Another Zombie Apocalypse

[NicTei]

You know the drill:  a virulent plague turns humanity into mindless, flesh-eating monsters, and the survivors have to try and stay alive.  But this isn't just any zombie apocalypse; this is Another Zombie Apocalypse.

Full survival team included; some assembly required.

~~ Table of Contents - Chapters ~~
Click on the blue text to be taken to the chapter/Extra.

Prologue:  There Goes the Neighborhood...
Chapter 1 - Lonely
Chapter 2 - Alma
Chapter 3 - Drifters
Chapter 4 - Momma Dearest
Chapter 5 - Peek-A-Boo
Chapter 6 - The Hunters
Chapter 7 - Water
Chapter 8 - Don't Let the Bedzombies Bite
Chapter 9 - No Rest for the Wicked
Chapter 10 - Andy's Dead!
Chapter 11 - The New New Jersey
Chapter 12 - Office Life
Chapter 13 - (Un)Fortunate Lifestyle Choices
Chapter 14 - Ninjas Versus Kindergarteners
Chapter 15 - This Ain't A Scene
Chapter 16 - Party Crashers
Chapter 17 - Back on Track
Chapter 18 - Goldenrod
Chapter 19 - Arcadian Nights
Chapter 20 - The End of the Road
Chapter 21 - A Crack in the Dam
Chapter 22 - Urban Legends
Chapter 23 - Calling in the Cavalry
Chapter 24 - Underground
Chapter 25 - Zombie en Flambe
Epilogue - On to the Next

~~ Table of Contents - Extras ~~
Interview:  Dan Manson
Interview:  Howie the Zombie
Interview:  Zeke
Extra Chapter:  11.1

[NicTei]

   The plan was relatively simple.  Emmanuel would take Punk’s pistol and use the stairs to travel between the levels of the department store complex.  Dan had originally suggested the elevator, but Alma had been the one to point out that any guards would see the numbers changing, and the chime could be heard through the entire floor if no one was making any noise.  Thus, the stairs were the only stealthy option.

   Once he found the weapons, he’d come back and retrieve Charity and Punk, leaving Hunter to guard the rest of the Drifters in case they were discovered, or DuBois paid them a surprise visit.  He had no gun, but the large combat knife was still attached to his thigh; he was far from helpless.  Behind him, Punk was already tossing his Bowie knife into the air, catching the handle carefully each time.  Alma had broken a leg off of one of the unused wood chairs in the corner of the room and was swinging it around, with Dan watching her absentmindedly

“Just leave the AKs,” Hunter was ordering Emmanuel.  “Bring back my gun for me and let Charity and Punk grab their weapons and Alma’s gun, but don’t bring anything else.”

“Why not?  We could use the extra guns, and we most of the spare ammo,” Emmanuel pointed out.

“DuBois will use them on us if he catches us,” Charity added.

Hunter shook his head.  “No, he won’t.  I’m pretty confident we can talk this out.”

Charity snorted.  “If you try to ‘talk this out,’ you’re just going to get yourself shot.”

“Maybe, but we have to try.  There are enough dead people in this city, and I’d rather not add to their numbers,” Hunter answered determinedly.

Emmanuel slid the magazine into the pistol with a decisive click.  “Guess I’d better get going then.”

Hunter nodded and clapped a hand on Emmanuel’s shoulder.  “Good luck.  Use the gun for intimidation in case you run into someone; don’t discharge it if you don’t have to.”

   With a final nod, Emmanuel disappeared through the door that was marked ‘stairs,’ closing it silently behind him.  Hunter wasn’t worried; of the Drifters that he called his family, everyone had their specialties; their uses, for lack of a better term.  Charity, for example, made up for her terrible accuracy and trigger finger with medical knowledge.  Despite the accident that had taken his arm, Jack was still good with knives, and had killed a fair amount of the undead at very close range without a fatal scratch.  Punk was the best for scouting and reconnaissance, and wasn’t bad with his hunting rifle.  Zeke…well, he wasn’t entirely certain what Zeke was, but he was sure that it was something along the lines of unstable dynamite in a warm storeroom.

   Emmanuel, though, was an expert when it came to stealth.  No one in the group moved quieter than he did, and few could conceal their presence as well as he could.  More than once, Hunter had referred to it as ‘mad ninja skills,’ and though he’d been joking, he hadn’t been far off.  Emmanuel was the closest thing to a real ninja that he knew of, though that wasn’t saying much.  When it came to combat, however, he was merely average; it would be better to have Zeke or Jack covering his back in a tense situation.

   Granted, Emmanuel wasn’t perfect.  There was still the chance that he’d end up caught by one of DuBois’ men and brought straight back to the twelfth floor.  Or they might kill him on the spot.  Hunter shook his head; he couldn’t be having doubts like that.  The only acceptable outcome was success, and success would be impossible if he believed that the worst-case scenario would play out.

“Hunter!” Vince called, breaking him out of his thoughts.  “How about a round of poker?”

Hunter forced a smile.  “Alright, but I’m not playing for money; you guys are ruthless!”

~

   In the dark stairwell, Emmanuel stood completely still until his eyes adjusted to the relative lack of light.  Only the faint light of the exit signs allowed him to see, casting an eerie red glow on his surroundings.  Taking a deep breath, he gripped the pistol tightly and started to descend to the eleventh floor, making no sound at all in the darkness.  His breathing was shallow enough that, were he lying on the floor, someone would think that he was dying of an unseen wound.

   Pausing on the landing, he pressed his ear to the door and listened for any indication of guards.  Hearing nothing, he slowly tried the knob.  It was locked.  After another few tries, he moved on to the next landing, cursing the darkness.  This door was unlocked, and he opened the door just enough so he could see into the room beyond.  He appeared to be in a toy store, behind a rack of brightly colored building blocks.  Most of the lights in the store were off, though a few kiosks had brightly-lit signs much like what was in the arcade.  Slipping through the door, he closed it silently behind him and crept to the end of the rack, crouching low to the ground and peering through the boxes of toys gathered at the end of the shelves.

   No one was coming, so he stepped out into the main aisle carefully, crossing to the other row of shelves, which was arranged perpendicular to the racks just across the differently-tiled walkway between the racks of toys.  With the gun ready for use, he stalked down the aisle with his back to the shelves, checking each row across for him as he proceeded.  When he reached the end of the row, he slowly rounded the corner.

“Fuck!”

   He stumbled backwards, finding himself face-to-face with someone that was apparently just standing there.  Raising the gun, he leveled the barrel at the figure’s face.  Something was wrong, however.  Moving closer, he saw that he’d just been scared by a cardboard cut-out of a popular superhero.  Groaning, he shook his head and lowered the gun, just as something fell in one of the other aisles.

   Instantly, he went back on the offensive.  Someone was watching him.  Moving quickly, he crossed the aisle and started to check each and every row, moving between them in a zig-zag pattern.  After the fifth row, he found the source of the disturbance.

   Two or three children were playing with some of the toys, completely oblivious to the armed man that was watching them.  He let out a sigh of relief, and as one they turned to look up at him.  One of them, a little girl, stood up and crossed her arms, trying to look scary.

“You said a naughty word!” she accused loudly.

“Quiet, Alice!  The grown-ups will hear us if you don’t be quiet!” one of the two little boys said hastily, trying to quiet her down.

“One of the grown-ups already has heard us, stupid-head!” the girl snapped.

“Now we’re gonna get in trouble, all a’cause a’ you!” the youngest of the three sobbed, dropping the superhero figure he’d been playing with.

“Hey, hey, no need for that!” Emmanuel whispered quickly, looking around.  “Look, I won’t tell on you three, but you have to promise to be really quiet!”

The little girl looked at him disapprovingly.  “I don’t like you.  You said a naughty word, and you’re holding a bad thing,” she said flatly.

“C’mon, Alice!  He’s bein’ real nice,” the youngest argued, sniffling.

“Yeah Alice!  He’s not all mean!” the other boy added.

Alice sniffed haughtily.  “Fine.  But if you break anything, I’m telling on you,” she warned Emmanuel.

   Muttering curses, Emmanuel left the kids behind, moving through the dark shelves and shuddering as he entered the doll section.  He’d never liked dolls; probably the result of one too many horror movies when he was little.  Granted, that’s what had saved his life when the plague hit and his neighborhood was overrun.  Being brought up on Romero and his spiritual successors had taught him exactly what not to do. 

   That was the main reason he was reluctant to rely on the pistol instead of the machete strapped to his leg.  Unlike the gun, the machete wouldn’t jam or run out of ammo.  With the strength he’d built up playing football through his entire high school career and later in college, he could easily hack through a rotting brain with the heavy blade.  For the same reason, getting the machete stuck in his enemy wasn’t a concern; it would take an extremely thick skull to stop one of his swings.

“I am in America, though,” he thought aloud.  “If there’s a thick skull anywhere, it’s here.”

   It crossed his mind that he probably shouldn’t be talking to himself out loud if he wanted to search for the guns without being caught.  He doubted they’d be on this floor with the toys, anyways, but he had to check to be absolutely certain.  After all, as soon as he’d seen that he was in a giant toy store, the first thought he had was that if it were him hiding the weapons, he’d stick the real firearms among the plastic guns, just for the camouflage.  The only problem would be that leaving them unattended would be a terrible idea, especially if there were children around.

   After a good amount of searching, he finally found an aisle where the shelves were full of plastic toy guns of
all shapes, sizes, and colors.  With a heavy sigh, he pulled a flashlight out of a clip on his belt and flicked the switch, the bright LEDs bathing a small circular area on the shelves in a soft white light.  As quietly as he could manage, he sifted through the packaged and unpackaged toys.

   Suddenly his hand found something metal.  With a  grin, he pulled the pistol forward, only to find that it was just another toy, the orange ring at the end of the barrel dousing his hopes like a bucket of ice water.  Why anyone would make a toy gun out of metal was beyond him, but he had more important things to do than complain about children’s playthings.  Setting the fake gun back on the shelf where he found it, he turned around to search the shelf behind him.

   This was going to be a long night.

~

   DuBois sat back in his chair and admired the collection of guns that was now on the glass table in front of him.  Only Alma’s revolver was a ‘normal’ weapon; the others had been extensively modified, the best example of this being Hunter’s rifle.  Though he considered himself a gun expert, even he couldn’t tell what the original gun was.  The only way to find out would be to dissect the rifle, taking off all the attachments and extra bits, but he doubted he’d be able to get it back together in perfect working order.  This was the work of a master, and he only knew one person that could create a weapon this complex.

   Moving his gaze away from the rifle, he inspected Charity’s pistols.  They were both identical and looked unremarkable, but when he lifted them he felt that they were lighter than any other gun their size, though the magazines in both were only missing a few shots each.  Aiming one at a vase across the room, he flicked the safety off with his thumb and pulled the trigger.  It fired safely, but to there seemed to be a slight catch on the trigger, as if it could be pulled further back.  He did just that, and the remaining bullets in the clip exploded out in a quick stream that left a large collection of holes in the wall behind where the vase had been.

   Setting the empty pistol down, he ejected the clip from its twin and inspected it.  Nothing special.  Sliding it back in, he dropped it beside the other pistol and began to inspect Punk’s hunting rifle.  Of the modified guns, this was by far the simplest.  The scope mounted on top was able to stand straight up or fold back to the side of the rifle, though what function this could possibly have was beyond his understanding.  Other than a rail attached to the barrel, it looked like a standard Remington 700 hunting rifle.  He set it back on the table.

“So many new toys,” he mused, a content smile playing about his lips.

   Of course, the gun that he really wanted wasn’t here:  Zeke’s shotgun.  In listening to the occasional group
of travelers that tried to take the shortcut through the Boneyard instead of looking for another route to Arcadia, he’d come to the understanding that it was like Hunter’s rifle:  so heavily modified that there was no telling what it would do when the trigger was pulled.  Though most of what he heard was probably just exaggeration, there was no denying that a normal shotgun was a powerful tool against the undead, let alone one that had been upgraded.

The elevator opened and Chad presented himself with a short bow.  “The refugee women are ready down on the sixth floor,” he reported.

DuBois grinned.  “Good.  Send someone up here to clean up that mess, will you?” he ordered, indicating the shattered vase.

“Yes sir.”

   Picking his coat up from the back of his chair, he slipped it on as he stepped into the elevator beside Chad.  He grimaced; one of these days, he was going to have to remind the lackey that there was a working Laundromat on the seventh floor.  The radio at the other man’s waist suddenly went off, and he gave DuBois an apologetic smile before answering the call.

“What?  What is it?” he hissed.
“There’s noise on the eleventh floor,” a guard’s voice crackled.

Chad snorted.  “It’s probably just those brats again.  If you’re not going to check every aisle for stragglers before lights out, then don’t even bother calling when you hear noises,” he snapped irritably.

“Yes sir.  Sorry, sir,” the guard responded.

   Rolling his eyes, Chad replaced the radio on his belt before settling into the silence of the elevator.  There had been a speaker installed at one time that played music even when there was no one inside, but DuBois had requested they be removed after they’d been stuck on the same song for three days straight.  Plus, the silence made him feel more powerful, as whoever was in the elevator with him tried to think of something to say.  Much like Chad was acting now, wringing his hands, probably wishing he could think of something intelligent to say to his leader.  When the elevator stopped on the eleventh level, he stepped out quickly, glad to be out of the awkward situation and back in a more ‘official’ setting.

   Once a mattress dealership, floor eleven had been converted to suit a much different purpose, though all of the beds remained where they were, though all were covered by carefully constructed curtains.  The floor was simply referred to as ‘Level Eleven,’ but the women living under his rule dreaded getting their call to work here.  For some strange reason, only the men seemed to derive any semblance of pleasure from the harem.

   All of the young female refugees were lined up in the central aisle of the former mattress store, clad only in their underwear.  Already the guards were slobbering over them, but DuBois was the very image of self-restraint, looking them all over with a discerning eye.  He stopped in front of each one of them, carefully inspecting them for any imperfection.  Some of the women, however, weren’t too thrilled with the treatment they were receiving.

“Go fuck yourself,” one of them spat when he told her to turn around.

   He smiled, amused for a moment before suddenly slapping her across the face.  She fell to the ground, and he nodded to his two guards.  They stepped forward and pulled her to her feet before dragging her off towards the back of the store.  Such an attitude wasn’t acceptable here; the guards would either make her understand that or, if they had their eye on someone else, would simply drop her down the garbage chute for the back-alley zombies to enjoy.

   The next woman in line was short and stocky; he didn’t even bother giving her a look, instead signaling to the next two guards that had just arrived to attend him.  They dragged her off in the same direction as the first set of guards.  A few minutes later there was a loud gunshot, followed by the opening and closing of a heavy metal door.  DuBois chuckled to himself; they’d decided to be humane after all.

   By the time he reached the halfway point of the line, the atmosphere of Level Eleven was starting to get to him.  The groaning coming from some of the covered beds, as well as the heat (it was kept warmer here than any of the other levels) combined with the slow, seductive music playing over the speakers, causing lust to tug at the corners of his mind, clouding his judgment.  With a yawn, he waved his hand, dismissing the rest of the girls.  He’d finish choosing them later.  For now, though, he grabbed the nearest girl, a young brunette with generous curves, and threw her onto one of the beds, closing the curtains behind him.

~

   In the back alley outside, a single zombie was shuffling by when the body of the short woman hurtled out of the chute, rolling along the filthy ground before stopping at its feet.  She was still breathing, but wasn’t going to live much longer.  A faint pulse was all the mindless eating machine needed, however, and he dove onto her, one of his lungs falling out of his gaping chest wound and slid down her side onto the asphalt as he enjoyed his private feast.

[Chinaren]

Yay!  Nice chapter indeed Nice!  Very enjoyable and evil. 

[NicTei]

   Dan wasn’t sure what time it was when Emmanuel finally came back for Punk and Charity, but he’d been gone more than a few hours.  Hunter was becoming impatient; they didn’t know when DuBois would be up and active, so they didn’t know how much time they had left to retrieve their weapons.  Emmanuel assured him they wouldn’t be gone long before he left, but Dan could tell that Hunter wasn’t going to calm down.  Vince saw his expression and shrugged.

“He can’t help it; he’s a class-A worrier.  Always expects the plan to go wrong, no matter how foolproof it may
be,” he remarked as he shuffled the cards.

“But this is far from a fool-proof plan,” Dan pointed out.

“Which is exactly why he looks like he’s about to give birth,” Vince snorted.  “Just let him worry.  He’ll get over
it when the other three get back with his gun.”

“Unless they get caught,” Alma muttered.

Vince glanced at her over his cards.  “Sure, that’s a smart move:  pour gas on the fire.”

“Will everyone please stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Hunter asked miserably.

“Guys, did you hear something?” Jack teased.

“I hope Leigh takes a vow of celibacy,” Hunter retorted with a smirk.

“A little late for that,” Jack shot back with a wicked grin.

   This earned him a playful slap from Leigh, and he retaliated with a kiss on the cheek.  Alma and Hunter rolled their eyes in unison, eliciting further giggling from Leigh.  Dan took the moment of distraction to add a card that he’d hidden in his sleeve into his hand, swapping for the last card he needed to complete a full house.  When he was sure no one had seen him, he cleared his throat.

“Are we going to play cards or not?” he asked as casually as he could manage.

Vince, who hadn’t looked up from his cards during the exchange, raised an eyebrow.  “That depends; are you going to stop cheating?”

   Before he could defend himself, the door to the stairwell burst open, Emmanuel hurling Punk into the room with Charity bringing up the rear.  Slamming it shut, he began to drag tables in front of the door, forming a barricade.  Hunter was on his feet immediately, taking his rifle from Punk and assisting in the building of the barrier.  The card game, it seemed, was over.

“What went wrong?” Hunter asked as he pushed a filing cabinet against the door.

“Fucking kids are everywhere,” Emmanuel swore.

“Did you really expect them not to tell someone we were there?” Punk asked, tossing Alma her revolver.  “You would’ve sold us out at that age, too, if you thought you were in trouble.”

“We were almost back!” Emmanuel spat in disgust.

“Was anyone chasing you?” Hunter asked, checking his weapon to make sure that it was loaded.

“Three of them; no guns, just bats,” Charity answered, tossing an empty, useless clip over her shoulder.

“Doesn’t sound too bad,” Dan remarked.

“All three of them were radioing for help from DuBois,” Punk added.

“So we’re screwed, then?”

“Pretty much.”

“Lovely.”

~

   DuBois pushed the curtains aside and staggered off of the bed, leaving the girl where she was.  After that, she certainly wouldn’t be forgetting her place.  Of course, the downside of engaging in such rigorous activity for a good two hours became immediately apparent:  his legs felt like jelly, and he felt certain that he was dangerously dehydrated.  Buttoning his shirt up, he accepted a bottle of water from Chad, who was waiting outside, trying hard to look like he hadn’t been listening.  Draining the bottle and throwing it over the top of the curtains and onto the bed behind, he braced himself on Chad’s shoulder and started walking to the exit.

   They didn’t get far before the radio went off.  At first, Chad ignored it, and DuBois was content to let him, but after the third time his aide finally answered the call irritably, snapping at the guard on the other end.  DuBois couldn’t hear what was said at first, but judging by how quickly the color drained from Chad’s face, he knew that it couldn’t possibly be good news.  A little nervous, he grabbed the radio and barked at the guard to repeat what he’d just said.

“Hunter’s men found the guns!  They used the stairs and took them right out of your living room!” the guard practically shrieked.

“Well then, get your ass up to the twelfth floor and get them back!” DuBois seethed.  “Place guards with shotguns on either side of every door to the stairway in case they try to escape; authorize them to shoot on sight.  When, not ‘if’, but when they surrender, you bring them to my floor, understood?”

“Sir, we’ll lose too many men trying to get the guns back!” the guard protested.

“I don’t care!” DuBois roared.  “You’re all expendable as far as I’m concerned!  I’ve protected your entire families since day one!  Your lives are mine!  You know what?  Forget it!  I’m going, too!”

   Throwing the radio onto the ground, he stomped on it once, venting his anger at his incompetent minions on the unfortunate appliance.  Only when Chad whimpered did he realize that he was gripping his shoulder so tightly that there was an audible creak in his bones.  Releasing him, DuBois stormed into the elevator, punching the button that would take him up to his quarters.  After getting a vest from his closet, he intended to join his guards in the only other working elevator when they stormed the twelfth floor to reclaim the weapons.

   At times like these, he was glad that there were only two working elevators in the entire building; the others had been blocked off with yellow caution tape before he’d set up here, and he hadn’t had the courage to see if any of them were actually working.  He was afraid that they’d just been closed off due to the undead and that there were zombies inside, waiting for someone to open the door.  As he thought about it, he started to enjoy the idea of making Hunter’s crew check each one of them without any protective gear.

   Whistling a cheerful tune as he stepped out into his quarters, he headed straight to his bedroom, ignoring the empty glass table in the center of his living room.  Opening his wardrobe, he sifted through the collection of bulletproof vests hanging inside, finally selecting an army-issued camouflage chest guard, the number and emblem scratched off.  Pulling out the false bottom of the armoire, he lifted out a heavy pistol:  a Desert Eagle that he’d taken from his first raid on the military bunkers on the outskirts of the city.  He didn’t have to check the clip; he knew it was fully loaded.

“Not as fancy as Hunter’s rifle, but it should do the job quite nicely,” he mused out loud, holding the gun in firing position and checking the sights before lowering it.

“Sir?  The guards are waiting in the elevator,” Chad interrupted from the doorway.

DuBois smirked.  “Well then, let’s pay our guests a visit.”

~

“Um, Hunter?  Someone’s coming down the elevator,” Jack called from the card table, pointing at the lit-up numbers above the sliding doors.

“Everyone, in position!” Hunter barked.

   In unison, the armed Drifters moved into the cover of the extra tables and cubicle walls that they had turned over a few yards away from the elevator, resting the barrels of their guns on the edges and lining up the first shots.  They weren’t planning on firing, of course; Hunter simply wanted to intimidate whoever was coming into thinking that they didn’t have a chance.  The elevator crawled down to the thirteenth floor slowly, and after what felt like an obscene amount of time, the number twelve lit up.

   A few seconds later, there was a chime, and the doors slid open.  Both of DuBois’ armored goons were inside, along with three or four smaller men that were in similar protection.  Behind them all was DuBois himself, none too happy with them if his expression was anything to go by.  Punk nudged Hunter.

“I could crack his skull wide from here if you want,” he murmured.

“Tempting, but no; I want to get out of here alive, and I don’t think that his men would let us leave if we killed him,” Hunter muttered back.

“You’ve certainly been busy, Hunter!” DuBois called from behind his escort.

“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, you know,” Hunter answered.  “Any chance you’ll give up and let us keep the guns?”

DuBois chuckled.  “I told you before, Hunter:  the people don’t trust you, and letting you hold on to your weapons would frighten them!  Besides, I don’t just go around giving civilians weapon.  You’re no different.  If I let you have your guns, then pretty soon everyone wants guns.  From there, the only possible path leads to rebellion and bloody war; we can’t have that, can we?”

“In that case, turn around and leave before my friend here puts another hole in your head,” Hunter retorted, indicating Punk with his thumb.

“Hi there!” Punk called in a high-pitched voice.

“Ah, but if you do that, what’s to stop my men from killing all of you?” DuBois inquired.  “You see, they’ve wanted to kill you and take your things since you got here.”

“We have?” one of the guards asked.

“Shut up, Carl!” DuBois snarled.  “Anyways, I’ve held them back, telling them that you could convince the people in Arcadia to send us supplies, or an escort out of this hellhole.”
It was Hunter’s turn to laugh.  “That’s bullshit!  I would’ve believed that first story if it weren’t for Carl there.”

“You’re welcome!” a muffled voice interrupted.

“Can it, Carl!” Hunter boomed.  “Where was I?  Oh yeah:  there’s no way that I’ll believe you think this place is a hellhole.  You enjoy it here way too much, what with all the power you’ve been given.”

DuBois was silent for a moment.  “Well, fuck.  How about this:  surrender or I’ll have my men here open fire on anything that moves?  You’re the only one with armor, after all, and you seem to have forgotten your helmet.  I could take care of you right now,” he added, pulling out his pistol, “but I’d rather avoid having to close this floor off until it can be cleaned up.”

Punk glanced at Hunter.  “Don’t you dare give in,” he warned.

“Punk, they have the bigger guns.  Those helmets may not be completely bulletproof, but you and I are the only ones that would be able to pull off a headshot.  You’d need time to aim, and I can’t watch all of them while lining up a shot.  Everyone else here is useless because of their vests.  It might be best to give up,” Hunter answered quietly.

Punk simply stared at him.  “You can’t be serious.”

“He is,” Charity answered, not taking her eyes off the shotguns, “and I’m with him on this.  We could survive a shoot-out, but it would take accuracy to get around their armor; that automatically takes Emmanuel and I out of the picture.”

“We also have to consider collateral damage,” Hunter added.  “Vince, Dan, Alma, Jack, and Leigh could be hit by a stray bullet.”

“When you’re done whispering to yourselves,” DuBois interrupted, “feel free to give up.”

   Slowly, Hunter stood and dropped his gun over the table, raising his arms.  Punk, Charity, and Emmanuel followed suit, looking utterly defeated.  DuBois grinned devilishly.

“There.  Was that so hard?  Now, if you’ll follow me into the elevator, we can get straight to the fun part:  punishment.”

[Burningplain]

I like what I read.

[Chinaren]

I find it a bit hard to take that Hunter just waited for them to be trapped like that, and didn't position them properly behind cover when the elevator did come down.  They should have just opened fire right away when it arrived.

It's time for a leader that doesn't fuck up if you ask me.

[Burningplain]

Just for interest's sake. How many of Hunter's group have assault rifles?

[NicTei]

@Cren:  Same thing I've been saying about the American government for the past twelve years.

@Burpy:  Well, I don't believe they got their AK-47s back, so Charity has her 'machine pistols,' Hunter has his rifle, which has an automatic setting that he doesn't often use, Punk has his rifle (which isn't automatic), Alma has her revolver (which I think was empty at that point), and Dan has the pistol Punk gave him.

...so one of them, really.  Pixie had one of the assault rifles when she went MIA with Zeke, who had his shotgun.  Really, it's Hunter, Charity, Punk, and Dan that are armed.  The others are pretty much useless.

[Chinaren]

@Cren:  Same thing I've been saying about the American government for the past twelve years.

  

[ViP Perry Tratchett]

I caught up with this story this week, and it's generally well written.  I agree with the above about this latest stand off though.  Now he's fully in the enemies hands and disarmed. 

So, waiting for the next chapter...

[NicTei]

   After their surrender, the Drifters had been unceremoniously thrown to the floor and bound by thick, coarse ropes.  One by one, they’d been taken up to the fifteenth floor, Hunter and DuBois taking the first shuttle up.  Transporting everyone to the uppermost floor in this way took longer than Dan would’ve like, standing idly in front of one of the cubicles with itchy wrists and a shotgun leveled directly at his head.  No one else was standing in front of a gun, only him.  This probably wasn’t intentional; he figured that it was just the next link in the chain of bad luck that seemed to be composing his life, starting with the plague.

   When he finally arrived, he saw that DuBois hadn’t taken his time getting to the ‘punishment’ he was referring to earlier:  Hunter was kneeling in front of him, bleeding from a cracked lip.  His left eye was already swollen, and would probably develop into a marvelous black eye.  Behind his tormentor, his armor was lying in a pile, leaving him only in his skin-tight black bodysuit.  The other Drifters had been lined up beside Hunter, with Charity being only a few feet away from him, held back by Chad, who had her own pistol to her back.  She was glaring at DuBois with such venom that Dan was almost afraid for the man.

   DuBois threw another punch at Hunter, revealing that he was wearing brass knuckles.  Hunter spat blood onto the floor before raising his chin defiantly, locking eyes with the man in front of him.  This earned him another punch, which knocked him sideways onto the floor.  Sneering at the Drifter leader, DuBois kicked him in the stomach for good measure before lifting him back to his knees.

“I’d really have to hate to kill you, Hunter, but this crime can’t go unpunished,” he began with a sympathetic tone so obviously fake that Dan couldn’t help but roll his eyes.  “I’m god here; what I say is absolute law!  Those who disobey the law must be punished.  I’ve killed people that I’ve known for years for less than what you’ve done!”

“Will you hurry up and kill me then?  Listening to your monologue will put me to sleep,” Hunter snapped.

DuBois punched him again.  “That would be too easy,” he sneered.  “No, I’ve got a better plan for you.”

He looked at the other Drifters.  “You’re all part of this, too, so you get to share in his punishment.  After my guards and I are through with you, you all have to make a choice:  we’re going to kill one of you.  The remaining eight of you will be put to work; the men clearing the lobby every morning, and the women on Level Eleven.”

“And if we refuse?” Hunter growled.

DuBois rolled his eyes before smashing his knee into the Drifter’s face.  “Try not to ask any clichéd questions.  If you don’t make a choice, we’ll put you all outside and let the dead choose who lives and who joins them!” he answered, sounding bored.

“I hate to break it to you,” Punk interrupted, “but there are three of you and nine of us.  Do you really think you’re going to beat on of us and expect the other six to just stand here and watch?”

“Aren’t you forgetting Chad?” DuBois pointed out.

Punk glanced at the man in question.  “Nah,” he replied, “I doubt he could do any damage if you gave him a baseball bat.”

   In response, DuBois reached onto the table behind him and tossed Chad a bat.  Grinning, Chad turned around, and swung straight at Punk, catching him in the chest.  As Punk went down, Charity prepared to attack, but was stopped when Chad shoved the barrel of her pistol in her face without even looking at her.  One of the two guards present took over, pushing her to the ground and stomping roughly on her chest.  Hunter lunged forward, but was stopped by DuBois, who was apparently not done with him quite yet.

   Dan winced as Hunter was punched again in the face, this time opening a cut on his temple.  Blood started to trickle down the side of his face; but he still seemed to be faring better than Charity, who now had a worrying cough as she tried to roll away from the guard.  After a brief mental debate, he cursed and threw himself at the guard, only to be stopped when the butt of a shotgun slammed into the side of his head.  Cursing, he rounded on the other guard, kicking at him but only succeeding in getting his leg caught.

   In a matter of seconds he had been knocked to the floor.  A quick roll saved him from being stomped on, but he still ended up taking a kick to the side.  Writhing in pain, he was helpless to stop the next kick that caught the side of his head.  A dull ringing filled his ears and his vision began to swim.  He could feel more impacts on his body, but none of them hurt; it was like being hit by a blast of air, but with a little more force behind it.  He was dimly aware of the guard advancing on Alma before everything went dark.

~

   The smell of bacon wafted to his nostrils, waking him out of a fitful sleep.  Jolting upright in bed, he looked around, fearing signs of the undead that he knew would inevitably come, hungry for his flesh.  To his delight, and confusion, the walking dead were nowhere to be found.  To further his confusion, he found himself in his childhood room, sleeping in footy pajamas that were many sizes too small in a bed shaped like a racecar.  Pinching himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, he winced at the pain.

   Though he tried to stand up carefully, he still ripped the pajamas in half, though how he’d managed to fit into them in the first place he didn’t know.  The fact that he was standing naked, fully grown in his childhood room when he should be zombie chow didn’t frighten him as much as it should.  No, he was only curious.  Maybe he’d died and this was some twisted form of Heaven?  Or perhaps when he opened the door that was covered in posters of his favorite sports teams (though later on they’d focus more on the cheerleaders), he’d find himself in a world of fire and brimstone.

   Reluctantly, he moved to open the door, touching the knob quickly in case it was hot.  The copper was cool to the touch, so he assumed he was safe.  Stepping to the side as he opened the door to avoid any sort of ambush, either from zombie or survivor, he heaved a sigh of relief when no one burst in.  He assumed that this meant he was safe, so he decided to follow the smell of bacon.  It had been almost six months since he’d had any meat, after all.

   Padding along the white carpet in the hallway, he noticed that there were no pictures on the walls, though at the moment he didn’t particularly care.  He felt almost as if he weren’t in complete control of his body, but when he commanded himself to stop, he merely stood there in the corridor, stomach growling and mouth watering.  Now he could hear the sizzle of the tender meat in the pan, infinitely better than the moans of the damned or the sound of gunfire.

   Leaping down the last five stairs, he rounded the corner into the kitchen by grabbing onto the doorframe and letting his momentum swing him across the threshold.  There, he stopped; he wasn’t alone.  Across the kitchen, not facing him, was Alma, just pulling the pan of bacon off the stove.  She was wearing a white, frilly kitchen apron and…nothing else.  Dan suddenly felt very self-conscious about his nakedness; at least she had an apron.  She looked up to see him and smiled.

“Look who’s finally awake!  Your brother already had his breakfast and is playing in the yard!” she said warmly, pulling a chair out for him.

   Aware that his blood flow was being redirected as far away from his brain as it would go, he quickly sat down and covered himself with the tablecloth, face turning beet red.  When he glanced out the window, he froze again.  Zeke was running past the window, an overly large waffle wrapped around his neck like a cape.  Either he was in Hell, or he was dreaming; he wasn’t entirely sure which would be better.

“Hey, sport!  Glad you finally decided to get up!”

   This came from Hunter, who was wearing a full business suit over his armor.  For whatever reason, there was also a fake mustache pasted across his upper lip.  While Dan stared, dumbfounded, Hunter picked a hat up off of the table, though it had been bare a second ago, and set it on his head, picking up a briefcase that was shaped like his rifle.  Saluting Dan, he left the room.  The door opened and closed a few moments later, just before the sound of a car engine started and faded away.

“Okay, I want to wake up now,” Dan said to no one in particular.

“Oh, but if you wake up, you’ll have to deal with being dead.  Wouldn’t you rather just sleep like this forever?” Alma asked, her apron suddenly missing.

“Um…” Dan stammered, struggling to keep his eyes on her face.

“Wake up, Dan!” Alma shouted in his hear, pulling him close.

“I’m right here; you don’t have to shout!” he complained, but she pulled him closer.

“Dan, wake up!  Wake up!”

“Better do what she says, Shitstain,” Zeke suggested from the window, half of a waffle in his mouth.  “You’ll miss my dynamic entry!  That and you’ll get dream-laid.  Which is pathetic considering you just got your ass handed to you.  That might make you a dream masochist.”

“Dan!  Wake up!” Alma screamed as she wrapped her arms around him.

“So long, Spittershitter,” Zeke giggled.

~

“Dammit, Dan!  Open your eyes!”

   Excluding Alma’s voice in his ear and a cold wetness in his pants, Dan was aware of one thing:  excruciating, mind-numbing, toe-curling pain.  His entire body felt like it was on fire, though by now he supposed he was used to this.  Against his body’s wishes, he slowly opened his eyes, letting the fluorescent lights of the penthouse ceiling burn his retinas.  Sitting up as carefully as he could, he fought off a wave of nausea as he took in his surroundings.

   Little had changed since he fell unconscious.  Everyone was still bound, though Alma had slipped her arms around to the front, instead of behind her back.  Her eye bandage had been torn off, revealing the cruel scar that Kane had left on her otherwise perfect skin.  Remembering his dream, he blushed and looked away, inspecting the other Drifters.

   Hunter was in bad shape, but still conscious.  Charity seemed to be in the best condition of them all, though that was because he couldn’t see her chest; he assumed that she’d have one hell of a bruise for a good long while.  Punk was still lying on the floor.  His face seemed to be one big bruise, and one of his arms was bent at an awkward angle.  Emmanuel was unconscious, asleep, or, as terrible as it was to think about, dead, propped up against the back wall of the penthouse.  Jack and Leigh had almost matching wounds, and Dan doubted that it was a coincidence.

“Hell…  How long have I been out?” he managed to mumble, wishing he could rub his throbbing temples.

“A few hours.  DuBois will be back any minute now for our decision,” Alma answered, speaking quietly.

“You chose me, didn’t you?  Well, I swear I’ll haunt your asses,” he replied, an attempt at humor.

“Hunter has volunteered,” Charity interrupted, spitting out ‘volunteered’ as if it were an invocation of unspeakable evil.

“More like an order, but that’s the gist of it,” Hunter corrected, trying a weak smile.

“No matter who’s getting killed, we’re all probably better off dead than in this condition,” Punk slurred from his position on the floor.

Hunter shook his head, then looked as if he regretted doing so.  “No,” he managed to stammer after a moment, “you guys need to live.  Get to Arcadia.  Send a fucking helicopter to bomb this place to hell if you can.”

“Sure.  We’ll paint ‘Hunter’s regards’ on the bomb while we’re at it,” Punk answered.

“Good.  Make sure it drops into DuBois’ lap,” Hunter instructed humorlessly.

“What are you dropping into my lap?”

   At the sound of the voice of their tormentor, everyone tensed.  With some difficulty, Dan turned to face DuBois, who was now wearing a simple bathrobe.  His hair and beard were wet; no doubt he’d had a lot of blood to wash off after he’d finished with them.  None of the guards were in sight, but he was holding Hunter’s rifle, finger on the trigger as he moved the barrel over each of them in turn.  Hunter and Charity were both glaring daggers at him; Alma, on the other hand, simply shrunk away, and Dan instinctively shifted in front of her, offering his body as a shield.

“So, what did you decide?  Who’s dying?” the tyrant asked, though he already had the barrel of the rifle trained between Hunter’s eyes.

“I am,” Hunter growled.

“Good.  You were starting to piss me off,” DuBois said with a grin, raising the rifle to firing position.  “Any last words?”

   Whatever response Hunter had concocted (and it was obvious by his expression that he had something clever in mind) was interrupted by a soft chime.  Sighing, DuBois turned to the elevator, only to find that the number was still on the first floor.  Slowly, he turned to the corridor that led to his bedroom and the floor’s restrooms.  Three other elevators were lined up on one of the walls of that hallway, and the noise could only have come from there.

“That can’t be,” he muttered.  “Those elevators are supposed to be broken!”

“Obviously not,” Hunter muttered.

   The sound of the elevator doors sliding open silenced everyone as the smell of rotting flesh burst into the room.  Rifle shaking in his hands, DuBois took a few steps away from the hallway as a zombie shuffled out into the middle of the corridor.  As it turned to look at them, there was a familiar deafening roar as its head was dissolved into a red mist.  More shuffling footsteps could be heard, as well as muttered curses.  Dan realized that he was grinning, and though he tried, he couldn’t stop.

   Zeke was standing in the middle of the corridor, Pixie leaning heavily on him with her arm wrapped around his shoulder.  Their clothes were covered with gore and torn, exposing the black bodysuits underneath.  Most jarring was the fact that Pixie was missing her left leg from the knee down, the stump covered in shoddy bandages.  The skin just above the white was blackened and burnt, which accounted for some of the black, powdery stains on the white wrappings around the red that saturated the fabric near the very end of the stump.  They were both a mess, but they were alive. 

“Zeke and Vicki have rejoined the party!” Zeke cackled, fixing his demonic, glee-filled eyes on DuBois.

~

   For a moment, nobody moved.  No one, not even Hunter, could quite wrap his head around the fact that Zeke had not only survived the horde without a fatal bite or scratch, but had rescued Pixie in the process, showing an unusual amount of altruism, and on top of that had found the one building in the city that they’d taken refuge in.  Yet here he was, Vicki in one hand, the other around Pixie’s waist to keep her steady, grinning as if he’d just won the lottery.

   Pixie was the first to move, nudging Zeke towards the others.  Keeping his shotgun trained on the soldiers, he sidled to the wall.  Leaning back against the armoire behind them, she gripped one of the doorknobs with her free hand and slowly removed her arm from his shoulder.  Zeke went straight to Hunter when she was off, DuBois backing away further.  Looking down at his boss, Zeke sighed.

“Hunter, you’re like that red-headed chick:  always getting caught,” he scolded.

“Am I supposed to understand that reference?” Hunter muttered through his swollen lips.

“Hey, Shithat!” Zeke exclaimed, turning immediately to Dan and ignoring Hunter’s question.

He stopped before he reached Dan and looked down at Punk.  “Crikey!” he shouted.

   DuBois seemed to have recovered from the shocking entrance and aimed his pistol at Zeke.  The guards followed suit, aiming their inferior shotguns at the Drifter.  Hearing the click of the guns cocking, Zeke turned slightly towards them, the corners of his mouth pulling up in another grin.  Dan scooted back as best he could; he knew that this was about to get messy.  Keeping one of his guards in front of him, DuBois stepped forward.

“Give up your gun, or we’ll shoot,” he warned.

“Hunter, I’m going to solo these guys; don’t try to help me,” Zeke instructed, cocking Vicki and turning to face the guard that was farthest away.

“Preemptive strike!” he called as he charged.

   Leaping into the air before he reached the armored guard, he gripped Vicki down near the stock with his right hand, holding onto the rail attached to the barrel with his other hand.  A brutal crack sounded from the man’s helmet as Zeke swung the stock forward on his descent, pushing the guard off balance.  Stepping in close as soon as his feet touched the ground, he pressed the end of Vicki’s barrel up under the guard’s chin, where the helmet didn’t cover.  Dan could see the madman’s psychotic grin reflected in the nearly black visor just seconds before he pulled the trigger, liquefying the poor bastard’s head inside his helmet.

   Crying out, the other guard tried to back away, but was stopped by DuBois, who instead shoved him forward.  Laughing, Zeke rolled between the armored man’s legs and jammed the barrel of his gun in a very uncomfortable place before pulling the trigger again.  Screaming in agony, the guard collapsed to the floor; even if he survived, he’d never walk again.  Leaving him writhing on the floor, Zeke turned to DuBois just as another, much quieter gunshot rang through the penthouse suite.

   Zeke was tugged backwards as the bullet tore through his shoulder, embedding itself on the wall behind him.  At the distance DuBois was standing, it shouldn’t have pierced through Zeke completely.  The power-hungry ruler of the department store smirked through his beard.  Aiming higher this time, he made sure it was clear that he would shoot Zeke again, this time through the head.  The Drifter wasn’t paying attention, however; he was looking at the new wound in his arm, tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes.

   With an enraged roar, he brought Vicki up and fired before DuBois could react.  Most of the shot slammed into his vest, knocking him backwards but leaving him otherwise unharmed.  Some shot, however, embedded itself in his arm, the impact jarring the pistol from his grip.  Grinning through his tears, Zeke closed the distance between them in a few long strides, jamming the barrel into DuBois’ mouth.  Dan looked away, not wanting to see another Pops incident in better lighting.

“Game over!” Zeke hissed as he pulled the trigger.

   An empty click filled the silence; Vicki was out of ammo.  Zeke’s eyes went wide for a moment, and then he suddenly found the floor very interesting.  DuBois stood completely still, paralyzed with fear, not quite believing what had just happened.  Recovering, he slapped the shotgun away from his face and grabbed Zeke by the collar, throwing him towards the windows that overlooked the city.  Smacking against the glass, he fell to the floor, though still hadn’t let go of Vicki.  Using the shotgun as a crutch, he got to his feet just as DuBois reached him, punching him in the shoulder with his brass knuckles.

   Shrieking in agony, Zeke fell back to the floor, clutching his wound.  DuBois picked him up and shoved him against the window again, an audible crack drawing Dan’s attention to the spider web of cracks spreading out behind Zeke like a strange aura.  Clearly, someone had cut some corners on the building’s safety codes, especially ones concerning the windows.  DuBois threw another punch, this time smashing Zeke’s head back against the window.  His eyelids started to droop, and his head lolled as the cracks grew and widened.

   As he drew back for what would probably be the final time, Zeke’s eyes suddenly snapped open wide.  Grabbing DuBois’ arms, he tore them off of his collar and took one step forward.  Throwing his head forward, he crashed his forehead into DuBois nose.  Staggering backwards, DuBois tried to get his bearings, but wasn’t fast enough.  In one swift movement, Zeke grabbed his arm and swung him into the window.

   The glass shattered with an explosive crack.  Now completely off balance, DuBois started to fall back, but managed to catch himself on the edges of the window, not seeming to care that the glass was digging into his palms.  Zeke stood his way, so he couldn’t pull himself back up, but falling backwards was an equally unpleasant option.  He was helpless to watch as Zeke reloaded Vicki, sliding shells into the chamber as he pulled them from his pocket, all the while humming a happy tune.  Closing the chamber after the last shell was in place, he pumped the cocking mechanism and aimed it at DuBois’ chest.

“No, please!  Don’t do this!” he pleaded, eyes wide with fear.

   Zeke’s smile faded in an instant, replaced with the same dark glare that he’d turned on Dan while their camp was being packed up.  Seeing the sun rising behind DuBois made Dan realize that he’d been with the Drifters for one full day; two days ago at this time, he was waking up in his recliner to see the sun over the ghost town, blissfully unaware that he would end up kidnapped by slavers.  He didn’t know what triggered the thought, but he found it too depressing a subject to linger on.  Zeke snapped him out of his thoughts.

“What, so a wicked freak like you can keep ruining people’s lives?  Their souls cry out for release, and you just devour them,” he snarled.  “You’re finished now, though.  I’ll send you where the cries of the damned are unending, and you can only beg to be thrown off of a building!”

“Oh god, no!  I’m begging you!  This is murder!” DuBois pleaded.

Zeke’s rolled his eyes and snorted, taking a step back.  “Relax.”

DuBois exhaled.  “Oh, thank you, thank you!”

“This isn’t murder,” Zeke replied, just before his insane grin returned.

“This is Athens!” he bellowed as he kicked DuBois straight in the chest, throwing him out into the open air.

   DuBois’ screams faded fast, though Dan was sure that he wouldn’t forget the horror-stricken expression on the tyrant’s face any time soon.  Zeke stood at the edge of the window looking down, presumably watching the bearded man fall.  After a moment he winced; DuBois had hit the ground.  When he turned around, though, he was smirking, chuckling to himself.  Hunter shook his head.

“Zeke, if you’re going to quote movies, please get it right.”

Zeke raised an eyebrow.  “Movie?  What the hell are you talking about?”

   The guard that he’d crippled earlier moaned, and he rolled his eyes again.  Without looking, he rested Vicki’s barrel on the visor of the man’s helmet and pulled the trigger.  Alma looked away, and Dan couldn’t help but cringe as the guard’s body jerked once before falling still.  Hunter simply stared evenly at Zeke.

“Feel better now?” he asked.

Zeke looked up with a peaceful, content smile.  “Yeah.  Did you find any waffles?”

[Burningplain]

LOL. Gotta Love Zeke.
Excellent Chapter Nic.

[Chinaren]

I take it back, Zeke should be the leader of the group.

[NicTei]

LOL. Gotta Love Zeke.
Excellent Chapter Nic.

Yeah.  I had fun writing this one.

I take it back, Zeke should be the leader of the group.

But I thought he was the Jar Jar Binks of the story?

[Chinaren]

But I thought he was the Jar Jar Binks of the story?

He is, but at least he didn't sit around letting them get captured and tortured like Hunter.   

[Rocket Rabbit]

Caught up! Good stuff. The pacing in the last couple chapters was quite good, though I kind of agree that Hunter screwed up. Personally, I'm in the pro-Zeke camp, even if he is a bit of a scene-stealer!

The dream sequence made me chuckle. Dan dreaming Alma as his mum is well twisted, but the image of Hunter wearing a suit over his bodyarmour... 

[NicTei]

Woo!  Another in the pro-Zeke camp!    I was beginning to worry that I'd have no one to share these waffles with.

[NicTei]

   It didn’t take long for Pixie and Zeke to free everyone from their bonds.  Things were complicated, though, by the fact that the madman’s machete was nowhere to be found; when Hunter asked him about it, he simply replied with ‘stuck’ and began to sulk.  Hunter still had his knife, though, so Pixie made short work of the ropes, supported once more by Zeke.  When Hunter was free, he went straight for his rifle, handing Charity her pistols and Punk his handgun and rifle.  After a moment of thought, he picked up the Desert Eagle that DuBois had dropped and handed it to Dan.

“You might as well have a gun if you’re going to be sticking around,” he explained.  “Use this one for now; we’ll see if we can’t find you something better in Arcadia.”

Dan shook his head.  “No thanks.  I’d be more comfortable with something that doesn’t run out of ammo,” he answered.

Hunter grinned.  “I understand where you’re coming from, but this isn’t up for debate.  I want you adequately armed for whatever we run into between here and Arcadia.  We’re more likely to run into other Drifters, and accuracy doesn’t matter in the case of the living.  A chest shot will kill a man just as easily as a headshot.”

“I’m not big on killing,” Dan stated flatly.

“Then aim for the kneecaps.  Just take the gun,” Hunter ordered, his grin fading.

   Sighing, Dan took the enormous handgun and stuffed it into his waistband, glaring at Hunter as if to ask ‘there, are you happy?’  The leader merely walked away, probably checking to see that Charity and Pixie were doing alright.  Dan was more concerned about the fact that Punk still hadn’t sat up yet; he was just lying on his back on the floor, staring at the ceiling and occasionally letting out a soft groan.

“You don’t look so good,” he remarked, looking down at the Australian.

“Oh, shut up and move.  You’re blocking my view of the ceiling.  It’s really quite beautiful at this angle,” Punk retorted.

“Need any help getting up?”

“Help getting up, help standing, help walking…  Hell, I’ll probably need help eating, if it’s as bad as it feels,” Punk answered miserably.

“I’m sure we could find Chad around here somewhere and help you shoot him in the ass,” Hunter offered as he approached.

“Only if you promise to turn him to face me before I pull the trigger,” Punk replied with a weak smile.
Hunter nodded.  “I’ll have Dan help you up.  Charity will take a look at you when she has time.”

   Punk reached a hand toward Dan.  Grunting, he pulled the Australian to his feet, supporting him with his shoulder.  Alma noticed him struggling and got under Punk’s other arm, bearing the weight just fine considering the beating she’d taken.  Behind them, Jack was checking Leigh thoroughly for any sign of injury while she did the same for him.  Dan rolled his eyes.

“Get a room, you two,” he teased.

“We’ve got one.  Now get out,” Jack answered with a grin.

“Anybody have any idea as to what we’ll tell everyone living here when they wonder why their beloved leader is spread over a ten-foot area in front of the front doors?” Punk asked suddenly.

“No, why?” Hunter inquired, looking confused.

“Because there’s someone else coming up the elevator, and I really doubt whoever is in there is coming to congratulate us,” Punk replied, gesturing towards the elevator with his head.

   Sure enough, the numbers were lighting up in sequence as the shuttle rose closer and closer to the penthouse suite.  Hunter groaned before raising his rifle to firing position, aiming it at the doors.  Zeke’s face lit up as he cocked Vicki once again, and Dan began to wonder if he was always this bloodthirsty, or if seeing his comrades beat up had drawn it out of him.  He shook his head; definitely the first option.

   As the number fifteen lit up, Dan reached for his pistol, drawing it out of his waistband as the chime sounded and the doors began to open.  A tall man that they hadn’t seen before stepped out, ignoring them completely and heading straight for the broken window.  Zeke looked a little insulted when he passed by, but Hunter stopped him from raising Vicki to shoot the man in the back.  Reaching the window, the man leaned out and looked down, staring for a while before turning around to face them.

   His black hair was starting to gray around the temples, and there were deep-set wrinkles in his face, but his black eyes were sharp and youthful.  As he approached Hunter, his thin, austere mouth widened into a grin of sheer joy.  Before Hunter could react, the man was hugging him and blubbering ‘thank you’s and ‘bless you’s into his ear.  Dan didn’t have to glance at the other Drifters to know that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what exactly was going on.  At length, the man let go of Hunter and stepped back, taking a moment to regain his composure.

“I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done,” he explained, still looking a little awe-struck.

“And what exactly did I do?” Hunter asked.

“You killed him!  You killed the rat bastard!” the man cried joyfully.

Hunter shook his head.  “You’ve got the wrong man.  You’re looking for Zeke, my second-in-command.”  He indicated Zeke with his thumb.  “He’s the one who killed DuBois.”

   The man turned to Zeke and opened his arms wide to hug him, but the Drifter was faster, raising Vicki and planting the barrel firmly on the man’s chest.  Stopping cold, the man glanced between the shotgun and Hunter, who shook his head at Zeke.  Though the madman lowered his weapon, Dan couldn’t help but remember how Pops had been killed even after Hunter had instructed that he be left alive.

   Zeke seemed to take the order seriously this time, though, going so far as to clip Vicki back into place on the belt on his back.  Even so, the newcomer didn’t attempt to hug him again.  Instead, he bowed his head slightly, obviously still afraid of the easily-provoked Drifter.  Zeke snorted and rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

“I can’t thank you enough for killing DuBois,” the man repeated.  “I would’ve done it myself if it weren’t for his guards.”

“Hunter!  Are you sure I can’t kill him?  He’s annoying me!” Zeke complained, ignoring the man in front of him.

“No.  You can’t kill him; he hasn’t done anything wrong that you know of,” Hunter responded.

“I’m terribly sorry; he’s not quite all there.  Just try not to make eye contact with him, Mr…?” Hunter answered, asking for a name.

“Ah, sorry; how rude of me!  I’m Andrew, Andrew Pressly.  I was the Chief of Police here in Sunfield until the plague struck.  My family and I ended up here in the initial days of the attack,” he explained.  “We were doing fine until he came along, making up all sorts of rules and enforcing them with his guns.”

“Was this before or after the military quarantine failed?” Hunter inquired.

Pressly laughed.  “DuBois was the reason the military quarantine failed!”

“Care to explain?”

“DuBois was the commanding officer here.  He oversaw every soldier posted in Sunfield to enforce the border of the Boneyard.  When he learned that there were people hiding here safely, he abandoned post and brought nearly everyone with him.  Of course, he didn’t bring his stuff with him, and the soldier with the keys to the bunker locks returned to the main base, so he’s had to break in to all of them,” Pressly went on.

“After he got here, he started to take over.  There weren’t that many survivors hiding out here, but we were in dire need of leadership.”  He was lost in his memories now, staring out the window as he spoke.  “We flocked to him.  My god, we were idiots, but we wanted to believe that he could guide us, make everything better.  That son of a bitch took them and…and…”

“Look how that went,” Punk murmured.

“Everything seemed fine,” Pressly continued, ignoring Punk, “until the first time someone disobeyed him.  My wife didn’t think that ‘Level Eleven’ was a good idea, much less an ethical one.  My daughter and some of the other women were with her on the issue.”

Hunter cut him off.  “I think we get the picture; no need to relive it.”

Pressly shook his head.  “I apologize.  At any rate, there will be few who are upset that the bastard’s dead.  You’re wounded, no thanks to him; please, stay here for a little while longer, at least until the horde has cleared.  We absolutely must thank you for your services.”

Hunter sighed.  “Fine, twist my arm.  We’ll stay for a few more days.”

Zeke looked devastated.  “But…but…  What about the waffles!?  And Arcadia!  And waffles!” he cried.

“I believe we have waffles down on the fourth floor; that’s where we store our food.  A lot of the frozen food is still good, and we have microwaves and toasters plugged in next to the freezers,” Pressly offered.

“I think I love you,” Zeke breathed, staring at him.

He jolted suddenly, as if he’d been punched in the arm.  “No, no; I don’t really mean it.  I’m just saying that to get his waffles,” he said to the empty air beside him as he walked to the elevator.

“Are we going to be safe with him around?” Pressly asked after the doors had closed.

“I ask myself that question every morning when I wake up,” Hunter answered.

“And?”

“I’ll let you know when I have an answer.”

~

   For two days after DuBois’ death, the Drifters became a part of the large family that called the department store their home.  They met varying degrees of acceptance, from near worship to indifference.  Zeke, of course, was worse off than the rest:  if he met someone in the corridor, they either wanted to kiss his feet for freeing them or wanted to kill him for murdering DuBois.  Both were equally annoying to him, so for their safety, Hunter had confined Zeke to the twelfth floor.  He didn’t mind; he’d taken as many boxes of waffles as he could from the fourth floor and spent most of his time behind a wall he’d built out of the boxes.  As far as Dan could tell, he hadn’t opened any of them.

   Surprisingly, Emmanuel and Punk also confined themselves to floor twelve, though they wouldn’t say why.  Jack and Leigh, on the other hand, were social butterflies, spending as much time among the other people living in the department store as they could.  The surviving refugees were still there, as well, and had informed Hunter that they would be staying.  After a discussion amongst themselves, they’d decided that venturing back out into the zombie-infested wilderness so soon would be too much.  On top of that, the Drifters still had a horde to break through; the fewer people they had with them, the easier that would be.

   Against Hunter’s wishes, Pixie intended to continue on with them despite her injury.  Charity had cleaned it up as best she could and expected it to heal just fine, but her mobility would obviously be reduced.  After some intense debate with Hunter, he’d finally given in and let her do what she wanted.  Emmanuel and Zeke were expected to help her any way they could, though Dan knew that all the responsibility would fall to Emmanuel.  Zeke may have helped her before, but that was probably just some twisted scheme to throw everyone off and remind them that he was completely unpredictable.

   As for Dan, he’d joined Alma, Charity, and a still very sore Punk in destroying Level Eleven, throwing the mattresses that had been used over the railing of the second floor walkways that overlooked the zombie-infested lobby.  The women that had been forced to ‘work’ in Level Eleven wanted to set them on fire, too, but Hunter wouldn’t allow it.  He was of the believe that a burning zombie is just a way to get the virus airborne, or at least a way to douse the area in plague-ridden ash.  Instead they had to settle for burning the sheets on the fire escape, and the irony wasn’t lost on Dan.  All in all, life didn’t seem to be so bad anymore at the department store, now that the tyrannical DuBois was dead, and Dan could easily imagine staying here, zombies in the streets or not.

   On the morning of the third day, however, he woke up to a rough kick in the side and Zeke standing over him with a grin on his face.  Not what he wanted to wake up to.  Groaning, he rolled off of the bed he’d made from beanbag chairs that he took out of the toy store on the tenth floor, forgetting that the carpet was on the other side of the makeshift bed.  Hitting the cold tile below, he lay still for a moment to curse the world around him.  This was not going to be a good day.

“Wakey-wakey, Charlie.  Hunter wants to be rollin’ by nueve.  Said you’re coming with or I can scramble you like eggs.  And waffles.  Which are tasty,” Zeke relayed.

“Can you be normal for just one minute of one day?” Dan moaned.

Zeke glared down at him.  “Gee, let me think…  Pickles.”

“Hey, Zeke!  Hunter says that if you don’t have all those boxes packed up and ready, we’re leaving them behind!” Punk called.

Zeke was genuinely horrified.  “My waffles!”

   As he ran towards his boxes on the other end of the room, Dan slowly pushed himself into a sitting position.  For the first time since leaving the ghost town, he realized, his body wasn’t completely sore.  Punk wasn’t so lucky; as he approached, Dan could see that he had a slight limp, and he looked slightly pained with each step.  He gingerly lowered himself onto one of the beanbag chairs, letting out a blissful sigh.

“We need to bring one of these with us,” he breathed, closing his eyes.

“Fine by me, but you’re carrying it,” Dan answered.

“Aw, don’t be like that!  I’m your buddy!  Your friend!  Your amigo!” Punk protested half-heartedly; he was far too comfortable to be upset.

“Thanks for getting Zeke off my back, by the way,” Dan said after a moment.

“No problem; thought you looked like you could use a save,” Punk replied, waving his hand dismissively.

“I think I’m actually starting to get used to him,” Dan remarked.

Punk laughed.  “Don’t let him hear you say that; you’ll wind up in some bizarre situation beyond the comprehension of the rational mind.”

Dan shook his head.  “I think if he was going to hurt Alma or I, he would’ve done it by now,” he mused.

“That’s what Richard thought.  Damn, I miss that guy.  He was kind of funny; always cracking jokes,” Punk pointed out, lost in thought.

“As I recall, most of them were pretty damn racist,” Emmanuel interrupted, kicking the beanbag chair.  “Come on; Hunter wants you both ready to go in ten.”

“Can’t I get some coffee first?” Dan asked as he stood.

Emmanuel shook his head.  “The horde has thinned out considerably; Hunter wants to get out as soon as possible, before something else draws them back this way.”

“You mean something like a bunch of people running out into the street and shooting the place up?” Punk grumbled, but Emmanuel ignored him.

“Dan, Hunter also has you lined up for helping Zeke with Pixie,” he added before turning to leave.

“Should I be worried that I’m stuck helping the psychopath help the cripple?” Dan asked.

“You should be worried that you just said that out loud,” Punk replied.  “Pixie’s a good person, but she’ll shoot you all the same.  Of course, I don’t have to tell you about Zeke.”

Dan sighed.  “Is there anyone in this little group that won’t shoot me?” he asked.

Punk laughed again.  “Well, I won’t.  But that’s only because I’m too damn sore right now.  It just wouldn’t be worth the strain.”

   Hunter chose that moment to interrupt, booting Punk off of the chairs and roughly dragging Dan to his feet.  Compared to everyone else, he seemed incredibly impatient, almost anxious to leave.  His brow was furrowed, and even though he was ordering them directly, he seemed to be thinking of something else entirely, miles away from where he was now.  Every so often, he’d finger the radio on his belt.  Clearly, something was up.

   His heart sank.  Nothing but trouble had come his way since leaving the ghost town behind, and he’d had enough.  If there was so much as one more horde between him and Arcadia, he was going to lose it.  With luck, he wouldn’t end up like Zeke.  Or maybe that would be the best possible outcome?  After all, Zeke seemed pretty indestructible so far.  That might have something to do with his insanity, or it could be a part of who he was before he lost his mind.  Dan had to figure it was a bit of both.

   With a sigh of defeat, he grabbed one of the beanbag chairs and threw it over his shoulder like a sack, since he didn’t really have anything else to bring along with him.  A change of clothes had been stuffed into a small travel bag that was now bursting at its seams where it hung around his shoulder.  Other than that, he had only the pistol that Hunter had forced him to keep to look after, and right now it was jammed in his waistband again.  Punk had offered him a holster, but he didn’t have a belt to attach it to.

   Alma, on the other hand, had taken it upon herself to gather whatever clothes would fit in the large backpack she’d taken from a sports store on one of the lower floors, as well as a larger tent for herself.  Seeing her slinging the bag onto her shoulder with some effort while trying to hold the bundled-up tent under her other arm brought a smile to his face, making him glad that he didn’t feel the need to accessorize every outfit.  Even Pixie and Charity put together weren’t carrying as much as she was, but she didn’t seem to care.

   Hunter, Pixie, and Charity were standing by the elevators, looking at the rest of their motley crew.  As always, it was impossible to read Charity, but the other two appeared both anxious and pleased in equal measures.  When the other five started to gravitate towards the elevator, relief seemed to wash over Hunter’s face; he was more than ready to leave.  Zeke’s travel bag was almost bursting with boxes of waffles, and he was carrying another load under his arm.  Dan couldn’t see how the madman could possibly help with Pixie, weighed down with frozen food; the job would probably fall to him.

“Is everyone finally ready to go?  I swear you’re all slower than a fat crawler!” Hunter growled, though he couldn’t keep a smile back for long.

“Not all of us were beaten so lightly,” Punk grumbled.

“I’m not going to remind you again!  You have to say ‘Crikey’!” Zeke snarled, punching him in the shoulder.

“I’m not going to kill him, I’m not going to kill him,” Punk muttered as he rubbed his sore arm.

“Have a waffle; that should restore your cultural pride,” Zeke replied, shoving a box of waffles at him.

“Waffles?  You’re thinking of the Belgians,” Punk retorted, dropping the box.

Zeke glared at him.  “How dare you drop my waffles!  Do you know what I went through to get these!?” he shrieked, picking up the box.

“You have a problem,” Dan said, shaking his head.

Zeke grinned.  “Yeah, I know.”

“Guys, less talking and more moving!  I want to be in Arcadia tomorrow, not two days from now!” Hunter interrupted, pushing them towards the elevator.

   Despite the small size, the elevator car held the eight of them surprisingly well.  Hunter punched the button that would take them to the first floor, and within the span of a few minutes there stepping out into the barricaded hallway that they’d come in through.  Pressly was standing at the far end, just in front of the door to the garage, which would be their escape route.  As they approached, he nodded to them.

“Take care of my people.  If I come back and find them stuck in some harem, I’ll sick Zeke on you,” Hunter said with a grin.

“Darn.  There goes my brilliant plan,” Pressly replied with a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

“Hunter!  I’m not coming back here unless it’s to get more waffles!” Zeke shouted from the back of the group.

“Did he leave any for you?” Hunter asked quietly.

“Nope; the little bastard cleared us out,” Pressly answered with a slight smile.

“We’ll have to bring you a few boxes from Arcadia,” Hunter joked.

Pressly shook his head.  “I can’t stand them.”

Zeke started towards Pressly, reaching for Vicki, but Hunter redirected him to the door.  “Well, that’s our cue to leave.  Thanks for letting us stay!”

“No problem.  Try to stay alive out there!” Pressly called after them shortly before Charity closed the door.

“Everyone ready?” Hunter asked, bending down to grab the handle of the garage door.

“Let’s just get out of here,” Punk answered.

“I’m going to get pies in Arcadia, and build a fort out of the pies, and make a pie cannon, and rule the world with an army of pie zombies!” Zeke schemed out loud.

“Pies?  What about waffles?” Dan asked.

“Will everyone just shut up?” Emmanuel snarled.

“I think that’s a ‘yes,’” Charity answered the leader.

Hunter grinned.  “Let’s go.”

[Burningplain]

Good Chapter. I thoroughly enjoyed that. Look forward to reading more.

[Chinaren]

   Adds to ever growing list of stories to catch up on. 

[ViP Perry Tratchett]

We're finally on the move again!

[NicTei]

   The streets appeared quiet, but Hunter kept his guard up.  There had been one hell of a horde here until yesterday, so he knew that there were zombies about and, as everyone knew, they were always more dangerous when you couldn’t see them.  Unfortunately, he was also aware of the fact that they were running low on ammo.  Food wasn’t such a pressing problem; they’d stocked up before leaving the department store, and if all else failed, they could always try to choke down some of Zeke’s frozen waffles.  Their encounter with DuBois and his goons had essentially dried up their ammunition, though, so if they ran into any of the undead, they’d have to be careful and not waste their shots.

   Not that they’d fire their weapons in the empty streets, anyways.  That would just call the other zombies out, and they’d be right back where they started:  looking for a safe haven in the middle of a zombie-infested Boneyard.  After talking to Pressly for a while, Hunter knew for a fact that there were no other survivors in Sunfield, so unless they ran back to the department store, they wouldn’t be getting any more help.  For all intensive purposes, they were on their own.

   He stopped; something had made a noise to his right, behind the only parked car in the street that still had all of its tinted windows intact.  Emmanuel caught his eye and nodded before moving off in the direction of the car, pulling on a pair of gloves.  There was a muffled groan and a sickening crunch before Emmanuel appeared around the front of the car, removing the gore-covered gloves and shoving them haphazardly into a back pocket.  Hunter glanced around, but there were no other signs of movement; none of the other undead in the area seemed to have noticed.  So far, so good.

   Of course, he was worried about Zeke, as any sane Drifter would be.  If anyone was going to screw up their escape it would be that crazy little bastard.  Sometimes he wondered just how rich he would be if he got a dollar for every time Zeke threw the biggest damn wrench he could find in even the smallest, most inconsequential of his plans.  His lowest guess was around six figures.

“Zeke, come here,” he called as loud as he dared.

“What’s the sitch, bitch?” Zeke asked when he got there.

“I want you to keep Vicki quiet until we’re out of the city, okay?  I know you’d just love to re-kill some zombies, but the rest of us would rather just get to Arcadia without seeing another moving, decomposing corpse, alright?” he ordered, talking as if Zeke were a child.

Zeke seemed to think for a moment.  “Fine.  But you’re buying me a pie when we get there,” he answered at length.

“Deal.”

   Grinning, Zeke returned to his position at the rear of the group, just behind Dan, Pixie, and Alma.  Hunter sighed; Zeke would still probably screw them all over at some point, regardless of what he’d just said.  There was absolutely no guarantee that he was being sincere, or that he really understood what he was saying.  Sometimes, Hunter was convinced that Zeke was just running on instinct, and said the first thing that came to his mind regardless of whether or not it made any sense whatsoever. 

   There were occasions, however, where he’d see some sort of cold, calculated intelligence behind his grin, albeit insane intelligence.  Those moments usually preceded evenings where he couldn’t sleep, no matter how hard he tried.  Even after more than a year with the kid at his side, he still scared him.

   Thankfully, he was behaving himself at the moment.  He’d nearly thrown a fit earlier about the loss of his machete, and how Hunter wasn’t going to let him go retrieve it from the skull of the unfortunate undead he’d faced so many nights ago, but seemed to have calmed down.  Now he was dutifully watching the rear, occasionally glancing into his pack to check on his stock of waffles.

   Another noise caught his attention, this one in an alley to his left.  Punk took this one, drawing his bowie knife as he stalked towards the source.  They didn’t really have to kill any zombies that happened to catch their attention, but Hunter felt that they could at least thin the horde by a small amount, even if all they managed was cutting a couple of heads out of the brain-chomping collective.  If the survivors in the department store ever decided that they wanted to make a run for it, every little bit would help.  Punk returned to the group shortly, wiping his knife off on his pants before returning it to his waist.

   Even though there were only eight of them, moving towards the city limits was slow going.  Pixie’s injury was a big part in the delay, but they were also being overly cautious due to the possibility of gathering another horde to their position.  Just ahead they could see the barricades and an old, broken-down tank; the military blockade at the edge of the city.  They were close.  Only the length of a football field remained between them and the road to Arcadia.

   Hunter stopped and listened.  Any second now, he expected to hear the deafening sound of Vicki being fired off for some arbitrary reason, or Zeke screaming at the top of his lungs about waffles or something else that was equally pointless.  Everything was going way too smoothly for them to be able to leave in peace.  He started to walk again when Charity started to give him a strange look, but remained tense, ready to run for the sandbag walls at the slightest indication of Zeke staying true to form.  When they’d closed half the distance, he slowed down enough to make sure everyone could gather around and hear him clearly, even though he kept his voice low.

“Emmanuel, I want you to get Pixie on your back and take Punk with you.  You’re going to run to the blockade and start getting helping her over the walls,” he ordered.

Pixie started to complain, but he stopped her.  “I don’t want to hear it.  You wanted to come along, and you know that I expect my orders to be obeyed.  You’re essentially crippled, so you’re going to listen even more intently than normal, understood?”

She nodded reluctantly, not meeting his eyes.  “Fine.”

“Good.  Punk, you’re their shield.  Nothing touches them unless it has a pulse,” he continued.

“Can’t you send Zeke along?  He’d be a better bodyguard than I would,” Punk offered reluctantly.

“The big guy wants to keep me close to keep an eye on me.  Doesn’t trust me not to call a bunch of dead-heads down on our asses,” Zeke replied with a maniacal grin.  “And our waffles,” he added after a moment of thought.

“That about sums it up,” Hunter agreed.

Punk sighed.  “Fair enough.”

“If push comes to shove and something does go wrong, I’ll provide ranged support while you get Pixie over the wall, and I’ll send Zeke to your position to help cover your backs,” Hunter finished.  “The rest of us will keep moving at this rate and clear out any undead that we run across.”

“And if something goes wrong?” Alma asked.

“Run like hell.”

“Hey, I like that plan!  I can do that!” Dan said, grinning.

“What do you want a cookie?” Hunter replied with a roll of his eyes.  “Emmanuel, Pixie, Punk; get going.  The rest of you, stay on me.”

   Reluctantly, Pixie draped her arms around Emmanuel’s broad shoulders, wrapping her good leg around his waist as he stood up.  He held onto her upper legs and started to jog, shifting her slightly to make it more comfortable.  Punk ran alongside him, keeping one hand down by the handle of his knife.  As they ran ahead, the Aussie would occasionally point to either side, singling out any undead that were wandering about aimlessly on the side streets or behind cars.  Hunter sent Zeke or Charity to deal with them, the latter using what appeared to be a nightstick, though he couldn’t remember seeing her with one before they left.

   They were a few dozen meters away from the barricade when tragedy struck.  Or, more accurately, Zeke struck.  He’d gone to deal with a stray down an alleyway when another suddenly lunged out of a door, biting deep into his shoulder.  The body suit protected him from the deadly bite, but he still reacted instinctively, shaking the zombie off before whirling around firing Vicki point blank at its face.  The gunshot resounded through the alleyway, and out into the streets as the zombie’s head was reduced to a red-brown splatter on the wall behind it.

   Everything fell deathly silent, and Zeke grinned sheepishly at Hunter. When the first moans reached their ears, Hunter swore loudly and took off at a dad sprint for the military blockade, where Pixie was just clearing the chest-high sandbags.  Emmanuel and Punk had turned around at the sound of the shotgun blast, and were now vaulting over the wall with relative ease.

   Chancing a look back, Hunter groaned; as with the day they’d first reached the Boneyard of Sunfield, the streets were filling quickly with the undead, despite how slowly they moved.  Dan and Alma were already passing him, with Charity close behind.  He paused a moment and took a well-placed shot that took down two of the closer zombies that had been standing almost single-file.  Turning, he saw Zeke kneeling down at the tank, playing with something on the ground.  When he saw what it was, his heart nearly stopped.

“Stop playing with the grenade and run!” he bellowed.

   Zeke looked up, rolled his eyes, and pocketed the explosive before beginning a half-hearted jog towards the sandbags.  Dan had already ushered Alma and Charity over the four-foot wall and was starting to climb over himself.  Only Zeke and Hunter remained.  Picking up speed, Hunter leaped as high as he could, his midsection crashing into the top of the wall.  Scrambling over, he rolled when he hit the ground on the other side and pushed himself to his feet just as Zeke vaulted nimbly over the top of the wall.  As soon as he touched the ground, he pulled the pin on the grenade, drew back, and hurled it as far as he could over the wall.

   There was a moment of silence as the explosive sailed through the air.  When the explosion came, it wasn’t as loud as Hunter had expected it to be, though he could feel a tremor in the ground.  Slowly, the moans of the undead began to retreat; they were going after the source of the noise.  Zeke grinned at Hunter, who collapsed onto the ground, taking deep gulps of air.  Dan was a few feet away, also breathing hard.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked, giving a weak smile.

Hunter shook his head.  “Shut up, Dan.”

“You can’t deny that went better than expected,” Punk breathed.

“You’re right; I can’t,” the leader added with a nod, “but it definitely didn’t work out exactly as I’d hoped.”

“Did you really think it was going to be a cakewalk?” Emmanuel asked; he didn’t seem out of breath in the slightest.

“No, but I really hope that’s the last time Zeke gets his hands on a grenade.”

Zeke grinned.  “Kaboom.”

~

   After their narrow escape from the horde of the damned, the Drifters took a half-hour rest on the other side of the barricades, catching their breath while Hunter was going over the route they were going to take to Arcadia.  It was a fairly simple trail:  a straight line between the Boneyard and Nester settlement.  The problem seemed to lie in the fact that it intersected the route of another Drifter group that may be in the area.  To hear Hunter talk about the other group, they weren’t terrible, like Momma’s gang, but he seemed reluctant to cross their path anyways.  He was looking for any alternative routes that would take them to Arcadia quickly, but without running into anyone besides the odd zombie or two.

   At length, he decided that there was no other option, and they set off.  Dan and Alma were still helping Pixie, with Zeke standing by in case something went wrong, while both Punk and Emmanuel were a few hundred yards ahead of the rest, keeping a wary eye out for the undead and any other obstacles that might be presented as they made their way towards the settlement across the vast, empty prairie that had probably once been the site of a major highway, judging by the slight dimple in the terrain trailing away from Sunfield and the dark grey chunks of tar that could be visible at random points within.

   Only one minor conflict arose when a crawler that Emmanuel had overlooked bit down on the toe of Hunter’s boot.  Unhurt, the leader simply gave the unfortunate undead a good kick to dispatch it, wiping the gore off on the grass before continuing to move along.  Zeke remained on the lookout for anything behind them, but was constantly losing concentration and either bugging Dan or running off to inspect something that he’d seen from a distance.

“Hey, that looks cool!  Be right back!”

   Dan rolled his eyes as the madman darted off for about the seventh time in five minutes.  He was glad that the kid had saved their asses both times they were in trouble in the Boneyard, but he was still irritating beyond belief.  What he’d done inside the department store didn’t make him any less unnerving, either.  Dan could still see the emasculated guard writhing on the floor when he closed his eyes.  He glanced up ahead, thinking that he saw Hunter raise his hand to signal a stop, but when he returned his gaze to where Zeke had run off to, he saw only the tall grass of the prairie.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he muttered just before Zeke exploded out of the grass, screaming as if he’d been shot.

   Hunter tore away from the group, sprinting to where the madman was standing, clutching his temples.  When he realized that this wasn’t some ploy, Dan swore and started to run, too, with Emmanuel and Punk right behind.  Alma cursed at him, stuck with the slow-moving Pixie, but he ignored her.  If something was wrong, especially with Zeke, they might be safer if they were far away.

   Zeke had collapsed to his knees, and was shaking his head vigorously, his fingernails still digging into his temples.  Vicki was on the ground roughly a foot away, tossed away without reason.  Hunter was trying to help Zeke to his feet, but the madman resisted, pulling away and curling up on the flattened grass, still holding his head and screaming.  Any zombie in the area had to know where they were by now, and Dan realized that he was unconsciously holding the Desert Eagle, the safety off.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Punk asked Hunter.

“I don’t know!  I’ve never seen him like this!” Hunter snapped frantically, staring at Zeke with a mixture of shock and concern.

“Maybe something set him off?” Emmanuel suggested.

   Dan scanned the ground.  Other than the prairie grass, there was a single, tall, thin plant with thick bulbs spaced at irregular intervals along the stem, ending in a bright yellow flower:  goldenrod.  He nudged Hunter and pointed at it, but the leader shook his head.

“I don’t think a plant could’ve done this to him,” he said flatly.

“Who are we to guess what goes through his head,” Emmanuel replied, wrapping his hand around the plant and preparing to pull.

“Stop!” Zeke bellowed, suddenly back on his feet.

   Emmanuel let go of the stalk as if he’d been stung and backed away from Zeke, who was giving him the same dark glare that he’d given DuBois shortly before killing him.  Dan started to raise the pistol, not really caring that he was between the madman and his shotgun.  That just put him in more danger.  Zeke stalked forward, crouching down in front of the goldenrod.  He ran a finger down the stem, tracing a circle around each bulb while muttering to himself.  Finally, he stood up and turned towards Dan.  Startlingly, his expression was neutral, more unreadable than ever.

   Stepping around Dan, he lifted Vicki and stuck the shotgun back on the custom holster on his back.  Without another word, he started off in the direction they’d been going before, leaving the other Drifters by the plant.  Dan looked at Punk, Hunter, and Emmanuel in turn.  They all had the same confused expression on their faces, and each of them knew what the others were thinking.

What the hell just happened?

[Chinaren]

Nice one Nice.  Though I'm (obviously) confused about that last part.  Intriguing.

[Burningplain]

A thoroughly enjoyable chapter Nic. I look forward to reading more.

[ViP Perry Tratchett]

That last part is certainly a good teaser ending.

[NicTei]

   That night they found a campsite centered around a random patch of dried-out dirt and built a fire where it was safe, feeding the hungry flames the prairie grass.  As usual, Zeke set his tent up a few meters away from the rest of the Drifters, a crank-lantern lighting up the three-person shelter and bringing out the bright reds and blues of the canvas that it was made out of, casting his shadow on the side.  Hunter, Emmanuel, Punk and Dan were sitting around the fire while Charity tended to Pixie and Alma; the latter hadn’t really spoken about her injured eye since she was rescued from Momma’s camp, but Dan knew that it probably hurt like hell.

   He had to admit that he admired her apparent strength; she’d gone from living in a fallout shelter in a ghost town for seven years to a Drifter camp, to the wasteland, to a Boneyard, and then back to the wasteland, all in little more than a week.  On top of that, she had lost an eye and been beaten up by the guard of a very corrupt ex-soldier.  She should’ve cracked by now.  Come to think of it, he should’ve too.  Well, at the part with all the beatings; he was fairly use to being on the move.  Maybe he’d really been a Drifter all along?

“Dan, what do you think?”

Hunter’s question snapped him out of this thoughts.  “What?”

“I asked what you thought about staying in Arcadia for a few days to resupply,” Hunter repeated patiently.

“That’s up to you.  I’m pretty new to this Drifter thing,” Dan answered, raising his hands in a passive gesture.

Hunter watched him.  “Just ‘going with the flow’ isn’t going to work for me.  You either have an opinion, or you’re a zombie with a pulse.  I don’t care so much this time, but if you don’t have anything to offer for us in the future, we’re leaving you solo or at a settlement.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Dan replied sarcastically.

“Don’t think I don’t mean it.  I can’t stand useless people,” Hunter warned.

“But crazy people are just fine, right?” Punk snorted.

Hunter glared at him.  “Don’t go there, Punk.”

Punk stood up.  “Why shouldn’t I?  You saw how he acted today!  Hell, I thought he was going to kill Emmanuel, and over what?  A flower.  A fucking flower!  He’s too unpredictable, and you know that!  Keeping him with us about as safe as keeping a wild dog in camp.  Sure, he’ll be fine while we can entertain him, but one day he’s going to bite us hard.”

Hunter opened his mouth, but Punk cut him off.  “I’m not done.  Look, I’ll be the first to acknowledge that he’s useful to have around.  He saved our asses twice back in the Boneyard, and I’m grateful that he did, but he’s becoming increasingly unstable.  Even you can’t tell what he’s going to do anymore, can you?  Are you willing to risk our lives by keeping him here?”

   Everything fell quiet when he was done.  Dan had the sinking feeling that Zeke was listening from his tent, but when he glanced in that direction, the light inside was off.  If they were all lucky, he was fast asleep.  Somehow, he didn’t find that very likely.  Back across the fire, Hunter had stood as well and was staring evenly at Punk, arms at his sides.  The Aussie wasn’t backing down, despite the fact that he was a few inches shorter and nowhere near as armored as the leader was.  When Hunter spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.

“Zeke has been a part of this group since we saved his life.  He knows that he owes us; he’s not going to kill one of us.  As for knowing what he’s going to do, I never did.  I’ve always trusted that there’s enough honor in him, buried under all the bat-shit insanity, to give him the understanding that we’re not targets, we’re comrades.”

Punk snorted.  “Do I need to remind you that he hacked Pixie’s leg off back there?” he asked. 

“No offense,” he added, turning to Pixie behind him.

She looked up at him.  “I’m taking offense on Zeke’s behalf.  He ‘hacked off’ my leg because I’d been bitten.  If he hadn’t, I would’ve been dead and reanimated by now.  I don’t know what made him come back for me, but I’m glad he did.  It may not seem safe to keep him with us, but I don’t think he’ll hurt us.”

“Emmanuel, tell me you’re with me on this,” Punk pleaded, turning to the Drifter in question.

Emmanuel shrugged.  “I’m with Hunter and Pixie.  Zeke’s been with us for almost four years.  He’s not going to start going postal now just because of a plant.”

Punk turned around.  “Dan?  Alma?  You can’t just leave me alone on this!”

Dan wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Alma repeated Emmanuel’s shrug.  “He’s never threatened me, and he did save us from DuBois.  Crazy as he is, I think he’s harmless.  Well, to us anyways.”

   Punk looked at everyone in turn, desperately searching for any indication that they’d change their minds and side with him, but nobody gave him any ground at all.  Cursing, he stormed away from the fire, headed towards his tent.  Dan winced when he shouted another curse; apparently the zipper was more trouble than it was worth.  When he finally succeeded in getting in the tent, everything fell silent again, save for the soft hissing and popping of the fire.  Dan glanced at Hunter, who was staring intently into the heart of the flames, as if mesmerized by the crumbling log in the center.

   Finally, he shook his head and sighed.  Dan thought the leader of the Drifters looked exhausted.  Charity glanced at him as well, though she said nothing.  From across the fire, Emmanuel was also watching his boss, though his expression was far less neutral than Charity’s:  he appeared concerned.  He cleared his throat.

“I wasn’t going to admit it when Punk was here, but he has a point,” he said carefully.

Hunter nodded.  “He had a few points.”

“You don’t have to agree with his idea for a solution, but you can’t deny the problem:  Zeke is getting more and more unstable,” Emmanuel continued quietly.

“That may be, but I can’t just make him leave.  As I told Punk, he’s been with us a while, almost since the beginning.  He deserves more than a quick boot out of the group,” Hunter stated firmly.

“Look, I know you think of him like your little brother, and I don’t blame you; everyone tries to fill that kind of void somehow,” Emmanuel began, but Hunter stopped him by standing up again.

“He’s not a replacement for Lee.  We’re done talking about this.  Everyone hit the sack; we’re moving out early tomorrow morning and I’m not going to wait for anyone,” he growled before storming off.

“Amazing how you handled that one,” Charity remarked sarcastically to Emmanuel as she followed after Hunter.

   Pixie, Alma, and Dan were left sitting around the fire, none of them quite sure what to say.  By far, Pixie looked the most uncomfortable; if she could, she would’ve left as well.  Unfortunately, she had no crutches other than the other Drifter’s shoulders, so she was forced to stay where she was, unless she wanted to try hopping away on her good leg.  Alma was keeping her expression as neutral as possible, but Dan could tell she was thinking about the exchange.  As for himself, he knew that his face conveyed his confusion, and he didn’t really care.

Eventually, Pixie cleared her throat.  “Sorry you had to hear the parents arguing,” she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

“Don’t worry about it.  I’ve heard worse,” Dan answered dismissively.

“I came from a spoiled household.  Loving father, likely zombified mother; everything a girl could want,” Alma added, smiling disarmingly.

“Punk’s brought this up before,” Pixie thought out loud.  “Right after Zeke killed Richard, he wanted to leave the poor kid behind in Osprey Cove, the settlement we were closest to at the time.”

“I haven’t heard that guy mentioned even once in happier context,” Dan observed unhappily.  “I’m starting to wonder if Zeke’s just trying to figure out how to kill me and when.”

Pixie laughed nervously.  “I wouldn’t worry about it.  He can get out of hand, but he’s not going to simply off you in your sleep.  You’ll get fair warning, at the very least.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” Dan groaned.

~

   Later that night, Dan was lying awake in Punk’s tent.  He’d thought that without Jack and his deafening snoring it would be easier to get to sleep, but Punk fuming in his sleeping bag while pretending to be asleep wasn’t much better.  The only reason he knew that the Aussie was still awake was because he could hear the unmistakable sound of a knife being sharpened underneath the sleeping bag.  Why his roommate would be sharpening his knife was beyond him, so he decided it was time to take another walk.  Obviously, he hadn’t learned anything from his first night with the Drifters.

   As he zipped the flap back up, he checked his waistband for the Desert Eagle, not wanting to be outside without a weapon.  He couldn’t get the conversation around the fire out of his head, and felt even more aware than ever that Zeke was unpredictable, and possibly dangerous.  Hell, more than ‘possibly’ dangerous; he was downright deadly.

   Up above, the sky was full of stars, and he found himself standing just outside the tent, picking out the constellations that his father had pointed out to him in his backyard when he was seven years old.  Or maybe he’d been five?  Well, he’d been younger, anyways.  Now he found his memory fading, except for Orion’s belt, the three stars lined up almost perfectly.  Unfortunately, he’d never really had much of an eye for the rest of the constellation; he only saw more stars.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

   Alma’s voice caught him by complete surprise and he screamed in a manner that even he found far too feminine while trying to pull his Desert Eagle out of his waistband.  He felt his face turning red as she doubled over with laughter, and he stopped trying to free the weapon; apparently something was caught on a loose thread.  She managed to get herself under control again, but still let out the odd giggle.  He cleared his throat.

“What are you doing up?”

She shrugged.  “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to take first watch.”

Dan glanced towards Zeke’s tent.  “I think Zeke pretty much takes care of the night watch.”

“Charity said that he never really seems to sleep,” she said with a nod.

“I’m starting to wonder if he’s even human,” Dan muttered.

Alma stared out at the dark plains behind them, the silhouettes of the Boneyard just a collection of small, dark shadows on the edge of the horizon.  He could tell that she was thinking, but wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.  At length, she shrugged again.

“In this world, you’re either human or you’re one of them.  His brain may be a little scrambled, but it’s still pretty damn human,” she stated.

“Scrambled?  I’m not sure that’s the term I’d use, but that’ll do for now,” Dan agreed with a laugh.

“Well, I don’t like to be mean,” Alma replied with a sardonic grin.

“When we first met you shoved me against a wall and pistol-whipped me.”

“I was having a bad day.”

~

   Inside his tent, Zeke was cleaning Vicki, wiping the gun down with an old, dirty rag. Behind him, his bag was lying open, and inside was an abundance of boxes of ammunition for the shotgun.  An old map was sticking out between two of the boxes, with a bunch of cities crossed out or circled.  As he wiped the gun down, he was talking to the thin air beside him.

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so careless, I wouldn’t have to keep saving you!” he scolded.

A moment of silence passed.  “Really?  You’re saying I’m the careless one?  Do I need to remind you that you were the one who almost didn’t make it off the bridge in the Boneyard?”

“Oh, don’t try to play the ‘not my fault’ card.  I’m not even going to mention the elevator!  Out of all the shitty boxes to choose from, you picked the one with a dead-brain in it!”

An even longer period of silence began, ending only when he made a frustrated noise and set the shotgun down before turning to face the empty space beside him completely.

“I’m sorry, okay Lucy?  I didn’t mean it.  Do you still love me?” he asked sincerely.

A grin lit up his face.  “I know.  I love you, too."

~

   When Dan woke up the next morning, he was aware of two things:  Punk was staring at him, and Alma was sleeping next to him.  After performing a cursory check inside the sleeping bag to make sure that they were both still wearing their clothes (they were), he got up quickly, though he was careful to make sure that he didn’t wake her.  Pushing Punk out of the way, he stepped outside and stretched.  He didn’t have a hangover, which meant that he hadn’t been drunk the night before, but all the same he couldn’t quite remember what exactly had happened that led up to him and Alma sleeping in the same tent, let alone sleeping bag.  He didn’t have much time to think about it before Hunter was ordering him to help Punk and Zeke wake everyone up so they could get going towards Arcadia.

“Only a good twelve-hour walk there.  The sooner we set out, the sooner we get there.”

“Remind me again why we’re going there in the first place?  We left the refugees in Sunfield, and we also resupplied there.  Is there any real advantage to stopping at the settlement now?” Dan asked.

Hunter stared at him.  “Arcadia is the main settlement for ammunition production, and there’s a man there that I need to see.  Besides, we’ve always stopped there; I don’t see a reason to skip it this time around.”

“I guess that works as a reason,” Dan muttered.

   By that time, Zeke had awakened everyone with a few shotgun blasts relatively close to the rest of the tents.  Packing up didn’t too long, and they were moving towards Arcadia again in no time.  Dan sincerely hoped that he would get used to all this walking sooner or later; as much as he enjoyed the idea of simply staying put in Arcadia, there was something about the way the Drifters lived that intrigued him, insane shotgun-toting kid aside.  It was probably just his mind deteriorating.  Another few months living like this, and he’d be just as bad as Zeke, talking to imaginary people and freaking out at the sight of prairie plants.

   Their walk was relatively uneventful for the most part, though after five hours had passed they started running into the undead more often.  It was frequent enough that Hunter stopped just as Arcadia was coming into view, scanning the horizon for any more of the infected.  Zeke was acting strange, as always, but would glance in the direction of the Nester settlement every five seconds.  Dan was a little unsettled by his behavior and edged away from him.

“Something doesn’t feel quite right,” Hunter said.

“That’s an understatement.  In the past hour we’ve shot at least sixty zombies,” Emmanuel pointed out.

“One-hundred-and-thirteen.  I counted,” Zeke interrupted, not looking at them.

“We were low on ammo when we left the Boneyard, and I don’t think we can afford to lose any more.  From this point on, no shooting the undead unless it’s absolutely necessary, alright?” Hunter instructed.

“Knives or bare hands; got it, boss,” Punk answered with a grin, drawing his knife.

“Wait, where the hell is my glory-grabbing death machine!?” Zeke shouted, pulling the empty machete sheath off of his belt.

“Can we just throw Zeke at them?  I’m sure that’d work as a distraction,” Punk asked, and Dan could tell by his tone that he was only half joking.

“And if we threw you, it’d be twice the distraction and we could all get through the gates in one piece that much easier,” Hunter growled.  “We’re not losing Zeke, and that’s final.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Punk sighed, letting the issue go.

Hunter stared at him for a moment before shaking his head.  “At any rate, there may be more zombies between us and Arcadia. No telling what could be waiting for us there.  With the exception of Pixie, Dan, and Alma, I want everyone moving quickly.  For all we know, the Nesters could be in trouble.”

“Which would mean that we’re walking into a trap?” Dan asked, though it was more of a statement.

   No one corrected him.

[Chinaren]

Hey!  I remember this story! 

Nice to see it back Nice, and a good chapter too.

[Burningplain]

Nice chapter nic. I look forward to the next one.

[Angel]

I'm thoroughly enjoying this one Nic. I 've spent the evening catching up and I've flagged to make sure i come back to it. Anyhow, I have to say I like Zeke and keeps me very amused.

Read more later.

[NicTei]

China:  Good to see the alcohol hasn't killed off too many brain cells yet.

Burningplain:  Capital letters, Burps.  Next one should be up...um...before the end of the Mayan calendar.  I hope.

Angel:  Ooh, a new reader!  Glad it's entertaining you so far, and I'm glad to know I was missed. :3  I also have to applaud you for taking 14 chapters in one night; with how long they are, that must be a new record, or something.  You, madame, have just won an internet.

Oh, and score one more for Camp Zeke. xD

And on a completely different note, I've decided that since I can't seem to get in the correct state of mind to write Myste anymore, this will be what I send in for my five free proof copies from CreateSpace for the NaNo competition.  Which brings me to my next point:  I need a cover.  Upon completion of this manuscript, I'll probably set up a topic (or at least make a post on this thread) asking if anyone can make a cover for it.  Doesn't even need to be mind-blowingly awesome, just so long as I don't have to use my own picture, like I did for Purity. >.>

Anyways, that's all for now.  More updates later.

[Angel]

What can I say? I'm awesome! :-D