City of the Dead

Bates had served him well, long

before ... this. He would continue to do so-as long as the old man kept up the illusion of control.

"Mr. Ramsey? Sir?"

Ramsey turned in feigned surprise.

"Ah, Bates. Come in. I wasn't aware you were standing there."

"Yes, sir, you seemed lost in thought."

"Hmmm, yes. Yes, I suppose I was. I was thinking about these creatures.

I assume you're aware that we've determined another entity takes possession of the body after death, thus reanimating the corpses?"

Bates nodded. "Yes, sir. Dr. Maynard explained it quite clearly. Doesn't seem possible, does it?"

"Indeed. It seems like something out of an old pulp magazine. But that's what is happening. All one needs for proof is to take a walk outside the tower."

"I think I'll pass on that, sir."

"Oh, come now," Ramsey teased. "A man of your abilities, afraid to walk the city streets for fear of muggers?"

"It's not the muggers we need to be afraid of, sir. It's what they've become."

Ramsey chuckled, taking another sip of wine. He offered a glass to Bates, who declined.

"I'd better not, sir. We've still got a long night ahead."

"I insist. You'd better enjoy it while you can. It will be a long time before we receive French imports again."

His soft laughter echoed over the muted strains of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons." He poured a second glass and handed it to the bodyguard. Bates accepted, sipping dutifully.

"Thank you, sir. Most excellent."

"That it is."

Ramsey studied the bodyguard. Dressed in sartorial elegance, black ponytail hanging down to the middle of his back, Bates was still an enigma after all this time. Two tours of duty in the Marines with the 24th MAU, followed by a stint with the Navy SEALS.

After rejoining the civilian world, Bates had started his own private security firm, boasting dozens of the world's most affluent and popular rock stars, athletes, and actors as clientele. Then Ramsey hired him exclusively. He'd served Ramsey for almost twelve years. He continued to serve him now, as Chief of Security, whipping investment bankers and short-order cooks and legal secretaries into shape, filling the gaps in the security staff's ranks. Bates was loyal, and Ramsey trusted him implicitly with every detail of his empire. After all, his life was in Bates's hands. But as pleasant and courteous as Bates was, there were occasions when Ramsey had the distinct impression that, rather than looking into a man's eyes, he was looking into those of a serpent. Bates had that look now as he sipped the proffered wine and stared out at the night sky.

"Cigar?"

"No thank you, sir."

"Very well. Suit yourself. But I don't imagine that we'll be getting more Cubans, either."

Ramsey lit up, puffed until the end glowed in the darkness, and exhaled a thick cloud of fragrant smoke.

"So," he continued, "we know that they are inhabiting the bodies of the dead, but we can't determine why brain trauma seems to be the only way to destroy them. Why not other injuries or even holy water and crucifixes?"

"That's what you were pondering, sir?"

"Yes. Do you know much about Native American culture, Bates?"

"Not much, sir, other than their warfare tactics."

"You know that many tribes scalped their enemies, yes?"

Bates nodded.

"Do you know why?"

"Trophies?"

"Partly. But also because they believed that a man's spirit resides in his brain. They didn't just take the hair, as portrayed in the movies. They took the top of the skull. They believed the soul resided in the head."

The seemingly lidless eyes stared at him, and Ramsey grew uncomfortable.

It was the snake stare again. For a moment, he half expected a forked tongue to slither out from between Bates's lips.

"The head, Bates. Don't you see? Perhaps these creatures directly inhabit the head. Or more specifically, the brain."

"It would make sense, sir." Bates shrugged. "A head shot seems to bring them down permanently. It would also explain why the U.B.R.D. works so well on the birds."

Ramsey nodded, agreeing with Bates's assessment of the Ultrasonic Bird Repelling Device, which they'd obtained from an abandoned air base during a recon patrol. "I'd considered that as well. Birds do have a sensitivity to sound, and the mechanism physically damages them as a result. That was a stroke of luck, obtaining it. Dr. Stern's hypothesis proved correct, it would seem. If their ears were in their wings, then I suppose the device would be no more fatal to them than a rock 'n' roll concert."

He drained his glass and poured another.

"Are you familiar with acupuncture, Bates?"

"Yes, sir. It was very popular when I worked in Hollywood."

"I suppose it would have been. The Oriental physicians found that the various functions of the body could be influenced by pressing upon specific points on the body's surface."

Bates set his glass on the desk. "You're talking about meridians, right? I studied them during my martial arts training."

"Correct. Each meridian is a pathway for specific energies-one of which is the head and brain."

Bates nodded. "An energy pathway. I see."

"Do you? It all comes back to the cranium-the brain." Ramsey pulled out the overstuffed leather chair from behind his desk and sat. He waved a hand at Bates to join him. "So, what's our status?"

Bates took a chair in front of him and checked his clipboard.

"We just finished inventory of our armory. I don't think we'll need to risk a raid on the National Guard or NYPD stockpiles after all. The federal armory raid netted us just over one hundred M-16 assault rifles and approximately one thousand rounds of ammunition apiece, plus magazines."

"I thought you didn't like M-16's?"

Bates nodded. "I don't. Personally, I prefer the M-l Garand, but beggars can't be choosers. The weapons were kept cleaned and serviced, and they should perform well enough. It doesn't matter what we defend ourselves with, as long as we have the ability to do so."

"I see. Go on."

"We obtained several Tec-9s and other assault weapons, as well as an assortment of shotguns and handguns, including an especially nice Kimber, which I kept for myself. There are six M-60 machine guns, which Forrest is excited about, and ammunition for each one. We found twelve M-203 grenade-launchers that we can install on the M-16's. We also counted five flamethrowers, and several cases of grenades. Add to this the varied weapons our community brought with them upon each person's arrival and the weapons that we've found inside the building's apartments: more handguns and rifles, knives, crossbows, et cetera, and secondary weapons like baseball bats and broom handles-"

"Broom handles?"

"We can make spears and pikes out of them, sir."

"Ah."

"In short, we should be able to withstand any assault for many months to come."

Ramsey smiled. "We can withstand it, and this building can withstand it as well."

He wrapped his leathery knuckles against the desk.

"After all, I built it."

He rose from the desk and walked back to the window.

"After the multiple terrorist attacks that crippled this city, I built a monument to New York-a monument to America. Eight million square feet of office, retail, research, and living space, resting on solid bedrock and extending far below ground. Ninety-seven stories of reinforced steel and shatterproof windows. Hollow support pillars filled with water to keep them cool during a fire, as well as fireproofing in between the floors and pressurized stairwells that are pumped with fresh air. We've got self-contained air- and water-filtration systems and our own power generator. Ramsey Towers is an impregnable fortress-just the way I designed it. It can survive an earthquake, a tornado, a hurricane, a biological or chemical attack, and, according to the engineers, even a direct hit with an airplane."

Ramsey stared out the window. Far below them, pinpricks of light winked in the darkness.

"Look at them. Encamped, circling this building all day and night, yet they cannot get to us. They shoot at the lower level windows-send their birds to attack. Remember when they tried the grenade launcher assault?"

Although Bates didn't respond, Ramsey knew the man remembered all too well. He'd lost four good men in the attack.

"Failed. As has everything else they've tried. Rats from the sewers. Rushing the doors with battering rams. Ladders. Concentrating their fire on one area. It's useless. They can't get in, and we don't need to get out."

Bates drained his wineglass.

"What about a nuclear detonation, sir?"

"What about it?"

"Surely the building couldn't survive that."

"A nuke? Where would they get their hands on one? And even if they did, yes, I believe we could withstand it-unless they detonated it on our doorstep. As long as I remain standing, so does this building."

"What about a truck bomb of some kind, like the one used in Oklahoma City years ago? At the very least, it would breach the exterior."

"Surely you jest."

Bates didn't respond.

Ramsey stubbed the cigar out in the solid gold ashtray on the desk corner and then returned to his seat.

"So, what else have you got for me?"

Bates turned back to the clipboard.

"Maintenance needs to take the air-conditioning offline tonight for routine repairs. It's scheduled for three this morning and should only be out for a half hour, but I imagine the smell from outside will be bad during that time. Branson and Val have been in contact with a group of survivors in the East Village. They're holed up on the second floor of the KGB Bar on 4th Street. They're armed fairly well, and seem to have enough food and water to last them for a few weeks. However, we lost contact with the group sequestered inside Penn Station, so we'll have to assume the worst in their scenario."

"Pity that I couldn't save them." Ramsey sighed. "We must save as many as we can."

Bates glanced back down at the clipboard and continued.

"Dr. Stern says the new family that DiMassi brought in two days ago has tuberculosis. They were quarantined, as always, so there's no risk of them infecting the rest of the building."

"And DiMassi?"

"He had limited contact with anyone else. Arrived back with the family and went straight to his quarters, where he slept for twelve hours.

We've quarantined him as well, but so far he shows no signs. The doctors think he'll be fine. Of course, I still had his bed linens and accoutrements destroyed and the helicopter decontaminated, just to be safe."

"Very good. And you've had no further insubordination problems with him?"

"No, sir."

"Excellent. We can't have discord."

"Speaking of the helicopter, we need to find and secure another fueling station for it. Quinn and DiMassi have been using private airfields in Trenton, Brackard's Point, and Head of Harbor, but now all three are overrun with zombies. It's too risky for them to return. The size of the force we'd need to resecure the areas is more than we could transport with the helicopter itself. We'd need to go by land, which is, of course, impossible. Our men wouldn't make it two blocks at this point, let alone out of the city."

"I see." Frowning, Ramsey steepled his fingers together.

Bates shifted in his chair.

"Permission to speak freely, Mr. Ramsey?"

"Of course."

"Sir, perhaps we need to consider our situation more carefully. Things have become-rather precarious."

"Continue."

"Well, we're down to one helicopter, and it's our only way out of here.

We can't go outside because those things have us surrounded, and more are showing up every day. The guy with the ham radio in Chatham told us that the zombies have gotten the Dover train running again and are shipping reinforcements into the city via the Morris-Essex line. What possible reason could they have for doing that? Face it, sir. We're under siege. Right now, it's a stalemate, but should they get more organized-should they get a leader, things could go bad very quickly. And if the U.B.R.D. malfunctions, or we lose the helicopter due to a mechanical problem or hostile fire, we'll be completely trapped."

"But we're not trapped, Bates. Indeed, we are safer than anyone else who remains alive out there."

"But for how long, sir? With all due respect, Mr. Ramsey, I don't understand your insistence on sending out regular patrols to bring back survivors. Sure, we have enough food and water now, but for how long?

The more people we bring back, the more supplies we consume. There's no telling how long this siege will last. And every time we send the chopper out, we risk losing it."

"We bring them back because I can save them."

Bates clenched his fist and continued. "Then think of the biological hazard. We're surrounded by thousands of dead bodies. Corpses. I'm not a doctor, but I would imagine they're all carrying disease. Things like the bubonic plague and hepatitis. These zombies are walking petri dishes. Maybe it's time we considered other options."

"So what would you have me do?"

"At the very least, we should shut off the strobe light on the roof. All it does is attract more of these things."

"How will others know where to find us if we don't show them the way?"

"But the other survivors can't get to us on foot, sir. Instead of worrying about others, maybe we need to worry about ourselves. We have to consider the possibility that sooner or later, no matter how well-guarded, those things will breach our defenses."

Ramsey grinned.

"If that happens, which it won't, then I have a contingency plan."

"Good. I can't tell you what a relief that is, sir. May I ask what it is?"

"No. As of now, that information is given out on a need-to-know basis, and quite frankly, you don't need to know."

Bates leaned back in his chair.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Ramsey, but how am I supposed to protect us if I don't know?"

The old man took another sip of wine.

"Trust me, Bates. If and when the time comes, you'll be the first to know. Now, what about this situation to the south that you apprised me of earlier today? What became of that?"

"The communication center has continued monitoring, sir: citizen's band, short-wave, all civilian, federal, local, military, and maritime channels, as well as cellular and other frequencies. Branson and Val tell me it was a large force, obviously on the move. Possibly remnants of a National Guard unit, judging from some of the transmissions we intercepted. But we've heard nothing for hours."

"And that was in-Hellertown, Pennsylvania, yes?"

"Affirmative-at a government facility. Quinn and Steve are out now, flying over the Garden State Parkway, Interstates 95 and 78 and all the other major highways nearby, just in case there are survivors heading this way. I doubt they'll find anything. Who would be foolish enough to come into New York City if they weren't already here?"

"Who indeed," Ramsey chuckled. "Anything else?"

"We need to reconsider our power usage. Keeping the building lit not only excites the zombies, but it's draining our resources. I suggest rolling blackouts. We need to conserve-"

"Out of the question. I told you, we must keep the building lit so that other survivors will find us. The lights are a beacon to their safety. 'While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.' John, 9:5. You should read the Bible sometime. Fascinating book."

Bates fought hard to keep the frustration out of his voice. "As you wish, sir."

"Is that all?"

"There is one other thing. Earlier in the day, I discovered that one of the new arrivals, a little girl of about seven, had a bag of ripe black plums on her person. She was nice enough to share some with me, in gratitude."

"Plums?" Ramsey salivated at the thought. "Most excellent!"

"I'll have one sent up for you at once, sir."

"No." Ramsey waved his hand. "You'd better wait an hour. I wish to masturbate first."

Bates paused, fighting very hard to maintain his composure.

"Very well, sir. I'll leave you then."

He turned and walked out. The door hissed shut behind him.

Darren Ramsey, billionaire industrialist and the man who was New York, unbuckled his pants, letting them fall around his ankles. Then he shuffled to the window and pressed his hardening member against the cold glass.

He threw his head back, closed his eyes and sighed.

" 'While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.'"

As his hand began to stroke, he gazed out upon the skyline again.

If there were a God, he thought, I bet his view wouldn't be as good as this ...

"I am their savior ..." he moaned.

This building, Ramsey Towers, spanning the 200 block of Madison Avenue, and stretching between 35th and 36th streets, was his world. And he stood at the top of that world, the ruler of all he surveyed.

Fourteen floors below him, an armless, legless torso strapped to an operating table shouted curses in ancient Sumerian.

Bates stood outside the door, listening.

"Bates?"

He whirled, hand automatically going to his pistol.

"Whoa." Forrest threw his hands up in the air. "It's just me."

"What are you doing?" Bates snapped. "You know better than to be on this level without authorization."

The big man stared at the floor.

"You told me to let you know if Steve and Quinn found anything."

"And?"

"They did. Four survivors. Should be here in about fifteen minutes."

"Wonderful. That's all we need-more people."

"I bet Mr. Ramsey will be happy to hear it."

"I'm sure he will," Bates said. "He'll be delighted."

Because the old fucker has lost his mind and has some kind of messiah complex.

The black man stared at the door, listening to the noises drifting out.

"What's he doing in there?"

"None of your concern." Bates lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. "Did you tell Dr. Stern to prepare for the new arrivals?"

"He was asleep, so I let Doc Maynard know. He ..."

"What?" Bates asked.

"He-he was doing something with one of the zombies."

"Another experiment?"

"No ..."

"What then?"

"He-it sounds fucked up. He was having sex with it."

"What?"

"Had it strapped down to a gurney and when I walked into the lab, his pants were down around his ankles, and he was humping away at the fucking thing! It was babbling in some kind of language I never heard."

Bates gritted his teeth, "Wake Doc Stern up. I don't want Maynard left alone with the civilians."

"We're gonna have to do something about him, Bates."

"We will. Let Stern check over these new arrivals. Maynard can assist, if he's able. We'll place him under arrest afterward."

They walked down the hall together. While they waited for the elevator, Bates's headache returned. His temples throbbed and his jaw ached.

"I'm getting too old for this shit. Something bad is coming, Forrest. I can feel it."

The big man snickered. "You mean worse than dead folks getting up and eating people?"

"Yes." Bates nodded. "Even worse than that."

Ob awoke seated on a dusty recliner inside a darkened apartment. Plywood covered the windows and doors. There were no life glows in the room or the hallway, so he assumed that he was alone.

He found a mirror and examined the new body. It was good. It was very good. Caucasian male, midtwenties, naked-the arms and chest were a chiseled mass of muscle. No visible wounds. Ob flexed and smiled. He searched through the host's memory, learning that he'd been a weight lifter named Gary, and employed as a law enforcement officer. He'd barricaded himself in the apartment and died of a heart attack in the chair. For all his strength, he'd had a weak heart. The death had occurred only a few minutes ago, while he'd been masturbating to the memory of an ex-girlfriend. Ob glanced down at the bottle of baby oil on the floor and then returned to the host's mind. Ex-military, combat trained and proficient with a variety of weapons. He searched deeper and laughed out loud. His host knew the location of several fully stocked police and National Guard armories.

"Oh, I like this."

He posed some more, admiring the coiled strength and form. He reached down and played with the penis, shaking it at the mirror. Though flaccid, it was well proportioned. Perhaps later he would try it out and learn what was so special about the act of procreation the humans seemed so preoccupied with.

Still nude, he searched the apartment, verifying that there were no other humans. Disappointed by the lack of prey, he walked to the door.

He gripped the plywood with both hands, but then paused. This body was in perfect condition. There was no sense in damaging it this early into the possession. Instead of ripping the barricade off with his bare hands, he looked for a hammer. Finding one, he removed the nails and walked out the door.

Severed body parts littered the stairway-congealing piles of viscera and haphazardly strewn limbs. He stepped through the carnage and almost slipped in a half-dried pool of blood. He left red footprints in his wake.

Near the bottom, a head rolled its eyes toward him. The dry, black tongue slithered out of the dirt-caked mouth like a piece of liver, wiggling for his attention. Ob bent over and picked the head up.

"Alas, poor Yorick. I knew you well..."

The head's lips moved, but no sound came out.

"Do not try to speak, brother. Your body lacks the necessary equipment.

I will release you so that you may try again."

The eyes blinked, and then the head mouthed silent thanks.

"Go and find another body."

Ob slammed the head into the wall, cracking the plaster. He struck it a second time. The skull split, and the brains leaked out. The lips stopped moving.

The lobby doors were chained shut. He'd expected this, seen it in his host's memories. He pulled the fire extinguisher from the wall and smashed out the windows, picking the fragments of glass out of the way so that they wouldn't damage his new form. Then he crawled outside into the night.

The city was alive with the dead-teeming with them. They were like ants, scurrying through the streets and alleys and buildings. New York City once had a population of over eight million people. Now, it was the world's most populated graveyard. Zombies waved from balconies and fire escapes and honked their horns at each other as they drove by in cars and cabs. Humans, rats, pigeons, cats, dogs-the undead represented every life form native to New York. The air was ripe with the smell of rotting corpses and the screams of those few still living. Rotting garbage littered the streets; the former civilization's debris mingled with offal and internal organs. Graffiti covered the wall of a building across from him, dating from both before and after the Siqqusim's arrival: JESUS SAVES and WEST SIDE BOYZ next to I AM LOOKING FOR MY WIFE-DAWN WILLIAMS-I AM AT OUR APARTMENT and the undead response of WE HAVE YOUR WIFE, MEAT!

In the street, fourteen humans had been tied spread-eagled to the hoods of cars, and a group of zombies slowly flayed the skin from their bodies with razors, box-cutters, and butcher's knives. Another human hung from a lamppost, and was being used as a living piñata, his body beaten with spiked clubs until it burst open, showering them with bloody prizes.

Other zombies participated in more mundane activities such as exploring buildings, driving cars and lounging on porches. Several used the windows of a decrepit brownstone as target practice and their cheers drowned out the gunfire. Another group played football in the streets-a severed human foot taking the place of the pigskin. Others played jump rope with a grayish-pink string of human intestines. A dead python slithered through the streets, vertebrae poking through its scaly flesh.

When Ob strode into their midst, all activity ceased. The gathered corpses immediately recognized him. The atmosphere became charged.

He raised his arms. "Hello, brethren!"

A thunderous cheer echoed through the concrete canyons. It was picked up and repeated throughout the city in a multitude of languages: English and Chinese, Arabic and Spanish, French and German, Hebrew and Italian.

It was chirped from beaks, barked from canine throats, howled from feline mouths, and hissed on the tongues of serpents. But the words were all the same.

"Hail! Hail! Ob has come! Engastrimathos du aba paren tares! Hail!"

They ran to him, stroking his unblemished flesh and shouting with joy.

They offered him strips of raw, bleeding flesh and still-warm organs, which Ob gratefully accepted. He ate, and crimson dripped from his chin, splattering onto his bare chest. Then, surrounded by the crowd, Ob leaped onto the hood of a delivery van, climbed onto the roof, and held up his hands for silence.

"Siqqusim! Who am I?"

"Ob! Ob! Ob!" The cheers roared into the night, shaking the windows in the buildings.

"Indeed I am. I am I."

This statement was greeted by more cheers.

"Brothers, you have done well here. This shall be our Necropolis. A new Babylon. How many humans still infest this place?"

A zombie in a fraying business suit stepped forward, followed by another covered in third-degree burns.

"Not many, lord," said the suited one. Its right eye socket was an empty pit. "A few scattered survivors. There is one large group, about a hundred, gathered in a building of steel-what they call a skyscraper. It is similar to Babel of old. They call it Ramsey Towers."

Ob frowned. "I know what a skyscraper is, you fool. My host wasn't born yesterday. Tell me, with all your numbers, why have you not taken this New Babel?"

The burned one slurred as it spoke. "We cannot penetrate it, lord. The building is well guarded, and the defenses are impregnable. We lack the weaponry ..."

"Where is this building?"

"A part of the city known as Manhattan, mighty one."

"And according to my host's memories, we are in the Bronx, correct? There is an armory near here, where the humans stockpiled weapons. Have any of you discovered it yet?"

"No, lord."

"Then come, I will show you. We have much to do. We will see what secrets this armory holds. With its weapons, we can knock this New Babel down, reduce it to dust. There is an army of our brethren camped not four hours' journey from here. I shall find a means to summon them, be it radio, runner or bird. Then, while we learn how to use these weapons, we will await their arrival. We shall study and plan. Then, when all is ready, we shall deal with this tower."

They raised another tumultuous cry, and Ob smiled, knowing that the sound must surely be reaching the Creator's ears. He hoped those ears were bleeding.

He jumped down and hummed a snatch of song from his host's memory.

" 'Start spreading the news ...'"

SEVEN

The doctor stared down at Frankie from behind his mask and said, "It's going to be okay."

"Like hell it is."

The doctor didn't respond. Impassive, he snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and adjusted the light above her head. Frankie winced, blinded.

She tried to turn away and realized that she was strapped down.

"What's going on?"

"Don't you remember? You were in a car wreck. You've also been shot."

"I-I..." She paused, struggling against the restraints. "What about the others? Jim and his boy? The preacherman?"

"I'm afraid it's just you, Frankie. You and the baby."

"Baby?"

"Yes. You're in labor. The baby is all you have left."

"But-"

"You should be thankful," he told her, as a nurse appeared next to him. "Most heroin users have spontaneous abortions. You've been lucky enough to carry your baby to full term. Personally, I think it's a shame. You don't deserve it."

"But I-"

She stopped, a sudden flash of pain cutting off her words. She squirmed on the table and ground her teeth. The contraction coursed through her body.

"Push."

She did. Frankie pushed with everything she had, pushed till her spine felt like it would snap. Something broke. She felt it, even through the pain. The agony built to a crescendo, and then the pressure vanished, all at once, and Frankie was crying.

Frankie cried, but the baby, her baby, did not. It made no noise at all. She craned her head, desperate to see what was wrong, but the nurse whisked it away.

"Hey," she croaked, "where's that bitch going with my baby?"

The doctor placed one gloved hand against her forehead. The latex glistened with her blood.

"He's hungry. We're going to feed him. Your baby is one of us."

"One of who?"

The doctor's voice changed. The flesh peeled away from his face in wet strips. A hypodermic needle appeared in his free hand.

"One of us. There are many of us. More than you can imagine. More than infinity," it hissed.

"No. Keep that away from me."

"Be still, now. This won't hurt a bit. I promise."

Frankie pushed against the restraints, the muscles in her arms and neck bulging as the needle came closer. A bead of fluid formed on the tip.

"Jim! Martin! Help! They've got my baby."

"I said lie still," the zombie doctor snarled. Its stench filled the room, crowding out the smells of antiseptic and latex and blood.

The cord around her arm snapped as Frankie tore free. She ripped the surgical mask from the creature's face. The lips came with it, stretching like taffy.

"Now you've done it," the zombie slurred. The creature's lips fell to the floor, exposing rotten, ulcerating gums and a gray tongue.

"Give me back my baby, you son of a bitch!"

The other straps broke as Frankie rolled off the table and struck her head on the floor. The creature rushed her, brandishing the hypodermic needle like it was a dagger. Frankie sprang to her feet, keeping the table between them.

"This isn't really happening," she spat. "You're not real! My baby was already dead. It died back in Baltimore."

"Yes, it did. And now you're all alone. Poor Frankie. Frankie the junkie. Frankie the whore. All alone. Still dying for a fix, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not. Dying for it. Dying alone in a dead world."

She sprinted for the door. The zombie ran after her. As it lurched into the hall, Frankie shoved a gurney into it. The zombie fell backward onto the delivery room's linoleum floor. Frankie ran down the hall, darting from one twisting corridor to another.

Finally, she stopped to catch her breath. Shivering, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. The hospital was cold, and she could see her breath under the fluorescent lights. She glanced around, trying to get her bearings. The hallway was silent except for her footsteps.

She stopped in front of a set of double doors and ran her fingers over a sign hanging on the wall.

Maternity Ward

She'd been here before.

"Just a dream. This is just another fucking dream. Any minute now, the preacher's gonna wake me up."

The doors swung open. She stepped through and sniffed the air. Something had spoiled inside.

"Come on, Martin. Wake my ass up!"

She looked through a glass observation window. Dozens of little white bassinets were lined up in neat, orderly rows. Each crib was occupied.

Tiny fists pumped the air, and tufts of downy hair peeked over several of the rims.

"I've seen this before," she said aloud. "Where's mine? Show me my baby."

As if in answer, a pair of mottled, pale, blue-veined arms gripped the side of a bassinette. Her baby pulled itself upright. Standing on diminutive legs, it climbed down to the floor and scampered over to its nearest neighbor. The zombie infant wriggled into the bassinette and fell upon the other newborn.

The other babies began to scream.

Frankie could hear the chewing sounds, even over the cries of the other babies, even through the thick glass partition.

Even over her screams.

"Just a dream ... Just a dream ..."

The feasting grew louder, and her baby began to speak in a language Frankie had never heard before.

"Enga keeriost mathos du abapan rentare ..."

"Somebody wake me up. Wake me up!"

The baby clambered out of the bassinette and crawled toward the window.

It began to chant. "Ob ... Ob ... Ob ..."

"Martin?" Frankie backed away from the glass. "Jim? Somebody help me!"

The baby drew nearer. Frankie shut her eyes. Her baby's voice changed again. "Mommy?" It sounded like Danny. From behind her, Martin said,

"Frankie, wake up."

Pain. Then-darkness and more pain.

"Daddy?"

A voice. Small and afraid. Disembodied.

"D-Daddy? Dad?"

Urgent. Louder.

"Dad. The monster people are coming! Get up!"

Panic. The voice was Danny's.

"Daddy! Please, Daddy, you've got to wake up. Please?"

It all came rushing back to him-the rescue, the pursuit, the motorcycle crashing in front of them on purpose, and then-nothing.

Jim opened his eyes and saw red. There was no sign of Danny, or any of their companions. In fact, there was no sign of anything. He couldn't see. It was as if a scarlet curtain had been drawn over the world.

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

"I-I'm blind ..."

A guard shack-the kind used at parking garages. He remembered that.

"They're here. Come on!"

He felt Danny tugging at his arm, heard the trembling in his voice. From somewhere to his left came a groan. Martin? De Santos? Frankie?

He smelled gas.

Then he smelled them.

Zombies.

"Danny? It's okay. I'm awake. I just can't see."

"You're hurt, Daddy. You've got blood in your eyes."

The pain stabbed again. Red. The world was red. Hesitantly, Jim touched his face and forehead. They were sticky. He probed at his scalp and winced at the sudden flash of agony.

"Danny, where are the others?"

There was no response.

"Danny?"

Jim heard harsh, ragged breathing and realized that it was coming from his son. Danny's voice was barely a whisper.

"Daddy, they're here ..."

"Hey kid, want a nice piece of candy?" a zombie growled.

Jim heard the door wrenched open and then Danny shrieked.

"DADDY!"

"Come here, you little fuck!"

Jim's paralysis snapped. He wiped the blood from his eyes-seeing again-and screamed with rage as a pair of mottled arms dragged Danny from the backseat. His son struggled, kicking his legs and beating at the zombie with his fists. Another pair of leathery hands grappled with Danny's seatbelt release.

Jim grabbed the cold hand clutching his son's arm. The zombie's grip was like a vice. Jim pried at the fingers, tugging hard as adrenalin coursed through his veins. The finger tore loose and the creature laughed. Jim tossed the severed digit aside.

Desperate, he looked for the hatchet. The SUV's interior was a mess.

Maps and soda cans, Styrofoam coffee cups and empty bullet casings, cigarette butts and shattered glass-all of it knocked loose and scattered on impact. Behind him, Frankie lay unmoving, buried beneath a pile of blankets, tennis rackets, and a cooler. In the front seat, Don sat slumped over the wheel, a white airbag enveloping him. A thin trickle of blood leaked from his gaping mouth. His eyes were shut. And Martin-

Martin was gone. The airbag had deployed, but there was no sign of the old man. Instead, there was a hole in the windshield; the edges matted with blood, hair, and pieces of pink, glistening flesh.

"Daddy, help me!"

Jim punched uselessly at the creature's face.

"Get off him! Get your god-damned hands off my son!"

He beat at the zombies, but could gain no leverage in the cramped backseat. His pulse throbbed as Danny's seatbelt came undone. The zombies dragged Danny out.

"No!"

"Yes!"

They jerked Danny into the darkness. The little boy's screams became one long, drawn out wail as the larger zombie's rotten mouth descended upon him. Frantically, Jim grabbed Danny's legs and pulled him backward. The zombies tugged harder.

"What's your fucking problem, pal? Let the kid go. He's just an appetizer. You can be the main course."

Jim was beyond words, beyond thought. The pain in his head and shoulder were forgotten. Martin was forgotten. Frankie and De Santos were forgotten. His entire world consisted of his son and the two undead attackers. Growling, he braced his feet against the console and pulled harder. The smaller zombie, the one who had undone the seatbelt, lost its grip, and Danny slid another inch toward Jim.

"Fuck this," it grunted. "Just kill the little shit so we can get to the adult. More meat on him anyway."

Nodding in agreement, the other creature's mouth fell upon Danny again.

"DAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

"Leave him alone, you son of a bitch!"

The zombie's teeth ripped through Danny's shirt, right between his neck and shoulder. The powerful jaws clenched, preparing to bite through the skin, and then-

-Frankie sat up and buried the hatchet in its head, cleaving the skull in two. Gore splashed Danny and Jim.

"Eat that, motherfuckers," Frankie growled.

The decaying hands fell away as the zombie toppled backward. Jim pulled the hysterical boy back inside.

"You're okay, Danny," Jim reassured him. "You're okay now. They're not gonna get you."

"Cheer up, kiddo," Frankie said, "you're rescued."

She sank back down, her eyes fluttering closed. She did not move again.

"Shit. Frankie, wake up." Jim shook her gently, afraid of hurting the unconscious woman any worse than she already was.

"Is she dead, Daddy?"

"I don't think so, squirt. Are you okay?"

Danny nodded.

"Frankie?" Jim tried again. When she didn't respond, he shook De Santos.

"Don. Don, get up!"

"Huzzat..."

"Come on. God damn it, De Santos, wake up now!"

"Five more minutes, Myrna ..."

The second zombie stepped forward and yanked the bloody hatchet from its fallen comrade's head. It was dressed in the tattered remains of a Bob Marley shirt. One ear and half its cheek had been torn away, and dreadlocks hung from its skull in filthy, matted ropes.

"Look what you did to my brother! That wasn't very nice. That wasn't nice at all."

Don stirred.

"Jim?"

"Wake up, Don. We've gotta go!"

Jim opened the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" the zombie snarled.

Clutching his son, Jim opened the door on the side away from the zombie, and tumbled out of the Explorer onto the cold pavement. He let go of Danny, sprang to his feet, and yanked Don's door open. Don stumbled out of the vehicle.

"Jesus, my chest ..."

"Can you walk?"

"I-I think so. Just ... hard to catch ... my breath."

The zombie slid into the backseat from the other side. A plump, white maggot fell from its nose and lay wriggling on the floor mat. Jim gagged, and Don coughed blood from his nose and mouth.

Jim put a hand on Don's shoulder to steady him.

"Are you okay?"

"My chest," Don wheezed. "Steering wheel hit it. Fucking airbags were worthless. I should sue the manufacturer."

Jim turned back to the wrecked vehicle. "We've got to get Frankie out of there and find Martin."

The zombie crawled across the seat toward them, reaching for the open door. Jim slammed it in the creature's face.

"Danny, stay here with Mr. De Santos."

"No, Daddy, I want to stay with you!"

"I've got to get Frankie out of there, Danny. I don't have time to argue."

He turned to Don.

"When I tell you, open this door."

The corpse beat at the window with its fist, leaving a greasy smudge.

Then it turned away from them.

"You want me to do what?"

"You heard me."

Inside the Explorer, the zombie pawed through the blankets surrounding Frankie. Jim dashed around to the other side and picked up a large rock.

"Now, Don!"

"Get behind me, Danny. I think your father may have lost his mind."

Swallowing, Don yanked the back door open. Immediately, the zombie turned and swung at him with the bloody hatchet.

Jim was quicker.

Grabbing it by the feet, he pulled it out of the backseat and onto the ground. The axe flew from its clutches and the zombie scrambled for it. Jim jumped onto its back, forcing it down again. The zombie pushed upward, struggling to dislodge him.

Enraged, Jim brought the rock crashing down on the creature's head, punctuating each blow with a snarl.

" I-told-you-to-leave-my-son-ALONE!"

There the skull split open with a loud crack. Pink, foul-smelling liquid spilled from the wound. The zombie bellowed, then finally lay still. Jim continued pounding it with the rock until the head was obliterated.

Panting, covered in blood and drenched in sweat, he looked up to see Danny staring at him. The boy's expression was horrified.

"Daddy ..."

"It's okay, Danny. He can't hurt you now."

His son continued to stare, eyes wide and mouth open. Still clutching the rock, Jim slid off the corpse's back and walked toward him, drenched in gore.

Don eased Frankie out of the wrecked vehicle's rear, supporting her as she tried to stand.

"Where did the other zombies get to?" Don looked around for the rest of their pursuers.

"I don't know," Jim replied. "Maybe we lost them. How is she?"

"I'm fine," Frankie answered weakly. "Not dead yet at least."

"Can you walk?"

"Gonna have to. Where's the preacher-man?"

"Oh God-Martin!"

In his concern for Danny, Jim had forgotten all about the old man.

He ran around to the front of the vehicle and searched the area. He found Martin's crumpled form at the base of a tree. The preacher wasn't moving.

"No no no no no ..."

He stumbled toward his friend, and when he reached him ...

Jim hoped that Martin had died with a prayer on his lips.

He turned his head and vomited.

"Daddy?"

"Don't look, Danny. Stay over there."

Martin lay on his stomach, but his head was twisted around backwards.

The old man's bulging, sightless eyes gaped at him. Deep lacerations split his face, and one arm had been severed halfway between the elbow and the shoulder.

"Oh Martin ..."

Frankie hung her head. "Is he?"

Jim swallowed hard.

"Yeah. Yeah, he is."

"God damn it..."

Kneeling, Jim gripped his rock tighter. The rough surface cut into the calluses on his palm.

"I'm sorry, my friend. I'm so sorry."

"Jim?" Don shifted uneasily.

"What?"

"You-you know what you have to do, right?"

Jim didn't respond.

"He'd want you to. He wouldn't want to-to end up like that." Don cocked his head toward the pulped remains of the zombie.

"I hate to say it, but he's right," Frankie agreed. "You've got to finish it, Jim. We can't let this happen to Martin. Not like that."

Jim closed his eyes and sighed.

"He'd want a prayer first," he said. "We owe him that, at least. Is there time?"

"I don't hear any zombies," Don said. "Maybe we lost the others."

Jim closed the preacher's eyes. Then he reached into Martin's breast pocket and pulled out his pocket-sized New Testament. After a brief pause, he held it to his heart and bowed his head. A second later, Danny did the same, followed by Don. Frankie watched the body.

"Lord," Jim began, "I-I still don't understand why you let all of this happen, why you did this to us, but I know that Martin never stopped believing in you. Not even when things got really bad. He was convinced that you wanted him to help me. He said that you would lead us to Danny.

I reckon he was right. Even when his own life was in danger, he helped me because he believed in you. God, we ask-"

Martin's eyes opened. "There is no God."

Jim smashed him in the face with the rock. The zombie jittered.

"I'm sorry, Martin."

He swung again, and something cracked.

Frankie and Don flinched. Danny squeezed his eyes shut.

Jim swung a third time, and Martin's corpse was still. Jim stuffed the Bible in his back pocket.

A horn blared.

"What the hell?"

Headlights speared them, turning night to day as the Humvee crested the hill and roared toward them.

"Here they come!" Don shouted.

"Run!" Throwing the rock aside, Jim picked up Danny and cradled him in his arms. "Can you carry Frankie?"

"I can try," Don gasped.

He hefted her and suddenly collapsed, wincing in pain.

Frankie bit down a scream as fresh agony ripped through her body.

"I can't," Don breathed. "My chest ..."

Jim shoved Danny toward them.

"Head for that parking garage. I'll lead them away from here and double back."

"You're insane."

"Go!"

"Daddy?"

Jim gave him a quick hug, kissed him on the forehead, and then looked up at De Santos.

"Please-go."

"Daddy?"

The Humvee bore down on them. More vehicles crested the hill behind it. Above them, Jim heard the dry, rustling flutter of wings.

"Daddy!"

"I love you, Danny."

Jim charged toward the Humvee.

"Daddy, no! Come back!"

"Let's go, Danny." Don led the crying boy toward the garage. Frankie limped along behind them, casting one last glance over her shoulder at the ruined flesh that had been the Reverend Thomas Martin.

"Rest easy, preacher-man."

"Come on, you sacks of shit. Over here!"

Jim waved his arms over his head, running directly toward the onrushing vehicles. The zombies obliged, swerving in his direction and spearing him with their headlights. The Humvee's engine roared hungrily.

Something buzzed by his ear. Jim felt a fresh burst of pain as a razored beak slashed his palm. He lashed out, but the bird darted away and circled around again. He spared a quick glance upward and saw more bearing down on him.

"Come and get it! Supper time!"

Bullets dug into the earth at his feet.

He ran, praying that De Santos and Frankie could get Danny to safety, praying that safety itself existed. A carrion crow pecked at his hand.

In the distance, over the gunshots, he heard a rumble. Thunder? A helicopter? He didn't know and realized that he didn't care.

Let the sky weep.

He knew how it felt.

The entrance to the parking garage yawned before them like a gaping, ravenous mouth. The interior was pitch-black, and all three of them froze in front of it. Danny squirmed in Don's grip, desperately shouting for his father.

"Danny, stop it," Frankie said. "You'll lead them to us."

"I don't care. I want my daddy!"

Don took a step toward the entrance and paused.

"You think it's safe?"

"There's nowhere on Earth that's safe anymore," Frankie told him.

They walked inside. The parking garage was silent. Frankie heard Don rustling through his pocket, and a moment later, the telltale click of a cigarette lighter. The darkness seemed to surround the flame, as if trying to extinguish it. From far off, they heard gunshots and the roar of motors. Danny cast a glance behind him.

Despite her pain, Frankie knelt down and looked him in the eyes.

"I know you want your daddy, kiddo. I want him to come back too. But right now, he's doing something very brave to help us all. So that means you have to be brave too, okay?"

"But I don't feel very brave."

"That's okay." Frankie winked. "Neither do I. In fact, I feel like I've been run over by a truck."

She stood up and ruffled his hair, but suddenly her knees buckled. Her vision swam. She reached out and

caught herself on Don's shoulder, shaking her head and breathing heavy.

"You okay?" he asked, concerned.

"I will be. Blood loss and shock, I think. Just a little dizzy."

"We'll find a spot to rest."

He raised the lighter higher and peered into the darkness.

"Can't see shit," Don muttered, "but maybe that means they can't see us either."

"Don't count on it. I've seen these things hunt in a pitch-black sewer. Don't know how. Maybe they can smell us or see something we can't. Our auras, maybe. But if they're in here, they can see us."

"Thanks. That's really comforting."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Get us out of here and maybe I'll tell you a bedtime story instead. How about it, Danny? What's your favorite bedtime story?"

"Teeny Tiny Tale," he whispered, suddenly shy and timid. "Daddy used to read it to me when I'd visit him."

Frankie smiled, lost in one of the few childhood memories that heroin hadn't erased.

"The dog says, 'Give me my bone. Give me my bone.' Is that the one?"

Danny smiled. "That's it."

Then his smile faded. Despite Frankie's best efforts to distract him, Danny was still terrified for his father. He looked over his shoulder again as another muffled gunshot rang out.

They walked deeper into the garage. Don almost tripped over an orange traffic cone. They smelled oil and gasoline, dust and urine. The silence beat at them, and the ghosts of their footsteps followed along behind. A discarded fast-food wrapper rustled under Frankie's foot. They inched forward, comforted by the flickering flame.

Frankie pointed. "There's the stairway to the roof. Let's make for that. Hide inside until Jim gets back."

"Why not just try the roof instead?" Don asked.

"Birds."

"Birds?"

She nodded. "Zombie birds."

"Oh." His laughter was uncertain. "That's kind of silly, isn't it?"

"Sounds like it-until you've seen them strip the flesh off a body in minutes."

Don frowned.

Beside them, Danny repeated the line from the children's book like a mantra: "When all of a sudden, the teeny-tiny woman heard a voice that said, 'Give me my bone. Give me my bone.'"

His voice trembled with a coming sob, and Frankie's heart broke.

In the darkness, a car door creaked open.

"Give me my bone ..." something answered.

Don dropped the lighter, and the darkness engulfed them.

Branches whipped Jim's face and arms as he shoved his way through a row of bushes. A dead bird pecked at his scalp, drawing blood. Another darted for his eyes. He threw up a hand in defense, and the bird shrieked its displeasure.

Behind him, the vehicles skidded to a stop. Car doors slammed, and gunfire ripped the night. Rounds streaked toward him, and bullets kicked up dirt at his heels. Panting, Jim broke cover and dashed for a narrow strip of woods between the parking garage and a warehouse. The zombies chased him on foot and wing.

He crashed through the trees and slid down a steep embankment. At the bottom, a drainage pipe trickled water into a thin stream. Jim splashed through it, gasping as its coldness soaked through his boots. He spied a rusty pole and snatched it up without breaking stride.

Tree limbs rustled above him. He looked up just as something small and brown and furry detached from a limb-a dead squirrel, missing its tail and a rear leg- launched itself toward him. Sidestepping, Jim swung the pipe like a batter, and the squirrel careened into the ditch.

A cheer went up from the zombies as they started down the embankment after him. It was a game to them, Jim realized. Nothing more than sport.

This was a foxhunt, and he was the fox.

He ducked between two towering oaks and sprinted back up the hill, coming out behind the parking garage. An iron fire escape ladder hung down from the roof, with access points at the second and third levels.

Jim leaned against the wall, catching his breath. He clutched a ladder rung with one hand. A reeking garbage Dumpster stood next to him, but Jim could still smell the zombies over the stink of rotting trash. He heard the rumbling sound again, closer now. Not thunder.

A helicopter.

"Oh Christ-the zombies have a helicopter?"

He closed his eyes. What was the point? In movies, the zombies were slow and stupid, but in real life, they were something quite different. In real life, the zombies had helicopters. Already, the dead outnumbered the living, and their numbers increased every day. Humans.

Animals. No place was safe. Not the suburbs of New Jersey or the remote mountains of West Virginia.

Then he thought of Danny.

There was another explosion. Dropping his makeshift club, Jim started up the ladder.

Bullets peppered the concrete wall, and more of the creatures raced toward him.

"Once upon a time, there was a teeny-tiny woman ..."

Danny squeezed Frankie's hand as she led him toward the stairwell. They moved as fast as they could without giving away their position.

"She lived in a teeny-tiny town in a teeny-tiny house with her teeny-tiny dog."

They heard it chasing them-wet, dragging sounds. Definitely not teeny-tiny.

"Can you see it?" Don hissed, listening to the zombie approach them.

"No," Frankie answered, "but I can smell the son of a bitch."

Headlights appeared in the garage entrance. The Mazda's engine rumbled, reverberating off the cement columns as the car cruised down the rows, hunting for them.

Fumbling in the dark, Don picked up the lighter and flicked it.

"Put that fucking thing out," Frankie snapped. "What's wrong with you?"

The flame vanished, and the darkness surrounded them again. The zombie's stench grew stronger.

"Go!" Frankie urged. They broke cover and stumbled for the stairwell door.

Don pushed it open, ducking back in case anything leapt out at them, but the stairway was abandoned. Frankie limped inside, pulling Danny along with her. Don quickly followed, and eased the door shut behind them.

The Mazda's tires squealed. Through the window in the door, Don caught a momentary glimpse of the zombie crawling after them, illuminated by the red glow of the Mazda's brake lights. It was a female, her lower half missing.

"Up the stairs," Frankie whispered. "Don't make a sound."

Quietly as possible, they hurried up the darkened stairway.

"Here," the creature on the other side of the door shrieked. "They're going to the second level!"

Tires screeched again as the car sped up the ramp. Behind them, the legless zombie clawed at the door. More roaring engines drowned out its cries, and above them, Frankie heard a distant rumbling noise.

"Listen-you hear that?"

"It's a helicopter." Don shrugged. "Is that good or bad?"

"Probably bad. I've only seen two things fly helicopters-zombies and soldiers."

She took another step upward.

"And I don't like either of them."

Don panted for breath. "In the movies, people always escape zombies by flying away in a helicopter."

"This ain't a movie."

They reached the second-floor landing, and already the Mazda was racing for the stairwell. Below them, the door banged open.

"Give me my bone," the zombie tittered.

"I'll give you a bone, bitch." Don looked down at Danny and then apologized under his breath.

"That's okay, Mr. De Santos."

"Maybe the roof ain't such a bad idea after all," Frankie muttered.

"But what about the birds?" Don asked.

She lowered her voice. "At this point, I don't think it much matters. Whatever we do, we're pretty much fucked."

As one, the rotting flock banked toward their prey.

Jim heaved himself over the ledge and onto the roof. Only a few cars were parked on the top, their owners having long since abandoned them.

Exhausted and bleeding from a dozen different wounds, he stumbled forward, looking for the others and fleeing the birds.

A flock of crows is called a murder, he thought, and that's what is about to happen. A murder ...

He cupped his hands to his mouth. "Danny?" There was no reason to think they would have climbed up to the top, but at this point he had nothing to lose. Maybe he'd survive long enough to search the garage for them.

A sparrow pecked at his hand, drawing blood.

The sonorous thrum of the helicopter echoed off the concrete. Jim glanced into the sky and saw two things. The first was the helicopter, its running lights off and its outline almost invisible against the night, hovering directly overhead. The second was the birds, suddenly dropping like stones, their bodies limp and unmoving.

In a flash, the temperature jumped. Jim felt warm, then hot. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his ears turned red. Pain pulsed through his brain, pressing on the inside of his skull. His ears felt like they would explode. He gripped his head and screamed-and just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, the pressure increased.

The helicopter drew closer. The broken and battered birds rained down around him. The pain surged through his head again, and his eyes grew hot. Jim's ears began to bleed. He covered them with his hands and screamed again.

Jim kept screaming even after he collapsed.

The door banged open below them and a horde of zombies rushed up the stairs. Frankie, Don, and Danny barely heard them over the roar of the chopper, which was right over their heads. The garage shook, the concrete walls vibrated and the ceiling sounded like it was about to collapse. The noise of the rotors increased, making speech next to impossible.

Despite the cacophony, they could still hear Jim's screams.

"Daddy!"

Danny twisted free of Frankie's grip, pushed the door open, and ran outside onto the roof. Immediately, his small hands clenched the sides of his head. He collapsed, screaming.

Frankie and Don ran after him.

The zombies followed.

"Turn it off," Steve shouted. "For fuck's sake, Quinn, shut it off. You're killing them!"

"How do we know they ain't zombies?" the pilot answered. "Just because they aren't decaying yet doesn't mean they're not dead."

"The birds were attacking him, you asshole." He froze, staring in horror. "Jesus, Quinn-it's a little kid. Come on man, shut it off now."

"All right, all right already."

Quinn flipped a switch, and instantly, the man and boy stopped squirming. Now a young black woman and a middle-aged Hispanic man stepped out onto the roof, rushing to their sides and staring up at the helicopter in panic. They were obviously wounded, limping and bleeding.

Steve grabbed the bullhorn.

"How do you work this?"

"Press the fucking button. Don't you Canucks know how to do anything?

Why the hell did Bates stick me with your ass? Why did DiMassi have to go and get sick?"

"I'm here because I'm a pilot-just in case you don't make it back."

"You're an airline pilot, not a helicopter jockey."

The Canadian grinned. "Hey man, I can fly anything. Besides, I thought you didn't like DiMassi."

"I don't. He's a worthless, lazy, fat fuck."

"Him and Bates really went at it, huh?"

"Yeah. Can't say that I blame Bates. DiMassi took this baby up without clearance. If something had happened, we'd have been totally cut off."

Quinn grew quiet and concentrated on landing.

Steve pushed his headset microphone out of the way, turned on the bullhorn and raised it to his lips. He steadied himself and then leaned out the open door.

"ATTENTION. YOU ON THE ROOF. EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY. GET DOWN AS

LOW AS YOU CAN, AND WE'LL GET YOU TO SAFETY."

He shot a puzzled glance at Quinn.

"Why aren't they listening to me?"

Quinn sighed and shook his head.

"They think we're zombies. Happens all the time."

"Check on Jim," Frankie told Don as she bent over Danny. The boy was curled into a ball, his face contorted with pain. The helicopter drew closer.

Don dragged Jim's unconscious form away from the middle of the deck, afraid the zombies would land the helicopter on his friend, and brought him alongside Danny. He could barely make out two figures in the cockpit. The machine hovered directly over them.

"GET AS LOW AS YOU CAN," the voice repeated. "WE NEED TO DO THIS FAST."

Over the bullhorn, it was impossible to tell if they were undead or alive.

"Daddy?" Danny coughed, starting to awake.

"What happened to them?" Frankie asked.

Don shook his head.

"Daddy?"

"He's okay, sweetie. He's okay. Just lie still."

"Let's get them back inside," Don panted, pulling Jim toward the stairwell.

"Are you crazy?" Frankie shouted.

Don jabbed a finger at the helicopter. "How do we know those aren't zombies flying that thing?"

The stairwell door crashed open.

"We don't." Frankie clenched her teeth. "But they are."

Don spun around. The undead poured from the stairwell with weapons drawn, their pale and gray faces alive with glee. Then they saw the helicopter and stopped.

The voice on the bullhorn boomed.

"DROP!"

Frankie and Don ducked, shielding Jim and Danny with their bodies. Steve opened fire, strafing the zombies at head level. Craniums exploded like rotten vegetables. The remaining creatures fired back, then ducked inside the stairwell for cover.

"Guess that proves they're not zombies!" Frankie yelled. "Let's go!"

She pulled Danny toward the helicopter as it touched down on the roof in a cloud of dust. Don followed with Jim.

All four survivors were battered and bleeding, and for a second, Steve considered that they might actually be zombies. Then he saw the little boy gaze at the unconscious man, and knew better. Only a son could stare at his father with that much love. He helped the four aboard and got them situated.

Quinn sent the helicopter skyward just as the remaining zombies opened a second volley.

The thrum of the chopper's blades filled the cabin. Don and Frankie glanced around in confusion.

"Strap yourselves in," Quinn yelled, flipping up his visor. "It's gonna get bumpy."

He turned away from them and opened fire. The massive rounds shredded the zombies on the roof.

"Who are you people?" Don asked.

"My name is Luke Sky walker. I'm here to rescue you."

"What?"

The red-haired, freckle-faced pilot chuckled over his partner's gunfire and the roar of the rotors.

"Sorry. I always wanted to say that. My name is Quinn and this here is Steve."

"Where are you guys from? What's going on?"

"I'm from Brooklyn. He's from Canada. Like I said, we're here to rescue you."

"Clear," Steve said, and leaned back in his seat, breathless. He removed his helmet. "Whew-that was intense."

Lacking a headset, Don had to shout. "I don't understand any of this. How did you know where to find us?"

"For that matter," Frankie piped up, "how did you even know we were in trouble?"

"We didn't," Steve answered, reloading his rifle. "There was a big battle near the border of Pennsylvania and New Jersey earlier today.

Near Hellertown."

Startled, Frankie jumped in her seat, but kept quiet.

"We were sent out to look for survivors. We were on our way back when we saw zombies converging on the garage. We figured with that much activity there must still be somebody alive on the ground. Lucky for you guys we decided to investigate. You folks weren't involved in that, were you?"

Don shook his head. Frankie kept quiet.

Steve reached out and shook Don's hand. Then he reached for Frankie's.

She turned away.

"It's okay," Steve told her. "We're not gonna hurt you."

"She's had a bad day," Don said. "And she needs medical help."

"I understand." He smiled at Danny. "What's your name, little buddy?"

"Danny."

"Nice to meet you, Danny. I bet that guy there is your father, huh?"

"Yeah. How did you know that?"

"Because you look like him ... and because you remind me of my little boy, back in Montreal."

"Why aren't you with him now?" Danny asked.

"I-I got stuck in New York when everything happened. I was there on business. I don't know if he's ..." He trailed off and shook his head.

"You should go find him," Danny said. "My daddy came across five states looking for me."

"Five states, huh?"

"Yep." Danny counted them off on his fingers. "West Virginia, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey."

"Wow." Steve's face turned sad.

"My head hurts." Danny rubbed his temples.

"I've got a headache too," Don said.

"That's our fault," Quinn replied. "Sorry about that. Looks like it knocked your father out completely."

"What are you talking about?" Frankie asked.

"Shit." Don pointed ahead of them. "Look at that!"

A massive cloud of dead birds swarmed toward them.

Frankie gripped the seat. "Oh my God."

"No sweat." Quinn grinned. "Watch this."

He flicked a switch and the birds began to drop from the sky.

"What the hell is that?" Don whistled.

"U.B.R.D., or Ultrasonic Bird Repelling Device. I can't tell you how it works, but it's saved my ass more than once. That's why your heads hurt.

Guarantee you the zombie's heads hurt worse, though."

"What's it do?" Frankie asked, kneading her scalp.

"Doc Stern can probably explain it," Steve said. "He's the one who retrofitted the chopper with it. He's a medical doctor, but he knows a lot about other stuff too. But basically, it turns their little brains into pudding."

Cold air hissed through the cabin. Frankie shivered, both from the temperature and shock.

Don reached out and squeezed her hand. Smiling weakly, Frankie squeezed back.

Quinn picked up the radio handset.

"Pale Horse, Pale Horse, this is Star Wormwood. Do you copy? Over."

There was a burst of static, and then a voice answered.

"This is Pale Horse. Go ahead, Wormwood. What's your status? Over."

"Pale Horse, be advised we are returning to base with four, I repeat, four live ones. Our ETA is fifteen minutes. Over."

"Ten-four. Understood Wormwood. We'll have a medical team on standby. Out."

"I still don't understand any of this," Don muttered.

Jim's eyes fluttered, and he moaned, "Danny?"

"I'm right here, Daddy."

Jim smiled.

"So five states." Steve turned in his seat. "Sounds like you people have quite a story to tell."

"First," Frankie replied, "tell us where we're going."

Quinn stared straight ahead as he answered her.

"New York City. Specifically Manhattan. Population eight million or so-ninety-nine point nine percent of which are now zombies. Except for a few of us."

He turned his eyes to the instrument panel.

"Even more specifically," Steve finished for him, "we're going to Ramsey Towers, the heart of the city- and possibly the site of humanity's last stand."

Don frowned. "That's a little melodramatic, isn't it?"

The Canadian shrugged.

"Doesn't sound very safe," Frankie said.

Steve lowered his head as he answered.

"Lady, nothing is safe anymore. We're just happy to live one more day."

When he couldn't find a functioning radio to contact his forces at the research facility in Hellertown, Ob sent a host of birds with messages tied to their feet instead. His orders were simple: LEAVE BEHIND SMALL

CONTINGENCY FORCE TO ACT AS RESERVES BRING EVERYTHING ELSE TO NEW YORK

CITY-MAKE EXTREME HASTE-LEAVE NOTHING ALIVE IN YOUR WAKE-ADD TO OUR

NUMBERS AS YOU GO.

He stood on the rooftop and watched them take flight into the pre-dawn sky, dead wings cutting through the air.

"Hurry," he called out to them. "I want the message delivered before the sun sets tonight!"

His black leather trench coat flapped in the wind. Earlier, he'd broken into a clothing boutique and dressed his new body, to help preserve its integrity and protect it from the elements longer. In addition to the coat, he wore a pair of black leather pants, and a simple black

T-shirt. On his feet, he wore a pair of silver-tipped cowboy boots.

A young zombie, once a boy of about six years of age, approached him and bowed. Its flesh was bloated and shiny, and the collar of its tattered T-shirt had sunk into the skin.

"My lord, Ob. It is a pleasure to serve you in this form."

Ob nodded impatiently. "Get on with it. Arise and speak."

"I bring tidings of your two brothers." A tooth dropped out of its mouth as it spoke.

"When did you see them?" Ob asked.

"Three days ago, I was in a place called Tibet. Our kind knew it of old, of course, but that land has changed since we last walked the Earth. Our forces were victorious-the humans were eradicated, as were the other forms of animal life. Nothing lives there now. The entire continent has fallen."

"So the humans in those lands are defeated, eh? That is good news. Their population was among the highest on the planet. Well done. Here, have an eyeball."

He held up a cardboard popcorn bucket, filled to the brim with eyeballs plucked from humans and animals. The zombie took a handful and chewed.

Then it continued.

"Yes, lord. Their numbers were high. Especially in China. But those same numbers also aided us. There were so many of them, and their population was virtually unarmed. The resistance was disorganized and over quickly."

"And yet your body was dispatched?"

The undead boy appeared to grow nervous; Ob found the grimace to be an amusing effect on the decayed face. His teeth showed through one cheek. "I apologize, my lord. There was a battle in a monastery, and-"

"I care not." Ob held up his hand. "Finish with news of my brothers. What tidings from the Void? What did you hear of them while passing through on your way back here?"

"Your brothers grow impatient, especially now that all the flesh on that continent has been corrupted. The Elilum and Teraphim wish to escape the Void as we have. Your brothers ask that you make haste in freeing them from their eternal punishment."

"They know the rules," Ob grunted. "The Elilum cannot begin the corruption of the plants until the corruption of the flesh has been completed. Those are the rules, established long ago and written in sorcery and blood. We cannot change them. I understand their frustration. They are anxious to begin, for it will take some time. The Elilum travel through the roots, so their way is slower than ours. We have the advantage of going from the Void directly into these meat puppets. My brother's kind must go through a vast network."

The zombie nodded. "Yes, lord. To be fair, your brother Api is patient. He restrains the Elilum. But Ab's rage grows stronger by the day. He wishes for the Teraphim to be loosed upon the planet."

"No doubt." Ob sighed. "But he must be patient a while longer as well. We must all follow the rules as set forth after the Morningstar's fall or we risk destruction. Besides, the Elilum only destroy the Creator's plant life and poison the oceans. That is acceptable. We don't need those things in our struggle. But my brother Ab and his Teraphim will drown this planet in fire. It will burn with each step they take, until there is nothing left but cinders. I am not ready for that yet. There are still many of us to be freed and I have not yet sated my thirst for revenge. When we are done, when I have spat in the Creator's face, then my brother and his kind can turn this planet into an inferno. By then, we will be ready to move on to the next one."

The zombie grinned. "Indeed, lord."

Ob tossed a pebble off the roof and watched it fall. Then he turned back to the messenger.

"Come here. Step to the edge and look out upon our Necropolis. Is it not majestic?"

"It is wonderful, my lord Ob."

"I'm glad that you agree." Ob placed an arm around his shoulders. "Now, go and tell my brothers that they must wait a while longer."

The zombie flinched. "Me, lord? But I just got here. I've only been-"

Ob pushed him off the building and watched as he plummeted down, exploding across the pavement in a wet smear.

"I never got along with my brothers."

The sun rose over the city, peeking out from behind a curtain of gray clouds, reluctant to bear witness to the scene unfolding below.

"Hello, Ra, you old bastard." Ob smiled. "Like what you see? Run along and tell Daddy. He always liked you better anyway."

Laughing, Ob turned and walked inside. He summoned his lieutenants and ordered the city searched from top to bottom, beginning at the outskirts of the five boroughs and working inward. Nothing was to be left alive-no people, no livestock. The countdown to extinction had begun.

The sun did not return that day, lost beneath a layer of haze. It saw what was happening, and stayed behind the dark and heavy clouds. The heavens wept.

"Here comes the dawn," the doctor murmured, looking out the twentieth-story window, "but I don't think we'll see the sun today. Looks like rain."

A pretty young nurse with chestnut hair nodded, and then finished bandaging Jim's shoulder.

The doctor shined his light into Danny's eyes and then turned it off.

"Open your mouth for me, Danny."

Danny looked at his father for reassurance and Jim nodded, wincing as the stitches in his head pulled tight against his scalp. His shoulder had been re-stitched as well, and the pus-covered homemade sutures lay discarded in a plastic trashcan with a biohazard sticker.

"You must be feeling better now, Mr. Thurmond," Quinn said. He leaned against the back of the closed door. Except for the poster on the wall beside him- Have you received your FLU SHOT yet? Remember: Ramsey Inc.

Employees Receive Them For Free-and the window, the examination room was featureless and sterile. After weeks of living with rot and decay, Jim found the change strangely disquieting.

"Not really. I still feel hot, and I'm weak as a kitten."

"That's the infection," Dr. Stern told him, staring down Danny's throat.

"You've got a low-grade fever. It's really a wonder that it's not more serious. Luckily, you've got a strong constitution, Mr. "Thurmond. I've seen people come in with half the damage you seem to have taken and be in far worse condition. What did you do before this?"

"I was a construction worker down in West Virginia. Built new homes, mostly."

Stern pressed his fingers against Danny's throat, and then shined the light in the boy's ears.

"West Virginia, eh? I knew you must be from the South, by your accent. You're a long way from home."

"While you were passed out in the chopper, Danny said you came looking for him," Quinn said. "That true?"

"Yeah. But I didn't do it alone. I had some help. We traveled up through Virginia and Pennsylvania and into Jersey."

The pilot whistled. "That's pretty impressive. You're all lucky to be alive. Can't believe you made it."

"Not all of us did."

Jim nodded, his thoughts on Martin. He still couldn't believe that the old preacher was gone. He felt in his pocket for Martin's bible, reassuring himself that it was still there.

They were quiet while Stern checked Danny over. Then the doctor turned back to Jim.

"Do either of you have any medical conditions I need to know about?"

"Like what?"

"Epilepsy? Diabetes? Things like that? Allergies, perhaps?"

Jim thought the question was strange, but answered truthfully. "No. Danny's allergic to bee stings, but that's about it."

"How about drug allergies? Penicillin?"

"None that I know of."

Stern wrote the information down and placed it in a folder with Jim and Danny's names handwritten on them. Then he handed it to the nurse.

"Kelli, could you file these for me, and then check on Dr. Maynard?"

"Sure thing, Dr. Stern."

"What's that?" Jim asked.

"Your medical records," the doctor answered. "If you're going to be members of our little community, then I'll be your doctor."

"Oh." It seemed strange to Jim. Things like regular doctors visits and paying the bills and driving to the grocery store and watching football on Sunday seemed like dreams-a distant past. Life had become nothing but running from hiding place to hiding place, surrounded by the dead; a constant battle simply to stay alive. He struggled with the adjustment.

Kelli walked out of the room, files tucked under her arm. Quinn turned and watched her ass, smiling to himself.

Dr. Stern stepped back. "Well, Danny, you seem to be in fine shape, if a little dehydrated."

"What's that mean?" Danny asked.

"It means you need some water. And I bet you're hungry too."

The boy nodded.

"Well," the doctor reached into a drawer and pulled out a lollipop, "you can start with this, I suppose. In a few minutes, we'll show you gentlemen to your room. If your father is feeling up to it, we'll show him where the cafeteria is. Then you can get some real food. I bet you like pancakes, don't you?"

Danny's eyes lit up. "Yeah!"

"Then you'll like what we're having for breakfast. But I don't want you to eat too many of them, okay? You need to start out slow."

Smiling, he handed Danny the lollipop and then turned to Jim.

"Is he going to be okay?" Jim asked.

"He'll be fine." The doctor lowered his voice. "I don't think we need to run an IV, but we do need to get some fluids into him. And some food.

But all in all, he'll be okay. There's no sign of reactive psychogenic shock."

"What's that?"

"It's something that happens when a human body is exposed to high levels of fear or stress. Your pulse increases but your blood pressure drops.

Physically, your son is in good shape, all things considered. He has no infections or wounds. No physical damage, other than the slight dehydration. It's really quite remarkable, Mr. Thurmond. Things could have been a lot worse. Be thankful that you got to him when you did. How long was he alone?"

"A week."

The doctor's hushed tones became a whisper.

"I don't imagine his hair was turning that color when you last saw him either."

"No." Jim's voice cracked.

Stern placed a hand on Jim's good shoulder and squeezed. "Well, he's a resilient young man, much like his father. Frankly, I'm amazed. The Big Apple is rotting-literally. Just the biological threat from those things down there alone is enough to make you both sicker than you are-not to mention the wounds you've suffered. We know of a group that was hiding out in a publisher's building on Broadway. One zombie managed to get inside. They destroyed it before it could murder any of them, but the disease on the corpse killed them all within days."

Jim whistled. "I never even considered that, and I've had some pretty close contact with these things."

"You're very lucky. This other group wasn't."

"How did you stay in contact with them?"

"Radio," Quinn said. "Hell, they radioed us even after they were dead."

Stern put his pen back in his shirt pocket. "I think you'll both be okay, though I want to keep an eye on that shoulder of yours. I'm giving you some strong antibiotics to help with the infection, but both of you are to take it easy for at least a week. Everyone pulls their own weight here, and you'll have plenty to do soon, depending upon your skills-so think of this as a one-week vacation."

Jim nodded.

"Besides," Stern said softly, "I imagine you'd like to spend some time with your son."

Jim blinked the tears away. "You don't know how bad."

"Believe me, Mr. Thurmond, I do."

"If you guys don't mind," Quinn said, "I'm going to hit the sack. Been up for over twenty-four hours now and I'm pretty wiped out."

Jim stood up and shook the pilot's hand.

"I just want to thank you again for saving us. If you and your partner hadn't shown up when you did-well, let's just say I thought we were done for."

"Don't sweat it. Besides, we almost killed you ourselves with the U.B.R.D."

"What the hell is that thing anyway? My head still hurts from it."

"A remarkable device," Stern breathed. "Basically, it utilizes ultrasonic sound as a weapon."

"The doc can explain it better than me," Quinn said,

"so I'll let him take over. I'm sure we'll see each other around. This building is big, but it ain't that big. See ya, Danny!"

Danny waved. His fingers and mouth were stained red from the lollipop.

"Bye, Mr. Quinn! Thank you for helping us."

After he left, Jim turned to the doctor.

"So it's a weapon?"

"Oh, yes," Stern replied, "and a very useful one at that. The technology was a safety feature, used to keep birds away from aircraft, farms, buildings, and such. They are very sensitive to sound, you see, much more so than a human or even a dog. It's really quite extraordinary.

They have a strong hearing ability. It assists them while hunting and helps them communicate with each other while in flight. Our device turns that strength into a weakness."

"You're telling me it gives them an ear ache?"

The doctor chuckled. "Not quite. It does much more than that. Ultrasonic sound creates extreme heat, and disrupts the nerves when played at a high frequency. It actually damages the living cells in a body. In the case of the birds, because of their sensitivity to sound, the mechanism's effects are greatly magnified. The stress forces them to flee. That's how it was used in commercial and military aviation. In our case, we simply cranked it up a notch, to use one of my grandson's favorite expressions. We broadcast at 1MHz, which virtually destroys a zombie bird's brain, and thus, destroys the zombie itself."

"But why?" Jim asked. "Why does it work on just the birds and not the other zombies? And I thought you said it only worked on living cells?"

"As for why it works on their brains even when the cells are dead-we can only speculate. These things, whatever they may be, seem to originate in their host's brain. It is my theory, and the theory of my associate, Dr. Maynard, who I'm sure you'll meet later, that deep within the host's brain, these entities may reactivate some of those dead cells and tissue. That's what gives them their mobility and reasoning capacity. The U.B.R.D. causes a loss of function in those reactivated cells inside a zombie bird's brain because of that sensitivity to sound, and because of the placement of their ears in relation to their brains."

Danny watched his father and the doctor talk. His eyes never left Jim.

"Going back to your first question," Stern continued, "we simply don't know. The effect is sporadic on the human zombies-it acts as a deterrent, but it doesn't incapacitate or destroy them. Probably because they don't have the same sound sensitivity that a bird's body does. It just isn't effective for a large-scale assault against any other creature."

"Seems like it would be," Jim mused. "I sure as hell felt it on that rooftop."

"We tried, of course. Both of our helicopters were outfitted with the devices. The first one flew over the city, using the U.B.R.D. in the streets below its flight path. The zombies did indeed fall back, and it even seemed to damage some of them, but not enough."

He paused.

"What happened exactly?" Jim asked.

Stern sighed. "The zombies had a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. They shot down the chopper while it was conducting the experiment. All onboard were killed. After that, Bates and Mr. Ramsey decided to limit its use to only the birds, since it proved effective on them."

Finished with his lollipop, Danny began to grow restless. He swung his legs back and forth beneath the examination table. The white paper covering it rustled.

"Who are Bates and Ramsey?" Jim asked.

The doctor arched an eyebrow. "Surely, you've heard of Darren Ramsey?"

"The billionaire developer?" Jim asked. "The one with his own board game and books and a reality series on TV?"

"That's him. He is our host. In fact, he designed this building. I'm sure you'll meet him soon."

"Wonderful," Jim drawled, his voice thick with sarcasm.

"I take it that you're not a fan?"

"Truthfully, doctor? I always thought he was a jerk. Just another rich yuppie with too much power and too much time on his hands." Jim immediately wished he hadn't said that, but he'd never been good at censoring himself when he was tired.

Stern smiled. "Well, he certainly has both. Especially now."

"So who's this Bates you mentioned?"

"Mr. Ramsey's personal assistant and bodyguard. A very good fellow to know-but a dangerous one as well. We all feel a lot safer with him in charge of security."

"This place is pretty secure? Even with all of those zombies out there?"

"According to Mr. Ramsey, it's impregnable, and I must say that I'm convinced. Those things outside have made numerous attempts to get inside, but so far they haven't succeeded. We're safe here-safer than anywhere else, at least."

"As long as we don't go outside?"

"We've no reason to. We have our own electricity and our own air. There's plenty of food and water and medical supplies. We can withstand a long siege."

"Why don't they just burn it down?"

"They've tried." The doctor snorted. "They've also attempted grenade and rocket attacks, swarming us with birds and rats, scaling the walls, landing a helicopter on the roof. We've repelled every attack. Trust me, Mr. Thurmond. You and your boy are safe here. So are your friends."

"Don and Frankie!" Jim exclaimed, slapping his forehead with his palm.

He winced-the action making his head throb again. "I'd almost forgotten about them. How are they?"

"Mr. De Santos suffered some contusions but otherwise, he's been given a clean bill of health."

"And Frankie?"

"My associate, Dr. Maynard, is examining her now. I imagine he'll start her on codeine or ibuprofen for the pain, and streptomycin or penicillin for the infection from her wounds. I'm sure your friend will come through just fine, as well."

Nurse Kelli dashed back in the room, breathless.

"You'd better come quick!"

"Maybe you didn't understand me the first time," Frankie spat, her hand wrapped around the fat doctor's throat. "I said you're not sticking me with any fucking needles!"

Dr. Maynard's eyes bulged and spittle flew from his lips.

"Young ... lady ... I... must ... insist ..."

"Frankie!" Don ran over to the hospital bed and grappled with her.

"Frankie, stop it. You'll kill him."

"No shit, Don. That's what I'm trying to do."

"He just wants to help you."

"He's not sticking me with that needle!"

"Can't ... breathe ..." Dr. Maynard turned purple and the veins bulged in his cheeks.

Don struggled to break her grip.

"Listen to me, Frankie."

"No! You don't understand." Her eyes were huge, her pupils dilated.

Mucous ran from her nostrils as she trembled with shock.

The door opened. Don turned to see Jim, Danny, a nurse, and another doctor in a white lab coat staring in open-mouthed astonishment.

"Get over here and help me," he grunted. "She's killing him!"

"Can't..." Maynard wheezed, "br ..."

"Frankie!" Jim ran over to the bed and helped Don pull her off.

Dr. Maynard collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. His fingers probed the bruises on his throat.

"She-she tried to kill me," he retched.

"Frankie, what the hell is wrong with you?" Jim asked.

"She just snapped," Don told him. "One minute she was fine. Then she saw that needle in his hand and all hell broke loose."

"Jim," Frankie panted, "don't let him stick me. No needles. Please? I helped you. Now I'm ... I'm ... asking ..."

Her eyes rolled up into her head, and she collapsed back on to the bed, unconscious.

Don turned to Jim. "She doesn't like needles?"

"I guess not. I think-she may have had a problem with heroin at one point. There's track marks on her arms. Scars."

Danny watched from the doorway.

"Is Frankie going to be okay, Daddy?"

"I think so, squirt. She was just tired. That's all." He tried to sound casual and thought he did a pretty good job-but inwardly he felt disturbed that Danny had been exposed to the scene. Sure, this was nothing compared to everything else the boy had experienced, but that didn't make it right.

Dr. Stern helped Maynard to his feet.

"That cunt," Maynard snarled. "I can't believe that she-"

Jim was in his face before he could finish.

"Mister, we appreciate all that you folks have done for us. But if I ever hear you call her that again, you'll be the one that gets knocked out. Do you understand me?"

Maynard blinked, and then mumbled an apology under his breath.

Don frowned. "Hell of a bedside manner you've got there, doc."

Stern tried to sooth them. "We're all under a bit of stress. Let's just calm down, shall we?"

"Yeah, sure," Jim grumbled. "Whatever."

Stern took Maynard by the arm. "Joseph, perhaps you should get some rest. You were up all night working in your lab again, weren't you? I'll take over here."

"Thank you, Carl." Maynard looked at Jim. "My apologies."

"Mine too. Kelli, can you give Joseph a hand?"

"Of course. Come on, Dr. Maynard."

Without another word, Maynard allowed Kelli to lead him from the room.

As he passed by them, Jim and Don caught a whiff of something-rotten, like the man had rolled around in road kill. He noticed that the nurse was wincing too.

"Gentlemen," Dr. Stern said, "I'm going to ask you to leave as well. I need to get her into surgery, and now I'm shorthanded.

I'll let you know how she is as soon as I've finished."

He picked up the telephone on the desk and dialed an extension.

"Yes, can you send someone up to Examination Room B and have them give our new arrivals the tour? And have the rest of the standby nursing staff report to sick bay on the double. Thank you."

He hung up the phone.

"Somebody will be with you shortly. They'll show you to your living quarters and help you get assimilated."

"Sounds good," Jim replied, not liking the sound of assimilated. "I'm exhausted."

Distant thunder boomed outside, and both Don and Danny jumped.

Stern chuckled, sliding the needle into Frankie's arm.

"Relax," he told them. "You're all safe now."

The thunder rolled across the sky again and dark clouds blocked out the newly risen sun. Fat raindrops exploded against the window.

The doctor pulled out the needle and placed a cotton ball over the puncture.

"We're safe and sound. See?"

In her dream-because this time she knew it was a dream right away-Frankie stood on a street corner. Zombies bustled all around her: some in business suits with cell phones at their ears, others in blue jeans and T-shirts. One of them, obviously a tourist, gawked at the skyline. Its I Love New York T-shirt was crusted with dried juices. Some walked zombie dogs on leashes and others jogged, pieces of their bodies falling off in their wake. The streets were congested with zombies driving cars and pedaling bikes. A taxi driver leaned on his horn, cursing in a language that was old when the world was young. A bus flashed by her, and Frankie recoiled in disgust at the rotting faces staring back at her from the windows.

A zombie with a bloodstained beret perched atop its head stepped forward and said, "Hey baby, how much for a blow job?"

"Fuck off," Frankie snarled. "I don't do that anymore."

"You're standing on the street corner. How much? I've got money."

He pulled out a greasy wad of bills. His decaying fingers left splotches on the money. Then he produced a needle.

"Or maybe you'd like some of that old black tar instead?"

"Not interested," Frankie said. "I don't do that shit anymore either.

Now get out of here."

The zombie stuffed the crumpled money back in its pocket and jammed the needle into its eye. Then it pulled down its zipper, releasing something that looked like a gray, bloated sausage. Insects swarmed over the rotting member. The pubic hair was matted with filth.

"Come on, sweetheart. How much to suck my cock?"

The corpse squeezed the shaft, and a maggot spurted from the hole at the end and fell to the sidewalk. The zombie's shriveled testicles squirmed from the inside with more maggot sperm.

"Get the fuck away from me." Frankie pushed the creature off the curb.

"Bitch," it mumbled, and stalked away.

Frankie took a deep breath, trying to decide what to do next.

A hand touched her shoulder.

"I told you to fuck off!"

She spun around.

Martin smiled sadly at her.

"Preacher-man," she gasped. "What are you doing here?"

The old man didn't reply.

"Hey, what the hell?"

Martin pointed over her shoulder.

"What is it?"

He pointed again, his face grim.

Frankie turned.

Ramsey Towers had turned into a giant tombstone, towering over the city.

It was engraved with her name- and those of Jim, Danny, and Don. A sudden cold gust of wind tore down the street, and the sky grew dark.

"I don't get it," Frankie said. "What does it mean?"

She looked back to Martin for an explanation, but the preacher was gone.

The zombies had disappeared too. She was alone in a city-sized graveyard. She thought of the graveyard they'd seen on the Garden State Parkway, just before arriving at Danny's house.

"Martin?"

No answer, except for the wind.

"Shit ..."

She stared back up at the skyscraper-tombstone. The sky grew darker-obsidian.

Something rustled behind her.

Frankie turned around again and the entire undead population of New York City was standing behind her. Their claw-like hands shot forward.

She didn't even have time to scream.

NINE

"I'll bet you guys are hungry," Smokey said.

Jim's, Don's, and Danny's stomachs grumbled in agreement. After all they'd been through in the last twenty-four hours, food had been the furthest thing from their minds. But when they walked into the sprawling cafeteria, smelled the aroma of bacon and sausage and eggs and pancakes and fruit and coffee, heard the clank of silverware and glasses and serving trays-they were suddenly ravenous.

The room buzzed with conversation. About one hundred fifty people were gathered in the cafeteria, sitting at long tables, standing in line with trays, and standing around the coffee pots. Several of them looked up, appraising the new arrivals as Smokey led them into the room.

Smokey described himself as an ex-hippie. He was still in pretty good shape for a man in his sixties. A long, gray ponytail hung down over his flannel work shirt, and a matching gray mustache covered his upper lip.

Friendly and talkative, he'd been assigned to show the three of them around.

"Where do you get the food for all these people?" Jim asked.

"The building had some restaurants and this cafeteria," Smokey answered.

"All fully stocked. Plus, there were vending machines on most of the floors, as well as miscellaneous food items in the apartments and offices."

He leaned down, put his hands on his knees, and looked Danny in the eye.

"I bet you like blueberry pancakes, don't you, kiddo?"

"Yes sir."

"Good, because Etta and Leroy and their crew make the best darn blueberry pancakes you've ever eaten. Let's get in line."

Danny grinned in anticipation, and Jim began to relax. It felt strange after countless days spent on the run. His shoulders loosened a bit, his muscles relaxing. Maybe they would be all right after all. He thought back to his second wife, Carrie, and their unborn baby, both killed at the start of his quest. Then he thought about Baker and Martin, and all the others. Perhaps the deaths and the bad times were behind them for a while. He sighed.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Smokey asked.

Jim nodded. "It does. It's-a community."

"That it is. About three hundred of us here, all told. Folks work in shifts, so you won't see everybody at once, unless we have a community meeting in the auditorium- and even then, there will still be folks on watch. The cafeteria is open twenty-four hours a day, to take care of folks on night shift and guard duty and what not. But we ration the food, and if you're not one of those folks, you won't get served when it's not your turn. People come here just to hang out, play cards, talk. Breakfast is when it's usually most crowded."

"I don't mind the crowd," Jim mused. "I'm just happy to be here. Feels like we've been on the run forever, going from one bad situation to the next. It's hard to believe I can let my guard down."

They got in line and each took a tray. Smokey joked and chatted with every person they passed. He seemed to know everybody. He introduced the three of them, but Jim and Don soon lost track of the names. Jim's wounded shoulder began to ache from all the hand shaking.

A young woman approached them and playfully pushed Smokey out of the way.

"Watch it, Val." He grinned. "Hey, meet Jim and Danny Thurmond and Don De Santos."

"Hi," Val said, flashing white teeth. "You're the group that Quinn and Steve brought in."

"We are," Jim replied. "How did you know that?"

"Val is one of our communication specialists," Smokey explained. "She's also eating for two."

"I'm pregnant," she confirmed. "Only two months, though, so I'm not showing yet."

Jim and Don congratulated her, and then she moved on.

"So what does everybody do around here, other than guard duty and radio monitoring?" Don asked.

"You name it, we've got it," Smokey answered. "Doctors and nurses.

Scientists. Soldiers. Janitors. We've got a hydroponics lab and a greenhouse, so if you've got a green thumb, you could volunteer for that. Couple of teachers have started a school on the twentieth floor, so Danny here will be able to continue his learning."

"School?" Danny groaned. "Yuck."

Jim smiled at this. It felt good to hear Danny reacting like a kid to normal things-almost as if the zombies had been a bad dream.

"There's lots of other kids your age," Smokey told him. "You'll like it."

Danny considered this.

Smokey turned back to Jim and Don as the line moved forward.

"We've got janitors and cooks and a maintenance department," he said.

"If you're good with plumbing or electricity or can hammer a nail straight, they'd be glad to have you. There's a full-sized movie theater and a pretty good library-not that I'm much for reading, mind you. We've got a group that puts on plays once a month, and an orchestra too-mostly musicians who banded together once they were inside here. They all use the auditorium. Hell, we've even got our own closed-circuit TV station.

They don't show much: reruns of Andy Griffith, Seinfeld, Deadwood, and old game shows mostly."

A disheveled man tugged on Jim's shirtsleeve.

"Have you seen my cat?" His mouth held two good teeth, and his dirty hair was plastered to his head with what looked like motor oil. Jim reeled from the man's body odor. Along with the stink, the man smelled like he'd bathed in vodka.

"No, I'm afraid I haven't seen a cat."

"My cat smells like tuna fish," the man told him. "His name is God. He's omnipotent."

"Get out of here, Pigpen," Smokey barked. "Leave these people alone. They haven't seen your damned cat."

Pigpen turned to Don. "Can you spare a few bucks?"

Don's eyes widened in surprise.

"Go on now, Pigpen," Smokey insisted. "Get!"

The strange man wandered away. Don stared after him.

"What is it?" Jim asked. "He seemed pretty harmless."

"I know him," Don whispered.

"What?" Smokey and Jim said in unison.

"I swear I'm not pulling your legs. I know that guy. He was homeless.

Used to stand outside my office every morning. We all called him Pigpen, because that's what he answered to. He was a fixture on Wall Street."

"You've got to be kidding me," Smokey exclaimed. "Pigpen really is his name?"

"I guess," Don said. "Too weird. It's the same guy, though. Even back then, he was looking for his cat. Sometimes he had it with him-a mangy old calico with a chunk missing from its ear."

"I feel sorry for the poor guy." Jim watched Pigpen cut through the crowd.

"Don't," Smokey said. "He's safe inside here. Same can't be said for everyone else out there."

"Unbelievable." Don shook his head. "A city the size of New York and the one person I know in this place, other than you guys, is the homeless person from where I worked."

"What did you guys do before the Rising started?"

"I was in construction," Jim answered.

"And I was a stockbroker," Don said.

"Construction." Smokey shuffled forward. "They'll probably put you on a maintenance crew, doing repairs and what have you. Stockbroker? Don't know much about that. Never followed the stock market myself. But I'm sure we'll have something for you."

"You think so?" Don asked.

"You can push a broom, can't you?" The old man laughed and then stuck his tray out. Three strips of bacon were placed on it, followed by a scoop of scrambled eggs.

"Morning, Etta," he said to the large, hulking woman behind the counter.

"Got a little boy here that traveled all the way from New Jersey just to try your blueberry pancakes." He introduced the three of them.

"Meetcha," the woman coughed, scowling. "Any fan of my pancakes is all right by me."

"Push a broom," Don muttered under his breath. "Yeah, I can push a broom."

"How about strip a weapon, reassemble it, and fire it with accuracy?" asked a low voice behind them.

Don and Jim both turned, while Danny thrust his tray out and salivated for the pancakes.

The speaker was impeccably dressed. A long, shiny black ponytail hung down his back, and several rings adorned his fingers. He was tall and lean and moved like a panther through the line. But it was his eyes that made them pause. There was something different about them. It took Jim a moment to realize what that was.

The man didn't blink.

"I'm Bates." He stuck out his hand and Don took it. "Head of security for Ramsey Towers."

"Don De Santos." The man's grip was firm. "This is Jim Thurmond and his son, Danny."

"You're the gentleman from West Virginia?" Bates asked.

Jim frowned. "Yes I am. Word must travel fast in here."

"It does. But yours is an incredible story, Mr. Thurmond, so it traveled even faster. After you've rested, we'd like to debrief you, if you don't mind. There's a lot you can probably tell us of what's going on in the rest of the world."

Jim shrugged. "I don't know how useful my information could be, Mr. Bates. All you've got to do is look out the window. It's pretty much that way everywhere."

"Indeed. Still, I hope you'll help us fill in some blanks? It really could prove helpful to our continued survival."

"Sure. Whatever I can do to help. I'd be happy to."

"Excellent." He turned back to Don. "So, you asked Smokey what you could do. Can you shoot a weapon? I'm assuming so, if you've stayed alive out there for this long."

Don's ears turned red. "I shot my wife after she became one of those things. I guess I can do all right."

"Then perhaps we can find a place for you on the security squad. I'll speak with you later, gentlemen. Welcome aboard."

He glided away through the crowd, filled a plastic travel mug with black coffee, nodded and spoke politely to those around him, and then left, eyes affixed to a clipboard.

Jim stared after Bates, watching the crowd part before him like Moses and the Red Sea.

"What are you thinking?" Don asked.

Jim glanced at Smokey, who was talking to Etta again.

"I'm thinking that I don't trust Bates," Jim whispered. "He reminds me of another guy that Martin and Frankie and I ran across down in Gettysburg. Fella' named Colonel Schow."

"And what happened to him?"

"A zombie named Ob shot him with a bazooka."

The rest of the morning was spent in orientation. After devouring their breakfasts, Smokey gave the three of them a tour of the building, starting on the third floor and working their way up. Jim and Don were amazed, and Danny kept commenting on how cool everything seemed. The interior of the skyscraper really was like a self-contained village. It was a wonderful place, but Jim had to wonder what the point of it all was-just to survive here forever? He hoped Ramsey and his staff were at work on a plan to take the world back.

"What's on the first and second floors?" Jim asked as they stepped into an elevator.

"A lot of guards on two," Smokey said. "When this all started, we dropped office furniture and stuff from the upper windows, to kind of make a barricade around the outside of the building. Heavy stuff, so they couldn't just move it all out of the way. The first floor, especially the lobby, is heavily barricaded on the inside too. We keep two guys on duty there, twenty-four seven. We've got it booby-trapped, and nobody is allowed down there without Bates's permission, other than the guards. Same with the parking garage and the basements levels. The two top floors are off limits too, so don't go up there either."

"Why's that?"

"That's the command-center-Ramsey's personal quarters and stuff like that. Nobody goes up there except for Mr. Ramsey and Bates."

"So what's Ramsey really like?" Don asked as they stepped out of the elevator. "I mean, I've seen him on TV and stuff, but what's he like in person?"

Smokey shrugged. "He's all right. Just a man, you know?"

"A very rich man." Don snorted. "He always topped the Forbes list. Fucking amazing, the way that guy could create wealth. Hell of a showman, too."

"Did all of the people here work for him before- this?" Jim asked.

"No. Bates and Forrest and some of the others did. A lot of these folks worked in the building, or lived here. Ramsey Towers had both office space and apartments. But the others were survivors, folks trapped in other parts of the city. The patrols found us and brought us back here."

"That what happened to you?"

Smokey tugged at his mustache. "Yeah. I'm from Michigan, originally. I was in Manhattan, visiting my daughter and son-in-law. They lived in a one-bedroom apartment on 34th and Lexington that went for three grand a month, but you could look out their window and see the Empire State Building. I was taking a nap when it happened. My daughter had gone out for a jog."

He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I never-I never did find out what happened to her, but when she came home, her bottom half was missing. She must have dragged herself up the steps and into the apartment. I woke up as she was crawling into the living room. There were-"

The old hippie looked away. His eyes were wet and when he spoke again, his voice cracked.

"One time, years ago, I accidentally ran over a nest of baby bunnies with the lawnmower. I didn't see them until it was too late. The yard was high, and the mother had hidden them pretty well, piled grass and her own fur over the nest. Didn't notice until I looked down and saw one of them crawling away across the yard. The blade had cut it in half. Its back end was missing and its guts were hanging out."

His fists clenched at his sides.

"That's what my daughter looked like when she came home that day."

Don and Jim looked at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. Danny's eyes were wide.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Smokey," he said, and took the old man's hand.

Smokey smiled, blinking away the tears, and patted the boy on his head.

"Thank you, Danny. Thank you very much."

He straightened up. "How about we find your rooms?"

"That'd be fine," Jim agreed. "And I apologize if we brought up bad memories."

"No." Smokey shrugged, regaining his composure. "It's okay. We've all got stories like that these days. But you asked about Ramsey. That's him. He saved us. Saved us all, gave us shelter from the storm."

"Why?" Jim asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he and his men have this secure building. Why jeopardize their safety by bringing in more refugees? And that light show we saw last night? Doesn't seem smart to me."

"You don't think he did it out of the goodness of his heart, Mr. Thurmond?"

"I don't know the man. You do. Did he?"

Smokey didn't respond. They walked down the hall and got into another elevator. Smokey pressed a button and the doors closed.

"All I know, Jim, is that we're better off in here than outside with those things. And anytime I start to doubt it, I think about the population of this city and how most of them are now like my daughter.

Doesn't matter what I may think about Mr. Ramsey. Survival is all that's important."

The elevator rose in silence.

Their rooms were small but comfortable. They'd previously been office suites, converted now into living space, along with a kitchenette containing a sink and a small refrigerator, and a bathroom with toilet and shower. Jim and Danny were assigned a room, and Danny shouted in delight when they entered. Somebody had placed two action figures on his bed as a welcoming present.

Jim collapsed on the other bed and groaned with pleasure. Then he started to laugh.

"You've got no idea how good this feels."

"I bet I do." Smokey grinned. "We'll leave you two alone. If you're so inclined, Jim, a bunch of us get together every night and play cards in my room. You're welcome to stop by."

"We'll see. Thanks. I think Danny and I have some catching up to do, though. Don't we, squirt?"

"Yep!"

Smokey led Don to a door a short way down the hall from Jim and Danny's.

He informed Don that he would be moving in with a member of the security team named Forrest.

"You'll like him," Smokey whispered as he knocked on the door. "Forrest is one of a kind."

The door opened and a large, muscular black man in a terrycloth bathrobe stared out at them.

"What's up, Smoke?"

"Heya, Forrest. Wanted to introduce you to your new roommate. This is Don De Santos."

Forrest opened the door the rest of the way and stuck out his hand. His grip was strong, and Don actually winced.

"Pleased to meet you," Don grunted. "Sorry to barge in like this."

"No problem," Forrest assured him. "They told me I was up next for a roommate, and when I heard they were bringing you folks in, I figured I'd get one of you."

"Well, I still feel weird about it. Seems like I'm being forced on you, and I haven't had a roommate, other than my wife, since college."

"Don't sweat it. I usually work the night shift, so it'll almost be like you've got the place to yourself. That's your bunk over there."

"Well, I'm gonna go take me a nap," Smokey said. "Let you two get acquainted. If you need anything, Don, be sure to let me know. Forrest, I'll see you for cards tonight, before you go on duty?"

"You know it. Hope you're ready to lose."

"All right, we'll see about that." Chuckling, he turned to leave.

"Hey, Smokey," Don called after him.

"Yeah?"

"You never did tell us. What's your job around here?"

Smokey laughed. "I just did it. I'm the welcome wagon."

After he'd left, Don wondered just how many people Ramsey was rescuing, to have Smokey in an official position like that.

Ob stared across the parking lot at the armory, then sat the binoculars aside and looked down at the rat.

"How many are inside?"

The undead vermin squeaked in an ancient language, and Ob listened carefully, and then repeated the information aloud.

"Six of them. Heavily armed. And they were not aware of your presence?"

More prolonged squealing. The rat's vocal cords hadn't been designed to speak Sumerian. Ob was patient.

"Very good. You have done well. Now, I want you and the others wearing rats and mice as host bodies to go back to Manhattan and do extensive surveillance on Ramsey Towers, from all angles; above and below. I don't care how you get in-just gain entrance. Do not alert them that you are there. Observe all and report back to me. I want to know their numbers, weaknesses, and defenses. Is that understood?"

The zombie rat twitched its scabbed tail in confirmation and scrabbled away.

Ob picked the binoculars back up, watched the armory, and spoke to one of his lieutenants.

"There are six humans holed up inside the armory. All but one are former police officers, so they'll probably be combat trained. After dispensing with them, we can loot the building. There is a stockpile of assault rifles, grenades, rocket launchers, urban assault vehicles, body armor, and more. We will add these to our weapons that we've found throughout the city, the ones we culled from former drug dealers, crime syndicates, terrorist cells, and of course, the ones the humans kept for home defense."

The zombie licked its lips. "Very good, lord Ob. We shall prepare to attack at once."

"The armory also has a fully functional ham radio unit and a gas-operated generator. Make sure that neither is damaged during the raid. After we restore the generator, I want to use the radio to contact our forces to the south, just in case our avian messengers didn't make

it. We'll need those reinforcements before we launch an assault on the skyscraper."

"Understood. And lord Ob, if I may-this host body is deteriorating quickly. If it does not last the battle, it has been an honor to serve you in this form. I hope that my next possession takes place in a host body here beside you as well."

Ob waved his hand. "Good. Commence the attack. Send in the first squad."

The lieutenant keyed a handset and gave the order. The creature plucked a loose piece of skin from its thigh. It appraised the morsel, and then plopped it into its mouth. Rotted, broken teeth ground in delight.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. Five zombie suicide bombers, each wearing a backpack loaded with explosives, charged toward the armory. One of them was gunned down before he reached it, the bullets eradicating the top of his head. The other four arrived unscathed, crossed the wires clutched in their cold, pale hands, and set off simultaneous explosions, shredding both their bodies and the armory's door and outer wall. Before the smoke had even cleared, Ob's forces poured into the building through the fiery, twisted hole. There were gunshots and screams-and then silence.

"That didn't take long," the zombie lieutenant mused.

Ob quipped, "In a New York minute."

When it was over, the zombie army grew by six more bodies and hundreds of weapons.

Still watching through the binoculars, Ob smiled.

TEN

Jim sighed in contentment, drained a bottle of cold spring water, popped his neck, and watched as Danny sprawled on the floor and played with his action figures. The boy was making sound effects and doing the dialogue.

"Take that, you! Ka-pow. Ka-pow."

Jim stifled a laugh, not wanting to make Danny feel self-conscious. It had been far too long since he'd watched Danny play, and the sight was joyous. He marveled at his son's resilience. Despite all that had happened to them, it appeared that he was adjusting fine to this new situation.

"So which superheroes are those?" Jim asked.

"The red guy is Daredevil," Danny said. "The one with the skeleton head and flames coming out of it is Ghost Rider. They're both from Marvel."

"I thought Ghost Rider was a good guy. Why is he fighting Daredevil?"

"He's good, but I'm pretending that he's bad, like the monster-people outside. They got into his body and made him bad."

"Oh."

Jim propped his feet up on the couch. The bathrobe felt soft against his skin. Clothes had been hung in the room's closet for both of them, not exactly form fitting or new, but clean and comfortable enough. Jim wondered who they belonged to before, and who had been responsible for assigning them to him and Danny.

"Daddy?"

"What, squirt?"

"Do you think it was Mr. Ramsey that left these toys for me?" He echoed his father's thoughts.

"I don't know. It could have been, I guess, though I'm inclined to think it was probably Smokey."

Danny thought about this, and then said, "He seems nice."

"Smokey? Yeah, he does. Nice old guy. I think he's sort of the welcome wagon around here. At least, that's the impression I got."

Guided by Danny's hands, Daredevil kicked Ghost Rider in the face. Ghost Rider fell over, complete with Danny's sound effects.

"I wonder if Mr. Ramsey is nice, too."

"I don't know, buddy. I guess so. He's helping all these people."

"Mommy used to watch him on TV."

"Did she?"

"Yeah. She liked him, but Dad-I mean Rick-said he was a pompous jerk."

Jim grimaced, trying not to react to his son's referral of his stepfather as Dad.

"Well, Rick was right, as far as I'm concerned. Guess Rick and I agreed on that."

"What does pompous mean, Daddy?"

"Pompous is when somebody thinks they are better than you. When they act stuck up."

"Kind of like Grandma used to act to you?"

Jim choked down the laughter that Danny's assessment of his ex-mother-in-law had inspired. Then he noticed that his son was grinning too.

"Yeah. I guess that's not a bad definition."

Jim snorted more laughter through his nose, and Danny followed suit. Within seconds, they were both laughing out loud.

"God, I missed you, squirt."

"I missed you too, Daddy."

Jim slid off the couch, crawled across the carpet to his son, and gave Danny a big hug. It lasted a full thirty seconds, but felt to Jim like it was over too soon. Then the two of them began to play Daredevil versus Ghost Rider. Daredevil, controlled by Danny, won every battle, but Jim didn't mind.

After a while, they stopped. A frown creased Danny's brow.

"What's wrong, squirt?"

"I'm thinking about Mommy."

Jim put an arm around his shoulders and held him tight.

"And Rick," Danny continued, his eyes filling with tears. "And Carrie and Mr. Martin and Mrs. De Santos and everybody else. Before Mr. De Santos saved us, Mr. Martin told me that when people die, they go to Heaven. Do you think that's true, Daddy?"

"I hope so."

"Do you think that's where Mommy went?"

Jim chose his words carefully.

"I think probably so. I know this-wherever your

Mom and stepdad and stepmom and all the others went, they are safe, just like we are. The monster people can't hurt them anymore."

Satisfied, Danny picked up his action figure and began to play again. He wiped away a tear and said, "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too."

"Everything's going to be okay now, right?"

Jim nodded. "You know, Danny, I think it is. I really think it is."

Outside, the rain continued to fall, the fat drops pelting the building like missiles.

Father and son were oblivious.

Minutes later, something else fell from the sky, but their attention was on each other, and they missed its plummeting arc past their window.

Kilker lit a cigarette. "It's really coming down out there."

He looked out the window, watching the zombies milling about, oblivious to the downpour.

Carson nodded, and popped the tab on a can of soda. "Yeah, it is. Maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe a hurricane will blow through Manhattan and wash those ugly fucks off the streets."

Both were in their early twenties, and wore sneakers and baggy jeans with the waistband of their boxer shorts showing. A Yankees cap was perched atop Carson's head. Next to them, a battery-operated boom box played Hatebreed.

Carson set the soda down and played air guitar, growling along with the singer.

"Will you turn that shit down?" Kilker protested.

"Yeah." Carson sighed reluctantly. "I've heard this

one too many times anyway. There won't be any more Hatebreed discs, I guess."

"That's a shame." Kilker's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Don't know how you can stand that growly metal shit."

"Saw them in concert once. With Biohazard and Power Plant and Agnostic Front. Gave myself whiplash in the pit."

Kilker just shook his head.

Carson slurped the soda.

"Do you have to do that?" Kilker asked, clearly annoyed.

"Do what?"

"Drink like a fucking pig? It's disgusting."

"Jesus-I'm sorry, bro. Chill out."

They lapsed into silence. Carson checked his weapon, an Ingram MAC-11.

It was light and compact for a submachine gun, not much bigger than an average pistol. A high-capacity forty-seven-round magazine sat next to it. He hadn't used it since joining the group inside the skyscraper. It had been assigned to him when he was put on the building's security team.

"What are you thinking about, dog? You're quiet today. What's up?"

Kilker stared out the window, watching the rain fall past on its way to the streets far below.

"They don't seem so scary from up here," he said dreamily. "They look like ants."

"Dead ants, maybe," Carson replied. Grinning, he started humming the Pink Panther theme. "Dead ant dead ant, dead ant, dead ant dead ant dead ant dead a-"

"Shut up!" Kilker snapped. "God, you're such a dick sometimes."

"Yo, what the fuck is your problem?"

Kilker jumped to his feet, his cigarette falling from his mouth.

"My problem? I'm sick of this shit. I'm sick of this fucking building and fucking guard duty and the fucking smell from those things down there. I'm fucking sick and tired of it, man. I'm not a soldier. I was a fucking frycook, for fuck's sake!"

"So tell Bates you want to be transferred to the cafeteria," Carson yawned. "I mean, shit, man, I worked in a convenience store. Never held a gun in my life until I came here. But I'm glad I've got one now. You should be too."

Kilker didn't respond.

Carson pointed to the smoldering cigarette. "You gonna finish that? It'd be a shame to let it go to waste."

Kilker didn't appear to have heard him. Mumbling and cursing, he walked toward the elevator and pressed the up button.

"Dude, where are you going? You can't just leave. We're on duty."

"Fuck this," Kilker hissed. "They can't get in and we can't get out. So why does it matter? What are we guarding against?"

"You never know, bro. They could figure out a way in. Get their hands on a bomb or something."

"We should be so lucky."

Carson picked up the still-lit butt, took a drag, and walked over to his friend.

"Seriously, Kilker. What is your malfunction? You're acting weird, man."

"Do you know what today is?"

Carson scratched his head. "Tuesday, I think. To be honest, dude, I don't really keep track anymore. Seems kind of pointless, you know?"

"Today would have been my father's birthday."

"Oh. Well, when we get off, we'll do a few shots of tequila in his honor. How does that sound?"

Kilker ignored him. His eyes were far away. In the silence, the gears hummed inside the elevator shaft. When he spoke again, his voice seemed far away.

"Did you get along with your father, Carson?"

"I did-until about tenth grade when he figured out that I was gay. After that, we weren't really on speaking terms, you know? My mom wigged out too. She always wanted a grandbaby. Guess she didn't think I could adopt."