The Needle Tears a Hole

This thread is now closed for Annisthyrienne and myself

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The name's Cat. Or at least, that's what everyone calls me. I know, you're probably thinking it's short for Catherine, but actually my name's Maggie. Somewhere around the age of six or seven my grandmother started calling me Maggie the Cat a reference to some movie from years before I was born. Somehow the name stuck. Over the years some people started calling me The Cat. And finally they dropped the 'the' after a while and I became just Cat. I'm okay with that. It's a good name, better than Maggie I guess. No one is afraid of Maggie, but Cat, well some people will be a little more careful around Cat. Cat's mysterious, maybe a little dangerous. Cat might have claws. These days, it's good to make people think you might have claws. Anything that makes them think twice about fucking with you helps.

Of course, a cool name and pissed off look on my face isn't always enough. That's why I carry Cindy Lou and Big Bertha. Cindy Lou is my weapon of choice. She's clean, silent and requires no ammo. She's for the walkers. Big Bertha on the other hand, she's for the humans, the ones who are too stupid or too desperate to respect Cindy Lou. Big Bertha is usually loud enough to get their attention. And the holes it makes are pretty big too. Sucks that it's gotta be that way, but that's the world I live in now. That's the only world we have left now.

What's left of humanity and the walkers. Not easy sharing a world, with both groups trying to kill the other. Even worse when your own kind is disorganized and petty and running scared, everyone with their own idea of what should be done and who should be making the decisions. The walkers, they're all on the same page, all one mind. Eat people. Simple but effective when you think about it. Of course, I guess if you get right down to it, mankind's mission is just as simple...stay alive...no matter what.

"Time to go," I announced, banging loudly on the white door with it's chipped paint. "Randy. Gus. There's a herd coming this way. You've got two minutes, then I'm leaving you behind."

Turning away from the bedroom door, I stepped back over to the ragged looking couch where I'd slept the previous night. I hadn't bothered to undress the night before, other than taking my leather jacket off. You never knew when a walker would wander by. You couldn't afford to be caught with your pants down, literally. At least, not unless you had someone you trusted to watch your back. And I hadn't quite learned to trust anyone that much.

I heard movement from the bedroom where Randy and Gus had slept. I guess they had taken my threat to leave them behind seriously. That was good, cause I was serious. They had apparently trusted me enough to steal a little alone time the night before. I didn't blame them. Wasn't easy to find comfort these days. If you could find some in a lover's arms, you'd better not pass up the opportunity.

I was slipping Big Bertha back into her holster when the door opened and the two men emerged. Both were tall, athletic and relatively young. Probably one of the reasons they'd managed to survive so far. Old and overweight, not the best recipe for running from walkers. I grabbed the extra hand gun that I'd found in the apartment and slipped it into the empty holster on my other hip, before reaching down and grabbing Cindy Lou off the coffee table by the couch.

"Which direction?" Gus asked as Randy began to gather their bags. He stepped to one of the dirty windows and tried to clear a spot he could see through, but the grime just smeared.

"It's coming from the north east, and it's big," I replied as I grabbed the backpack full of food and ammo that I carried with me. I was already heading toward the door as I slung it over my shoulder. "We gotta move fast. I think west is the best option. Once we clear the city there should be some farmland. We can probably find a place there to hold up for a few days."

"We're right behind you," Randy said as I stepped out of the apartment into the parking lot. I hoped they were, but I wasn't slowing down.

As the engine of my Harley roared to life, Randy and Gus emerged from the small brick building, each carrying several bags. They piled the bags into the Prius they drove and as I pulled out of the parking lot onto the deserted street, they were close behind. Didn't take us long to realize that the zombie herd was even bigger than we'd thought and the streets were already starting to clog with shuffling bodies.

As the adrenaline began to flow through me, I loosed Cindy Lou from the make shift sheath on my bike. One hand on the throttle, I raced past the edges of the herd, using the curved sword to decapitate any walkers that got too close. I'd been in tighter situations in the last couple of years. Hell, I'd been in tighter spots in some of the strip clubs I'd worked at before the walkers came. We were almost clear of the downtown area when I heard screeching tires. I glanced over my shoulder and I slowed.

The Prius was on it's side, smoke pouring from the engine. Randy was trying to climb from one of the windows, but he seemed to be having trouble freeing his legs. As I circled around, I saw why they had wrecked. In the center of the road there was a lone walker. A girl. Maybe four or five. You could run a thousand walkers down without a second thought, but human nature when you saw a small child was to try to avoid it. Even an undead child.

Randy had finally managed to get out of the car but he was desperately trying to kick in the windshield so that he could get Gus out. A dozen walkers were closing in on them. Most people think walkers are slow and easy to avoid. They think that right up until they get caught. Truth is, when you're fighting for your life, everything speeds up, even walkers.

I sped past the front line of the small group of zombies and managed to cut down two of them. It wasn't enough. As I circled back around, I saw them surround the front of the car. Randy managed to take out one but that didn't deter the others. I stopped the motorcycle for a moment. There was nothing I could do. They were zombie food now. I decided not to watch the end. I'd seen it enough. Teeth and hands and blood and organs. Not pretty. Not human.

Time to go. Sheathing Cindy Lou, I surveyed my options, and chose a direction. With a roar of the engine I was in motion and moments later, I was gone. Within an hour, I had passed through the suburbs and soon the city would be nothing more than a memory. Just like Randy and Gus. I had a lot of memories like those now. More than my share, to be honest. I couldn't leave them behind fast enough, I thought, as I sped towards the farmland to the west.

I'd been riding motorcycles all my life, ever since that first time my grandfather had let me ride behind him when I was six or seven years old. He'd made me promise not to tell my mother and as I rode out of the suburbs and into the flat, green farmland to the west, I could still remember that feeling of rebellion. That and the sun warmed leather of the seat against my legs, my arms wrapped tight around Daddy Bill's waist, my eyes closed as the wind whipped against my face. It was fun and pure and innocent.

My second time on a motorcycle was nearly ten years later. I was fifteen and just beginning to develop into the willful, hormone crazed teenager that I would become. Boys had begun to pay attention to me the year before and by the time I hit fifteen, men were noticing me too. One of those men was Steven Kuhn. He lived around the corner from me. In his early twenties, Steven had joined the army when he was just eighteen and had been discharged after an injury had left him with a limp. He was handsome and tough, with a darkness about him, and just the type of person my mother wouldn't want me hanging out with. So naturally, I found myself attracted to him.

He would let me hang out in his garage and watch him while he worked on his bike. And every so often he would take me for a ride. I lived for those bike rides. The little taste of rebellion I'd felt as a young girl when I went for a ride with my grandfather was nothing compared to what it felt like to ride with Steven with his lean, muscled body and the chip on his shoulder and my eyes wide open. I would hold him tight and press my chest against his back while the engine roared and shook between my legs. I still remember that garage too. The smell of oil and gasoline. The dim light casting a yellowish pallor over the motley collection of tools and cans and auto parts that seemed to cover every surface. That garage became a part of who I was.

After my mother and I moved away from the neighborhood, I didn't see Steven Kuhn again, and I didn't get a chance to ride a motorcycle again until I was in my twenties. I'd dropped out of college and started working in strip club on the outskirts of town. The money was good. Good enough that after a year of dancing and getting guys to buy me watered down drinks, I had enough money to get my own bike. A year of lap dances and handjobs. It was worth it. If for no other reason than the fact that the Harley I bought would eventually save my life. I'd ridden away from the first wave of walkers on that bike, and I was still riding. Still running.

The sight of a lone walker along the side of the thin country road finally brought me back to the present. Just like the undead to ruin a perfectly good motorcycle ride. She shuffled slowly forward, her back to me, apparently oblivious to the fact that I was roaring up behind her. I started to just ride on past, but decided against it. I couldn't just ignore a walker, not when I had the opportunity to put it down. I loosed Cindy Lou from the sheath on my back as I passed the red flannel clad zombie. As I circled the bike around and started back in the other direction, I raised the curved sword to eye level, my arm extended out far enough that I would be able to take the walker's head without risking the bike leaving the road.

At thirty yards, the walker finally seemed to notice that I was there. As she looked up, her eyes locked on mine. Green eyes. Eyes that seemed glassy with exhaustion, but alive. At the last moment I realized that she wasn't a walker, just a girl. A real, live girl. I managed to lift Cindy Lou at the last moment, the blade skimming past the top of her head. Two inches lower and I would have scalped her.

I slowed to a stop, turning the bike as I glanced back over my shoulder to make sure the girl was okay. She still stood on the side on the road, but had turned to face me. The exhaustion she felt was obvious. She probably hadn't slept in a couple of days. Running for your life could make you do that. I slipped off my Harley and started toward the girl, sheathing Cindy Lou as I walked.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "Sorry for the close call, the way you were shuffling along there, I thought...well, anyway, my name's Cat. What's your name?" I stopped about ten feet from the girl. You couldn't be too careful these days. Some people were just as dangerous as walkers, especially the ones who had nothing to lose.

Jessie-Ann Clearwater stumbled along the country highway, focused solely on putting one foot in front of the other. In point of fact, she couldn't do much of anything else. Bordering on the edge of a dehydration delirium, her head ached and throbbed with each step. Her mouth and throat were parched. And the ache between her legs wouldn't stop.

Her headache was caused in part by the lack of water for the past 51 hours and 20 minutes, but the gash on her temple was a contributing factor. She'd hit her head when they tackled her, but if you'd asked her, she wasn't sure how it had happened. She'd lost consciousness; a blessing for what had followed. It was probably why she was still alive. Why waste a bullet on someone who was already dying anyway? Even if it would have been from her own gun. It was gone when she'd come to, along with her faith in humanity's goodness. She had woken to find her jeans hanging off one ankle, crusty dried semen practically gluing her vagina shut. And blood. Her panties were shredded, and now she was experiencing the delightful friction of walking down a road in jeans, commando, after having been gang raped by five 'good ol' boy' turds posing as men. Even in shock her thoughts were sarcastic.

So she walked. Her eyes fixated on the heat distortions rising from the pavement between her and the horizon, until she began stumbling too much and had to keep her eyes on her feet to keep from tripping and faceplanting.

One step, two step, keep it up. Gotta get down the road. Find a place to hide. Maybe some food if I'm lucky. Water. Weapons. A gun would be nice, but unlikely. Sure wish I'd stayed at the bunker.

These were her thoughts as she plodded along. She conveniently forgot that the bunker had been over-run from the inside when Uncle Larry turned. It was almost fitting, after all it was his bunker. Uncle Larry had always been one of those 'preppers'. He didn't trust the government, and figured most people were nothing but trouble, exceptin' kinfolk. She remembered the night he'd called her Daddy. She could hear his words over the phone, even from across the room; his excitement making his voice loud. "Git your boys and Jessie-Ann over here, Jim. The shit's done hit the fan in town. It ain't safe, y'all being over there in the open. I got room enough for all of us. Just bring yore guns and ammo and come."

And they did. They had lived with Uncle Larry for the next nine and a half months, hardly ever coming up above ground.

So when he turned into a flesh eating nightmare and run off the few of them who he hadn't killed, it was as if he'd changed his mind about inviting them to stay with him. Hell of a way to ask them to leave.

That had been about a month ago. Since then her daddy and two brothers had been picked off by walkers. Johnny was the last to get it, mobbed by a bunch of them while trying to scrounge some food from an IGA in the last small town. She'd tried to help, picking off as many as she could with her Henry .22 rifle, but in the end she'd seen him go down under the press of rotting bodies. That's when she knew it was over. The echoes of his screams of outrage, pain, and defiance were nothing but an afterthought at that point. He wasn't leaving canned goods section. Ever. Clean up on aisle four.

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Three days of fright and terror later, on the run, was when those men found her. She didn't know how long she was unconscious, and she tried not to think about what had happened while she was. She just kept walking. She didn't even stop to sleep, afraid they might come back to finish her. That was two days ago.

She wasn't even aware of the deep throb of the Harley's engine coming up behind her until the biker passed her. The wind was in her face, and helped keep the Doppler effect from her hearing until the last minute. And truth be told, she was pretty near delirious anyhow from the dehydration and shock. But when the rider turned around and came back, the deep rumble of the engine finally broke through her fog. She lifted her eyes slowly, staring for a moment before she stopped walking, the realization that this might not be just another hallucination beginning to dawn on her.

The vision of the rider holding something out as she came quickly towards her struck her as odd, confusing her until her eyes focused enough to make it out as a sword, and the danger registered in her fevered brain. Her eyes grew wide in that moment and she broke at the knees, upper body dropping back in pure reaction as she performed the limbo dance of her life. Her balance off, she fell unceremoniously to her butt, but the adrenaline of nearly having lost her head brought her scrambling to her feet quickly, turning to face the rider again as the Harley rumbled to a stop, and the rider dismounted.

As the rider approached, Jessie-Ann stepped back defensively, her legs trembling in fatigue and fear. Her hands lifted to ward off any blows, though it would be futile. But they never came. She peeked under her flannel clad forearm to see that the rider had sheathed her sword. That the rider was a woman surprised her a little, and that she spoke to her surprised her even more. The hallucinations never spoke.

Jessie-Ann didn't register the words at first. She lowered her arms, looking at the biker woman in a protracted moment of disbelieving silence. She blinked once. Twice. Shook her head slightly as if unsure. When it came, her voice croaked in a harsh whisper. "Are....are you real?" Before the answer came, her knees shuddered under her, the fatigue, dehydration, and shock finally taking it's toll. Her head grew dizzy and her sight dimmed. She felt herself sinking even as she tried to stand up. She never saw the ground coming up to meet her, only stretching her hands out to brace herself at the last moment.

Her sight cleared after a moment on hands and knees, elbows trembling to take the strain of holding her up. When she could see again, the gravel of the berm at the side of the road was under her palms, the curtain of her blonde hair fell around her head, screening her vision, and just at the limit of it, in front of her, the black leather of scuffed steel toed biker boots.

Walkers don't just kill people. They bite flesh, they tear limbs, they break bones. They destroy people, consume them, and not just the ones they catch. The people they don't catch have to live with what they've seen, the memories of their friends and families being eaten alive, the blood gushing from their bodies. Some people just can't recover from that, the screams of their loved ones haunting them, the sounds of teeth gnashing against skin and bone. They become walkers themselves in a way, wandering aimlessly, separated from all they've known, unable to function as humans, lost and waiting for death to claim them...

As I approached the blonde girl, I saw her back away, raising her hands in front of her face protectively. It was instinct, self-preservation, and it was a good sign. At least there was still something inside of her that wanted to live, even if it was barely a flicker. Her eyes focused on me for a second, responding to my voice with a glimmer of recognition. I couldn't help but wonder just how long it had been since she'd seen another living person, or spoken with one. She murmured something inaudible to me, but I didn't catch the words.

"You look like you could use some help, sweetie," I said as the girl finally dropped her hands down, staring at me, her expression blank. I took another cautious step forward but as I did, I saw the girl's eyes roll upward and her knees buckle. I lunged forward to try to catch her before she slumped to the ground, but was a step late. Well at least she managed not to crack her skull open on the road, I thought as I stepped up next to her.

I didn't waste anytime in rolling her over onto her back and checking her pulse. I was pretty sure that she had simply dropped from exhaustion and dehydration, but I had to be sure. If she was dead I needed to know before she had a chance to turn. She was out cold, but her heart beat seemed strong and regular. I straightened back up, standing over the unconscious girl, and glanced around. The area was quiet, a mixture of thin trees and open fields on either side of the two lane road. Wiping beads of sweat from my forehead, I looked over at my bike, trying to decide what I should do.

Did I get back on my bike and continue on my way? Most people in my position would have done exactly that. And they would have been right to do so. These weren't the old days when you could afford to put yourself out for a stranger. These days you took care of yourself first, friends and family if you had any, came second, strangers, not at all. Too big of a risk. God knows, I'd left behind my share of strangers behind in the last year, and haven't regretted a single fucking decision yet.

So why wasn't I walking back to my Harley and starting the engine? Why wasn't I barreling down the road away from the helpless blonde on the side of the road? I wish I could tell you it was because she reminded me of someone, a sister, my mom, an old friend or lover. Truth is I don't know why. Maybe it was because the loss of Gus and Randy was still so fresh in my mind, I don't know.

Even as I bent down and slowly pulled the young woman up into my arms, a voice in my head was telling me this was a mistake, telling me to leave her in the grass with some water and food, maybe a spare gun, then get the hell out of there. I ignored the voice. Once I made a decision, I rarely ever changed my mind, no matter how stupid the decision was.

I carried the blonde over to the motorcycle and laid her unceremoniously over the back, then grabbing hold of the handlebars and kicking the stand up, I eased the bike down off the road into the nearest stand of trees. The bike wasn't easy to push, especially with the girl draped across the seat, but eventually I managed to get it about a hundred yards into the woods, far enough from the road that anyone traveling along it wouldn't be likely to see us. There were no signs of any dwellings within sight, which was good.

I lowered the still unconscious girl down onto a soft bed of tall, green grass, doing my best to make her comfortable before getting a container of water from my bike, along with some rags. If I was going to stay with the young woman, to let her stay with me, I had to know that she wasn't going to turn, which meant I had to be sure she hadn't been bitten or scratched by a walker. With the heat from the sun muted by the canopy of tress above us, I knelt down next to her and slowly began to peel her clothes off, starting with the red flannel shirt that hung loosely on her. A man's shirt, too big for her. Wetting one of the rags, I gently began to clean the dirt and grime from her upper body, leaving her bra on, but lifting it up long enough to check her thoroughly.

She had a dozen small cuts and abrasions on her arms and chest, but none of them serious and none of them inflicted by walkers. The worst injury was the gash on her head which I cleaned and bandaged as best I could. Once I finished cleaning her upper body, I unbuttoned the filthy blue jeans that she wore and slowly tugged them down off of her hips. I let out a gasp at the sight of the dried blood between her legs, even as I slipped her pants down off her legs and cast them aside. She wasn't wearing underwear, and I realized that they had probably been lost when she'd been raped.

I spent the next twenty minutes cleaning her up as gently as I could, washing away the dirt and the blood. By the time I was done, there was no doubt that she'd not only been raped, but repeatedly and savagely. And it hadn't been that long ago, which probably accounted for her stumbling down the roadway in a daze. It also meant the men who did it to her were probably still nearby. Once I was done I dressed her in some of my clothes, a pair of tan pants and a green t-shirt. They weren't a perfect fit, but they were clean, and they weren't the clothes she'd been wearing when she was brutalized, which might help when she finally woke up.

I didn't want to start a full fledged fire, but I also didn't want to leave the bloody rags laying around. I didn't know whether walkers were attracted to the smell of blood, but I wasn't going to take any chances. Using a lighter, I carefully burned the rags, stamping the ashes beneath my boots. Then, once again kneeling down beside the young woman, I lifted her head enough to dribble some water onto her lips and into her throat, knowing that I needed to do something about her dehydration if I expected her to recover.

"Now just line up that sight picture like I told you how. Got it?"

I nodded, concentrating on holding the heavy rifle as still as I could. It was Uncle Larry's voice that was hot and tickling in my ear as he leaned close, reaching around to help steady the gun. "Take your breaths normally, in and out, then when you're ready, let the last one out partway and hold it. That's when you're ready to squeeze that trigger, Darlin'. Go easy now. Slow and steady."

I'd followed the advice, squeezing slow enough that it was a surprise to me when the .30-06 round went off. The recoil had barely registered when I was rewarded with the sight of a fine yellow-orange mist exploding and filling the air where the little pumpkin had been resting on the fencepost just a half-heartbeat before.

Uncle Larry hooted a cheer. "Woooooweeee! God dang, Girl! You're a regular Annie Oakley, for sure!" His exuberance as he clapped me on the back was contagious, and I grinned as wide as the braces on my 11 year old teeth would allow. Uncle Larry had always been my favorite in the family. It was he who had taken the time to teach the one girl in the whole clan how to shoot. Of course, I'd grown up with my brothers and my Daddy ever since Momma had passed on, and they all were hunters and shooters, so naturally I'd learned how to handle a gun. But it was Uncle Larry who had taught me how to be good at it.

And it was Uncle Larry who had bought me that first .22 lever action Henry rifle of my very own. The same one those bastards must have taken.

The memory was the first conscious thought I had as the blackness of unconsciousness roiled and curled into the grey mist of rising awareness. I was swimming in the thick pea soup of oblivion, but headed for the surface as fast as I could. Along the way, the memories kept coming.

I never saw how they got Daddy. Johnny and Jacob kept looking over at me as they were discussing something. Jacob had gone out with Daddy to find some food and ammo, and Johnny had stayed with me in our make-shift little fortress up under that overpass on I-75. Jacob had come back alone, and Johnny seemed pissed. The two of them talking in low tones, a word hissed every now and then in emphasis; but it was enough. I knew. Daddy wasn't coming back.

The grey mists swirled in my vision once more. I didn't want to see this, not again. Just let me drift back to sleep or whatever it was. No more dreaming.

Jacob's scream ended in a wet gurgle as the dead people tore away his lower jaw. I mean that literally. They tore it away with their dirty, grubby hands; blackened nails digging in under his throat and hooking on his jawbone. Pulling him around by the head until it gave way. Jeezus gawd, but those things were strong. And then that neat black hole appeared between his eyes. I didn't even hear the shot, but Johnny just kept sayin' 'We can't let him turn into one of them.'

Turn.....like he was a bad leftover sitting too long in the fridge, growing those grey-green hairs or something. That's what they did when they died. They turned. Only no grey green hairs. Just the ravenous hunger and the urge to kill everything that moved that wasn't like them.

I see a bit of light now, like seeing the sun while hiding under a flannel blanket. You can see the bright spot above you, but it's filtered through the fuzziness. This was a light grey blanket. Looked a little like dryer lint, now that I think about it.

Johnny went down under that crowd, screaming. And there I was shooting as fast as I could work that lever. The Henry always did have a nice action; butter smooth, and sweet as could be. I loved that gun.

Of course a lot of the macho guys at the outdoor club would always say, 'Well it's only a .22. Guess that's alright for a girl's gun.' But it was my gun, and more people got killed by .22s than all other calibers combined. So take that, macho men. Anyhow, they usually shut up once I started in on my target. Tearing the center out of the ten ring would do that. And a .22 did a number on a zombie skull just fine, them being half rotten and all anyhow. Plus the Henry could hold 15 rounds in the tube. More than that if they were .22 shorts. That was another good thing: it would take anything in .22 caliber, 'cept magnums. Getting ammo wasn't a problem. All those macho men scrounged all the other ammo, but left the .22 stuff. It was for 'girly guns' after all.

But even fifteen wasn't enough. Johnny was gone.

I was beginning to feel my body now, all the aches and pains welcoming me back to my little slice of heaven. God, my legs hurt! My cunt hurts even worse. I'd give anything to soak in a hot bath right now. But I'll have to settle for this warm grey-ness.

I loved that gun. It was like gun jewelry. Bright shiny brass receiver and butt plate, and the purtiest wood stock you ever did see. Damn them bastards that took it from me. They took everything from me. But I sure wish I had that gun back.

Vague impressions of what happened swim through my delirium. Hands holding me down. A glimpse of some bubba in bib overalls lowering that shoulder strap, grinning down at me through rotting teeth. His heavy weight covering me. Hell, I couldn't even fight back, couldn't kick when he told his buddies to pull my legs open for him. All I knew is it hurt. A lot.

A cock at my lips, dribbling cum on me, trying to get it in my mouth. A hot splash of it as it shoots across my cheek. Then some of it does get in, only it's not hot, but cold. Cold and trickling down my throat.........

The warm grey blanket never survives the couching and sputtering as I buck up from the ground, choking as it goes down the wrong hole. Shit, they were all the wrong holes, never intended for you fuckin' rednecks! I wanna come up fighting, swinging my rage against them for what they did to me. But it translates as barely a weak waving away at the hands that clutch at me, grabbing my wrists.

I hear a voice trying to calm me down. "Whoa! Whoa! Easy there, you're safe." It isn't one of them. It's a girl's voice, and that opens my eyes, finally. The sun is bright overhead, stabbing me right in the eyeballs, but she moves into the corona , and I can make out her face. Blue hair. That's my first impression. My second is the feeling of the canteen neck at my lips again and this time I realize it's water, precious water! I open readily and swallow all she'll let me have. But she's already saying I need to go slow, need to take it easy. Fuck that! You know how long it's been since I had a drink of anything that wasn't salty and gross?

One more memory comes back to me, this time without the filtering grey blanket. This crazy woman tried to cut off my head! I scramble up so fast it nearly makes her drop the canteen, and my eyes are crazy wild as I look around for that sword, trying to crab walk backwards to get away. The sudden movement hurts like hell and my head is throbbing. I clutch at it with both hands in agony.

"Makes me wish you had cut it off now."

It's funny to think back to the way things were before the outbreak, before the dead started to rise, funny to think about something as simple as looking into a person's eyes. Back then you never knew what you might find when you looked at someone, kindness, happiness, anger, confusion, disappointment, love, lust...so many emotions and expressions that we took for granted. There's no great mystery anymore. When you look at someone now, there's only thing looking back, fear. Stark white fear. It can take a dozen forms, panic, desperation, paranoia, even greed and aggression, but they are unmistakably fear at their heart. Funny too to think that if you could see through that person's eyes, how you'd see that same fear reflected in your own eyes...

After a bit of water, the unconscious girl finally began to stir, her eye lashes fluttering against the bright sunlight as I slowly lowered her head back down and sat back on my heels. Still in a daze, her hands clenched into fists and she lifted them weakly above her face as if to ward off some unseen foe. I didn't know what nightmares were assailing the blonde in her mind, what with their being so many to choose from these days, but the last thing I needed was for her to hurt herself or me before she regained her senses, "Whoa! Whoa! Easy there, you're safe."

Grabbing the girl's wrists and forcing her arms back down, I lean over her body again, shading her from the sunshine through the trees with my head and shoulders before lifting the canteen back to her lips and giving her a short sip. She tries to take more, and I find myself murmuring for her to take it easy even as I let her have as much as she could swallow. It seems to do the trick because a moment later the girl's eyes are wide open and she's scrambling backward along the patch of green grass, trying to get away from me. I guess I couldn't blame her.

She didn't get far before she groaned and reached for her head, clearly in pain, "Makes me wish you had cut it off now."

"I came pretty close before I realized you weren't one of them," I said, standing up as I slipped the cap back on the nearly empty canteen. Moving slowly, so I didn't scare the skittish girl, I tossed the water down onto the grass next to her, then took a step back to emphasize that I wasn't a threat to her. "Have some more if you want. You probably need all you can get. You looked to be really dehydrated when I found you."

"My name's Cat, by the way," I added as I slipped out of my leather jacket and tossed it onto the back of the Harley. "Your clothes are over there if you want them back," I added, unsure whether she'd be upset that I had undressed her while she was out.

I took the canteen and pulled another long drink. I craved the water, sure, but I also needed the time to process. It's hard to come to in a completely disoriented state, and worse to wake up in some other place than you were when you last remembered being conscious.

But over the rim of the canteen I looked her over, this blue haired 'Cat'. Harley rider. Sword wielder. Tough biker chick. But a damn fine sight to me. I was taking a chance, making assumptions, but I figured she was a woman, so not likely to rape me. And she was alive, so not likely to eat me. Well.....at least not in a bad way. I didn't even know if she was 'that' kind of woman. Not that I was, really. But I'd sure had enough of men to suit me for a while.

The memory came back as I shifted slightly and felt the ache between my legs. It wasn't as bad, as raw feeling as before, but it was still there. I lowered the canteen from my lips and nodded my gratitude to my new found savior. "Thanks, Cat. For the water, and for not killing me. I guess I must have been quite a sight, if you took me for one of them. I'm Jessie. Jessie-Ann is what my folks......Well I guess that don't matter any more." I stomped that thought deep down inside. This wasn't the time for it.

I capped the canteen while there was still a few swallows left. I wished I could have it all, but it wasn't mine. With things the way they were in the world now, you just couldn't do somebody like that. Especially not somebody who had just helped you out. I took a moment to look down at myself, noting the change of clothes. Truth be told, I had to be grateful for that too. Her clothes were a little smaller on me, but just enough to be snug. Hell, before this had all happened, I knew girls in high school who dressed that way on purpose just to show off what Mother Nature had blessed them with.

But I had been wearing my former outfit for about a week or more. Hard to tell with losing track of time like I did. Looking back on it, it seemed like an eternity. Too long to be in constant fear, too long to be worried about what kind of death you'd meet around the next bend in the road, and too long to be alone since Johnny. About five rednecks too long. I was glad to have Cat's company, even if she did try to kill me.

Anyhow, the clothes I had on were sure to have been getting pretty ripe. Come to think of it, I must have been kind of rank too. "Thanks for the clothes too. I - I guess you must have dressed me, since I don't remember doing it. I reckon I owe you. I haven't got much, but...." I trailed off. I didn't have anything, let alone 'much'. How could I repay her for what she'd done? And more importantly, considering the way the world had turned to shit, what did she hope to get?

Seems like everyone changed that day, especially the living. The tough guys with the big mouths, the big trucks and the small dicks all seemed to turn into cowards, shooting at their own shadows and trying to convince themselves they had some control over their own lives by taking advantage of others. The smart people, the ones who should have been helping the rest of us survive, did some of the dumbest things I've ever seen, with some of the most tragic results. Mothers and fathers became soldiers right along side their kids. Sometimes I think maybe I'm the only one in the world who didn't change when the walkers came. My whole life I'd been lost and alone and running as fast as I could in whatever direction I happened to be facing. For me not much changed except who I was running from. Maybe people didn't actually change, maybe when the dead rose, all that death and tragedy just revealed who we all really were. But if so, what's that say about me?

"I'm Jessie. Jessie-Ann is what my folks......Well I guess that don't matter any more," the blonde said after taking a long drink from the canteen. I saw the look on her face when she started to mention her family. Seen that look before, too many times to count. Everyone had lost friends and family, lovers, children, neighbors. Unless of course you didn't have any of those things to begin with. Not sure which was sadder, living your whole life alone or having to watch as every person you cared about was ripped from your arms and eaten alive.

"Thanks for the clothes too. I - I guess you must have dressed me, since I don't remember doing it. I reckon I owe you. I haven't got much, but...." her voice trailed off, but I wasn't paying attention Jessie anymore. Behind her I'd caught a flicker of movement between the trees. I scanned the area, watching and listening for any signs of movement. A moment later I heard the faint snap of a small twig. There was something or someone out there in the trees just behind where the blonde was sitting.

Without a word, I slowly slipped Cindy Lou from my back and held it out beside me, the blade low to the ground, catching the dappled sunlight through the trees above. Walking directly toward Jessie-Ann, my eyes locked on the trees behind her, I finally saw the source of the noise. It was a walker. A moment later a low groaning sound confirmed it. I stepped softly past the blonde, whispering quietly to her, "Stay put, I'll take care of this."

I made my way past the shambling female form without giving away my location then circled behind it as it moved steadily toward the small clearing where Jessie-Ann and my motorcycle were. Her movements were lurching and deliberate and accompanied by grunts and groans. Her clothes hung loosely from her frail looking frame, and she wore no shoes. Her right arm ended just above the elbow, skin and muscle ripped and ragged, exposing the bone. Most likely she lost it before she turned. Three short, quick steps and I was close enough to touch her. With one hard, clean thrust, Cindy Lou sank into her skull and out through an eye socket. A moment later I pulled the gleaming sword back from the walker's head, spraying black and red blood across the leaves that covered the forest floor. She sank to the ground, just a bag of bones now.

After wiping the blood and brain matter from Cindy Lou, I re-sheathed her and made my way back up to where Jessie was sitting. I was just about to open my mouth and let the girl know that the threat had been dealt with, when suddenly a second walker appeared directly beside me, lurching out from behind a clump of trees. I didn't have time to think about how I'd missed it, or to think about how young the male walker was. Cindy Lou sang as I whipped her and spun from the bony grasp. As the blade came back around it took the top of the teenage boys head off in a clean cut. Even as the walker collapsed, my heart raced and my cheeks flushed.

"We should probably clear out of here," I suggested to my blonde companion, not wanting to take a chance on spending the night in the forest if there were more walkers nearby. "You feel up to a little bike ride?"

Jesus! She's coming after my head again! That was what my first thought was when I was just talking to her and all of a sudden the biker chick gets this fixated look on her face, draws that big sword and starts coming towards me! I started to scramble back, because, well, nobody wants to get their head cut off, even if it is the end of days. But she just stepped right past me, telling me to stay put. That's when I realized she was going into the brush after something and not coming after me at all.

But seeing her coming towards me with that sword was one hell of a way to get my heart pounding, especially after that close call before. Still, within a few minutes as I sat there trying to calm down again, I was damn glad she had it. I didn't see the walker from where I was sitting, but I heard it moan, and then a wet sickly sound followed by a body crumpling to the ground. It's funny how you get to be familiar with certain sounds you never thought you would. It's the circumstances.

But I was hastily looking around for something I could use to defend myself in case there were any more of those things around. That's when Cat came back, calm as you please. She was just about to say something, and must have seen the way my eyes got big, because another walker was just stepping out of the brush behind her. She moved faster than a rattler, and I heard the sound of her sword more than I saw the blade moving. Next thing I know, the top of walker boy's head flopped to the ground like that scene in Kill Bill with the oriental girl. My eyes seemed to follow it down until it hit the ground with a meaty smack, a little blood spattering outwards into the dirt.

It took Cat's voice to bring me out of my stare. She seemed so calm as she suggested we leave, as if she was just suggesting we take a little cruise down to the Dairy Queen for a Blizzard. (Shit, why did I just torture myself thinking of that? Now I want one!) I must have looked up at this woman like she was from another planet, and it suddenly occurred to me. I'm hanging out with a blue haired, bad-ass, biker chick ninja! The thought made me giggle, and Cat must have been sure I'd lost it.

If I'd been a 13 year old boy, I'd have been in masturbatory heaven. Cat would have been every anime comic lover's wet dream. A blue-haired, katana wielding, kick-ass biker babe, ninja! I couldn't help but snicker; maybe it was some kind of stress release or something. But it was the first time I laughed in I don't know how long, and once I started, I couldn't stop. She just looked at me, like I might be going off the deep end or something.

Well, I wasn't a 13 year old boy, but even I had to admit that Cat was pretty hot looking, in her biker leathers, jeans, boots, and that leather jacket. She looked pretty damn good, considering that whole zombie apocalypse thing. And thinking of how good she looked made me wonder what a horror I must look like. She had said before that she mistook me for one of them. I glanced at the topless kid zombie lying there in the dirt and suddenly stopped laughing. It wasn't funny anymore.

I managed to nod in answer to her question, and gathered up my old clothes, rolling them up in a bundle before she took them and stuffed them into a saddlebag. "I'm not sure how well this is going to work, Cat. I've never ridden on a motorcycle before. A four wheeler is the closest I've come. I guess I'll just have to trust you."

I swung a leg over, wincing as the movement reminded me how much it hurt between my legs. And I realized that if this was anything like riding a horse, I was going to regret it later. But it's still better than sticking around where there are zombies. Trouble is, where weren't there any? Cat got on and got the Harley started. And as the heavy engine rumbled to life, I began to feel the throb between my legs. "Oh this is going to be fun." I muttered.

We had to go slow to get back to the pavement, and I just held onto the back of the seat, letting Cat worry about navigating through the brush. But when we got up onto the road, she began to wind it up, and I slipped my hands around her waist. I wasn't about to go barreling down the road without holding on to something, and like it or not, she was handy. I didn't know how she'd feel about it. I didn't want her to think I was getting fresh or anything, but what choice did I have. I concentrated on just keeping my hands at belt level; no higher, no lower.

We didn't have to go too far before we saw a farm. The rust red faded barn set up on a bit of a hill. One end of it opened onto a sort of dirt ramp that led down the hill it sat on, and around to the side was a lower entrance that seemed to go right under the hill. The old house was shuttered, as if boarded up from inside. Someone's last stand, most likely. The question is, did they stand for long? Did they make it through the siege and decide to head out to somewhere more safe? Or had the horde broken in and got to them? Depending on the answers to these questions, it could be a safe shelter for the night, or a death trap. And there could also be things of use inside, that is, if nobody else was left to use them. I sure as hell wanted to find another gun. I didn't figure it was right to rely on my own personal ninja guardian too much.

I pointed the farm out to Cat with a tap on her shoulder, and she began to slow to check it out. As we past the main house, we could also see an aluminum silo. It had a small opening hatch on the side, about four feet up from the ground, but otherwise was without any entrances. The hatch looked like it could be shut and latched, maybe even from inside, or barred with something. If the house and barn didn't pan out, the silo might be our fortress for the night. No zombie would think to look for us in there, and I doubted any would be in there either.

We circled the house and barn twice before Cat pulled to a stop and shut off the Harley. Once around the back side of the house, we'd seen where a window had been broken into. That could mean the meatheads got in there and ate everybody, or maybe some looters had picked the place clean sometime after. Either way, it would be necessary to check out the house just to be safe.

I got off the Harley and wished I hadn't. Just swinging my leg over hurt. I stood up and rubbed the insides of my thighs, cringing and taking a few steps like a cowboy just getting off a horse. I felt like a real wimp. I glanced at Cat to see if she was wearing even the hint of a smirk, but if she was, she hid it pretty well. "I'll be alright." I muttered.

We both looked at the dark gape of the broken in window in the side of the house. It seemed like the mouth of some tunnel of horror's ride in the county fair. You just knew that whatever lurked inside was going to scare the bejeezus out of you, but you had to go in anyway. But this time, I wouldn't have a hunky boyfriend whose arm I could cling to when I got scared. The thought made me glance over at Cat. She could be thinking the exact same thing. But all we have is each other to hold on to.

I miss my mom most of all. For the five years prior I only spoke to her a couple of times a year, and yet when the shit hit the fan she was the first person I tried to save. The only person really. I guess when the end of the world comes the little stuff between us, the stuff that made me uncomfortable around her, the stuff that made me resent her, all that stuff didn't matter anymore. She was family, the only family I had...


"Mom, forget about the photo albums, we've got to go now," I pleaded, dragging her out of the family room by the elbow. "We might be able to come back for some this stuff later, but right now there are just too many of them in the streets."

"I should get some more food from the pantry to take with us, Maggie," she said, her voice shaking as she tried to pull away from me. My fingers tightened on her arm, refusing to let her go.

"No, mom, we have to go now or we won't make it," I explained, my eyes locked on the open front door, desperately hoping that our escape route wouldn't be cut off. I could see my Harley sitting on the lawn just a few feet from the porch. "I didn't drive five hundred miles to find you and get you to safety just to lose you because of a can of beefaroni, damn it!"

Finally I felt her relent, and together we rushed out of the house. The sun was so bright it nearly blinded me. As I stumbled to the motorcycle and slid my leg over the seat, I could hear the groaning and shuffling of the walkers around us before I could see them. A moment later my eyes adjusted to the sunlight and I could see the hundreds of undead that littered the streets and yards of my mom's neighborhood. As she hopped onto the bike behind me, I found myself wondering if my mother had ever been on a motorcycle before. There was so much I didn't know about her, so much I'd never asked.

"Hold on, mom, hold on tight, okay?" I shouted over my shoulder as I grabbed her hands and guided them around my waist, locking them together in front of me. God, it had been a long time since I'd felt her arms around me, holding me. A second later I kicked the Harley to life and we tore through the wet grass and onto the street in front of her house.

I'll never forget the feeling of her body pressed against my back, her arms wrapped around my waist as she clung to me...


"Hold on tight," I shouted over my shoulder as the engine roared to life and we rumbled up onto the pavement. I opened it up and the bike responded, tearing down the open road. As we gained speed, I felt Jessie's hands slip around my waist and her grip tighten tentatively. It wasn't the same as having my mom's arms embracing me, but there was still something comforting about having the warmth of another person against my body, feeling her arms clinging to me, feeling the thump of her chest against my back. It had been a long time since I'd been held by anyone.

We left the wooded area behind quickly, trees giving way to open farmland. It wasn't long before my blonde companion was pointing toward a farm house set off the main road. I slowed the Harley and made the turn onto the long, narrow driveway that led up to the house. There was no movement around the house, living or dead, that I could see. The house was boarded up pretty well, but no indication whether the people who did so had stuck around or not.

A few moments later I brought the bike to a stop next to the house and we quietly slipped off and moved a little closer. Jessie was moving a little gingerly after the bike ride, guess I couldn't blame her after what she'd been through. I slipped Cindy Lou from her sheath as we slowly made our way up to the one window on the house that wasn't still boarded up. The glass was broken out and the inside of the house was dark.

"Here, take this," I said as I slipped a police issue 9MM from beneath my jacket and offered it to Jessie. "Don't shoot unless you have to though, no sense drawing attention if we can avoid it." With that I climbed carefully through the gaping window and eased myself down onto the hardwood floors inside the house. They creaked beneath me as I stepped to the side to give the blond room to enter the house. Besides the floors themselves, I couldn't hear any other sounds. That was usually a good sign, walkers didn't usually bother to be quiet.

I turned and offered Jessie a hand as she started to climb through. Once she was inside we set out together into the darkness of the house. I didn't even realize as we made our way deeper into the house that I was still holding her hand in mine...

Audie Tatum always had a thing for dead stuffed animals. The thing was, he wasn’t a good taxidermist. He wasn’t a bad one either; not a taxidermist at all. He was just a collector of old stuffed animals. ‘Uncle Tatum’ was what my daddy always called him when he’d take me with him to visit, but I knew Audie wasn’t my uncle. He was always glad to see me come along with Daddy though. Getting a visit from a little girl must have been the highlight of the octogenarian’s day. Finally some ‘little critter’ that was still alive could keep him company for a while.

The thing is, visiting old Audie Tatum and his dead animals really creeped me out. I did it mostly for Daddy. It wasn’t that Audie Tatum was so bad; it was those animals. I hated the way they seemed to stare at me with those flat dead eyes as I moved through the room. One in particular always bothered me: an old bristle-pig boar that sported big yellow curved tusks from a snout that had been made to be wrinkled up like it was snarling at everyone. And one of the tusks was split and partly broken off. Daddy and ‘Uncle Tatum’ used to both laugh at me as I’d move around the room warily, always facing that ugly stuffed hog, but there was no way I was going to turn my back on that thing. They would say, “It’s dead, honey. It cain’t hurt you none!”

But in my 9 year old wisdom, I just knew that mean old boar was gonna come to life at any minute and come after me, snortin’ and squealin’, and aiming to shred my bare legs with that yellowed, gnarly broken tusk.

++++++++++++++++++++++

As I stared at the gaping black hole of the farm house window, wondering with some trepidation what we’d find inside, I heard the now familiar sound of Cat slipping her sword out of its sheath. That ninja chick was beginning to be a real comfort, just knowing that she was with me, and this time wasn’t looking to chop off my head. She came up beside me and nudged something cold and hard against my arm. I looked down to see the boxy looking Glock 9mm she offered.

Thank God. Normally I would have preferred a good old reliable wheel gun, but if I was going inside where who knows what awaited me, I at least wanted to be armed, ninja chick by my side or not. And just because I preferred the simplicity of a revolver didn’t mean I hadn’t had plenty of experience with semi-autos. I racked the slide back partway to make sure a round was in the chamber, reassuring myself that it was ready to go before tucking it in the waistband of the jeans I wore so I could climb in through the window after Cat. I didn’t have to worry too much about the gun going off accidentally, since it had the staged trigger safety.

Cat reached a hand down from the open window, bracing herself with her other hand on the window sill and helping me clamber through. It was a good thing too, because I could still feel the muscles of my thighs protesting the rough use I’d been put to, and the ride on the Harley hadn’t made me feel any better. Made my butt a little numb, was about all.

Once inside, we listened in silence for a couple minutes, nothing but the old floorboards creaking under our weight to give us any clue as to whether there were any other occupants in the house. Dust motes were floating in the beam of late evening light coming through the window as the last hour of the setting sun began making the shadows of the old house seem much more ominous. As we moved further into the old house, I took the Glock in one hand, and it was then I realized Cat was still holding my other hand from when she’d helped me climb in. Could it be the blue haired ninja warrior was a little scared?

It didn’t matter to me; I couldn’t blame her for feeling what I felt too. And the simple human contact felt pretty good, to be honest. It made me feel like we were two sisters getting into mischief together, rather than a couple women who’d only met hours before in a world gone to hell.

And I’m embarrassed to admit that I was daydreaming about that as Cat led me by the hand down a darkened hallway. She gestured to one of the doors off the hall, indicating I should check it out while she stood ready with the sword. I nodded and grabbed the doorknob with a sweaty palm, but the first touch swung the door inward. The next thing I knew, a loud shrieking hiss came from a figure hunched over something on the floor. My startled glance turned in that direction, only to see two glowing crimson orbs staring back at me.

Survival in the zombie apocalypse is a harsh taskmaster, but it is effective. Days of shoot/no shoot drills from my prepper uncle, and a lifetime of shooting experience growing up in a family where my dad and brothers all were shooters made my reaction automatic and definitive. It turned out that the glowing orbs lined up perfectly with the Glock’s Tritium rear sight bracket as it came up into my field of view. The front sight dot lined up between them, even as my finger squeezed the trigger, smooth and steady, like thousands of times before.

The explosive report echoed through the small bedroom, leaving my ears temporarily ringing, blocking out Cat’s startled exclamations. But eventually, her words began to slip through. “….it’s a ‘coon! Jeezus, Jessie, you shot a goddamned raccoon! We haven’t got ammo enough to waste on things like that!”

But I knew what I’d seen. “Didn’t you see it? It had turned into one of those things. It was eating her!” I stammered out in my post-reaction dazed defense. “Its eyes were shining, like some kind of demon.” I numbly trailed off. Cat was right. We needed every round to count for something. I guess I was jumpy, mistaking the eye-shine from the animal’s tapetum lucidum as some sort of indicator of demonic possession. But as I stepped closer to the body of the little girl, the signs of predation were clear.

These days it was hard to tell how much of that damage had happened pre- or post-mortem, but the ragged tatters of her nightgown, tinged with the dark stain of blood, surrounded the raw edged opening in her side that the raccoon had been eating from moments before. I heard the swish of Cat’s sword severing what little was left of the ‘coon’s head that I hadn’t blown away as I stared down at the little girl’s pajamas. They were pink fleece, and partially obscured by the blood was some sort of design on the front. I could make out that it was some sort of flower. I tilted my head, trying to make it out. It was a little purple tulip.

Cat came back to my side, looking down to see what I was looking at. I wiped away the tear smudges I was sure were on my face. I didn’t want her to see me crying over something so silly. Her voice was softer as she asked, “You okay?”

I didn’t like the raw edge of emotion my voice betrayed when I answered, “I used to have P.J.s just like that.”

Sometimes it was the simplest things that set us off.

All of humanity seemed to become gypsies after the walkers came, in a constant state of traveling, trying to find some place safe, some place where they could get away from the horrors that roamed the streets, hiding in the shadows. For some one like me who had never really felt comfortable anywhere, it wasn't a big change, since I'd been old enough to be on my own I'd been moving, a nomad, but for most people it was too much for them to handle. It wore them down, took their sense of self. They were a people without a home. Without a home, without a place to rest, to feel safe, they became little more than zombies themselves.

"I'm going to check the cabinets and see if there's any food," I finally said, breaking the short silence. I brushed passed Jessie's shoulder and stepped deftly past the remains of the raccoon, careful not to get any blood on my boots. The painted white cabinets turned out to be empty except for some dishes, two pans and some assorted glasses. Turning my attention to the small pantry, I risked a glance at my new companion, who was still standing where I left her, staring at the floor.

I could see the tracks of the tears that had covered her cheeks moments before, lines of clean skin marking her dirt stained face. She was in pain, possibly still in shock from the rape she'd suffered or from the loss of her family. She needed a safe place to recover, that and time were the only things likely to make a difference. Unfortunately, safe places were hard to come by these days. And time to rest even less so.

Sometimes we have to find comfort where we can rather than where we should, I thought to myself as I opened the pantry and gazed at a virtual cornucopia of assorted foods. Canned vegetables and soups, dry pasta, chips, breads, rice, protein bars, cereal. It had been weeks, maybe months since I'd found such a store. With the hint of a smile on my face, I pulled my pack from over my shoulder and began to stuff it full, knowing I would have to go back to my bike for another bag if I was going to be able to take it all with me. With us, I reminded myself as I glanced over my shoulder at Jessie.

"Jackpot, kid!" I said. She didn't seem to hear me, or maybe she just wasn't as excited as I was about the find. Probably a sign that she hadn't been on the road long.

After filling my pack with as much food as I could, I moved back over to stand next to the young blonde. I slipped a small chocolate bar out of its wrapper and broke off the corner of it. As I slipped the rest into my pocket, I lifted the small piece to Jessie's lips and fed it to her, hoping that the unexpected treat might break her out of her momentary trance.

"Come on, let's go upstairs and check out the rest of the rooms," I suggested as I reached down and took her hand in my own again, leading her out of the kitchen and away from the sight of the dead child in her flowered pajamas.

From somewhere in my world, a voice was talking to me. I was aware of that much. But I couldn't seem to tear my eyes away from the little girl wearing my pajamas; more specifically, from the tattered, chewed opening in the little girl's side. The dead people hadn't chewed that hole in her; it was the now-dead raccoon who did that. But what had the little girl died of, I wondered. That she had died before the raccoon came along was plain by the fact that her body position showed no signs of struggle or fighting off the animal. I kept staring at her to see if she'd move, if she'd come back as one of those dead ones. My hand gripped the Glock handle so tightly it started to hurt, but I wanted to be ready if she even looked like she was going to move.

The thing was, if she was going to turn into one of them, she should have already done it when she died....before the raccoon snacked on her. I had no answers for it. Maybe if she wasn't bitten or scratched by those things before she died, then she wouldn't change. I didn't know, because nobody I knew who had died since this all started had died of natural causes or non-violent means.

As I puzzled over it, Cat came up beside me to slip something in my mouth. It didn't really register with me that her feeding me like that was sort of personally familiar for someone I only met hours ago. No, all I was aware of was the sweet, smooth wonderful taste of chocolate. Oh, how long had it been?! I loved chocolate before this all happened, and the taste, texture, and smell of it took me back in my memory to all those Dove Silky Dark Promises I'd enjoyed. I used to love reading the encouraging, uplifting little messages on the inside of the foil wrappers. 'Be good to yourself.' 'Laugh like there is no one watching.' Take time to love.' They always made me smile.

The echo of that past smile found it's compliment on my lips now as Cat took my hand and suggested we check out the upstairs. I wanted to say it was just the chocolate. But I liked the reassuring contact of my hand in hers. It just helped to ground me in 'normalcy'. Or what passed for it now.

When we had climbed in through that window, the hope was in my mind that we'd find something I could use for self defense. Secretly I wished for a gun, but I was open to options. I really had no idea what we would find. But it seemed as though Fortune was to favor us.

As we climbed the stairs, questions were nagging my mind. I didn't know what had killed the little girl downstairs, but surely she wasn't alone here. Where was her parents, her grandma or grandpa, or her uncles and aunts? Who lived in this farm house, and what happened to them?

When we reached the upper landing, the first hint of an answer hit us both like a physical presence. The smell of dead and rotting flesh was all around us. It was like each step lifted us upwards into a miasma of stench. I covered my mouth and nose with my free hand, being sure to keep the Glock pointed in a safe direction so I didn't shoot off my nose or something. It was bad enough that I almost gagged a couple times.

The top of the staircase made a right turn around a partition wall so we couldn't see what was awaiting us until we hit the top. But there, visible through an open bedroom doorway, was the answer to at least one of the questions I'd had. I hadn't even got a full look as Cat pushed me back around the partition wall to spare me the view. But it was enough. The splattering of my vomit hit the steps with audible clarity as I lost what little food I'd had. The taste that was left was not nearly as pleasant as the chocolate had been.

The clarity of a horrific impression that imprints details on the mind in that first instant is amazing. Cat had been quick to try to spare me the horror of the sight, but even that short glimpse had seared the view in my mind. In the bedroom at the end of the short hall had been.....some male relative, I suppose.....of the little girl downstairs. There hadn't been much left of his head, and what was there was a writhing mass of black flies and maggots. He'd been sprawled in a rocking chair, a double barrel shotgun between his legs. One foot was bare, with his big toe in the trigger guard. The barrels had been tilted up towards his chin, judging from the angle of the mess on the wall behind him. The scene was clearly the wreckage of the man's lost hope. When nothing else was left, a 12 gauge shell was his answer.

All of this went through my mind as my rejected, ejected lunch went through my mouth in reverse. But in a peculiar way, it was actually easier for me to take than the sight of the little girl downstairs. Except for the fact that it was gross. It was almost surreal in a way, as if it was a special effects scene in a horror movie. And let's face it, life had turned into a horror movie for all of us, so what could I really expect?

Cat's hand on my back patted lightly, as if that would help. Surprisingly, it did. When I had finished, I wiped my mouth and nose with my hand and looked back at her with a grateful nod. "I'm okay. No, really, I am. Cat, we could use that shotgun, that's for sure. Maybe there are some more shells around here too. Do you want me to get it?"

I didn't think it was an unreasonable question. It certainly didn't warrant the look from her as if I was from another planet. It never occurred to me that I was showing all the signs of disassociative shock.