Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Volume 4 release tomorrow

Hello everyone. Tomorrow is the 1st and that means another volume of Life After Death is ready to be released.  There will be six stories this time, two from each of the authors.  The same format will be used, with a story per day until they are all posted.

Some future news:
Now that we have a sizable amount of content and have proven to ourselves that Life After Death is going to be more than a simple side project to be forgotten, we are planning to upgrade to an actual website soon.  It will probably take a little while, so keep on checking out the blog for updates.

The LAD Team

Monday, August 30, 2010

Works by Kathryn Ormosi

These are the collected LAD works of Kathryn Ormosi for quick reference:

Before We Came to This Place

Thursday, August 19, 2010

LAD Website Original: Carl's Story

Carl's Story
by Steven Ormosi

Carl opened the back door and looked around.
Wordlessly he motioned his team into position. They had four minutes to destroy the cache and get out. He saw one of his men eyeing a semi-automatic weapon and grabbed him. Carl shook his head “no” and pointed to the corner of the room holding up one, then two, then three fingers. Start counting.

The plan had been worked out beforehand. There was a strict code of silence to be observed while they were on task. Four people: one to take stock of what was being destroyed, one to douse the place and light it, one for lookout and Carl was there to oversee everyone and make sure nothing went wrong. He trusted his crew, but they weren’t the smartest tools in the shed and this needed to be done right.

The cache as it turned out was located on the bottom floor of a two story house that had been abandoned, then repopulated by Billy the Kid’s customers and trusted associates. He specialized in money lending and did a little drug running on the side. They had dispatched the outside guards quietly and right now, they were fixing to burn this mother down not ten feet below a glorified opium den where several of Billy’s clients no doubt festered.

Carl looked around. This was going to be important and crippling to Billy, just like Kelly needed. The place was littered with hardware and taking a few guns was tempting, but they didn’t want to give any obvious reason for retaliation. Walking around town with guns stolen just before a fire wiped out the building, along with whoever was upstairs, certainly qualified as a reason to retaliate.

Carl was hoping that they’d catch Billy himself upstairs and squash the whole feud tonight, but their intelligence had let them know he was at another house, and the security around him would’ve made the operation a logistical nightmare anyway. Just as the count was being wrapped up, the lookout signaled an interloper approaching. Carl stood near the door and waited as the stairs creaked. Everyone held their breath. A man’s voice came wafting through the door, he was singing.

“Myyyyyy body lies over the ocean, my body lies over the s—“

Carl grabbed the man’s head as he walked through the entrance and jerked it to the left until he heard it snap. “Bonnie,” he whispered in disgust.

Everyone winced.

Carl put up one finger and twirled it in a circular motion, everyone knew what it meant,
"let’s get this show on the road." The crew finished dousing the room and threw a Zippo in as they were leaving through the same door as they had entered.

The fire was lovely. Carl watched from a distance and smiled. Nothing like getting the job done right, he thought, the adrenaline rush slowly ebbing. Kelly would approve.

Monday, August 16, 2010

LAD Website Original: Time to Die (No One Here’s Getting Out Alive)

Time to Die (No One Here’s Getting Out Alive)
by Scott Thurlow

The West Coast
5.2 miles outside of Los Angeles, California, USA


We were fucked. Totally fucked. I knew it, but I’m not sure everyone else did yet. They would soon. We had no idea what we were doing, and neither did anyone in charge by now. If there was anyone left at all. Even if someone up in the chain did order us to stand down or retreat, there was nowhere and nothing left to rendezvous at.

Just a year or so ago we were fighting dudes in deserts, crawling through caves and mountains, searching for people in them. Now, people were everywhere. We didn't need to look for them at all anymore, anywhere, because they’d come looking for us. At least, they used to be people. I’ll say the enemy instead. And they were about to overrun us. It was a real No Quarter situation. All kinds of FUBAR’ed. Us or Them. Victory or Death. And it dawned on me which one it was going to be for our side.

How do you fight these things when they won’t ever give up? They won’t retreat. Killing more of them never lowered their morale. They didn't care how many of them we shredded to bits. They were just going to keep on coming until we couldn't keep up. We were all fucking Fucked, with a capital “F.”

How could it come to this? We were the best goddamned army in the world. We never lose, right? It’s funny how I always thought that, but the thing about being fully aware of your fucked-ness is, there’s a moment right after you realize that you are in fact completely and in all ways possible, absolutely fucked, that this strange feeling of freedom hits you. It’s hard to notice at first, since it’s buried under the full-on fear. But when you know, finally know, that you’re going to die, somehow awfully, sometime very soon (and there’s shit all that you, or anyone, can do about it) you just kind of go with it. I just didn't give a fuck, anymore.

I decided I would go out the way they taught us. I centered myself and aimed at the enemy. Then I started emptying my clip into them. Shouting the old training chants from back in basic. Trying to catch as many as possible before they got to me. When the freshest batch was about 20 or 30 yards away, I dropped the standard issue and pulled out my sidearm.

“Semper Fi!” I yelled as I brought my Beretta up under my chin. Just before I pulled the trigger, I flipped the enemy off. Do or die, fuckers.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Volume 3: Souled Out

Souled Out
Scott Thurlow

I left for New Shroudsburg because of the calling, (or, the culling), whichever way you want to cut it.  There was plenty, of that, (too.)  History having been, (and will forever), be written by the victors, (or, survivors), so again, it’s your call.  In any case, I left because, I was convinced, there was, something, to be gained there.  Judging, (at the time), from the rumors, that flowed off of it, (like, the eventual, blood), there was enough of everything, that anyone (like myself), who was looking for anything to make, (or take), for themselves, could find.  (So, there I went.)

New Shrouds, for short, was absolutely crawling, with opportunity, (it turned out.)  Pay careful attention, to my choice of, words, there.  Since, I was someone who fancied myself as walking, (fully upright), it seemed, quite ripe.  The city was a burned out shell; this place was a bona fide, (certified), cesspool.  If eyes, (truly), are windows, to the soul, then here- both of yours, had best be black, (as starless nights.)  Thusly-- exactly where I wanted, (to go.)

The situation, had been shaping up, (for a few.)  Tensions were escalating, (but, then, wasn't that the default emotion, for the times?)  You’d think, (at least.)  Anyway, all kinds of factions, were converging within, (and upon), the town: armed prophets, bands of disciples, thugs, visionaries, missionaries.  All seemed to name, (and title themselves), whichever moniker seemed to, best, advance their cause, (and, call followers to it.)  Conversely, they branded the opposing camp, whatever convenient term was equivalent, in their language, for, “enemy.”  I, could respect, the intent.  My personal title, could be best described, as such: Preacher, Prophet, Profiteer, (Triumvirate.)  My skills, encompassed: Having no soul to sell, no innocence to corrupt, no conscience to question.  But, (lacking all these), I could nevertheless still recognize, when those who had them, could be convinced, to part with them, (as I instead had plenty of planned frauds, and all kinds of angles.)  If you wanted to believe it, I could tell you, sell you, it.  Choose your delusion.  Belief, (At bargain prices!)  Faith, (Wholesale!)  Discount on desperation, (Today only!)  Think of it as marketing, (or, Sales.)  Advertising.  It goes, a long way.  Almost, (to the end.)

The city was good times, (that is, profitable, the only way I know, how to measure these-- types, of things), for a while.  Making market deals, (and scrounging up whatever else, of use, was lying around), was a cute little timekiller.  And, so was that Kelly girl, (her, I could do with, right now.)  The bar was nice, too.  But, it all became boring, (soon enough.)  Eventually, that, (contemptible), council they had going, would've become too much of a totalitarianism, (to suit my purposes.)  That, kind of politics, was not for me, (my friends.)  Men have always attempted, to impose their various--wills, on others, but, the only one that truly matters in the end, is the will, (to live.)  If you have that, value it, (above all else), then maybe, you had a chance for survival, period.  So it was, always, (and will forever), be.  Further, since I was, in fact, someone who fancied myself as walking upright, I figured, I did (have that, will.)  More so, than most of the “leftovers,” as I called the remaining (living.)  The dead, I had no name for.  They had their scattered bogeyman, (or, monster, names), but really, (what it came down to), they were just new obstacles.  The facts of life, if you like, that had to be--dealt with, as anything else.  Think of it as going shopping, (with knives.)

Previously, it was still possible to, approach, close enough to New Shrouds, to slip in, amidst the unrest.  I tried to travel light, and, on an empty stomach, (when possible.)  Lean wolves, fight fiercest.  Money, and bartering, were all well and good, but, as I said, the only currency left, (that could be of any real use, or value), was the power--of persuasion.  If, you could save yourself, by convincing, a stranger, to die (instead of you), or murder, someone else (for you), you might as well, be a god.  Obviously, this was the time for new gods, because, all the other old ones, were now long gone, (and forgotten), or dead, (and impotent.)  Time, for a new hierarchy, (of pantheons.)  To, impel them, to worship, what they so clearly, wished to.  People practically sold themselves, in the beginning.  The price, of a soul truly, is-- about thirty coins, of gold, (plus tax.)  To preach a man a pitch, is less tiresome, than teaching him how to fish.  It must have been what Jesus (or, perhaps, L. Ron Hubbard), would've felt.  I hope, that, I'm being as clear, as clear, (can be.)  Can you, in fact, guess, (my name?)  To, convince, others that you, yourself, were, the solution, (to all their problems.)  This, my friends, is incomparable to any weapon, that can be wielded, (physically, or, otherwise.)  In the land of the lost, the consolidated man, (is King.)  And I thought myself nothing, (if not consolidated.)  Survival, is salvation, (the Message, was as simple, as that.)  You can’t be betrayed, if you never fully trust, anyone, (I always thought.)  It’s all about the basis of belief, my friends.  Well, look no further, (Come,) (all ye, faithful), for here, lied, answers.  Martyrs never profit, (in the end.)  The trick, was to make them all think that they had the requisite wherewithal, (believe.)  That, when push came to shove, they’d definitely roll over, and die, (and, moreover--want to.)

But, (as you might, or might not, already know), someone needed to be set up, for the actual--act.  A, fall guy.  Plus, it had to be packaged, (correctly.)  You, had to make them, think, they deserved it, (or, were more-- Worthy.)  An issue, of advertising, again, in a way, (like most everything else.)  The space race, of prediction.  The passion, that was the fashion, of the day.  Guarantee your package was better (or, at least, sounded more intrinsically appealing), than the competition’s.  The problem, became, was that everyone else, started realizing this fact, too, (or was going to, soon.)  It wasn't too, difficult, to figure out, really.  It came down to, the familiar matters of: how fast could you preach, (or, reach), potential converts, before the opposition got there, first.  Location, is everything.  Tell them nothing, (or, everything, anything.)  Whatever, they needed to hear.  Just, make sure you were, heard, (and obeyed.)  But, when one man finds the answer, another, loses the question, (completely.)  Think, of it as--a stock crash, of sorts, (of Souls.)

And thus: the time, has come.  I wait here for the price, (that every sage, and soothsayer), must pay when they fail, (to deliver.)  I miscalculated, in the game, (of survival), and the stakes of mistakes, (as I have stated), are rather high.  It, remained though, a rather, meticulously, (and deliciously), played round.  I profited much indeed, made it rain prophecies, (in Fact.)  But after all, in the end, I chose, (sold), the wrong delusion(s), (and thus, am Doomed.)  I was, it turned out, no great prophet, (at all.)  It’s what happens, when you don’t, live up to your, standards.  Your reign, (of Greatness), indeed, flickers (out.)  You’re screwed (or, outdated.)  All preached out, (but not, Afraid.)

I must admit, (however), that I find it a more tasteful-- Fate, than that poor fool, who was exiled, (off to Freemantua.)  Better, to be cast down, by those who once accepted you, (Fully), than cast out, by them, (Entirely.)  So, very soon I’ll be dead, (and, will have no name, either.)  Here, you might be inclined to ask: “how?”  Seeing, as everyone ends up dead, (or, worse), though, it’s all only ever a matter, of how, (therefore, it’s actually irrelevant.)  Instead, I will answer the only clear question, that, (after hearing all this), you should have.  Was, it worth it?  The only thing I can tell you, (for sure), is that, it all depends on your conviction(s) in what happens, next, to those in my-- position.  Perhaps, you have one, (Final), question: Do, I regret it?  I can only, respond, (Would You?)

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Volume 3: Accidentally Like a Martyr

THE HOST FROM THE SOUTH
Accidentally Like A Martyr
by J. Ian Manczur

Thunder rolled softly in the distance. The wind had picked up, scattering debris on the streets with a clattering playfulness. It was definitely going to rain, just a matter of time. Thomas sighed and squatted as comfortably as he could on the rooftop. The climb had been exhausting, but he had expected it. After all, the building had not been designed for easy access to the roof. It was worth the effort, though, the view was spectacular.

The building that sufficed as his abode for the evening was the tallest on the block by at least a whole floor. Except for the hospital that obscured the east, Thomas had an almost perfect perch to spy the entire area. He could see the dark silhouettes of what had once been the grand metropolis to the north, the blackened smoke of the ever-raging fires melding with the coming storm clouds to the north east and the literal darkness that had enveloped his entire civilization any direction he looked. Thomas couldn’t shake the feeling that it was indeed over, that all that would be left of humanity was its ruins.

With the night’s functions over, the unaffected joined the sleepless on the three other rooftops that made up this particular section of the block. Thomas was staying in the westernmost house; his border being the dark expanses of Beuller Park, their unfortunate destination for the next day. No one was happy with staying on the ground for any length of time, but it was the only choice they had. A river blocked the north and fires had begun to ravage the eastern part of town. The southern route meant retracing steps, reliving horrors, and definitely fighting for every inch of movement. West, through the park, was the only viable option, even though it would more than likely lead to their deaths.

Thomas turned to his host, whom were busy distracting themselves from the what ifs and maybes of tomorrow. Tonight, they would make the most of it. Thomas spied a few couples watching the coming storm, enjoying what might be their last night together. A loud bellow from two houses down drew Thomas’ attention. It was Andy, pissed off about something again. Chris and Erik ran after him, trying to calm him down. Hassan and Jeremy chuckled at the sight and returned to robbing goods from the newbie soldiers in a game of poker. AJ and John played War silently, wishing that Ike and Better Dave were still here for their once nightly game of Hearts. Meanwhile, George, with his baby blues and beautiful voice, serenaded the girls and their hopeful courtiers with guitar in hand. Humanity was not in ruin after all, life was progressing as it always had.

The moment was ruined by a shrill call from the inside. Other Dave was beckoning and as much as Thomas would have liked to ignore him, he knew he couldn’t. Thomas called in acknowledgment and began his slow descent inside.

Other Dave began before Thomas even reached the floor, “I just want to say that your speech went over really well, sir. I believe, no, I know that the mood has not only risen but is elevated to a level it was never at before. We were all truly inspired, I know I was.”

Thomas stared at him silently.

Other Dave waited for him to say something.

Thomas continued his silence.

Other Dave went on, “Anyway, I just wanted to remind you that the good doctor is expecting you in an hour.”

“And this couldn’t wait for… what reason?”

“I figured you would want some time to prepare. Punctuality is the essence of success.”

Thomas didn’t bother to respond, instead he moved to the window to once again listen to the music outside.

“I’ll leave you alone for now. Remember, one hour!”

Thomas didn’t even acknowledge his exit. Soon, the guitar playing was over and people were headed to what they hoped to be peaceful sleep. Thomas’ night had only just begun. Showering and shaving with a jug of water and donning his one good pair of clothes, Thomas felt clean for the first time in two weeks. He even recognized himself in the mirror, a feeling he thought would never happen again.

The doctor’s apartment was located in the same building. As he walked down the two flights to the bottom floor, Thomas wondered how he would convince her to join the group or even if he should. He approached the door and hesitantly knocked, growing louder with each subsequent rap. The woman who opened the door stunned Thomas into a brief silence. She was a short brunette radiant in her summer dress. Thomas fumbled for an introduction, barely able to say his own name.

“A pleasure to meet you, Thomas, or is it Father Thomas?”

“Tom is fine, and the pleasure is all mine, Doct..”

“Felicia. There’s no need for formality.” She led him inside. “You know, you’re a little shorter than I pictured, but then from the stories I’ve heard, I expected a giant. You certainly are preceded by quite the reputation.”

“All lies.”

“And each with at least a grain of truth, I bet. But, come inside. I hope you’re hungry. I didn’t know if you had eaten yet, but I prepared some food anyway. Nothing too fancy.”

“I am a bit peckish.”

“Good. I’m sorry I can’t offer more, then again, I’ve never much of a cook. I’m sure a decent amount of wine will make this meal the best you’ve had in awhile.”

“Midnight is my favorite time to start drinking.”

“I know, I know, it’s kind of late, sorry for that, but I’ve always been sort of a night owl.”

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t have time to sleep anyway.”

The food was terrible. Thomas bore with it out of politeness, nibbling every now and then. Meanwhile, Felicia busied herself with small talk that would have been appropriate and even funny if not for the absurdity of the stories in the face of the apocalypse. Thomas listened with the occasional nod and comment, not having much to say beyond that, and noticed that during pauses Felicia drank more and more of the wine. Upon pouring her third glass, she noticed Thomas looking.

“I’m sorry, I drink when I’m nervous.”

“Oh don‘t be, I‘m sorry that I‘m...”

“No. No, its not you. I..I just haven’t hosted anyone in a long time.”

“It is the end of the world.”

“Hah hah, long before that.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It's true, I’ve always been so caught up in my work.”

“I understand how that can be.”

“Yeah, work, life, I was actually writing a book before this whole thing happened.”

“Really? What was it about?

“It's silly, a fictionalized account of the Spanish conquest of the… I’m boring you.”

“No, it’s interesting.”

“You don’t have to patronize.”

“I’m not. Do you still have a copy? I‘d like to read it.”

“It’s really not that good.”

“I’m sure it’s phenomenal.”

“Maybe one day… So, what brought you to the priestly profession?”

“Believe it or not, fate.”

“Divine providence?”

“No, nothing like that, I mean maybe, I honestly don’t know. Enough about me, so I‘m led to believe you‘re an academic…”

“Once upon a time, about twenty years ago. I was more of a glorified teacher for the past couple of decades. But, what is this enough about me? I‘ve been doing all of the talking.”

“Sorry, I’m not much of a talker.”

“Nonsense, I heard your speech earlier. It was wonderful.”

“It’s the smaller kind of talking that I fail at.”

“Well, I have the perfect thing to open you up.” Felicia reached over and filled Thomas’ glass.

“Trying to get me drunk, are you?”

Felicia winked. “No, just trying to loosen you up a bit.”

A bottle and a half later found the two drunk on the couch, losing themselves in the stories of their lives both pre- and post-apocalypse. Thomas was now doing most of the talking.

“I wasn’t completely naked and covered in blood, like you may have heard.”

“I haven’t heard anything of the sort.”

“Well… that’s the story they tell. I was shirtless, however, and drenched in blood and wielding a chainsaw. You’d be surprised, everyone touts the chainsaw as this go to weapon. I find it unwieldy and ineffective, hell, I lost it against the first.. creature I killed. So there I am: out of ammo, weaponless, have the two kids behind me with about twenty of those damn things heading straight at me.”

“Oh my God.”

“My thoughts exactly. In fact, I was ready to make my peace with him. I expected to die, but maybe, just maybe I could stall long enough for the kids to get away. I grab their attention, the creatures, not the kids, and bolt for the door. I’m running wildly and I can hear their feet pounding right behind me, I can feel them reaching out for me. I make it to the door, fling it open and slam it shut behind me.”

“You are one lucky..”

“Oh, it’s not even close to over. So, now I’m outside and at least one hundred creatures are looking straight at me. A real out of the fire into the frying pan situation.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“I don’t think you said that expression… never mind.”

Thomas paused for a second. “Fair enough. Where was I? Oh, right. They charge and I literally have nowhere to go. I notice a small gap in their numbers to my right and head that way. It leads me into an alley and straight into a dead end. The creatures (and I apologize for using that term so much but I hate the name “zombies,” makes them seem like some horror movie cliché) anyway, the creatures are right there. In fact, my only saving grace was that they were sort of clambering over each other to get to me. That’s when I see a fire escape a little above me, with the ladder still in the locked position, you know, when its not fully extended to the ground. But, the only way to get up there would be to do this kind of complex jump from the garbage cans to the ladder. Now, I’ve never been called nimble in my life, let alone at my age, but I say, why not, if I’m going to die, might as well try out some fancy footwork. And I make it. If you asked me to repeat the jump, I couldn’t for my life, but that time, it worked like magic.”

“What happened to the kids?”

“I’m just getting to that. So, anyway, the two kids, bless their souls, made their way upstairs, coincidentally to the room that attached to the fire escape. I’m now reunited with the them, but it’s only a matter of time before the creatures figure out how to get to us. All of a sudden, I hear a loud set of honks. It’s Jack, coming back for us. You’re not going to believe this, but Jack rounds the corner with a school bus of all things. He sees us and plows through the creatures straight to the fire escape. I help the kids down and jump to the roof of the bus. We finally reach safety and that’s the true story of how I saved those kids.”

“That’s amazing.”

“No, no. It’s what anyone would have done given the circumstance.”

“That’s not true at all.”

“I’m flattered, but…alright, my turn to ask a question. I was wondering about something. I’m assuming you are around the same age as me, if not a little younger..”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Hah, not falling for that one. I’m assuming we are about the same age, correct?”

“That would depend on your age, wouldn’t it?”

“A lady never asks, a gentleman never tells.”

“Let me guess, fifty-five?”

“I don’t look that old, do I?”

“Well?”

“Fifty-four.”

“About the same age.”

“Why are we the only…slightly older individuals left? I mean, most of the survivors are in their twenties, some younger, some older, but we have at least twenty years on the others. What happened?”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“I guess what I’m asking is: I know how I survived, how did you?

“I’d rather not go into that.”

“You made me promise full disclosure, I would have thought that applied to you as well.”

“I hid.”

“Obviously.”

“What? You got your answer.”

“Barely.”

“What more do you want?”

“I don’t know, maybe the whole story, unless you’re avoiding an answer for some reason.”

“…No. I should talk to someone, get it off my chest. If not you, who? I guess we all have ghosts in our past.”

“That is true.”

“In the sake of full disclosure, this isn’t even my apartment. It’s my sister’s. She was a wonderful girl, kind as they come, but not much of a people person.”

“I’m sure we would have gotten along swimmingly.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. She was.. difficult when it came to anyone but me. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“We planned to head to the city together, meet some of my friends and, you know, ride out the storm. I had come down to pick up my sister when.. IT happened. She was out, picking up some last minute things from the store and I stayed here to pack. We thought we had enough time. Then, I heard screaming outside and for some reason decided to check out what it was. I don’t remember anything that I saw out there. It.. it was just wrong somehow. So, I turned around and went back inside. That was the last time I opened the door. I didn’t open it when I heard people desperately searching for some sort of shelter. I didn’t even open it when my sister knocked, yelling to me, begging me to open the door for her. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. All I could do was sit there and cry. I could have saved her and I didn’t.”

“You..”

“No. I did. I killed her, Tom.”

Thomas didn’t know what to say, he just held her close and caressed her hair as she softly cried. “You know, if you had tried to save her, you would have probably been killed, too. You made the right choice.”

“Bullshit, but thanks for trying to cheer me up.”

Thomas smiled warmly at her.

“How about another story, got anything to raise the mood?”

“I’m short on feel good stories, unfortunately.”

“Well… what about the two kids you saved?”

“You wanted a cheery story.”

“I’m curious. What happened to them?”

“I really don’t want..”

“No. You are not going to pull that shit with me.”

Thomas sighed in resignation. “Before I tell you what happened, I should probably preface it with this story. In the chaotic first week..”

“As opposed to this week?”

“I actually find now kind of relaxing, comparatively. While I was still trying to organize the survivors, I found, I literally stumbled, upon a young lady I once knew. I’ll clarify, I didn’t really know her, per se. She used to waitress at a diner I once upon a time frequented. I saw her enough to recognize her and for her to recognize me. She happily joined up and brought her two kids with her.”

“How old are they?”

“I’m terrible with ages. Old enough to walk on their own, but too young to take care of themselves. They were cute kids. That night, their mother confessed that she had been bitten. I don’t know what she was thinking would happen once she told me. I had to do the right thing. She begged me to let her live, that she had to take care of her children. I mean, what was I to do? I had to. I promised her that I would look after her kids. I did my damndest to protect them. And then I failed, I couldn't save them.”

“From what you've told me, you did more than admirably.”

“ Wasn't enough, was it?”

“I'm sure their mother would be happy with how well you took care of her kids.”

“I got them killed. I’m sure she would be fucking thrilled with the news!” Felicia winced at the outburst. “I’m sorry, it’s still a raw nerve. They only died yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yup. Crossing over to this damned street. The two kids (I don‘t even know their names), Jack, a whole bunch of good people you don’t know and, now will never know, all died out there. The worst part is, I don’t care.”

“You do care. Otherwise, it wouldn't have affected you the way that it clearly has.”

“You’re right, I used the wrong word. I’m angry, sure. But, I should feel.. despair. It’s different, though, more of a general melancholy, if you get what I mean. The deaths themselves feel…almost natural now. Maybe it just hasn't hit me yet. Hell, maybe I haven’t been able to process any of this yet. But, I’m afraid of what might be the actual truth: that I've made my peace with it. I feel like their deaths don’t even matter. What’s a few more dead when six billion died too. I made a promise to keep them safe and I couldn't. I promised to keep all of them safe, every single one of them still waiting on me to deliver. I don’t know if I can do it. I‘m going to fail them, like I failed the kids.”

“You can save them.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You’ll find a way. We’ll find a way.”

“Well, this has certainly turned depressing.”

“Yea, kind of failed at this whole dinner thing.”

“You’re right. You are a terrible host.”

Felicia laughed at the remark. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re an asshole.”

“Every day of my life. Doesn't change the fact that you’re a terrible host.”

“I have an idea.” She grabbed him by the hands. “You want entertainment? Follow me.”

The two traveled past the kitchen to the apartment’s private balcony. It was a secluded spot overlooking the river, safe from the prying eyes of whoever else might have been awake at the hour and the ever hungering eyes of the dead. Thomas took his seat first, and although there was another chair, Felicia sat down on Thomas’ lap. Neither said anything, content with sipping wine and watching the full fury of the storm that had finally descended on the town.

Felicia broke the silence. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Yea?”

“I’ve been pretty depressed since the whole world fell apart.”

“Who hasn't?”

“Well, I just thought of something…”

“Go on.”

“No, it’s lame.” Thomas looked up disappointed. “Alright, I‘ll just say it. Without this whole thing happening, we would have never met and I‘m glad that we did.”

“Felicia?

“Yea?”

“You’re right, that was kind of lame.“ Felicia nudged Thomas in the stomach. Thomas pulled her closer. “So, what would you be doing right now if the world was right side up again?”

“Oh, probably asleep at this hour, resting for a day of lecturing to spoiled brats who couldn’t care less about what I was saying.”

“I thought you said you were a night owl?”

“Ha ha, making up for lost time. How about you? What would you be doing right now?”

“Don‘t know. Whatever it would be, I doubt it would be anywhere near as pleasurable as this.”

“Quite the charmer, aren't you?” With a passionate kiss, life continued on as it had always.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Volume 3: Partisan Lines

Partisan Lines
by Steven Ormosi

Kelly waved goodbye to the last of her clientele and poured herself a beer.  Her planning board would be here soon and she was none too happy with them about the way that the mayoral race had been panning out so far for Ed Jenkins.  With a week left, most of the polls they had been taking were too close to call and she needed her horse to win.  Hell, everyone did, most of them just didn't know it.

Ed had almost everyone important on his side.  His biggest obstacle was a fairly entrenched loan shark who had a lot of the poor and desperate people of the city in his pocket.  He went by Billy the Kid because, well, his name was Billy and he always kept an ancient six shooter on him.  Kelly was not fond of him and even less fond of the fact that Donovan had convinced the dirtball that he would be second in command of the city if Ed Jenkins lost this election.

Kelly was refilling her glass as her crew walked in with the usual swagger, grunting, "Evening boss," as they strolled up to the bar.

"Get yourselves a drink and sit down, we have some things to discuss," Kelly nodded at the taps.

Her guys settled in at the long table in the corner as Kelly locked the door.  "So, why are we here?" She asked.

Her right hand, Perry, spoke first.  "To be honest Kel, I have no idea.  I think we've done a great job with your boyscout and--"

"Let me stop you right there, Perry," Kelly interjected, "Ed Jenkins is a good man.  I admire that, and just because we don't always do things his way doesn't make him a fucking boyscout.  How about you do the job I told you to do and don't give me a million excuses about how a guy who is probably this city's best shot at getting out of the stone ages any time soon is too honorable to win a goddamn election.  We need him."  She swept her finger around the table.  "Each one of you needs him.  He can bring us all together.  He's our fucking George Washington, ok?  Now I don't want to hear any more about how well you've been doing until our poll counts have that scumbag Max Donovan eating dirt.  Understand me?"

They nodded and spoke in unison, "Yes, boss."

"Okay, sound off.  Who's working the north side of town this week?  What's our status there?"

Derek spoke up "I've got the north, we're running into pockets of Billy's guys doing some hard campaigning at the shops along Bristol St."

"Well you make sure that they know they're not on their own turf over there and give them the message tomorrow morning.  We've got a damn week left before the election, people, we need to keep Donovan's goons in check.  Just because you're not hustling bodegas for protection money anymore doesn't mean you're not allowed to bust some skulls.  I need results on this, make it happen."

"You got it Kelly."

"Sunny, Al, how are we looking in the marketplace?"

Sunny spoke up, "We're about 50/50 in there, boss.  Donovan keeps walking through, telling people that your boy Jenkins is trying to close down the bazaar.  The smarter ones don't believe him, but a lot of people are pretty stupid.  I think Jenkins needs to put in some face time there.  Talk to the people about how he's gonna help them."

Al added, "Or we could just bust Donovan up real good."

"Shut up, Al," Sunny said.

Kelly sighed, "For the hundredth time Al, we can't just bust Donovan up.  A: he's always protected and B: we can't look like we're trying to strong arm this election, we have to seem clean to make Donovan look bad here, so yeah, shut up."

"Sorry, boss."

Kelly reminisced upon how glad she was that she'd made these two work together.  Al was the tough guy of the group, great if there was a scrape but not the smartest tool in the shed.  Sunny was her thinker, he was invaluable in helping with strategy and he helped make sure she hadn't missed any details in her gambit.  Al protected Sunny while he got results in the marketplace for her.  "I'm going to have Ed do some walkthoughs over there, see if we can't change some minds."

"Good.  Moving on," She turned to Tony, "How's intel going on Billy?"

"The guy is armed to the nines, he's got a ton of supply and about twenty people working security for him at any given time.  I can't even get a meeting with him, let alone have a chat in the street.  From what I know, he's completely obsessed with getting that second in command job, but from his M.O. I'd say he plans to kill Donovan and take over the first chance he gets."

"Donovan would never make that guy his number two anyway," Kelly said, "he's too unpredictable, Max isn't stupid, even if Billy is.  How do you think he'll react when Donovan loses?"

Tony said, "I think it's best that we strip some of his power before we find out about that.  We might be looking at a gang war if we don't."

Kelly looked at her last lieutenant, Carl, "You up for some special ops Carl?  We need to make sure that Billy doesn't cause a shit storm once he realizes he's not going anywhere."

Carl simply nodded.

"Good, I'm getting some information tomorrow about a pretty large weapons cache that Billy keeps.  I'll brief you, then you've got one day to prepare and the day after that you hit him."

Carl smiled.

"Ok, that's about it for tonight.  Perry, make sure these jokers do their jobs.  Go talk to Jenkins tomorrow morning and let him know about that walkthrough.  Try to talk to Donovan, too.  Let him know we're watching him and that any dirty tricks he tries to pull will be public knowledge within the day.  That should at least give him pause if he thinks he can get away with fixing this thing."

"You got it, boss.  We'll talk to you tomorrow."

Kelly walked up the stairs.  Jonah's door was open as it always was when he was awake, he was reading by candlelight, "G'night Jonah.  See you tomorrow."

"Hey Kel, I was actually waiting up for you, just wanted to wish your camp luck with the big election."

"Thanks Jonah, but we don't need luck, I'm just hoping for a nice turnout."

"Ha, well, good luck anyway," he said.

"I better see you at the polls, buddy."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"You working tomorrow?"

"Bright and early," Jonah sighed, "In fact I'm gonna try to catch some sleep now."

"I'm beat too, gonna hit the hay.  See you after your shift tomorrow?" Kelly asked.

"I'm sure I'll need a beer or two."

"I'll have it ready, with a shot to chase it."

"Ugh.  I can't wait.  When I go blind, I'm suing you for damages."

"I'm sure the courts will be very sympathetic.  Good night."

"Night, Kel."

The next day Kelly woke up to the sound of the siren.

"Fuck!," she yelled as she jumped up from bed.  Coming out of her door she saw that Jonah had already left for his watch, "Fuck."

She hurriedly got dressed and ran down the stairs and out the door towards the Wall.  Upon arrival, she saw the bustle of people.  Sirens were still wailing, which meant watchmen were still cranking them, this was a good and bad thing.  On the good side, they were still alive.  On the bad side, whatever the hell was making them crank their sirens was still going on.

She sprinted towards the siren.  She'd always have friends at the wall and they'd know more about the situation than the sheep left at city hall anyway.  It took her about 5 minutes to reach the inner wall near the closest tower.  By the time she got there, the siren had stopped.  She grabbed the first person she recognized, "Ben!  What's going on?"

Ben turned, "Hey Kel, well, we have a small breach and we think we can fix it, thank god.  But our watchman is stuck up in the tower."

"Who?"

"Sorry Kel, it's Jonah.  I was just heading in to help," he said motioning at the protective outfit he was wearing.

"Get me a suit, I'm going in with you."

"Sorry Kel, I can't let you do that, we've got protocol, we can't let anyone but Watchmen in there, it could compromise the city."

"Ben, I don't give a zed's fucking asshole who it compromises, get me a goddamn sui--"

Just then she heard the gunshot.

Everything slowed down.  Kelly couldn't move.  She could only watch as Ben ripped himself away from her and ran towards the doors pulling on his helmet as he did.  The only clear thought in the turmoil of her mind was the phrase Jonah had said over and over, his mantra.  "That one bullet is to save my soul."

Kelly hit the ground hard, her legs giving way to fear and pain, her knees skidding against the gravelly rocks below.  She didn't care.  Jonah was dead.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Volume 3: Zombos, Guns (and/or) Bullets & Booze, Inc.

Zombos, Guns (and/or) Bullets, & Booze, Inc.
By Scott Thurlow

I got off one, maybe two shots before every light source in the section not already centered on the zombo horde engulfed them; all able and armed bodies in the vicinity simultaneously began pouring gunfire upon them. Their horking song was drowned out by the splatter of body parts exploding and shells dropping on the street. Damn fucking satisfying. Jimbo and a few others had opened up with their handguns from our position and were fully supporting the tower watchers. I took a few good shots myself [at least what looked like ones.] Hard to fucking see in the storm. I also wanted to conserve my ammo. I figured, why waste mine when it looked like this was covered? Last fucking bullet, and all that. So in that vein, I fired off one more for good measure and finally looked around.

The shit seemed like it was over. The first thing I did was listen. No leftover horking, just smoke and dust. Another damn good sign. We waited for official word from the towers.


“All clear!” a megaphone voice shouted down.

Further: “Just a small band of wanderers, not a major flock!”

Well, that’s fucking convenient. Everyone’s been answering my questions before I even had to talk. Spot fucking on. I guess the crowd looked bigger from our initial position. Grass is always greener I guess-and one must fucking go for it! The entire affair only took a few minutes, all said and done. Not so fucking bad. I relaxed a bit more and decided this called for another Jackal.

“Hey. Guess we’d better get back to the job here,” Jimbo called over. I nodded, but refused to put out the cigarette. Taking savory drags, I started to gather up anything I might’ve dropped or missed before the firefight.

As I was doing so, I thought how it was too bad the base was so far away from our present search sector, otherwise I might’ve been able to see these fuckers yesterday and put together some serious fun. And firepower. Maybe these zombos saw my “FUCK YOU” sign and decided to actually do something about it. Not likely, but that was pretty fucking funny to imagine. You bastards! I was smarter than you alive! Don’t think being a goddamned zombo is any kind of fucking advantage! All you fucking zombo are belong to us! I rejoiced in our little skirmish victory and joined everyone else in continuing our actual, original mission.

I was less cheerful for the fact that I hadn’t really managed to acquire anything all that useful on our car strip and search. Some pieces of plastic, a bundle of decaying papers. Of course not one motherfucker left a gun in their glove compartment. I always thought someone, anyone, anywhere, had to be the person who did that, but apparently not. Fuck ‘em though, I was determined to make this little excursion worth my time. The fight was a nice distraction, but how the fuck did that help me? Can’t use zombo parts to trade for anything. In fact the cost of its fun was that I was now minus a couple of rounds. Not fucking cheap. But maybe something could be done about that too.

We took the path we had mapped out back, a short loop into sections a few blocks away and parallel to our initial crossing. Covering more ground that way, it also gave me some more chances to find one fucking thing I could call my own. We all figured the council had some master plan to keep this shit going, and I also figured capitalism worked both ways. Venture fucking opportunity. As I was going through yet another dull gray interior and methodically slicing it out, I noticed a glint under the passenger’s seat. All that glitters is definitely not fucking gold, but I supposed I should be sure. Hoping against hope it was finally a gun, I reached under and felt what should be a lighter. Well, still something. Not completely useless. As I was clawing it out from the under the seat, something else hit my hand. That could be a fucking jackpot. If, it was something worthwhile to someone who valued it enough. I continued hauling out both the lighter and what ended up being a mostly but not fully fucked up cellphone. That might come in very fucking handy indeed. Finally something just for me. So far today, some action and some accumulations for future investment. All in a day’s work it seemed. I pocketed the trove and continued my labors in the recently-created [by the council of course] career of car-cover cutter.

We were closing in on the last few blocks, the familiar outlying sections near our base. A few more cars to go and then our trip down the Zombo-Brick road would finally be at an end. So long to this retarded endeavor. By early evening we had trudged back to the base and deposited our haul. Council also required that any “run-ins” be duly logged and noted. Fully-fucking-filed. So we had ourselves some fun filling out a: “Z.E.S. (Zombo-Encounter/Sighting) Report.” Someone from our merry band would deliver it, along with the covers, to them soon enough. Since no further orders, errands, or missions had come through in the meantime; I was back to being able to enjoy myself meanwhile [however fleeting it might be.] Now, finally, I could focus on finding that fucking booze after all this zombo-whacking, looting, and subsequent recording of said whacking. Fucking distractions. Plus, my earlier score might fetch a nice price somewhere. I decided it was market-time.

A trip down there would indeed be just the treat that I was now in need of. The place never stopped reeking of a completely pragmatic primordial putrid perfume. The stench of the struggle to survive: with a distinctly human stink. A repugnant, pungently pervasive primeval malodor of piss-soaked terror; intrinsically imbued with an inescapably faint hint of prospect. The permeable odor of “OHHHH Shiiiiiiiiiiitttttt!!!” spiced with just a touch of optimism; The persevering aroma of “…MAYBE [just!] MAYBE--We’re Gonna Be OK?!…” underneath the overwhelmingly prevailing fragrance of dumbfounded, dirty desperation. The undeniable scent of shit and scumbaggery sprinkled with a sprig of sunshine, lollipops and rainbows [and fucking unicorns too, I guess.] The smell of being surrounded on all sides by zombos and nonetheless screaming defiantly in their fucking face, “HERE. Be: HOOOooooOOOPE…!”[echoed endlessly and relentlessly as in if from a bottomless abyss.] All this constantly wafted through the gritty market air.

Similarly blowing in the wind was a recent phrase that I was just as clueless about as to how or why it originated, as everyone else seemed to be. It went something like this: “Well, which one’s it gonna be…the box of bullets, or the empty gun? ” The intent was more or less along the lines of: Sometimes, you’re equally fucked. Or sometimes just: You’re fucked, buddy, right now. Alternately: It’s the best of times and/or worst of times-just fucking pick! Finally, it could also be: “We’re ALLLL out of one [or the other.]” I mean, what fucking idiot came up with that idiom? Or was it supposed to be some kind of fucking proverb? Whatever else it might [or might not] mean or be as a phrase though, it was damn catchy [it did sort of “roll off the tongue,” you might say] and people would pepper their conversations with it. But, I guess in the goddamn Zombo Apoc, [there, I just invented a word, nay, phrase here, on the spot myself: ZomboApoc-- Fucking trademarked. Or copyright. Whatever] you can make up any damn old shit you want, as long as people know what you’re talking about, right? And what I was talking about right now was the fucking market. The bullets, or the gun? Well, I don’t have to choose, just yet, do I, buddy?

The deals to be had in this nest were better than any late-night commercial could ever offer. Free trade with hookers. Fucking council couldn’t stop that. Welcome to the new world order, dicks. Yes, the market was pretty great in its gloriously grim grandeur, in spite of all the other shit. I admit I reveled in it, a bit. Had a few whores, here and there. Why the fuck not? They had a lot of nice girls, down here. Not as much time anymore for bullshitting [I mean dating] and I had things to do. We all did, I guess. We’re all in this together, right? So I paid tribute to a real time-tested occupation when opportunity, time, and other circumstances afforded. Plus, who easier to trade some spare smokes to than hookers? I figured any time spent on blowjobs rather than drags of Jackals was a health asset to us both. Mutual benefits. I’m just a fucking humanitarian like that.

That old mechanic/electrician magician/motherfucker, he had that fucking ramshackle assembled-from-shit sign on his stall. Lenny I think. Or Lester. Some crap like that. It was on his sign, surrounded by all kinds of shit, but I kept forgetting. Ah yes, there it was now, Larry- purveyor of all electronic trash, blah blah. Actually that’s a little too harsh. The guy was alright, really. He knew how to fix all this shit and keep it running, so I suppose I couldn’t count him totally worthless. I think the council probably appreciated him for the same reason. But he still never shut the fuck up about anything, rambling to everyone and anyone who came trading to his stall. All the way back to the very first time I remember encountering him, when I got my trusty rifle, [or was it the bullets, goddamn!] No- definitely the rifle. Even that time, he jabbered incessantly. That much, I remember. Still, he’d probably be the first person to want a cellphone, ruined or otherwise, and thus the easiest way to dump it off, so I reminded myself to keep that in mind. The booze was item number one though, and I figured that there’d be time [and time] for the trading of fucking cellphones, just not at this damn moment. So I saved it for another rainy, zombo day.

Instead I instantly picked out Strizzy’s wreckage of a stall where it sat like a bloated fucking zombo head and prepared for our ritual of information and goods exchange. Strizzy himself was a shady bastard, but we had our system worked out. Our relationship functioned in a fashion that vaguely resembled that of Dr. Gonzo/R. Duke, except he really could be a fucking lawyer about shit sometimes, and I wasn't quite as crazy. I think he was some kind of small-time drug dealer back in the day. Pretty fucking likely, anyway. But what the fuck are you gonna do, when the motherfucking “ZomboApoc©” comes for you [and you need some fucking booze?] It was weird, I suppose, I knew, but it fucking worked for my…our, purposes. And that’s all that mattered. We’re all in this together, right?

When I got there he was pouring himself a cup of that grimy coffee he loved to slurp, oozing the oily, sludge-like brew into his familiar revoltingly crusty mug. How he could drink or indeed look at that fucking thing without wanting to puke was just one of the few, shall I say, quirks, of his that I have come to accept as part of his disgusting charm, but will never, fully, understand. He saw me approaching and reluctantly but genially [only this fucker could combine the two into one experience-another aspect of our dysfunctional dynamic] offered me one as well. Served in a double stack of red plastic cups of that kind that used to be copious at frat parties and shit. Before the zombos made their mad dash Sherman’s March across the world, through town, and crashed it. Bye Bye, Birdie! Anyway, Strizzy may have been a shyster in many other aspects of living, but I had to admit he was fucking courteous when he finally needed to be. And despite its repulsive appearance, the coffee itself was actually not bad, and I felt the concoction perk me up. Top fucking notch.

I guessed that he would’ve already known about our little excursion by now, since it wasn’t exactly “Goldeneye-class” shit. Not fucking important enough, who knows? And not that they’d tell anyone [least of all, us] anyway. Strizzy also confirmed the fact that he, and thus, all his information sources, were just as fucking clueless as I was about the grand purpose of it all for now. For now it seemed that we had been sent out on a trite and meaningless task [i.e. for no fucking REASON] We’d find out eventually, so why sweat it? The big news he had was that there was rumblings of some kind of election starting between some council bigwig buffoons. Was going to be a shitstorm, according to him. Well, what isn’t? While this was mildly interesting, I was still focusing on more immediate concerns. After some further plodding and plying, bantering back and forth guardedly, and another cup of coffee [which I counted as a win for me] he finally produced the purple rupee I had come to procure.

With practiced precision and technique, Strizzy unloaded a fucking motherload of booze from his magic compartments. At least as much as I’d seen in one place in a long time. He did still owe me, and since there yet remains some fucking honor amongst thieves in this little ZomboApoc© of ours, we negotiated that I would be receiving my choice of any three. A damn good deal indeed. I selected two fine, grimy bottles of Captain Ripps Rum; and one smaller one of single malt Seven-Head Hydra Whiskey* Country’s Best. Then, I departed Strizzy’s scummy stall and the mix of unpleasantness and cordiality it entailed. Peace, motherfucker.

With my real mission at last complete, I strolled back through the market. Haphazardly picking my way onwards through the maze, passing a couple of new girls that had either just set themselves up or decided to turn pro recently. One called out to me, “One toot on THIS whistle will take you far away, baby!” My reply: “No thanks, lady! No time for tooting! Not quite in the tooting mood today!” Had to be in the right fucking mindset when it was time to knock some fucking toots, right? Of that, you can be damn fucking tooting. And yes, they were all excellent window/eye candy, except that I had nothing else left I wanted to trade for love today. Sorry, whores, it seems I have no change currently, as it appears I spent all my bad pennies, already. Still fucking waiting for ‘em to come back. Though, I guess they will, eventually [right?] If the council decided to keep handing out more and more fucking “homework” assignments, anyway. Briefly that made me think of the kids in the schools they were trying to rebuild, and how fucked up that must all be. Though at least maybe soon enough they’ll have lessons in [or on] whether you should pick the bullets, or the gun? I stopped thinking about fucking kids then, and started thinking about getting fucking gone.

I started with the Hydra, to celebrate General Victory. [Here's to you, General!] Popping open the bottle on the street felt fucking great. That rule about saving the best shit for last? Fuck that. Tomorrow [and tomorrow, and tomorrow…] might be your last. But then, it might not. Gun or bullets, right? Anyway it was happy hour at last. Good times here again. I wandered lazily for a while, having a dog of a time getting decently buzzed while soaking in the waning market hours. I had no plans for the rest of the night, as Jimbo, or someone else, should be taking watch back at base. Kelly’s was still open, as usual, something was always happening at her place, but seeing as I had already acquired liquor, there was no reason to stop in just now; so I continued on my merry way.

I figured, with three bottles, I could possibly part with one later down the line if it came down to it. I could indeed use that box of proverbial bullets for my idiomatic arm. Yes, it might all end tomorrow et.al., but if it doesn’t, you still gotta fucking live to pick for now. Or… you could always just go [or get tossed] over the fucking wall. Both bullets and guns in general however were often not as available to us plebeians in favor of the watch guys. Fair enough again. You’re on your own in the end, right? Unless…we’re all in this together, instead. Either way, I needed to get on the towers, somehow, someday, still. Better than being VP. And definitely better than being fucking mayor. Good fucking luck to whoever those council cocksuckers were that were starting the real campaign crap up.

Suddenly, in the type of epiphany that only the finest grain alcohol [thank you Hydra!] can provide, the obvious answer came to me: maybe I could sell a slogan to one of them or some shit. I laughed mordantly and took another swig. Goddamn delicious, as long as there is whiskey in the world, there is hope. This would hinge slightly on Strizzy being reliable, but he never let me down [generally] in such matters in the past, and he did have a knack for them. So, putting two and two together, I devised my brilliant plan: If this election shit is really going down, maybe I can use his nebulous nefarious network to hook something up. I never figured I’d be dabbling in politics, but the times they are-a-changing. Though, not so much so, that a true politician wouldn’t still require the services of a shit like Strizzy. And, seeing as I was now placed in a position to better myself from all of it, why not? I never wanted to be a fucking lobbyist, but I also didn’t want to be marginalized by those ostensibly in power.

Besides, once everyone got wind of this, it was all they were going to be talking about. At the base, everywhere. “Bullets or gun, who ya gonna vote for?” VOTE FOR GUN!! Vs. VOTE FOR BULLETS!! There was going to be no fucking escaping it. But, as my muse was currently in a perfectly proper exponential ratio to my rate of consumption of booze, I thought -how could I solidly formulate something further, that could not lose? “Zombotown” [wonder if I should trademark that too?] might yet see the light of day. What was that other shit? “We’re all in this together?” Yeah, that could be some kind of fucking saying. Politicians liked that shit. I hoped they still did. Additionally- I hoped they might share my refined alcoholic tastes; they’d fucking better. At least, they fucking should. Don't they? Why wouldn't they, anyway? Fuckers...Wait! I had it—“What’s it gonna be buddy: Bullets, the Gun, or Me?” Yeah! Let them eat/suck on that shitcake, whatever the fuck it meant! Maybe I will stop by the bar, now that I presently had a reason to be interested in whatever conspiracies may or may not be being concocted at Kelly’s. I took another gigantic gulp of Hydra and headed to that home that was of: an "alternate" variant, to a multitude of many.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Volume 3: Caged

Caged
by Steven Ormosi

"This is the audio log of Archie Jenson Cooper, assistant to Dr. Penelope Harvey.  Daily report.  Reiteration of known facts, inferences and possibilities."

"Infected humans have a window of approximately 24 to 72 hours before complete cognitive collapse.  This occurs much faster in some than others.  The cause of this time variance is, as yet, unknown.  Speculation includes immune system deficiencies, extent of injury sustained, capacity for pain tolerance, mental capacity for resistance to psychological aggravation.  Possibly a combination of all of these or some other undetected or not yet conceived consideration."

"The actual metamorphosis appears incredibly painful, although we have not been able to extract specific verbal testimony to that effect, nor have we yet been able to test the pain centers of the brain for conclusive evidence.  For up to five hours before the actual change, most infected individuals will experience violent seizures and dehydration.  The injuries at point of infection often do not appear to be infected at all, presumably unless they become infected by some other pathogen.  During the last few minutes of the change, conscious verbal and motor functions cease almost altogether, giving way to seizures and gurgling, throaty vocalizations."

"Once the change is complete, infected do not appear to recognize anyone they knew previously and become intensely aggressive, attempting to consume the flesh of any living humans in close proximity.  If humans are unavailable and the infected individual becomes hungry enough, it will eat animals as well.  At this time it does not appear animals can be infected by the virus, though it should be monitored for mutation in the future."

"The infected display physical prowess consistent with human attributes, as long as the appropriate body parts are intact, including, but not limited to: running, lifting strength, ability to climb, bite strength, and striking strength, with the exception of no observed acknowledgment of pain.  The infected human's blood becomes viscous and clots incredibly quickly, allowing them to lose limbs or sustain gashes that under normal circumstances would cause a human to bleed out and die."

"The infected do not appear to excrete their waste products as normal humans do.  In fact, it would appear as though the infection changes the biochemistry such that the host body becomes incredibly efficient at burning any food taken in.  This means that infected can live without food for two and a half to three times longer than an ordinary human.  Contrary to the myths being constructed about them, the infected can die of food deprivation.  It is assumed that in nature, they will drink at available water sources as the infected will drink some water in captivity, but when deprived, it seems that any water needs the infected may have can be sated by whatever is in their food and their tolerance for water deprivation is incredibly high."

"At this point, our best guess is that as long as the infected outside the walls are kept out, the high concentration horde surrounding the city will thin considerably over the coming months, or possibly years, depending on how much sustenance is readily available, as infected begin to die of hunger or search for other food sources when the animal populations in the surrounding areas die out.  The hope is that once this happens, we will be able to seek out other survivors."

"The infection rate is incredibly high, nearing ninety percent.  We are keeping the only three known bite survivors at our facility here for research and testing.  Upon exposure they all experienced fever and delirium for roughly three days before the symptoms broke and they returned to a normal state.  All three individuals are considered carriers and very dangerous to the population at large.  We fear there may be more among the general population, but have no way to efficiently test for infection and no list of who entered the city just before the wall was finished.  At present there is no foreseeable cure, though we remain hopeful that our research here will be the basis for one."

"Sounds good, AJ," said Dr. Harvey, "But you forgot the part where none of this makes any fucking sense."

AJ pressed the record button and spoke into the microphone, "Addendum.  None of this makes any fucking sense."

"Better.  Lunch?"

After lunch, AJ walked back through the lab with two orderlies.  He opened the door all the way at the back and continued on.  Patients rattled their cages as he walked through, horking and gurgling at him.  It was unnerving, but not nearly as bad as the next room.  He opened the next door and walked through to the permanent quarantine holding cells.  The gulag, as he thought of it.  Three cells in here.  The survivors of the virus, left to a fate perhaps worse than changing.

"Hello," he said as he walked in, "Are we ready for our tests?"

"Please let us out," said the one on the right, Avery was her name, "We're fine, can't you see?  We're not infected."

AJ ignored her as he'd been instructed.  He was to make happy small talk and that was it.  Don't listen to their pleading, distance yourself from their humanity.  It pained him, but rules were rules for a reason, these three could never see the light of day again.

"You all look wonderful today," he said, "Please lie down."

The two men laid down on the ground, hands behind their back.  They had stopped fighting their fate weeks ago.  Avery, as usual, was resistant.

"Avery, don't make us put the collar on you."

She eventually acquiesced slowly, tears trickling from her eyes, she said, "Please, I want to see my baby.  I want to see my husband."

"That's a good girl."

Room by room he had the orderlies walk in and hold the patients down as he extracted blood samples.  When he was done, he nodded and said, "Thank you."

"You're a monster," Avery whispered.

"You're a monster factory!" AJ shouted, "You think I like doing this to people?"  He took a deep breath and regained his composure.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  Have a good night."  He walked out of the room with orderlies in tow.

On the other side of the door, AJ leaned back, drinking in the ugly, but almost musical, gurgling, semi barks of the infected.  It was much easier to deal with than the constant accusations that the carriers leveled at him.

"I hate this job sometimes"

Dr. Harvey looked at AJ, "Sometimes?"

"I hate this job every day.  Avery is right, we are monsters."

"Better to be a monster with a working brain than without."

"Is it?  They don't seem too concerned about the morality of their decisions."

"We didn't choose to be in this position, but we're the ones that have the best chance of finding a way to fight the infection.  Maybe even a cure.  Those people in there represent the very small portion of us who can fight the disease, but also the small portion that can wipe us out from the inside if they got free.  It's not an easy job, but you have a chance to save the world, AJ."

AJ laughed, "No, the world's already gone, all we can save now is this little slice of heaven.  Our own world."

"Better than nothing."
  
"AJ, I need to talk to you about something," Dr. Harvey motioned him over.

"Sure, what's up?”

"I was talking to some folks upstairs about the election.  If Jenkins wins, and it looks like he's going to, they're saying that he's going to send out an exploratory mission to see if there are any other survivors out there as soon as possible.  They asked me if I would go with them."

"Dr. Harvey -- Penelope, that's too dangerous, you're too important to the work being done here."

"I told them I couldn't go, I need to be here.  But what we do doesn't mean anything if there's nothing to save.  I need to see what's happening out there, in the wild."

"Let me go instead, I'll take detailed notes and samples.  That's all you'll need, right?  You can continue on without me."

Dr. Harvey smiled, "I was hoping you'd say that.  It'll be good for you to get out of here too, I think, you've been a little stir crazy lately."

"Did they say what they'd be looking for?"

"Not exactly, but they said there are some signs that there's a small settlement not too far from here.  If that's true we need to determine, on site, how many survivors there are and whether or not any of them are carriers before we bring them back here.  I'm sure the suits upstairs will also need a headcount for finding them all housing and making sure they're not so many they'll throw our food and water systems out of balance.  Our main goals will be sampling the dead out there for any anomalies, observing wild infected for any different tendencies than they exhibit in here, testing the survivors for possible immunity or partial immunity, and getting notes on what the conditions are like outside the walls.  This information could be vital, so if you get the chance to go, you'll need to be as thorough as possible."

"I won't let you down, Dr. Harvey."

"I know you won't, AJ.  You've been invaluable to me and if all goes well, and assuming Ed Jenkins doesn't screw up, this will be the most important thing you've ever done."

"Imagine finding a whole settlement full of people surviving somehow under the conditions outside the wall..."

"Just remember, you'll be there to observe.  Don't promise anyone anything you may not be able to deliver."

"I won't, I'm just getting a little excited, that's all.  I'll have everything under control when I'm out there."

"Excellent.  And remember, nothing's been set yet, so there's a decent chance this may not ever happen."

"Got it."

"Good, now, let’s transcribe those audiologs.  We don't want to lose everything we've worked for once--"

AJ finished her sentence for her, "We run out of batteries.  I know, I know.  Then it's quitting time."

"Not quitting, just resting," said Dr. Harvey.

"With beer," he said, taking out the journal.

"Yes.  Definitely resting with beer."

AJ wrote, "This is the written log of Archie Jenson Cooper, assistant to Dr. Penelope Harvey."