Mike Manly and the Post Apocalyptic Detective Agency: Grey Matters

By Daniel Donnelly

Ten years have passed since the GreyMatter nano-virus swept across the planet, leaving in its wake billions of dead. Now, two new species outnumber the remaining human population: the mindless walking dead and intelligent GreyMatter Zoms.

As the Grey dead integrate into human society, violence against them escalates; and the murder of a prominent Grey puts events in motion that could begin a war between humans and the dead.

It’s up to Mike Manly and his partner, Ancil Morgan–two very human and very reluctant private detectives–to solve the mystery behind the murder. In an attempt to find justice for the victim and stave off the coming conflict, the investigation leads them on a dangerous and frightening journey into the Zom-infested Dead Zones of northern California and New Los Angeles.

What the detectives don’t know is that Zom attacks, kidnapping, and Grey religious cults could be the least of their worries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Donnelly
• Release date: Nov 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301362899

Daniel Donnelly

I teach full-time in the Graphic Design and Multimedia Design program at Butte College in northern California. I've written and designed nine books for Rockport Publishers, including books on Web design, typography, interface design and logo design. Mike Manly and the Post Apocalyptic Detective Agency: Grey Matters, is the first book in the Mike Manly series. The second book is being written right now, and a young adult novel with Ali McClain is also in the works. My Zombie portrait was painted by Rob Sacchetto at http://www.Zombieportraits.com.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

In the winter of 2022, a radically pathogenic strain of the H5N1 avian flu virus finally succeeded in doing what public health scientists had been warning about for twenty years: it crossed the species barrier, becoming both highly infectious, and lethal. This avian flu epidemic killed over 18 million people worldwide in just over a year.

Historically, epizootic H5N1 outbreaks had occurred in ducks and geese in Asia, though contained human outbreaks in Kazakhstan, Mongolia, and Russia in the years before the massive 2022 pandemic were clear evidence of the virus’ adaptation from farmed waterfowl to humans. Sadly, no one heeded epidemiologists’ warnings.

According to reports filed after the outbreak, the first confirmed cases of human H5N1 infection appeared in France in mid-February 2022, and before the end of the month, a full pandemic had been declared.

Three months after the contagion swept through its second wave and completed its thirteen-month span, the French government released reports claiming its population of 65 million had incurred approximately seven million of the 18 million worldwide deaths. This was the last time death would be this simple. Soon, the world would discover that death could be much more complicated and come in multiple flavors.

Subsequent epidemiological investigations conducted by the United Nations Research Council into the initial source of the virus revealed a high statistical probability that the Patient Zero infection originated from France’s questionable farming practices of importing geese from Vietnam for production of paté de foie gras.

Several years prior to this devastating outbreak, most industrialized nations had implemented self-imposed bans on foie gras production for health, safety, and ethical reasons, but mainly to curtail the potential spread of avian flu. France, however, continued to produce the paté and became the world’s largest producer. For its alleged culpability in the outbreak, France was condemned by the Global Centers for Disease Control, the World Health Organization (WHO), and animal defense organizations worldwide. France, of course, rejected the U.N. investigation’s results and held that the official condemnations were an act of economic terrorism against its people.

Characterized as one of the worst health crises since the 1918 influenza outbreak that killed 70 million people worldwide, WHO investigators reported that if not for recent developments in nanotechnology, the death toll from the 2022 avian flu pandemic could have escalated and reached upwards of 150 million before it was contained.

The developments in this emergent technology included research initiated two years earlier by microbiologists and nanotech engineers in Britain, the Netherlands, China and the United States, all of whom received joint U.N. and WHO financial support to develop biological nanosensors. These microbe-coated sensors detected and identified airborne influenza strains, and widespread implementation of these sensors onto airlines, cruise ships, hospitals, and office buildings of multinational corporations allowed health officials to track and contain the virus.

Combined global efforts allowed health officials to contain the spread of the virus and to quarantine the areas of highest risk while pre-pandemic H5N1 vaccines were distributed.

With the success of the nanosensor technology, countries around the world began focusing their research into the nanosciences, and especially into bio-nanotechnology. By 2024, billions of dollars had been diverted into the development of nanomechs for various specialized industries, and research into nanobiotic vaccines and detectors for disease control and prevention was expected to surpass two trillion dollars annually by 2026.

As with any such financially lucrative developments, fortunes were made almost overnight by individuals and corporations that had jumped into developing health-related nanotechnology. Vast amounts of funding were funneled into the industry by governments and organizations responding to fear-based marketing by corporations predicting new outbreaks that could be tens–if not hundreds–of times worse than the outbreak of 2022.

The corruption that resulted from the rapid and unregulated advances in nanoscience industries opened the door for conspiracy theorists to question whether the H5N1 outbreak of 2022 was actually an act of nature. By 2024, while the industry of nanotechnology continued to grow, a worldwide coalition of conspiracy groups began to call for governments and the WHO to investigate the top pharmaceutical corporations that had made fortunes from sales of H5N1 vaccine during the 2022 outbreak. These groups accused three top corporations of global economic terrorism and the mass murder of those who died from the virus. Many theorized that France had been scapegoated to divert attention away from the corporations.

Of the three corporations, the one held most suspect by conspiracy groups was NANGEN Labs, owned by billionaire and American citizen, Carson Hankins. Hankins, considered one of the six wealthiest men in the world, held and managed NANGEN privately, with R&D labs in Europe, Asia, and the U.S. The largest of NANGEN’s labs was secreted away in the U.S., and was built on a sixty-acre campus in the small nondescript town of Orland, California.

Toward the middle of 2025, an international court composed of judges from six countries was convened to prosecute NANGEN under the recently amended Rome statute of the International Criminal Court. The amended statute established the ICC’s jurisdiction and function to include prosecution of corporations for the first time, and allowed direct prosecution for individuals linked to the corporations. Hankins was personally indicted for crimes against humanity in association with NANGEN. Information supplied to the courts specified Hankins had prior knowledge of the 2022 virus, and that he knew his withholding information would result in the mass death of humans, while increasing his personal worth.

The brief filed against Hankins was attested to by anonymous and secure sources who agreed to questioning only during the prosecution phase of the trial due to fear of retaliation from NANGEN and Hankins. The United States rejected the authority of the ICC and declined to extradite Hankins, or produce any of his American employees for questioning.

On August 12, 2025, a wrench was thrown into the system, when Wikileaks illegally released a dossier containing over two hundred pages of internal correspondence between NANGEN scientists describing their research and development into self-replicating biological nanoclusters.

The correspondence also referenced human testing and the damning admission that a nanomech vaccine could have been approved for market before the H5N1 virus had reached pandemic levels in 2022.

Though no mention was made of NANGEN’s involvement with the creation and release of the H5N1 virus, rumors circulated concerning NANGEN’s development and testing of other virulent nanovirus strains. Once again, Hankins was subpoenaed by the international court. When no response came, Hankins’ assets were seized in China and Germany. Six months later, the incriminating dossier was eventually traced to an underground network of hackers backed by one of NANGEN’s Chinese competitors, throwing doubt on the Wikileaks information.

On October 18, 2026, NANGEN rejected an offer from the U.S. to file lawsuits intended to force China and Germany to release NANGEN assets. When NANGEN rejected the offer, suspicion was cast on Hankins and his corporation, and the recently formed U.S. Office of Ethics in Nano Sciences (OENS), launched its own investigation into NANGEN’s potentially illegal and unethical operations. Hankins was requested to appear before a preliminary judiciary committee on November 20 of this same year, but citing death threats, Hankins lawyers declined to produce their client.

* * * *

On December 24, 2026, all investigations into NANGEN and Hankins’ research ceased when a new, more virulent H5N1 strain appeared in the United States, in the northern California town of Vacaville. Within hours of the first reports in the U.S., outbreaks surfaced in every major country in the world. Scientists rushed to follow containment protocols set up since the last pandemic, but the procedures were hindered and then completely stalled when this new variant of H5N1 was found to have no traceable pathogen or clearly defined transmission vector. Compounding the situation was the new strain’s maintained mortality rate of 100% once contracted. Adding to the virulence was an incubation period of merely 2-3 hours before death occurred through complete circulatory shutdown and brain death. Indiscriminate in its infection rates, barely one in a thousand infected seemed to have an immunity to the virus, and those who were immune could not be classified into any specific categories.

Adding to the confusion were the initial reports from health officials monitoring the pandemic who reported that the virus was the work of pranksters and hackers taking advantage of the situation, and using the Internet to spread rumors of the Dead coming back to life. Not until approximately 24 hours after first infection was reported did health officials coordinate to understand that what was happening worldwide, was not a hoax.

On December 25, 2026, confirmed and corroborated reports emerged that the Dead who succumbed to the VACA Strain had begun to reanimate and were attacking the living. In the next three weeks, half of the world’s population died and reanimated. By the end of the fourth week another third of the population, those previously immune to the airborne virus, became infected, died, and then joined the ranks of the Dead after violent attacks by the first wave of reanimated Dead.

By the second month of the outbreak, the surviving humans, while fighting for their lives, discovered that not all the re-animated Dead were the same. More than a third of the Walking Dead maintained partial sentience and shared the same distinctive grey pallor to their skin. These conscious Dead could think and function similar to humans; but their voices were altered and their eyes took on the grey cataracts of the unthinking Dead. Most importantly Greys did not attack humans. In the horrific first months, with families torn apart, whole communities destroyed, and billions killed across the globe, very few of the living cared if the Greys were no longer alive in the traditional sense. Many survivors treated the Grey Dead no better than the mindless, Walking Dead, referred to as Zoms.

The sudden emergence of the VACA Strain, and the resulting Die-Off that ensued, divided the world into three species: Humans, Zoms, and GreyMatter Zoms. The latter were commonly called Greys.

Over the next year, surviving humans were forced out of densely populated areas in an attempt to regroup and form new societies safe from the Zoms. The living created an Alliance of New City-States that operated under the governance of a New-Congress, and were overseen by military and police organizations.

For reasons still unknown, the Greys found that they could exist among the Zoms without being attacked, so the majority of Greys chose to remain among the Dead from fear of being terminated or "termed" by humans. This created an even wider divide between the living and the Dead.

In 2028, just two years after the Die-Off, the Alliance States heard rumors of working electricity and utilities in Dead Zone cities. The rumors proved true. On flyovers, the Northern City-State of New Jefferson–one of the largest City-States in what had been northern California confirmed that Dead Zones in San Francisco, San Jose, and Los Angeles actually had power and wireless activity.

Toward the end of the third year, word came to the Alliance in New Jefferson that NANGEN billionaire, Carson Hankins, had gone Grey and re-established his research labs in New Jefferson. After weeks of ignoring requests from the Alliance and New-Congress, Hankins sent word that he was ready to officially meet with these leaders. During the meetings that followed, it was revealed that an expanding and organized Coalition of Greys had expressed a willingness to help humans rebuild their collapsed infrastructure. In exchange, the New-Congress would roll out an educational campaign to quell the indiscriminate terming of Greys and, in time, afford them equal rights with humans.

By 2031, utilities, including electricity, the Net, and wireless access were reinstated in all City-States, and Greys lived among humans, but in segregated zones. The Greys, who were no longer restricted by sleep or any of the weaknesses of the living, managed most of the technology and infrastructure of industry for humans, while the living were relegated to agricultural production for themselves, and to policing both the human and Grey populations in their City-States.

At the end of 2032, most City-States had become reluctantly integrated, and over sixty percent of the residents in populated areas were now Grey. The Greys, with their larger numbers of remaining engineers, medical professionals and tech-capable Dead, had made themselves invaluable to humans and now supplied industry and technology that allowed humans a quality of life no longer possible on their own. With humans relying on the infrastructure Greys provided, Hankins and a United Coalition of Greys led by Jason Gindroz, a powerful Grey in New Los Angeles, decided it was time for a revised constitution to be adopted that would grant Greys the same rights provided to humans.

Ten years after the Die-Off, after years of civil unrest and the forced integration of Greys into human societies, the constitution of the New-Congress and the Alliance of New City-States had been ratified to include Greys as having the same inalienable rights as humans. Zoms were not included.

Not long after the announcement of the new amendment, Carson Hankins began his campaign for a seat as the first Grey on the New-Congress. Although perfectly legal, this action strengthened the long-held prejudice toward Greys. Humans and Greys began facing off in person and on the Net. Assaults against Greys were on the rise, and political and religious extremists on both sides began growing their ranks. In an attempt to placate the Coalition of Greys prior to the first elections, the New-Congress increased the Alliance police forces throughout all City-States, and thousands of new human investigators and agents had been recruited to stave off the quickly escalating violence against Greys.

It wasn’t working…

CHAPTER 1

The beat-up ’67 Ford truck skidded sideways off the wet surface of the main road, tossing the contents in the truck bed hard against the inside panels. Not much rain had fallen in the hills, but enough to make the roads unsafe for someone not paying attention.

Bob, the driver of the truck, jerked the wheel and overcorrected, slamming the object wrapped in the carpet against the opposite side of the truck’s bed. A muffled moan was all that could be heard from within the roll of carpet. He downed the final swig of his beer and wrinkled his nose at the smell of the ten-year old beer they’d been sold. After a week of working ten-hour days disposing of terminated Walking Dead bodies, the last thing he wanted was to spend his minimal City-State pay on crappy beer, but any of the recently brewed bottles would have cost twice as much. He frowned as he reflected on what he was about to do, and then decided he was lucky that even drinking enough crappy beer could get you wasted; because wasted was where he needed to be right now.

Brushing strands of greasy black hair from his eyes, Bob held the faded can in front of his face and tried to read the label that was no longer legible. Shaking his head, he attempted to throw the can out his window. The beer can rebounded off the closed window and landed back in his lap, splashing the dregs of the beer into his crotch.

Shit, Bob cursed, and then he began laughing hysterically as he took his other hand from the wheel and slapped at his beer-stained coveralls.

Pissed your pants again, did you Bob? Billy shouted the question too loudly for the small confines of the truck’s cab.

Bob’s passenger was also wearing the gore-stained coveralls required of Zom Disposal Unit workers; or meat collectors as they were referred to by anyone outside the workforce. The name Billy M. was written in black marker on his coverall’s single front pocket, but the black lettering was blending into the stains.

Billy and Bob were just two of the thousands of humans in the City-State of New Jefferson who fell into the uneducated ranks of those still living. With no practical skills, as set forth by the City-State leaders, both men were consigned to manual labor for the State; shit jobs as Billy always called them. Bob disliked the work, but considered himself lucky to be alive. Zom disposal, to Bob, was just another lousy job in a lifetime of lousy jobs.

Billy’s outlook was the extreme opposite. Billy hated his life and was passionate about vocalizing his hostility toward everything, and he never missed a chance to cast the blame for his position in this post-apocalyptic world on the Walking Dead; placing blame on both Zoms and Greys. If anyone had known Billy before the Die-Off, they’d have wondered if maybe he was in a better position now: after having been an unemployed alcoholic and living out of his car for five years before the Die-Off, this could have looked like a step up in life.

Billy was just as wasted as Bob, and he still seethed with anger from the argument and confrontation with the owner of the bar where they’d purchased the beer earlier in the evening. Billy reached down between his legs to the floorboard and popped another two cans from the open six-pack.

When he rose back into a sitting position, he saw the truck drifting toward the side of the dirt road and toward a tall stand of pines. Bob was looking down at his crotch, no longer laughing, but frowning at the wet spot.

Hey asshole, pay attention to the road! Billy shouted and threw a full can at Bob’s head, hitting him hard and knocking his head against the driver’s window.

Billy reached out and grabbed the steering wheel with his left hand while transferring the remaining beer into his right hand. He struggled with the wheel and pulled the truck onto the dirt road again.

Oww, Bob said with long drawn out emphasis. That fucking hurt!

You don’t know what pain is Bobby Boy, Billy said, slurring his words and popping the tab on his beer.

"You don’t know what pain is Bobby Boy," Bob mocked Billy with a drunken, sarcastic intonation and reached to grab the beer Billy had thrown. He held the barely-cool can to the fast-growing welt on his temple.

"You sure you know where we’re going?" Bob asked.

Yeah, up about another quarter mile and then you’ll take a right… no…! Take a left, and then go down another few hundred yards, Billy belched loudly before downing most of his beer.

You done this before, right? Bob asked, his voice cracking slightly, showing his nerves.

Just wait, you’ll see real soon now. Billy’s brow furrowed as he thought about the argument with the bar owner, and he began to fantasize that it was the owner wrapped in the carpet in back.

The truck sped down the narrowing dirt road, weaving from one side to the other, throwing up a continuous cloud of dirt behind them that diffused the dim lights from the vehicles that were following about a quarter-mile behind. Neither of the men was sober enough to check the side mirrors, or even consider that they might have been followed from the bar where Billy had picked up Bob to start the night’s adventure.

* * * *

Following behind the dangerously out-of-control truck was a black Mercedes keeping a constant, and safe, speed just behind four similarly painted black motorcycles. Riding the bikes were two Grey agents, each armed with AR-15 assault rifles and Beretta M1 pistols.

This was standard outfitting for Alec Monroe’s security assault detail, but overkill in his mind for two redneck drunks. With his past military training, he could easily have handled a half-dozen similar drunks by himself when he was human. Now, as one of the Grey-Dead, he doubted he’d have trouble dealing with even a couple dozen of the pathetic humans that remained living on the planet. Alec looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the privacy window separating the front seats from the back. Other than his grey eyes and the grey of his skin that looked smoky through the tinted glass, his features were unchanged after death. He still had the strong jawline and sharp masculine features that had served him well while moving up through the ranks of the military. After he’d been discharged, these same good looks allowed him to integrate smoothly into the social circles of the wealthy and elite of the world. These looks and the powerful position he’d created for himself in business allowed most of his peers to overlook the lack of morals that made him one of the world’s top arms dealers. But that was before the Die-Off. The small bite on his leg he’d received from a Zom in the early days of the apocalypse had changed his position on the planet, at least for the time being.

It was Alec’s boss, Jason Gindroz, Commander of the Los Angeles Greys–and one of those past billionaire elites with whom Alec had associated–who demanded that his top captains entering the Northern City-States be protected with no less than this level of armory.

All of the riders–including Monroe, who rode as a passenger in the back of the Mercedes wore matte black clothing and black Kevlar helmets which covered their entire heads. The helmets were mag-locked to a Kevlar vest and couldn’t be removed without their personal voice-activated security-codes. The helmets incorporated bullet-resistant black visors that were voice-activated as well.

The final member of the security detail, an Apache helicopter with full arsenal, followed a considerable distance behind and above; high enough not to be detected but close enough to use its deadly force if needed.

Yes, Jason, Alec said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. The mobile connection was cutting in and out, adding to the irritation of speaking with his boss. They’re leading us to the spot now. As long as they don’t kill themselves first by running into a tree, we should be finished with this in less than an hour.

Alec adjusted the brightness of the infrared monitor built into the back of the Mercedes’ seat. He’d been on the phone with Gindroz since they’d begun tracking the pickup truck twenty minutes ago, and he was getting tired of hearing Gindroz’s voice and his attempts to micro-manage this situation.

I’ll give you an update as soon as we’re done.

Alec didn’t wait for a response, but closed the cover to his phone and pushed back into the seat with a frustrated sigh. One of these days, he would push Gindroz too far and pay the price, but he didn’t think it would be today, or even this week. Too many plans were in the works right now, and Gindroz needed him.

Wait until he hears the news that should be coming his way any time now, Alec thought as he leaned back into the seat, contemplating the most recent events that were occurring with Carson Hankins.

Alec pushed a button on the front control panel set into the seat back in front of him. A panel slid out with a Beretta similar to the ones carried by the motorcycle riders. He ejected the clip and made sure it was full, and then made sure there was a bullet chambered.

The privacy window dividing the front from the back lowered several inches.

Sir, the driver spoke through the opening. We’ve got consistent braking on the vehicle. Looks like they may be arriving.

Good, Alec said. Have the bikes fall back and find additional entry points. We’ll go in first.

Alec adjusted his helmet as the privacy window raised. He could hear the driver relaying the information to the riders and watched them fall back to a rear position.

Lock visor, Alec said. There was an audible click to the visor as it slid down into place to cover his face.

CHAPTER 2

Bob pulled hard on the steering wheel and the truck slid around one final bend, almost slamming into a good-sized boulder on the right side of the road before getting it under control. He shifted with a grinding of the gears and sped up into the straight stretch of road ahead.

Been driving long? Billy asked sarcastically.

About as long as I’ve been fucking your sister. Bob snorted a laugh that shot beer out his nose. He closed his eyes as it happened and continued laughing.

Stop! Billy shouted, as he threw his hands against the dashboard, crushing the empty can in his hand as he braced himself.

Bob slammed on the brakes without engaging the clutch, and the truck jerked forward and stalled.

Whoa! Bob exclaimed as he looked out over the front of the truck and into dark empty space ahead of them.

Whoa is right, you idiot, Billy said, leaning back and dropping the crushed can to the floor. You almost killed us, dickhead! Back this thing up and turn hard left into those bushes. Billy pointed to the left at a small opening that was mostly concealed by overgrown shrubs and tall weeds.

This is the place? Bob asked, as he started the truck and reversed. The back-up lights alerted the car following them that they were reversing, and then the lights disappeared as Bob made the sharp turn away from the edge of the cliff.

Bob drove the truck slowly through the gap in the bushes and entered into a wide-open clearing free of brush and weeds.

Billy glanced around, wondering why they were the only ones here.

Where the hell are they? We can’t be this early? Billy worried that he’d gotten the date or the time wrong, again.

Bob’s eyes went wide with shock as the headlights illuminated the trees directly in front of them. The truck came to a sudden stop as Bob hit the brakes and clicked the high beams.

Fuck me! Bob whispered. The headlights revealed Zoms, dozens of them, tied or strung up to the oaks in front of them.

No. Fuck them, Billy said with too much excitement in his voice. Welcome to Zombie Land, Bobby-boy.

Billy bent over and pulled a metal box from beneath the seat. He grabbed another beer while he was down there and then placed the box on his lap before opening it. He examined the contents, two Desert Eagle pistols and a six-shot Smith & Wesson revolver that looked like it had seen better days. He shook his head at the poor quality of firepower he’d been able to acquire lately. He fingered the S&W and then grabbed one of the three Desert Eagles instead. He preferred the revolver, even with the shape it was in, but within the past couple of years, it had gotten much harder to find ammo for the gun; and he was in the mood for a lot of target practice tonight.

Wow. Cool! Bob exclaimed as he reached across the seat for one of the handguns. Billy slapped his hand away before he could get near enough to grab one.

Not yet, fool, Billy said. He pulled the case further away from Bob. You get one of these once we’re out of the truck. I’m not getting my balls blown off by you.

Bob pulled his hand back and rubbed it. He fought the urge to tell Billy that it didn’t matter, that neither of them were going to get a chance to use the guns anyway. Instead, he opened the door and muttered a fuck you as he slammed the door closed.

Jeez, chill out, Bobby, Billy said. He opened his door and placed the case with the pistols on the seat. He grabbed extra clips from the case, inserting one clip in the gun and placing the others in his pocket, along with the gun.

Open the tailgate, Billy ordered Bob.

Billy grabbed a long dogcatcher’s pole out of the truck and walked around to the back of the truck, just as Bob let the tailgate slam open and down against the bumper. The sound echoed across the night.

Billy stood there for a moment shaking his head.

What? Bob asked, knowing he’d made too much noise just letting it fall. There’s no one around for miles.

Billy leaned the pole against the truck and grabbed the roll of carpet.

Take a side and let’s get this thing unwrapped, Billy said as he started tugging on the carpet.

Bob grabbed an edge and the two of them dragged the roll out of the truck and let it fall hard to the ground. A louder moan came from inside the carpet.

It sounds pissed, Bob said.

Don’t give it that much credit, Billy grunted as they worked the knots and untied the rope that was wrapped around the carpet. It’s just a piece of rotting meat waiting until it gets a chance to take a bite out of one of us.

They finished untying the rope and each grabbed an edge of the carpet. With a hard pull, they yanked the carpet and it unrolled, tossing the occupant wrapped inside onto the damp earth in front of them.

Bob jumped backward and moved away as the Zom rolled to a stop. It moaned once, and then still facing away from the two men, it slowly struggled to its knees and then to its feet. Bob hadn’t seen the Zom before now. Billy had arrived with it at the bar, and then he and Billy had driven straight to the rendezvous.

Bob stared at the Zom. It had been a tall blonde woman who looked to have been an athlete before she’d turned. It was completely naked and there were no discernible death marks on its body that he could see from the rear. In fact, other than the grayish-green pallor to its skin, the Zom seemed to be in great shape.

Billy grabbed the pole he’d leaned against the truck, quickly looping the pole’s metal wire around the Zom’s neck and pulling tight.

With the Zom in his control, Billy felt the need to have some fun. He pulled the Zom around to face Bob and pushed forward. The Zom stopped within a couple of feet, facing Bob. The Zom made eye contact with him and began to moan loudly, creating the low and frightening vibration that they were known for as they called others to feed.

Viewing the Zom from the front now, Bob could see a large chunk of flesh torn from her throat; other than that, she was perfectly preserved and also perfectly naked. Bob couldn’t stop himself from leering. He looked her up and down, settling on her shaved genital area. He felt himself quickly becoming aroused, and then his face flushed and went red from embarrassment.

She’s a real looker still, don’t you think, Bob?

Yeah, sure, I guess so. Bob said, wanting to look away, but not wanting to also.

Maybe you can have some fun with her first. You know? Do her before we do her? Billy was smiling when Bob looked at him. The smile sent a chill through Bob.

You’re a sick fuck, Billy, Bob said, to cover his embarrassment at the feelings he was having.

Oh, look out, Bobby! Billy used the pole to push the Zom toward Bob.

The Zom reached out with its arms and struggled to grab Bob.

Shit, Billy. What the fuck? Bob’s arousal quickly faded and there was now fear in Bob’s voice as he shuffled backward and stumbled over a small rock buried in the dirt. He landed hard, catching himself on his hands and scraping skin off his palms as he scuttled away.

Billy was laughing hard and having a difficult time controlling the Zom as it moved toward Bob. Hearing Billy’s laughter and having lost direct line of sight to Bob, the Zom spun in the metal loop around its neck and faced Billy. Billy’s laughter stopped short as he felt the force of the Zom pushing against the pole toward him. It was stronger than he’d thought, and he had to brace himself to not get pushed backward.

Stop screwing around Billy, Bob yelled as he stood up and ran toward the cover of a tree. The rotting smell of a Zom tied to the nearest tree made him turn and he looked into its face. The eyes had been removed along with the lower half of its face and throat; the lower half of its body was gone as well. A piece of spinal cord was hanging loose, and bullet holes riddle the upper torso.

Bob stared at the Zom. Besides the fact that there was a Zom tied to the tree, something else seemed wrong. Bob backed away and stepped on a tree limb that had fallen. The loud snapping alerted the Zom tied to the tree that there was something near, and it reached out reflexively.

Even though all of his instincts told him to step away, Bob couldn’t make his feet move. In his job as a meat collector for the Alliance, he’d seen hundreds of Zoms already taken to term, but none where they were still dead, and none as butchered and mangled as the one currently in front of him.

He realized he wasn’t prepared for this as he spun around and began to notice the rest of the Zoms that were visible in the light from the truck. Many of them were still dead and mutilated, and reaching out from the trees where they were tied and hung. He hadn’t noticed before because the majority of them had been silenced in similar fashion to the one in front of him.

Bob was sobering up quick, and he didn’t like it at all. He began to feel sick as the alcohol wore off, and he began to understand what Billy and the others had created here in the woods.

Bob looked over to where Billy was struggling with the Zom. He had it under control again and was leading it toward a vacant tree.

Billy? Bob called out to him with a cracked voice. Billy either didn’t hear or was ignoring him. He called out again louder. Billy!

Billy stopped and looked over to where Bob was standing. What? he yelled back. Get over here and help me, asshole.

No. Bob said it so low that Billy couldn’t hear him.

What?

No! Bob said, loudly enough this time for Billy to hear him.

No, what? What are you doing? Billy asked. The rising irritation in his voice told Bob that Billy already knew what Bob was saying.

"This is… this is just wrong, Billy."

Get your ass over here and help me, you fucking pussy.

Billy spun the Zom to face away from him and then pushed it against the nearest tree. He forced his weight against the pole to hold the Zom still and jammed the pole hard into the ground to keep it from moving, using his foot for bracing. Billy handled the Zom like a pro. He’d done this many times in the past few years, and he showed no fear at all.

Before turning away from the Zom, Billy took a long hard look at the dead woman’s body. Fuck yeah, you are a sweet one, aren’t you, Billy thought, and then turned back to confront Bob.

I’m not asking, Bob. This isn’t a fucking game. You know why we’re here.

Billy reached into his pocket and left his hand there.

Bob watched him with wide eyes. Now that he was heading toward being completely sober, he began to realize just how fucked up Billy and the others in the group were. He began looking around for the help that was supposed to have arrived already.

I… I can’t, Billy, Bob said, barely loud enough for Billy to hear.

Raising his voice to a higher pitch and stuttering to make his imitation even more demeaning, Billy mocked Bob, "I… I… I… I can’t, Billy, I’m just a little pussy-Zom-loving-bitch."

Bob took another step back, his eyes glued to Billy’s pocket.

Like I said, Bob, you don’t get a choice. You made your decision when you helped me bring this thing here, and now you’re going to follow through with it. All of it!

Bob was beginning to panic, and it was showing. Sweat rolled down his forehead and his coveralls were soaked. He was glancing left and right, as if looking for something.

Billy noticed his glancing around.

What are you looking for Bob? There’s no place to run. And who knows what leftovers might be dragging around out there in the dark.

I… Bob was cut off in mid sentence as a dark figure walked through the opening where they’d driven the truck through earlier.

He’s looking for me, I believe, Alec said, speaking loudly through his lowered visor. He held his Beretta in his left hand as he walked into the open, the muzzle pointed away from the two men and toward the ground.

CHAPTER 3

Fuck me… God-damned rookies, Manly grumbled quietly. He ducked under the yellow tape and walked toward the two officers standing guard along the entry to the crime scene.

Manly repositioned his fedora and pulled the collar of his trench coat up to help block the chill. As he approached, his open coat flapped in the wind, briefly displaying the pistols holstered across his chest and adding to the impression that Manly was some hard-boiled detective character that had stepped out of a 1930s Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler crime novel. Beneath his coat and fedora, Manly was the antithesis of that hard-boiled detective from the days of pulp fiction. There were no chiseled features or prominent jawline, no extended years of over-imbibing and womanizing, and no original tough-guy image.

Before the Die-Off, Manly’s smooth features, thin nose, short-cropped brown hair and deep brown eyes could easily have had him mistaken for the calm and loving family man that he’d finally become. But these softened looks, and his once-calm demeanor, belied the fact that he’d also spent a number of his earlier years as a federal Secret Service. It was this demeanor and his training that had kept him alive and human, when much of the world and those he’d loved had gone dead around him.

Bright work lights pushed away the darkness surrounding the house, but a few hundred feet down the road, a dozen or more reporters were arguing with other officers about being kept so far away. The late hour and no moon would make it harder for the reporters to see what was happening near the mansion, and that’s how Manly wanted it to stay.

Hey, you two! Manly shouted to the investigators closest to him. Get those men out of this area, immediately!

The men followed Manly’s gaze toward the two investigators who had unzipped their contagion masks and were bent over a rotting wood porch railing, puking into the bushes by the side of the mansion.

Great. First, I’m called to this fleabag of a town, and then they send new recruits to work this scene, Manly thought.

Manly had hated visiting the small town of Oroville before the Die-Off, and his distaste for the town hadn’t lessened in the years since. Eight out of the ten crime scenes he’d visited in the past two months had been in Oroville. He knew the only reason the leaders of New Jefferson hadn’t bulldozed the entire town to the ground years ago was the old money that had lived here. This huge old mansion was one of several remaining structures that stood in testament to that money, and the influence the lingering owners retained.

Shaking his head in frustration, Manly turned and looked toward the barricades and reporters in the distance, and then looked toward the two men again.

Dammit, Manly was still shaking his head as he thought about the morning’s press conference. Olson Haley, Manly’s boss and the one who’d summoned him to this scene, was probably still fuming about having his ass handed to him by reporters; he’d be more than happy to ream Manly a new one if this got on the Net. Manly’s frown briefly transformed to a smile as he thought about how poorly Olson had handled the reporters.

It was Olson’s job, as the Alliance Field Director, to lie about how well the investigations into the latest human on Zom crime spree were being handled. Zom sex-houses were springing up all over the City-State of New Jefferson, and with elections only a month away, this was slamming the Alliance and the New-Congress with a lot of bad press.

As far as Manly was concerned, they all deserved whatever they got. Manly had arrested several dozen humans over the past few months, and so far, not a single one had been taken to court, much less convicted of a crime. He figured it would be a long time still before a human would ever convict another human, no matter how depraved things got; but things were getting out of hand. The reporters knew this too, and they weren’t making things easy for Olson or the Alliance.

Biting the tip off the cigar he’d been holding, he spit the end to the side and glanced around, making sure barriers were up at both ends of the road. At least no vid-reporters were within range to record the scene. If two of his investigators losing their lunch at the latest Zom crime scene made it to the Net, Olson was sure to try and deny his fees again. This had happened last year when Manly couldn’t stop himself from giving a disparaging quote to a vid-reporter at a crime scene. It didn’t help that he had also mentioned Olson’s name in the same quote with a few strong expletives toward Olson’s management skills.

Manly pushed thoughts of Olson out of his mind and looked around for Morgan.

Ancil Morgan–Manly’s partner for the past six years–walked quickly down the steps from the mansion and toward Manly. As he approached, he blocked the view of the two investigators being led away from the stairs. Morgan’s immense size and speed never ceased to impress Manly, and the aggressive nature that came with those two assets was a huge benefit to keeping the two of them safe, and alive, when things turned bad. And these days, bad seemed to happen more often than not. Morgan had played college ball before going into the military, and Manly figured his partner’s military training, along with having been a defensive lineman, aided in his own survival during the Die-Off.

Morgan was one of the few living black men that Manly had developed any personal connection with since the Die-Off. During his tenure in the Secret Service, he’d partnered with agents of many different ethnicities, and he’d always lived in neighborhoods that were culturally diverse, but the Die-Off had drastically changed the living demographics of the United States. The economics of overcrowding in the poorest areas of cities and towns across the nation was a perfect breeding ground for Zoms when the apocalypse happened.

Manly flashed briefly to the night six years ago when the two had met. If Olson hadn’t partnered the two of them for a routine black market investigation, Morgan wouldn’t have saved Manly’s ass, and Manly never would have talked Morgan into leaving the Alliance and breaking off on their own as freelance investigators. It was probably the only smart move Olson had ever made.

Manly lit his cigar while Morgan’s huge hands fumbled the zipper-pull on the mask covering the lower half of his face.

Morgan removed a stained and badly worn fedora from his head and ran his hand over a fresh buzz cut. His black skin gleamed beneath the crime scene’s blinding lights, and his dark sunglasses reflected the scene around them. Morgan attempted to straighten the brim of the fedora before he replaced the hat, but it went back on just as crooked and beat up as before. Morgan was one of the best-dressed investigators Manly had ever seen, so even tonight, with almost no notice, Morgan was dressed like he was heading to a dinner party with his pressed slacks and clean shirt. Wearing the old, stained fedora always seemed so out of place to Manly.

Morgan took a deep breath as he prepared to give Manly an account of the scene.

This one’s really fucked Manly! We have a shitload of children inside… Grey kids and leftovers. It’s one sick scene. Morgan finished the sentence and sucked in another breath of fresh air.

Manly paused as he watched the two investigators being led away from the stairs. He looked up and became distracted by the bright halo the work lights cast around Morgan’s head. The backlight threw his already dark-skinned features into even darker shadow, giving Morgan an aura resembling a giant black angel.

Leftovers are already being terminated. What should we do with the Greys? Morgan asked, interrupting Manly’s thoughts.

Manly looked up at Morgan and pulled deeply on the end of his cigar, the ember glowing brightly and then dimming as he exhaled a long spiraling strand of smoke.

Manly watched the smoke disperse in the wind and shivered against the cold. He pulled the collar of his coat up tight