Death of the Human Race

Grim title, I know, but I've been pondering this for awhile. As a Swedish American, I'm good at pondering. I haven't been around for a few weeks, but it's been a busy summer, and I've found Facebook. Folks can look me up there. So, I thought I'd come back with a bang.

Reading a book right now, that is one of those that you start, don't really like, but by the time you figure out you don't like it, you're deep enough into it that you're comitted to finishing it. Book's called "Warday" by Whitley Striever and James Kunetka. Apparently they were big writers in the '70's and 80's. I've not read anything by them prior, though Striever wrote "The Hunger" and Kunetka wrote "Wolfen." Both made pretty good movies, so the authors must have some creds.

Anyway, the book is one of those apocolyptic genre novels where we're wiped out by our own stupidity and nukes. It was copywritten in '84, so it was written in 82 and 83 would be my guess. I picked it up as an antique. A reminder of a lost era. A reminder of my high school years when there were still two superpowers and we worried about annilation in the blink of an eye.

There was a whole slew of movies and books out with this theme around that time. Everything from "Red Dawn to "The Day After." I read some of the books in the "Doomsday Warrior" series. A lot of us were convinced at the time that we would go out with a bang, because Reagan's finger was on the button, and the old boy was senile even then.

In Warday, the US and Soviet Union exchange a limited nuke strike on Oct. 27, 1987. Chaos reigns and life as we know it ends. But by that time, the USSR was starting to fall apart. The satilite counties it had controlled for nearly fifty years were peeling off faster than a pole dancer trying to make her car payment. By the early 1990's, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics no longer existed. We backed down from the nuclear holocaust issue.

Not totally, but it's much less a threat than when I was in high scool; when this book was written.

So now, we have the zombie apocolypse to worry about. Out new genre of humans being snuffed out of existance is now in the slimy hands of a bunch of rotted corpses. We've got dozens of movies, some good, some not so good out there about zombies taking over society and those not converted to chow struggling to survive. I've written and published some of these stories as well. Got a whole series going right now. It's good fun for me, as it give you a lot of creative leeway to build a story. Mine, however, tend not to be as dark as a lot of them. When you've survived an era of realistically facing nuclear annihlation, a zombie hoard isn't much to worry about.

But this brings me around to our fatilistic mind. We as humans for whatever reason have it in our core to believe we'll go out in some great holocaust. Read Revelations in the Bible. If God's wrath isn't an apocolyps, I don't know what is. You can go back even futher, to Babylon. Read the Flood stories in there. Again, civilization is wiped away.

We believe we are going to be snuffed out. All at once. The planets aligned a few years ago, and we were supposed to be ripped apart by the gravity. We're supposed to be hit by a meteor. By plagues. The same things that killed the dinosaurs. Global warming, global cooling. We're supposed to die in some great catastrophy.

Here's the thing. We're not going to die until God says it's time. Whether individually, or as a race, we won't go until it's time. An generally, there's nothing we can do about it. We backed down from the nuclear bombs, but we can't control them all, and we can't control them personally. The lesson of all this is to live a good life, enjoy life while you have it, and don't get too attached to money. You'll go out with the same things you had when you came in. Nothing.

Now, all that being said, have a good day. I've got to get the kids up for school.

The Dredded "R" Word

Yes, I'm talking about "Rejection." Now, as guys, we're used to rejection on a number of levels. Every time you get shot down by a lady, even if it's the so called easy let down of; "Oh, you're such a nice friend, let's not ruin it by dating." Our ideas get rejected at work, we get rejected at job interviews. Rejection is part of life for all of us.

Writing is no different. Matter of fact, it's probably more frequent and harder to deal with than rejection in other areas of our lives. We expect it at work, we expect it nine times out of ten when we approach a lady. The problem comes when we spend months of our lives (or in some cases, years) working on our masterpiece that will set the literary world on its ear. I hate to tell you this, but thousands of other people have done that as well. Thousands of first time authors each year send out manuscripts. Thousands get rejection letters. Thousands are crushed and stop writing. Let's take this apart and save some heartache.

Realistically, a first manuscript from a first time author most likely will not see ink from a major publisher. There are too many people out there. Writing is a business. Publishers and agents buy what they think will sell. Just because they didn't buy this particular 'script from you and make you an overnight J.K. Rowling, doesn't mean that you can't write. It means they didn't like that particular manuscript. Rowling collected a lot of rejections, but she kept polishing her Potter books. It finally paid off. Joe Konrath collected over 500 rejections before he got his first novel sold. I got close to that before I sold my first book.

Keep in mind too, that if a manuscript is not marketable, it most likely won't find a home. If you're writing a book about hospice care and support, it most likely is going to sell to that profession and the people involved, no matter how touching the book is. You have a limited audience for a book like that.

Another thing to remember, is that even after you've edited your book as much as you think you can, it can still be edited. Find someone who is willing to do that for you. A friend in the newspaper business. An English or lit teacher that you know. Someone who is in the word business is a good eye to have looking at your work. Once it's as polished as it can get, then start sending it out with a query letter.

One last thing I'm going to talk about, and you hear it from publishers and editors all the time. Make sure that you are sending your baby off to the right place. Meaning that you need to send your manuscript off to the appropriate markets. You don't want to send a children's picture book off to TOR. They do fantasy and horror. Children's books are not their gig.

Now, you could bypass all this rejection, plunk down fifteen hundred of your hard earned bucks, and self publish. This is getting to be quite common. If you're a good writer, that's not really an issue. There are some great writers out there who started with vanity presses. You do have to sell a lot of books that way to get the big boy's attention, but it is possible. Keep in mind that vanity presses earned that nickname. I have seen some truly awful work that's published in this manner and put out on the market. In the case of a bad work, it does more harm than good to your reputation. Don't let your ego get in the way of common sense. Everyone, even Stephen King and Joe Konrath need to be edited.

The business of writing is not easy. You need a thick skin and tiny ego to succeed in the business. You have to be able to take rejection and keep working. You can't let it get personal. It's like any other work. Take the suggestions, keep working, and your manuscript will see ink. If you can't handle the rejection, you need to determine if you can handle being in the business. Every writer asks themselves that question at one point or another. The ones who get published are the ones who determine they can take the rejection and the struggle.

The

Third Book Finished

Well, the third book of ghost stories, is finished. I wrapped up the last story this morning. Started out as a book of ghsots stories gathered from along Interstate 55/Route 66. As always, however, writing is a business. As such, as I was working on this book, my publisher and I had a falling out. I won't go into details, but lets just say that he decided to write the book himself and cut me out of a verbal agreement to write this book for him.

Needless to say, I was upset. I put the manuscript aside, and went to work on other projects. I wrote a series of short stories (the first of which is published at www.talesofworldwarz.com/stories/), edited a novel manuscript, and sent out some query letters. Basically, I ignored the ghost stories I had saved here on my hard-drive. Besides, I was burned out on ghost stories. I had read and researched so many ghost stories over the last three years, I had absolutly zero interest in writing another. A huge factor involved with with this was the limitations my publisher put on me. It was to the point where I felt like I was writing a high school lit paper.

A lot of that changed when a buddy at work told me his story. Great story about his ice fishing experiances on a local lake, and footsteps on the snow as he was fishing at night. I thought these stories deserved to be in a book, mine specifically, and it occoured to me that without the restrictions put on me by my publisher, I could add this story.

With this little epiphany, I went back to work on the book. In the last few months, I've collected a number of stories from across the Midwest and South. Everything from the first recorded haunting of the Alamo by six specters bearing flaming swords, to the ghost of the miner hauling on the warning rope who died as the shaft filled with water in Minnesota. Great stories, bloody stories, stories of the bizarre I wasn't allowed to use before.

This little book, which I've titled Southern Fried Ghosts and Their Midwest Cousins is ready. I'm going to put it aside for a few weeks, then come back to it sometime in August to edit it. After that, I'm shopping it around. I've got a few publishers in mind, and hope to have it sold by the end of the year. We'll see what happens. I'll keep everyone apprised. I think it's the best of my work on ghost stories. I know I had more fun researching this one and writing the stories than I have lately. I may put a couple of the stories up here if anyone's interested.

Test Subject

Well, I mentioned that the actual first story in my zombie series was inspired by Rhianna's "Disturbia" video. The scene of the singer chained in a small room triggered the idea, and the opening scene in my story is a hit off that. From there, it rather grew. It's a good story, but was rejected by the website as not quite what they wanted. I studied the site a little more, and came up with the one that Editor Ryan West liked, and posted on the website. Thus another lesson learned: Know your market. Hope you enjoy this story. As i said, it has worked its way into the series, but not in this form. I love the charectors. I've had a friend who read this story for me describe Chrissy as "A hyper-active puppy with rabies." Great description.




Test Subject

“Tess,”
The voice came to her. It wormed its way through her scattershot dreams.
“Tess,”
The voice came again. She dreamed. A dance floor in a laboratory room, which didn’t make sense, but she enjoyed it. Music throbbed. People gyrated. She was there to have fun. She didn’t want this voice to tell her otherwise.
“Tess,”
“Go ‘way.”
“Time to wake up, Tess.”
“Don’ wanna,” She tried to get away from the voice and go back to her party, but something rattled. She tried to move, and the rattle was accompanied by something cold against her belly. She shook her head to get rid of cobwebs, and opened an eye.
A chain winked back at her. The thing attached her arm to a belt around her waist. A cable led from the belt across the floor to a hole in the wall the size of a quarter, sealed with a rubber gasket. Tess tried to lift a hand to rub her head. Her temples throbbed like a tiny construction worker was trying to dig his way out of her skull. Her arm stopped at shoulder level. The cuff on her wrist held. She lifted her other arm, with the same result.
“…the fuck is this?” She mumbled. She pulled again. Her arms could go no further up than shoulder level, no lower than below her knees. More chain chinked, and she looked at her feet. Her ankles were shackled together. Like a prisoner on a chain-gang, she would have only enough room to walk.
She sat, folded in half on the edge of a bed in a tiny white room. It wasn’t her dorm room. She recognized nothing. Tess tried to stand, and fell flat on her face. Millions of needles raced from her hips to her feet.
“…the fuck is going on? Who are you people? Where the fuck am I?”
“It seems you and Terri share the same vocabulary at least.” The voice had a canned quality. Almost as if the person were talking through. . . .
Tess saw the speaker under the window now. The face beyond it must have been the one that woke her up.
“Professor Johnson?”
“Ah, good. You recognize me. You’ve answered that question. We wondered how much of Tess would be left.”
She could feel the cold tile against her bare legs. Her belly shivered as the cold seeped through her tee shirt. Tess pushed herself to her feet.
“What’s going on here, Professor Johnson?”
A television clicked on behind her. Mounted to the wall opposite the window, it was the only non-white item in the room. A news channel burst onto the screen. Its commentator droned on about the stock market.
“Let’s just say you are now part of a history bigger than yourself.” Johnson said as she pushed the glasses back up on her nose.
Tess stumbled upright. The tingling died away. She could feel the cold tiles under her feet. “I don’t understand. I. . . Why am I black?” She held her hands in front of her, turning them over to look at the pink palms. Her legs, her belly, her arms. All the skin she could see was now dark brown. She felt her chest. “Why are my boobs so big? Doctor Johnson, what the fuck is going on?”
“One of your ancestors apparently was black. We simply allowed your body to express that heritage. As for your chest, it now fits the rest of you. Plus, we don’t want anyone to recognize you in the future. Now, we’ve made quite a sum of money with the advances we’ve made with you.” Johnson turned to leave. “Feel free to explore your room. I think you’ll have enough slack in the reel to reach the areas you need.”
“Doctor. Don’t go.” Tess rushed to the window. “Let me out of here, Doctor. Tell me what’s going on.” Johnson continued her walk down the hall. Tess couldn’t hear anything beyond her room. Just the news behind her. “Doctor, please!” She banged the glass, but it didn’t even shudder.
Tess stood at the window a moment. Tears flowed down her face. She was scared. She had no recollection of what happened. Why she was here. She remembered working in Doctor Johnson’s lab. She was a grad student working on DNA sequencing at the University of Illinois. This room wasn’t at U of I.
She turned back to the TV monitor. So many thoughts swirled through her head. She had to sit down. The news anchor droned on. Tess looked at the date in the corner of the screen. Oct 15, 2008. Had to be wrong. It was only 2005. Sometime in the spring. That’s what she remembered. She was a senior. Going to graduate and go into med school. But, other things reared up in her mind. Injections. Restraints. A cluster of people in masks and lab coats talking about the test subject.
Tess tried to rub her temple as all these thoughts bounced around her head, found her arms wouldn’t reach with the cuffs on, and bent down. For short minutes she sat there trying to make sense of it. Bile ran up the back of her throat. She choked it down the first time, as she leapt to her feet. The cable gave her enough slack to shuffle quickly to the door-less bathroom and vomit.
Her mouth still felt sticky as she ran a cool washcloth over her face. The girl in the mirror was unfamiliar. The blue eyes were hers, but the mocha skin and long kinky black hair weren’t. She moved in for a closer look, and the face with the full lips did the same. The lips peeled back to show the perfect teeth that braces her dad had paid years for straightened. It was strange not to know your face.
“. . . outbreak at Western Illinois University of what seems to be a hemorrhagic fever. We go live now to the scene.”
Tess stepped back into her bedroom. The news cast switched to a live remote in Macomb. A reporter stood in front of a squad car parked sideways in the road, one of many that could be seen as they tried to enforce a quarantine. She explained how this outbreak was rumored to be an Ebola virus strain. Several students were hospitalized with bleeding from the eyes, ears, and mouth. It was also rumored that at least one student had already died. More news as it developed.
The screen turned back to the newsroom. Another anchor was there to drone on about the stock market. Tess tried to change channels, but couldn’t reach the buttons. She gave up, sat on the bed, and gave in to tears. She had friends at WIU. Maybe. If the date was correct, she had no idea what was going on.
Two days she sat in her room. The only person to talk to her was Doctor Johnson. Someone would come past three times a day, and slide food to her through a hermetically sealed slot under the window. The door gave a little asthmatic sigh each time her food appeared. Nobody had been in the room to see her, or to tell her anything else. No one removed her restraints. There was a sink. She could wash. She couldn’t shower. The shower and stool were around the corner. Out of sight from the window, and there was no camera in the bathroom like in the other room.
On her third morning of awareness, she woke to thumping on the wall opposite her bed. Slow. Monotonous. Like someone trying to take down the wall with a sledge hammer. Tess also realized she was ravenous. She could eat a horse. Raw. She was hungry yesterday, but figured it was just boredom. Now, she wanted someone to throw her a bloody steak and leave.
Doctor Johnson appeared at the window. The pounding stopped next door.
“Good morning, Tess. Ready for breakfast?”
The slot wheezed open. On the tray rested a pint bag of blood. Tess lifted it. It was warm. Her hands shook as she stared at it. Her mind screamed at her to rip it open. To pour it down her throat. She had to choke down the saliva that filled her mouth.
“What the hell is this? A sick joke?” Tess whispered.
“No. It is what you need. What you crave. I can see by your reaction what you want to do with it. Follow your instinct.”
Tess looked up at Johnson on the other side of the glass. Her mentor Her captor. “You crazy bitch. Have you lost your mind?”
“I didn’t want it to come to this, Tess. I really didn’t. I thought you were smarter than Chrissi.”
“Who?”
“That failure next to you. The one beating her head against the wall. Oh well. We can do this the hard way.” Johnson lifted a small silver box, and pushed a button.
Pain buzzed at the back of Tess’ head. Pain followed by paralysis. Her body went rigid. The warm bag dropped from her fingers. She stared straight at the window.
“Tess,” Johnson’s voice came over the speaker. “I want you to go and sit on the chair facing the television.”
Tess felt her body turn, walk to the chair, and sit down. The TV came on as she fought to make her body move. Move a leg. Move a hand. Hell, move a finger. But nothing worked. It was like her mind was disconnected from anything that controlled her.
She sat, and was aware of the news. Horrible news now came from Macomb. The reporter stood behind quarantine lines. In front of patrol cars, bodies laid in piles. Tanks and other military vehicles supported the troopers.
“. . . first hand accounts of something from a zombie movie. Bodies of the dead seem to re-animate after death and begin to devour those left alive.”
The door wheezed open behind her. She could smell the antiseptic in the air as it followed Johnson. A yellow gloved hand appeared in her peripheral vision. The hand held the end of the tube of the blood bag.
“Open.” Johnson said. Her voice was muffled.
Tess realized she must be speaking through a respirator. Her mouth popped open in compliance. She felt the tube hit her tongue.
“Now, drink until it’s all gone.”
Tess took a pull on the tube. She could taste the latex at first, nothing else. She tried to will herself to stop, but nothing happened. Her mouth continued to suck until she got her first taste of blood. It washed into her mouth thick and warm. There was a rich taste to it, almost like liquid meat, underlined with a tint of copper. She tried to keep from swallowing, but had no luck at that either as the first gob slid down her throat.
“Good girl.” Johnson walked around in front of her holding the blood bag. The woman was dressed in a yellow hazmat suit. The kind they wore at level four biohazard institutions. Self contained air. Heavy rubber, thick gloves, enclosed face shield. “After our failure with Chrissi next door there, we couldn’t risk losing another investment. We decided not to give you the option of not getting your blood intake. Chrissi wouldn’t drink voluntarily, the virus nearly killed her. Now, she’s pretty much worthless to our goals, but her blood has proven to hold some. . . interesting characteristics. She is, however, quite insane.”
More blood washed down Tess’ throat. Johnson turned to watch the news. A reporter and camera man were trapped in a lab with four surviving students.
“. . . we ran into Simkins Hall when a group of students tried to attack us.” The reporter, young, male, huddled in a corner under a third floor window. The students did the same in a small cluster beside him. “For now I think we’re safe. The doors are steel with reinforced frames and deadbolts. The students tell me that they are set up like this to keep lab equipment from being stolen. Outside it’s like a scene from a bad horror movie. That’s the only thing I can relate it to. We saw packs of people appearing to attack and eat anyone they came across. I can’t go into details, but the images will haunt me the rest of my life.”
“Such an elegant virus,” Johnson murmured. “It’s our own creation. Ebola-Zaire bred with a synthetic virus. The one kills you, the other, re-animates you. Of course, there is very little thought left in your tiny reptilian brain at that point.”
Tess felt her body warm. The hunger died in her guts. She tried to spit the tube out of her mouth, but her body wouldn’t comply.
“We have conflicting reports coming out of Macomb now,” The reporter switched to another video, this one shot by someone in town. Helicopters flew low over head. Streaks of smoke came from the belly of the birds as rockets blasted targets. “The people who sent us this video say military helicopters opened fire on people trying to break the quarantine. Other reports say they fired on packs of zombies roaming town and eating people. Either way, we have confirmation of rocket strikes in the city of Macomb.”
“They won’t stop this with rockets,” Johnson said. “It’s like swatting a mosquito with a sledge hammer. Only way to stop it is to fumigate. Perhaps this administration has the guts to do that once. Maybe twice. After all, it took the Japanese Hiroshima and Nagasaki before they understood what they were dealing with.”
Tess took two last pulls on the tube, got nothing, and let it slide from her lips. She wanted to throw up, to vomit out the blood, but her stomach wouldn’t let her. She felt strength wash through her. She felt good. Like her system hummed with electricity. The tube brushed her shoulder as it fell. Dribbles of blood spotted the white cotton.
The camera switched to the reporter at the quarantine line. Gun crews blazed away as a pack of zombies chased a half-dozen people toward them. Bodies absorbed the bullets until they were cut in half, or disabled. Even on the ground dismembered, the corpses pulled themselves forward. The reporter screamed as she and her cameraman ran to their van. They dove inside, locked the doors, and continued to broadcast.
“She has guts, I’ll give her that,” Johnson said. “Oh, all finished?” She turned to Tess. “That wasn’t so bad was it? I’ll have them bring you another shirt.” Johnson bent produced a key. She unlocked the shackles on Tess’ legs. “I imagine you could use a change of panties too.”
The reporter stopped screaming as police and military troops dragged the people off her van. “We have noticed a lack of air traffic in the last three hours. Before that, we had military and police helicopters flying over most of the day. We don’t know what that means, but there have been no airplanes. . . .”
The screen went white. Static filled the airwaves. The anchor in the newsroom tried to get the connection back. Technicians scrambled to re-establish the feed. When that failed, they switched to another story. This one about a little girl, still missing from her Florida home.
“Ah, looks like the United States fumigated.” Johnson said. She turned, punched a button on the remote, and the door hissed open. “We’ll see if they need a Nagasaki.”
As the door closed, Tess could feel the pain at the back of her skull again. Her body went limp, and she nearly fell from the chair, but at least she had control again. The pounding on the wall stopped, as she ran to the bathroom to throw up. She produced nothing but dry heaves that lasted long minutes and left her ribs sore. By the time she wandered back into the main room, a fresh pair of panties and a shirt waited on the food tray. She changed without bothering to go into the other room. She just didn’t care.
An hour later, she lay on the bed, curled in a ball. The news was grim. Macomb, Illinois, no longer existed. It was ash. A tactical nuclear strike was ordered in Washington with no warning to people on the ground. They cut to a live feed from the Whitehouse. President Simmons was to speak.
He came on the air, red-eyed, haggard. He explained the virus was a biological attack by a group calling itself United States Taliban. The virus was lethal, but reanimated the bodies of those who died from the infection. Macomb was a rather isolated town, but he could not run the risk of the virus getting into a larger population, such as Chicago or St. Louis.
“Make no mistake. These terrorists hit us hard. They’ve made an impact, but we do not strike deals with terrorists. It was my decision to use nuclear force. It was the only option. In the meantime, the Center for Disease Control and Prevention is working on a cure for the infection. We hope to have a viable resolution to this disease in thirty days. We also have top people from every intelligence agency tracking these villains in order to prosecute them to the furthest extent of the law. Our troops are being called home to secure our borders while we deal with this threat. When more news becomes available, I will let you know what progress we make. Until then, good night, and God bless.”
The screen switched back to the news room so the talking heads could dissect what was said. Tess cried herself to sleep as she pulled on the chains that held her arms in place. Everyone she knew in Macomb, gone.
She woke with a small scream caught in her throat. Tess found she sat on the edge of her bed again. This time no chains rattled when she moved. Nothing kept her hand from probing the sore spot on back of her head.
“Good afternoon, Tess.” Johnson’s voice came from the speaker. “I assume you had a good nap?”
“No,” Tess mumbled. “Bad dreams. I hoped this was one.”
“Sadly, no. This is your home for the duration I’m afraid. However, I have made it more comfortable for you. The electronic restraints worked so well, we decided your physical ones could be removed.”
Tess rubbed the place where her neck joined her skull. “Hurts.”
“Yes, the micro implants are foreign to your nervous system, but they do work well. And I can make it hurt a lot worse, remember that too, before you decide to do something stupid.”
“What did you do to me, Doc? You at least owe me that.” Tess stood and walked to the window. “I’ve got nothing but a black hole in my memory for the last three years.”
“Let’s just say you are now a cross between Typhoid Mary and the Terminator. You’re our own sexy little vector. Much more effective than an explosive. A push of the button, you’ll do as you’re told. All these brilliant intelligence people will be looking for airborne viruses and such. They’ll never suspect a college co-ed.”
“You’re nuts. Someone will find you. My folks must be looking. I didn’t just drop off the face of the earth.”
“Your parents, Chrissi’s parents, my parents, and a few others buried their children three years ago when Clean Room Three exploded and burned in. . . how did they phrase it? ‘The worst conflagration in U of I’s history.’”
“You bitch,” Tess whispered. “I ought to kill you.”
Johnson held up the remote. “I don’t think so, dear.”
She punched a button. Pain streaked like lightning through Tess’ body. It started at the back of her head, wrapped around her face, and shot to her feet. She fell to the ground, legs pulled up to her midsection as her body jerked in a long spasm. After a minute, Johnson let her finger off the button.
“I’ll see you at dinner time, Tess.”

For the next two weeks, debate raged on over what actually happened in Macomb. Every pundit had an opinion. Some thought the government overstepped their boundaries in calling in a nuclear strike. Others argued that by cooking a smaller town, it kept the infection from getting out of control and spreading. What about the innocents? One side screamed. What about the rest of us? The other replied.
Doctors at the CDCP said they were hard at work on a cure, so that it couldn’t happen again. Tess knew they were full of shit. The people at the CDCP couldn’t find a vaccine for the flu in two weeks, let alone a hemorrhagic fever. She did remember enough of her doctorial studies to put a few things together in her head.
Johnson called her a vector. Therefore she carried the virus in her system. She was apparently immune to most of the effects, but it seemed to cause an anemia in her, thus the need for blood. The cure, if it could be found, was in her blood, or the blood of any child she might have.
The virus wasn’t airborne. Johnson had as much admitted that. Transfer must take place through body fluids.
She also realized that damned remote was tied into her neurological system. The micro-fibers must be attached to her nervous system somehow, and thus tied to her brain. Johnson had mentioned Terri when she had first woke up. Who was Terri? How far had they destroyed her?
Tess needed some way to burn off the hate and boredom. Calisthenics became her focus. It was slow going at first, but one hundred pushups burned away a lot of anger. One hundred sit-ups followed. Leg work, arm work, until tendons sang with exertion. Work until she collapsed, then start over. She focused on getting through another day with mind intact. Muscle hummed as it grew stronger, more toned than it had ever been.
She followed her routine, doctors followed theirs. According to the time in the corner of the TV, lights out at ten, lights on at six. Meals three times a day, blood once a week. Her period came and went, although it caused the hunger to ravage her, and she swallowed two pints of blood that week.
An hour after lights out, a lone security guard made his rounds. A young man named Dave, he was Tess’ only contact with the outside world. He kept her up-to-date on things other than what the news droned on about. It was fall. The holidays would be here soon. People would forget about the zombie outbreak. They would move on to other things. Tess hated to keep him in the dark, but he didn’t know anything about why she was there, and each night, he lingered a little longer.

Three weeks after the nuke strike, Johnson appeared at the window. “It looks as if the United States needs a Nagasaki, Tess. They have a week to come through and meet the demands of our employer.”
“What are you talking about, Doc? I thought it was you doing all this.”
“Oh no. My talent has been hired out. This started long before you came to work for me. I was tired of the University making millions off of my discoveries, and me getting another ten thousand added to my stipend for the year, if I were lucky. No, I’m quite self-sufficient now, but my employer is disappointed in the government’s response. It looks as if Terri will have a chance to go out next week.”
“Johnson, you’re nuts if you think I’m going to let you send me out there to infect another town.”
“Did I say it would be you?” She turned and walked away. “You may get a chance to meet your sister though,” Johnson said over her shoulder.

At the end of the week, Tess got her answer as to who Terri was. Johnson came to the window, and without a word, punched the button on the remote. Tess was at the full extension of a pushup, when her body locked into position. She held her place, as her muscles screamed, while Johnson came through the airlock.
“Should we see how long you can hold that pose, Dear?” Johnson threw a pair of pants, some shoes and a light sweatshirt on the bed. More clothes than Tess had seen in nearly a month. “Get dressed, we’re going out.”
Mechanically, Tess climbed to her feet. She pulled on the clothes that waited for her, and stood.
“Good girl. Now, this is going to be something of an old home week. For both of us.” Johnson said. “I’m going to drop Terri off at U of I to do her job.”
Tess screamed inside her head. She tried to make a sound. Tried to move a finger. Tried to do anything, but go no response. Johnson handed her a pair of sunglasses before they stepped from the room. The inside door opened, and they stepped into the antiseptic mist. For sixty seconds they waited as chemicals washed around them to kill any random bacteria or virus that clung to their clothes. For thirty seconds after the mist bath, forced ventilation sucked it away to be sterilized in a series of filters.
They walked into the hall. Tess wanted to run, to find an exit and rush out, but her body wouldn’t allow it. She heard a thud to her right, repeated.
“Ah, Chrissi wants to say goodbye to you,” Johnson said. They stepped briefly to the window. There, a young girl, probably no more than twenty one stood, face stuck to the glass, wild grin on her face. Her face, drawn and deeply lined gave her the look of an ancient woman. Eyes that were probably brown at one time, were covered in opaque cataracts. Tears ran through the filth of her face. Her blond hair hung to her shoulders in greasy strings. She banged her head against the glass again.
“Not feeding time, Chrissi,” Johnson said into the microphone.
“Go with,” Chrissi whimpered.
“Why would I let you out? You look like a freak. They’d shoot you on sight.”
Chrissi screamed, and ran back to the corner of her room. She wore a stained straight jacket, and nothing else. She curled herself in a corner and cried.
“Failure,” Johnson muttered. “Come, Tess. We have a long trip.”
They turned and walked away. Several doors lined the hall. Each a different laboratory. Some were DNA labs, some were viral studies. There was another dorm room, this one with the door open and empty. One of the last rooms they passed was the security office. From the corner of her eye, Tess saw a weapons locker full of shotguns and rifles. The man behind the desk wasn’t Dave, but he wore a uniform and pistol.
Johnson stepped to a steel door, placed her left thumb against a small box lit with a red light. After a brief pause, the box turned green, she pushed the door, and they walked out together.
They stood in an old barn. Hay littered the floor, old tools hung from the walls. Year’s worth of cobwebs filled spaces between the beams. The place smelled of mold and rot. As they walked through the barn, dust kicked up around their feet. It tickled Tess’ nose, and she sneezed.
Johnson immediately pulled a can of air sanitizer from her purse and sprayed.
“God, don’t do that. The virus isn’t airborne, but I don’t want to take a risk.”
They walked through another door, stepped between two buildings, and paused at another door with a red box. Again Johnson pressed her thumb to it, again the door opened. Inside the machine shed were several vehicles. They walked to a simple white box van. Johnson told Tess to climb in, as she slid into the driver’s seat.
“We’ll take the company truck for this trip.” Johnson turned the key, hit a button on the visor, and rolled through the door as it opened. Once clear, she hit the button again, and it closed.
The house they passed on the farm was a decrepit thing. Rotted roof, broken windows, vines out of control as they grew up the walls. The place was tucked back hard against a hill, and they drove several yards on an overgrown driveway to get to a paved road. They turned north, and from the corner of her eye, Tess could see a river. On her right tall hills rose nearly straight up.
“You can talk to me, Tess,” Johnson said.
Tess could feel a small buzz in her head. “I won’t do this. I won’t do what you want me too.” She struggled to move a finger, but got nothing.
“I know you won’t, but Terri will. You’ll meet her when we get to Champaign.” Johnson hit the radio button. Music filled the van.
For the first time in months she could remember, music. Something beside news. Air rushed outside the van. Not filtered and pumped in, but real air. The leaves were just starting to turn. Tipped with red and yellow, they blazed in the early morning sun. They drove past fields where the corn would be picked soon. Green leaves mixed in with a lot of brown. Cows grazed in pastures along the hills. Tess felt a tear trickle from the corner of her eye, and slide down her face.
Johnson noticed. “Glad to be out, eh? Sorry we can’t take these field trips more often, but you understand why.”
“Why’d you do that to Chrissi?”
“Do what?”
“Tear her apart like that. You should kill her or treat her.”
“If I kill her, I lose the research I can do on her. If I cure her, what do I do with her then? Let her loose? We no longer exist. We died. She’s not going to just go back to her life, become a doctor, get married and have babies. She can’t be turned loose, for the same reason you can’t. As for why I treat her the way I do, what does it matter? She’s totally insane. Her body’s desiccated, but won’t die. Her brain knows what’s wrong, and she can’t do anything about it.”
“I thought you were somebody worth learning from. Somebody that would make a difference in the world. You’re not. You’re just a money grubber who found a new way to blackmail anyone you want.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Fuck you.” Tess rode the rest of the way in silence.

In Champaign they pulled into a hotel parking lot. It was a midrange place. Nothing fancy, mostly business travelers passed though the doors. Johnson checked into the office, and came back with a room card. She drove around to the rear of the building, got out, and told Tess to join her.
They found the room. Being afternoon, there were few people in the building. Housekeeping mostly. A couple businessmen who checked in early. Johnson laid a suitcase on the bed, opened it to reveal clothes to young, and too small for her.
“Time to say goodnight, Tess. I’ll speak with you in the morning.”
“What do you. . . ?”
Johnson pointed the silver remote, and punched a series of buttons. Tess felt something. As if someone walked past her in an empty room, but she couldn’t tell who.
“Hiya, Carla,” Tess heard herself say. But it wasn’t her voice. It sounded younger somehow. The pitch was different. She tried to ask a question, but couldn’t say anything.
“Good afternoon, Terri. How have you been?”
“I’m fine, but I feel like I been cooped up for weeks.” Terri took in the room. “Where we at?”
Inside her head, Tess screamed. She realized now what Johnson meant when she said that she wouldn’t be dealing with her.
“We’re in Champaign. You feeling okay, Terri?”
“Feel great. Haven’t felt this good in a long time. Feel the need to get out an’ party though.” Terri looked around the room. “Kinda nice place. Big bed.”
Tess knew what this girl was thinking. She could feel the urges washing though her. The need. This girl wanted laid. She had to stop her. But how?
“You’re in luck, Terri. There’s a bunch of Halloween parties tonight.” Johnson laid out several fliers. They were printed on different colored paper, mostly in red, to celebrate the season. “I picked up some costumes as well. You can decide what to wear.”
“Cool,”
Terri leafed through the pile of fliers. She paused. A costume party at one of the sorority houses. Tess shouted in her head. Tried to make herself heard, but there was no reaction. It was as if she were locked back in her little sound proof cell at the lab. Tess recognized the sorority. It was the one she belonged to when she was on campus.
“This one looks interestin’. Think maybe I’ll go to it.” Terri said. She sorted through the costumes, and pulled out a thin, short, flame red dress with a matching pair of horns and a tail. Red fishnets were in the bottom of the case, a small pitchfork went with.
“Appropriate for you, Terri.” Johnson grinned. “You know the rules. Back in the room by morning. We’re not here for long, and I don’t want to have to come find you.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be here. If I’m lucky, there’ll be some more of us here.”
“I’m next door. Knock if you need anything.”
Terri waved dismissively as Johnson let the door close behind her. The sun was going down, and the party started in two hours. Terri stepped into the bathroom, and peeled off.
“God, these are ugly clothes. Where did I get them?” She stood in front of the mirror. “When did I get so ripped? And furry?” She ran her fingers through the tangle of her patch. “Man, I have work to do if I gonna be ready.”
Tess tried to make herself heard, but again got nothing. She was along for a ride in her own body. Terri collected the toiletry kit from the case, stepped back into the bathroom and started the shower. By the time she was done, everything had been washed, and all the body hair was gone.
Terri toweled off, turned on the fan, and began her final preps. She tweezed a few random hairs in her eyebrows which gave her face a much cleaner look. Tess watched from behind her own eyes as she transformed from a pretty girl, to someone who could be on the cover of a men’s magazine. It wasn’t that she let herself go, she just didn’t do the maintenance locked in a cell.
As she slid the fishnets up her legs, Terri hummed a little tune. Tess could catch emotions from this doppelganger. She was happy to be out. Not that Terri was aware of her status. Not aware that she was a shadow of someone else’s personality, but happy to be somewhere going to a party. She pulled the short red dress on over her head and stood back to admire herself in the mirror. Terri smiled, giggled, and started to work on her hair. Desire flowed through her mind. Thoughts of what she wanted tonight. Tess couldn’t read them but could feel what they were about.
“God, this girl’s a slut,” she thought.
Terri capped off her hair with the horns, tied on the tail. She called a cab and headed for the door, pitchfork in hand.
She climbed out of the car in front of the red brick sorority house. As Terri went up the short walk, Tess could feel the emotions well up inside. This was her home at one time. Her sisters were here. Her friends. And Terri was going to kill them.
Music throbbed from inside the house. Terri let herself in and was met by an Asian girl dressed as a cat.
“Hello, Pretty Kitty,” Terri said. “I hear there’s a party.”
“You heard right you sexy little devil. C’mon in.”
The girls stepped into the main room, where twenty or so people in costumes mingled. Most had already paired off, while there were small clusters of guys and girls standing off to the sides.
“I’m Jade, by the way,” The girl said. She held out her hand.
Terri took it, with a definite hunger in her eye. “I’m Terri. Pleased to meet you.”
They made the circuit, Jade doing the introductions. The two got a drink, then found a place to chat. Terri glanced up, and saw a picture with a plaque underneath.
“Tess Hanson,” she read aloud, “Who’s that?”
“That was one of our sorority sisters. She died in a fire when I was a freshman. She helped initiate me. Shame.”
“Yeah,” Terri agreed.
More girls came to talk. Soon Terri was in a circle of six sorority sisters as they compared notes on the frat brothers that were there. The party was going well. Jade slid a small tube from inside her costume. She spun off the lid, and poured some yellow and red pills into her hand.
“Little E?” She offered. “Break the ice. Take the edge off.”
Fingers snatched up ecstasy. The girls washed them down with sips from their drinks. The vial disappeared as Jade put it away. In short minutes, the buzz kicked in. They swayed to the music. Terri grabbed Jade by the tail and pulled.
“Hey,” Jade protested with a wide smile, “Don’t you know better than to pull a cat’s tail?” She backed up a step and found herself wrapped in Terri’s arms.
Terri placed a soft kiss on the nape of Jade’s neck. She nuzzled her way up to her ear. “Sorry, Pussy Cat,” She whispered. “Didn’t mean to hurt.” She brushed Jade’s ponytail out of the way, and kissed the back of her neck. Her hands stroked the soft material of the costume.
“Mmmmm. You gonna kiss it and make it better?”
“Yes.”
Jade turned in Terri’s arms. “So don’t tease, prove it.” She smiled.
Tess screamed inside her head. She gazed into this beautiful girl’s eyes. Trusting. Happy. Tess knew what would happen. Terri kissed her. Long, deep. Tongues dueled. Lips slid together, bodies crushed against one another. Tess could feel shivers run through her body. She fought. She protested. She didn’t like girls, but god, this felt good. Isolated for so long. Not able to touch, and now, such an intimate touch. Hands slid over bodies. Tracing curves, exploring.
Jade broke away. “Naughty girl, you’re not wearing undies.”
Terri smiled down at her. “Neither are you.”
Jade faked a deep sigh, shrugged her shoulders. “I guess we’re both naughty.” She pulled Terri down to her, and their lips met again.
The rest of the night they spent entangled, one way or another. They were not out of one another’s sight. They stood and chatted, arms around each other’s waist. At some point, Jade’s sometime boyfriend joined them. Nice looking guy, in a blond, Midwestern way. He talked to Jade, but his blue eyes followed every curve of Terri’s body.
As the party wound up, talk became harder without having to scream. Jade led the way upstairs to her room. Terri played with her tail as it swayed in front of her. In turn, Mike, Jade’s boyfriend, slid his hand under Terri’s skirt. In the room, the door locked behind them. The girls fell together as they were able to explore more. Downstairs, the party thumped away. Terri pulled Jade’s costume over her head. She stood, wearing nothing but cat ears and black pantyhose. They kissed deep as Mike pulled Terri’s costume off. The girls pressed together.
No words were spoken as Terri backed Jade to the bed and laid her down. She kissed her way down Jade’s body as the girl wriggled under the attention. Mike tried to push in, Terri pushed him back.
“She’s mine tonight. You get to watch us, but you can have me.” Terri slid her thumbnail through the crotch of Jade’s pantyhose, and yanked. The nylon came apart, and gave her what she wanted. She felt a tug as Mike gave her the same treatment. She heard a condom opened, and he slid inside. After that, it was slick tongues, hot bodies, and gasping climax. The three tangled together for more than an hour.
When they were spent, heaving for breath piled close together in Jade’s tiny bed, Terri slid out.
“Leaving? So soon?” Jade mumbled
“I have to go.” Terri said.
“Stay. Spend the night.” Jade propped herself up on one elbow.
Terri pulled on Mike’s shirt. “I can’t, Pretty Kitty, but I had a great time.” She leaned over to kiss her lover goodnight. Jade snuggled into Mike’s arms as Terri let herself out.
On the curb, she flagged down a taxi that took her back to the hotel. She let herself in with the card key, and collapsed on the bed.
Tess retreated into a dark corner of the cell in her mind. She wasn’t even aware Terri was asleep. Until Johnson opened the door in the morning. Sunlight streamed through the curtains.
“You fucking bitch!” Tess rolled out of the bed.
“Whoa,” Johnson chuckled. “Good morning, Tess.” She pointed the remote as Tess took a step forward. Her body locked in place. “I guess when one sleeps, the other can be awake. That’s easily solved.”
Johnson punched a few buttons, and Tess felt the small buzz as Terri was put back into her bottle.
“You fucking homicidal cunt! I just killed two kids last night.”
“Yes. You actually killed a lot more than that, but that will take time.”
“I ought to kill you.”
“This is getting old.” Johnson punched another button. “Tess, go shower, get dressed and come out here. We’re leaving in a half hour.”
Without a word, Tess spun and did as she was told.
“Leave the clothes you’re wearing. Just put on what you had yesterday.”
In a half hour, they were in the van, headed north. They made the trip in silence. Within three hours, Tess was in her room at the lab. Her pants were gone, she was down to her lab-rat uniform of tee shirt, panties and socks. The announcer on TV gave the latest news, but she sat on the bed, back to the window, knees pulled around her chest.

Two days passed. She hadn’t spoken to anyone but Dave. The blood hunger grew. She needed her fix. Morning of the third day, she woke to Chrissi’s thumps. When they stopped, she knew the girl had what she wanted. Johnson appeared in her window next. The food slot opened, and there was a pint bag of red life on the tray. Her stomach growled with need. Pavlov’s dog. That’s what she felt like as she gathered it.
Tess wanted to refuse, but couldn’t. She wanted to live long enough to make these people pay. She snatched up the blood bag, marked “Mississippi River Blood Center,” bit the tube off half-way. She spit it on the floor, and proceeded to suck it dry. Finished, she slammed the bag against the glass in front of Johnson’s face.
“You always watch me you sick bitch. Why?”
“Scientific interest.”
“Bullshit. I’m surprised you didn’t come along and watch me with Jade and her boyfriend the other night. Just what did you get out of that anyway?”
“Another ten million dollars in my tax free account in Switzerland.”
“Just doing it for the money?”
“Yes. I have no political goals. Although I chose U of I for personal reasons.”
“Great. How did you create Terri? Is she a chip or what?”
Johnson chuckled. “Silly girl. Freud could write an entire dissertation on you. Terri is nothing more than your own Id. The more repressed you are, the wilder your Id because you never let yourself have a good time. I let your Id out and gave her a name. Terri is simply you off the leash.”
“So, to let her out?”
Johnson held up the remote. “I just change channels.” Johnson turned to walk away. “I got tired of Terri whining all the time when she wasn’t given her way, so I changed the channel back to you. Remember that.” She was gone.
Tess started her pushups again. She thought she might have a way out. Devious and deadly, but it might be the only way she could ever hope to put a stop to this thing. She had found something under her skin. It was a small lump no bigger than a grain of rice at the base of her skull. Slightly below that was a flat disc. Apparently one was a battery, the other was a chip. There had to be a receiver wire mixed in with her hair somewhere, but she wasn’t going to pluck every strand to find it. No, she had to disable the chip and hope it wasn’t wired into their computer system.
She stayed in the bathroom one day, away from the camera. She sat, towel clamped in her mouth as she fished for the little grain of rice that controlled her. Tess didn’t know what would happen. Didn’t know it she would set off alarms. Didn’t know if it would kill her, but she had to stop being controlled by these people. She finally had the thing pinched between the nails of her thumb and index finger.
She dared not move, as she took one last deep breath. Tess ground down on the towel, closed her eyes, and pinched the chip in two. Pain flashed through her body as she bit into the terry cloth. She held back the scream in her throat, and ground the thing a little harder. More pain, and a little whimper escaped, but nothing more. The pain subsided, and she slumped into a pile on the floor. No one came. She waited. Five minutes. Ten. No one showed up in her room with restraints. No one. She almost laughed. The feeling of freedom was overwhelming. Her mind was free, now to get free from this prison.
Terri made an appearance. She rose to the surface a few minutes after the chip was disabled. It was difficult, at first to keep themselves sorted out. They were after all, part of the same woman. Then as Terri began to understand what had been done to Tess, and where they were now, she started to think along the same lines. Within days, the differences between them blurred to the point where they were the same person again.
The fifth day home, Tess worked on her second set of leg lifts. Her morning rotation of five hundred was past, now she was half-way through her afternoon workout. A panicked newscaster broke her attention.
“. . . reports of a nuclear detonation over the city of Champaign, Illinois. Home of the University of Illinois. The reports are unconfirmed, but we just got word that President Simmons is requesting an emergency press conference. We take you now. . . .”
Before the talking head could finish her sentence, the President was on the air. Simmons sat in the oval office, grim faced. His notes were spread on the desk in front of him. He again told the American people that he had ordered a nuclear strike against a town. He had received a confirmed report from the CDCP of another outbreak of the zombie virus. He would take no chances with the rest of the country.
This time, the entire state of Illinois was under quarantine. Troops were mobilized and several units were already in place. Borders would be locked down by regular troops, state police and US Marshals. He had called up the Army and Marine Reserves in the five border states, as well as to federalized the National Guard of each of those five states. Shallow water boats of the Coast Guard and Navy would patrol the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. Anyone attempting to break the quarantine would be shot. Marshall Law was instated, for the safety of the citizens of the United States, and would be in effect for the next 30 days.
“They’re already in negotiations with my employers.” Johnson’s canned voice made Tess jump. She hadn’t realized anyone else was there.
She turned. Johnson watched the screen, the images reflected on her glasses. Tess felt rage build up in her. Hatred. For a brief moment, she wondered if it were her, or Terri pushing this adrenaline button, as she had never felt this deeply before. She decided she didn’t care. She swallowed, took a breath.
“Lot of good your Swiss account will do you now. You can’t leave the state.”
“Oh, I’ll just wait out the quarantine. Americans have short memories. If they settle with my employer, there will be no other outbreaks, the quarantine will be lifted, and we can move on.”
“Move on?”
“Silly girl. After certain groups saw the weapon we had, we became quite popular. We’re in high demand right now.”
Tess swallowed her rage. She turned her back on Johnson. After a few minutes, she realized she was alone. She had to get out. Her plan had to go into action. Tonight.

At eleven o’clock, Dave would make his first round. He lingered longer each night, and came back more often. True, she had been stringing him along, but if circumstances were different, she still would have found him attractive. It made it that much harder to think about her plans.
Ten o’clock, the lights went out. Tess assumed that the medical and research staff left well before then, and only a small detail of security was there. Dave told her that he held down the night shift with one other guy, and he sat and read magazines all night.
She peeled off her clothes, showered and shaved and waited for Dave to come by. She was nervous, scared. This was the only way out though, possibly the only way to find a cure. There was now a CDCP research lab at Northwestern University in Chicago. Her baby would hold the cure for this plague. Of course, she needed to get pregnant. Dave could help with that. From there, it was a gamble.
Dave walked to the window, and laid a hand against it. Tess stepped out of the shadows, naked. She laid her hand against his through the glass. He drew a breath.
“Make love to me,” Tess said.
“Tess, I-I can’t. I’m not allowed in there with you.”
She knew he was in the dark as to why she and Chrissi were locked up. He was paid a lot to provide security and not ask questions.
“Please, Baby. I need you. It’s been so long since anyone’s held me. Don’t make me beg.”
“I-I,” Dave backed away from the window. “I have to fix the camera.”
Tess waited inside the door. He was gone forever. What if she had misjudged? What is he was calling Johnson right now? What if. . . ?
No, he was back. The outside door opened. She counted. At ninety the inside door hissed open. Dave stepped in, smelling slightly of chemicals. She stepped to him, ran her hands against his chest, and wrapped him in a hug. He held her tight. For long moments, they pressed together. Dave ran his fingertips down her naked back, and she shivered.
“Come here,” Tess pulled his face down to place a lingering kiss. His lips were just right. Not soft like a girl’s. He’d shaved too. While he didn’t have a lot of stubble, his face was rough enough. A man’s face. She wished she were smoother, but the electric razor didn’t get everything.
Dave gently picked her up, and walked across the spartan room with her in his arms. Softly he lay her on the bed. He peeled his own clothes off, and hung them on her chair. Tess flipped the sheet up, and he slid underneath with her.
They came together. Bodies entwined. He kissed his way down her neck to her shoulders. Nothing was said. Their need for one another was beyond anything that could be said. Dave slid his hands down her body, rolled on his back, and pulled Tess on top. She pushed herself down on him with a gasp. She smiled kisses all across his face and neck. As they ground together, she nipped her way along his shoulders. With her climax, she clawed red furrows in his chest. His followed, with deep fingerprints in her rear as he held her down on top of him.
Sated, they lay together under the damp sheet.
“You’ll come see me tomorrow too?” Tess asked.
“Yes,” Dave said. “But if I get caught, I’ll get fired.”
“We won’t get caught.”
For a few minutes they lay together, she wrapped in his arms, face buried in his chest. She tried to hold back the tears, but they came anyway.
He gently stroked her hair. “Why are you crying?”
“It’s been so long,”
He kissed the top of her head. “I have to go, before they miss me.”
Dave slid out from under the covers, and slowly pulled on his clothes. He kissed her goodbye before he left. Tess held on to his hand as he slipped away. She curled up under the sheet and cried herself to sleep.
The next two nights, Dave came to visit. Their time was passionate, urgent. He said he would try to get her out. Asked her why she was here. She wouldn’t tell him. Couldn’t tell him. Each time he left with a promise to see her the next night. But on the fourth night, he said he didn’t feel good and didn’t want to give her anything, so they talked with the glass between them. The fifth night, he didn’t come in to work. Someone else walked his rounds. Someone who didn’t talk to her. Just looked in the window. Tapped on the glass with his nightstick and walked on, like she was some exotic creature in the zoo to be teased by a bratty kid with an ice cream cone.
For four more nights, it was the new guy. No one said anything to her, but Tess knew. Dave was sick. Somewhere out there, he was dieing, or dead. His corpse feeding on anyone it could get hold of. Maybe not, Terri whispered. Maybe he was one of the few that would survive the ebola. Maybe. But then Tess heard the gunshot.
The sound echoed through the building like a muffled sonic boom. Her father had taken her hunting enough she knew what a shotgun blast sounded like. Another shot came, followed by two smaller pops. Tess could hear no screams, but the soundproofing took care of that. A third shot reached her ears, closer now, followed by the short crack.
Tess waited behind her window. She could see a few feet in either direction down the hall. Thuds came from next door, and she knew Chrissi heard the sounds too. Johnson walked toward her, long black shotgun in hand. The butt of the gun folded over. Johnson stopped in front of Tess’ window, her white lab coat spattered in blood from close range shots. Tess backed away until she was in the center of the room.
For long moments, Johnson stood as she wheezed for breath.
“We’re symptomatic out here,” She rasped out at last.
“I’m fine in here, thank you.”
“. . . fucking cunt. How did it get out?”
Tess smiled. “Let me guess, you didn’t inoculate anyone.”
“There is no inoculation, damnit. Ebola isn’t something you want in your bloodstream. You don’t live long enough to develop an immunity.”
“Guess you shouldn’t have been fuckin’ around with it then, eh, Johnson?”
Johnson’s chest heaved as she coughed a red mist into the air. “You bitch, how did it get out?”
Tess bit down a sob. “Same way I got pregnant.”
“You lie.”
Tess shook her head. “No period.”
“Dave. Damn. Men and their dicks. Always looking for a warm hole.” Johnson held up the remote. Tess felt a small tingle on the back of her head, but nothing else. No paralysis. “You stand right there, Tess. I’m going to eliminate my creation personally.”
Johnson stepped away from the window, and into the airlock. Tess knew she had ninety seconds, and started the count. As she sprinted to the bathroom, she skinned off one of her sweat socks. At the count of forty five, she snatched a new bar of soap from her shower, and slid it in the sock. At sixty, she wrapped the top around her hand one loop as she waited in front of the door. The bar was in her hand, tucked behind her back. At ninety, the inner door hissed open.
Johnson took a step inside, as she muttered something about lost research. She glanced up. “Tess? What are you doing over here?”
Tess looked up at Johnson from under her eyebrows, a slow smile peeled back over her perfectly white teeth. “Hiya, Carla.” She said.
“Terri?” Johnson whispered.
“Maybe.” Tess dropped the soap to the end of the sock. It dangled against the back of her leg.
“That’s not pos. . .”
Tess let out a roar and lunged. The movement caught Johnson off guard. Before she could get the shotgun barrel around, Tess swung her soap. With a wet thud, the improvised black-jack smacked Johnson in the temple. Her glasses flew from her face as she staggered back. Tess caught her on the back-swing, knocked a tooth loose from her jaw. With her left hand, she grabbed the shotgun barrel and yanked up. Johnson pulled back, and the gun ripped a blast into the ceiling. Recoil flipped the muzzle backwards, and it hammered into Johnson’s nose. She staggered, her nose spurting blood. Tess yanked the gun from her hand, and flung it across the room.
With her weight, Tess drove the Doctor to the floor. She ripped the pistol from Johnson’s pants, and flung it over to join the shotgun. One punch, two. One more, and Johnson went limp. She rolled the doctor over on her back, put one knee on her neck, the other on the small of her back, and peeled off her shirt.
With quick motions, she tore the shirt to strips, bound Johnson hand and foot. Tess gathered the shotgun, checked make sure it was loaded. She skinned off the other sock, stuffed it into Johnson’s mouth. The remote was in a pocket of the lab coat. She hoped it was a simple one. Johnson growled around the sock as Tess punched a button. She had watched a few times, and had an idea which one opened the door. On the second try, the door opened, and Tess stepped into the airlock.
As the door wheezed open on the other end, Tess waited long moments. Three years, conscious or not, she had been caged. Only with escort had she been let out. She eased out the door, gun at the ready. To the left, nothing. To the right, someone in white scrubs lay dead in a pool of blood. Chest blown out from the shotgun, small hole and a pile of brains from the pistol. She stepped far around the body.
As she slid past the room that had been empty before, someone slapped their face against the glass. Three people milled around inside. They shouted at her to let them out.
A vicious smile split her face as Terri reared up in her mind. “Why should I do that?” Tess asked.
“We’re cramped in here. We’re sick. We need treatment.”
Tess shrugged. “Give it a few days, and I bet there’s only one of you. Then you’ll have plenty of room.” She walked on.
At the security desk, were two more corpses, shot through like the first. One sat in a chair, the other slumped over the main desk. At least Johnson knew how to fix it so they wouldn’t roam around dead. The gun cabinet was unlocked. She found a box of buckshot, and stuffed the gun full again. A search of other drawers found the shackles she had first woken up to. A slow smile split her face as she gathered the gear up.
Back in her room, Johnson had rolled, but not gotten untied. With deft moves, she wrapped her mentor into the locks. She yanked the gag out of the doctor’s mouth.
“You can’t do this. You can’t go out. They’re infected out there.”
“Can it, Carla. I’m infected too, so ask me if I give a shit. The news says the CDCP set up shop at Northwestern, so I think a road trip’s in order.”
Tess peeled Johnson’s clothes off, and threw them in a pile near the door. “Just like I woke up.” She grabbed a handful of Johnson’s hair as she stood. Johnson squealed and backpedaled to follow. Tess pulled a length of cable out of the wall from the reel, and padlocked it to the shackles around Johnson’s waist.
Johnson struggled to her feet. She tried to take a step, and Tess pushed her back, shoulders to the wall. “You can’t do this. You can’t leave me in here, I’ll die.”
Tess leaned in, within a whisper. “Yes I can.” She turned Johnson’s head to the side, pinned to the wall. “You won’t die. I want them to come back and find you. At least what’s left of you by then.” She leaned in further, just a breath away, she paused. A wide smile split her face. A soft kiss on Johnson’s neck, as the doctor trembled. Another. Then Tess took a mouthful of skin into her mouth, and bit.
Johnson screamed. She squirmed to get away, as Tess clamped down harder. Humans have the teeth of omnivores, so it takes some doing to rip holes in flesh. Tess ground more, and blood squirted from the wound. It ran down Johnson’s chest as Tess bit and tore. A chuck of skin came free, as Johnson screamed. She tried to put a hand to the wound, but the chains wouldn’t let her. Tess stepped back as she chewed.
“That was good. Almost orgasmic.” The blood ran warm down her throat. “Much better fresh from the cow. I’ll have to try Johnson tar-tar more often.”
“You crazy bitch!”
“Where have I heard that before?” Tess collected the pistol, shotgun and clothes from the room. “Oh yeah, I remember now.” She stepped into the airlock. The clothes she left. Putting on something of Johnson’s made her skin crawl. The guns went with her.
In the hall, thumps came again from Chrissi’s room. What to do with her? She stepped in front of the window.
“Outoutout!” Chrissi danced around the room, crazy laugh cackled from her lips. “Outoutout!” She shouted again. She stopped her dance, ran to the window. “Take me.”
Pity, revulsion, anger. It all mixed together in Tess’ head. The last thing she wanted was to have Chrissi go chomping her way across the countryside. Even less if Chrissi was going to chomp her. Still, she didn’t want to leave the girl here.
Tess hit the intercom button. “Chrissi?”
“What?” The girl paced around the room, face down, mumbling.
“I know you want to go with, but I don’t know if I can trust you.”
“Hungry,” Chrissi said. “Blood.”
Tess backed away. Blood. That might do the trick. She started a search of the small complex. She found scrubs in a linen closet, and pulled a set of blue ones on. She pulled another set for Chrissi, and tucked them under her arm. A surgical room was located, as was a small kitchen and locker room. At last she found the lab that contained much of the DNA work.
Tucked in a back corner was a stainless steel cooler. Tess opened the door to find at least fifty pint bags. All labeled with the same sticker. She took one out, bit the end off the tube, and sucked it down. Cold, it wasn’t much, but it was what she needed. Strength flowed. She gathered up three before she headed for Chrissi’s room.
“Test subject three” was printed above the slot of Chrissi’s room. Tess slid the blood bags through the food slot.
“Chrissi, how do you open. . . ?”
She tore a bag from the tray with her teeth, picked up the tube in her mouth, bit the end off, and started to suck it dry. Tess went to find keys for the locks on the straight jacket, and find keys for the van outside in the barn.
At the security desk, a pegboard was hung with labeled keys. Test Subject Three had a small ring with a padlock key on it. She found an ignition key for the van as well. The gun cabinet was unlocked, and she pulled a case of shotgun shells from inside. These she dragged to the door. She pulled an M-4 rifle from the rack, along with several magazines and a battle pack of ammo for it. Pistol supplies next. These she stacked by the door as well. From around a guard’s neck, she pulled his identification badge. She slid it through the slot on the red box next to the door. It opened. Good, she didn’t need a thumb-print.
For the next ten minutes, she loaded the van. Guns, ammo, and a backpack with twenty bags of blood went. Finished, she went back to Chrissi’s room. The girl sat, back to the wall, empty blood bags scattered across the floor. She stared at the empty room.
“Chrissi?”
“Thought you left me.”
“No. You feel better?”
“Best I’ve felt in a long time. Why three? Johnson only gives me one.”
“Johnson said your body was desiccated. That you were a failed experiment. I wondered if more blood would help.”
Chrissi turned her head to the glass. “It did. I feel like a tick on a dog’s ear.”
Tess looked the girl over carefully. Color had come back into her face. The lines that made her look shriveled filled out. Her eyes, while not clear, at least no longer had such a wild look.
“I take you with, you gonna hurt me?”
“Don’t know. I’ll try not to.” Chrissi grinned a mouth full of yellow teeth, stained with red streaks.
Tess took a deep breath, hit the button on the wall, and stepped into the airlock. The keys she held in one hand, pistol in the other. On the other side, her eyes began to water as the smell assaulted her senses. The room was as stained and smeared with filth as the girl was. Chrissi tried to stand, slipped. Tess caught her, helped her to her feet. The straightjacket was white at one time. Now, it was smeared with all matter of things. Tess turned the girl around. She shoved the barrel of the pistol into the greasy, blond hair.
“You do anything stupid, this ends here and you never see sunlight.”
“Okayokay.” Chrissi smiled.
Tess slid the key into one padlock. With a twist, it popped open. She did the same with three more straps. Chrissi pulled, the jacket came off, and hurled it to the floor. Naked, she stomped on the thing, laughing and crying at once.
“Go now?”
“Not quite yet.” Tess led the way to the locker room. Inside, she handed Chrissi a set of green scrubs. “Go shower. I’m not going anywhere with you smelling like that.”
“I stink?” Chrissi raised her arm, took a whiff of hairy pit and smiled. “Phew.” She laughed and dashed into a shower stall.
Long minutes later, she stepped out. Skin pink, clean. Her eyes were almost clear. Tess could see the brown under the slight grey cataract. Her hair, while wet, didn’t look greasy. Her body was smooth.
“Look, no more furzy,” Chrissi giggled as she spun around. She jumped into the scrubs before they left the room. “How long?” She asked as they stepped into the hall.
“How long?”
Chrissi waved her arms around her. “How long?”
“Oh. How long in here.”
“Yeahyeah.”
“I remember two thousand five. Now it’s two thousand eight.”
“Long time.” Chrissi stared at the floor.
“Yeah. Long enough.”
They walked past their old rooms. Chrissi’s stood with the door open. Stench rolled out to fill the hall. Both coughed at the smell. Chrissi glanced into Tess’ room. Johnson kicked against the shackles on her legs. She tried to reach them, but her hands couldn’t go far. She glanced up, noticed the two in the window, and started to shout.
“Her neck?” Chrissi asked. Blood ran down her naked body until it coagulated on her belly and around the heavy leather belt.
Tess grinned. “She a little bland. Some spice would go a long way.”
Chrissi giggled as they walked away.
In the barn, they stood beside the van. Tess held up some handcuffs and a shackle chain.
“Kinky,” Chrissi said.
“Maybe later,” Tess said. “I don’t know how your system works. I don’t want you going zombie on me and trying to take a nibble while I’m driving. Wear ‘em or walk.”
Chrissi paused for a moment. Emotions raced across her face. When Tess thought she was about to walk out of the barn, she held her arms up. Tess snapped them in place, and opened the middle door. Chrissi climbed in. Tess locked the trailing end of the chain to the seat frame, slid the door closed.
In the driver’s seat, she rolled the engine over before she handed back a pair of sunglasses. “For your eyes. You haven’t been out in awhile.” She slid her own into place.
Chrissi grinned as Tess hit the button. With a jerk, the door opened.
“It’s a hundred and seventy miles to Chicago. We’ve got a full tank of gas, a bunch of loaded guns, a backpack full of blood. It’s sunny out, and I’m wearing sunglasses.”
Chrissi cackled as she rocked in her seat. “Love that movie.” She said. “Hit it!”
Tess dropped the van into gear, and they rolled into the light.

Where do Ideas come from?

Well, when the mommy idea and daddy idea really love one another. . . .Wait, it ain't that easy. Ideas for writing come from a diverse plan of existence. Truthfully, I don't know where most of my ideas for fiction stories come from. I was always an imaginative kid. Always living in my own little world. Something that drives math teachers nuts. A lot is just the way I think. Gary Larson, the great creator of "The Far Side" once said: "It isn't that I couldn't do a strip like "Blondie," but in my version Daisy would bit Dagwood, he'd get rabies, and go attack Mister Dithers." Stephen King said something similar in his book, "On Writing." People often ask him why he writes horror. His response is to ask what makes them think that he can write anything else.

Most stories are organic. They come from how you think and where your interests lie. Sharon Kay Pennman writes historical fiction, because Medieval Europe fascinates her. Ann Rice writes vampire stories, because the idea of an afterlife bothered her after she lost a daughter.

Ideas can be rather lame at first. If you love British history, and want to write a story about King Henry III and his son Edward I, you might find it pretty dry. Then you could do a little more research, and find that Henry had a antagonist in his brother-in-law Simon de Montfort, who wanted to extend the Runnymede Charter and planted the seed for democracy, by capturing the king and holding him hostage while he ran the country and forced these new laws on the other barons. Prince Edward stood against his uncle, killed him in battle, and put his head on a pike on the battlefield as a warning to those who would stand against the king. Edward I would become known as Longshanks, and would be immortalized in the film Braveheart. Cultivating the idea, giving it time to grow is important.

I don't do a lot of outlining, I find it too confining, but I do mull a story idea over for a few days before I start to work on it. By the time I start on a story, I have a pretty good idea where it's going. There are a few times that it will surprise me however, and I actually like that, as it means the story and the people in it are taking on lives of their own.

I have had ideas for stories come from unusual places. Once when cleaning the attic of our old house, I came across a suitcase, a pillow, a child's red jacket, a dolly and a newspaper from 1947. I put all that together and came up with a pretty good horror story about a little girl, Martha May, who was killed in an accident by her drunken father. Dark area of my mind to explore, as I have my own little girl, but it made for a good story.

Right now, I'm working on a series of zombie stories, and the first one has been published on the web at Tales of the Zombie Wars: www.talesofworldwarz.com/stories/ I've been on that kick lately, and don't know why, but the series has developed into a character study, in a horror setting. More about how people survive and continue with life rather than just blood and guts. The first story I wrote in this line, actually didn't get published, but will end up as part of the back story, and elements of it will be included in the series. That story itself was inspired by the Rhianna, Disturbia video. So, one little clip of less than five minutes has thus far inspired eight stories an roughly thirty thousand words.

Always be open to ideas. Some keep a dream journal, some people are just dreamers, some base their stories on fact. I've done a little of everything along that line. Just because an idea seems too limited, doesn't mean it can't or won't grow. You have to give it the room to do that.

Calander of Signings

Hello all. Well, things are starting to pick up, and the bookings are starting to fill up the calander. Okay, not a lot, but when I work a full time job, my weekends are busy. Summer's here, and activities with the kids are coming more often, but I have a few signings on the book. Here's how things stand as of today:

July 13, '09
Bookmouse, Ottowa Illinois 6:30-7:30
Parinormal Mondays

September 26, 2009
Glen Ellyn (I'll get the details when I have them nailed down)

October 3, 2009
Barnes and Noble, Davenport Iowa, 1:00-2:00

October 16-17
Indianapolis, Indiana. Bouchercon.

October 23-24
Bishop Hill, Illinois, VagnHall Galleri.
12:00-5:00 both days.
Gathering of Midwest Authors.

Okay, okay, so it isn't that impressive, but there's a few bookings, and growing. As time progresses, I'll add more events as they come along.

Writing Tip #4: Finding Time

Hello all. Sorry I haven't been around for a couple weeks. My real job is that I work in a Ace Hardware warehouse. It being spring, and the weather finally cooperating, our business has really taken off. I've been doing overtime for the last several weeks, and have had some family matters that have been taking my time as well. I apologize for neglecting my little corner of the World Wide Web.

Which leads me to the topic of the day. Making time for your writing. My writing mentor, Trey Barker, once told me you have to treat your writing like children, you have to make time for it. If writing is important in your life, you have to take the time to take it seriously and make an effort to work on it daily.

One thing that you need to establish early is what you intend to do with your writing. Do you just want to write a journal or a family history or a few stories for your family, friends, and kids? Or do you want to pursue writing as more than a hobby? Do you want to see your name in ink and possibly, against all odds, get a book deal? Your decision will affect how much time you spend on your writing.

My Mom is a great writer. She's had more than one non-fiction piece published in everything from her local newspaper to Country Magazine. I've told her more than once that she needs to pursue her writing more, but she can never find the time to sit down and do it every day. She writes when she has time and the mood strikes her, but they don't often fall together. So, she writes letters, does some work on her journals, and writes a few essays here and there. Her goal is not so much to have a writing career, but as to capture her thoughts and stories for the family and a few others. If she gets published on occasion, she's thrilled.

On the other hand, her son (me) has this for a schedule: Alarm goes off at 5:00am. Get dressed for the day, start coffee, boot up the computer, and work on current project until 6:00am. Walk the dog. At 6:15, get the kids up and start getting them ready for school. Roust the wife, have her help with the kids. Get breakfast made for kids and father in law (who lives with us). At 7:10am kiss wife goodbye and take daughter to bus. Make sure son is at least headed the direction of his car. Clock in to work at 8:00am, fill orders until done, clock out help with supper, help with dishes, do other chores as needed, shower, shave, and bed by 8:30pm. Wake up at 5:00am. Repeat.

Now, this doesn't include soccer games, family events, after school programs, and the daily life in general. It does however, include an hour a day for writing, editing, or doing research. You have to make the time. You have to dedicate that time to your work.

You have to find the time for yourself to dedicate to your writing. The more you write, the more improvement and evolution your work will show.

Writing Tip #3: Show, don't tell

Hi all. Thought I better get another writing tip up, as I'm back on a roll with my next collection of ghost stories. Cleaned out a bunch of mental constipation in regards to this book, and my mojo is back to work. Anyway, thought I'd go over an obtuse concept in the world of writing.

First question: What's the difference between a Tom Clancy novel and an instruction manual on how to assemble your kid's new swing set? The instruction manual is only ten pages long.

No, I kid. I do like Clancy a lot. He tells some great stories. If he'd only learn to edit his fiction pieces down to where they're dealing with the story, not every little technical detail. King suffers from this problem in his longer works as well. He's probably the greatest short story writer in the history of horror, but give him a book length manuscript, and he gets wordy. Clancy writes a lot of historical books now, and that's great, because it gives him room to tell the story with all the details that history and tech geeks like myself love. What I don't love is all those details in a piece of fiction I'm reading.

Let me use and example of Clancy to illustrate what I'm talking about. In "Clear and Present Danger," the need a satellite connection to establish communication between Washington and the agents in the field doing the wet work. Now today, we'd simply use encrypted cell phones and bounce the signal off any communications satellite. Then, it was radio connection. Clancy went through paragraph after paragraph explaining this. He told about the technology behind the radio, the satellite itself, a long description of the launch and how the thing opened up and established and orbit. How it maintained an orbit. How the Soviets developed the technology and we stole it. For over a page, it read like a tech manual. Again, nothing wrong with that, if you're writing a tech manual. In the movie, "A Clear and Present Danger," the scene of the satellite launch lasted about 30 seconds in the film.

Now, a fix for that, to me, would be a scene with the troops on the ground. The communications specialist makes a call, it goes through and he's connected with Washington. He hands the phone to his commander, and says something like: "The link's up now, Sir." Quick, easy, and it moves the story along.

What you want to do is concentrate on what details move the story forward? What details does the reader need to complete the picture? A lot of things are back story. We don't need a biography of every character, and how Bill's mother leaving for another woman when he was five affected his relationship with girls. What we need are small details that show the same thing. Maybe Bill has a major hate for lesbians, and it comes out as he's walking down the quad with his girlfriend and they pass a gay couple. Maybe he has major trust issues that come out when he accuses his girlfriend of running around on him when she shows up ten minutes late for a date. What details do you need, and how do you present them? It moves things forward and makes the writing smoother.

If you really need to have a lot of back story with a character, do a character biography in a separate file.

Another thing about showing, not telling, is character description. If you read the short story I posted here, I don't give you many details about the characters. Only those that move things along. I don't tell you about Danny's life before this event, other than to mention he worked third shift in a warehouse. I don't give much physical description either. I believe that to do so, comes off as spoon feeding the reader. We all know people that fit this type. If I tell you what Dan looks like, it interferes with what your image of Dan is.

Look at Jennifer. I don't tell you much about her, except she has soft hands, lives in one of the big houses back in the woods, and was wearing running togs when we first meet her. I wanted her to come across as a bit naive and pampered. That adds to the image when she introduces herself as Jennifer, not Jen, not Jenny, but the full, formal name. That brief description of her, ought to bring up an image of a young girl who's lived a pretty protected life. You can fill in the other details as you go along.

Hope this helps. Clean up your writing. Show us, don't tell us. You don't want your work to be confused with a technical manual.

Gathering of Midwest Authors at Bishop Hill, Illinois

Hello folks. Thought I better check in. It's been a long week, and I've fallen short on my blogging duties. Spring is here, and with it comes spring soccer for my daughter, fishing with my son, gardening with my wife, and generally I just get a lot busier. So, I apologize for not getting here sooner.

I was over in Bishop Hill, Illinois today, working on some details for an event that I have been putting on now for three years. Since I follow the Joe Konrath style of self promotion, I will tell you all about it. When I first book, Ghosts of Interstate 80 came out in 2007, I set out to promote and sell as many copies as I could. Never mind that my publisher is a small regional press. My goal was to see out the first run of 500 books in less than a year. I accomplished that. I sold those books in the first six months.

One thing that I heard regularly at signings, besides "How much?" was: It's so nice to have another Midwestern author out here getting published. One of the signings was in Bishop Hill during thier newly established "Clay and Fiber Festival." I sold 14 books in three hours tucked in the corner of a pottery and weaving celebration. Now I realize everyone likes a good ghost story, but two ideas came together at once. First, if I could sell 14 books here in three hours at a pottery fest, how many could I sell if we got a bunch of writers together? The second idea was that since there was a number of writers in the Midwest, from little guys like me to big boys, it shouldn't be to hard to get a number of them together in one spot.

Our first event kicked off in '07, at the VagnHall Galleri in Bishop Hill, and drew in about 300 people in one day. I managed to get 20 authors from Illinois, Iowa, and Kentucky together for the day. We did okay, most people sold a few books, and I realized that this was going to be a pretty good sized annual event.

Another reason that I started this gathering, was that as a writer, I get tired of the coastal attitued: "Aw, isn't it cute that you farmers are trying to write something." We have a lot of talent in the Midwest, and I wanted a venue to allow that talent shine.

In 2008, my second book, a truely regional piece called Ghosts of the Illinois Canal System was released by Quixote Press. I knew I had a following, and wanted to promote this book as well. In '08 we did it again. We had a better group of writers. People such as Sylvia Shults, Larry Santoro, Kim Gordon, Dr. Owen Muelder came and shared their books and thier experiances in the publishing world. We made a few changes last year. The biggest was that went to two days, from noon to five each day. We drew more than 250 people each day that weekend, and everyone sold a lot of books. We met some great people, and had a good gathering.

This year, we have really grown. Not only will a number of people return from last year, but our featured author is going to be none other than Joe Konrath himself. His current book, Afraid, written under the pen name Jack Kilborn, is rocketing up the best seller's list, for good reason. It is an awsome, horrible, greasy, piece of work that will grab you by the throat and not let go until you reach the last page. Konrath will be there both days, from noon to five in the evening.

The event itself will be on the weekend of October 24-25 at the VagnHall Galleri in Bishop Hill, Illinois (www.bishophill.com for more information about the village and their calander of events.) We are also debating about having a couple of workshops for those struggling writers out there, as well as those of you wanting to learn how to research non fiction work.

So, if you are a writer, or just a lover of books, get in touch with me here and I can let you know how you can participate or just come down for the weekend. I will update you on what's going on as time progresses.

Writing Tip #2: Writer's Block

Kind of a misnomer these days. Think I'll call it "creativity block." My brother, who's a webpage desinger and graphic artist tells me there are days he can't think of a damned thing. Artists deal with it as well. We all get stuck at times. This is the first step, jult like a twelve step program. Admitt you're going to go through it at least once in your creative career.

Okay, now that you've admitted that you will deal with creativity block, how do you get through it? I have a friend in my old writing group, that was constantly getting creativity blocked. If she got a page written in a month, she was doing well. She'd get hung up over the smallest details: the time of day, the color of the sky, the season, the color of the guy's shirt, the kind of car. Good god, it wore me out. She had too much to think about, and it got in the way of the story.

Well, let's proceed as if you were well and truely blocked. Your brain hurts, and you can't think of one more word to put down on paper (or screen, for most of us). First of all, get up and walk away. First, save what you have, but walk away. Trey Barker will sit down with his drum kit or guitar and do a little jamming. I'll go walk the dog or work in the garden. Sometimes I'll just ignore the problem and focus on other things for a day or so. The solution generally will come to me when I'm at my folks house working horses, fishing with my kids, sitting in a deer stand, what have you. Have a pen and paper with you (you know, the old kind or word processor that doesn't crash) to write down the idea.

The intent is to get your mind away from pounding the problem into the ground. It frees you up and releases you. Gets your mind off the problem.

Another thing I'll do is work on something else. Writing time in my house precious. I've usually got more than one project going at a given time. Sometimes a piece of non-fiction that actually has a deadline, or the manuscript for a short story needs attention. EDITING COUNTS AS WRITING. Some people blow this off as busy work, but it is vital to your writing or creating. My brother goes through old computer files and cleans up ones that he can use for another project, or delets those that are no longer relevant. Spend time on another project, and go back to your main work with a fresh outlook. Usually you'll be able to jump back in and get the creative flow going again.

The piece of advice I gave to my friend mentioned at the beginning of this tip, don't sweat every single detail. Just use what you need to advance the story, throw the rest away. People don't need to know that the heroine bought the shirt on sale at a closeout, and was never happy with it but it was cheap.

Hope this helps.

Writing Tip #1

Lets cover the first thing we all hear, first time we try to write something: Write what you know.

Now, this is good information, and a good start for your junior high composition project. It works well. It gets you familiar with putting your thoughts together in a way that isn't daunting. the problem is, what do we do when we want to get beyond what we know? If we're honest, most of us lead pretty boring lives. What to do then? At that point, you start doing research.

When I went to WIU, I was a History Education Major, a Biology Education minor, and I wrote for the school paper. I learned how to do research. There are huge quantities of legitmate material and facts out there. Millions of sources on the internet alone. You don't have to become an expert in a give field, just enough to fill in details of your charectors lives, or the plot of the book. If you want to do a story about dog grooming in outer space, first you need to know about how the pro groomers do it. There are probably a number of them in your town. Talk to them first hand on a day they're slow. First thing is to explain why you need the info, and pick their brains about it. You may even be able to find out thier thoughts of grooming in space. Would zero gravety affect the dog? Where would the loose hair go? They probably have never thought of it before, but you'd probably get some gems for your story.

A second hand example. A friend of mine knew the county coroner of a small downstate county. he was writing a pretty vicious crime story, and needed to know the affects of a washing machine on a severed head. He was able to procure such an item, and with the coroner's supervision, ran the head through a wash cycled on an industrial washer. The results weren't pretty, but it gave the story an authentcity it wouldn't have had any other way.

Do you need to stuff a head in a washing machine? Probably not, but there are experts in your area that often would love to talk about their jobs. Police have great insights not only into their world, but criminal minds as well. One of the girls I dated in high school had a narc cop for a father. He had some great stories, and in hindsight, I wished I'd written some down.

One important thing to remember, don't just show up unannounced. Call and make an appointment to talk to someone. Explain what you're looking for, and have questions ready ahead of time. I back up my notebook with a small recorder. It's an old reporter's habit, but a good one to get into.

If you don't have a lot of access to the internet, or need something unusual there isn't a lot of data on, you can still do research with hard copies. Go to the library, and go through the books. County courthouses are great for facts of births, deaths, marriages and property. In Illinois, Platt books are on record in courthouses. It shows property ownership in a give year, and the layout of the property. It also if accompained by a picture of the home. I'm talking 1800's here, early 1900's. If you want to know what an old Victorian house looked like in its glory days, that's a great way to find out.

The whole point of this? Do your research. Not many of us live exciting lives filled with adventure. Barry Eisler was a CIA spook. His experiance give his books great nuance. Trey Barker is a county deputy. His work has a lot of detail you don't find elsewere. We can't all live lives like that, but we can talk to other people who do, or find the stories they've left behind.

Good writing.

Short Story, Un-Life in a Small Town

Hello, and welcome to my first twisted short story, at least the first I'll post here. I've written a lot of short stories, but for some reason, I seem to be on a Zombie kick lately. This is the first in a series that I'm working on. I only planned on three stories, but Danny, Jen, Kenny, Pepper, and the group have grown on me, and I'm up to six right now. The name of the town, Snareville, takes its name from a cemetery in Stark County, Illinois. It actually used to be a town, but time and main roads passed it by. Now, there are only a few houses there, but one huge cemetery, dating back into the middle 1800's. I thought I'd revive the name for the town, much like the one I live in, for my stories. Besides, no one can sue me for libel. Enjoy. Right now, I'm off to grill some raw meat.


Un-Life in Small Town
By
David M. Youngquist


We ignored the stories at first. It didn’t have much to do with us, clear out here in the sticks. Small towns are that way. Unless it affected someone we knew, or our own family, it wasn’t really news. The hemorrhagic fever was bad. We wondered how it got here. How it got loose. Then military nuked Macomb. Ten days later, Champaign was turned into a glowing hole. That got everyone’s attention. Some of us lost family there. Government said they didn’t have a choice. It was a terrorist attack. We couldn’t believe there were actually zombies out roaming around. Until one showed up in town.
Jake Prichard did a lot of business up in the Quad Cities since he was in agribusiness. He was gone on an overnighter up by Milan, came home sick. His wife Tami said he was throwing up blood, when he wasn’t shitting it out. She tried to get him to the hospital, but he wouldn’t go. She called an ambulance, but he was dead before it got there. Crew showed up, saw all the blood, and geared out in their hazmat suits. First time they ever had to use it.
As the EMT’s loaded Jake up on a rolling gurney, he snapped awake. At least they thought he was awake. He just woke up growling, snapping, and snarling. Katy, one of the crew tried to calm him down and take his vitals. Jake just bit a hunk right out of her face. She jumped back with a scream while he chewed the meat and reached for more.
That’s when Denny strapped him down. He threw a belt over Jake’s chest and snugged it tight. Now they had a hungry zombie on the stretcher, a wounded EMT, and a crowd standing outside trying to figure out what was going on. Denny started pumping Katy full of whatever he thought would clean out her system and keep her from getting sick. It might have worked if Jake hadn’t wiggled free and chewed a chunk out of Denny’s throat.
Denny went down, flopped like a stranded carp, and died. The house quickly emptied. Katy and Tami first with Jake close behind. Denny staggered to his feet, and joined the chase. Outside the crowd scattered. Old Bill Terrance wasn’t fast enough though. He was damned near seventy, and gimpy from working on the railroad. Jake and Denny jumped the old man, ate their fill, and went looking for more.
We don’t have a full time cop here in Snareville. Not big enough, so we share an officer with Buda. It wasn’t our day to have him on duty. What we do have though, is more guns than people. Kenny Roberts was the one who took things in hand. He did two tours in Vietnam, and never was quite right when he came home. Not spooky crazy, but just a little off. He was one hell of a shot though. He told us later he’d been watching the news, and wasn’t a bit surprised what was going on. Blamed it on the government though, not terrorists. Not that it means shit anymore. Everything happened just the same. Kenny came out of his house with one of the old military guns he has. Saw Jake running down the street covered in blood, and put a bullet through his brain. The shot dropped Jake on the run.
Denny turned and came at him, so Ken dropped him too. Katy was standing in the street throwing up blood, and another bullet put her down. Three shots: three fucking kills. It amazes me to this day.
People were pissed that he’d shot Katy. Kenny asked if they’d rather have her running around chomping people. That kind of shut them up. A couple more vets came up, guns under their arms. Those of us that were there were sent home to get our own guns, and come back to the post office on the square. I went home and got my AR-15. I shoot competition in the summer. Or I did. Before. . . .
Well, we came back, and there were a dozen vets now, from various times. Some were from Vietnam. Some were from Korea. Some were from the Gulf. I grew up between gulf wars, but my dad was a vet. He served after Vietnam. First thing we did was quarantine the bodies. We found a place by the sewage plant. Someone got the village truck to haul them out. We dug a hole with the backhoe the city kept there, and covered them with lye.
It took a couple hours. By then, people started to get home from work. Busses came in from school. Only reason I was home is I worked third shift. It wasn’t time for me to go to work. Didn’t figure I should go in after what happened. Town was filling up though. We started to block roads. Snareville is a small place. Only eight hundred people live here, but we have bigger towns a few miles away. We’ve got a creek and a canal to the north that separates us from Princeton. Roads cross in two places. We parked pickups crossways at the mouth of the bridges, and people manned them with guns.
We did the same on the other roads. Al Capone ran booze through this town because the cops could never catch him. There’s seven ways out of town. Cops could never cover them all. They’d still have a tough time doing it. All of this freaked a lot of folks out, but it suddenly hit home that this was serious. We didn’t know how long it would take for things to get out of hand. We didn’t know if the government was going to step in. We didn’t know anything. Kenny called the county sheriff’s office. They were less than useless. They couldn’t tell us anything either. They did threaten to take our guns away though. Kenny told them they could try, but we already had about a hundred people on patrol. They decided they had bigger problems to worry about. We found out later that Princeton already had Zeds wandering through town. Two cops were infected. Armed zombies are not a good thing.
Kenny and the other vets organized us into round the clock patrols. They gave me command of a squad of five people. We were to patrol the north edge of town, on our side of the creek. Anything that looked infected or dead we were to put it down. It was a two mile hike from one road to the next. Timber grew thick along the creek. We didn’t find anything on our side the first day. Or on the second. We’re a little off the beaten path. You actually have to be going to Snareville to get there. We don’t have any through roads, so I think that kind of slowed the zeds down. They couldn’t find us.
Not that we didn’t have a few infected pop up in town. Tami was the first. She got the virus when she took care of Jake. Kenny quarantined her at the school. She started to get sick, same as her husband and the others He asked for volunteers to execute her before she turned. No one volunteered, so he walked her out behind the building. I could hear her as she cried, so I peeked around the corner of the school. She calmed some, and started to pray. As she finished, she seemed to vomit half the blood in her body. Kenny put a bullet through her brain. We put her in the pit with her husband and the others.
Two more staggered down main street the third morning. It was couple of teenagers who were dating in high school. One must have been sick, and passed it to the other. They saw Ted Gibson and took off after him. Their lips were gone. Who chewed off whose, we never knew. They chased Ted down main street, snarling and snapping. Blood and some kind of black ooze ran out their mouths. They ran past the convenience store parking lot. All the retired farmers stood there, coffee in one hand, bird guns in the other. One of them dropped his mug when Ted ran by, grabbed his gun and dumped the boy in a heap. It was a lucky shot. Just a few pellets of shot scrambled the kid’s brain. The girl turned on them. Five or six blasts of birdshot didn’t slow her much. Then one of them adjusted his aim, and blew her skull off.
Killing wasn’t easy. Like I said, we’re a small town. Even if we didn’t know a person by name, we knew them by sight. We managed the best we could. We dealt with death in different ways. Some drank. Some withdrew. Some threw themselves into building up town defenses.
There was a heavy equipment operator just outside town. We pulled his tractors into town and used them to block the bridges. We had a tree surgeon in town too, and we used his bucket trucks as spotting platforms. A trucking service called Snareville home as well, but we held his semis in reserve. Through the first week, the people in town who were infected ended up in the pit out by the sewage plant. We figure the lye killed any virus that was in the blood. Names were inscribed on a bulletin board in the town center we used to post notices.
On the tenth day, we lost power. We’re on a co-op out here, so our power didn’t come from a big company. A few cities along the river went together to put up a hydro-electric plant. It had always been reliable, but we figured that there just wasn’t anyone there to man the plant. There was only one TV station out of Peoria who still broadcast at that point, and the news was the same all over. The only help it was was to notify folks where the safe areas were. We were too far from the nearest center, so we decided to hunker down where we were. City water was out without power, but there were enough people on the edge of town who had wells, so we were okay.
It was fifteen days into it when I was on patrol along the canal. Bill Henderson and me as well as the rest of my crew walked along one of the locks when we saw her. She was a young gal, somewhere in her twenties. She had long black hair and wore a pair of those multi-colored bicycle shorts and a grey sports bra. She was drenched in sweat, mud, and blood. I put my rifle up, but she screamed for help right then. I knew she wasn’t infected. Zombies ain’t the most talkative bunch. About fifty yards back though a pack of Zeds ran after her.
I hollered at her to get across the little foot bridge that went over the lock. The Zeds started to gain on her, so I started popping rounds. Bill joined in with his Min-14. My whole crew uses rifles that use the same round as mine, so we could keep each other supplied with ammo. Black blood blossomed out of the bodies as they got closer. There must have been a couple hundred of them in that pack, some on our side of the canal too. She tumbled into my arms. I lost my shot, and the Zeds got closer.
“We have to go!” Bill shouted.
“No shit,” I said back. “Can you make it a little further?” I asked the girl as I picked her up off the ground.
She gasped and nodded. We took off for the barricade on the road a half mile up. We waved our guns as soon as we could see the guys on the barricade. I saw one of them run towards town. I figured he went for backup. I didn’t bother to look behind us. We dove behind the trucks about a hundred yards ahead of the Zeds. Seven of us opened up on the moldy bastards. Rotted flesh and blood flew in the air. It splattered all over the ones who came up behind. The shit splattered all over the trees and the white gravel on the bike path.
Sure as hell, they don’t go down with body shots. They barely slowed down. We found out later that the older the corpse, the slower they moved, but these were all pretty fresh deaders. We sent the girl back to the next barricade. It was only fifty yards behind us. We couldn’t slow the swarm much, so two guys buttoned up in the big five ton truck, and the rest of us fell back to the second bridge.
We put down some fire then. Ten of us with some pretty heavy caliber guns. We calmed down enough to take head shots. Even then, we had twenty laid ten yards off our guns. Some of them fell into the creek, and got swept away. Three got into our lines, and tackled some of our guys. Bill had one about to take a chunk out of his throat when I stuck the muzzle of my rifle in the deader’s ear and splattered him. He went over the side and down to the Illinois River. It was over then. We looked down the road. From one bridge to the next, it was paved with corpses.
Some folks came up then. They went round and put bullets through the skulls of the Zeds that still moved. Those we dropped along the canal went into the water for the drift downstream. I passed Jack in a bucket tractor as I walked the girl back into town. The group at the barricades loaded the corpses, took them out into a little pasture beside the creek and threw them into a pile. They covered them with a bunch of driftwood, topped it off with five gallons of diesel fuel from the trucking company, and lit them up. Greasy black smoke rose up in a thick column.
“What’s your name?” I asked the girl as we walked into town.
“Jennifer,” she answered. “I live up in the house a couple miles back along the canal. Or did. . . . What’s yours?”
“Name’s Dan.” I held out my hand. She took it in hers. They were small, soft. Not the hands of a girl that worked in a factory. “No offense, Jennifer, but are you nuts?”
“I didn’t figure any of those things would find me. I wasn’t worried about it. I figured the government would take care of it.”
“Didn’t you figure something was wrong when you lost power?”
“We’ve got a backup generator. Rick made us get one after that ice storm when we were out for a week.”
“Ah. And is there anything on the TV?”
She sniffed and looked away. “To tell the truth, we never watched much TV. Rick was gone on business a lot and I have a garden. And I have my horses. I wasn’t in the house much.”
Great, a rich girl who doesn’t like to hang around us paupers.
“Where’s your husband?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in about ten days. He called me from Chicago and said he was having trouble getting out of town. All the roads were blocked and the trains weren’t running. That was the last I heard from him.”
I looked at her. She was all scratched up. Near to crying, but I didn’t see any major wounds on her. At least she didn’t look like she’d been bit or anything. “So you just decided to go jogging this morning?”
“Look. I’m human okay? I was going stir crazy in that house by myself. I didn’t figure I’d run into any of those. . . those, things.”
“Where’d they come from? How’d they get on our side of the canal?”
“They were east of me when I saw them. From down near the highway I guess. I don’t know how they got on this side of the canal. Probably same way I did.”
Damn. We hadn’t thought of that. We had some bridges to blow. Until then, I took Jennifer into town. Kenny talked to her some, then sent her to quarantine with some of the women. We changed the quarantine area to the old high school. At this time, there were only two rooms in use. Some people made it home from out of town. So far, no one developed symptoms. The girls gave Jennifer a bath, cleaned her cuts, and gave her a room of her own with clean clothes. I went back to the bridges to help out.
####
We’d done a hell of a job out there between the bridges. One hundred and seventy eight deaders sent to the burn pile. Jack dug a deep hole in that cornfield, and shoved in anything left. When he covered it, I wondered if it would grow a crop again.
We didn’t realize until we talked to Kenny in his after action report that there were going to be issues real fast. Even with decent shooters on the line, we burned up nearly five hundred rounds of ammo. There wasn’t much in uniformity among us with guns. Everyone in my squad had a rifle that fired the 5.56 NATO round, but we were the exception. We had a mix mash of guns. There was everything from Garands to AK-47s to SKSs to shotguns. The Soviet rifles interchanged ammo, no problem. Biggest problem was how to keep everything fed. Some of the guys had battle packs. I had a couple, plus reloaded ammo to use on coyotes. But we weren’t an armory. We couldn’t survive a sustained zed attack if they swarmed us bigger than they did today.
“I might have a solution,” I told Kenny.
“I’m open. Let’s hear it.”
“There’re three gun manufacturers within sixty miles of us. Two are in the same city.”
“You think they’re just going to supply us?”
“I think the buildings are probably sitting empty. I figure they’re in the same boat as everyone else, and I don’t reckon anyone’s showed up to work in a few days.”
“You don’t think the looters have hit the places yet?”
“I don’t know about the one. It’s pretty public. The other, I had a buddy that worked at. He’s the one that built my rifle and tweeked it out. His shop just looks like a bunch of brown buildings. You have to know Geneseo and know what you’re looking for.”
“Okay. Figure something out.”
For the next three days, we made plans how to get to Geneseo and back with the supplies. We would go after ammo for sure, guns if there were any in the warehouse. We also went and disassembled all the foot bridged over the canal from us to the river. It was hairy. We took quad runners and hand tools. Three people stood guard while two people tore the bridge apart. All we needed to do was pull the wood floor, so it usually only took a few turns with a wrench to take care of it.
The closer we got to the state road though, the more zeds we started to see. At the landing just off the highway, three folks shot almost the entire time we tore the floor up. We decided the one closest to the river we didn’t need to bother with, as anything could cross the highway bridge. We figured we might need to blow that eventually. Fifty deaders got tossed into the river that day. We washed off in the canal up stream where we threw them in. I didn’t want to leave much in the way of clues for any other zeds to follow.
I visited Jennifer after every run. She hated to be locked in the classroom she was in. Just hated to be locked up I guess. Couldn’t blame her, but every time I talked to her it took my mind off the missions, and helped me unwind. We talked about nothing mostly. It was just two people getting to know one another. Her husband, Rick, was a lot older. He had been a teacher at the college she went to. She was twenty five, same as me, Rick was forty. After they got together, he left teaching and started his own software company. That’s why he was gone all the time.
Me, I lived in Snareville because it was cheap. I could by a house there cheaper than I could rent in Princeton. Told her I had some school, but not much. It helped at work. I was off the floor, or was, and I didn’t have to fill orders all day. Broke up with my girlfriend a few months ago, and since I was on third shift, it was hard to meet anyone new. Easier to just go to a strip joint and get a look, than it was to find someone.
I put off the trip to Geneseo for five days. Then they let Jennifer out of quarantine.
“I want to go with you,” She said.
We walked down main street toward the trucking company. A rig idled, ready to go. “Why?” I asked.
“I’ve been cooped up here for a week. Before that, I was cooped up at home for a couple weeks. I want to get out, Dan.”
I looked at her. “Can you shoot?”
She glanced away. “A little. Not much with a rifle like yours.”
“Okay, we’ll get you a shotgun and a box of shells.”
She smiled at me, and I guess I must have lit up pretty good. “I don’t want to have to baby sit you. Make sure you do as you’re told, and pull your weight.”
She saluted and gave me a mock serious look. “Yes, Sir,” she said.

#####

We rolled past the barricade north of town. Once over the creek, we were on our own. The road we needed was right at the base of the canal. The guys on guard duty at the canal bridge waved at us as we made the turn and headed into the countryside. A mile up the road, we came to the second creek roadblock. It sucked manning all these barricades, but we didn’t want to blow them unless it was a last resort.
I checked the rearview, and caught just the back edge of a white truck bed behind the trailer. I keyed the two-way radio.
“You boys keep tight on us. We’re not stopping until we get to the plant.”
“Hey, you don’t have all boys on your crew, Boss.”
In the cab of the semi, we grinned. “Yeah, Chrissi, I got one of you girls up here too. Don’t get your hair tangled up in the gun.”
“Funny.”
“Just watch the taillights for turns and brakes. We don’t want to get stranded.”
“No shit.”
That was Bill. Jeff Rissati was driving the rig. We had Bill and the rest of my team in a crew cab pickup behind us. We didn’t know what we’d run into, but we wanted to be ready. Guns were stoked. Magazines were loaded. Everyone had a rifle, except Jennifer. She sat behind me in the sleeper, butt of a shotgun between her feet. One of the guys in town volunteered his turkey gun. It was shorter than other bird guns. Fit her better. We dumped the plug out, and stoked it up with six buckshot shells. After those first six, she was down to birdshot. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
We buzzed down the back roads with no problem. We passed silent farms. No one was in the farmyards that I could see. No one was between the barns, no tractors in the fields. We slowed a couple times to let cattle or hogs cross the road in front of us. Didn’t know if they had gotten out on their own, or someone had let them out. It was eerie.
In Buda we saw the first signs of the insanity that still swept across the country. Several cars were stuck into the sides of buildings. A few caught fire, and burnt both the car and the structure. We eased through the two-block business district. Corpses stuck out through windows, skulls shattered as the deaders went for the tasty parts. There were a couple bodies in the road. Someone ran them over on the way out of town. They thumped under our wheels as we mashed them down a little further.
Jeff turned us out onto the state road. Buda is a tiny town. The only thing keeps it alive is the main connecting road between Peoria and points north. They’ve got a little tavern, a library and a convenient store with gas pumps. That’s it. It’s just a bunch of houses otherwise. It wasn’t much before. Now it was nothing.
“Hey, Dan.” Bill’s voice came over the radio.
“Yeah, Bill?”
“You boys might want to get moving. We got a group of deaders comin’ up behind us.”
I looked in the rearview. A block back, a small swarm of zeds followed the trucks. I glanced over at Jeff.
“I’m on it,” Rissati said. He put his foot in the throttle. The rig growled forward as the diesel came to life. Within a quarter mile, we left the zeds behind.
At the main intersection of two state roads, there was a mess. Cars were piled up at the intersection. Three crashed, backed up a dozen others. No one was in the cars, except a couple ripe corpses belted into the wrecks. Looked like folks left on foot.
We checked the vehicles. Everything had keys. Jeff and Bill stayed behind the wheels as the rest of us started them and backed vehicles off the road. Pretty soon, we had them all lined up in the ditch. I decided to leave them where they could be gotten at easy. Most had a half tank of gas. A tank on one of the pickups was full. I debated on taking it, but decided we didn’t need to get strung out further.
The three wrecked in the intersection were a problem. One had a body that hung half way out a door. She was an older woman. Apparently she blew the intersection and t-boned a pickup. Someone opened the door, and she fell out. Deaders must have found her, ‘cause she had a lot of meat missing. We dropped the smashed pickup into neutral, and shoved it into the ditch. Her car was locked in gear. We’d fired up one of the beater cars, swung it out of the ditch, and shoved the wreck out of the way with it. We left her body where it was.
I saw Jennifer walk up on the third car. It was hung up on a busted stop sign. There was a woman behind the wheel. This one was younger. She looked to be in her twenties. Jen had the shotgun in her hands.
“Dan, this one’s still alive.” I could hear the tears in her voice. “We have to help.”
I walked up beside Jen. The woman in the car beat her head against the glass. Her eyes were white, opaque. No soul in there. It was an older car. They must have had a bumper jack in the back window. When she slammed into the back of the old woman’s car and went spinning, it came out of the window and impaled her through the seat. I didn’t know if she was infected before or after the wreck, but she was a deader now. She pounded her head against the window again, as she tried to get at us.
“We have to move that car.” I said. “It can’t be done with her tryin’ to get us.”
“Can’t we just leave her in it?”
“Not like that,” Chrissi said. “We have to get at the wheel.”
Jennifer raised the shotgun. The girl snapped her bloody jaws. With a little sob, she pulled the trigger. Buckshot blasted through the window and filled the car with a black mist. The deader flopped over to the side.
As I reached in through the shattered glass for the shifter, I glanced into the back seat. “Shit,” I whispered. I dropped the car in neutral.
“What?” Jen asked.
“Nothing.” I pulled out of the car, and signaled for Tom to push it out of the way. I turned to Jennifer. “Don’t look in the back.” I told her.
“Why?”
The image of the dead toddler flashed into my head. At least his death was quick. The tire iron brained him and shattered his little skull. It ended up in the car seat with him. Flies crawled across his little face. “You don’t want to know,” I told her.
“Oh.” She turned, and mounted the step to the semi as Jeff brought it up. Everyone climbed into their vehicles as we moved through the intersection. Another mile and we rolled onto Interstate 80.
It was forty five miles to Geneseo from Snareville. We were more than half-way there. We headed west. I’ve never seen that road so quiet. We were the only ones on it that were mobile. We’d pass a car now and then that was in the ditch. Others stuck in the median where some idiot tried to turn around. We saw a yellow and white state trooper squad plastered to the supports of an overpass. Intentional or not, he’d been headed east pretty fast. I didn’t look inside as we passed. The trooper was either zombie chow or a greasy spot on the column. Either way, I didn’t want to see.
I’ve heard the rural areas of this country called the “American Outback.” It’s appropriate. What urban people don’t understand about being out in the sticks is that you can travel for miles without coming across another town. More people have moved to town, than live on the farm. So unless you get into an urban area, you’re not going to find a lot of people. It’s one reason there’s not a lot of traffic, even on a normal day. You can buzz down I-80 pretty fast, until you get into Chicago or the Quad Cities.
Geneseo is one of those decent sized little towns. Jeff geared down as we turned onto the ramp to go into town. Half way down, he stopped.
“How many people lived in this town, Dan?”
“Little over four thousand. How many you think are still here?” I said.
“Dead and chompin’, or alive and hidin’?”
“Both.”
“Don’t know, man, but we gotta do this. There another way to do it?” Jeff asked.
“Only if we go all the way around town and circle back. Adds about twenty miles. I want to save some fuel.” I said.
“Alright, lets do this.” Jeff gave me a weak smile.
“Just drive around what you can, and don’t stop for anything.”
Jeff took his foot off the brake, and we rolled forward. We didn’t bother to stop for signs. It was easy going at first. On the edge of town, businesses catered to interstate traffic. They were modern buildings of eateries, gas stations and video stores. No traffic, of course, and very few cars in lots or along the road. There’s a lot of state and county roads that come into Geneseo, and it was a thriving community before all this happened. We didn’t come across any choked areas until we got closer to the residential sections.
As we got closer to a clot of cars stuck in the road, Jeff slowed. It was another wreck. We stopped a couple truck lengths behind the mess. Looked like it was about a half block long, and involved all directions of a main intersection. Matter of fact, it was the intersection we needed to turn left at. Damn.
I keyed the radio. “Bill, you back there?”
“Yeah, Boss.”
“We gotta check this out. We’re goin’ have to find a way around. You stay behind the wheel. Keep it running. Jeff’s going to do the same up here. Chrissi, John, hop out and help cover.”
I checked all directions. So far so good. No deaders. Maybe we got lucky and they all left. Right. I popped the door on the rig. “Jeff, you keep this thing runnin’. Lock your door. We come back running, you be ready.”
Jeff nodded. I could feel the flop sweat roll down my back. It prickled like a million ants. “Let’s go, Jennifer.” She had hold of that shotgun hard enough to strangle it. We hopped out of the cab. John and Chrissi slid silently down the side of the trailer. I held my finger over my lips for silence. We’d worked out a system for hand signals a week ago. Now, I stepped around the front of the truck.
My crew knew their jobs. Rifles at half-port, we quick stepped through the yards. I didn’t want to get up against a house, and have a door pop open with a surprise. Jennifer was the only unknown factor. She could handle the shotgun, but she’d never been in a fight before. I didn’t want her to get killed, but she had to pull her weight.
We got to the last yard before the intersection. The ground was solid. Hopefully it was solid enough to support the semi. Maybe we should have brought a bunch of pickups. Less weight, but I wanted to get as much as I could in one trip.
We stood in front of the house. I hadn’t rounded the corner. One last breath, and we stepped into the west yard. The pileup went on for almost a whole block, but there was room to get the rig back on the road. I started to relax, until Jennifer’s shotgun boomed. I swiveled my attention to her. She pumped the gun, and fired another round. From the north came a swarm of zeds. John started to light his up, then Chrissi fired to the east. We were about to be surrounded. Most of them were fast movers too. I cranked up my rifle. I watched the head in my sights explode, and moved on to the next.
“Back to the trucks!” I shouted.
We fell back in order. We were a small cluster with controlled fire. One came running at us. It was a young guy, in his teens, missing an arm. He got past the rifles. Jen dumped him at our feet with a shotgun blast.
“I’m out,” she said. It was a simple statement. No panic in her voice. I turned to look at her. Her brown eyes darted around us. I wasn’t about to let her die.
“Go!” I barked the order. We turned and ran to the trucks. It was only a few feet now. I snagged the door on the rig, flung Jennifer inside, and jumped in behind her. I slammed it and hammed the lock. Jeff looked at me, eyes wild. We’d stood down some small swarms before, but that was with the entire group.
“Around to the left,” I said. Zeds were all around us now. “Go to the left, turn the corner and hit pavement.”
“What about these things?”
“What about ‘em? Drive over the top of ‘em. Just don’t let Bill get cut off.”
“Right.” Jeff pulled his foot off the brake, and gave the beast some throttle. He eased across the street, and over the curb. I heard Jennifer behind me slide shells into the shotgun. She pumped the action, and stuffed in another. Ready.
Jeff cussed as we got onto grass. The truck started to sink, but he feathered the throttle and it moved. I heard shots behind us, and figured it was John and Chrissi as they cleared a path. Jeff plowed through the swarm. We could feel the thumps as the wheels rolled over them. They started to climb onto our truck. They banged on the windows, grabbed the mirrors. Jeff picked up speed, as much as he could, and we rounded the corner of the yard. Some of the more rotted deaders splattered against the grill. Jeff smiled, shouted, and gave it more gas as he aimed for the open road. He cranked the wheel, and the zed on his side lots its grip. It fell off, and we ground it under the wheels of the rig.
He picked up speed as he rolled through the yards. We were at twenty miles an hour by the time he jumped over the curb back onto pavement. Then he really gave it throttle. A deader still hung on my side of the rig with the mirror and door handle.
“Get that fucker off us!” Jeff shouted.
The zed licked the glass with his rotten tongue. He left a smear of black slime behind as he snarled at us.
“I don’t want to break the window. We’ll just let more in that way.”
The muzzle of Jennifer’s shotgun poked past my face. “You crank, I’ll shoot ‘im.”
“Right.” I ducked down, grabbed the window crank, and lowered the glass. I got about four inches down, and the shotgun boomed. The zed’s body went limp, and he fell onto the sidewalk. “God, they stink,” I said as I rolled the window up. Jeff turned on the air conditioner. That helped, a little.
In the mirror, I could see Bill’s pickup. We gained speed now. Didn’t drive through town at sixty very often, but we did today. A couple of zeds still hung onto his truck. He whipped the wheel, first one direction, then the other. The last one fell off and rolled like a rag doll along the pavement.
“That it?” Jeff pointed at a building with a sign out front. A shooter held his line of sight on a distant target. They made good guns there. Rifles and pistols both. An office window was busted in, the front door open. Someone beat us to it.
“No, not this one. Keep going.”
Three miles further down, a small Mormon church stood on the corner of an unmarked city street. Down this street was the main industrial area of Geneseo. We turned in there. A cluster of brown and grey buildings took up the second block. We pulled in, and Jeff back toward the dock. I told him to wait, as I didn’t know which door we’d use. Bill pulled in beside us. The building looked tight. I didn’t see any broken doors or windows. We waited some more. No deaders.
I popped the door and stepped out. Jen followed. I told Jeff to back in when he saw a dock door go up. Not to leave the truck, and keep his rifle handy. Chrissi met me beside the truck. There were tears in her eyes as she handed me her rifle.
“What’s this for?” I asked. Neither Bill or John would answer as they walked up. “What’s going on?” I looked at Chrissi. She had a bloody bite mark on her neck. They had tried to stop the bleeding, but fresh red blood still pumped from the wound.
“Deader broke out the back window, Boss. I blew its head off, but it got Chrissi first.”
“Chrissi. . . .”
“Dan, I can’t be one of them. You have to do it.”
“I can’t. . . Chrissi, don’t make me do this.” I felt tears start up in my eyes. I’d known Chrissi nearly six years. We’d dated for awhile when I first moved to town. We’d made love wrapped up in a sleeping bag.
“I’m Catholic, Dan. Not a real good one, but suicide is a straight ticket to hell. It’s already close enough here. I don’t want it in the afterlife. I can already feel that junk in my system. Come on.”
She walked away toward the front of the building. Around the corner, under a big maple tree, she kneeled in the soft spring grass. She looked out over the cornfields, bowed her head, and started to pray. She whispered for a few minutes, as she made her peace. Tears streamed down her eyes. I felt a few run down my face. My hands shook. I could feel them tremble on the grip of the rifle. Chrissi crossed herself, and opened her eyes. “Sure is a pretty day,” she said. “You’re a good man, Dan. I’m ready.”
I brought the gun up. The muzzle was only a foot from her temple. A shot, and death would be instant. My hands shook. The damned sight danced around. I couldn’t breath. Chrissi started to hum. A little tune I’d heard in church as a kid. First song I’d ever learned Jesus Loves Me. . . . I started to hum along. The rifle fired. The sound shattered the morning. I turned and walked back to the trucks.
They all stood around, staring hard at the gravel parking lot. Jennifer dragged the tow of her boot through the limestone dust. No one looked at me.
“Next time we go out, these trucks have armor over the windows. I don’t want to have to do this again.” I looked at my crew. “We came here to supply. Let’s get it done.”
Bill and Jeff stayed with the trucks as we headed inside. The windows were barred here, and the doors were steel. Locked with deadbolts and door handle locks. We walked around to the employee entrance. It was locked too, but the door was barred glass. I busted it out with the butt of my gun, reached inside and turned the lock. No electricity no alarms. We passed through a second door inside the same way. Then we were in.
At the end of the manufacturing line, were racks of rifles. The racks themselves were labeled model and caliber. I knew how their system worked. Those guns at the end of the line hadn’t been test fired. Off to the south was the loading dock. We walked out there, and found pallets of boxed rifles. Again, the pallets were marked with the make and caliber. We wanted two types of rifle, in two calibers. I rolled open a dock door, and signaled for Jeff to back up. Bill locked the trailer in, and chocked the wheels so it wouldn’t go anywhere, Jennifer marked the pallets we wanted. Back in one corner, we found a pallet of pistols; we marked them too.
I jumped on a fork lift. That’s what I do at work, I load trailers. In fifteen minutes, I had five pallets of rifles loaded, along with the pistols. Bill found a pallet of the big fifty caliber rifles, and passed three out to John to put in the pickup. The trailer was still mostly empty, so we unlocked it from the dock. We hopped out and I pulled the door down. Jeff followed me around back. In a large grey building, there were two more dock doors. I told them both to back in.
It took a little more doing, but we found a way in through a side window. There, stacked floor to ceiling were pallets of ammunition. We took everything we could load on the two trucks. Pistol and fifty cal ammo went on the pickup, feed for the rifles went in the trailer. Two pallets of magazines for the guns went into the trailer as well. It wasn’t everything in the warehouse, but it was everything we needed. We pulled away from the docks, buttoned up the trailer, and headed out of the drive.
Zeds found us already. We were out there no more than an hour, and the bastards stumbled down the road at us.
“I’m not goin’ back through town, Boss.” Jeff said. We sat in the drive and watched them come. Bill popped rounds. I watched the deaders go down. I was glad Chrissi wouldn’t be among them.
“Turn left out of the drive,” I told Jeff. “We’ll make the twenty miles extra.”
That we did. As fast as the rigs would go loaded down. We stopped at the intersection outside Buda, and grabbed the extra pickup. By the time we got home, we were exhausted. The adrenaline had run through our bodies. We were wrung out. It was all Jeff could do to back the rig into a small warehouse. We watched as the rest of the group unloaded the trucks and buttoned up tight. We made it home.
I walked to my pickup, dug the keys out of my pocket and climbed in. Jennifer climbed into the cab opposite. She didn’t say a word, just rode with me to my place. We washed in a bucket of room temp water I had in the bathroom, and collapsed into bed together.
“I ever get bit, do the same for me as you did for Chrissi.”
“Okay.”
It was the last thing I remember before we fell asleep.