SurvivorZ: The End

By Cameron Jon Bernhard

What could force a disgraced police officer, a pair of mafia hitmen, an army NCO, and a group of terrified civilians to band together for survival? Nothing short of the zombie apocalypse. The recently deceased are clawing from their graves and roaming the earth with an insatiable appetite for living flesh. In a hunted, desperate world, only the strong, smart, and fortunate will survive to see another day.
SurvivorZ is a character-focused tale of horror adventure from acclaimed storyteller Cameron Jon Bernhard. It is a tribute to the original George Romero zombie horror, with a fresh take on the scientific origin behind the walking dead and unexpected, terrifying ramifications of the outbreak.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cameron Jon Bernhard
• Release date: Sep 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463446225

Cameron Jon Bernhard

Published since 2013, J.B. Cameron was forced to rebrand under the name "Cameron Jon Bernhard" to avoid conflicting with an identically named self-published writer. Though born in New Brunswick, Canada, his work shows more influence from an upbringing of American TV than his maritime roots. A writer who generally plays loose with the constraints of genre, Bernhard's dark style and black humor typically places fun, exciting characters in situations of suspense or urban horror, making an exciting roller coaster ride to both chill and amuse readers. Author of numerous novels, novellas and screenplays, his first published novel, "Reading The Dead - The Sarah Milton Chronicles," introduces a supernatural detective series unlike anything you'll find elsewhere.

Book preview

Nursing a goose egg on the back of her skull, Eve Cutler came to in a soft bed of frozen powder, surrounded by a world of contradictions. A chill raced through her body from the cold snow melting into her clothes, yet the winter wind carried a warm breeze to heat her back. The sun vanished behind the stark pines and leafless birches hours ago, yet the forest around her glowed with a golden hue. She wobbled unsteadily to her feet to discover that she stood alone, yet her nerves screamed that she was anything but isolated.

Then she turned around, and all incongruities suddenly made sense.

The heat from the conflagration consuming the Traveler's Inn warmed her cheeks, even from her vantage atop a neighboring hillside almost forty yards away. She watched the flames dance to the heavens upon the blackened bones of their former refuge. The sight both sickened and fascinated her.

Like most places they came across in the months since the world went to Hell, looters picked the Inn clean ages ago. What remained was theirs by attrition. The group worked hard to barricade the ground floor, using doors and furniture from the hotel rooms to block off all but a couple of passages. A chain link fence walled off three sides of the property, and they fashioned a barricade from derelict cars for the roadway entrance. It wasn't the Ritz, but it was clean, relatively safe, and within walking distance of a commercial district not entirely picked over.

They could have hunkered there all winter, if need be. In light of their disastrous decision to migrate north, it felt as though more than just wood and glass disintegrated in the inferno. Their last hope went up in smoke with it.

Eve witnessed a black tide of misshapen figures swarming into the main parking lot from the highway, drawn like moths to the raging flames. Their mindless drones echoed in a discordant carol. She recognized their lumbering gait at once: feeders, numbering in the hundreds. The fetid stench of their rotting bodies sickened her from here.

No. Oh, God, no.

A whip crack of fire boomed from one of the rooms, spraying flaming debris into the side parking lot. The noise attracted a handful of the dead, who hobbled over for a closer inspection. Charlie and Denise siphoned enough gas from neighborhood cars to keep their generator running for weeks. Like everything else they owned up to this point, it disappeared in a flash.

With a mournful sigh, Eve collapsed to her knees. Her breath came in labored hitches. Tears blurred her vision. Staring at the fire, she knew in her heart that none of her friends survived.

God. Why?

She should be burning in there with them. She probably would be, if she hadn't heard something moving around outside earlier and chose to investigate. The lump on her head and the marks in the snow where someone dragged her to this spot spoke volumes.

Tommy, she spat bitterly.

The fire beckoned the dead, but it wasn't the reason for the horde descending upon them in such numbers. That was her fault. She never should have let things between her and Tommy get so far out of hand. The horror show happening below was payback for how things ended in Portland.

Don't let this be happening.

The cold inspired a shiver from her tired body. She closed her eyes and pictured each member of her surrogate family clearly. Their short time together was anything but easy, yet now that they were gone, she couldn't imagine carrying on without them.

Her chances of surviving alone were abysmal, especially this far north. The temperature plummeted more every night. The bloodthirsty nightmares roaming around down there might not feel it, but she could. Maine in the winter would be a death sentence for everyone, herself included.

I can't. Not like this. Not by myself.

Her voice sounded alien to her ears. It belonged to someone with a heart of crushed glass and a withered soul. Somewhere between here and that gas bar outside Brockton, she lost the best parts of herself on highways choked with the dead. What remained wasn't worth her tears.

She reached under an oversized coat for the gun tucked in her belt. Mike's .38 Special. Fresh sadness wrung from her wretched body.

Neither of them had expected to find love amidst the terror and cruelty of this harsh world. It hardly seemed fair that their brief moment of happiness together should result in so much pain and suffering. That should be her down there, dying horribly, not her friends. They played no part in the twisted lover's triangle that brought them all to this desolate end.

Eve wiped a cold teardrop from her cheek. Banding together was supposed to protect them from danger. Had she known that the real threat lurked from within their group, she might have spared everyone by taking her own life months ago.

Choking back her tears and steeling her nerves, Eve switched off the safety and lifted the gun to her temple. She hardly noticed how natural its weight felt in her hands now. Graves trained her well.

Forgive me, she whispered, and cocked the hammer back.

Eve closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. She didn't want her last sight to be one of death. She thought instead of Mike.

His handsome, smiling face floated to her from the darkness. She saw him eclipsed in the light of an autumn sun. He looked the same way he did that morning on the riverbank, when they finally surrendered to the heat of their passion. She had never felt so alive than she did in that moment, wrapped in his arms with the taste of his lips on hers.

A stray tear trickled down to the upturned curve of her mouth. Eve's finger tightened on the trigger.

Mike.

A soft groan invaded her dream. Mike's face shot up from her with an alarmed expression. The pungent stench of rotting meat, mildew, and feces overwhelmed her senses. Struck with terror, her eyes reopened to the horrible reality in which she found herself imprisoned.

The blaze crackled and spat. Fallen timbers crashed to the ground and glass exploded from the heat. The melody of destruction and the crooning of the dead carried to her ears. None of these noises drove her heart to jackhammer in her chest. That sound came from behind her. There was no mistaking the surreptitious undertone of feet padding awkwardly across the icy terrain.

She peered over her shoulder at the dead woman emerging from the bushes. The creature struggled to plow barefoot through the snow on a leg that was more bone than muscle. They discovered early on in the season that the low humidity worked against the feeders' keen sense of smell. It typically would have detected her presence long before now. The fire probably drew it this way, the same as the others. Crossing her path in the woods was nothing more than another kick in the ass that she now called life.

The creature's skin was a mottled tapestry of gaping, black wounds on ghostly flesh. Blood and grime dried burgundy stains upon the housecoat sagging from its gnawed frame. The wet snow glued its stringy, blood-soaked hair to the decaying flesh peeling from its face. Whoever the woman was in life, the hideous travesty lurching across the snow-packed earth retained nothing of her original beauty and femininity.

The corpse spotted Eve with its frosted eyes and issued a savage hiss through decomposing vocal chords. It floundered through the snow in a frenzied rush to taste her untainted flesh. A hungry growl poured from its drooling, black lips. Eve cringed as grave-black fingers eagerly groped the air towards her.

No!

She scrambled away from its claws, before remembering the gun in her hand. The dead woman lunged. Eve's .38 split the sky with its thunder. The bullet perforated the creature's eye, painting the snow behind it in a viscous soup of bloody tissue. With a gargled moan, it crumpled into a pillow of snow and stopped moving.

Breathing hard, Eve regained her feet. She put some space between herself and the feeder, just in case it still felt lively. She lost count of the deaths she caused in recent months. It never got any easier. Not even for the ones she killed who were already dead.

A mournful groan to her right caught her attention. An answer came from the opposite direction. Eve studied the dark forest, its dark interior faintly illuminated by the flickering glow of the burning building. Blood chilled in her veins. Dozens of shadows stirred amongst the trees, all of them now closing in. Her gunshot rang the dinner bell.

With dawning horror, she peered over her shoulder at the legions of the dead idling by the flames. Many of them started shambling in her direction. Some bumped into others along their way, who in turn jostled even more as they mindlessly followed the leaders. In seconds, the domino effect spurred an entire herd of abominations to flock towards her position.

Oh, shit. Shit!

She desperately searched for an avenue of escape while the moans of the dead grew louder all around her. Through the trees, she spotted a faint blue star flickering in the distance. After scouting the area for weeks, she recalled a house in the neighboring subdivision with decorative solar lights in the back yard. At least one of them retained enough charge to remain operational. If she could make it, one of the homes might provide her with cover until the horde moved on.

Without thinking, Eve plunged through the snow towards the light. She left her sorrow and regrets behind. They would find her again eventually. Perhaps later she might even finish what she started moments ago. For now, at least, her need to survive forced her body to move on its own.

She couldn't say how long she might last, or whether she would find the strength to endure the hard times to come. Some part of her still felt that she owed it to those she lost tonight to do her best. Mike's gun contained five bullets. She could afford four to honor their memory.

The last one she would save for herself.

Carl Graves yanked his hands from his coat pockets and shivered against the cold, autumn air. It wasn't the chill making him shudder, but a nameless terror worming around in his gut. Call it premonition, instinct, or his goddamn spidey sense. With the impossible staring him in the face as big as life and twice as ugly, the old gunslinger understood intuitively that sanity had taken a dramatic powder. He could only trust that the world had lost its marbles and not him.

He had no insight into the future. He couldn't possibly know that he would soon be spending months traveling in the close company of strangers, while constantly facing death from a virtually immortal enemy. For now, the only hint to the degree to which his life would change came from the morbidly obese Lazarus rising with the morning sun.

Graves gaped at the fat man balancing unsteadily on his feet in a tangle of frozen swamp grass. Letting out a puff of breath, he shook his head and wondered in stark amazement, How is this asshole not dead?

By rights, Massey should be pushing up daisies. People don't climb back to their feet after taking a double tap to the heart. Graves knew better than most that it doesn't work that way. In his twenty years working for the DiMarco crime family, he fired enough lead into the human body to fill a dump truck. Not once did his contracts ever get back up for more. This guy was a masochist of the highest order.

The fat wop should be a chilling lump of inanimate flesh, bleeding and shitting all over the decomposing leaves. Instead, he tottered like a baby learning to walk, while growling at his two surprised killers with the ferocity of a wounded tiger.

What the fuck? Graves shouted, his voice echoing in the stagnant forest. He glanced at the shaking gun in his young companion's hand. Ah, useless prick. How the hell could you have missed his heart twice?

I didn't. Look.

Graves scowled at his young protégé and yanked his own gun from its concealed shoulder holster. If he didn't need the kid to help dig Massey's unmarked grave afterwards, he might almost be tempted to finish this mess with two bullets.

Not that there was much chance of that happening. At the end of the day, Tommy was a DiMarco too, which meant he was untouchable. Useless, stupid, and utterly worthless, perhaps; but untouchable, nonetheless. He figured he'd stand a better chance of molding the dying creepstain shambling towards him into a hired gun than this dumbass kid. At least Massey had the balls not to go down without a fight.

Never send a monkey to do a man's job, he grumbled.

Without blinking, he fired off a clean shot into the pudgy bastard's chest. It punctured his body right alongside Tommy's tight cluster of bullet holes. The kid had a good eye, and now that he caught a closer look at the damage, Graves admitted that Tommy had a point about his grouping. If he missed the heart, it was only because the boss' former accountant didn't have one.

Not much for brains, either, he figured. Otherwise, they wouldn't be out here in this freezing damp shithole in Bumfuckle, Massachusetts, trying to put this embezzling mound of blubber down like a wild dog.

Massey grunted and staggered backwards from the impact, still obstinately refusing to keel over. His head lolled on his neck as if attached by a broken spring. His throat hissed from the trapped gases escaping his overstretched guts. His idiot eyes registered no comprehension of his mortality. He swayed precariously on outstretched legs made of rubber. By all accounts, he appeared to be toying with the notion of falling over dead, but still far from sold on the idea.

No way, Tommy muttered in awe.

The fat man in his gore and mud-caked Armani bared his teeth in a hoarse howl and plodded across the fog-laden ground after them again. Graves blinked in amazement at the bastard's tenacity.

The fuck?

Graves studied the new bullet hole he added to Massey's wardrobe. It was a clean shot through the heart. If Death changed the rules of the game all of a sudden, he at least expected a heads-up out of professional courtesy.

See? I told you.

Shut the hell up, Tommy.

As Massey's bullet-riddled remains slogged towards them, his dirty hands clawed the air for his killer's throat. The vein on Graves' forehead throbbed as rage stirred from the pit of his stomach. No way was this balding prick getting the better of him. His Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum could put down a bear. It didn't matter how many layers of fat undulated below the fabric of Massey's designer suit. The fucker wasn't bulletproof.

Massey dully moaned at him. Graves spat and eyed him with venom. Yeah, screw you too.

The crisp morning air resounded with a barrage of gunfire as he added three more rounds to his chest, auguring gaps in his suit deep enough to see through. Dark blood merely trickled down Massey's pinstripes, staining the fabric black. Not surprising, considering how the organ that pumped his body's precious fluid now decorated the bushes behind him in dozens of bloody chunks.

The slugs drove Massey to his knees. Graves took a step back in shock. Even the complete absence of his most vital organ couldn't end him. The wretchedly obese sack of meat rocked on his kneecaps, groaning incoherently, while his insides spilled from the yawning hole carved into his chest and oozed down his expensive suit.

Tommy freaked. Have you ever seen anything like this?

Graves hadn't, of course, but he'd take a bullet himself before admitting that out loud.

Massey reacted to the sound of his voice. Eyes upturned, now faded as pale as his clammy skin. He exposed a set of bloody dentures in the sneer of a hungry predator, before attempting to climb to his feet once more.

Aw, screw this, the mob enforcer growled. The contract specifically said no headshots. The boss was very particular about that detail. He wanted Massey buried up to his neck, leaving his head for the crows and the cops. Regardless, Graves took aim at Massey's ugly pug. The vultures could have what was left of him. He was sick of freezing his ass off out here.

Boom! A bullet to the brain and this hellish job was finally over, just in time for breakfast. Massey bounced backwards on his tree trunk legs, before slumping sideways and staying down permanently. Graves popped him a second time in his caved skull, lest matters between them remained anything short of crystal.

Goddamn, Tommy screamed, his girlish squeals probably carrying to his family's estate in Boston. I mean... Goddamn! Have you ever seen such a thing?

Shaking his head, more at the kid's foolishness than in answer to his query, Graves knelt alongside the body and felt a thick wrist. No heart, no pulse. At least the accountant got his math right on that score.

It's not always like this, is it?

What do you think? he grumbled. The cold and dampness popped his knees as he regained his feet. If there was anything worse than growing old, he probably already shot it.

Goddamn, Tommy cried again, as juiced up on adrenaline as a base jumper. It's like they said, right? You never forget your first one. Do you still remember yours?

Kid, I don't remember who I laid last night, he groused.

Graves slipped his gun back into its holster. He did so slowly, hoping to keep his hand concealed under his coat until he had sufficient opportunity to bleed off its trembling. Tommy didn't need to see how spun he was by this development. He was supposed to be a goddamn professional, for Christ's sake.

As such, he figured somebody owed him an explanation for that fucked up Voodoo witchcraft they just faced. If Saint Peter was suddenly turning away business at the Pearly Gates, it was going to seriously mess with his livelihood.

Is he really dead? Tommy wondered, kicking Massey in his oversized Oxford for good measure.

Come on, Graves said. Give me a hand getting the shovels out of the car. Let's put this asshole in the ground before he decides to stand up again and do the Macarena.

Dave Redmond flew across the UMASS Amherst quad with the grace of Hermes. Last year's 3.6 GPA and his victory at the New England Championships buoyed the track star over the settling mist blanketing the grass. Armed with a fresh athletic scholarship, he meant to improve upon both records this season. His sneakers kicked the damp fog into a thin wave trailing behind him. To anyone headed for class this early, he probably resembled the Road Runner, leaving a dust cloud in his wake.

Come on, Charlie, he shouted at the yawning sky. Hurry up, man. We're late for practice.

As the sardonic old proverb goes, nothing is certain but death and taxes. Since this adage will fail to stand up to scrutiny in the months to come, here's something else to chew on: where Dave Redmond leads, Charlie Lemann follows.

From the day they became bosom buddies on the playground, Charlie thrived in his shadow. Though accomplished himself, his second string victories consistently paled next to his friend's achievements. Dave Redmond sat on a pedestal forever beyond his reach. In another life, Charlie would be the remora to Dave's great white.

Coming! Charlie shouted from his familiar spot at his backside.

Dave spotted two familiar curves heading his way and broke out his best grin. Ladies, he cheered as he passed by. Top of the morning.

Stacy Williams and her friend, Kathy Holmes, both tittered coquettishly and clutched their books tighter to their ample bosoms as they walked to class. He had Stacy. Tried to set up Kathy and Charlie on a double date once, but they didn't take. In the end, he ended up having Kathy too. He toyed with the notion of breaking the news to the girls, on the off chance they might be game for a double header. Fortune favors the bold.

At least, that was generally the rule. For the poor slob who summoned the courage to leap off the top of the Du Bois Library building shortly after 7:30 on the morning of October 15, his only reward turned out to be a gruesome demise.

Dave heard his impact as the thick slap a frozen slab of beef might make whenever it slipped off its hook in a moving refrigeration truck. Redmond's was a family-run chain of meat markets with several outlets up north. He and Charlie often accompanied the drivers on their runs when they were younger, earning more appreciation for the open road than the business itself, which he still found distasteful. Hearing this sound repeated now, in this place, interrupted him in his tracks with a sour taste in his mouth.

Charlie caught up to him, worried by the puzzled expression on his friend's face. What is it? he asked.

Did you hear that? It sounded—

A shrill scream pierced the air. A second later, it was in stereo. The girls spotted the mangled remains of 55-year old Jiang Li wrapped around the shattered wood of a park bench at the base of the structure. After his terminal velocity descent, the former custodian's feet-first landing pulverized his lower extremities and painted the courtyard with bodily fluids. Were it not for the wooden bench impaling his ribcage and preserving much of his torso and head, he could pass for the world's goriest water balloon.

Christ, Charlie gulped. Is that— Anything else he attempted to say on the matter, he choked down with the rest of his rising gorge.

No way, Dave gasped.

The shock of the horrific sight clubbed him between the eyes. Dim awareness informed him that the girls' screams trickled off to whimpers and mutters of disbelief. The same useful source provided running commentary on the hundred-yard dash his breakfast of champions sprinted along his esophagus. Dave bitterly sucked down both his fear and the contents of his stomach. As his coach always said, weakness was for losers and babies. Dave prided himself on being neither.

What... What... Charlie's mind and tongue fractured in the old man's fall.

Dave frowned and peered over his shoulder. Someone in a red jacket approached them from the trail ahead, but was still too far away to provide assistance. He searched for the girls. After her initial shock, Stacy seemed to have her wits about her. Her footing unsteady, she led her hysterically sobbing friend to a nearby tree before they both collapsed.

Stacy, do you have your phone on you?

She sluggishly nodded, her face downcast.

Then call 911. And campus security. And—

A breaker in his mind flipped as he pictured the macabre artwork decorating the courtyard. He had no idea who to call in the event of someone pancaking themselves yards away from you. Somebody with a giant spatula, he guessed.

A nervous titter escaped his lips. Fortunately, nobody else had the presence of mind to interpret his outburst as ghoulish. They were all coping with the horror in their own ways.

You guys wait here, Dave said after composing himself. I'm going to check on him.

Check? Charlie blanched at his friend's declaration. Check on who? What?

Breathe, Charlie. I'm just going to check him for a pulse.

I'm sure he's got one. It's probably in those flowers over there.

Just wait here.

He left the others on the path and marched for the stark face of the towering Du Bois building. The grim spectacle at its feet grew exponentially more graphic with each passing step. He read once that the human body typically contains something like four or five liters of blood. It looked like every drop of Jiang Li's now soaked into the stone tiles of the courtyard. Dave never experienced death first-hand before. His crash course was an unwelcome addition to his university curriculum.

Where Dave Redmond leads, Charlie Lemann follows. A familiar tapping of footsteps prompted a glance over his shoulder. Charlie trotted until he caught up alongside him, tightlipped and pale. Dave gave him a reassuring nod and a smile. Once more, his best friend proved as reliable as his shadow.

You think there's any chance he survived a fall like that? Charlie asked, gazing upwards at the rooftop almost thirty stories above.

Dave remained silent, his eyes locked on the gruesome, torn rag doll embedded into the broken frame of the park bench. He placed the man's chances somewhere south of shit out of luck. He just couldn't stand idly by and do nothing. Confirming a pulse presented his only alternative, given the dreadful circumstances.

Charlie's feet blindly kicked something. Plastic and metal rattled across the stone tiles. Startled by the racket, they both snapped their eyes to a tiny, smashed radio skittering from their path. Its attached earplugs trailed a forked tail behind it.

Neither of them gave its presence much consideration. The bloodstained, broken machine was just one more piece of debris left in the aftermath of the custodian's fatal leap. That Jiang Li never missed the early news broadcast on WHSK out of Springfield held no particular relevance yet. At this hour, most people continued to remain unaware of the chaos overtaking every major metropolis on the planet. The old man's suicide wasn't the first to occur with the rising sun, and would hardly be the last before it finally set on this horrific day.

Charlie hesitated as they reached the perimeter of the custodian's gore-soaked crater. Dave pressed on, ignoring the ruddy stain ruining the soles of his Reeboks. Drawing in a breath, Charlie found the will to follow.

Steam rose from Jiang Li's severed body, mixing with the dissipating fog. Shattered bones, ripped flesh, and torn clothing merged with the wooden bench into a nightmarish exhibit sculpted by a lunatic. The man's blood supply dripped from his broken torso like a leaky faucet. His head drooped backwards from his blood-caked coveralls, leaving him staring up at the high perch upon which his attached feet last touched solid ground.

Christ. Why would anyone do such a thing?

God knows, Dave replied.

Now that he stood before the gruesome sight, he realized that he really didn't want to touch the body. Nothing about the scene felt right. The gore-covered half-man's presence in this stone garden was a slap in the face of normality.

Dave slipped his hands into his pockets and glanced at Charlie. Charlie stared back at him, eyebrows raised. His friend was obviously waiting for him to get on with it, but only from a desire to put this horrible business behind them. Dave nodded. The urge to be somewhere else right now nibbled at his nerves as well.

He rubbed his hands against the biting chill; warm-up exercises before doing the deed. Charlie blinked in silence. When he felt ready, Dave stepped forward and hesitantly outstretched his fingers to the dead man's neck. A moue of distaste covered his handsome features.

His digits were less than an inch from the old man's pale throat when the still morning resonated with Kathy's horrified screams. The shock almost sent him tumbling face-first into the body.

What the hell? Charlie gasped.

Stacy stumbled from the bushes and almost collapsed twice as she staggered into the courtyard. Her pretty face was a mask of dazed pain and terror. She pressed her palm tightly against the side of her neck. Dark blood stained her overcoat.

Stacy? What—

The rest of Dave's words fell from his tongue in an instant, as a cold hand gripped his arm and almost yanked him off his feet. While the anguished screams coming from the path faded into a worrisome silence, his howls of pain rang out in its place. Sharp dentures clamped onto the muscle just above his wrist and bit down hard.

Dave? Charlie inhaled, gaping in shock at the sight of a dead man feasting on his best friend's forearm.

Get him off! Get him off me. It hurts!

Dave hammered the old man's head with his fist, fighting against the steel grip his ragged nails tore into his skin. Fresh blood sprayed around Jiang Li's pale lips as teeth ripped deep into flesh. The presumed dead man growled and snarled with the ravenous hunger of a wild animal. He gnawed into the meaty chunk of tissue until his bloodied teeth scraped bone. Dave screamed again, feeling his consciousness drift in white flashes before his eyes.

Dave!

Charl— Dave tried to say, before his legs buckled under him and he collapsed in a pool of Jiang Li's stagnating blood.

He pulled from the custodian's claws, but not before a ragged patch of flesh and muscle tore off in the old man's mouth. Reality distorted, seemingly viewed from the reflection of a carnival mirror. The agony of the white-hot fire consuming his arm drifted away as his senses dulled to take in the situation unfolding around him.

Charlie stared at him, dumbstruck, his face bleached pale. Behind him, Stacy trudged by in an unblinking daze, her steps drained and heavy. Blood seeped through her fingers from the wound on her neck.

The cold air wracked his body. His shivers delivered a fresh wave of searing pain. He goggled at his side. Blood covered his UMASS sweatshirt, spraying from the torn fabric of his sleeve and mixing with the stained ground. He tried moving his arm to get a closer look at the wound. Fresh agony pumped another scream from his lungs.

Charlie dropped to his side. Dave! Are you all right?

Dave ignored the absurdity of his friend's question. His eyes rediscovered the impaled half-man and refused to turn away. The ghastly, bloodstained figure smacked his lips with the air of someone enjoying a five-star meal. His masticated food seeped from his shredded stomach and dribbled out upon the spoiled stonework beneath him.

Come on, man. We need to get you some help.

Dave neither answered him nor made any effort to regain his feet. He stared transfixed into the custodian's milky quartz orbs, his mind reeling in disbelief. Jiang Li gulped down the last of his Redmond tartare and extended his grimy hands out for seconds.

He's dead, Dave slurred. How is he not dead?

Jiang Li uttered a frustrated snarl as he squirmed to free himself from the bench spearing his ribcage and holding his segregated body prisoner. He desperately snatched handfuls of air, but his prey remained tantalizingly out of reach.

Come on. Charlie grabbed him from behind and lifted him up. Let's get out of here before he works himself loose.

He bit me.

Dave showed him the gouge in his arm as casually as they once shared baseball cards in their youth. Charlie's eyes bulged at the sight. The old man's incisors ripped off a large chunk of his forearm. The amount of blood gushing from the wound made it impossible to determine the extent of the damage.

Your arm! It's... holy shit.

He bit me, Dave repeated with the same catatonic lilt, falling deeper into shock.

Hang on.

Charlie yanked off his belt. The old man snarled and angrily swiped the air in his direction. Charlie hopped out of reach with athletic grace. He slipped the strap around Dave's upper arm, looping it through the buckle first once, then twice, before pulling it tight and fastening the leather in a rigid knot. Dave's trance broke the moment that Charlie pulled the belt taut.

His anguished scream incensed an equally impassioned moan from the old man. Jiang Li twisted and rocked his partial body violently. Bones crunched within his rib cage. Rather than earning his freedom, his legless corpse only slid further down the board pinning him to the bench. The torn meat of his punctured lungs garnished his impaling spike.

Charlie ignored the grisly sight in favor of his first aid efforts, but not even the pain could distract Dave. He gazed dumbstruck at the pallid revenant. While fumbling for them, the former custodian and former human being only succeeded in skewering himself worse.

That's the best I can do, Charlie finally announced. Can you walk? We need to get you to the medical center. They'll be able to fix it up better.

Dave nodded, biting his lip. He wasn't even sure how much longer he could remain standing, but his need to leave this nightmare behind far exceeded his pain. Nothing felt real anymore. Only minutes ago, his biggest concern was the coach not chewing them out for being late to practice. In the wake of pain igniting every nerve in his body, that trivial worry held no more substance than the dissipating morning mist.

You okay here for a minute? I have to check on Stacy first. She didn't look too good.

Dave paid no heed as Charlie left without waiting for a response. It was impossible to think straight. The heat baking off his arm stewed his brains. Sweat poured from his brow as though he just ran the 1500 meter at a record-breaking pace.

The old man, his face contorted into an inhuman snarl, writhed against the stake securing him in place. He scrabbled for purchase along the side of the bench, tearing off a couple of fingernails in the process. Pain meant nothing to him. His only concern was a single-minded compulsion to feed.

Dave staggered away, holding his bound arm. He couldn't stand to look at the barely human thing pinned to the park bench any longer. Just the sight of it hurt his head. Even its aggravated howls were more than he could bear.

Charlie returned shortly, his face paler than ever. He slung an arm around him for support and ushered him towards the trail.

Stacy? Dave inquired.

Charlie merely shook his head, tightlipped and drained of color.

What about Kathy?

The answer to that question came moments later, accompanied by a horrible, wet, ripping sound that neither of them would ever forget. Dave recognized the individual as the one in the maroon jacket whom he spotted earlier on the trail. Blood almost completely saturated his white coat. A shard of broken glass jutted from his punctured jugular.

Holding their breaths, they skirted around him gingerly. He ignored their presence, his face buried in Kathy's entrails. Chewing through her mutilated body like a piranha occupied his full attention.

The image of Kathy's horrified expression blankly staring at the sky, while her eviscerated and partially consumed body lay open to the falling leaves, was almost too much for Dave. His grip on reality became that of a drowning man groping for a greased barrel as it bobbed in the water before him. Were it not for Charlie's presence, his mind would surely have broken in that moment.

For once in their lives, Charlie led them away while Dave followed. In a world gone mad, the perversion of the natural order of their relationship fit perfectly. Neither of them realized it, but the age of Charlie Lemann blindly following Dave Redmond had ended.

This was probably for the best, considering that Dave Redmond was already as good as dead.

Danielle Sommers trudged downstairs with the cheer of a winter storm cloud. The teenager was a tempest of hormones on a good day. This clearly was the other kind. As she entered the kitchen, her mother could tell with one look that beauty was taking the day off, leaving her stuck dealing with the beast.

Eat up. You're running late for school.

Maureen let her directive hang in the air between them. Rather than obeying, her daughter collapsed into the chair across from her younger sister with the world-weariness of someone six times her age. Ignoring her empty bowl, Danielle slipped a phone from her pocket and started texting her friends.

Not hungry, she muttered dismissively.

Nine year-old Emily Sommers gazed at her defiant older sibling over a spoonful of Cocoa Puffs. Milk dribbled from her overloaded utensil onto the table. Her dark eyes shifted to her mother to witness the return fire.

No texting at the table, Danielle. We spoke about this.

With a frustrated grunt, the teen punched a few buttons to complete her message – no doubt grousing to her girlfriends about her overbearing shrew of a mother. The phone returned to her pocket. Her unoccupied hands crossed at her burgeoning chest as she frowned at the empty bowl in mute fury.

Maureen sighed and shook her head, letting the matter drop. Pushing now would only incense the girl. As a doctor, she knew better than to pick at wounds. Danielle's scars from last night's family prizefight were still too fresh.

Finish your breakfast, Em, Maureen said, returning to her coffee.

Emily popped the spoon into her mouth and resumed chewing.

Good morning.

Bob Sommers appeared at the doorway, still fussing with his tie. His wife's tired expression and the quick shake of her head extinguished his cheer. He took his seat at the head of the table, while his eyes carefully measured the tension served up with his breakfast.

Morning, dad, Emily greeted.

How are you this morning, sweet pea? He beamed while pouring himself a bowlful of Oatmeal Crisp. Did you have a good sleep?

Not really. Someone wouldn't get off the phone all night. Her sharp eyes darted to Danielle.

Mind your own business, pipsqueak.

Danielle! Maureen shouted.

She started it.

And I'm ending it, her mother snapped.

Whatever.

Bob regarded his entire family. His gaze stopped on Danielle. Let me guess. You're still sore about the car.

I'm sixteen, Danielle asserted. Amy Montrose had her own car four months ago, and Shelly Knowles' parents are getting one for her in a few weeks. I'm a good driver. Why can't I have one?

Well, let's consider that, shall we? her father calmly replied. For starters, you only have your learner's permit, so any thoughts you might have had about cruising around town with your friends, you can forget about it.

Terry has some college friends who are twenty one. I could travel with—

Not in my lifetime, missy, Maureen injected curtly.

Secondly, don't forget that you're already grounded for three weeks, after that little stunt you pulled... or do you think that breaking curfew to stay out late with your boyfriend is reason to reward you with a new car?

Danielle slumped in her seat and brooded. Emily gulped down her breakfast and waited to see if she would respond. She didn't.

Until you can prove to us that you're responsible enough to handle a car, the only way I see it happening is if you turn thirty overnight and immediately land a job in a law firm.

I hate it here, Danielle grumbled.

I don't blame you, Bob retorted, smacking down a mouthful of cereal. Your life's so unfair. He flashed Emily a quick wink. The child smirked back.

Mom...

Maureen raised her hand sharply. Oh, no. Your father's right. If you want to drive, we'll let you take the wheel on your way to and from school, but that's it. Under no circumstances—

The remainder of her rebuke was lost to the din of a ringing doorbell, quickly accompanied by frenetic knocking. A husky silhouette darkened the frosted glass of the front door. The drumming on their doorstep prompted alarmed glances around the table.

Bob checked his watch as he rose from his chair. What's this now?

While his family watched, he answered the door. Wilson Bentley, their retired next-door neighbor, stood in the frame with a harried look about him. The man's obese belly peeked through a white, sleeveless T-shirt that was speckled with blood.

Wilson? What—?

Maureen! the balding man shouted as he barged past him.

Hey, what's this all ab—?

Wilson frantically worked his way through the house, searching for Maureen. Upon finding her still seated at the kitchen table, relief washed over his wrinkled face.

Maureen! Please come quick. It's Nora. I don't know what to do. She's not breathing.

Maureen was on her feet in a heartbeat. Danielle, fetch the medical bag in my closet upstairs and bring it next door. Hurry.

Anything I can do? Bob asked his wife as she chased Wilson out the door.

Call for an ambulance, she replied on her way out, and make sure Emily gets to school on time.

The rising sun ignited the yellow-orange leaves of the large oak in their front yard. Beyond it, Bishop Drive slumbered, reviving slowly to the faint drone of traffic on Pine Street. Soon, her neighbors would emerge from their homes to begin their commute into the heart of Amherst. Until then, a fragile stillness pervaded the neighborhood, as fleeting as the frost drying in the grass.

The tranquility of the moment was almost lost to Maureen as she rushed across their driveway to the Bentley place next door. Wilson's jellied girth bounced over the waist of his khakis as the old man panted in her shadow.

What happened?

I don't know, he replied between labored breaths. She just collapsed all of a sudden.

Is she bleeding?

Uh? He looked down at the stains on his shirt. No, this is mine. I was shaving when it happened. I must have nicked myself.

Maureen climbed the steps to the house and threw open the door, waiting on invitation no more than Wilson did. He caught up to her a second later, sweat pouring from his reddened face.

Bedroom, he gasped, pointing towards the stairs.

She only visited a few times, mostly during the holidays with the family, but knew her way around well enough to find the master bedroom on her own. Wilson trudged up the stairs after her, his breath coming in wheezing gasps. Maureen hoped he wasn't having a heart attack. She didn't think that she'd be able to save them both.

Nora Bentley lay across the bed with her nightgown folded neatly under her. She was a wisp of a woman with a head of white curls. Bob always joked that if Wilson ever rolled over in his sleep, he'd squash her like a bug. Discovering her like this, Maureen couldn't recall ever seeing the woman look so tiny and frail. She hardly seemed like the same mother of two and grandmother of five who organized fundraising events every year for the church.

She was on the floor. I lifted her into bed, Wilson admitted with a guilty look. I hope that's all right.

That's fine. How long ago was this?

Two minutes ago, maybe. Is she going to be all right?

Maureen settled next to her on the bed and placed her fingertips against Nora's carotid artery. A worried expression crossed her face after a few seconds. She tried her wrist. There was no trace of life there, either.

I'm not feeling a pulse.

Wilson whimpered softly and clawed at his meaty arm. He peered at his wife's silent body like a lost child.

Mom? Danielle shouted from the front door.

Up here! she called back, and then focused a steel gaze at Wilson. I need you. Tilt her head back. When I give you the word, pinch her nose closed and breathe into her mouth.

Wilson nodded in understanding and jumped to obey her instructions. Danielle rushed in a few seconds later, carrying a black satchel in her hand. She stopped inside the door, staring in shock at the woman lying on the bed.

Is... Is Mrs. Bentley going to be all right? she asked.

By this time, Maureen was already rhythmically compressing Nora's chest between her hands. In medical school, they taught them to perform CPR to the beat of Nellie the Elephant. She always preferred Stayin' Alive by the Bee Gees. Usually, she played the song over in her mind. When stressed, like now, she more often sang along softly.

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.

Mom?

Now, Wilson! she cried. Two strong breaths.

The large man pinned Nora's nostrils shut and exhaled into her lungs. Her small chest rose so high that it seemed ready to pop like an overinflated balloon. When Wilson's face began to resemble a beet, he drew in a second helping of oxygen and repeated the process.

He looked to Maureen afterwards. Her fingers were on Nora's pulse. Shaking her head, she played another disco routine on the woman's body.

Danielle glanced over her shoulder at the sound of movement coming up the stairs. Bob entered the room with his cell phone out.

How is she? he asked.

His daughter bit her lip and shook her head worriedly.

Let me take that. He held out his hand for the bag she clutched tightly to her chest. Why don't you go back over to the house and sit with Emily?

Danielle surrendered her burden to her father and left without a word. Maureen was grateful for his timely intervention. The Gibb brothers' performance was flawless, but might not be enough. When the music eventually stopped, she preferred her child elsewhere.

Wilson, again.

Wilson pressed his lips to his wife's mouth and blew once more. He thought he felt a response from her. He was almost certain that his efforts had produced a subtle turn of her head and a minute shift of her tongue. His eyes popped open in surprise.

He pulled back to regard Nora, confirming that the movement he felt from her wasn't just wishful thinking. Maureen pressed her fingers tightly to her wrist, her face intent. Wilson looked to her hopefully. When his gaze returned to Nora, she was staring up at him.

Nora? Honey?

Her dentures parted inches from his face. A soft moaning issued from his wife. Wilson leaned closer. Her lips tickled his earlobe.

...happened? she croaked softly.

Wilson smiled at Maureen, who grinned back in relief. You're gonna be all right, hon. He squeezed her hand gently. You just took a spell, that's all. You'll be fine.

We need to get her checked out, Maureen said. Until then, keep her still. She needs to stay relaxed.

Thank you, Wilson beamed, his eyes glistening. He snatched Maureen's hand in one meaty paw. Thank you. If you weren't here...

Maureen patted his hand. I'm glad I was. We caught a break here.

Wilson returned his attention to his recovering wife. Nora regarded him with a weak smile.

Maureen rose and crossed the room to her husband, falling into his arms. He gave her as much of a hug as his full hands would allow.

Nice work, doc, he whispered into her ear.

She's not out of the woods yet, Maureen replied in a low voice. She needs a hospital. Her heart is weak. It wouldn't take much for her to relapse.

What can we do?

Not much. I can keep an eye on her until the ambulance arrives. My stethoscope should be in the bag.

Bob handed her the satchel. Fishing in the bag kept her from spotting his solemn demeanor. It wasn't until she held the apparatus in her hands that she recognized the concern on his face.

What is it? she asked.

Bob glanced at Wilson, making certain that he was out of earshot. He showed Maureen the mobile in his hand, pressing the button to redial 911. The only response from the tiny speakers was a high-pitched buzzing.

It's busy, he said.

Busy? How can it be busy? Let me see the phone. I'll call the main line at the hospital.

From memory, she punched in the number to the hospital in the neighboring town of Northampton. Rather than alleviate her unease, however, her frown only deepened. She double-checked the number on the display, before turning to her husband with a troubled expression.

What?

I don't know. It started to ring, but then the phone just went dead. There's nothing – no busy signal, no recorded message, nothing. It just cut out.

Bob spotted a landline on the night table next to the bed. He went to it and picked up the receiver. His face turned pale as he placed it to his ear.

What is it? What's wrong? Wilson asked, catching the alarm on his face.

The phones are out.

Wilson looked from him to Maureen. What does that mean?

Maureen shook her head, disturbed by this sudden turn of events. Whatever might be causing the outages, she couldn't shake the feeling that her presence in the emergency room would soon be a matter of some urgency.

However, her first priority was to her current patient.

It means we're going to have to take Nora to the hospital ourselves, she answered. Wilson, are you okay to drive?

Most people long for a life less ordinary. Norman Meyers wasn't among them.

Tending the historic graves of Bridge Street Cemetery in Northampton might seem an odd choice for someone's dream job, but it was for Norm. He loved the stillness of this tranquil place, especially early in the morning as the dawn lit upon the stone monuments. It gave him almost as mellow a buzz as the Hawaiian Delight in his pocket.

Gooood morning, Mrs. Cushfeld. How are you doing today?

The grave marker of the woman who died in 1856 maintained its speechless vigil. Norm dusted off a few leaves from her tombstone. He felt perfectly at home amongst this voiceless mob. Their company proved far less hassle than that of their living ancestors.

He leaned on his rake and fumbled in his pocket for the reefer contained within. The chill in the air whispered threats of an early snowfall. He'd concern himself with that when it happened. Until then, he'd remain content to soak in the festive hues of red and gold leaves carpeting the grounds. It almost seemed a shame to remove them.

Too bad you're stuck down there, Mrs. C. Take it from me, it's a right fine morning. He popped the joint between his lips and patted his shirt pocket for his lighter. Mercury's supposed to drop to forty-five. I guess for some, that's cold. It sounds all right by me.

He snapped off a flame and inhaled deeply. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse from the soothing fumes trickling down his windpipe. Cold don't bother me none. He chuckled softly, expelling a fine mist. I suppose it don't bother you either, huh?

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. A man in a dirty, blue suit walked slowly up the footpath through the gravesite. Norm checked his watch.

Huh. Early bird watches the worms, I guess.

The little joke tickled his funny bone. He chortled, hanging onto his rake with both hands to keep from doubling over. His mirth concluded with another concentrated suck of his cigarette, followed by a soothing bliss settling over his entire body.

That's the ticket. A wobbly grin spread over his unshaven face. I'd give you a hit but... you know, dead and all. Too bad for you, Mrs. C. This shit's the cat's ass.

Norm reclined on his rake, enjoying the moment. The morning light came in streams of golden rays, igniting the serene landscape in a glorious blaze.

A scream carried to his ears. He thought nothing of it. It was probably just a bird. His cousin set him up with some grade-A ganja here. He knew better than to let any weird vibes ruin his trip.

Another drag and he turned his attention back to his companion, lounging six feet below. Guess I'd better get back to it, he croaked. He moistened his fingers with his tongue and extinguished the lit end of the joint, before slipping it back into his pocket.

A woman in a dress meandered up the trail behind the man in the blue suit. Norm grabbed his rake and headed in the opposite direction. His job's defining perk was that the spaciousness of the property meant he could occupy an entire day in near perfect solitude – just him, his work, his silent friends, and of course, his weed.

He walked until coming to a patch of fallen leaves in a secluded part of the cemetery. It seemed a good place to start raking.

Norm landed his dream job after dropping out of tenth grade. Since his diet consisted almost exclusively of grass, Thai food, and anything else his freeloading scrounged up, his meager pay suited him just fine. He figured his parents had no right to complain too vocally about his career choice. At least he always got plenty of fresh air and exercise.

He stopped to catch his breath and wipe his brow after collecting his third pile. An old woman in a black dress shuffled along one of the paths towards a tract of houses in the direction of Parsons Street. He watched her go, imagining that she probably stopped by to check on her deceased husband before heading off to visit the grandkids. Hell, who knows? Maybe she's toddling off for a quickie with her geriatric lesbian lover, he mused. More power to her, I say.

He scratched his nose and regarded her in silence. Looking elsewhere along the arrangement of trails crisscrossing the grounds, he spotted others wandering through the cemetery. A car alarm went off somewhere on North Street. The mourners stopped in their tracks, slowly turned, and headed that way. He couldn't care less. At least they weren't flocking towards him.

The scrape of shuffling footsteps caught his attention. A thin man in a dark suit limped along the path, coming his way. He looked a little weird, but then Norm wasn't really one to judge.

Friggin' Grand Central Station around here, he groaned.

He gathered up his things before the individual could bother him, making the executive call to head back to the caretaker's shed for a snack break. Perhaps the lookie-loos might all clear out in a while and allow him to finish his work in peace.

Norm checked over his shoulder while leaving. The guy in the suit slowly followed. Norm walked faster. He crossed over the recently dug grave of Mary Halford, beloved mother and sister, and disappeared into the trees.

Half a minute later, mud-caked wingtips left the trail and reached the grave behind him. The man stumbled across the grass, favoring a bum leg.

By his feet, dirt erupted from the plot. Broken fingernails clawed to the surface, dislodging the soil in black mounds. A pale hand found purchase in the immaculate lawn and tore ragged tracks into the moist earth.

Norm's pursuer lumbered past without stopping. There was no time to waste. The dead man's first meal in over a year was getting away.

It's dead, Charlie said.

There's a lot of that going around, Dave replied glumly.

Charlie dropped the telephone handset back into its cradle. On top of everything else they faced in the past thirty minutes, the silent phone was a slap in the face. After practically carrying his wounded friend all the way to the University Health Services building, they found the place deserted. With the phones out, rescue now seemed impossible. It was a bad situation, made worse by the appearance of ugly, infected black veins tracing outward from Dave's bite wound.

I'll try the radio. See if I can't reach the police.

Dave winced at a flare-up from his bandaged arm. Charlie wrapped it as best he could with dressings from a medical supply drawer. That took care of the bleeding, but the infection was another matter. The speed of its progression through his friend's body worried him. If they didn't get to a hospital soon... he didn't want to consider the consequences.

Want another pain killer? he asked, holding out a bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol he found in a desk drawer.

Dave chuckled bitterly. It quickly devolved into a choking fit. It'll take more than that. Think you could break into that medicine cabinet?

Charlie considered the reinforced metal cabinet in the corner. A sturdy padlock secured medical grade pharmaceuticals away from the public. For all the good it did him, they might as well have left the drugs out in the open. Unless it was Aspirin, he wouldn't know one medicine from the next.

Sorry. The best you could hope for is that I don't accidentally kill you with the wrong dosage of whatever's inside. He motioned towards the radio. Try to hold on. If I can reach somebody, maybe they can tell me what to look for and how much to give you.

Dave groaned and settled deeper into his chair. Morphine. All of it.

I'll take that under advisement.

Take this with it, Dave grumbled, giving him the finger.

Charlie sat behind the switches and dials of the radio meant to keep UMASS Emergency Services in contact with the Amherst police and fire departments. With a turn of a dial, panicked voices floating in a sea of static flooded the room.

—can't hold them back. They won't stop. We—

—report of a disturbance at Woodside Mortuary. Any available units—

—officer down! Officer—

—tanker's burning on North Maple—

—hear about New York? It sounds like—

—love of God, someone—

Um, hello? Charlie peeped into the microphone. Static replied.

You pressing the button? Dave asked. You have to press the button.

I'm pressing it. See? It's pressed.

Not all the time. Just when you talk.

You want to do this? Charlie snapped. He looked at Dave's ashen face and immediately regretted losing his cool. I spotted a TV in the waiting room earlier. Why don't you check it out? Maybe there's something on the news.

Fine, Dave moaned, rising wearily to his feet. Just toss me that bottle of Tylenol, would you? My head feels like it's melting.

Charlie tossed him the bottle. Dave popped the lid and dry swallowed a mouthful, crunching on them on his way to the waiting room.

Unbroken cries for help continued to saturate the airwaves. Charlie took a seat in front of the screaming radio and added his to the mix.

Hello? Hello? This is Charlie Lemann. I'm calling from the medical center at the university. Is anyone there?

More static followed, interspersed with frightened voices and the sporadic crack of gunfire. Listening to the chatter made him feel as though he somehow managed to reach a war zone over the CB.

This is Charlie Lemann, at the University Health Services building. We are in need of medical assistance. Is anyone there?

Still no response. He tried fiddling with the dials. Perhaps some other channel might be less crowded with desperate people begging for help.

Is anybody out there? This is—

Charlie!

Dave's fearful shout startled him to his feet. He sprinted for the outer room, where he found his friend sitting bolt upright, staring at the local news with a complexion like fresh snow.

What is it? Charlie asked breathlessly. What happened?

Dave pointed at the news anchor. Trent Reynolds of Action 5 News had the tousled appearance of someone awakened in the middle of the night, hastily slapped in the face with makeup, and dumped in front of a camera. LIVE hovered in the corner of the screen, alongside his slightly mussed hair.

"—reports of widespread violence and destruction are coming in worldwide. Currently, the President of the United States is