Life After Death: Epilogue

It had taken the entirety of what was left of the armed forces, police, and every able-bodied person with a gun that could follow orders; but after five long years the dead were finally defeated. It had been bloody, horrifying, and costed many lives, and some would say it was all worth it. Oddly enough the revolution of the fall of the zombies began in the west, what used to be California. Small bands of people that had dared to own guns, despite the states laws, began to group together and started to clear out the state at the end of the first year of the apocalypse. It was a slow, arduous process, but it was continuing.

By the second year societal measures and pleasantries had all but died out, leaving the living with a survivalist mentality. Most people through the world had boiled down to the three types of survivors: The ones that created settlements, the ones that were loners, and the raiders. From what had been seen so far, with the effort of the restoration of the modern world, was that the raiders tended to outlive others. All of this was rhetoric at this point, none of the information was new to them, but they still had to remind themselves every now and again.

Dale had traveled so much of the country his head was unable to keep up. After he went to Florida to reunite with his family, and only meeting disappointment, he decided to continue his fight against the dead the best way he knew how: Violence. And he’d done a good job of it, racking up more kills than anyone in the “New Militia.” It had been tough to get everyone under the same roof and to fight for the same cause, but it was done. Old prejudices had tried to flare up anew, but they were quickly snuffed out. He stood in the frozen north, his new job was to find survivors. Luckily it was the middle of spring, nearly two years after he’d parted ways with that M kid, the last person he’d actually liked after all this began.

He wondered why he’d thought of the kid, but then remembered they’d come from that settlement a few hundred miles or so to the East, and they had talked about him with nothing but praise. Maybe they’d meet up again, maybe they would go back to protecting the world together. As he walked up the hill to this lone gas station in the middle of a high end neighborhood that was now awash in soldiers and gunfire, pillars of black smoke where the bodies were burning en masse.

Dale and a few other soldiers approached the small, boarded up establishment with caution, though nothing seemed out of place. Of course, that thought almost always precede some kind of tragedy. One of the soldier’s foot hit a tripwire, something above them in the canopy of the building made a ‘twang’ noise, and three arrows rained down upon the unknowing man. The first arrow missed his head by inches, the second buried itself in his bulletproof vest, the last one was the lucky one, it pierced his shin, going clean through. He screamed and clutched at the shaft, not sure what to do, screaming in pain. The rest of the crew paused, “We have an active trap situation!” The cry flew back in the ranks, the fifty or sixty soldiers behind Dale repeating it.

It took hours and three more injured soldiers to undo all the traps surrounding the tiny building. It put the entire party in a foul mood, Dale matched their dark outlook, and everyone was eager to get at the doors and take a look at who was inside. Crowbars pried off planks of wood, several windows at a time, and tear gas was thrown in. It was time to wait, again. After the billows of white had settled the team planned to enter, tossing in flash bangs before they kicked in the door. Cries of ‘Clear!’ Began to come from inside, then one of the senior crew stepped out, “Dale, you might want to come see this.” Confused, he checked to make sure his weapon was loaded and ready for use.

Inside the store it stunk, even past all the smoke and countermeasures that had been thrown in. Rotted meat, spoiled milk, molded bread, all their smells made the air thick with disgust. Dale walked in, grimaced at the overload to his senses, and followed the column of body armor and rifles to the back of the store. He was genuinely surprised when the room past the feces smeared door was pristinely clean. The manager’s office was almost perfectly cleaned out to make a shelter, a bed room, and even some kind of medical supplies were neatly stacked on a shelf. Now that the smell of the outside room was fading, it was being replaced by another smell: The dead.

In the tiny room there was no where to hide, even the rolled up sleeping bag was laid open, it’s bare interior open for inspection. But the door to the small bathroom was closed, a seal for whatever was behind it. Two men sidled the door and meticulously opened it, their weapons pointed at whatever, or whoever was inside once it had been flung aside. Dale watched their shoulders go lax and their weapons returned, and they parted to give Dale a look inside. It was probably the first time in a few years that he’d felt something, despair trickled down his body like cold rain drops. The corpse inside, still holding a blade was M’s.

Dale groaned softly as he approached the dead body, inspecting it. The young man’s muscles had withered, his thick chest now sunken, ribs protruding through the taught skin, his waist tiny, now. Dale kneeled before the shirtless cadaver that used to be his friend, looking up at his face through the waterfall of curled hair. The charming looks were gone, replaced by taught skin, sunken eyes, and all the color gone. In the hand opposite the knife there was a rolled up piece of paper, Dale took it with a quiet apology, “I’m sorry, buddy. I really am. Rest in peace, now.” Dale stood and addressed the men behind him without looking at them, “He gets a proper burial, you get me? He was a good guy. And whatever deity you believe in help you all if I find out anything otherwise happens.” A quiet respectful ‘Yes, sir.’ came from back.

Dale left the market, hearing the cause of death was starvation right before he hit the daylight again. Sentiment was the last thing he was good at, but he knew that kid deserved more, he belonged amongst the living. A curse blew the first plume of cigarette smoke out of Dale’s mouth. It had been the first time he’d smoked in more months than he cared to remember. The soldiers brought M out in a body bag, carefully, and set him aside for the burial. Dale could only shake his head as he unrolled the note that was in his friend’s hand. It was short, but it pained Dale worse than any other goodbye letter he’d read. He went over it twice and folded it up, then slipped it into his shirt pocket. Despite his loss he needed to get back to work. But those words haunted him, even after the world was fixed. It read:

“Dear Chelsea, I’m so sorry. I tried. But, it changed me, after all.”

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Balthezar stared at the wall across from the one he was chained to, wishing the sun would set, already. The thirst during the day was far worse than at night, he discovered. Though none of the sunlight that came in from the giant windows above him touched his skin, it was reflected harshly by the slathered on white paint, making it harmless, but still very painful. Cuffs made of a mix of steel and iron were clasped very tightly around his wrists, sapping his strength and causing him constant pain, suspending his arms above his head with nowhere to rest his body, he'd dangle in agony while he tried to let his legs rest.

The thirst was only part of his pain. He hungered intensely, his stomach at war with itself constantly, growling and moaning. They'd denied him blood thus far, but he wouldn't mind other food, either. He tried not to imagine all the good food he'd eaten in his long life, it only made his pangs worse. Being a prisoner of The Community was not the way he'd envisioned his days ending, that was for sure. He knew, now, why Michael had done what he did, and as much as the ancient vampire wanted to be angry, he couldn't. It had taken weeks of torture, starvation, beatings, and ceaseless questions to open Balthezar's eyes. He swore he'd never close them again.

Pain was nothing to the vampire, but the thirst was all but unbearable, cracked lips split open every time he moved. His mouth was coated with sand, his throat felt like paper, even the memory of a drink was something he could barely recall. The iron restraints sapped his abilities, the reflected sun weakened his already waning will, and the news he'd learned made the dark nights an enemy, instead of his home. Balthezar swore vengeance upon the ones who did this, silently, over and over. It became a mantra of hatred and pain, etched in his mind forever. He counted, in his mind, the ones he needed to kill, then counted the ones that he'd kill for sheer pleasure.

Quietly the sun set, the white paint reflecting orange for just a few moments, then darkness fell. Balthezar sighed with relief as his naked body no longer felt like it was on fire. He didn't care if the cuffs bit to the bone, again, he sagged against the solid concrete wall, letting the coolness of it drop his body temperature. It was a painful, but easy, decision to stay there, hanging like that, for a while. Suffering was but a distant memory for a while, and sleep came. Dreams were a luxury, comfort a tax, peace of mind a wish, the vampire in chains could afford none of them, even tears were too much to ask for.

Blood, or at least the scent of it, brought him awake, slowly he came around, his nose working to find the source. 'Another cruel trick, another form of torture.' he thought to himself. But the smell was strong, and fresh. Curiosity and hunger finished waking up Balthezar, his senses on high alert, on his aching feet, he tried desperately to find the source, but the iron wouldn't let him. Another splash came, this time so strong he nearly lost control, the blood seemed to be right outside his cell door. He fought back every instinct inside himself, no matter how loudly it screamed, and waited.

The world seemed so still, but his thoughts raged, 'Who was outside? Why did they spill fresh blood? Was it his executioners? Did they finally come to collect? Were they baiting him? Were they wishing for him to give into the beast within?' If they were, they were near their goal, his control was slipping quickly. His vision was blurring, the edges of the world were beginning to tint red, even the iron restraints were just a buzz at the edge of his perception. Tired, ached muscles began to awaken, straightening and straining themselves against the crippling cuffs. Somewhere, in the misty fog of his mind, Balthezar bade farewell to his sanity.

The entire room shook so hard dust was knocked out of the creases in the stone walls, the vampire lost his footing, the chains bit deep and pulled him away from the edge. Balthezar stared at the thick iron door in confusion as another shock rocked the small cell, causing more debris, and even a heavy stone to crack with an earsplitting report. It seemed like gravity was distorting the door, twisting and pulling it here and there, misshaping it. The metal screamed and collapsed upon itself, the door vanishing in a plume of dust and concrete. The vampire prisoner stared with wide eyes, not knowing what would come through the hole.

A man stepped through, ducking his head beneath the top, thick with muscle, a beard, piercing eyes, and hair down his back. In one hand he carried the keys to the restraints, in the other was a human guard, barely conscious. This was no man, but a Lycan, Balthezar noticed. With a flick the man was tossed into the center of the cell, then the wolf focused his attention on the captive, “Good evening. I am Raecien, Guardian of the Word, and my master asks you to join him for dinner.” He gestured at the moaning heap in uniform on the floor, “Consider this an appetizer.” With a single step the distance from door to restraints was closed.

As gentle as a man his size could be, Raecien undid the cuffs, then stepped back as Balthezar fell to the ground in a slump. Abilities began to come back, like opening shutters for the sun to come in, slow at first, but then all at once. The vampire stared at the giant man, his emerald green eyes fixated, but the rumbling in his stomach and the burning in his veins made the human too appetizing to ignore any longer. It was the most savage bite Balthezar had delivered in a very long time, but it made draining the man quick. Reinvigorated he stood and faced the Lycan, wiping his chin of the excess, “And who is your master, Raecien, Guardian of the Word?”

A low growl came from the wolf and he hesitated, but answered as if someone were twisting his arm to do it, “Master Michael of the House of Tor.” Belthazar's eyes went wide as saucers with the realization of what this meant. “And how do you propose to get us out of here, Master Raecien?” All the wolf answered was “Hold still.” as he wrapped his giant arm around the vampire's waist and leaped through a giant window above where the cuffs were chained to the wall. The back up arrived at the cell just as the remnants of the glass window danced across the concrete floor and their drained comrade, their arrival too late.

As they ran through the woods, in the rain, under the bright moon, Belthazar smiled at the feeling of dirt under his feet, leaves and all of nature against his naked body. He vowed he'd never complain about the rain again.  

Life After Death (Final Chapter)

M saw the saw blade that missed his head by inches bury itself in the concrete floor behind him, he ignored it. His keen eyes scanned the people that were currently running around in a panic, looking for Chelsea. A cold feeling crept up his spine when he didn't find her there, amongst the others, the cold feeling turned into a full body shiver when he finally found her: At the wall, next to her usual roost. She peeked over and shot, pulling and closing the bolt on her rifle with expert speed. M knew every shot was a kill, she was a good sniper, but she needed to get away from the wall. He screamed at her, trying to tell her to get down, but the fervor and noise of the people running and shouting drowned him out. 

He waved at her, trying to get her attention, while trying to keep his balance as others pushed by him, either trying to find their way to the fight or run from it. She began to peer over the wall while reloading, he screamed louder. She withdrew from her peek over the wall, her rifle full of bullets and ready to fire again. She finally looked at him, she drew a breath and looked like she was going to shout something. A spear, the thickness of an arm, tore through the sheet metal wall, the strut holding it, and Chelsea's chest. M's world went silent, the people around him disappeared. The people in Hadley's Hope were scurrying around like ants in a panic, but he was focused on her, and he got to her. 

Her eyes were wide, nearly bloodshot, her lips stained red, her teeth coated with blood. M was trying his hardest not to cry, not to panic, “You're okay, Chel, you're okay...” he tried so hard not to let his voice tremble, but it did. He examined the sharpened metal spear that had her pinned, looking for a way to try and save her, there was none. She looked at him, her face strained, she tried to speak, but could only get out a grunt and some wet gurgles. Tears filled M's eyes, turning the world into a melting painting as he tried to fight the hysteria that was building inside him. “Don't speak, Chel, I can fix this, I can fix this, I can fix...” She finally did speak, “Don't...let this....change...you...I love...” She went slack, her arms hung lifelessly, her vibrant eyes closed. 

M cried out, the only word he knew at the moment was 'Please', and he repeated it, over and over. It was like a bad dream, it was like finding his brothers and mother, again. He reached out for her, but her body was pulled through the sheet metal, to the world beyond the walls of Hadley's Hope. He screamed as she was jerked away, his hands finding his weapon and shouldering it. The world was covered in a red fog, no faces, no identifying marks, just bodies for his bullets. No words were said as he fired his silenced rifle through the hole that was just created, screaming at the top of his lungs until his throat was dry and raw.

Chests exploded into red, heads turned into flying chunks of grey, if one bullet didn't do the job another quickly followed. It seemed like a never ending sea of bodies, every one that fell was quickly replaced, and it wasn't until he had to reload that the attackers spotted him. Shortly after, flying blades and objects aimed to maim were flung at high speeds towards M and his perch, some flying by, some burying themselves in the thin metal next to him. His rain of fire and lead had ended and he leaped from the perch to the floor below just as two metal hooks were slung over the edge of the doors to the community.

Engines and savage voices joined together in a song of shouts and roars, the doors groaned while trying to hold on, M ran for the back of the community, unable to do anything but watch as the women and children were shoved into the awaiting cars and trucks that were setup for an escape, should this kind of thing happen. A thick red line of paint ran across the entire settlement, it was their marker, their last line of defense, but for some it was the point of no return. M joined the other men at the line, armed to the teeth, ready to defend their settlement when the gates went down. Adrenaline, liquid rage, pumped through every vein and muscle in M's body as he stared at the metal structure that would give way any second. While they waited for the inevitable others were still running around, trying to decide what to leave behind and what to take. 

Spears, sharpened saw blades, butcher cleavers, and all sorts of sharp pieces of metal were launched over the wall, aiming to harm and disarm the ones inside. They all fell short of the red line, some skipping along the pavement and spitting sparks. Somewhere to his right there were orders being barked, giving direction to the men, instructing them on what should be used first. It was all just buzzing in M's ears, he couldn't hear them, he was focused on the incoming threat. The gates gave their final metallic scream and gave, falling outward and landing with a huge thud, kicking up snow and dust alike. For a moment the world was still and silent, the view from inside the community was obscured by the plume. The young man with tears in his eyes searched for the first sign of life; to end it.

Chaos had come. The plume lit up with truck lights, what looked like dozens of them, screams, muzzle flashes from guns, and various objects thrown. All at once they came pouring into Hadley's Hope, men and women, dressed for the winter, but savage at the same time: mohawks, warpaint made of dried blood, animal hides, various bones that were easily identifiable as human. Some brandished axes, others machetes, some bats with various blades attached. The people that were still scrambling and trying to get to the evacuation point were lost. The savages descended like rabid dogs, tackling the ones still fleeing. Few were lucky, having their heads bashed in or their throats cut, others weren't. They were still screaming as the raiders began to eat them. Some cried out for help, others just screamed as they tried to fight off their would-be devourers, it was all in vain. 

M opened fire with his rifle so did several others, bottles with trails of fire flew over his head, landing and lighting several attackers on fire at a time. M finished off the few on the ground that were still alive and bleeding, waiting for a death that would've been slow coming, otherwise. More people were coming out of the settlement, some were able to dodge the gruesome savage, others were carried away, past the gates, into the outside world, still screaming and pleading. That wasn't the only form of attack, M and the line of the other men were still firing, as blades and other weapons flew at them. Some of them connected, some didn't, grunts and screams of pain from both sides of the fight filled M's ears as he kept firing, he was indifferent to them. 

The first truck grill push through the wide gates, it was adorned with lights, the same war paint, and lastly, the bones of people. Some of the decorations still had flesh attached, grizzly trophies of the past settlements conquered. Several of the other men stopped at the sight, M aimed his scope at the driver and pulled the trigger several times. The windshield turned white with the holes, then the glass was splattered with red when a bullet found the driver. That truck was pushed further in as another emerged from behind it, decorated just the same, the windshield was armored and hidden under bleached bones, except for a small slit in the makeshift protection. It was enough for M and his skills and soon the driver met the same fate as the first, the spray of blood just as violent as the last.

More of the raiders ran around the trucks, some underneath, all trying to get inside Hadley's Hope, screaming their battle cry of 'Fresh meat!' The savages were nothing but moving targets to M's angry rifle, fueled on by his untethered rage that was directed at no one, he dropped his empty magazine, replaced it and hit the bolt catch. He was concentrating so hard on taking down the incoming horde he didn't feel the three nails, launched from someplace beyond the two crippled trucks, bury themselves in his left shoulder. The marauders were easy prey for him, the ones running, the ones trying to climb the tires of the trucks, trying to gain control of them, the ones still eating citizens of the settlement, they were all prey. His mag ran empty, again, but there was no more to replace it.

The furious young man unstrapped his rifle and laid it on the ground, then ripped out the nails in his shoulder. For the first time this entire fight he felt the weight of all the blades he carried, he took stock, counted each one, planned something gruesome with every inch of steel he had. He stood and dropped his outer coat, revealing his cache of weapons to enemies and allies, alike, he delved deeper into rage as he pulled the first two blades, rushing headlong into the oncoming crowd. Somewhere behind him there were shouts, probably cautionary, but he didn't care, he wanted to use what he had in his hands. He wanted to cut through them. The other denizens, still fighting for their lives, tried to shoot around the charging young man, sometimes missing him only by inches.

His rage had given way to instincts and training, he moved almost silently, the occasional clacking of one of his knife sheaths was all that gave him away, but he doubted they were trained to listen for that. The first three he met died with a look of shock on their faces, two cleaved nearly in two, more came, M welcomed them. He never missed, never made a mistake, never paused. The raider's sloppy and wild swings left them open to be butchered, cut open, sometimes to the bone. They were fodder, he was the cannon, and he destroyed them all, just the same. When he lost a blade he simply produced another, if he threw one, he'd recover it. He moved through the small horde like an arrow fired through rain drops, unstoppable.

With only a few weapons left M had finally come upon the final truck, where he could smell the bodies of the victims trying to rot, but the cold wouldn't let them. He saw bodies laid out by the back tire, some of them dead, some unconscious, and Chelsea, herself. He had sustained a few hits during the fight and they became more and more apparent as his rage subsided, but it was all turning numb as he walked to her, wanting nothing more, than for this to be a bad dream. The baseball bat that collided with the side of his head shattered, knocking M into the snowbank next to the truck. He recovered quickly, rolling and facing the threat. The man was huge, at least a foot taller than M, muscles thickening his limbs, a shaved head, colored with what looked like dry blood. The man tossed the stump of the bat aside and roared at M, his teeth had been ground down into points, like a shark.

M could feel the blood start to trickle from the impact wound on the side of his head as he stood and faced the raider, “I got something special for you, big boy!” M drew one of the last of his blades, a tomahawk, but with a modern make-over: a longer handle, a broader head, the blade forged in sharp angles. The man produced a machete of his own, rusted, and chipped. M stood, challenging the savage, who responded by opening his arms in a threatening gesture, baring his naked chest at the smaller man. It was the opportunity M needed. As fast as he could, as hard as he could, M threw his tomahawk and buried the angled edge in the sternum of the savage. The shock of the attack brought the giant to his knees as he struggled to try and pull out the blade, but it was stuck fast.

The young man walked around the marauder, picking up the dropped machete, and stood behind the man. “This is for Chelsea.” He uttered before he focused all his energy, all his frustration, all his rage, on this man. He finally had a target to direct himself at and he planned to take it all out on the giant savage, the machete broke only a few heavy chops later. M walked back into Hadley's Hope with Chelsea in his arms, he was covered in gore, sweat, blood, and was obviously exhausted from what he'd done and the head of the giant raider was stuck on his axe. The few people left standing, more than M had expected, let up a cheer. He remained silent as his tomahawk thumped on the floor, the head a prize to put atop the gates. He made his way through the bodies of friend and foe, knowing how much they'd all lost, yet he could only think of Chelsea and her kindness.

It took hours to clean up everything, the marauder's bodies were piled atop each other and burned, family members of the fallen gathered themselves to mourn. People in charge loudly argued about how to improve the strength of Hadley's Hope. It took all this time for M to bury Chelsea in the frozen ground, so many offered to help him, but he declined every time. The remaining doctors patched him up, cleaned his wounds, and even asked if he wanted to help them even further. He appreciated their offer, their genuine care, but there was nothing left for him in this place. He packed his things, and Chelsea's rifle, and walked out of Hadley's Hope at dawn the next day. He swore to himself that it was the last time he would be around other humans. The road greeted him with a blast of cold air and a flurry of snow that danced past him. His journey began again.

Life After Death (Original Series)

It was a slow night for Jerry, not another living soul outside the wall. He counted the times he'd heard a ghoul, counted the times they stumbled over something like a branch, and the times they'd see him and try to moan to others their find of fresh meat. It never lasted long. The rifle he'd borrowed from that new kid, M, was amazing. He wondered to himself how he'd gotten it, but remembered that in this world there weren't too many rules. It was funny, in a way, how that kid showed up out of nowhere, swept in with all sorts of training tactics, and managed to get Chelsea to leave her post every now and again.

Maybe it was his older age talking, but it seemed a little off how quickly the relationship between those two took off. He decided not to read into the whole thing too much. After all, he liked being on the wall. It let him think, even if he was bored as the day was long. Jerry adjusted his heavy jacket and gloves, re-positioning his beanie on his head so the small bill would help clear away some of the falling snow, it would get stuck in his beard and hair sometimes, and that annoyed him. The thermos was still hot, a wisp of steam curling up from it every now and again, and the liquid chocolate was begging to be sipped at. So the man with the fancy rifle complied with it's wishes.

The grey day soon began to fade to a bruised twilight, the sky was always beautiful during the winter days. Jerry smiled a small, sad, smile as he remembered the world before. He could still hear the noise of the cities, the constant buzz of people, the roars of engines and planes. In some odd way he missed it. Now it was so quiet, even with the generators on full throttle, and the people of Hadley's Hope at their most active, it seemed like whispers compared to the world before. He stopped thinking there, not wanting to follow the natural progression of the timeline, from his busy world to the day of the Great Panic. He didn't want to remember that day, at all.

It was easy to divert his attention to the nest of robins not too far outside the wall, the small birds were always entertaining. He picked up his scope and looked down it, spotting the little nest of twigs, resting on the branch he'd memorized. The nest was empty. Jerry let the scope fall away from his eye and concentrated, listening for any bird, at all. There were none, not a chirp, a peep, or a cry from the heavens above. It seemed even the ghouls were distracted, as even the moaning and shuffling had gone away. A cold sense of dread crawled into him, deep into his very bones. He stood up and looked down the scope, down the road that lead to his new home.

What he saw took his breath away, so much so he almost couldn't find the silent alarm to hit it. Four giant trucks were barreling down the road towards them, the men and women inside whooping and hollering. The trucks were painted red and black with fresh and old blood, bones of humans gave the things a hellish look. Half a human skeleton hung from the grill of the first truck, skin still attached here and there, the mouth agape like it was screaming. Though Jerry couldn't hear them he could read their lips clearly as they kept yelling 'Fresh meat!' Memories pushed their way through the block that was put up and now the Great Panic flooded through the man on the wall's mind.

He almost didn't hear the voices behind him shouting for an explanation, couldn't hear his own hyperventilating at the things he'd just seen, and remembered. It was Chelsea's voice that finally broke the stillness of terror, "Jerry! What is it?!?" All he could manage to do was turn to the small, blonde girl with the pretty eyes and say the only word that made sense and made everyone below him run with urgency to the armory, to their positions, to pray: "War."

Life After Death (Original Series)

It was just around dawn that the gunshot woke Kelly up. She didn't mind so much, as her dreams had dipped into faces and memories that she really didn't want to revisit. It was a rough sleep, but sleep, none the less. The falling temperatures made her hammock, suspended high in the tree she'd climbed to escape the ghouls, a very breezy affair. With a silent sigh of complaint, aimed at no one, she finally unzipped her thick jacket and peered out of her camo colored bed. There didn't seem to be any movement near by, but she did spy a herd of the dead heading towards a nearby hill.

Kelly had learned to be almost silent when moving around, producing half a binocular and using it as a telescope, from a pocket deep in her coat. Without rustling the dead leaves and snow around her she was able to get the sight of a man who was lying on his back, gun in hand, just before the ghouls descended upon him. She pondered his dilemma for a moment, then decided it was too late to do anything, anyways. Tired limbs and a sore core were all stretched inside her swinging bed before it was all stuffed into a pack and slung.

Quick as she could she climbed down the tall tree, its various limbs supporting her small frame, and soon after her boots silently sunk into the snow on the ground. 'I hope you found peace, sir.' she thought as she turned away from the hill and began walking. Her legs pushed through the foot or so of snow easily, making her trek easy, but she still kept a weary eye. She remembered once there had been a ghoul that was just under the snow, not even a foot of it, and it popped up and...She shook the memory from her head.

Avoiding the cornfield was easy, but it also meant heading in a different direction before having to correct to the one she wanted to go. It wasn't too much trouble, but it was a risk. The woods became a bit thicker, trees and their off-white bark hid paths and maybe threats, and it all put Kelly on edge. It was the first pause of the midmorning and she used it to go to the bathroom, unpack her recurve bow, and ready a quiver full of arrows. It was hard looking at the weapon, even after all this time. All she could see was her husband's hands wrapped around hers, teaching her how to use it.

Another memory that had to be shaken away, just as she finished the second to last can of tuna she had. She began walking again, paying close attention to all the noises the world made, all the creaks and groans of the trees trying to thaw in the midday sun, the occasional shuffle of snow that fell from the branches, the few and far in between moans that would surface from places she couldn't see. Despite the temperature Kelly's brow was slick with sweat, the moans had become persistent, but she couldn't see the source.

Crouched low and her pace slowed, the world seemed quiet and at the same time screaming with danger, every step was precarious and taken with near paranoid caution. Just ahead the trees broke into a small clearing, there was two tents, and the source of the moans. At the tree line Kelly stayed very still, crouched behind a thicker tree, surveying the camp ground she'd found. She whistled, but no one answered, except the ghoul she had yet to spot. She whistled again, and nocked an arrow at the same time, again, only moans.

The fire pit had long gone cold, the tents were both still with the flaps hanging open on both. Kelly's footsteps were silent as she circled the inside of the small campsite, looking for the source of the noise. She came to the first tent, inside lay two corpses, they hadn't died of natural causes. Each of the bodies were mutilated, chunks of flesh and muscle missing, but there were no bite marks. The flesh had been cut off, like a butcher would do to a cow, clean pieces of defined anatomy. Both of the faces were covered with a piece of dark cloth, their slit throats barely visible.

The cold had slowed the decay, but they were long since beginning to rot. Kelly could feel her stomach turn as the thought of them being killed and eaten by other humans came to her mind. She fought to keep her nausea down. In the second tent the story became more grim. Three blankets over three bodies. Two of them were small, children, probably no older than 10, the other a female. The blankets stuck to their foreheads where the blood from the single bullet wound had killed them. At their feet was a note held down by a small rock.

'I couldn't let them starve. Forgive me, God.' Movement caught Kelly's eye and she stood tall, arrow pulled back and pointed at the potential threat. Just behind the tents, in the tree line, was a man hanging from a branch, rope around his throat. His hands had been chewed down to the wrist, his legs nothing more than bones and pieces of sinew hanging from what was left of his thighs. At the sight of her he twisted in his noose, his stumps raised and stretched out for her. Dried lips that had been peeled back worked in unison with the moans, yellow, half rotted teeth snapped open and closed at the promise of flesh.

Anger flared up in Kelly and she aimed for his head. The arrow didn't find it's mark and instead stuck in the tree trunk, the branch holding him broke. Bones cracked loudly as they splintered when he hit the floor, the moaning was growing louder. Kelly was still fueled by anger and wasted no time, she ran over, unsheathed her knife, and plunged it hilt deep into the top of it's skull. Suddenly all the memories she'd suppressed all day flooded in and her eyes stung with tears. She pulled her blade free and sat back on her knees as she cried silently.

Images and sounds and smells and voices of her sister, brother, father, husband, best friend all rushed through her mind. Their lives, and then, ultimately, their deaths. Each one played like it just happened that morning. Her hand absent mindedly wiped away the tears as the last words her husband spoke came anew, like a recording, "I'll always love you. Keep living. For me. Please..." She sobbed once more and began catching her breath, running her hand through her short, blonde hair.

After a minute or two she was okay, shakily she found her feet. She took a long, deep breath, letting it out into the cold air, a cloud that proved she was alive. After her hands settled she retrieved her arrow from the tree, and it gave her trouble, not wanting to come out from it's half frozen new home. With a grunt it finally came free and then joined the rest of the arrows in the quiver on Kelly's waist. 'I'll keep living. As long as I can.' she thought to herself as she prepared to move on.

Careful thinking was quickly replaced by panic as she looked around at the once silent woods that were now filled with ghouls. She let out a gasp as they just kept appearing, like waves of locust, finally they set eyes on her. The world was filled with moans of hunger, like a chorus of the damned conducted by death, himself. She ran, as hard as she could, to the nearest gap in the wall of rotted and rotting flesh, avoiding swipes and grasping fingers. As she passed by more of them began to voice their want.

Her pack slapped against her back, rattling the contents, not that stealth mattered anymore. There were so many, and each of them only saw one source of flesh. She didn't want to end up like that man, not like any of them, not like her husband. The white barked trees stopped and gave way to smooth ground. But that, too, soon ended. Kelly's toes were on the line of a ravine, a river thick with ice, far down below. She gripped her bow and turned around, nocking an arrow, ready to face her fate. They poured out of the woods, stumbling, shambling, moaning, reaching towards her.

She let her arrow fly, plunging through a ripe head as it exploded it's grey and black contents out of the back. The decision came quick and she acted on it just as quickly. She slung her bow over her shoulder and crossed her arms across her chest. She took a deep breath and held it. Gravity took over just as she closed her eyes. She fell what felt like forever, the wind deafening her as her body shook. The water caught her with harsh arms and quickly covered her in liquid ice. She couldn't tell if she was alive.

Not Tonight (Original Short)

Adrian ran with all his might, towards the path that the SUV that nearly ran him over had cut through the corn stalks, to what might be his salvation. 'I'm not gonna die tonight.' he repeated to himself in his head, over and over, forcing him to keep running. He felt weak from loss of blood and hunger, limping towards the potential for being saved. He hadn't been bitten, but two of those ghouls had torn up his leg pretty bad, their broken and jagged fingernails had made a mess of his calf. He returned the gesture with a hammer to their skulls.

Because of Adrian's height he thought they could see him as they drove by, but they didn't, they drove like they were in a hurry. Now after two gunshots that got the attention of the ghouls it seemed the world had a common goal: get to that shed. He'd spent weeks in that shed, biding his time, keeping warm with leaves from the corn around him. He came back to it after trying to hunt to find it surrounded by the dead searching for their next meal. He tried to walk away and that car howled right past him.

'I'm not gonna die tonight!' he repeated as he pushed on, the red lights on the back of the vehicle marking his destination. Several of the dead noticed him at the same time and turned their out stretched arms towards him, moaning that moan that they all seem to emit. The four of them went down quickly, Adrian's improvised hammer splattered their skulls with ease. He had to keep going. Not much farther now, not much farther at all. The pain that was shooting through his leg, begging for his attention, was trying it's best to hobble him. He didn't know what was torn or if he could even keep his leg if he lived through this, but he had to try.

Being over six and a half feet tall and just over two hundred pounds allowed him to shoulder his way through the gathering horde with a lot of ease, but the difficulty wasn't throwing bodies around, it was throwing so many around that made the task slow going. The brake lights were still bright, they were still stopped, he had to hurry. Adrian wanted to yell, try to get their attention, but he knew the second he did they might not notice him, but the ghouls he was contesting for walking space would. He wrestled with the thought. He calculated his risks.

His backpack would provide minimal protection, his pant leg was shredded, his boot soaked with blood, his shirt still in tact, he had his two hammers and a pistol with a couple of shots left. 'Screw it. I am not gonna die tonight.' A couple of more skulls exploded under his hammer and he shoved himself forward, waving his arm that didn't have a weapon in it. "HEY! HEY! BACK HERE!" The lights were still lit, the car didn't move. In the eerie drone of the moans it felt like the world had gone silent. More than two dozen heads, mouths agape, dry, cracked lips peeled back over broken and rotted teeth, dried eyes that were bleached from the sun, all turned towards him. The moans went from a low drone to a chorus of bloodthirst.

He thought for a split-second that this might not have worked out the way he planned. They almost all turned in unison towards him, arms ascending towards their meal. Adrian raised his impromptu hammer and began to strike them down one by one, his other hand held jaws closed until he could bring down the couple of pounds of steel upon their crown. He inched forward, but continued to yell, "HEY! BACK HERE! DON'T LEAVE ME!" The lights were a mere ten feet away. He'd almost made it. Then they dimmed, the vehicle began to move forward.

It felt like ice water had been dumped over his entire body as the lights began to move away. 'I will not die tonight!' the thought popped up again. He threw his weight around just enough to allow him to get his second hammer out and with all his remaining might threw the thing at the back window of the SUV currently trying to pull away. It shattered with a glorious sound and he screamed again, "DON'T LEAVE ME!" The brake lights came on again and three men piled out of the vehicle, assault rifles at the ready. Like strobe lights the muzzles lit the night in bursts, nearly blinding, but all making Adrian hope he could live.

He continued to use his hammer to fight off the still advancing horde as they closed the distance to him, shot after shot they cut a way to Adrian. At long last the final ghoul for a dozen feet fell. "I ain't bit! I ain't bit! Please help me!" The three men from the car looked at him then at each other. The thin one to Adrian's right spoke, "What happened to your leg?" The man with the bloody hammer had all but forgotten his injuries, but answered between gulps of air, "Two of them got me with their hands. They tore me up. But they never bit me." Again the men exchanged glances and the small one spoke again. "I'm sorry, friend. You're infected."

Adrian's body went numb. "What? What you mean I'm infected? They never bit me. It was their hands that got me." A flashlight clicked on at the end of one of the rifles and shined upon the spot that was supposed to be throbbing with pain, but was surprisingly numb. Adrian followed the beam, to the circle of light on his injury. It felt as if his soul had died, like everything good in the world suddenly perished, as he stared at three nearly perfect white teeth, all spaced out, but all lodged in the flesh of his own leg.

The makeshift hammer hit the floor moments before Adrian's knees did. "I'm not gonna die tonight..." was all he could whisper. One of the larger men leveled his rifle, "Do you want us to take care of you?" Adrian looked up with hollow eyes, thinking as the moans of the dead began to close in again. "No. No. I'll take care of it. I'm sorry about your window." The men all nodded their agreement and ran back to their vehicle. The doors slammed shut and the engine roared and kicked up dirt as the tires spun in place before propelling them away. "I'm not gonna die tonight." Adrian whispered again.

He found his feet once more and began to limp away from this whole scene. It was dawn before he reached the hill where he'd buried his wife and daughters, not four days ago. There was a line of ghouls that had followed him, but he didn't mind. It'd be done by the time they stumbled up the hill. He ran his hand over the smooth dirt that covered his family and hummed the song he used to when he would put them to bed at night, before all this started. The small pistol sat between his legs, waiting it's turn as he said his final goodbyes, "Well, Barb, girls. Daddy's home. And we're gonna be a family again." The last ray of sunshine that broke over the distant mountains was welcomed with a gunshot.

The Burnt World: Part One (Original Short)

The sun was all but blinding. Without sunglasses or some sort of eye protection, one would be rendered blind in minutes. He sat at the edge of the now destroyed compound that housed him in his slumber for years and years. It was confusing. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep, how long the world had been like this. But it worried him. A lot. From the last readable piece of written parchment that he came across he only could guess it had been centuries.

The wind was harsh and moved fast, unaffected by the little pieces of civilization that poked above the dirt floor. What could only be four-lane highways were now littered with rusted and empty cars, their occupants bleached bones or worse. His eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of humanity, any proof of life that might be able to help him piece together this mad world. Then he saw it: A smeared inkblot on the white skyline. Smoke. He wrapped the scarf he'd scavenged from inside the compound around his mouth and set his destination.

The building he was in was barely rubble now, but had probably been the earmark of an architect many a year ago. The world was a desert now and it was unforgiving. The sand had laid claim to all, the living and the stone monuments they had built. His walk was a steady pace and he took the time to drink in what his world had become. Where he imagined skyscrapers and blue glass were only broken stones and blackened skies. Every mile he walked he could feel hope slipping away, feel life abandoning him and never turning back. He steeled his resolve and kept forward, night falling and stealing away the sun’s harsh rays and replacing them with dark purple clouds filled with blue lightning that never struck.

He'd slept for too long. It was time for action. Time to get answers. Creatures he no longer recognized howled and screamed their cries just out of his sight, once finding something to eat. They ravaged the panicked animal and brayed joyfully. He stayed his course, worried only about being unarmed. He'd have to change that soon, if he could. The barely intact skeletons of cars rarely held anything worth taking, except once he found a military backpack. It had one or two useful things in it, things designed to be all but indestructible: matches and a foil solar blanket made as well as a bottle to carry water in, though long since emptied. And the pack, itself, of course.

He hoisted the empty carrier and kept going, the bones of a small town not too far in the distance. It was hours and dawn came quickly, bringing back the beating sun, but driving back whatever was in the dark devouring other creatures. He was grateful, but hungry, and wondered how hard it would have been to have taken down one of the beasts. Then he figured it was hard enough that he couldn't do it unarmed.

Sand and rocks crunched under his boots as he entered the dead town. The sand and wind had worn down the buildings to nubs and smoothed the wrought iron to a polished finish. No glass remained and the one or two doorways still standing were hollow. He kept moving, hoping that he could spot something to eat, or some water to drink, but there seemed to be nothing in sight. Then like a tomb it appeared a street over: an intact building. He thought long, deep and hard about the dangers that could possibly be lurking in the shadows of the one-story building. The idea of shelter and maybe food won over the scary thoughts of monsters and creatures waiting with teeth bared.

On his walk over, he stopped and picked out an arms length of rebar and made sure it was steady, swinging it around to get used to the weight. The small concrete shelter was near; he took a deep breath and sighed it out. The rickety door barely clung to the rusted hinges and swayed slightly in the breeze. He tried to listen for movement inside, but the wind made it impossible. His shaded eyes couldn't see clearly into the shadows with the sunglasses he wore. He approached the door and tried pushing it open with the bar, but it wouldn't budge. He fought with the possibility of a trap and decided shelter was worth it.

With another sigh of resolve, he kicked the door open. The cacophony drowned out the sound of the tripwire, the pulley, and the weight dropping. Wire coiled itself around his ankle and gripped tight. It pulled fast, so fast he couldn't react, and only had a split second to hear the sound of his head hitting heavy on the concrete below. Blackness took over.

Coming awake was painful. The back of his head hurt, the ankle that the cable had wrapped itself around stung, and his eyes were still adjusting to the low, amber light. Voices came through the fog that hung heavy on his senses. “What are we gonna do with him?” “What do you think?” “We’s gonna eat ‘im!” There were three of them. He was hoping for one, but luck didn’t think that would have been fair.

He wasn’t upside down anymore. He was tied to a pillar, another wire around his wrists, his back against the concrete and his legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes finally adjusted and he found himself in a dark cellar, probably underneath the one-story building. The walls were concrete like the single pillar in the middle of the room, giving nothing away and nothing to get himself loose with.

He twisted his hands in the makeshift wire shackles and hoped that they would creak or bend, telling him that the metal was old and rusty. WIth a little effort the wire did just what he hoped and popped a few strands. He smiled to himself; he had not planned on becoming someone’s meal. If he could work his way out of this, even if it cost him a few layers of skin, he would do it and get out. Above his head the floor creaked with motion from above and he knew he had little time. He gritted his teeth and began to twist his wrists.

The pain was slow to come, but it came. First it burned, then it grated like sandpaper on raw skin, but he kept at it. Working his hands back and forth in the wire restraints, he felt one fiber after another give way. Each second he was at it was another second of pain that was building toward searing. He kept his eyes up, searching the room for something to distract him from the growing agony, searching for a hatch or a trap door leading upward. He couldn’t see one, so he assumed it was behind him. Another pop, another level of pain. Now the snapped wires were biting into already sensitive flesh. Beads of sweat ran down his brow, his cheeks, and the back of his neck, making his brown t-shirt stick to his skin.

It was only a minute or two, but it felt like an eternity, that he was able to slip his wrists out and comfort them in the low light. He turned to see where it was coming from and his suspicions were correct: A badly built trapdoor at the corner of the small room was letting light through the planks and illuminating his temporary dungeon. The skin on his wrists was broken, but he couldn’t pay too much attention to that right now. The floor creaked and moaned as one of the denizens upstairs began to walk to the wooden planks held together with nails and such to imprison their meal. He had to think fast, so he stayed seated and put his hands behind the pole again and hung his head. Not a second later, the hatch was pulled open.

A ladder was thrown down and heavy feet carrying a heavy load thumped onto the dirt covered concrete floor behind him. Slowly the the footsteps made their way to the front of him. The man before him could, at one point, be considered human. Now he only bears the slightest of resemblances. The skin that was pulled taught over warped muscles was brown and leathery, hair was no longer covering, it came in blotches all over. Teeth were gaped apart, lips peeled back and split in some places, dark from recent openings. The man’s body was a practice in inhuman, gnarled and warped limbs clung to a frame that was human only in the most basic sense.

The man on the floor could feel rotted breath coming down him as the creature that was barely human inspected him. It was now or never. The man on the floor opened his eyes and tucked his leg back underneath himself, his captor barely had enough time to draw a gasp by the time his leg was kicked out from underneath him, the knee breaking with a muffled ‘crack’. The hostage wasted no time and pounced, letting his fists come down on the side of the face on the floor three, four, five times, making his captors breathing ragged. Then with slow and practiced precision the aggressor reached under the barely breathing head on the floor beneath him and wrapped his fingers together, pulling up, against the natural curve of the spine. Quiet grunts of effort escaped as quick, panicked pants came from the man on the floor. He pulled harder, things popping and giving way to the pressure, causing flailing arms to kick up dust around them. With a final, vicious ‘Pop’ the body beneath went limp. The captive pulled once more, making sure, letting out a long breath, trying to get the adrenaline out of his body so he could think clearer. He let the head thunk to the floor, watching as thick, dark blood seeped from orifices and began to pool beneath.

A voice came from above, the same thick accent as before, “Where’s the food, boy? We’re gettin’ hungry!” Mismatched footsteps that gave away a limp, more than likely from deformities, made their way to the hole in the ceiling above. For the first time the prisoner took into account what he had on: His dark brown cargo pants that he had pulled off a dead soldier, long rotted and gone, and the same colored tee shirt, his socks and boots were gone.

The thing above him dropped to its knees at the hole at the same time the captive decided to make a move: He got to his bare feet, ran the three steps and used the bottom rung of the ladder to launch himself upwards, his hands meeting the grotesque head that was now peering down. With all the strength he could muster he grabbed and twisted his body and the head in his hands with it. A sickening crack echoed through the air. Both bodies, one standing, the other slumped in a heap fell to the floor at the same time. He found his boots and socks.

After lacing up his reacquired boots he stayed down, listening for more footsteps or voices. None came. With all his muscles he made quick work of the ladder and hopped up and into the house he suspected he’d been captured in. Orange light from candles placed here and there upon old, broken furniture and fixtures lit a dusty room, it seemed like a basement. Three corners of the room were all but bare and one was more than gruesome. He stared for a moment.

Chains hung from the ceiling above the small corner, hooks up and down them, each with body parts that were easily identifiable as human. The world was new and harsh. People survived however they could. He heard the movement before he felt the impact. The piece of wood he was just struck with splintered into a thousand pieces, he moved with the momentum and rolled across the floor, finding his feet again, before another strike came.

“Ya killed ma’ kin! Ya bastard!” The escapee faced the biggest of the three monstrosities. Well over a foot taller than him, twice as wide, melted skin here and there, warts speckled throughout, one eye looked like it had fallen from place and found a new one in it’s cheek, lips that were cracked with thirst and twisted to expose yellowed and rotted teeth. “I’m the last of ma’ clan, now! Who are ya?” The monstrosity stopped just out of arm’s reach.

The man that was crouched down, staring up at the mutated thing, thought for a moment, then spoke, “My name is Job.” The entire basement echoed with a scream as the thing brought down another strike, but missed, as Job dodged easily. Legs that weren’t twisted kicked out the legs that were. Job pounced, raining down punch after punch upon the warped head of his captor. With a roar the man threw him off, Job rolled again. This time his hand landed on a blade that was covered in dirt on the floor next to him.

He gripped the handle and made quick work, pushing all his muscles to exertion. There was one more scream in the basement. Job stared at the new morning, the new world, everything in it, through sunglasses. His pack now had bottles of water, a couple of cans, and now he had more than a few knives. Someone had to know how the world ended up like this. He intended to find his answers.

Into The Dead (Original Short)

June awoke slowly, the smell of burning petrol and whatever the flames touched filling her nostrils and lungs. The world was a haze of pain, blurred colors and moaning. Of all the things streaming into her senses that were working, it seemed  the moaning was more important than even the smell of burning human flesh. Why? Why was the sound so important? 

For now, however, the most recent memories were of her flying her helicopter over the remains of an encampment that, until very recently, seemed to have been working just fine. She remembered noise, fire and her copilot screaming. Then the bone-shattering impact of her helo hitting the ground. She didn't remember what went wrong. 

June's fingers worked in her gloves to get the flexibility back, but they were sticky with drying blood, and coarse with the dirt she was laying in. She was finally able to focus her vision, and what she saw jarred her to the soul. Her chopper was down. They were coming! She looked to her left, searching for her copilot Evan, and found him. Well, most of him. 

Her head swiveled, taking in the rest of the chaos: the blades were barely settling, there was shattered glass everywhere, and the fuselage burned a bright yellow, painting the column of smoke twisting its way into the blackening sky. Panic started seeping in, chilling as a bucket of ice water running through her veins. Her hands fumbled with the many buckles, trying to release the grip upon her, as her eyes continued to scan. 

Then she saw it: the first ambling shadow through the smoke. A panicked moan escaped through her gritted teeth as she struggled. June had seen what those rotted hands could do to a person, what broken teeth and ragged dried tongues did to flesh. She had no desire to be a number in the ever-growing army of the walking dead. 

"Click!" As fast as thought, June's hands threw open the tough nylon belts, her legs scrambling to the back of the cargo hold where her trusty assault rifle and five or six magazines waited for her. The cold turned her rapid breathing into clouds of air colored the same as the fires burning outside her broken and shattered helicopter. The last thing she packed before throwing herself out of the wreckage was a survival knife. 

June hit the ground running, literally, stumbling with the first three steps, the soft ground softly announcing her landing to the ones listening. Shock took her breath away when she finally saw how many of the dead were surrounding the downed helicopter. With her breathing still halted, she launched into a dead run, aiming for the first space in the gathering crowd. Stiff fingers covered with dry, rotted flesh snatched at her uniform, but she pushed through, fright driving her. 

The moans were all around her, like a blanket of snow laid heavily and thick over the world. She could hear her own wheezing as she ran, joining the symphony that was building. Her rifle rattled off rounds, helping clear the way. A field gave way to a corn field. It was a maze of death. The stalks reached a good two or three feet above her head, blocking out what little light the moon provided. 

At her speed, she couldn't determine what were thick leaves and what were hands trying to grasp at her. Several times, she found herself lashing out with the butt of the rifle. Clumps of dry dirt threatened to trip her, but she kept her footing. Twice she had to open fire, downing walking corpses in her path. She hated using the rifle, knowing it would only attract more of them, but she would deal with that later. 

It seemed like hours had gone by when she finally broke through the last of the corn rows, and onto a small clearing that lead to a pitch-black forest. Shadows walked steadily in the pale moonlight toward her, hands out, dried lips peeled back, moans dripping out along with black blood and viscera. June panted in place for a moment before committing to trying the forest. 

The only solace she had was the fact that her mayday had gone out, and there would soon be a car full of unpleasant individuals with firearms  to come and find her. She pushed on, letting her rifle clear more pathways as the first of the trees flew past. She was so tired, so panicked, but she couldn't stop. She had begun running into the world of the non-living. Into the dead. 

Hope In A Dead World (Original Short)

The spindly trees were bare, their leaves fallen and gone. Against the grey winter morning they looked like skeletal hands reaching toward the heavens, pleading for salvation that would never come. The color had left the world, it seemed, and everything was grey and white. Inches of snow covered the ground the same way the thick clouds hid the sun. M's pack was heavy with cans, the latest plunder from a family that hadn't been able to stay undead hands from tearing their bodies asunder and leaving them to come back to roam the earth as moaning corpses. There was five, three of them children. M put them to rest.

After leaving the smoking and bloody remains of Haven, he had been traveling north, hoping to reach another colony, but the encampments he'd run across had all met similar fates. Dale, the other survivor of Haven, and him had parted ways weeks ago. Dale opted to go south in hope of finding something more near the coast. M didn't dash his hopes by telling him he'd been on the south coast when the Great Panic had hit. There was no one left there; no one left to recant the screaming and fires that had engulfed almost everything.

The road ahead of him was barren: no cars, no RV's, no bodies. It seemed this lost highway had been spared the burden of hundreds or thousands of bodies that the dead were sure to have left behind. M's hand checked to see if his machete and knife were clear in their sheaths, before pulling his jacket closed against the freezing wind that whipped past, kicking up swirls of white and making them dance like gleeful ghosts celebrating the fall of man.

Off to each side of the four lanes he walked were nothing but flat lands, the trees a good hundred yards past that. Though nothing seemed to move, M's eyes were keen and never relaxed, constantly searching and scanning. He had put his own hope on a trickle, preserving it, like precious water in the desert. Just as he was about to dare to let another drop of it fall, fate seemed determined to justify his greediness with the lacking commodity.

Not fifty feet in front of him a figure rose from the drift, half caked in white, half caked in dry, black blood. The front of the thing's clothes was ripped open, displaying a half frozen, ghastly wound from which it surely had died. M didn't suddenly halt - that would draw its attention - instead he moved slowly into crouching, using the flurries as cover, keeping his steady pace toward the zombie. M's hand went smoothly to the blade taped to the strap of his pack, drawing the matte black instrument.

The creature was facing just left of M's position so it didn't see him until it was too late. With practiced precision, and the distance a mere 20 feet, the throw was easy. The arm with the weapon in it coiled at the shoulder, tensing muscles and tendons, keeping the blade in a solid grip. Like a rattlesnake striking, M's arm unfolded at blazing speed, loosing the knife. The tip whistled through the air, landing with a solid 'thunk' in the undead's skull, cutting off the beginning of a moan.

Silently it crumpled into a heap upon the frozen pavement like a marionette with its strings cut. Though the immediate threat was ended, the danger was far from over. M stayed as still as the dead body with the knife in its temple for a moment, straining his hearing against the persistent wind. It felt like an hour as he waited, scanning for signs of more of them. None came. With a slow exhale, M stood and continued his walk, pausing only for a moment to retrieve his knife and return it to the sheath. Time seemed to resume its grinding pace, as soon the grey sky was bruised red, purple, and pink with the sunset.

With a rope and some cleverly placed knives, M climbed a tree and sat down to his dinner: a can of chili with a faded label. He made no fire, shed no light, and was near silent opening the stubborn can to get at its contents, eating as he secured his pack on a limb, along with himself. Night came and went quickly, the morning beating down its golden rays upon his face and waking him from a dreamless sleep. The morning routine went into effect: cleaning his blades and rifle, repacking everything, and checking the map he had to determine his location.

The silence in a world ruled by the walking dead is easily broken. As fewer people inhabited the Earth, the old, familiar sounds of life now seemed alien; so much so that the sound of an engine roaring up the abandoned highway was enough to make M grab his rifle and stare wide-eyed at the disturbance. The faded blue SUV blazed past his safe spot in the tree. The windows were tinted, hiding its driver. It took him fifteen whole minutes to recover, replace his rifle and climb higher to investigate the direction from which the vehicle had come.

The scope on his rifle revealed something he thought he'd never see again: strings of black and white smoke slithering their way up the sky from the horizon of dead trees. His breath caught in his throat, and he let a golden drop of hope fall. His hands were shaking so bad from excitement, he was barely able to maintain his grip as he scrambled down the trunk of the tree where he'd made his perch the night before.

As he landed heavily on the iced earth below, he heard something that made every hair on his body stand on end: moans of dozens of corpses. The vehicle woke every snow-covered corpse in the area, and they were all converging upon the road in search of a meal. For the first time in a long time, M ran. Headlong into the gathering hoard he dashed, unsheathing his machete and knife, ready to carve his way to that camp - to his new, possible home. Impossible seemed only a vague concept now. Another drop of hope.

The Blade of The Princess: Part 2 of 2

K'anda sighed deeply as she walked away from the shore of the lake, hating that she couldn't help more, but at the same time grateful for the sight she'd seen below the glassy surface of the lake. It was slow to begin, but her legs fell into the walking rhythm she was now used to. It felt like ages since she'd left her grand palace back in Zhu'ul, but the truth was she'd only been gone near three weeks.

She was glad, in a way, that she was traveling alone. She'd said less than a handful of words, not sentences, but words since she'd last seen her home land. It was a relief. From all the servants, cooks, tutors, trainers, her nine sisters, she thought she'd never know a moment of silence in her life. But the woods were silent, engaging, and all together deadly. K'anda didn't mind. She saw the beauty in all of it, even the black, twisted, dead trees that had fallen over years ago. Their rotted trunks were now home to a thousand more things hidden from sight.

The morning sun blazed high in the sky, only a few skinny clouds hanging around after the heavy rains last night. The air smelled sweet, like flowers and fresh grass, as the heavy dampness of the lake and its humidity grew further away with each step. The Princess followed the path back to the main road, quietly admiring the trees, the bright leaves, purple and yellow flowers, and all sorts of creatures that had made this place their home. Her golden eyes focused on nothing, letting time pass as she took her time getting back to the road, making her walk more than scenic.

At the main road, her boots kicked up small puffs of soft dirt, the Agaden Mountains her only landmark as she began to push her now experienced body toward them. Mid-morning had come, and with it, hunger. On the road there were no other travelers, and the woods cut back a few hundred paces to protect those on the path. It was a situation that would be troublesome, even to the most experienced travelers, but not to her.

As she walked her steady pace, K'anda bent down and scooped up a handful of rocks the size of her fingertips. They were black and smooth, ringed with sediment. She thought them to be pretty. As she walked, she discarded the few that weren't smooth enough, leaving only four from the bunch. Her long legs carried her at a measured pace, and just like her, things were alive and scampering about. She slowed her steps, studying the waist-high grass around her, looking for movement.

It only took a moment before she spotted her lunch: a Grassling. They were like rabbits, but a bit larger, and instead of white, fluffy fur, they were covered in thick, coarse, green, flat hair that gave them the appearance of grass when they laid flat. Apparently this one was unhappy at the proximity between it and her. It was a terrible mistake, on its part. The princess froze, her boot puffing up one last dust cloud as she made the decision to get her meal.

With practiced precision guided by her magic, K'anda pinpointed where the Grassling would be. She lifted her hand with the stones in it, keeping her golden eyes wide open, and flattened her palm and fingers. Her wrist was right before her face as she let her power awaken, focusing on one of the smooth stones and then drawing a slow, deep breath. Upon a cloud of air she had created, one of the stones floated, aimed and ready, then she blew a puff of air, which she magnified, accelerated, and pushed forward to a blinding speed with magic. The stone left so fast she could no longer see it past the line of the grass in front of her. An arrow could not have been quicker, had it been shot from the strongest bow pulled by the mightiest of archers. Nor could it have been more accurate. Without having to go see for herself, the Princess knew the stone had hit, and gone through, the head of the target. With a small, satisfied smile, Ka'nda lowered her hand and went to retrieve her lunch.

Noon had come and gone. The now full princess sat a few yards away from the road, licking the grease of her recently finished meal off her fingers. Using her powers and her sword, she'd divided the Grassling into what she would eat now and meat that she had dried and would store in the already tanned hide from the animal. She was grateful for the gift of her magic, and the things it allowed her to do. Now with a tight and tidy bundle at the back of her hip, K'anda pressed on.

Suddenly she was running. She hadn't paid attention to the sun and it set on her before she could find shelter. The heavy paws pounding behind her, coupled with hungry growling and frantic panting, let her know how close the Moon Wolf was. K'anda chanced a glance back and in the darkness only saw two red, bobbing eyes as it chased her and threatened to close the gap between them. She'd heard tales of how fast the creatures were, but until she had tried to launch a liquid ball of fire at one, she never knew. Tall grass whipped at her exposed thighs, stinging with each oncoming hit. In panic she'd lost track of the road.

K'anda's legs made for the nearest line of trees, hoping that the hungry thing behind her would be lost, but it kept up. She balked left, so did the wolf, she leaped over fallen trees, so did the wolf, she pumped her long, muscular legs as hard as she could, the wolf didn't care. Its pace was steady, keeping with her. Inch by inch, it gained. She could feel the oncoming attack, the animal letting loose a triumphant cry. K'anda's mind tried not to imagine what the final fight between them would feel like. Tried not to imagine the long teeth rending her flesh asunder. A low branch whipped her face, blurring her vision, another, another. She lost sight of the ill-lit woods ahead of her through the tears in her eyes. She saw the log, lying across the ground at the last second and leaped.

The ground gave way. She was only vaguely aware of the feeling of falling; the panic had driven her almost numb. As soon as she realized what was happening she hit the wall of the hole she'd just plunged into. With a flash of pain and a heavy grunt, the air was driven from her lungs and she was unconscious. She didn't know for how long she fell, or the time that had passed since she'd landed. Her body seemed a vague memory of a lifetime ago. All her senses crept back into her in waves, like things being washed ashore by the great oceans near her home of Zhu'ul. Her eyes saw nothing but dark, she tasted blood and dirt. She tried to breathe, but her nose was stuffed up with dirt and blood, too. Now her body was a rack of ache and pain as she fully came to, all her senses in place.

Before she moved she checked her body, sending tendrils of magic down her length to see if she'd broken anything. She was okay. It seemed the Moon Wolf was not hungry, or foolish enough, to follow her down the hole she'd accidentally discovered was hiding beneath a bed of twigs. She was lying atop something metal, the thin material scraping and sending echoes out into the cave she was in. With a moan and wince, she held her hand up, released her restraint of her ability, and created a ball of bright, yellow fire.

She sat up, trying to survey what she was laying on. She'd never seen anything like it: a carriage but squatter and longer, made of metal with glass windows and what looked like iron discs as wheels. Her face bunched with confusion as she stood, using her other hand to wipe away the blood and dirt from her face. She fed more of her gift into the ball of flame, letting it grow and brighten to the point where she could no longer hold it, even at arm's length. With a grunt of effort, she threw the ball up. It howled and turned and kept going, fed by her until it hit the roof. K'anda's golden eyes were as wide as saucers when it finally hit the ceiling, an impossible distance, and ignited to four times its original size. A prayer to the good spirits fell from her lips.

The cave was more than massive; the ceiling had roots hanging low from the earthen material it was made of. As far as her gifted eyes could see, there were rows and rows of the same kind of grey structure that was under the lake. It stretched for what seemed an eternity. Everything lit by the fireball above was grey with dust or orange with age. More of the short carriages lined veins of what seemed to be roads, their smooth surfaces cracked and broken. The taller boxes were barely standing, pieces of them hanging by wires to a skeletal frame. Metal poles, twisted and bent with age, punctuated the many lines that made up the grid where the rest sat. Flashes of yellow and red reflected off dirty glass sitting in the gaping mouths in the faces of stone towers. Even her entire land of Zhu'ul could not have compared to what was in the cave. Not the size nor the expanse of the dead world she'd fallen upon.

She wanted to bound through it, see and study every crack and crag, but caution crept into her. Apprehension wrapped cold and tight around her, freezing her muscles and pushing them to flee. She looked up to the hole or the direction she though it was and spotted a tiny yellow blotch of light. The wall next to her had been fixed with metal rungs, leading up and out. With a final look she limped toward them, her mind reeling with what she had seen.

It was now, and only now, that she wished she wasn't alone. She wanted to know about this dead world and what it was, why it was, and when the final flicker of life in it had extinguished. She vowed, after she obtained a mate, to return to this place and speak with the dead. Her hand gripped the first bar and aching muscles started pulling her up, toward the world she knew.

An Immortals Tale: Part 8

An Immortals Tale
The Man in the Black Suit
Part 8
"The Day The Sun Died"

The change started in the cab home. Jons body became hot and bursting with energy that was slowly building to something he was dreading: Rebirth. The driver didn't bother asking questions and Jon liked it that way. The night was cold, vapors of heat rose from his overheating body in the backseat. It would take another few hours for the transformation to be complete, but before that he had to deal with the pain of it. Like a mother giving birth he had to take it all. The cab pulled up to his apartment and Jon threw a wad of cash at the man behind the wheel before fetching his impossibly heavy bag from the trunk, lugging it up the stairs while waves of pain crashed into him with no mercy or sign of relenting. His fingers fumbled with keys and after an immeasurable amount of time found the right combination. Inside the bag was tossed aside, thunking like a thousands pounds of metal against the hardwood floor, but he didn't care. Midnight was upon him and the worst of this pain was yet to come. In the middle of the room, near his comfortable chair he began to strip, losing his clothing with gusto, as if it were the fabric, itself, that was on fire and not his own skin. Soon he was naked upon the floor, panting heavily and trying to deal with the oncoming agony that seemed endless.

Invoking the powers of a Paladin for a holy man as he meant that new things would come to light, new powers, new abilities, new sight, new strength, but there was a price to be paid. Paladins were the purest of the holy hierarchy of the order, bringing judgement to humans, demons, and angels, alike. Jons perfect teeth gritted against the new wave, his eyes shut tight, every fiber of muscle like stone, as more of the pain come forth. Screams tried to escape him, only to be choked off by the rigidity of his own body. His mind was being torn apart as his body was rebuilding itself into something different: A Soldier. He clutched at the wooden floor beneath him, his knees on ground with his clenched hands. Hands so tight he was sure he was cutting into his own skin. Knowledge that had been tucked away come screaming forward, incantations, weaknesses, spells, and all the things that he never needed before, once so trivial, now impossibly important. The world drowned itself out in his suffering, the night outside the windows of his small residence reflecting a world that right now didn't matter. Then a break came. Just long enough for him to draw cold air into his lungs, right before the newest assault on his senses came, the first wave of the change complete. He screamed as he arched his back, so hard he was afraid, somewhere in the back of his tormented mind, that he had broken it. Legs stiff with pain could not support him and he fell back, his head meeting the floor along with his shoulders. And that's where he stayed, for hours, until the change was done with him. 

Midmorning was already singing its song by the time Jon came around. He was where he was before: On the floor, naked, twisted in an uncomfortable position. New energy flowed through him, new knowledge screamed in his mind. He stood up, slowly. Muscles had ripped apart, only to be rebuilt anew, adding and subtracting to perfect his new soldier body. Legs, though sore, carried his half limp body to the bathroom where he saw himself for the first time. His bland physique was gone, replaced with tone and bulk, his soft jawline now hard with muscles. But it was his eyes that frightened him the most: Still grey, for the most part, but now with a ring of red along the outside. Jon stood, mesmerized by his new body, as he quieted the new things in his head screaming for attention. He needed a drink. A shower later the immortal stood before his wardrobe and hoped upon hope that they still fit. With a giant sigh of relief he donned a black suit that hung perfectly off his rebuilt frame perfectly. In fact, it looked a little better, now. With little regard he lifted the now, almost lightweight, bag carrying all sorts of arms, into the closet to get acquainted with his wardrobe. But before he stepped outside he surveyed the world with his Paladin eyes. All of it, every single thing, seemed different. The buildings, the sun hidden behind the clouds, the people, all resonated something different. His reborn sight now was able to pick up the things that were lost behind a cloud of comfort.

Legs, that seemed to carry him with a lot less effort, made the walk to his favorite pub shorter. Along the way he had stopped and eaten three times, intake to fuel and maintain the power within himself that demanded more than what he was used to eating. Thoughts and deeds poured off the people he walked by, audible to him, now, like heat waves radiating off a hot coal. Some disgusted him, calling forth the fury waiting beneath the surface, others almost screaming for him to judge them. But he fought the instinct. He didn't want to pass judgement on them unless he had to. As he walked, though, he found he felt his usual smiling demeanor replaced with a frown, almost scowling at the things he now heard. At the things his new paladin powers allowed him to hear. He decided, then and there, at the thoughts of a man who wanted to murder his wife, that this new frown would be the face he would wear on this new body. Blocks passed, people passed, all the more disturbing to him. Sometimes his hands would clench so tight, trying to control the fury inside him, that they shook. He wanted a little peace. A bit of his old life back. And before he could lose control the door of his pub stood before him, welcoming, promising. He pushed it open. Inside sat the same old bouncer, with the same old look, but his reaction was different. Upon locking eyes with the incoming immortal he blanched pale and almost white, pushing the door open while he looked away from the judging gaze.

Ricky, the vampiric bartender, was at his usual station, staring at his phone and clicking away. The bar smelled the same, but now it was laden with something that had never been there before, and was as palpable to Jon as the brews being served to the patrons: Sin. Jons mood was too foul to play a prank on his favorite bartender and he made a beeline to the heavy wood counter. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted new patrons, all heavily robed and all drinking sacramental wine out of crystal goblets. He decided to ignore it as he took a chair and waited for Ricky to notice him. After a few moments the vampire looked up and saw the immortal patron and smiled, happy to see an old friend. Ricky made his way quickly, and fluidly, like he was floating on air to Jon. Jon had never paid attention to the way his bartender moved, but now it seemed almost alien, too fluid for a human, but ignored it, as well. "Jon! My favorite......" Rickys eyes met Jons. The already pale face of the undead bartender lost even more color, "What....did you do...Jon?" Rickys eyes were locked on his patrons, studying, and in pain. It gave the immortal pause to see such emotions flowing through his old friend, but he finally answered, "I'm a Paladin, now, Ricky." The vampire held his gaze, but 'No' kept tumbling off his trembling lips as he reached out a thin hand to touch a face he thought he knew. An audible hiss and a stream of smoke emitted from the outstretched fingers as they made contact with the new skin Jon wore. Slowly and trembling Ricky withdrew his hand, shaking with the pain of touching his friend.

"Oh dear God, Jon, no. A Paladin?" Jon could only nod as Ricky went on, "No, Jon, no! God have mercy. For the rest of my undead life I will remember this as the day the sun died and the world became a darker place." Watery eyes begged for an explanation. Jon began forming the words when the first blow came from behind, knocking his head into the heavy wooden counter and turning the world into a blur. Ricky gasped and suddenly ignited, like he'd been set on fire from the inside, flames seeping through cracks on his now burning and blackened skin, before he collapsed into a pile of smoldering ash behind the counter. Jons head came back up, but so did his anger, awakened and at the ready. The immortals hand shot behind him and grabbed thick robes, pulling the weight into the bar as he stood, knocking the wearer out. With unearthly speed Jon turned to face his assaulter. Before him stood six hooded figures, all near the same height as him, their faces hidden in shadow, their bodies hidden beneath thick fabric. Jon let his new power flare and flow to his fists that glowed orange, showcasing his bones through the illuminated skin. His voice was low, a growl, a hatred he'd never heard come from himself, "Your lives are now mine. FORFEITED IN THE NAME OF GOD!"

His left hand, burning with burning hot power, moved on its own, slamming down upon the figure on the floor, releasing the captive energy into the receiving body, reducing it to a flash of golden flame then ash. Powerful legs launched him from his half-crouched position towards the rest of the figures, a primal, guttural scream erupting from Jon the newly born Paladin. His movement was so fast that it slowed the world down to a crawl and for the first time since entering Jon saw the usually busy bar was empty save for the now seven occupants. Glowing fingers raked through the air, seeking a target in the hooded figures before him, begging to be released. He caught only fabric, that burned away into cinders, as the figures dodged his strikes. Jon wasn't connecting. He knew why: He wasn't utilizing his new knowledge. So he brought it forth. All the new methods of using his now muscular body joined him and now it became as easy as breathing. Thick fabric ripped and Jons extended limbs now connected. Although they tried to avoid him he was ripping into them. Every time one of the figures would try to mount an offensive against the immortal it was met with swift and aggressive action, interrupting the motion before it could be completed. Soon he had them on the ropes, his punches and kicks colliding with solid bodies. It only served to fuel his want to reduce them to nothing even more. 

The sound of splintered chairs and tables as Jon chased his aggressors around the bar joined the grunts and yelps of pain he elicited with his attacks. Finally he'd chased them into the back corner, six figures trembling and looking to one another from behind hooded cloaks. "ENOUGH! YOU DIE NOW!" Jon's throat burned with the scream as he launched himself again at them. Then his body came alive with pain. The robed figures threw out their hands, aimed at Jon, each sending an unseen knot of air at him. He was too committed to his own attack to dodge them. It felt like he was being shot with a machine gun, each knot smashing into him with unforgiving force, driving the air out of him, one or two cracking his ribs, and the last of them catching his extended limbs and rendering them useless. He fell, in a heap, to the floor before the six figures, his consciousness threatening to succumb into passing out. He realized, as he lay on the sticky bar floor, the hands that had reached out of the robes were something he had not expected: Human. Above him a voice spoke, gentle and wise, "You've come to the fold, Paladin Jon. You've proven yourself to us. And we are thankful. But now. Your power is ours. As is your life. Go with God, Paladin Jon."

The world around him was beginning to fade to black as he looked up and saw six pairs of hands stretch out of those heavy, brown robes above him, and begin to glow the same color as his own. His vision continued to fade, tunneling into a long, dark spiral. The hands glowed brighter and some ancient language he thought he recognized began to drone. Jon fought to stay awake, seeking that last glimmer of light at the end of the black corridor that had become his vision. The last thing he saw was those hands above him, performing a ritual he was unfamiliar with, but he felt the effect: His lifeforce, itself, was beginning to drain away. Blackness took over and the newly born Paladin fell unconscious.