Colder Weather: A Place to Lay and Die

By Tyler Gould

Colder Weather is an original novel series, set in a vast, horrifying world ravaged by an unknown, fungus-borne infection. Survivors can do nothing except fight for survival... but the infected aren't the only threat.

Follow Eben Wilson, a survivor of the initial outbreak, he has seen all that this new, grim world has to offer, guided onward by nothing but the distant projection of his former self. But his humanity is impossible to retain in a place where those alive are both survivors and killers. Where it's impossible to choose one without choosing the other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312347328

Book preview

Colder Weather: A Place to Lay and Die

To Teale Murphy, my beautiful girlfriend and best friend.

If it wasn’t for you, this book never would have reached completion.

And if it had, it definitely wouldn't have been worth reading.

―Tyler Gould

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to give a huge thanks to each and every one of you that contributed to my campaign. Thank-you to my parents, for creating me―you guys really did something good there. And a thank-you goes out to everybody who has supported me through all of this. My friends, family; all of you. I’m so grateful to have such awesome people in my life.

―Tyler Gould

PART ONE

HOLLOW MAN

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

  Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge;

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

— Alfred Lord Tennyson

ONE

He sat still in the place that was once his parents’ home. The front windows were cracked, broken and busted―discolored from years of neglect. The setting sun outside casted strange, sharp shadows across the grimy floor in front of him. The ceiling was blackened and peeling from water damage―weathered patches of flooring directly underneath the black, dripping sores. He sat on the one and only sofa cushion that he could find. It broke his heart. His mind raced with sweet memories of the past―everything that had happened in that room, and it started to feel like the past’s problems weren’t so bad compared to now. He realized how he had taken advantage of life and everyone that had been around him. Everything that had happened to him. Now the once called home was resorted to such a filthy, pathetic state. He was glad his parents weren't around anymore to see it like that.

Ten minutes passed in the grim rigor. He stood up from the rat-dropping encrusted sofa and walked to the office room of the house. The room had been ransacked―the entire house was. The large mahogany desk at the back of the room where he had spent many hours working almost brought tears to his eyes.

It sat lifelessly in the shadows―cobwebbed to the wall with age. The wood had been splitting and peeling, and the drawers had all been torn out and scattered among the dead, soggy papers on the floor. The room was dark and daunting―showing him exactly what this new world had the power to do. It could wreck the happiest of homes.

He had carried the same wallet for as long as he could remember. A once shiny, beautiful piece of leather given to him as a birthday gift from his father back when little, insignificant things like that still had purpose. It had been falling apart for years. Everybody had urged him to get rid of the disgusting piece of garbage, but he refused. It was his―one of the last of his original owned objects from before. But the memories linked to the ratty wallet were growing too painful. The thought of his father, and the confusion of his fate left him with so many questions. Questions that would never have answers, and he knew that―that feeling of never knowing what.

The contents only reminded him of his lost life. How much of a monster he had really become. People once loved him. Cared for him. Now he had nobody―and hadn't for quite some time. The photographs of perished loved ones stared into him with faded, vacant eyes. No longer resembling the people they once were. But nobody resembled the people they once were anymore. The corners of the photos were splitting―darkened with unknown filth.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, holding the last intact photograph of his wife and son. The boy with his mother’s jet-black hair. The two people that meant the most to him no longer existed. It was as if he didn't either. If they could only see him now, they wouldn't even recognize him. The world had turned him into a beast. Into a ruthless killer with no mercy for the mistaken, the weak, or the strong. The fading of the once vibrant colors only told him that there was nothing left for him inside them. What he loved was gone―and would never come back.

He took out a small butane lighter from his pocket. He flipped the striker wheel and watched the hot blue flame erupt from experience-darkened shroud. The flame met the corner of each photograph. He lay the flaming photographs back on the splintering wood and watched as they curled inward. The blackness engulfed the happy faces, and in an instant, they were gone―now nothing but a twisting pile of soot in the whirling winter draft. The last remnants of the only people he could ever love burned into oblivion. Now nothing more but floating ashes in the wake of the flames on the wood.

He walked out into the living room again and without warning he fell to his knees, sobbing and hollering in rage―his forehead on the grimy floor. He screamed into his palms. He knew of no love, no happiness. He was a hollow man―his center only coals of dying rage and hatred for himself and this life he lived. He cursed himself for everything he’d done, and what he could have done differently. The choices he had made that impacted his life the most had all been wrong, and looking back on them, he knew that.

He knew that eventually he, too, would die, and it was times like these that he really did envy the dead and their ability to feel pain no longer. He punished himself every hour of every day for the mistakes he had made. He pushed himself on for punishment. If only his heart were stone.

He collected himself. His sobbing came in withering fits and gasps. He had nothing to do, nowhere to go. The road was his only companion. He sat with his back against the wall, his rifle across his knees. He wondered if it’d just be easier to end his sad, pathetic life now. But he couldn't think of a reason why he’d deserve such a luxury as to end his punishment. He always thought that he could resort to that―as many others had. He had little food―maybe two day’s worth―and if the cold didn’t kill him, starvation would. Or maybe his life would be ended by the vile creatures of abomination outside that once called themselves human beings.

The end of the world brought death to most, and the fear of living to all who were unlucky enough to survive the initial chaos. He thought it was sometime in January, but he had no way of knowing. All he knew was that it had been close to or over a year since it all began. Since the world as he knew it had been changed forever.

He could start to smell smoke, and he knew it was time to go. The house would look better as a pile of smoking ash.

There was a bitter, cold wind carrying pellets of snow through the air that stung his face, and he had to look down at the ground to avoid it. The sun was dropping quickly, and he knew he had to find shelter soon or make camp outside somewhere. Behind him in the distance, he could see the orange blaze of the fire illuminate the sky and the smoke rolling high―the smell being carried on the wind as a sick reminder.

It was hard for Eben to go day to day―living on little food, and little hope. All that he once loved is gone. His will to live was withering away to nothing like the corpses on the streets, and had been ever since day one. He had blamed himself for the death of his family, and felt as though he didn't deserve to be with them―and that they probably didn't want to be with him anymore anyway.

The image of his son’s face trapped under icy, bone-chilling water would be singed into his memory until the day he died. He could envision his son’s body overworking in panic to get to the surface―only mere inches away. He could still see his mouth gasp for air, and the panic and confusion in his eyes. Eyes that said, Why can’t you help me, dad?

Eben walked alone down the empty road as he always had. Sometimes he passed a scorched wreck with charred, skeleton-like bodies inside, but other than the odd house, there wasn't much more than that. Thankfully, the snow had stopped and the wind was starting to die down, but the sun was getting lower. He stopped at the next house―a large two-story house with boarded up windows and peeling yellow paint.

It looked almost like an iconic farm-house from some 1960’s country soap opera. There was a long, bare-wood deck that spanned down the entire length of the left side of the house, wrapping around the front to the generously-sized doorway. The windows were intact, and completed with sets of flaking brown shutters flapping on rusty hinges―producing an eerie creaking and snapping as they slammed into the house. The old place was surrounded by overgrown bushes and hedges―Mother Nature reclaiming what was originally hers.

There was once a white picket fence outside, but most of it had rotted and fallen apart―and simply became part of the ground. He noticed a few kid’s toys scattered throughout the yard. Once brightly coloured plastic bikes, pails and shovels, resorted to faded, useless objects―mere ghosts of their former selves. He approached slowly, his rifle held in his outstretched arms.

His rifle was a .30 caliber M1 Carbine that his grandfather had given him to defend his home with only a few years ago―when him and his wife had bought their new house. He hadn't used it much before all of this, but in this new world, you find a gun and learn how to use it, real quick. And that he had―now being able to hit small moving targets such as squirrels and other small game rather quickly and skillfully.

He heard rustling inside the house and stopped a safe distance away to listen. Something crept slowly inside, and Eben clicked his rifle’s safety off―getting ready to fire at whatever might lunge out at him.

He came up to the door, holding his weapon in one hand. He carefully turned the doorknob. The door surprisingly clicked open. As the door slowly swung open by force of the wind, he offhandedly scoped out the inside through the enlarging crack. Feeling confident, he grabbed the doorknob and yanked it back forcefully―the once-expensive, heavy door striking the outside wall. Eben took a wide step backwards, leaning into his rifle and peering into the darkness. Whatever had been inside had moved on into the house somewhere, and had left the shadowy porch area. Before entering, he quickly leaned inside and checked both the left and the right―making sure there was nothing waiting to grab him once he stepped inside.

The interior of the house was a black tenebrosity, but it didn't look like much had gone down―or if something had, it had been cleaned up. Off to his right, something small and dark shot into a door opening in the wall―most likely leading to a living or dining room, but it was too dark to tell. He stood up from his crouch, and with his rifle held tightly in his hands, he turned the corner and into the doorway with one confident step, only to find a medium sized dog. The dog was crouched in a defensive position―its teeth bared, gleaming in the low light of the torrid room―and a shallow growl from the animal’s throat pierced the silence.  

Eben loved dogs, but had shot them for food a few times before. Most of the dogs around had formed packs and become feral and aggressive. They had no problem attacking a man, and it made him feel less guilty for shooting them. Luckily enough, the virus hadn't managed to infect animals―only humans―so Eben saw an easy meal sitting in front of him.

Just as he began to apply pressure to the trigger, a young man in an olive-drab jacket darted around the corner, his eyes were wide and panicked, and he nearly jumped back at the sight of Eben.

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hey! Thats my dog, man! he yelled, squatting down and putting an arm around the dog’s neck. A stockless, short-barrel-rifle was held in his left hand. Eben raised an eyebrow, dropping the stock of his rifle from his shoulder, the muzzle of the weapon to the ceiling. He had a foggy look on his face as he watched the boy rub the dog’s shoulder.

Oh, uh... sorry, Eben apologized, rubbing the back of his neck. I didn't know anybody was here. He slung his rifle back over his shoulder and headed for the door.

Were you lookin’ for a place to stay? the boy asked, now standing beside the dog. He held the gun by its short, railed forestock lengthwise to his body.

I was, Eben replied while opening the door again. But I can find another place.

Hey, it's almost dark, the sun’s goin’ down. You can stay here, we’re friendly people. You hungry? the boy grinned and slowly walked towards Eben―who obviously wasn't sure whether or not to trust him just yet. People were crafty, and Eben had nearly fallen into many traps in the past―but something felt different here.

"People?" Eben asked, referring to how he had implied there were others, besides himself.

Yeah, uh, me and my girlfriend are just stopping here too. Needed a place to stay the night. There’s plenty of room, we can part ways in the morning. His hair was shoulder length and parted to one side―whiskers jutted down from his chin. He didn't look more than twenty years old. In fact, he reminded Eben of a younger version of himself, like how he used to keep his hair long―now, he couldn't help it―and how friendly he was. People weren't so much like that anymore. But what was he kidding himself? Eben hadn't exactly been an overly friendly guy in his younger years.

Eben took one more look outside, felt a chilly breeze roll down his chest, noticed how dark it was getting, and closed the door.

Yeah, maybe that’s for the best. He pressed his lips hard together, wondering if this was really the right call here. The thought of curling up under a dead, ice-dripping tree didn’t sound very ideal, and houses were far and few between in this rural area. The young man suddenly approached Eben―looking somewhat diffident in his expression―extending a slightly-shaking hand.

Name’s Scott. Scott Reynolds. The boy’s voice had a slight waver, and Eben could tell he was trying to fight some kind of timidness inside of him. He only responded by giving him a somewhat remote look, but shrugged and shook Scott’s hand.

Eben Wilson, he said back, and shook firmly. By the slight shyness, Eben was almost certain that he wasn't walking into some kind of trap. Bandits were usually more confident in the execution of their plans.

My girlfriend, Claire, is around here somewhere, and it looks like you’ve already ran into Courage. He looked down at the dog―a Border Collie-Lab mix with some kind of green dog backpack on―and smiled, rubbing the top of the dog’s head. He looked back at Eben. Anyway, come take a seat. I’m sure it’s nice to have another human being to talk to, I know it is for me. Scott pointed his rifle through the doorway, and Eben followed him out.

Eben wasn't overly amused by the sight of people. He preferred to keep to himself, and simply tried to avoid any confrontation with other drifters. He had passed so many people in his travels. People just like him―ex-cons, drifters, killers... assholes. But for some reason, Eben was getting a different kind of vibe from Scott. The world had changed everybody in some kind of way―people found their own individual ways of coping, of course. But everybody’s experience was unique and unlike the last, and the way they dealt with it was their own way. Scott was the first person he had seen in the past three days, and thought that maybe a conversation would do him some good.

He followed Scott through a small dining area and into a spacious living room. A wood burning fireplace in the center of the far wall lit the room. All of the room’s furniture now surrounded it. The fire casted flickering, dancing shadows on all of the walls. The middle of the room was well lit by the fire, but the rest of the room was practically as black as the night would become.

Eben sat down in a comfortable looking beige recliner to the right of the fireplace. It was dusty with abandonment, but still felt good on his aching back. The dog―now known as Courage―walked in a circle in front of the fire and then laid down, his jaw resting on one of his outstretched paws. He heard some indistinct whispering from another room, and then a few seconds later, Scott appeared again. This time, he was followed by a young woman with shoulder length blonde hair and a long grey-white parka with a furry hood. Her skin was a pale-tan, making her dark eyelashes pop. She had a coffee mug in each hand. Scott carried one and handed it down to Eben.

Tea? Scott asked, holding out the mug. Eben was surprised by the hospitality, but nodded and took the tea―the steam rising and warming up his cold face. It had been a while since he had taken the time to have a warm drink. Usually at the end of the day, he didn't have the energy to do anymore than open a can of beans. For the last couple of days, he had been spending the nights in the forest. He didn't have space in his rucksack for a tent of any sort, so he usually crafted himself a lean-to with whatever he found around. Nights were cold huddled around a fire, just wondering if tonight would be the night that something killed him in his sleep.

The couple sat down next to each other on a couch across from Eben―a puff of dust ejecting from the couch like smoke from the fire. The girl―Claire―handed one of the mugs over to Scott.

For a long time, there was nothing but the crackling of the fire as they sipped their hot tea. Eben watched the flames flicker in the dog’s eyes.

So, what's got you heading this way? Scott asked, breaking the tense silence. Eben didn't really know what to say, considering he was just walking with no real destination. Every day, Eben just kept moving. If he stopped his search, he would die. But in the end, he didn't know what he was searching for.

Just... Eben started, trying to think of what to say. Just gotta keep movin’, ya know? Eben’s lips were a straight line―his face grim and cold.

I hear ya. Like a shark, Scott replied with a grin―raising his mug for another sip. Eben snorted at the boy’s joke.

After the end of the world, survivors hadn't had much to talk about. There was no movies or TV―no new music. Nobody talked about celebrities, politics, gun control, or any other social issues anymore. Everything else that had come before had no story value, and it was no more than a sad reminder of what the world used to be. But these reminders lay lifelessly scattered all over the ruins that were once called Earth. There are still books and magazines. There are still DVD’s and computers. And oddly enough, there was still internet.

It had been nearly eleven months since society collapsed, and the internet was still up. But who could use it? Only a few places in the world still had electricity―aside from individuals using generators. But for those who can manually charge their appliances, then the internet is a viable option when it comes to communicating with other survivors, and sharing their personal stories of loss and survival.

How old are you? If you don’t mind me asking, Eben asked Scott curiously. Scott looked at Claire and smiled.

Not at all. I’m twenty-one, he said, grinning, and set his mug on a side table next to the couch―the stream just barely noticeable in the light of the fire. Eben chuckled, his guess of twenty wasn't too far off.

And Claire’s nineteen, Scott added, glancing at the young woman. She smiled nervously and took a small sip of her tea.

Outside, the light began to die―the sun winding down, exhausted from the troubles of the day, and the moon rose for the night shift. The sky was a gun metal grey and the clouds a dark black, contrasted against the lighter backstop. The leafless, frosty bushes around the windows scraped the glass, rustling noisily in the whispering wind.

Scott pulled over a black 5.11 backpack. He put it between his legs and unzipped one of the pockets. He pulled out a short black rectangular box with a crank on one side, and a long wire coming out the front. He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a small, thin device that Eben immediately picked up as a cell phone.

A cell phone? Eben asked almost immediately upon seeing it, wondering what use a cell phone could have at this time. Scott took the end of the wire and plugged it into the phone and began working the crank.

Yeah, I’ve been using this crank charger to keep the thing goin’, Scott replied as he watched the battery level slowly rise―a bright picture of a green battery appearing on the cell phone's screen.

Okay, but why? What can you do with it now? Eben ran his fingers through his long, greasy hair, pushing the falling strands of bangs up out of his face.

This is gonna sound weird, but the internet’s still up. A lot of pages are down, but it’s still up. ‘Can use it to communicate with others, Scott said. And the best part is, I haven’t payed my bill in about a year! He took a pause and laughed at himself. "Man, Telus is gonna be some pissed off when they see my bill."

Scott tapped at his phone silently for a little while before frowning, turning it off and putting it away again. Eben had finished his tea and set the cooling mug on the side table. Night was falling. Eben peered at his watch and noticed it was already quarter after nine. He wanted to go to bed and rest up. He was planning on leaving early in the morning, before Scott and Claire awoke. Besides, his feet ached from his walk, and the pain in his back from lugging around his heavy pack was almost excruciating―like it always was at the end every day.

You got a room I could use in this place? Eben asked quietly, looking at the mug―avoiding eye contact.

Uh, yeah, there’s two rooms upstairs. If you come across the room with all our stuff in it, it's the other one. Scott got up from his seat and took Eben’s mug from the table and grabbed Claire’s on his way to the kitchen.

Well, Eben said as he slowly rose from his recliner. You two have a good night. He smiled at Claire and walked back to the door to grab his pack before searching through the dark for the staircase. He eventually found it off the kitchen, said goodnight to Scott, and found his room.

The room looked as if it had been something of a spare room―having a single sized bed off in the back right corner with neat white sheets and covers, and two fat down pillows. Even though it was dark outside, the light of the moon shot in through the large, bay style window, dimly lighting the inners of the room just enough to see.

On the windowsill sat two elegant brass candle holders with long white candles sticking up like an old nun’s boney finger. There was also a decorative roll top desk in front of the bed in the right corner, with a hand carved decorative chair, and an antique Bible box at the foot of the bed. It may have belonged to a rich family―which Eben did not come from―but it had a very homey feel to it that he enjoyed.

He used his lighter to light the candles. He opened the rolling cover of the desk with a grinding squeal and set one of the candles inside. He set his pack against the wall by the door, took off his jacket and put it on the back of the chair. He took off his boots and pants and slipped under the cold covers that quickly took to the heat of his body.

His head sunk in the pillows and he could have sworn that it was the most comfortable bed he had ever been in. He needed this. It was hard to believe how something as simple as a warm bed could lift the spirits in such harsh times.

He could hear the calm, loving voices of his family as he drifted into sleep.

TWO

Dad, Thomas began, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the flashing TV. The TV was muted, captions on, and the only sound in the entire house was of Eben’s footsteps as he paced worryingly back and forth in a short line, going in and out of the living room, rubbing at his beard. What’s wrong with the people on TV?

Eben stopped pacing and stood, looking down at the dark-haired child. The eight-year-old boy looked genuinely confused―like everything that was coming up on the screen was written in some alien language. They’re sick, he mumbled, took a stride forward and turned the TV off. He, himself, wanted to keep it on, but the news stations were swarming with photos and videos of the infected. The stations had been flooded with these stories for days now―the disgusting, violent craziness of the infected being something Eben wanted to save his little boy from―and the riots outside were growing more and more violent―beginning to make Eben question their safety in their rural home.

Dad! Thomas shouted in protest as Eben flicked off the TV. He glared up at him, pouting his lip.

I’m sorry, bud, Eben apologized, taking a deep breath. But you don’t need to be seein’ that stuff. Thomas didn't whine any longer and sat in the middle of the living room flooring, looking disappointedly at the non-reflective black flat screen TV.

Eben began his pacing again. He was worried and scared and couldn't think to do anything else. That was when he was stopped dead in his tracks. A shrill, screaming howl pierced the quiet atmosphere. It echoed from the distance like a shrieking animal caught in a death trap. But it was no animal. It sounded too human. Eben’s blood ran cold.

... Dad, what was that? Thomas asked hesitantly, slowly turning his head towards his father behind him. Eben stood stunned, unable to move. His feet were glued to the floorboards, and his body denied all movement―despite how hard he tried, he just couldn’t. Dad, I’m scared, Thomas continued, slowly beginning to sob―his eyes big and full and welling with tears. That was when Eben saw them.

Thomas, Eben whispered, unable to remove his eyes from the sight just outside his window. Six screaming, rushing bodies headed straight for their house in the moonlight. Get upstairs. He finally started into movement. He grabbed his crying son by the arm and hauled him over to the staircase, the boy stumbling to keep up behind him. "Go upstairs and stay in my room, you hear me? Lock the door, and don’t open it for anybody but me, okay?"

Thomas nodded his head, sniffling. Tears were streaming down his face, and he looked so scared. So was Eben. Not for himself―but for his son. His everything. All he had left was him. He pulled him in close, wrapping his arms around him tightly, squeezing him into his chest―leaving a wet imprint of the child’s tears on the shoulder of his jacket. He then released him and kissed him on the forehead.

"Be strong, okay? You gotta be strong for me, okay? I know you can do it, I know you can―"

Another scream erupted from outside―closer now―and something with girth slammed into the front door, making the father and son jump with fright.  

I love you, Eben whispered to his son one last time, then sent him upstairs by himself. His light feet clapped up the stairs, and he heard his bedroom door slam, then the lock clicking shut. Eben released a deep breath, then reached to the back of his waistband, withdrawing his .357 magnum Colt Python.

He had bought it just recently as something small to keep on him at all times, and had been hiding it from Thomas as best he could. His M1 Carbine was under his bed with all of the magazines loaded and ready to go. If it came to that, he’d have to get it. But for now, he had his revolver―and the six rounds in its cylinder. 

He had been preparing for this for some time now. He kept Thomas dressed in his winter clothing and boots, and had two backpacks stocked with provisions and gear upstairs―just in case they had to run. He may have spent a few hundred dollars on the gear, and he was only hoping that they wouldn't have to use it―but if he couldn't fight them off, they’d have to.

He held the Colt in both hands. He cocked back the hammer to get a single-action pull, and aimed it at the door with both hands. The door was heavy mahogany, but it would give eventually. If the infected were anything like they were portrayed on the television, then they’d plow their way in sooner or later. They’d rip each other apart just to get to him, but for now, they knew they had to work as a team if they wanted the meat on Eben’s bones.

His plan was to escape through the upper level window―probably his bedroom window―and trap the infected inside the house, giving them just enough time to run off towards the highway just past the house. The highway was a few hundred meters away, but a fresh water brook ran through the dense forest between the house and the highway, and led straight to it. That would be their guide.

The pounding on the door grew louder and more furious as more gathered to it like a junebug to a porch light, and a square section in the center of the door burst into the house in a fury of splinters and dark blood. A greasy, blood soaked hand reached its way through, grasping eagerly for the door handle inside with the jittering fingers of meth addict. He felt a jolt of sadness in his heart as he recognized the infected as his next door neighbor, Jeremy. His short, curly black hair was matted with gore and torn from his scalp in patches, like a rabid animal with mange. His lips were curled back in a disgusting grin―displaying a bridgework of blood washed teeth and black gums.

"I’ll tear your fucking-- THROAT!" the infected Jeremy spat insanely, choking on his words, slimy saliva pouring from his open mouth. Eben took aim, and fired. Jeremy’s skull burst open in a red, watery explosion, and pink clumps of matter flew into the house on a jet of propelled blood. The gripping arm went limp, and the body collapsed backwards―only to have its place immediately taken by a new infected.

Damnit! Eben shouted, recognizing the next infected that filled the hole as Jeremy’s wife, Alice. Get out of here! But they didn't listen. the structural integrity of the old door had been completely compromised by the combined force of the half-dozen infected, and it caved inward. The door practically split down the center and crumbled, and shards of scrap wood nailed Eben right in the shin at surprisingly high speed. With the amount of adrenaline pumping through his panicked system, he never even felt it.

He aimed his Python with one hand, firing in double-action as he backed up towards the stairway. The six remaining infected poured into the house, and dark, insidious silhouettes of infected in the distance where headed straight for his open front door. He had to move―they had to move. After six dead infected, his Python’s hammer clicked on a spent case, and he turned and ran. His feet thundered up the stairs, and he slammed into the door at the top―hearing Thomas scream from inside as he impacted.

He twisted the knob, but it didn't turn. Thomas, it’s me! Open the door! He peered back over his shoulder, seeing the stream of infected flowing up the staircase straight at him. Let me in!

The monsters are out there! Thomas yelled from inside, his voice cracked with growing fear and emotion.

No, let me in! Eben screamed into the door, the infected already nearing the top of the staircase. He had no other choice. He left the door just as the first infected was reaching the top―its oily, sticky mouth open in terrifyingly sinister gape. With the power of his strong thigh, he booted the leading man right in the chest, releasing a scream as fear ran from his body and fueled the strike. He hated these fuckers already.

The leader of the pack fell backwards and caused a domino effect as it tumbled down the stairs, taking out the dozen trailing infected with it―creating an opera of deranged cries and screeches. That bought him time, but not much. Just as he was about to kick the door in, it slowly clicked open, and Thomas’ crying face could be seen in the ajar opening.

He forced his body through, hearing infected already heading up the staircase again. They screamed and howled and cackled with insanity. Blood from their whipping mouths covered the walls in dark stringers of thick slime. Bloody finger-paintings led up the stairs. Eben’s body worked mechanically, pushing Thomas to the side and slamming the door closed, and another body was already against it. He hadn't fully closed the door yet, and it knocked him back about a foot, but he charged it again with his shoulder.

An infected was halfway inside―its torso jammed between the door and the frame. It screamed into Eben’s face―congealed liquid splashing onto the bridge of his nose―and he reached for his Python in his pocket. It was empty, but he used the royal-blue frame of the revolver to beat the infected in the face―caving in its nose strike after strike, just until it stumbled back out into the upstairs hallway.

He slammed the door closed and turned the knob lock. Not a second too soon. A collection of enraged bodies struck the door all at once, beating on it with their bloody fists. The hollow thumps reverberated through the door and echoed into the spacious master bedroom, and Eben knew that he hadn't much time before they’d make their way in there, too.

Get your backpack on! Eben ordered his son, pointing off towards the two packs resting on his bed. His voice was loud and panicked and breaking, and he was so scared. Eben recovered his M1 from under the bed and inserted a fully loaded twenty round magazine, then racked the action off his hip―leaving the safety off. After readying his rifle, he pulled his ruck sack over his shoulder, and the door pushed inward―but this time, it was the antique doorknob and lock that gave.

Infected flooded into the room, and Eben brought his rifle to his shoulder. In quick succession, the rifle cracked with tremendous sound, and eight bodies collapsed to the floor in a pool of spreading blood that pumped from the gurgling bodies. He charged forward and pushed the door closed again, holding it closed with his body weight.

Get the window open and jump! Eben shouted to his crying son. He was crouched down beside Eben’s bed, and he sobbed into his folded arms. THOMAS! Eben screamed at the top of his lungs, and Thomas’ wet face shot up to him. "Get the window open and go, now!"

He listened this time, just as more infected came smashing into the door―beginning to deteriorate from intense beating brought on by the monstrous infected. Eben used all the strength inside of him to keep the door shut―his eyes tight and teeth bared and clenched. Gnarled fingers gripped around the edge of the door, only inches away from Eben’s face―stinking bitterly with infection. He bared his teeth and screamed again, feeling a jolt of power run through him, and he pressed harder.

Dad! Thomas screamed from behind him. He didn't check to see if the window was open, he just bolted back―if it wasn't, he’d fucking smash through it. Thomas did have the window open and was already standing on the roof outside―holding his shoulders to the cold. Come on!

Eben jumped through the open window, then turned back, opening fire on the charging infected inside. After he murdered three more, the others simply stumbled over the bodies and collapsed, scrambling clumsily to the floor. 

He picked up Thomas into his arms and jumped off the roof. His legs gave out from under him as they made contact with a hard, rough section of snow. He growled in pain through clenched teeth as he clattered to the frosty earth, feeling a jet of pain shoot through his tailbone―but Thomas was fine, and that was what mattered.

He released Thomas and clambered to his feet, collecting his rifle from the ground. He set into a sprint―dragging Thomas along with him―just as the infected came tumbling out the window and off the roof, falling to the icy ground below like morbid ragdolls. Many of them died as they landed straight on their necks and heads, but most were still alive―although weakened with broken limbs and torn muscles. Not that they cared about that.

Come on! Eben gasped for breath as he ran, following the flowing stream towards the highway. If they could only get there, they might be able to find somebody willing to pick them up. He knew quite a few people in the area, and hoped that some of them would be on the highway, too.

The infected behind them stumbled and struggled to travel through the―at times―knee deep snow, and it bought them time. Just as Eben shot a look over his shoulder, Thomas fell. He slipped to the slick, hard crusted snow and tumbled down the small incline towards the river. He screamed for his father as he slid straight into the icy, bitter-cold water and submerged entirely, disappearing under the rushing blackness.

THOMAS! Eben screamed with all his might as his son was pushed by the current. He would eject from the water, then resubmerge again. He tumbled in the water as his body was thrown around by the rushing winter currents. Then suddenly he went under, and didn't come back up again.

Once Eben noticed that the boy wasn't traveling down the river anymore, he stopped dead in his tracks, backtracking to the last place he had seen him. His heart pumped with panicked, fearful adrenaline, and his skin stung from the nipping air.

Thomas! he called, but there was no reply. His vision sharpened as a new jolt of adrenaline hit him, and he threw himself into the hip deep water. Thomas! His cheeks were streaming with tears, and he was screaming incoherently as he searched for his son―feeling so many emotions all at once, he didn't know what to do.

Then he spotted him.

His leg was snagged between two stones―a large, dead log resting just overtop of him, floating along the watertop and wedged into the bank, stuck. He threw his rifle to the bank and bent down―the water going up to neck level now. He wrapped his arms around Thomas’ armpits and pulled with all the strength inside of him, screaming as the freezing water bit into his skin.

The infected were coming fast.

Don’t do this! Eben screamed, pulling frantically. His face was so close to the surface... inches away. "Don’t do this to me... God!" he screamed and pulled and prayed, but it was no good. The boy went limp in his arms, and the panicked bubbles stopped coming to the surface. No! No, no, no, no! He continued to pull, but the