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.”

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)

Chelsea was warm. She loved waking up to that feeling, even if she didn't open her eyes, even if she didn't move for a little while, she loved waking to being warm. It was like remembering something so important that you want to memorize it, again, just to make sure it's always there for you. She kept her eyes closed, but felt M's arm draped over her, keeping her safe while he slumbered next to her, his even breathing nearly music to her, no matter how many times she heard it.

It'd been a rough time for him since he'd gotten there. He helped retrain people in their town, helped gather supplies, and even came up with new safety procedures for some of the crews. He even trained her, intensely, and she became an even better shot, and even added skills to her repertoire like survival and hand to hand combat. She remembered those days fondly, the way he was so happy teaching people, even though there was a dark torrent of emotion underneath. She bit her lip as that scene, in the cafeteria, played out in her mind.

So many people were pestering him for his story, they offered up theirs, some even offered the stories of others, trying to coerce the young man that was so knowledgeable in surviving in this world. He resisted for as long as he could, until one day a rumor started that he was a spy for some other settlement. M wasn't hurt about the accusations, in fact he understood them. He asked that as many people be present for his story to quell the little fire that'd sprung up.

Chelsea remembered being infuriated with the rest of the people, she reminded them how much he'd helped, but her cries fell on deaf ears. She remembered seeing him sit at the back of the room, in a single chair, holding a cigar box, her heart ached for him. She wanted to stand by him, comfort him as he spun his tale to the people that had demanded it. She counted the people that walked in, nearly the entire population of their little town, staring at the man with the long, black hair, dark eyes, and a beaming smile. When he was sure they were ready he began.

She felt herself tremble as he began his story, opening the cigar box at the same time. He spoke about his three brothers, taking out tiny trinkets from the box as he did. He was the oldest, the next brother in his teens, the one after had only turned eleven, the last was barely learning to walk. He talked about his father, who was in the special forces before the world fell apart, and how he trained him. He went on to tell how his father died fighting to restore the world. The entire time he spoke Chelsea's hands were balled into fists of fury and worry. He got to the part about his mother. For the first time in his tale his voice shook. It felt like the world trembled beneath her feet.

M explained how his mother was an alcoholic, even into the fall of the world. He told everyone how he would have to include liquor in his daily runs, just to keep her functional. It was then that he pulled out a tiny bottle, the label faded and nearly scratched off. Tears flowed down his cheeks, her cheeks burned with tears, too. She'd fallen asleep drunk one day while he was out looking for food, his brothers couldn't fend off the dead that had heard the youngest of them crying. Chelsea started pushing her way through the people, trying to get to him, to comfort him. He had placed the bottle back in the box, then told them all about the last settlement he was in and how it fell. Even how he ended up here.

He met her eyes and smiled, through the tears, he smiled. She rolled over in their small bunk and put her arm around him, pulling herself closer to his warmth. He didn't stir, but she felt he knew she was there. Their relationship was quick to start, but slow to elevate to anything besides sharing a bunk and the title of a relationship. She stared at his face for a while, pondering the idea of going further, but it didn't last long. The small, red lights at their door began flashing, an emergency was at hand. A cold chill went through her as she shook M awake.

He came awake with a start, like always, instantly asking if she was okay, she nodded her answer. “We need to move. There's an emergency.” He looked at the light, then back to her, but she already knew the process. Within a few minutes she had her pack on, her rifle, and a few knives that he had given her, all ready as she ran out with him in tow. The young woman paused outside her door, the town alive with shouted orders, which raised the hair on her neck. The constant word was 'Raiders', each time it was said with more and more panic. Chelsea knew her role, M knew his, and they raced off. Luckily her bunk wasn't too far away from her post on the wall.

Chelsea's thick winter clothes made all sorts of sounds as she ran to the tiny stair set and began climbing up. Her rifle was over her shoulder, her legs pumped as the name of the man that was replacing her for the moment escaped her. She was about to call out to get his attention when a spear plunged through his chest, a spray of blood jetting out from his back, coloring the metal sides of the small roost. She tried to react, but the man was pulled over the side of the wall, screams of triumph erupting from the outside. The only thought on her mind was if M was okay.

Her eyes scanned the wall, frantically looking for him. She found him, just as he ducked a circular saw blade that had been launched at his head, missing by inches and sticking in the ground behind him. In her head she was furious at the attempt, but the rest of her was acclimated to violence. Quietly she climbed to the top of the stairs, poking her head over the edge to see who was attacking her settlement. What she saw drew a gasp from her.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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)

The blue SUV that had sped by had woken up more than a few of the dead, leading them on a slow, but determined chase. Ryan watched them all, shuffling, rotting, half-frozen, as they all marched after a thing they couldn't hope to catch. He couldn't catch it, either, but he did have an idea where they were going. The least he could do was take a trip out of his way to warn the little community about their impending visitors, and possible doom. The harbinger of doom thing was not how he liked to be, but he figured the more people in this world, the better. Hidden in the woods, just off the road he began his trek, working his long legs through the slushy snow and mud. Though his frame was thin, he did have an exceptional coat, thanks to that sporting goods store in the town over, and some very nice boots and galoshes. What he didn't have was food. He was afraid that his stomach might actually tip off the dead.

Ryan'd been traveling for days, trying to find a place to hide out or sleep in, but nothing was available. Each place was soaked with dead or had some very inhospitable people living there. Almost every time he'd encountered them, either the living or the dead, he'd chosen the non-violent route. He was taller, thinner, faster, than most individuals still living, so it was to his advantage. He paused for a moment, letting the ghost of a memory scream across his thoughts. Ryan shook his head, his long hair swaying back and forth in front of his light brown eyes, some strands sticking in his ever growing beard. 'No. That wasn't his fault. He didn't do it on purpose. Circumstances are what they are, and they.....' A gust of ice wind carrying crystals that stung his face broke the thoughts. It was an easy decision to keep walking for a while in complete silence, physically, and mentally.

The rhythmic crunch, crunch, crunch, of boots on snow was comforting to Ryan, the moans of the dead interrupting the steady sounds every now and again. Although they were easy to ignore, each new one gave the snow trekking man chills, especially the children. Again his mind tried to go to a darker place, but he fought against it, changing his course deeper into the woods, but keeping the direction the same. This was more dangerous, but the moans were a lot quieter, and allowed him to think without having to think about what happened. The moaning picked up for a second, one moan, more specifically, rose above the rest. It was a single dead, shambling through the woods, turned towards the settlement before Ryan's crunching caught his attention. He seemed to be freshly turned, a young black man with a bow across his chest, and one hand. The dead bared his teeth and moaned, turning fully towards Ryan, reaching out with a hand and a stump.

He had to be quick, those moans attract other dead. The long-neck hammer came free of it's leather harness on his hip, ready for the kill. Crunch, crunch, crunch, his steps went as he closed the gap between him and the dead. Ryan's long arm arched from above his head, coming down on the dead's skull. The sound was dull, but it reminded Ryan of when he used to bite into an apple, wet with a snap. The dead went down with no further incident, and the victor began to collect his winnings. Out of all the weapons and useful things he got Ryan was the most excited for the food. So excited he climbed a nearby tree and slowly ate a half frozen can of peaches. He didn't believe he'd ever eaten something so delicious in his entire life. After making sure the entire can was empty he picked up his trek again.

Dusk loomed on the horizon like a threatening shadow, ready to swoop down and take away the light, and leave the world in darkness and turmoil. Ryan's weary legs had lead him back to his original course, closer to the road, his stomach finally stopped grumbling and groaning from hunger. Soon he'd have to stop and find a tree to sleep in, but he'd continue just a little longer. Ryan used to love the night, used to love the sunset, especially when it turned red, the same dark red as her hair. Those thoughts of what he'd done finally caught up with him, finally found him weak enough. All at once, though, the dead stopped their march. Collectively they turned around, facing the opposite way of the settlement. Ryan's blood ran cold.

The roar of three engines began as a soft purr in the distance, but grew to ear splitting levels as they approached closer. Whooping, yelling, heavy metal music, all made the air thick and violent. Ryan hid behind a nearby tree as the three monster trucks with giant tires began to clear through all the dead on the road, the ones that weren't caught under the tires were bashed with long lead pipes. The man hiding behind the tree was still, eyes wide and staring, and utterly terrified. The one man driving the lead truck leaned out the window and pointed towards that settlement a day out and shouted "Fresh meat, boys!" Again the engines roared and they rolled forward.

Ryan couldn't control his legs, his thoughts, his panic, he started running. The rumors of marauders were true. Cannibals seeking easy prey. As he raced to try and save them her image came back, the last one he had of her when she was still alive. His sweet Bea, his only daughter, bitten, but never turned. He made sure she never wandered the earth like that. He saw her matted hair, even redder with blood soaking through it, her pale skin, her lifeless eyes, her smile that she wore all the way until he buried her along side her mother, her sister, and her brother. Ryan wasn't a religious man, but he prayed, now. "Please, God, please let me save them! Let me save one! Just one, please!" His breath, in the forms of clouds, carried his pleas upward and onward.

Life After Death (Original Series)

Pressing his back to the wall that refused to give, Kevin's chest heaved, though he was barely aware of his lung's attempt to get more air. His eyes were locked straight ahead, while his mind barely comprehended what had just transpired. As his body began to return to his control, he took inventory of each newly traumatized appendage. 

His head ached fiercely, and long arms felt like lead weights tied to his shoulders. Kevin's core was nothing but a knot of pain with an uncanny need to cramp. His legs were all but absent save the feeling of tingling flesh beneath his still cold skin. He finally took notice of all the sticky, grimy blood covering both his hands like macabre gloves. The webs of it tightened on his face as it dried, and his boots were almost soaked through with it. In his right hand was a bent crowbar, in the other lay a two-pound metal mallet. 

Kevin's breathing finally began to slow; his body finally relaxing. The wall against his back felt good, not only from the cold seeping through his jacket, but from the support against his ache. Just past his boots was where the chaos began. Blood pooled and congealed in large amounts, reflecting the single lantern that burned in the small shack. The last ghoul he killed lay just a few inches from his feet, its head split open, grey mush spilling from the crack.

As perception set in, the true scope of the maelstrom that he had survived came into focus. The bodies of the dead lay in almost a perfect half circle around Kevin and his spot against the wall. Everything was coated with a sheen of blood; some in rivulets, some in spray, some in gouts. He moved his head for the first time in a while, trying to count the bodies around him. Even after catching his breath, a deep sigh came out when he finished counting, and the number tallied 19. While he counted, it was the first time he'd paid attention to their faces, shocked to see the diversity. He saw teens to people in their 50s, all with lips pulled back, eyes locked in that hungry look, and all bearing a skin color that did not belong to the living. 

Deciding not to dwell on it, Kevin's eyes searched the rest of the house, finding his pack in the corner, along with several items that could prove useful, brought in by his new housemates. There was something in the back of his mind. It sounded like someone trying to get his attention in a large crowd, so he paid it no attention, for now. With a little effort, Kevin worked his hand open, his skin tacky and taut from the drying blood. Once the crowbar clinked to the floor, he wiped away the wetness on his face, trying to make his mind get things in order again. 

His other hand followed suit, then his muscular core, and finallly his legs pushed him upright. Kevin was on his feet again, his mind firing up like the motor on a monster truck, working to get the information before him in order and processed. That voice in the back of his mind kept trying to get his attention. Collecting the items he'd inventoried from the dead, the only living human in the small, one-room shack waded through viscera and gore to the pack in the corner. Stuffing the collectables inside, he only turned back to his original spot to collect his two bludgeoning weapons. His pistol sat comfortably on his hip, while his rifle nestled in a blanket tied to his pack. The first 'thump' against the door brought the voice that was in the back of his head screaming to the forefront. It said, "The noise that you just made killing those ghouls would, and has, attracted more of them!"

It was high time to leave, but there was no exit but the front door. The man in the shack leaned against his  wall and sighed, appreciating the situation. For some reason his mind fastened on a memory of something a friend of his said back in El Paso, "The definition of insanity is not the absence of sanity, but doing the same exact thing over and over again, and expecting a different result." He couldn't help the smile that came, even as the rickety door danced and shook with each new thump and crash against it from the dead outside, trying to get in. He didn't know why he said it outloud, but he did, "I'm not going to do the exact same thing." As the last word fell on lifeless ears, Kevin drew a deep breath, filling his once-panicked lungs with cold air.

The door splintered into toothpicks from the kick that powerful legs delivered. Eight ghouls stumbled, the force knocking them all back a few paces. Their eyes found their culprit: a tall, muscular, black man, with a deep scowl, and determination steeling his resolve. The first ghoul, a woman with long red hair, opened her mouth and groaned at her new prize of living flesh. It didn't last long, nor did the other seven groans. Kevin's footprints cut through snow that was now slushy, red, and a few bodies heavier. The river was close by, and even in this cold, he could get clean. The smell of what he was covered in had just begun to creep up his nose, and he didn't like it one bit. He wanted to be clean, even if it meant being cold. 

At the river, thick with ice and slush, Kevin found a nice part absent of anything that might freeze to his skin. He dropped his pack, and pulled up the jacket sleeves, vowing to clean it later, and plunged his hands into the clear water. It almost immediately began to swirl red around his wrists, as he scrubbed at them for as long as he could take it, bringing handfuls of water to his face in between. The adrenaline had yet to subside, so the cold didn't bother him. He looked around, to make sure he was safe. That's when he spotted her, on the other side of the small river, floating on her back, stuck on a rock near the shore.

Conviced that there were no dead around, Kevin crossed the river via some nearby rocks, and ran to the woman. She had a bow strapped across her back, a pistol in her holster, and short hair. He pulled her from the water and spoke softly while jostling her, trying to wake her. "Hey! Lady! Come on, man, you picked a hell of a place to take a nap. Yo!" A twig snapped in the distance and Kevin's eyes darted up, searching for the cause, only finding a stump of a tree a few feet tall. He looked back down just in time to see the woman bite down and rip off three of his fingers on his right hand. He stared in shock as he raised his hand, trying to move the digits that weren't there anymore. 

As fast as he physically could, Kevin pulled the machete free of the sheath on top of the lady's pack, and ran to the stump. Without any thought or hesitation, Kevin raised the blade and hoped it was sharp enough. With every muscle tense and his mind clear, the blade went through his wrist and into the stump with a sharp 'thwack.' The blood didn't start right away, and he took advantage of it, pulling the cord to the hood of his jacket out, and tying it around the stump where his right hand used to be. He hoped it was enough for now.

He heard the woman moan and shuffle toward him, pulling herself by her arms. Kevin figured she'd broken her back. Her mouth area was a contrast to the rest of her face, stained bright red in his blood, the rest pale and washed out. Kevin pulled the machete from the stump, and proceeded to put her out of her misery, hitting her so many times with the blade that it broke in half, and stuck in what was left of her skull. 

After carefully wrapping his wound and thoroughly searching through the lady's pack, Kevin took to the road again. He remembered he'd heard of some place east of where he was called 'Hadley's Hope.' He hoped they were still there. He hoped he remained human long enough to reach it. 

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.

Have To Know (Original Short)

Mark sat in the backseat, to his left Manuel, a medic, the man in the passenger seat was a mechanic, the driver another shooter, like himself. The blue SUV they all sat in screamed down the road, attracting more of the dead to them, but he didn’t care. Mark’s sister was the pilot of that helo. And he had made a promise to protect her. The ones he had promised were now long gone, but the promise still stands.

The snow was heavy on the ground, the last two weeks it’d been relentless. This only made Mark worry more, clutching the rails of his rifle and letting the metal bite into his flesh made sensitive from the cold. It eased the rising panic of thinking of his youngest sister, and only surviving family member, alone and running through hordes of the dead. The silence inside the vehicle was near deafening, all four of the men inside deep in concentration with the task at hand.

The drive would be easy. The roads had long since been cleared and the abandoned vehicles looted and moved aside. It made runs into towns for supplies and transport of approved survivors easier. Mark’s mind, however, was on what could have went wrong with the chopper. As far as he’d known the thing was in pristine condition, maintained and kept with careful scrutiny. He didn’t even want to entertain the idea that she had been shot down. But then that would bring the questions: by who? Why?

The answers he, himself, concocted made him uneasy so he checked his gear as the vehicle took a hard right. His pistol and rifle were silenced, the tac vest he had on was filled to the brim with ammo, and two knives completed the ensemble. Mark didn’t mind being a shooter, hell, he was built for it. Around six feet tall and near two hundred pounds of solid muscle, short cropped brown hair, with a square jaw. The other three in the car were varying builds, but it was more than obvious that Manuel was the shortest and scrawniest of the four. For some odd reason that comforted Mark.

The car took a sharp right turn. And what was the gentle hum of the street beneath the wheels was now the cacophony of dirt and sticks and the like being kicked into the wells and under chassis of the vehicle. Their journey was near an end. The four men looked to the field where the pillar of smoke climbed high into the sky, visible flames licking at the base of it. Jake, the driver began to assess the distance and started barking their orders, “Okay. Ten seconds, no more, no less. If the chopper don’t fly anymore let it burn. Find the pilots. If they’ve turned do what has to be done. If they’re alive we’ll find them.” He shot a look back at Mark, letting him know that one way or another his sister would be accounted for.

The flaming wreckage went from a small picture to just as large as life and the numbers were there, too. The dead were thick and gathered around the downed aircraft, hoping to find a meal made of living human. With some quick maneuvering the driver swung around and cleared a side of the helo for them to inspect, the bodies thunking loudly against the side of their car. Ten seconds to establish what happened. Mark let that thought take over as he let the floodgates of adrenaline fly open.

All four doors were kicked open, four sets of boots hit the ground, four minds started a grim task. The first shout was the mechanic, declaring the chopper useless, the second was announcing there was nothing but a bloody skeleton left of the other pilot, the third said that it was not June, his sister. Mark listened very carefully as he picked off ghouls that got too close to the car and the team. Their ten seconds was up. As they all made for the car Mark noticed a trail of shot zombies leading away from the crash. “She went that way!” The driver acknowledged it as they all climbed back in.

Hope blossomed like a fire with fuel thrown on it as Mark put one leg into the backseat, shifting his weight inside. Then it hit him. A set of rotted teeth came from beneath the car and sunk deep into his leg, right above his ankle. He screamed and tore free his limb, leaving behind some flesh. His door slammed closed and he looked up to find three faces staring at him. Before one of them could reach for their pistol he pleaded with them, “Let me find my sister, first! You can deal with me then. The bite is on my leg. I have at least two hours.” The other shooter began to slowly draw his pistol and Mark tried again. “Please. I have to know.”

Hands began to bang and claw at the windows and doors and the driver finally said, “Fine.” The vehicle was shifted into gear and they began to plow through the gathering horde, following the prominent trail of the dead. Mark watched intently, looking for signs, trying to think how his sister would think. Even as he did, though, he could feel his hope die more and more with every painful pulse of the fresh bite. The SUV danced over holes and small hills, making it more and more excruciating for Mark. In his head he pleaded, ‘Please be alive, sis. Please.’

Almost two miles from the site of the downed copter they found a single room shed in the middle of a corn field, the vegetables around trampled flat by the dead. More than twenty of the ghouls lay on the floor around the shack, showcasing his sister’s ability to shoot. Quietly he removed all his ammunition, his weapons, his tac vest, and had only his pistol in hand. Mark cleared his mind, felt the gun in his palm, felt the last glimmer of hope shining bright that his sister was alive. He placed his hand on the handle, “One shot means she’s alive. Two means go home.” The three nodded in silence, ignoring the dead that were currently stalking towards them as Mark left the car.

Three men watched the dark shack, eyes wide and waiting. Even the constant moans of the dead seemed quieter than a whisper. The first shot rang out, lighting the entire shack, beaming through the spaces between the boards that comprised it. It felt like an hour for the three men, watching, waiting, hoping. Another shot rang out and the shed lit again for a brilliant instant before darkness reclaimed it.

Chelsea Atop The Wall (Original Short)

Chelsea sat at her post, watching the snow fall out on the abandoned freeway. The SUV packed to the brim with trained rescue guys just flew out of the gates that were promptly shut, entrapping her in her peaceful little world. Atop a twenty foot concrete wall Chelsea sat in her make shift crow's nest, watching the world below her, beyond her. Skills were bestowed upon her by her father, the last good hunter in the community meant she got duty of long-gun. Nobody took her seriously because of her age, but her targets and their constant holes where the bulls-eye should be, would command respect and often silence.

Winter had come in heavy this year, and she knew that she should be out hunting, trying to gather enough food to keep the ever-shrinking community fed, but after the helicopter went down a few hours ago, she got put on snipe duty. Her commands were easy: if it isn't alive shoot it. If they aren't from this community shoot them. No exceptions. At only 19 years of age the weight of having to take another human life was now a reality and she didn't like having to contemplate putting a living, breathing, person in her crosshairs.

Her eyes spanned the dead landscape, lingering for a moment on the black barked, leafless trees that surrounded their encampment. With not much imagination at all they looked like skeletal hands reaching up from the blanketed ground, stretching towards heaven to infect the good souls, that had left this wretched earth, with their disease and filth. Her thoughts went to her father, the summer, and having to run away while those things dragged him down and....She couldn't finish the thought. Suddenly the world around her looked like a painting that had been left out in the rain, swirls and waves distorted everything, until she closed her eyes, forcing the tears to run hot trails down her frozen cheeks.

With a gloved hand she wiped away the tingle on the tip of her nose, then checked to see if anyone saw. No one did. With her vision cleared she swept back over the desolate world outside, looking for a target. She found one. She found a few, no doubt rustled up by the opening and closing of the gate and the car that had left. The scope on top of her Remington 30-06 went to her eye, the red cross, vivid against the snow and the things, themselves, found the first head. The homemade silencer made a whisper of the shot and the slug made a mess of the zombie's head. Quickly and silently she caught the shell as it crept out of the chamber while she slid the bolt back with patience and precision. She found out the hard way they could hear a shell drop, even from twenty meters away. In a few minutes the eight dead things that had shambled out of the woods were nothing more than red smears on the porcelain white.

A row of clips sat upon the window ledge she looked out of. She didn't have any kind of disorder that made her put them in such a perfect row, but it did help to pass the time. She sipped at her barely warm cocoa and reloaded the freshly spent clip, placing it at the end and moving up the others, all filling in small indents in the snow. Boredom was nothing new. Boredom in this world, though, could get you killed. So she fought it with menial tasks, cleaning her 9 millimeter pistol and making sure the magazine ejected smoothly. She sniffed again, wiping away more tingles at the tip of her nose. She had to stay up there until the rescue team came back. It could take days.

She didn't have much room to wiggle about, but she made the effort. With a big sigh of relief as her stiff muscles had gotten just a taste of movement she settled back down in her tiny hammock type chair. She glanced at the community to her back, and all was well, it was when she looked back out to the road that surprise threatened to make her choke on her cold cocoa. There was a V formation of zombies heading towards them. At least thirty or forty of them. They didn't seem to changing course, they were coming for this community, like they probably had many others before. She slammed on the button that was rigged to an alarm system some computer guy built for them. Red lights lit the compound and hushed orders were passed along, the still community was now silently bustling for the impending attack.

The horde was a ways out, a good hundred and fifty to two hundred yards, enough to tell the numbers, but not close enough for detail. Chelsea brought her rifle up, took a deep breath and let it out slow as her finger squeezed. There was no need for stealth, now, her bolt flew open and closed like a veteran shooter. Each time her weapon jumped a head exploded into gore and red mist. A thought nagged her as she dropped her first clip and slammed in the next: 'Why are they in a V formation? They've never done that before.' Without thinking she aimed at the point at the front of the heard and what she saw jolted her: a young man was jogging ahead of the hoard, swaying left and right from exhaustion. His head was down, but there was no doubt he was alive.

Suddenly she realized this man's life was in her hands, he needed her, and if she didn't help him he'd end up just like her father. She had to do, now, what she couldn't do months ago. She had to save him. Through the glass and inch from her face she saw a rotted hand reach for his shoulder. She turned it's head into mush. She gritted her teeth and swore to herself that he would make it to these gates. Even if she had to go outside the wall and carry him. Soon other silenced rifles began to thin out the herd, dropping ghoul after ghoul, but no bullet coming near the young man. Less than 10 zombies and the young man made it to the red zone, fifty feet from the front door, and Chelsea had just spent her last bullet. She dropped her rifle against the edge of the window and ran down her tiny set of stairs.

Her snow pants and jacket made it hard to be as quick as she wanted to be, but she tried, anyways. She found herself yelling at the top of her lungs to open the door at the guard, Gary, but he wouldn't budge. She brought her pistol up and aimed it at his head, ordering him to back up. She hefted the steel bar herself and pulled it open. The last of the ghouls was down and the young man with long hair, covered in blood, his jacket torn like his pants, stood with his arms up, clouds of breath huffing out. He was trying to catch his breath, but managed, "I'm....I'm not bit! My name is M!" Chelsea didn't realize she was running towards him, towards the idea that other people were alive out there.

He dropped his pack and his pistol, which was empty, anyway and stared at her. She suddenly got very self conscious and stopped running as she holstered her own pistol, just in time to stop before him. She was a bit winded herself, but she tried her best to smile, "Hi. My name is Chelsea. You said your name is M, right?" He nodded, but his eyes kept darting over her shoulder to the other snipers that had the same orders as her, but she kept herself between them and him as she took his hand and started walking him into the encampment, his bag dragged with her other hand. "Welcome." It was the only thing she could think to say as they crossed the threshold. They were greeted with protests to another being brought in.

Chelsea could only level her blue eyes as best she could at her co-inhabitants as she spoke, "We're not animals. And we're alive. So is he. If we don't take him in then our name for this place is a lie." One by one people backed off and finally M asked her before they went on, "What's the name for this place?" Chelsea turned and could only smile as she looked up into his exhausted and stained face, "We call this place Hadley's Hope." She was confused as he started chuckling, and figured that exhaustion had caught up to him as he fell to his knees and then sat on the floor, laughing the whole time. She had to ask, "What's so funny?" He looked up at her, his eyes brimming with tears, "I found hope. In a dead world. I found hope." His smile looked so out of place, but she could only return it, in kind.

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 Dead March Slowly (Original Short)

A few days ago that Jersey guy and his little crew made it back to what is now being called "Haven." He'd watch the whole thing happen from behind the scope of his rifle. They called his post "The Tower" as it was the only piece of standing realty that overlooked the colony: a staircase that survived the fires and chaos, three walls and no way for a ghoul to get in on the bottom floor. He was six stories up, looking down on the world below, with the ghouls, the survivors, the fighters, the scavengers. Dale prefered to stay in The Tower as long as he could. He didn't like interacting with the rest of the crowd, except the one kid with the knives. Dale liked him. But he'd been up there for three days, and it was his end of shift. He didn't want to go, because suspicion ran heavily through him, but he had to - at least for one day. Besides, he was the only one good enough to be considered anything near a sniper. 

A rustle brought his attention to his back. He whipped around and the barrel of his .357 was in the face of the knife kid. His name started with an 'M' or something. The kid had a scolding look on his face when he spoke. "Dale, your finger isn't even on the trigger. And if I were so inclined I'd already have buried a knife or two in your back." He finished climbing in and Dale couldn't resist taking the kid down a peg, "Right. With them girly arms of yours, you'd barely even scratch my jacket. Pfft." Knife kid laughed and settled down next to the man he was to replace on the tiny platform. Both lit a cigarette, and Dale holstered his hand cannon. They shared the view for a moment and let the silence settle in. "I don't know, Dale. I'm a little worried." Dale couldn't resist, "Why's that? You're late this month or something?" "Ha! Don't worry. Everyone knows you'll be the father. No. I'm worried about Jersey and the little run-in he says they had." 

Dale remembered the tale of survival and how quickly it had spread through Haven. He didn't know why, but he was worried too. "Why are you so worried...Uh...." The kid smiled widely, "You don't remember my name!" Dale fumbled out names starting with 'M' as the kid laughed harder and harder at each attempt. "Just call me 'M.' I'm sure you'll be able to remember that." Dale shrugged and agreed. "So why you so worried, M?" After a moment of thought and a flicked cigarette, he finally answered, "Those things are tenacious. They're bloodthirsty and they never give up. I'm afraid that the little crew left enough of a trail for them to come back to Haven and have themselves a little buffet." Dale thought and decided he had the same idea. "But don't you think they'd be here by now?" M shook his head as he peered out over the city, colored orange and red by the setting sun, "Naw, man. The dead march slowly." 

After packing his rifle and the climb down from The Tower, there was only enough time for Dale to eat and sleep. He didn't mind. He hated interacting with all these hopeless morons that spat endless idiocies at him. Yet M's words kept running through his head as sleep took him: "The dead march slowly." Dawn broke and so did his peaceful sleep. With a groan, Dale pushed himself out of bed and put his jacket back on, going to get more supplies to supplement his days in his perch above the crowd. With a full pack and a full bag of ammo, he made the climb up to relieve M, avoiding all the people in Haven as best he could. They didn't even know his name, most only calling him "Sniper." He didn't mind that, either. A few of them had chosen anonymity to being quickly identified, choosing to keep ties severed. It made it easier if someone was eaten or killed out on the streets.

The city streets below were painted the same colors as the dusk when he had left, turning concrete from gray to orange and red. The air had a chill to it and he was thankful to have his jacket on. The stairs went by quickly, the last climb having to be the one to get to the top. M wasn't there, just the rifle and mat he used. Caution crept into Dale as he silently made his way onto the tiny platform, eyeing every shadow and corner carefully. "Gotcha, old man." The voice came from behind him. Dale spun and drew his revolver in the same motion, leveling it against the disembodied voice. There stood M, smiling like the Cheshire cat. "You little shit! I could've blown your damn head off!" M only laughed in response, prompting Dale to holster his gun and slug the kid in the shoulder. M laughed a lot less after that. They went about the ritual of switching out gear and mats, Dale's silenced G3 long scope rifle taking the place of M's silenced M4. 

Dale had just deployed the bipod on his rifle when the first scream came. He and M shared a look before peering down at Haven. Chaos had arrived. At the front gates was a wash of green, rotted flesh, pushing through the doors of their small community. A few ghouls had already shoved their way inside, devouring whomever they got their hands on. Without hesitation, Dale went to one knee and brought his rifle up, siting the first zombie and turning its head into a red mist. M's rifle came up and joined the fire fight. They took down as many as they could, but the dead kept coming. Screams and mayhem were muted by the distance between the events and the two atop The Tower. Both men reloaded and kept trying to reduce the numbers, but it was like smashing one ant in the middle of a colony. 

Through his scope, Dale saw mouths open and silently scream before they were taken, the muted gunfire of people trying to fight off the dead. He saw the chaos below through a cross hair, the noise never reaching him. He could only feel sorry for those below. Then he whipped his scope back to the front gates and saw the guy from the other hospital supply run, frozen in fear and shock. Then he, too, fell to the dead. Dale did the only thing he could, and put one through his head as the zombies began to rip him apart while he was still alive. The sound of heavy breathing took his eyes away from the death below and to the man sharing his perch. M stood, a deep frown upon his face, his rifle empty. M finally looked at Dale, resignation in his voice, "Haven has fallen." Dale looked back down, the dead now outnumbering the living, then back at the kid. "Yeah. But we ain't dead, yet." 

Dale knew it was a long distance to the next colony, but he would have to try. Both packed their empty rifles and descended the stairs, taking a side exit away from Haven. With a final glance, Dale and M began their long trek to the next cloud of civilization.