Tyler, 26

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.