saturday with friends. The expected drinks, the pleasure of catching up with people he'd not seen in over a month. Had to then cancel his date on Sunday night, the third and supreme date where things were supposed to go to the next level with Rodnesha. Had to bow out of the bbq on Monday.

Really, what was the point in living? He couldn't even swallow his own spit. Hurt to much, like a white hot nail had been driven into the left side of his throat. Instead, he had spit every fifteen minutes into a cup he kept by the bedside. Disgusting.

Through his open door he heard moans downstairs. Ha. His friends had shown up in sympathy. Kwashon wrestled with the petulant desire to remain sullen and the sudden upswing that their concern evinced. And, ontop of coming by, they were mimicking a zombie attack. Kwashon smiled, and closed his eyes. His friends were brilliant.

They made their way up the stairs, groaning, moaning, dragging their feet. "Oh God," said Kwashon sarcastically, "A zombie attack. What on earth am I going to do?"

The moans paused for a moment and then grew louder. Kwashon laughed, scooted up so that he was sitting against the headboard. His friends gained the landing. Shuffled over to his door.

"Man, you guys--" began Kwashon, and then stopped. The make up on the guy who came through his door was so good he couldn't tell which friend it was. Bulky, wearing some sort of blue mechanic's uniform, face all chewed up. "God," said Kwashon, recoiling. "That's nasty, yo. You guys went all out, eh?"

The man was followed by a skinny looking girl, but Kwashon didn't have time to look at her. With shufftling steps the man crossed the bedroom, stepping on his open laptop, knocking over a pile of magazines.

"Hey," said Kwashon, suddenly annoyed. And then the man was on him, stinking of rotting meat, big, callused hands scrabbling at him as the simply fell onto him and buried his face into his neck. "Hey!" yelled Kwashon as more people in makeup entered the room. "Time out, yo, time out!"

Robert Enwalis, 39

2009-05-23T20:30:00.000-07:00

He was a hoary old bastard, was Enwalis. Half pickled by a life time of boozing, made hard by too much sun and heavy lifting. Yard work, dock work, factory work. The kind of lean, leathery muscle that can take a swing from an iron pipe and ellicit little more than a grunt. Square jaw sandpapered with salt and pepper stubble, knuckles split from too many bar fights. Sour sweat smell, strong teeth run to yellow. Part junk yard dog, part rusted machine parts, with some tree roots and rock thrown in for good measure.

Once, back in Cuba, he'd gone 37 rounds with El Gordo, bare knuckle fighting and drinking raw rum between rounds. Had lasted almost three hours. By the time he'd dropped the world was but a spinning deluge of crimson, smeared yellow lights and slurred screams. He'd lost the fight, but had been walking again in two days. El Gordo, the nominal winner, had remained bed ridden for the rest of his sordid life.

Nothing had ever come easy to him. Nothing had ever stayed for long in his hands. In his bed, in his bank account. Homeless now some two years, he'd thought the world had gone to hell a long time ago.

Turns out he'd been wrong.

Placing his hands on the small of his back, he leaned backways and heard bones pop. He grimaced. He hated mornings. No fit time for hard work. Reached down and took up a pipe wrench as heavy as sin and long as his forearm. Hefted it.

The fucker's were come down the alley toward him. They'd killed his old dog three days ago. He'd been ducking them and running for near to three weeks. Enough. Time to step up and bat.

The first was a a young woman. Curvy, her slack, rotted face still holding hits of beauty. In the bone structure, he mused, as she shambled toward him. Good cheekbones. Stepping forward, he shifted his weight smoothly from right to left foot, put his hip and back into the blow, and ruined her cheekbones for good.

Down she went. That kind of blow kept them down. The second was an old lady, her hair plastered around her porcelain skull, her wrinkled face sagging almost off her skull. She went down easy, the force of the blow sending her stumbling to the left. A fat Japanese kid in a basketball jersey took a hammer blow right on the summit of his skull, and smacked down to his knees.

Enwalis hopped back a few steps, took a sip from his flask. There was another fifty or so of them coming. Spaced out some, but it would get intense pretty soon. The alley opened up behind him, beckoning, promising escape.

Fuck it.

Wrench in hand, he stepped back into the fray. He'd gone three hours with El Gordo. Sure he'd been younger than. But these freaks didn't compare to that mighty Cuban, God curse his fat slarding ass.

A slender man with a ridiculous moustache and a brown suit stumbled over the Japanese kid, righted and took the wrench to the face. Lost his jaw. Second blow crumpled his brain pan in. A seven year old kid took the wrench in a swing upper cut that lifted him off his feet and sent him sprawling back into the crowd. Enwalis switched the wrench to his other hand, shook out his fingers.

The moans were everywhere. Still, he'd fucked some whores who had sounded even more bored. This wasn't so bad.

Skinny black man. Mexican dude in Lederhosen. Woman with her face torn off in beige buisiness suit. Police officer, almost six foot five, big as a linebacker. A pregnant woman, dragging a mess between her legs. A girl so skinny she had probably looked more dead than she did now. Crunch. Swing. Crunch. Down onto one knee. Crunch. Eye spouting out. Crunch, slammed into the wall. Steadily backing up. Swinging his arm to loosen the shoulder, warming up now.

A moan from behind. Enwalis swung around without thinking, wrench cutting through the air to cave in an old man's chest. Double sided now. Enwalis looked up, gauging. Must be almost nine in the morning. He brought the wrench, slick with hair and jellied blood into the old man's face, ended his moaning. More around him, tripping and climbing over the felled bodies. No way out.

But then, there never really had been. You can't pick what cards are dealt to you, thought Enwalis, taking a final swig of whiskey from his flask before throwing it in a fat woman's face. All you can do is decide whether you die swinging or clawed down from behind as you ran.

Three more dropped before one latched onto his left arm, teeth digging in. By the time he had knocked it off another had enveloped him in a hug, dug its teeth into the muscle of his neck. Most men might have gone down at that point. Not Enwalis. With a roar, he shook off the zombie like a bear might a drunken squirrel, and kept on swinging.

Crunch. Fall. Crunch. Fall. The ground slick beneath his feet. Breath heaving in his chest, superheated, rasping. Vision blurring. Turning and turning, bringing his wrench down, swinging even when he could no longer make out their faces.

Their moans changed. Became roars in his head, joined the rushing thrum in his ears to become old cries, old screams and encouragement. The lights were blurred, he could barely stand. Wiping his forearm across his face, clearing his eyes of sweat and blood, he grinned at his towering opponent. A mountain of a man. Pain was everywhere. Teeth slicked with blood, he laughed. A second chance to win that fight. With a final roar, Enwalis surged forward, and brought his wrench screaming around, and before the world went dark, before he lost track of it all, he saw El Gordo go down, and felt the sweet, sweet rush of a dark and thrilling victory.

Paul & Phil, 28

2009-05-22T20:42:00.000-07:00

“Shit.” said Paul, looking out the window of the third story Long Island City apartment he and Philip shared. “We seriously should have seen this coming.”

“20/20 hindsight and all that.” responded Phil, flipping through the seven hundred and fifty three channels of unique static on the television.

“No,” insisted Paul, turning away from the vista of shambolic death outside, “I mean we, you and I, should have seen this coming.”

“The thing is, Paul,” replied Phil, looking up from the screen, “we, you and I, are the type of people who are always expecting this to happen, all the time. Therefore, how can we, you and I, be blamed for not seeing it coming? Technically speaking, we’ve seen this coming for about, what, twelve years or so? So did Will, so did Sunir, so did a lot of people. But Will never petitioned NASA or the X-Prize or Lockheed-Martin to do anything about it, did he? Sunir went to med school, I taught those little punks in Miami and you grew taller, never really expecting this to happen. And honestly, what would we have done?”

Paul thought for a moment. “Not really sure…I guess. Gone survivalist I suppose.”

“Exactly my point. And what the fuck do we know about being survivalists?”

“We can both grow a pretty respectable beard.”

“There is nothing respectable about our beards. Besides, we should be happy we know so much about zombies. We’re better off than most. Some people didn’t figure it out until they were being digested. We know they can’t climb stairs with any degree of speed, we know to ‘shoot for the head’…if we had guns.”

“We really should do something about that.” sad Paul, half to himself. “I’ve only fired a gun once in my life and I was four. And that ended badly.”

“Well, not for you,” said Phil, turning back to the TV, switching on the Playstation 3.

“Who gives a four year old a .45?” demanded Paul.

“A Republican?” opined Phil.

“Zing.” answered Paul.

“So what do we do now?” asked Phil, picking up a controller and handing it to Paul.

“Well,” mused Paul, taking the controller from Phil, “I’d always thought if this all ever happened that you and Will would be the ideal people to be with, but since Will is off in Columbia, that really isn’t too much of an option.”

“Go on” said Phil, initiating a two player game of Wipeout HD.

“So, like any good hypothetical survivalist, I stroked my unruly beard…”

“As one must,” added Phil.

“And I considered an alternate third, in case Will was already ensconced in some NASA fallout zombie shelter and had neglected to tell us. And, based on his level of experience and insight into this particular situation, I would have to say B.J.”

Philip raised his eyebrows.

“As a matter of fact, the place he’s living in Boston is ideal for this type of thing. A very steep hill, a sturdy old house, a bunch of guys well versed in the now-applicable art of zombie killing…”

“All right. Then we’re off to Boston?”

“Unless you have any better ideas?”

“It’s a shame we can’t bring the TV and Playstation. I’m getting quite good at Wipeout.”

“B.J. has an Xbox 360, so it’s not a complete loss.”

There was a pause in which they played the game, the sound of "Firestarter" sans lyrics filled the room.

“This really is the only fitting music for this game,” remarked Phil after a moment.

“Agreed.”

Max Brooks, 36

2009-05-19T11:54:00.001-07:00

He was completely unprepared.

Jessica, 27

2009-05-15T20:53:00.000-07:00

"Oh my God, Roger's dead!"

"Come on, we can't help him now!"

"Dave—"

"RUN!"

"Barbra, are you—"

"I'm fine...let's just...get there..."

They had started out as a group of nine.

Now three were left, almost four, but Roger hadn't been paying attention and had slipped in a puddle of something unmentionable, gone to one knee and, ostensibly, ended his life.

None of the final three had really known Roger, but even if they had, they would have been...not okay with his demise, but merely...less devastated.

Except for Jess.

Not to say that Barbra and Dave were stone cold, heartless mercenaries for hire or anything, but Jess was just more empathic than most people. Even after three months trapped in this nightmare, she was still unable to detach herself from all the death and pain and horror surrounding her. In a way, it made her more human, holding onto these vestments of emotion, but in another way, it made her more vulnerable.

Barbra saw this, but she had asthma, a much more evident vulnerability than empathy. Dave saw it too, but that was one of the reasons he loved her so much. Even amidst all this, even at the end of the world, he loved her big heart and it hurt him to see her in this situation. This was killing her and there was nothing he could do about it.

But she was surviving.

They were all surviving.

Well, all except Roger.

And Sarah and Ben and Noel and Graham.

Phil and Paul?

Who knew?

They’d had a skewed vision of reality before the dead had stopped dying and started eating.

They'd run into them a few weeks ago and they'd had this air about them...something...not quite right...but they had survived this far and that was what mattered right now.

They left, on their way to Boston, and soon after, Sarah, Ben, Noel and Graham had been killed.

And now Roger.

"Get inside!"

Dave had found an unlocked door and they all piled in, Dave last, pulling the door shut behind him.

That sat in the musty dark, panting.

Barbra's inhaler went off.

After what seemed like hours, they heard the moaning from outside the door, moving slowly toward them.

This part always terrified Jess. She knew from experience that these things had no logic or reasoning capabilities, that the zombies would never know they were hiding in this particular place unless one of them made a sound and even then they still might not find them, but that noise...just moving slowly closer in the dark...

Jess silently thanked Roger for his accidental sacrifice.

They may have gotten away with no problem, but with Roger as a...distraction, it was a certainty.

They would wait here until the zombies outside had passed and then either further explore this place or head out again.

This had become the routine: find a place, assess its positive and negative attributes as a temporary hideout and then either stay for as long as they dared or gather what useful items they could find and move on.

This was New York City after all and, overrun with the walking dead or not, there were a hell of a lot of places three people could hide.

Eventually, the sound faded and then there was silence.

After one more blast from Barbra's inhaler, Dave said "All right, let's find out where we are..."

At the moment, they each had a nice, sturdy MagLite with them, plus a backpack that had granola bars, Balance bars, dried fruit, nuts, jerky and as much bottled water as they could carry without overburdening themselves. Unlike the fiction that Jess had been working with for the past few years, this whole thing hadn't happened like in the books. Yes, there had been some rioting and some looting and some places were indeed stripped clean of every single bit of food and water, but the fact was, New York City was just too big for everything to be gone. On an average block, there were sometimes as many as ten delis, diners, cafes or grocery stores.

Food and water hadn't been a problem, so they had decided to flee on foot; they would find an adequate supply of food and water, hole up for a while and see what developed.

New York was brimming with supplies, but the places between New York and most other places weren't. Why add starvation to the list of things that could kill you?

So that's what they had done.

The problem was that the dead were everywhere. And although they didn't consciously hunt or form large groups, these things just happened. They were always awake and "looking" for food. Sadly, things had developed in a manner that left the three of them with very limited options. At this particular moment, they were toying with the idea of making their way to the Hudson River and seeing if there were boats either patrolling for survivors or simply left after their owners had abandoned them. They had unconsciously been making their way west for the past few days.

"All right," Dave said from the top of the stairs at the end of the darkened hallway, "there's an open apartment up here, looks pretty good. There's a fire escape outside the kitchen window so we have a way out if we need it."

Barbra and Jess followed Dave up and entered the apartment.

Dave was right, it was pretty good; a bit musty, but much better than some of the other places they'd walked into.

The door opened into a large living room with two bedrooms directly in front of them, a kitchen to the right and a bathroom to the left.

There was a love seat against one wall and a cheap looking Ikea standing lamp next to the door. Jess twisted the switch out of habit and was rewarded with a dry snapping sound, but no light.

They halfheartedly searched the kitchen for food or anything useful but found nothing.

They each ate some food in silence, and then Barbra and Jess made their way to the bedrooms while Dave set some glasses in front of the door and took his place as sentinel for the evening.

"Jekka..."

Jess smiled in her sleep.

She'd fallen back asleep again and they'd probably missed Brunch.

Oh well.

They could just order in or maybe see if the Brunch place had dinner.

It wasn't too strange to think that they would, was it?

She was pretty sure she'd seen them open after dark...

"Jekka...Barbra's dead..."

...she remembered seeing a neon sign in the window... a hand or something.

Maybe it was a fish?

She'd have to ask Dave.

"Jekka, we have to go before..."

Wait, the place was called Manus!

That's Latin for 'hand' so--

"JEKKA!"

Jess sat up and looked around the dim bedroom.

Dave was grappling with Barbra.

"JESS! FUCKING WAKE UP!"

Jess was alert and on her feet before she knew it, looking around the room for something, anything to—

Dave screamed.

Jess whirled around just in time to see Dave slam his fist into Barbra's face, sending her stumbling back into the wall. He then clutched his neck just below his left ear.

Barbra was slowly righting herself.

"Jess..." Dave grunted, "Let’s fucking go..."

He held out his right hand and she grabbed it.

They ran from the bedroom through the unfamiliar dimness of the living room and were just at the door when they heard the noise.

It sounded like a fist hitting a coffin full of glass bottles and for a moment, they simply stood, unmoving.

Then it clicked.

The glasses against the front door...

"All right," Dave started, "out the wind—"

And there was Barbra, tottering towards them, arms outstretched, chin and chest slicked with Dave's blood.

Dave glanced around the room quickly and grabbed the nearest weapon, the segmented standing lamp, from beside the door.

"I'm going to hold it off; you get the window open..."

That plan seemed to work for Barbra who began stumbling toward Dave. He cocked the lamp back and swung as hard as he could, base first, at her head. There was a metallic snap and an organic crunch as both the lamp and Barbra's skull broke.

Jess was frantically tugging at the window which wasn't budging an inch.

There was another, more insistent thump from the front door.

"Dave! It's not opening!" Jess nearly screamed.

"Locked?" Dave said in a clotted voice.

"Fucking idiot!" Jess said aloud to herself as she reached for the latches on top of the window. They clicked and one of the glasses fell over.

She raked the window up on its tracks and, thankfully, it stayed open.

Dave was looking down at Barbra, who was twitching minutely on the floor and another glass fell over.

"Close one." he mumbled, walking into the kitchen.

Jess was standing on the fire escape and looking down into the alley below where there was no sign of the things.

She helped Dave out as best she could and they unfastened the ladder which made a horrible screeching, clanging noise as it lowered.

They both made it down without incident and were just taking in their new surroundings when Jess gasped, "The fucking packs, Dave!"

He looked slowly up at the ladder when they heard the door inside open, shattering the rest of the glasses.

"Too late now..." he croaked.

It was almost dawn and, in the growing light Jess was able to get a look at Dave's neck for the first time.

It looked horrible. The flesh was shredded around the wound and, in the weak light, the insides gleaming wetly.

"Dave...are you..." asked Jess in a small voice.

"I'm in trouble, Jekka. She didn't severe the artery or we wouldn't be having this conversation, but I've maybe got an hour. I'm already fading..." he trailed off, looking down the length of the alley.

"Dave," Jess was trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, but she was failing. "Dave...I don't think I can...I can't..."

Dave turned back to her, the dazed, dull look gone from his eyes.

He grabbed her shoulders.

"Jess, if you don't, I'll turn into one of them and come after you, you know that! You don't have a choice!" He paused, "And I don't want to be one of them."

"Dave..." tears were streaming down her round, shocked face and dripping off her chin.

He silenced her with a small kiss and smiled.

"I'm not dead yet, Jessica. Let's find a new place before we deal with this."

One end of the alley was a brick wall, topped with razor wire and the other ended in a gate. They made their way as quietly as they could and paused for a moment at the mouth of the alley.

They could see the tail end of the horde that had entered the apartment just entering the building now.

"God, there must have been fifty of them..." Dave breathed.

They opened the gate slowly which, for a wonder, didn't make a sound and were about to make their way up the street away from the zombies when Dave stumbled and fell against a cluster of trash cans.

The noise was explosive in the early morning silence and less than a second after the noise had stopped, the moaning began.

Jess saw the last form that had entered the building pause, turn, pause again and then come shambling out into the bluish street.

The others were following it.

"Dave!" Jess shook him.

His eyes fluttered, opened, looked into hers.

"You gotta go..." he whispered.

"No! You said that you had—" Jess was very edge of the precipice.

"Might have been wrong...might have nicked the artery after all..."

Jess felt like a sunbather who opens her eyes just as the shadow of the tsunami engulfs her; paralyzed, unable to think or even comprehend the enormity of what is about to happen.

"Dave..."

His eyes slipped shut.

She had just enough time to trip behind a Dumpster at the mouth of the alley as they fell on him.

The last conscious thought Jessica had was:

at least I can't see...at least they're in the way...and I think he was already d—

Then Dave shrieked, an unending eruption of sound that told Jess her world had ended.

Jessica began to scream in response.

Their screams merged; his of agony, hers of terror and utter, abject loss.

There's something to be said for the human mind. How elegant. How multifaceted. How awe inspiring. It has the potential to create the most beautiful art, the most intricate formula, to be as complex as a galaxy and as unique as a snowflake.

It also has the potential to run binary.

Black or white.

On or off.

Fight or flight.

Underneath all the trappings in which society has swaddled the human mind, there lies the true Human Nature.

The killer, the survivor, the beast.

It was witnessing this horrible act of violence that finally cracked the facade, which had grown thinner and thinner as the world slipped faster and faster down the jagged slope into the Abyss. Seeing the person she loved most in this world torn limb from limb while these demons feasted on his still living, still breathing, still screaming body had shattered the veneer meticulously built over the past three decades.

What was left was not some cute, inoffensive woodland creature.

What was left was Hell Itself.

And It wanted vengeance.

Jessica stopped screaming. The tears stopped coursing down her face. She rose and looked around her, as if for the first time. The creatures in front of her were busying themselves by stripping the last remnants of Dave from what was left of his frame and did not take notice.

If they had, even these unfeeling, uncomprehending monsters may have known fear.

Jessica's eyes landed on the tangle of bodies which marked Dave's final resting place. She uttered a grunting bark that was just masked by the groaning, snapping noises coming from the zombies in front of her. She then drew in a breath and loosed a bloodcurdling noise, barely animal, nowhere near human. The things paused, looked up and beheld.

Before they even had a chance to totter to their feet, she was on them, tearing with her hands and teeth like a rabid dog. She didn't even register what she was slashing and biting at and in a matter of seconds, the seven zombies that had heard the trash cans and ended Dave's life (and, in some terrible way, renewed hers) were nothing more than seven piles of limbs and rags and muck.

She stood in the center of this massacre covered in gore and gobbets of red jelly and white, green and purple flesh from head to toe, the foul meat she'd torn from their forms sliding from her mouth onto the ground (for some part of her knew, even in this state, that to ingest any part of their filth would mean agonizing death). She turned and saw the rest of the groaning monsters begin to stumble out of the building back onto the street, roared like the Apocalypse and charged at them.

She hit the first one, which was standing in the doorway, with her entire body and, because of sheer momentum, knocked it and the dozen or so that lined up behind it like necrotic dominoes over in a row. Then she descended upon them like a buzz saw, morsellating their putrid, leathery bodies with every ounce of her being. Her rage had brought her to the foot of the stairs where she caught sight of another throng standing at the head of the staircase. It was over in a tissue and bone filled instant. And then she was at the top of the stairs, looking into the apartment which had served as the merest bit of respite for the past hours and contained the remainder of the horde that had caused such turmoil in the last few minutes.

Jessica caught sight of Barbra toward the back of the mob.

Her shriek was soul rending and nearly tore her throat to bloody ribbons.

She saw only Barbra, the cause of this tragedy, this cataclysm.

Jessica clawed her way through more than thirty undead bodies and, less than a minute after catching sight of Barbra, was standing before her.

Of course there was no recognition in Barbra's clouded eyes, how could there be? But Jessica wasn't here in the same way she had been five minutes ago.

Barbra saw only meat and Jess saw only enemy.

She shot her hand out, lightening quick, and tore Barbra's jaw from her face with a sound like a chicken being ripped in half.

Jessica felt the vibrations go through her body and liked it.

She dropped the jaw on the floor and began to systematically tear Barbra apart: her hands, arms, ears, eyes, head...it was the truest form of catharsis she'd ever experienced.

After utterly dispatching with Barbra, Jess fell, unconscious, to the floor in a slurry of undead bits.

When she woke, the sun was shining bright, making the fetid meat in the room produce an almost physical stink. She rose shakily to her feet and stared about her at the chaos she'd created. Then she began to weep, her small body pulsing with the sobs that escaped her. She half sat, half fell to the slick floor and cried, her tears cutting clean tracks through the crusted ichor on her face.

Dave was dead.

They were all dead but her.

The world was dead and it only kept spinning because it hadn't yet realized the fact.

After a while, she stopped crying and took in a deep, cleansing breath.

At least she wouldn't have to be a part of this farce much longer.

She looked down at herself and saw the dozens of tiny cuts and scratches covering her hands and arms.

How long had Dave said this stuff takes to change you?

She couldn't remember, not that it mattered, she wasn't going to sit here and turn into one of those things, feeling herself die and be reborn as some hideous cannibal. She slowly staggered to her feet again. Her body ached all over and her mouth tasted of unspeakable foulness. She reached the sink and washed her mouth out with the rust tasting water from the tap. She rinsed her hands, arms and face in the cool water and stood for a moment, dripping and just staring.

Then she nodded almost imperceptibly, walked over to the oven and turned the knob. The faint hiss told her there was still gas in these pipes. That was good. She found their abandoned packs in the bedrooms and located the pack of matches at the bottom of Barbra's.

Barbra had been a smoker.

An asthmatic smoker.

Brilliant.

She made her way back to the kitchen and closed the window. The air was already taking on a wavy quality. She went back to the bedroom she'd spent her last night in and changed out of her filthy rags into a clean shirt and pants. Back in the living room she dragged the love seat over to the kitchen and placed it diagonally against the cabinets under the sink and the wall with the window set into it, forming a small barricade. Then she made her way carefully through the abattoir in the living room, down the slimy stairs and outside.

She saw a small group of the things milling around at the end of the street, looking up at a pigeon perched on a lamppost and another larger group further up the street. None of them had seen her so she just sat, feeling the sun, warm and fresh, on her battered body for a few quiet moments. Eventually, she opened her eyes, and stood, taking note of the stiffness that was settling into her bones and muscles already.

She walked down the street, moving at a fast walk past the small group focused on the bird until she was in between them and the group further away.

Then she yelled at the top of her voice.

Slowly, very slowly, the group at the lamppost and the larger group began to stumble towards her, moaning and clutching.

Within five minutes she'd managed to attract about a hundred of the things, always being sure to stay well in front of the horde and well away from any tight spaces. She led them back to the apartment, the stiffness slowly turning to numbness throughout the trek.

Finally, she'd led the majority into the apartment building. They filled the entry way, the hallway, the stairs and the living room.

She took her place behind the love seat, still a good ten feet from the nearest one and went for the matches on the counter, knocking them onto the floor. She sat down, tried to pick them up again and failed. Her third attempt was successful. She looked around the room and everything appeared underwater; whether this was the gas or her vision, she wasn't sure.

She opened the matchbook and tried to tear out a match, but she couldn't make her fingers close on it. Her index finger did what it was told, but her thumb just twitched feebly.

"No..." she croaked.

She took a deep breath, which caused the world to strobe in purple and black, and tried again, but this time the thumb only trembled the faintest bit.

"No...no..." she said again.

She suddenly clamped her teeth down on her tongue and the world instantly flared with color.

As she tore the match out and flipped the pack over, she registered that her blood didn't have the rich, vital, iron taste it usually did.

She scratched the match against the rough strip but it wasn't hard enough.

The world was turning purple and black again.

Jessica bit her tongue once more, much harder this time and felt part of it separate from the rest.

It lay in her mouth like cold rubber and she choked it out.

She wasn't bleeding anymore.

Her stomach knotted painfully and as she pressed the match head to the strip one last time, she was swallowed by their shadows.

"No...Dave...n-"

Peter Lansky, 35

2009-05-04T20:54:00.000-07:00

He yanks the rope hard, and the meat-hook on the other end obliges him by rising towards the proscenium arch over the stage. The zombie's arm, pierced at the elbow, follows it upwards, causing the creature to pirouette. The creature struggles against this, but the hooks in its other three limbs make the effort useless. It moans.

"If it were me," Peter says to the corpse, as he would to his actors, "I'd make myself into a doll. Make myself dance like I mean it!" Peter grabs two more ropes, and uses them to have the zombie goose-step across the stage. Peter is wearing headphones. The opera drowns out the creature's protests.

Peter kicks a weight off another pile of ropes. From the loft above the stage another zombie crashes to the stage floor. It is Peter's Ex-wife Anna: very recently his Ex. Peter had decided to call her his ex after she died.

"Learn the steps," he says as she rises to her feet. "Practice."

She lunges towards him, but from the house he has plenty of time to grab her leashes and put her on her mark.

It was sheer luck Peter hadn't been killed by the zombies. He'd been hiding in his wife's dressing room, waiting to catch Anna and her lover unguarded. He didn't get his chance, sadly. When Anna entered the dressing room she was already dead, like the other one here and all of them outside. He was lucky he already had the meat-hooks on him.

"I'd become the character, give myself over to it," he says. He brings the two meat puppets together fast and hard. With a flick the zombies fall into the bed placed on the stage and thrash around in the sheets wildly. There is more moaning. The opera has ended. Peter is crying. Peter is smiling.

"Because I cannot escape it," he lets go of the ropes and joins the couple in bed.

Danielle, 30

2009-05-04T20:44:00.000-07:00

This. Plan. Was. Perfect.
As soon as the first signs started, I knew exactly what was going on (thank you Philip and Paul, wherever you are right now) and I sent out feelers, risked my job and actually got a response. Skeptical at first, but, for whatever reason, not as skeptical as one would have thought.
*sigh*
Shame on me for not thinking that he was so accepting because he was out of his fucking mind. I mean, I knew he was out of his fucking mind, but not this far out. This asshole hasn't had contact with his mind since...shit, looking over recent events, ever! I have no idea. I really wish I had realized this sooner, but, I'll admit, I was star struck xmax. Ted Nugent! Come on, it was awesome!
That first meeting in the city before they shut everything down was amazing. A little weird, but in the way meeting any rock legend who isn't really...normal...would be weird. I was still kind of vacillating on the whole plan, wondering if the military would actually be able to handle this and just toughing it out with Phil and Paul in LIC since they were the most zombie savvy people I knew, but then two things happened: first, I envisioned Phil and Paul dead by my hand from over quoting Prince lyrics or personal jokes from eighth grade or something and, second, Ted gave me five pounds of venison...that he had killed himself...with his bare hands. That sealed the deal. I mean, what are the living dead to a guy who can track and kill animals with his bare hands?
So I told Phil and Paul I was flattered by that I was going to go up north with Ted Nugent. Obviously they didn't believe me but then I reminded them that the goddamn Zombie Apocalypse was about to begin. I could hear the simultaneous shrug as they agreed and said that stranger things have indeed happened and wished me luck. No, actually, they said "it was a pleasure working with you Dr. Venkman...see you on the other side". Yeah, I would have torn their fucking throats out with my teeth. A yot.
Anyway, right before the city was locked down, Ted picked me up in a helicopter and after a few hours flying north, he landed us in a field somewhere in the woods. He told me that from here we would have to drive and then showed me his modified Hummer. God damn but that man can modify a Hummer. I can't be sure, but at one point, I think we were actually just driving over rocks and the inside of the truck didn't even vibrate. He said the cabin was stocked with enough supplies to last two people twenty years and that it was my home as well but that his studio was off limits. He said "no one but Ted was allowed in the Magic Room". I completely understood and told him so. He said he didn't think I really understood, but he appreciated the gesture. Warning lights: zero. Idiot...
About forty minutes later we reached a high, sturdy gate that he said surrounded the whole estate and then I got to see just what a true survivalist with money can accomplish. His "cabin" made all the other cabins I'd ever seen look like a Downs Syndrome patient's refrigerator box fort by comparison. It was one of the nicest domiciles I'd ever seen, let alone been inside in my life. Not too shabby. At first, everything was just as excellent as I had thought it would be; he had a massive DVD collection, a private screening room, an extensive library, not to mention an incredible sound system. More food than I could ever eat, a generator, a back up generator, about eight bedrooms, six bathrooms, steam room, sauna, workout room, three water heaters and, most pertinent in our current situation, an arsenal. If he ever got tired of killing zombies with his bare hands, we'd still have enough ammo and guns to last a long time. On top of all this, he had some special satellite television that got thousands of channels (he said that when he would "go hermit" for months at a time, he still liked the option to stay up on current world events) so we were able to track the progression of this...horror for as long as there were people with cameras tracking it.
As the days went on, Ted taught me how to use the guns so that if I were ever attacked without him there I wouldn't be a victim. Pretty soon I was as deadly as a rabid elephant but as economical with my movements as a ninja. Ted Nugent had turned me into a rabid elephant ninja...and it was awesome. Not that that seemed to be a problem. After about three months, we had yet to have one breach. Occasionally we'd do perimeter sweeps, but, for whatever reason, the zombies never came up this far.
Like I said, things were going great...then...well...things got a bit odd and everything went down hill from there. One night at dinner, Ted surprised me by kissing my hand. First off, Ted Nugent is NOT the kind of man to kiss a woman's hand. He would offer up hugs that went on just a bit too long and sometimes, I'd catch him staring at me, just smiling. In a way, it was sweet and kind of flattering. But I had no interest in him, at all. I was thoroughly convinced that this wasn't forever, that there would be an end to it and everything would return to some state of normality. He didn't seem to agree. Things sort of came to a head one night at dinner when, out of nowhere, he said that he and I might be the last people on Earth, that we might be responsible for repopulating the planet like Adam and Eve. Before really thinking about the consequences I said that I doubted things would come to that and that the military were most likely working on a contingency and so on and so forth. I think he had stopped listening at "things would come to that". I may have put a bit too much of an edge on "that" and he was suddenly sullen. After the quiet dinner had ended, he told me he wanted to play me a song. We had occasionally listened to music on the huge system and it wasn't totally out of the ordinary for one of us to bring something to the other, but there was this strange gravity...I found out why in a moment. I'll cut to the chase: it was a power ballad in which Ted listed my attributes and then proposed marriage. I will never forget the line: "and in this corpse littered wasteland, we'll see the union of a woman and man". Shudder. Normally, I'd do this over Gchat or, even better, e-mail, but neither of us were online, so I had to tell Ted Nugent that I didn't see him this way, that I was very grateful for everything he'd done but that I just wasn't interested in him.
That...was a huge mistake.
After that night, he would spend more and more time either locked in his studio or out of the house. I was never outright worried because he was absolutely capable and besides, there was the gate, but every time he came back in he'd just have this look in his eyes. Like he was studying me...cataloging me. It scared the shit out of me. The arsenal was left unlocked and several loaded guns were always kept in a specific place in case they needed to be accessed quickly and, one night, I snuck down and grabbed a Walther PPK, just to have. I was beginning to worry. This ominous energy started filling up the place like a fog. Something was about to happen. We would sometimes still see each other at dinner, but he would either be silently angry or tears would stream down his stone-like face...it was getting to me.
Then one morning, I woke to find him in my room, sitting in a cane chair by the door. My hand tightened on the gun under my pillow and I may have done something...irreversible if it hadn't have been for the look in his eyes and the shotgun on his lap. I didn't know if he was going to kill me or himself or both of us. I just stared, too frightened to say anything and, after what felt like hours, he stood up and left. I lay there, thinking that, if he did ever snap...I'd be dead. No contest. He was an honest to God survivalist when things were completely normal, the recent world events had...shit...enhanced the natural survivor in him...made him more feral, less human. I'd hurt him in some fundamental way without meaning to or trying to but he was...he wasn't dealing with it very well.
I didn't see him for the next three days and I was just beginning to wonder if maybe he hadn't just...gone native....just dropped all pretenses of humanity and become whatever it was that lived at the center of him when he was there, in the living room that night, listening to music on headphones. I thought it would be best if I just went up to my room and so I did. All my clothing had been dumped out of my drawers and scattered around the room. I was beside myself but, what could I do? At dinner, I meant to bring it up...but I just couldn't. His eyes...
I lay awake for hours, terrified of what might happen. At one point, I thought I heard noises coming from somewhere in the house...the fucked up thing is...here I am in the fucking Zombie Apocalypse and I'm more frightened of Ted Nugent than the walking dead. I'd never even seen one of the undead thanks to the remote location and the gate outside...
The days passed in the same fashion and...I began...I began considering...I began considering killing him. I was living in fear and unable to function, there was clearly something wrong with him and I wouldn't stand a chance if he went off the deep end.
I was lying in my bed, thinking about the implications and if I would ever be able to do something like this to another human being when Ted made the choice easy for me. There was a thump at my door, like a half knock...and then the groaning. Ted? I called. No answer. I pulled my Walther out from under my pillow and pulled back the hammer, ready for anything. In the end, it was much less dramatic than one would have expected. I crept to the door, turned the knob and jumped back, gun at the ready. Eventually, there was another thud and the door swung slowly open. It was Ted. He didn't look as horrifying as I thought he would. I knew from the news that he had just been turned. He was wearing a bathrobe and from the waist down, it was soaked with blood. I didn't think anything about it at the time, I just aimed for the head and squeezed the trigger, once, twice. Turns out I didn't need the second shot. The bullet went in and he hit the ground like a pile of rags. There was no explosive exit wound or anything like from the movies, just a pop and a thump. I stood there for a bit, cried a little, more in relief than anything else, I'll be honest, and then I covered him with a spare sheet from the linen closet down the hall. Now, this is a little weird...because of the way he fell, his robe had opened a bit and...okay, I saw his dick. I wasn't looking to sneak a peek at zombie Ted Nugent's junk, but when I leaned down to cover him, I just saw it. It was where all the blood was coming from. Most of it was bitten completely off. I was stunned. What the fuck was I looking at? He didn't have any other noticeable bites on his body, just his penis. But that would mean that a zombie...had bitten it. And he was wearing a robe, so he hadn't been outside, it was the middle of the winter. I looked down at the body again, and noticed the rawhide strip around his neck. I bent down and pulled it off of his neck.
The key to his studio.
So...here I am...key in hand...standing outside the door that he told me never to go into. I have a pretty bad feeling about what's in there, but I also have five shots left in the Walther and, whatever it is, it's got to be done.
If he was keeping a zombie in here and...fucking it...well, I have to get rid of it.
All right...let's do this...
Wha-?
AARGH!
Ah....fuck! You survivalist DICK! An axe? A fucking axe?! YOU BOOBY TRAPPED YOUR ZOMBIE SEX SLAVE?
Ah...shit this hurts...bleeding like a fucking-wait...what the fuck? It's...those are...it's wearing my underwear? And...a wig? My make up?! Oh Jesus Christ! You sick...! Fuck you, Ted Nugent! Fuck you, you degenerate hillbilly psycho! You scum sucking zombie fucker! Oh fuck...where's...the gun...fuck...she's...gunna eat...m-

Everett, 20

2009-04-28T21:01:00.000-07:00

Fucking Bill. Living in fucking Bay Ridge. Fucking Brooklyn. If I had a car, this would be a fifteen minute drive. Or a jet pack. But, NOOOOOO, I have to take the E from Queens to the R through fucking Manhattan into goddamn Brooklyn.
One hour and twenty five minutes. This trip is, according to Hop Stop, going to take me one hour and twenty five goddamn minutes. Fuck me. Fucking Brooklyn.
And then there's the delays. The we're-the-MTA-and-we-have-a-surplus-oops-did-I-say-surplus-because-I-meant-deficit-and-we're-going-to-raise-the-fare-and-reduce-service-and-none-of-you-sweaty-balls-commuters-can-do-a-fucking-thing-about-it-because-you-don't-own-a-car delays. But at least the air conditioning doesn't work. I'd hate to not be able to smell that inside-of-a-pimple smell that homeless guy's got going on.
And the TEASE of that one E stop. On the new E that talks to you and smells nice and is icy cool. Then? Welcome to the R. Which stands for "Rigid Cock That Fucks You In The Ass". One stop on the E and then fifteen thousand stops on the R. The sweaty R starring the Funky Ass Hobo.
Naw, that's waaay too kind....
First off, "funky" might be misinterpreted to mean "eclectic" as if it might pertain to his taste in clothes or music or something. And "hobo" makes me think of guys with perfectly manicured five o'clock shadow, a cigar and a bindle.
This is a stank ass homeless guy.
Stank ass like a bag of jizz soaked socks.
OLD jizz soaked socks.
Usually you get used to smells 'cuz your nosebuds die or whatever, but these fucking nosebuds JUST AIN'T DYING. "R Train of the Living Nosebuds!" starring Everett Mills as the Funk-Assaulted Hero. God, it's fucking PALPABLE.
Shit, you'd think the mass of people between him and me would somewhat mask his funk but it's like it's moving through them to get to me. Like they are a CONDUIT OF STINK. Christ. This fucker smells like scab and anus pie. And he looks fucking dead...
Oh shit. Oh fucking gross! That shit on the news! Oh groooss! What if that motherfucker's sick with it?! Shit, what did they say about it? Something about close physical contact should be avoided...HA! Oh shoot, and I was going to blow this guy. God. Well, no one else seems to give a shit, so, fuck it, I guess.
Oh wait...no, he's not dead, I can see him twitching in his sleep. Well thank God. That would have caused EVEN MORE delays. Some Good Samaritan Fuckhole who was planning on getting off at the next stop would be happy as a pig in shit to yank that red cord, stop the train and let us sit here in the hobo-smelling stillness and just...grooooove. Asshole. Imaginary asshole.
Oh balls.
And speaking of delays...
Hm. Okay, I think what the conductor just said was "Luhguhm ben hed by dapata. Pees aktif hed. Pees sto com an pash wil bo go shurly". Which either means "prepare to sit quietly in a sweltering, stank-ass, non-moving subterranean tube for a shitass long time while I punch myself in the dick" or "whip 'em out gents, a toothless old whore will be by any moment to get your drink orders and flog your dolphins".
Ugh.
He isn't just twitching anymore...he...OH MY FUCKING AUNT! WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO EAT FOR YOUR PUKE TO BE THAT COLOR? JESUS! IT LOOKS LIKE FUCKING SHOE POLISH AND CORN OIL! AND...OH MY BROKEN CLOCK! FUCKING SMELLS LIKE DIARRHEA SUSHI!
That's it, put this over a barrel and fuck it. Next car down here I co-
Oh good. You know what? Whatever. Who fucking needs lights?! I'm here, that fucking guy is over there...I just need to move away from the stink. God, that's sinister...people, the fuck out of my way...oh calm down you sissies...what's the matter, you never smelled the stomach contents of a New York homeless man before? Welcome to the party, tourists...
Yes. Of course. Brilliant. The door is locked. Yes. That's super awesome.
Oh...and our gallant conductor has more to add...
Uh...you have to say something, brainchild...
*sigh*
Good, at least we know the button works.
Ouch!
Feedback much, you fucking retard? Jesus, fucking pull the cock out of your mouth before you talk! Shit, you know, this is probably as intelligible as they get.
God, what the fuck are these idiot tourists screaming about now? Don't worry, they won't start the Lion King without you...why did I leave my fucking iPod at home?
Fucking Bill.
I am never going to Brooklyn again.

Tim, 37

2009-04-25T16:21:00.000-07:00

“This job ain’t hard, Mike. When I call out your station, you respond with ‘Station clear.’ Over.

“Repeat. Headquarters to Station 5, what’s your status? Over.

“Goddamnit. Mike, if I find you sleeping again, you ain’t gettin’ a second chance. I’m done with you…Station 4, do you have a visual on Station 5? Over.”

“Negative, HQ… Be on alert. Saw some unusual activity in that direction. Over.”

“Repeat, Station 4.”

“Unusual activity, HQ. Looked like a drunk. Stumbling bad. Sighted 5 minutes ago walking in Mike’s direction. Over.”

“Copy, Station 4. All stations alert; HQ going mobile, en route to Station 5. Station 1 assume responsibility. Copy?”

“This is Station 1; I copy HQ.” “Station 2, I copy.” “Station 3: Yipee kay oh HQ. Full moon TONIGHT! Over.”

“HQ to Station 4. I am now mobile. Do you copy? Over.”

“HQ, I copy…See more wackjobs headin’ that way. No sign of weapons. This don’t look right…Careful Tim...Over.”

“I ain’t the one who needs to worry, Station 4. 3’s right; full moon always brings out the crazies. I’m jonesing to use my taser just to see how far they bounce off the ground. If it ain’t rough, it ain’t right, son. At least that’s what I tell your sist…What the…Station 1, this is HQ. We’ve definitely got a perimeter breach. Get on the phone and call local PD. We’re going to need a wagon. Over.”

“Station 1 to HQ, I copy. Any sign of Mike? Over.”

“HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT!!! Mike is down! Mike is down! All available officers to Station 5! All available officers to Station 5! Aw shit. Aw fuck. Get off of him motherfucker!”

“Station 1 to HQ. Station 1 to HQ. Is that you discharging your weapon? HQ are you under fire? Over.”

“Aw fuck. They tore him to pieces. They tore him to pieces. Fuck. Mike.”

“Station 1 to HQ, what is your current situation? Station 1 to HQ, what the fuck’s going on? I hear more gunfire. Over.”

“Station 1 to Station 4, what’s your ETA to Station 5? Over.”

“Station 1, five minutes. Hold on Tim!”

“HQ to station 1. Mike is still alive. I’m bringing him in. Stay with me Mike. AHHhh! He bit me. Mike fucking bit me. Goddamn I can’t feel my leg. They’re getting back up. They ain’t human; it ain’t fucking human. Help me! Someone PLEASE HELP ME!!! OHfuckinggod!!!”

“Station 4 to Station 1, I just arrived on scene. We’ve got one fucked up situation here. Over.”

Molly, 40

2009-04-24T21:42:00.000-07:00

Molly was crying again.
She did not realize she was doing so, but she was indeed crying again.
She sat at the hand carved teak and rosewood table in the kitchen.
In front of her, on the table, was a box of condoms (ribbed...for her pleasure), a large brick of pearl colored powder and a cell phone.
The cell phone was hers, but the condoms and the brick were not hers.
The box was missing eight condoms (all of them ribbed...for her pleasure) and the brick was missing most of one of its corners.
The number flashed through her head and her hand twitched, then lay still again.
She'd gotten that under control.
Fifty five minutes ago she had not had that under control and she had reached out, opened her phone and then dialed the number.
She'd done the same thing ten minutes before that.
But now, it was just a twitch.
And why did it need to be more?
Her name was "Cath" and she was a she.
Those were the facts that Molly knew about her.
The conjectures?
Well, that was different.
They tended to be a bit more...rampant.
But the most forefront of the conjectures involved two of the three items in front of her.
And they were all that mattered to Molly at this particular moment.
"No fair!" Timmy's voice drifted in from the TV room.
"No faaaair! No faaaaaaair!"
Oh Timmy...I could not agree with you more.
Things, in general, were just no fair.
No fair.
Molly hadn't noticed until just then that she had stopped crying.
Her face burned.
She wasn't angry though.
She was...galaxies beyond angry.
Light years beyond angry.
All she felt in her head now was ice.
An hour ago, it had been the goddamn Big Bang in there, but now?
Absolute zero.
Why am I thinking in science and space travel terms?
I haven't thought of the term "absolute zero" since high school chemistry.
Kelvin, right?
Zero degrees Kelvin was "absolute zero", when it was so cold that even cells stopped moving.
The word "cells" made her look at her cell phone again.
Which made her think of the phone number again.
And then the young, cheerful, curvy, firm breasted voice that had first spoken to her as a recording (Hey, this is Cath, leave a message and I'll call you back, 'kay?) and then as a real, live person (Hello?....Hell-oo?....Calvin?).
And if that weren't enough...a brick of heroin?
This is like a bad goddamn movie!
You find the condoms, tear the house apart for the mistress’s number and find...a brick of HEROIN?!
If she kept looking, she was bound to find a cache of weapons grade plutonium or a fucking duffle bag full of body parts, right?
She snorted laughter.
I am so stupid.
I am so stupid.
Eventually, she'd seen his cell phone bill lying in the mess of papers now littering the bedroom floor.
And then she'd found "Cath's" number.
Good, old (young) "Cath".
I suppose he thinks that now that I'm 40 and he's paid for everything he's allowed to fuck "Cath" whenever he likes.
He gave me a son to raise and a hand carved teak and rosewood table for the breakfast nook from which to raise him and so now he can go and plant his cock in that whore's tight, 18 year old ass.
And Molly was crying again.
So what now?
She had called him.
But he hadn't picked up.
And she had been SO ready.
Ready to tell him she knew.
Ready to ask for the divorce.
And then ready to hear him say she wouldn't do that to Tim.
She wouldn't hurt him.
And she wouldn't.
Not before this.
But now?
Now she didn't see Timmy.
She saw her husband's son.
Timothy Matthew Heller.
Named after his father.
Timmy who was already losing interest in her.
Timmy who would grow to need and want and care for her less and less every day.
Timmy who would grow closer to his father and further from his mother every day.
Timmy who would become his father more and more every day.
Timmy who would remind her of him every day.
Timmy who would cheat on his loving, dedicated wife and bring drugs into their home...
"NO FAIR!!!!"
Molly had stopped crying again.
She turned her head slightly towards the living room where Timmy was playing his goddamn Xbox.
The one that he'd bought him.
She picked up the cell phone in front of her and, although the number flashed through her head again, she held down the number 2 and watched as "Matt" popped up on her screen.
The phone rang once, twice, three times and then Matt's amiable, "nice guy" voice told her that he wasn't available right now (because he was balls deep in "Cath"), but to leave a message (just lying around with eight missing, Jesus, eight?!) or call this number if it's a medical emergency (like you can't keep your fucking dick in your pants).
And also to have a really great day (while he came inside some fucking young cunt...without condoms).
Her voice was iron in the winter.
"I know about 'Cath'. I know about the drugs. You have taken everything I care about from me. And now I am going to do the same to you."
She pressed the "End" button and hurled the phone across the kitchen where it bounced off the matching teak and rosewood cabinets and clattered to the imported Italian marble countertop.
Then she sat, motionless, waiting.
Waiting for her phone to ring and to hear Matt unsettled for once in his life.
Waiting for some voice in her head to tell her to calm down and that it wasn't the end of the world.
Waiting for something to stop her from doing what she was thinking of doing.
But there was nothing.
Nothing but the sound of her husband and "Cath" in her ears and the image of her husband and Cath" behind her eyes.
She looked at the brick on the table.
She looked at the dish drainer which held two large juice glasses.
"Timmy?" she said in a high, brittle voice, "You want some juice?"

Cahty, 29

2009-04-24T21:24:00.000-07:00

2:15 pm
"I take a couple uppers, I down a couple downers, but nothin' compares to these blue-and-yellow, purple pills!"
Cathy smiled at the image of her brother dancing around his apartment in his underwear singing this.
"Nice. Very 'listening-to-the-radio-in-2001'."
"Today's the day, Big Sis!"
"Yeah yeah, I'm working a twelve from three to three, can you come over around 6-ish?"
"Let me check my schedule..."
There was a long pause in which Cathy now saw him standing stock still, eyes slightly unfocused, with no expression on his face.
"Yeah, I think I can fit you in, Cath."
Her phone beeped.
She looked at the screen and saw "Matt" blinking.
And speaking of fitting things in...
"I have to go Calvin, Matt's on the other line."
"You're the only person who calls me that..." he responded, seeming not to have heard her.
"Okay, see you around six, bye!"
She pressed the "Send" button.
"Hey, Matt, what's up?"
She hoped she sounded light and airy, like she wasn't just counting the seconds until he arrived, but she didn't think she was doing a great job.
"Hey Cath, I'm on my way over...you got some time for...?"
He let the silence ask the question and she bit her lip.
"Hm, let me see," she paused, doing her best not to sound too eager, "Yeah, I think I can, ahem, fit you in..."
Matt laughed.
"Cathy, please, I'm driving..."
"I'm just getting in now," she said, "How far are you?"
"Maybe five minutes...see you soon..."
"Definitely."
She hung up and walked in to the lobby of Brookhaven Memorial Hospital.

2:50 pm
"I'm sorry again...I don't know where the hell I could've put them..."
Matt was buttoning his shirt.
"And again, don't be. I'm on the pill and I didn't notice any suppurating sores so we should be fine..." she held him from behind, her naked breasts pressing against his back, "Besides...it always feels better this way..."
"Can't argue with that," he said, turning around and kissing her on the mouth.
She pulled back smiling and then froze, "Matt, what's all that about?"
He looked down at his right hand where there was a large, swollen area on the side of his palm.
He sighed, "Nothing. So, these asshole paramedics brought this woman in about twenty minutes before I was headed over here, right? Heart attack, D.R.T. They just need a sawbones sig on the paperwork and everybody's happy. I figure, what the hell, makes me look busy so no one catches me up in anything important. I'm doing a quick once over, confirming that she is, in fact, dead and she starts seizing. I'm holding her down and yelling for the paras to lend a hand, but they're just standing there, gaping like wet-behind-the-ears interns! These guys have been on the job for years, Cathy. So I yell for them to pull their thumbs out and help me restrain this obviously living woman. They finally snap to and are securing her legs and arms and, while I'm trying to make sure she doesn't bite off her own goddamn tongue, she nips me."
"'Nips you'?"
"That's what I said."
"Well, are you okay? Did you have it checked out?" Cathy was concerned, chiefly for Matt (man was she in deep...) but part of her was wondering if this woman had something in her blood...which was now in Matt's blood...Matt who had just been inside her for about a half hour without any sort of protection...
She shivered before she could stop herself, luckily Matt hadn't seen; she didn't want to send the wrong post-coital message, specifically: sex with you makes me shudder.
"According to her records, she was just a regular, old cardiac arrest, no bugs or anything. But, get this, these afterbirths kept saying, 'Doc, she was dead, Doc! She was dead!'" he shrugged, "I got some peroxide on it and by the time I was done, it had clotted. It barely broke the skin, Cath, I'm fine."
She relaxed a bit.
"Good. And if you see her again, tell her I'm the only one who gets to bite you now."
"You can tell her yourself, last I heard they were sending her over her for the autopsy."
"What's your problem over there? That's the third stiff in twelve hours we've got from Mount Cedar...are you molesting the dead again?"
"I can't get hard unless they're hard..." Matt said wistfully, staring off into the distance.
"Christ, how did you ever become a doctor?"
"By sleeping with the right corpses." he said, taking her in his arms.
"Seriously, though, I wanted to ask you about..." he held up his right hand, indicating the gold band around the third finger, "...are you...okay with this?"
"Look," said Cathy, getting serious, "I don't know anything about your home situation, but I'm not looking for a husband. You're fun and you're hot and you fuck like a 20 year old...that's all I really care about."
Matt smiled.
"And that's just fine with me."
"Hey, how did 'the meet' go with my brother?"
"Oh, fine. He's a really funny guy. I told him that this isn't a permanent situation and not to figure me into his long term plans. He gets that, right?"
"He does, but I'll reiterate. He's coming by later for the re-up."
Matt laughed.
"Re-up, nice; you been watching The Wire?"
"You know it."
He looked at his watch.
"Hm, you should be getting to work, Nurse Franklin."
She looked at her own.
"I concur, Doctor Heller."
"Perhaps we can schedule another meeting for some time later this week?" he said in a detached, businesslike tone.
"Hm, yes," said Cathy, trying to match his gravitas, "Perhaps. I do have about a dozen other appointments though. There's a conference in town, of course"
"Of course, Nurse Franklin, of course. Well, call me if you find an opening."
He kissed her again.
"I may be able to squeeze you in. I'll keep you updated, Doctor."
"Thank you, Nurse, I'll do the same."
And with that, Matt left.
Cathy got herself cleaned up and made it to the nurses' station with about a minute to spare.

4:39 pm
Cathy was just entering Mr. Denton's room when her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She ignored it.
She wasn't the type of nurse to answer her cell when she was with a patient, that was just disrespectful.
"Afternoon, Mr. Denton. You rang?"
She watched his eyes look down at himself.
"You...need to use the bed pan?"
His left index finger tapped twice.
"All right, let me help you with that."
This guy was hardcore.
A couple of weeks ago, he was a breathing corpse, the living dead, but a few days ago, his call bell had gone off at the Nurses' Station. She'd called the electrician before she'd called the doctor.
This kind of thing didn't usually happen.
But, sure enough, when she finally came to his room, there he was, pounding on that button with his left index finger.
Two down, Mr. Denton, eight to go...
As she was replacing the bed pan and washing up, her phone rang again.
She dried her hands and looked at it.
It was a number she didn't recognize, but that wasn't too out of the ordinary since her brother lost his cell phone more than once a week sometimes.
She answered.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hell-oo?"
She might have heard someone breathing.
She smiled.
"Calvin?"
There was a click and the beep that let her know she'd been hung up on.
She shrugged, closed her phone and dropped it in her pocket.
She would ask him when he showed up.

7:03 pm
"Speaking relatively, this is totally 'around six'."
"Uh huh."
They were walking through the basement towards the Nurses' Lounge.
"You know, for an Ent—" he began.
"Just! Just shut up! No! Stop! Okay, whatever. I don't care about Hobbits. I really don't."
Calvin subsided, looking pleased with himself.
"Anyway, sorry I'm late."
"No problem. I only have about ten minutes left on my break though."
"That's cool..." he voice became a gravelly whisper, "You got the stuff...?"
Cathy rolled her eyes.
"You are so lucky this is not a very well run establishment, you're too inept to be a real drug dealer."
They entered the Nurses' Lounge and Cathy looked around to make sure they were alone.
She opened her locker with a key and handed him a black plastic bag which he snatched and stuffed into his backpack with over-dramatized caution.
"You are such a fag."
"You are what you eat, Big Sis."
"All right, then you're also a pepperoni hot pocket."
"Burn. So how's Slump?"
"Don't know. He would had gotten off at seven in the morning."
"Gotcha."
"And I hear your thing with Matt went well?"
"Dude, he is so cool. We met in a Starbucks."
"Ha! Nice."
"Yeah, that's not all, he put it in a gift bag."
"Sorry?"
"Yeah, he said it would look less suspicious. He handed me a Body Shop gift bag...with heroin in it...while I was enjoying a caramel flavored iced beverage."
"You probably won't see that on The Wire..."
"It was awesome."
"Well, remember what I said before, he isn't a dealer and he's not going to become one. He just happens to be a guy who has some heroin—"
"—and I happen to be a guy that needs some heroin. It's ridiculous, but it works."
"And it's supposed to be good, right?"
"Are you kidding me? Slump almost blew his load on my papasan."
"And I'm never sitting on your papasan again."
"Suit yourself."
"Okay, I gotta get going. I'll walk you out."
"Thanks again, sis. See you next week?"
"Unless one of us gets arrested."
"Cool."
They walked up the stairs to the first floor in silence.
When they reached the door she held it open.
"Oh, did you call me from some number and hang up?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Hm. Okay, whatever. See you around , kid."
"Sho' 'nuff."
She watched him go for a moment, then turned and went back inside.

8:18 pm
"Fourth floor Nurses' Station, Cathy speaking."
It was Dr. Adler.
"Oh, not too bad, Doc."
She liked Dr. Adler.
Most of the doctors here were all right, but sometimes they could be real pricks.
"Aside from the usual, Harold Denton has had quite a breakthrough. Dr. Lewkowicz left a note attached to his chart asking that you be informed."
She listened for a moment.
"Pretty much like you said, Doc. Left index and ring."
She smiled and then laughed.
"He's already figured out the call bell, yes."
She listened and then nodded.
"I'll be sure to tell him, Dr. Adler. He'll be happy to hear it."
She paused.
"You too, good night."
She hung up.
Before she could turn away from the phone, it rang again.
"Fourth floor Nurses'—"
It was Betty, the nursing supervisor.
She needed Cathy in the ER immediately.
"On my way."
She hung up again and took a few steps towards the elevator before reconsidering.
This was an old hospital and waiting for the elevator would take ten times as long as just using the stairs.
She opened the door to the first floor's ER waiting room and Betty was waiting for her with a clipboard.
"Catty, we got sumptin special from Sweet Watta," she looked down at her clipboard, "a Miss Deborah Buntin, can ya bring dis down to the morgue?"
She pointed at a gurney with a large, zippered black bag resting on it.
"No problem." said Cathy.
She got behind the gurney and pushed it towards the elevator.
"God, this fucking thing..." she muttered under her breath.
After some time, the elevator finally arrived.
She pushed the gurney in and pressed the button for the sub-basement.
She noticed the smell almost as soon as the doors closed.
She'd smelled dead bodies before, but this one...smelled...like...
Her stomach writhed and suddenly she was taken back to the night she had returned to her apartment and found the raw chicken breast her alcoholic roommate had left in the microwave over a long weekend...she remembered how the surface of it seemed to pulse and ripple and the sound the flies made as they—
She clamped her lips around a moan and barely managed to stifle her gag reflex.
She was bent over double, eyes squeezed shut, gripping the gurney when she heard the moaning again.
Her eyes snapped open.
She wasn't moaning.
"What...?"
She heard the unmistakable sound of stiff plastic ruffling and then something cold and slick touched her hand.
"Oh my God...!"
She stood up straight and looked at the twitching, shaking bag on the gurney.
"Oh my fucking God!"
Cathy leapt into action.
"You're going to be just fine, uh...Deborah! Deborah, you going to be fine...just stay calm..."
She tried to get her fingers on the tiny zipper tab but both her hands and the bag were jittering wildly.
"Just hang on and try to lay still, Deborah! I'll have you out in a moment!"
The moaning continued, but muffled now as if the woman inside were chewing on the bag or...
"Choking! Oh fuck me sideways!" Cathy finally grabbed hold of the tiny zipper and raked it down, tearing it free of the twisting black fabric.
The smell hit her like a sledgehammer and she had only a second to take in the face of the woman in the bag (ohfuckingshit) before the elevator floor jumped up to meet her.

9:12 pm
"—atty? Sweet baby, are ya all rate?"
"Did I throw up on Miss Buntin?" Cathy asked in a thick voice.
There was a heavy, considering silence and then Betty burst out laughing.
"Nooo, sweety, but you did bump you' head and cut you' arm."
"What...happened...?" she asked weakly.
"Well, George was down in de boiler room and was waiting for the god damned elevator when you showed up, lying in a pool of puke wit Miss Buntin's head stickin' outta her boddy bag. He called a code an' we came ta get you. Now you're in de lounge."
Cathy looked at her left arm and saw a solid band of white about halfway between her hand and her elbow.
"The doc on call patched you up, he'll want to check on you."
"So...that woman's...alive?"
Cathy felt as if she were viewing the world from the bottom of a lake.
A frown settled on Betty's face, "Well...now...she—"
Betty's pager buzzed just then.
"Sweet Mother, anotha one?" she said under her breath. "I have to go, Catty. I'd send you home, but tings 'ave gotten a bit busy while you were out. Just lay here for a bit and the doctor will be down, then come back on up, all rate?"
With that, Betty hurried out of the room.
Cathy suddenly wanted to talk to Matt very badly.
She remembered what had happened to him and then saw in her mind's eye the Mount Cedar tag on Miss Deborah Buntin's body bag.
She reached into her pocket and dialed his number.
It rang three times and went to his voice mail.
She waited, feeling comforted by the sound of his voice and then hung up before the beep.
She didn't really want to leave this as a message.
She thought for a moment and then texted him the message "CALL ME PLEASE."
She closed her phone, put it back in her pocket and took a deep breath.
She was very tired.
She just wanted to sleep, go home and sleep some more.

12:42 am
Cathy's phone rang in her pocket, but she didn't answer it.

Tess, 18

2009-04-24T21:08:00.000-07:00

Tess was just having her second orgasm when Tyler bit her.
Usually, she liked a little pain with her pleasure.
She liked when Tyler's (or whoever's) teeth clashed against her clit ring, she liked to be pinned or bound, she even liked a little blood sometimes.
But this fucking hurt.
"Ow, you fucker! Ease up!"
Tyler grunted and pulled his head out from under her skirt. The light was dim, the alley lit only by the marquee over Smashlight across the street, but she thought she saw blood on his mouth.
All at once she wanted him.
Wanted him holding her down and fucking her from behind right here in this alley.
She wanted his teeth all over her.
Something about that look on his face, sort of dazed like he was actually drunk off her pussy.
She'd read that phrase in some book and knew it was just bad erotica, but that look on his face...and the blood on his mouth...
"I want you to fuck me right now," she husked at him, hitching her skirt up and turning to face the wall.
She slid one finger inside herself.
God, she'd never been this wet...
She waited, breathing heavily, with her forehead pressed against the wall.
But Tyler wasn't doing anything.
She looked over her shoulder, panting and saw him, still on his knees, looking...confused?
No longer enthralled by her sex (Anne Rampling? Poppy Z. Brite? The Marquis de Sade?) but just...confused.
"Jesus," she growled, "how fucking dumb can you get? Up here, faggot!" she said in a high pitched, mocking voice.
Tyler looked up at her and she smiled.
"That's it..." She began to slowly pump her hips, waving her exposed ass in his face, "Come up here and get—" she stopped, looking puzzled as he turned away again and then smiled again as he starting moving slowly towards her on his knees.
She liked seeing him on his knees like that.
And now the confused, drunken look was gone.
He looked hungry.
She liked that look even better.
His hands clamped on her hips and she gasped in anticipation, spreading her legs wider to help him get to her.
"Oh fuck this is so hot..." she whispered, "I'm so—"
And that's when Tyler bit her again.
Tess didn't feel a rush pleasure and pain this time; she screamed at the top of her lungs and surged forward, forgetting that she had positioned herself inches away from the dirty wall.
She slammed her head into the bricks and bounced back into Tyler, who was now standing.
She turned, half unconscious, her vision still blurred from the impact and looked up into the face of....Tyler?
Not Tyler, not anymore.
"The...fuck...?" she mumbled.
Tyler leaned in, his breath smelled of blood, her blood, she could see it on his teeth...
Suddenly Tyler was gone.
Tess was brought back somewhat by having narrowly escaped...something at the hands (and teeth) of Tyler.
"He seemed so nice..." she muttered.
She looked toward the sounds coming from her right.
Some guy was on top of Tyler, beating the living shit out of him.
She looked to her left, across the street at Smashlight and saw that Jones, the bouncer, wasn't out front.
Her sluggish mind put two and two together and realized that Jones must have heard her scream and thought something was wrong.
She opened her mouth to say something about a misunderstanding and then she noticed the warmth coursing down her thigh.
"My God, am I still..." she started, then she saw that the inside of her right leg was coated in red from her crotch all the way down to her ankle.
Blood was cascading down her leg and pooling around her right foot.
"Fucking...fucking..." she began and stopped when a wave of faintness passed over her.
She didn't know if it was the blood loss or the collision with the wall, but she was now having trouble putting thoughts together.
She needed help and turned to Jones to ask for it, but now he and Tyler were...making out?
"You...fags..." she hissed in a thick voice.
She watched as Tyler, who had somehow gotten on top of Jones, pulled back from their kiss (it made a sound like duct tape being torn from wet cardboard) with a strip of something connecting the two faces.
Tyler snapped his head back and the strip was now only hanging from Tyler's face.
Tess watched with baffled concentration as the strip slowly disappeared into Tyler's mouth.
She felt stoned.
Nothing was making much sense at this particular moment.
The blood, she remembered.
Help.
She rotated towards the club across the street and set off at a shamble, her thigh pumped more blood every time she put her weight on it.
It seemed to take ages to reach the door, but she made it, feeling the vibrations before she even opened it.
When she did finally manage to pull open the heavy, steel door, the music hit her like a physical force.
She staggered back, almost fell, then lurched inside.
"Stupid..." she said, realizing that she could have just called 911 on her cell before remembering that she'd left it in her purse which she'd laid neatly on the ground before Tyler had removed her panties and started going down on her.
She paused for a moment, completely unsure of what to do.
The bleeding.
Stop the bleeding.
With.
"Tampons," she croaked, and started stumbling towards the bathrooms, leaving another puddle of blood in the dark entryway.
When she reached the dance hall proper, she had to stop again.
She felt the music more than heard it.
It was like being inside a giant drum.
She scanned the crowd, but that was just force of habit.
She never came here alone.
She always had Mel, Koko and Janice with her, as sort of a buffer zone.
Didn't hurt that they were all fugly compared to her either.
That fucking bitch Janice, the time she—
Focus.
The bleeding.
“Yeah, right…” she said under her breath.
She set off towards the bathrooms across the dance floor, leaving yet another, smaller, pool of blood behind.
Over the next twenty minutes, she made her way through the undulating sea of people.
A pale face among other pale faces.
She didn't see these other faces, just overlapping, overexposed demonic blurs like scenes from a nightmare.
And sometimes she saw Tyler's face.
Finally, finally she reached the bathrooms.
She leaned against the wall outside one of them, regaining her strength in order to heave open the door.
She was now soaked in sweat and barely able to keep her eyes open.
"What's that vein called...female? Tyler bit through my female vein..."
She remembered meeting Tyler in the bar across town...what...an hour ago? Two?
They'd been playing that song...
She couldn't remember the name, but she remembered the beat and started swaying to it.
She was on the verge of falling asleep on her feet when she heard, clearly in her head, despite the explosive noise of the club around her, the tearing noise that had emitted from the two figures on the ground just a few minutes ago.
She staggered, almost fell, put her hand out to steady herself and opened her eyes.
She looked across the floor and directly into the eyes of some dork with a boner.
This made her think of Tyler again (I want you to fuck me right now), and his teeth, and her blood on his teeth and suddenly she was going to throw up.
With this last burst of strength, she threw open the bathroom door and stumbled into the puke and piss smelling darkness beyond.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the fetid bathroom stench and, although she felt her stomach roil inside her, she did not throw up.
She made out vague bathroom shapes in the black lit room.
Toilet, sink, condom machine, tampon dispenser.
"Tampons..." she croaked again.
Her blood looked like tar in this light.
She fumbled her way to the tampon dispenser which, when she reached in, she found was filled with used condoms.
The cold, gelid, chlorine-smelling muck on her fingers triggered something deep within her and her gag rose like a piston, bringing with it the Chinese food she'd eaten earlier.
She missed the toilet completely, but then again so had the other people who'd been in here recently.
After what felt like days of throwing up, she collapsed onto the floor in a sitting position.
She was cold now, not in pain, just cold.
Cold and tired.
She remembered the bleeding again and tried to cover the wound with her hand.
"Good news...bad news..." she said in a fading voice.
The good news was the blood seemed to have stopped flooding out of her, the bad news was the area around the bite felt as tough as frozen leather.
But it didn't hurt.
"So...good news...bad news...good news..." she murmured, as the thudding, violet darkness swallowed her whole.

Prince, 51

2009-04-22T21:01:00.000-07:00

"2morroow and a day, is 2 long 2 stay away!"

Prince reached out and punched a button on the glittering console in front of him and the drum loop in his headphones started again.

"2morrow and a day, is 2 long 2 stay away!" he sang again, harmonizing with the lyrics he'd just sung.

He hit the button again and sang the line again, this time in a lilting falsetto.

He did it again in a slightly childish, bratty voice.

And then a fifth time, speaking the line instead of singing it.

He took the headphones off and hit the button to transfer the output to the studio's surround sound and another button that replayed all of what he had just recorded.

"2morrow and a day, is 2 long 2 stay away!"

"Yeah..." he murmured to himself, "I like that."

He stood, stretched his legs and walked over to the enormous guitar rack lining one whole wall of the studio.

He stood looking for a moment, then smiled and selected Cherry Red, his favorite Gibson.

"Always come back to Cherry..." he said softly to the guitar, placing a small kiss on its neck.

"Always, always..."

As he plugged in the guitar, he heard the solo he was about to record writing itself in his mind.

"Yeah, all right..." he said, agreeing with himself and nodding along with the music in his head.

He stopped for a moment, a small line creasing his smooth brow.

He shook his head slightly, paused, and then smiled again as the small correction was made.

He began humming along a harmony to the newly written guitar loop.

"That's nice..." he said to the studio as he gently strummed Cherry Red.

He reached forward again and pressed three buttons.

Three loud clicks issued from the speakers and then his own voice backed by a drum beat and Rhodes piano filled the studio.

For the next twenty two minutes, he was gone; gone to the place where dreams originate, to the place where colors are made, to the place where light comes from.

During these twenty minutes, he was mostly playing the guitar, but every once in a while, he would stop playing and just sing, sometimes using words, sometimes just his voice.

At two points, he dropped Cherry Red and grabbed the nameless bass guitar leaning against the wall and once he sat at the Yamaha grand piano in the corner.

By the time he touched the "Stop" button on the soundboard, he was sweating and there were tears streaming down his face.

He was smiling though, almost laughing.

"Man..." he almost sang, "Man...you got this down..."

He tapped a few keys on the laptop sitting next to the soundboard.

This was one of the best songs he had ever written.

He knew it, could feel it.

The processor made a small whirring noise as it converted the beauty and magic which had just occurred into a sound file.

A moment later, an icon appeared on the screen.

He hated that.

He hated that everything that had just happened in this room was now an icon on a screen on a machine.

On a machine.

He almost growled.

He'd hated when what he did was on a vinyl disc, he'd hated it when it was on a strip of plastic and he'd hated it when it was on a plastic disc, but this...dots and dashes and numbers and letters...on the screen...of a machine?

He clicked on the hateful icon quickly and then smiled beatifically as the room filled up with the sound of what he had just created.

He sat that way, smiling for some time and then, when the sound stopped, he thought again that this was one of the best songs he'd every created.

He clicked once more on the icon titled "Untitled(109)" and dragged it into the small garbage can at the bottom of the screen.

"Not 4 U..." he said under his breath as he clicked "Yes" when the machine asked if he really wanted to discard this file permanently.

He sat back from the screen and sighed.

This was maybe the thirtieth time he'd done this in the four months he'd sequestered himself in his underground studio at Paisley Park.

"2 good 4 U...not 4 U..." he hummed under his breath.

Notes and words were weaving themselves together in his mind.

Maybe the piano this time?

He walked over to the piano and struck a few chords.

"Baby U no this groove is...2 good 4 U...baby U no my love is...just not 4 U..."

He was about to begin the process again when he felt a sharp pain in his chest.

"Damn..." he gasped.

He'd forgotten to eat again.

"Need fuel 4 the Machine," he said absentmindedly, unconsciously glancing at the laptop again as he rose and walked to the large refrigerator in one corner of the studio.

He opened it and peered inside.

"No food 4 U." he said to the empty ice box.

He felt another pang hit him.

"Good lord..." he hissed through gritted teeth.

This had happened before with catastrophic results.

That's why he'd had the refrigerator installed.

But if you didn't put food in the refrigerator, there would be no food in the refrigerator.

He smiled at the little circle he'd just made in his head.

He walked through the door to the studio, enjoying the hiss of air that told him nothing he did in that room would leave that room unless he wanted it to, not even the air.

At the end of the long, purple and gold carpeted hallway was another door, also sound proof, that lead to a stairway that lead up to a third and final sound proof door (this one locked with three locks) from the studio to the house.

After he ate, he was going to write three songs—

He smiled and stopped himself.

Fool.

After he ate he was going to record the three songs that had blossomed inside of him while he had walked from the inner studio, down the hallway and up the stairs.

He inserted his key in the first lock, turned it

The first on piano and organ...

He did the same for the second

The next on bass and tambourine to start, maybe some flute...

He unlocked the third and final lock on the heavy, sound proof door and pushed it open

And for the third? Shoot...for that one...something special—

He heard a sound to his left and turned toward it.

The last thing to go through his mind was the most beautiful piano arrangement the world would never hear.

Monsignor de Kesel, 75

2009-04-18T01:22:00.000-07:00

"O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy." Monsignor de Kesel knelt in his church at the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe, rosary clasped in hands, and continued, “Fourth sorrowful mystery: Jesus carried the cross.” The priest had prayed the rosary so often in his 75 years of life, the act took no conscious effort on his part; instead he reflected on the hell he had witnessed within the last three days. He had seen such grotesquery that his faith in God’s benevolence had faltered. Yet he understood the necessity of it all. “The world has so few pure and faithful remaining. This is the God of the Old Testament; His judgment is His love.”

Behind him he heard the creak of the door. A group of them had entered. He knew it immediately. The low moaning, the shuffling footsteps were unmistakable. And the stench was repulsive. “How dare they desecrate the house of the Lord with their putridity?” The anger held him for a moment, but he knew that his baseness was equally inappropriate. If he was to die now, his soul needed to be clean.

De Kesel was confident of his own salvation but his decision not to run was acceptance rather than hubris. No doubt this was the End Time; no other explanation was possible. “We must embrace the will of God. He has already decided our fate.” He looked over his right shoulder; the ghouls had stumbled halfway up the church. He recognized one of his acolytes among the three flesheaters. Fear paralyzed him; a mix of emotions, none individually recognizable, washed over him and brought him to tears.

“Uzzah’s sin was to disobey the will of the Lord. Find your resolve,” said the aged clergyman, his voice growing increasingly strained as he bowed his head, trying to ignore the approaching ghouls. “Hail Mary, mother of God, pray--pray for us sinners.” The smell. The smell. Oh God--they were on him--hands grabbed his arm, a terrible pain ripped through his shoulder as one of them bit him. He was knocked backward, a second set of hands pushing him down; he fell with his knees still trapped beneath his body. Searing pain that burned incredibly. There was screaming, hysterical, but he didn't recognize it as his own. A second mouth ripped the flesh from his cheek, teeth grating against bone, bringing the disgusting creature into his line of vision.

“Unholy! Foul!” Blood filling his mouth. Disgust and anger augmented his pain. The third creature ripped through his shirt and tore into his soft belly with its bare hands. Red flooded Monsignor de Kesel’s eyes. Then--nothing.

Dominick, 18

2009-04-16T19:59:00.000-07:00

The countdown had begun. Dominick waited anxiously at the boarding gate. The plane that was to take him and his friends to Cancun for their senior trip had arrived, and its passengers emptied the plane quickly, weary-eyed. He glanced across the aisle to see if his travelling partners were as amped as he was: everyone wore a smug smile at the thought of the debaucheries that awaited them in Mexico. “Underage drinking here we come” was Dominick’s only thought. He noticed Linda, the beauty of the group, had an anxious look on her face. She was dressed the part: flip flops, Bermuda shorts, red tank top, and sunglasses, but she was obviously distracted. “That fucker, Jason, better not miss this flight,” she said to no one.

“Available marshals please report to Gate 15. Available marshals please report to Gate 15,” boomed the overhead speaker. Dominick looked at his own gate, number 17. His gate was at the end of the cul de sac, and he had a great vantage point of the plane that had just arrived at 17. He could see the passengers shuffling back and forth in the plane ways, not too odd, but then he thought he saw a window streaked with what may have been blood. “Guys! Check this out.” He pulled his friends closer to the window. A number of plainclothes marshals ran down the hallway, towards the gate awaiting the opening of the plane door. “Oh shit!” Linda mumbled. Dominick saw the pilots empty the cockpit through a trap door and run down the tarmac. “What the fuck is happening?” An impulse to run grabbed Dominick but a group had gathered around him, pinning him to the glass. “Airport security’s on it. They can handle what’s going on”

Then came the panic. A flight attendant, hair and blouse disheveled, ran out of Gate 17. A look of wild terror flashed through her eyes. She screamed three words “EVERYONE FUCKING RUN!” before collapsing. No one moved. Gunfire erupted from gate hallway. Everyone fucking ran. Screams of panic filled the terminal as everyone raced away from the gate. Dominick reacted quicker than most, and he was catching his stride at Gate 5, when he ran into a brick wall, Jason. “Where is she?” He screamed. “Linda, where is she?” He looked back towards the window at Gate 17 and could make out a red tank top lying motionless at the window. “Oh shit.” Without a thought, he and Jason sprinted back.

As they approached, Gate 6, the fire marshalls fell back into the hallway, each shooting at will.

At Gate 8 the marshals formed a semicircle. One yelled for more backup.

Gate 9: “Officer down. Officer down. These things are hostile, and the entire plane’s full of them.”

Gate 13: “I’m out.” “I’m out” “Fall back. Fall back.”

Gate 14: Dominick saw it. Someone, something stepped out of that hallway, and there were a shitload more behind it. It made a lunge for their nearest marshal, took a shot to the chest, stood dazed, and kept coming. A uniformed detail shouted “Shoot them in the head!”

Gate 15: More things spilled out. Dominick paused, and cut left making damn sure to keep out of the cross fire. Jason didn’t. A snap pierced the air, and Dominick noticed his running partner was no longer running. “Jason? JASON!” Dominick snapped his head back and was stopped in his tracks at the sight of Jason’s body seizing. He didn’t hear the marshals shout, “Fall back. Fall back. Everyone get the fuck out.” Bloody flesh and shattered bone replaced what had been his face. Dominick walked over and knelt down by his friend. He’d never seen blood before, and Jason was unrecognizable. Tears sprang from nowhere, and Dominick was sure this wasn’t happening. “Dominick.” A guttural noise escaped from the hole that was Jason’s cheek. “Dominick.”

Dominick could see Jason’s tongue move as he spoke. “Yeah, Jason.”

“Dominick, behind you.”

Tim, 7

2009-04-15T13:33:00.001-07:00

Monsters!
This is awesome!
Mom wanted me to drink the juice that they said would make me sleep, but I fake drank it like when mom puts vitamins in it when I'm sick.
So now I can shoot the monsters and mom’s asleep in the basement!
Pow!
Blam!
This is JUST like on my Xbox 360!
...what's that?
Uh oh...they broke a window?
I better not get in trouble for that.
Ew.
These monsters smell.
They're all...runny.
That one looks like the time I fell off my bike and skinned my knee but on his face.
Whoa, that one's on fire!
All right monsters!
Eat hot plasma!
Pow pow!
Pow pow pow!
Hey!
No fair!
I shot you!
I shot you with a PLASMA RIFLE!
You hafta fall DOWN!
I SHOT you!
Why aren't you DYING?

Kevin, 16

2009-04-15T13:31:00.000-07:00

"-fucked up!"
"Yeah, man," slurred Kevin, "totally fucked up, man!"
"No! There's (schzzzuz) outside the city (zizzz)rything's all fuc(ZZZZIZZZZ)ful, man..."
Kevin was done with this conversation before it had even fucking started.
"Fuckin' a man, I'm out!"
Just before he closed his phone, he heard what might have been "eating".
He wasn't hungry.
At all.
He didn't want to talk to Dingo.
At all.
He didn't want to meet up with Dingo afterwards.
At all.
What he wanted was to get to know the Mystery Girl.
Up close and personal like.
This wasn't his first time in the club, but it was MOST DEFINITELY his first time in the club trying pills.
He liked pills.
He would try them again and again.
"Try some, buy some..." he muttered either in his head or under his breath.
There she was again.
He'd see her when he wasn't looking for her; she seemed to be slowly making her way across the floor through the writhing clump of people, this time she was leaning on the wall near the bathrooms.
He'd seen her here before tonight, but never talked to her.
Well, what the fuck was he going to say to her?
Mumbling "I wanna bone you" usually wasn't the preferred way to get into a chick's panties.
Or maybe it was.
Man, these pills are working like they should.
He suddenly felt cooler in his mind.
Gaw bless Dingo and his little white pills.
That sounds like some song...
He trailed off inside his own head like a balloon on vacation.
He giggled at the image.
And the cool thing was, not only was the girl here without her ever-present flock of ugly ass friends, but SHE looked fucked up too!
She was swaying back and forth, not really with the music and when she swayed too much, she hit the wall and steadied herself before starting to sway all over again.
If they were BOTH fucked up, shit, this is going to be easy!
Despite his chemically induced confidence, Kevin was sweating.
He'd never gotten past first base and here he was planning on...what?
Feeling her up? Fingering her? Getting a blow job?
Oh man...getting a blow job from the Mystery Girl...oh man...
Kevin lost himself in the moment, unaware he was getting a hard on.
He snapped back to reality when he saw her looking at him.
Oh man...oh fuck...
She then lurched into one of the unisex bathrooms.
Oh shit...oh shit...
Before he could stop himself, he was moving across the floor.
He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and ignored it.
He felt the bass of the nameless, thudding song vibrating in his ribcage and ignored that too.
Suddenly, he was standing outside the door.
Shit, what now?
Do you knock in a situation like this?
He saw that he was standing in a pool of what looked like chocolate syrup.
"Need some golf shoes..." he laughed to himself.
Then the lights strobed for a moment and it looked like red paint.
His dick was throbbing almost painfully now, seemingly in time with the music.
He'd forgotten about the chocolate syrup.
"No, just do it," he said to himself out loud, "She'll see you...and just know what's up..."
Kevin himself didn't know what was up, but as long as one of them did this could still turn out all right.
He stood for a moment with his hand on the greasy knob, feeling the pills nibble at the edges of himself with their icy little teeth, and opened the door.

Harold, 67

2009-04-15T13:21:00.000-07:00

"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...”
Why in blazes would they have the speaker inside of the God forsaken room? thought Harold.
I know I need assistance, they're the stupid fucking cunts that fucking need TO FUCKING KNOW--
The man in the bed closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath...held it for five Hippopotamuses...and then let it out, slowly.
This worked when things got red in his mind.
He thought about calling out but although he said "nurse" and heard "nurse" in his head, what came out was a low glottal sound, something like "nnnn".
That was the absolute worst part of all this.
For almost forty years, Harold had taught AP Biology at Pegg High School in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
He knew exactly what had happened to him.
He knew what the doctor's were talking about when they told him he had suffered from a myocardial infarction which had brought on a massive stroke.
He knew that he would never speak clearly or walk without aid ever again.
He might, eventually, with time and exhaustive physical therapy be able to communicate at some level, but, for right now, "nnnn" was "nurse" and no one was coming to help him.
Harold, who had personally helped fifteen students over the years become biologists, doctors and scientific journalists and who had written two books, needed to shit, but he refused to do so until there was someone there who could remove the bedpan.
Stroke or not, he was not going to lie here in his own feces.
The stroke had happened about four weeks ago and, about four days ago he had regained the use of two fingers on his left hand, the index finger and the ring finger.
It was the index finger he was now using to press the Nurses' Call Bell button.
He wasn't completely sure, but he thought he had been pressing it for at least five minutes now.
He looked at the wall clock and confirmed this as fact.
He had woken up from the milky, terrifying images that seemed to be his dreams now at exactly one in the morning.
It was now six past.
If I could walk. If I could get up out of this bed. I'd show you fucking lazy whores a thing or two about fucking your lazy assholes—
Deep breath.
Five Hippopotamuses.
Breathe out.
Regain control of your thoughts.
"They are, after all, your thoughts, Harold."
That had been Adler. Doctor Frank Adler.
He was the one who'd had an inkling about the unique situation Harold was trapped in.
Something about the way Harold's eyes had followed him around made Adler order a third CAT scan.
It was that CAT scan which confirmed what the doctor had suspected.
Harold's mind was undamaged; it was just that the cables connecting his mind to the rest of him had gotten severed during the stroke.
"Harold...this must be torture for you," he'd said at one of their meetings. "You know what's happening around you but you can't do anything about it yet. I say 'yet' because, although you'll never boogie board again, you will get better. I'm going to help you. Pretty soon, you'll get something back. Maybe a finger, maybe a toe, that's the way this works. As soon as you do, you'll feel better because you'll be able to communicate again. I'm hoping this will happen within the month."
And it had.
The doctor was away for the long weekend, but Harold heard from one of the nurses that he would be in at ten o'clock this morning, then maybe these...fugues...would stop.
Adler had mentioned them to Harold after only his second.
God, but the man was perceptive.
"In some stroke victims, the mind will sometimes...'blow a fuse', to be crude. It tries to communicate, just like it's been doing since before you were one year old, and it can't. You may experience something neurologists call a ‘red cloud’. Not only with you be filled with an uncontrollable rage, but, sometimes, the pressure you're exerting can even burst blood vessels in your eyes, actually causing you to 'see red'. These are more apt to occur when you’re alone so the only person that can stop them is you. You and Chillax."
Then, the doctor had drawn a goofy picture of Chillax the Hippopotamus.
He looked over at the table by the door where the doctor had left the drawing.
It was stupid as hell, but at the end of their meeting, Harold had tears in his eyes nonetheless.
"You count five Chillax's...and, nine times out of ten, your red cloud will have blown away."
And it had worked every time.
But this was absurd.
It was now eleven minutes after one and no one had responded to his call bell.
It has to be going off out there. What's the point of it just going in here? It's ridiculous!
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED..."
Then, finally, after, his eyes flicked to the clock, fourteen minutes, he heard through the loud, repeating voice, the unmistakable sound of the nurses' paper soled shoes, shuffling up the hallway toward his room.
God these people are lazy. Even their footsteps sound lazy. They're so lazy, they can't even lift their damn feet?
Harold saw a figure approach his room through the pebbled glass wall. She appeared to be listing heavily to one side, but Harold was unsympathetic.
Limp on your own time lady, I'm not going to mess these sheets ag—
Without even slowing, the nurse passed right by Harold's cracked door.
He was stunned.
You...you...fucking....you......cunting.......fuck....
Harold was shaking in his bed. He felt his bowels and bladder let go, felt the warmth spread over his lower body, didn't care.
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED..."
Fuuucking....fuuuuuccccckinng....yooouuuu rooootten crrroootch biiiiitch....
Harold blinked and everything in the room was stained with a patina of red. Tears of blood began to seep from the corners of his eyes.
Yyyyyyyooooooooooooooouuuuu...........fuuuuuuuuuccckkkkkkkkiiiiinnnnngggg.....
Suddenly, Harold spoke.
"...cunt...!"
The tiny, rusty word had slipped from his dry and swollen throat.
He blinked, once, twice, the world was now only slightly pink.
I...I spoke. I...spoke!
The blood on his face was joined by his tears.
Stop there? Not on a bet! Not on a fucking bet, you apathetic, club-footed sow!
He took a deep breath, but instead of holding it in, he forced it all out, trying with every fiber of his being to shape a word, but louder and firmer this time.
In his excitement, he'd released the call button and there was only the sound of the nurse's shuffling, paper soled feet and the pounding of blood in his head.
"Nnnnrrrrrr....." he managed before needing to gasp for breath.
He was covered in sweat and piss and shit, but he had never felt more alive.
He stopped panting when he saw the shadow of the nurse of the glass wall pause.
That's right you ditzy troll you, ASSISTANCE IS REQUIRED!
He took in another huge breath and was able to get out, "Nnnnrrrrrrsssssss..." before his breath ran out.
He opened his eyes and was beside himself to see that the idiot nurse was now, just as slowly as before, shuffling towards his room.
He took a deep breath, let it all out, took another one.
This is it! You can do this Harry! The doc will be here in about nine hours and you are going to thank him personally for everything. You are going to thank him and he is going to shake your hand!
"NnnnnuuuurrrsssssssAH!"
Sweat and tears, both of blood and water, were streaming down his face. His blood was a roaring wall of static in his head, blotting out all other sound.
He tasted blood on his tongue and in the back of his throat.
One more, one more and then you can rest! You're not done yet!
Harold filled his lungs to capacity and was about to let loose when the nurse finally reached the door and gently pushed it all the way open.
His breath whooshed out of him, producing a small squeak.
This nurse...she was sick.
There was something wrong.
He remembered the limping, shuffling gait she'd had and looked at her feet.
She wasn't shuffling her feet because she was lazy, she's cut her foot badly. Her...Harold's eyes widened, her left heel was all but gone.
Goodness, that poor—
He raised his eyes to the nurse's face.
She's so...pale...and her eyes...
Harold closed his eyes, took a deep breath and counted five Hippopotamuses.