The seconds had turned into minutes, the minutes turned into hours and the hours turned into days; this unforeseen wave of terror broke out from all corners of the country, spreading like gossip, crippling small towns and big cities and leaving a trail of bodies behind that began from west to east. Curfews had been in place, but the looters remained vigilant; marital law had plunged this once great nation into a dog-eat-dog world. The President and The First Family had been flown to safety while everyone were left to fend for themselves; the roar of everyday traffic was now replaced by the silence the dead left behind.

  Food and water had become scarce; phone lines had been rerouted to The National Guard. Reports had been tossed back and forth between the survivors that help was coming but no one was holding their breath. Silence clung to every slice of small-town America like a toxic mold. Newspapers and other pieces of liter floated down the street, clung onto street lamps and grasped at the endless chain of deserted vehicles sitting cock-eyed along the curbs; streets and sidewalks baked under the harsh afternoon sun.

  They hurried along a wide cobblestone patio stretching past a long line of brand-name and local restaurants, night clubs with names like The Smoky Barrel, Big Momma’s Donuts and other chain-link stores. Tiki-lamps with solar panels were mounted between black wire-mesh tables and matching chairs to provide a perfect outdoor dining atmosphere; a tall marble statue of a pig in blue coveralls stood at the end of the block, flashing a genteel smile and an OK sign. The tables and chairs had been ravaged by a mix of neglect and harsh weather, their black-iron film chipped away to reveal the rusted hulk beneath them.

  He led them over to a knee-high brick wall that separated the seating area outside of the other restaurants from the sidewalk, his right hand gripping the side of his over-and-under and knelt down beside of Jason. The tattered white awning with the word O’MALLEY’S printed in bold white font stirred in the breeze, flapping wildly above their heads.

  They led him across the veranda and around the jungle of overturned tables and chairs. Their feet grinding against a mixed carpet of broken glass and other debris, they hid behind a big stone pillar standing between a bistro café and a fro-yo stand and peered over the side.

  Over the course of the last few months, it hadn't taken him too long for him to learn how to make his way through the cities untouched. He’d blended in the shadows on numerous occasions without making the slightest noise and surveyed the area before making his next move.

  When he knew the coast was clear, they slipped out of hiding and hurried across the courtyard. Their boots making soft whispers against the pavement, they ducked down behind the passenger side of a dark-blue minivan sitting along the curb on four flat tires. Sporadic bibs of blood glinted off the jagged fingers of broken glass protruding from the window frame. He motioned for them to stay down and raised his head above the driver-side door just far enough to peek over the hood when something appeared out from the corner of his right eye.

  "Help me. Please help me."

  A loud desperate cry blared across the street. Colin snatched a quick breath, slunk back down behind the van and sighed. He glared down at the kids, pressed a lone finger against his lips and took a second peek.

  An old man in a dingy, blue-striped white shirt and a pair of brown slacks stumbled down the street, carrying a thin stack of blankets in his arms. His wispy white hair shrouded the back of his big craggy face in a wintry halo; a mask of panic and terror was etched across his face, drawing a line down the center of his forehead. His lips quivering with fear, he scanned the street with icy blue eyes rimmed by tiny red bolts and hot lucid tears.

  Cursing under his breath, Colin ran out from behind the van, his hurried footsteps shaking the contents inside of the duffel bag. When the old man saw him, he flinched and backed up against the passenger door of a bright pink Volkswagen Beetle.

  "Please don't hurt me."

  "I'm not going to hurt you." He said. "What are you doing out here?"

  "My wife is injured, sir. Can you help her?"

  "You need to get some place safe, Mister.”

  He saw the look of desperation on the old man’s face and decided to take it easy on him.

  “Where is she?"

  The old man jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll take you there."

  He pointed his finger at them, then down at their feet and pantomimed the words “stay here”. He listened to the old man’s piteous voice, followed him through a narrow trail etched between the vehicles and caught the stench of dry sticky blood wafting in the breeze.

  “Are you alone?” The old man said.

  “I’m just passing through, sir.”

  “I just need to get my wife some help.” The old man said. “I think I’d kill myself if something bad happened to her.”

  Colin felt a deep sense of sympathy jab him in the center of his chest and sighed. He brushed the old man’s words aside not out of spite but because he had no time to ponder about the past. The old man carried a certain demeanor that said he’d spent his days fishing and watching football on Saturdays with his son and spoiling his grandchildren no matter how much fuss he got from their parents.

  A lime-green Woody sat next to the curb beside of a black-iron street lamp. Colin peered beyond it and saw the town of Milton Ridge spread out before him. A network of brick and asphalt streets dissected a smattering a one and two story stucco, brick and Victorian houses; a dilapidated church steeple rose in the distance and loomed above The Ohio River, its once white clapboard skin now faded to a soft gray pallor by a mixture of neglect and bad weather.

  The town had died long ago, drained of its once scenic grandeur. Dead things don't have emotions.

  "I'm trying to get to Foster's." He said. "Would you know a shortcut?"

  "I wish I could help you but I'm not from around here.” The old man said. “Though if I were you, I’d stay away from the northeast because the hordes are much worse. I heard those things are starting to work their way over. I’m talking like forty or fifty or maybe even hundreds.”

  Colin rolled his eyes and crouched down beside the rear of the car while the old man opened the rear passenger door. Flakes of rust fell down from the rocker panels and spread across the street. He peered through the window at a pile of blankets draped across the back seat, topped by a thick strand of auburn hair.

  "Wake up, honey. I've got someone here who can help us." He said to the shifting blanket and then to Colin. "Can you get her out of there?"

  "Sure."

  He slid the strap of the shotgun across his chest, crouched inside of the car and slid his arms underneath her. He eased her out of the car and winced at the thick putrid stench permeating from her body.

  "Thank you, sir." The old man said. “You don’t know how much this means.”

  The woman groaned.

  "I’m just gonna set her on the hood of your car.”

  He took a step, pressed his left boot onto the corner of the blanket and tore it away. Colin glanced down at her and, his body flooding with a mix of shock and terror, glanced down at the dead woman cradled in his arms. Cold fear streaked down his back, traced the contours of his spine with its icy fingertips and pinned his feet to the road.

  She opened her thin lipless mouth and gave a loud hostile grunt. A cloud of hot putrid air wafted across his face and churned the pit of his stomach.

  The large gash was etched across the front of her floral print dress was crusted with dried blood. Her flaky gray skin was pulled taut across her ribs. Her left cheek had been torn open, exposing a tiny sliver of jawbone that curved downward through a patch of rotten teeth and gums.

  Her bright hazel eyes glowed with something stronger than hunger. She groped at his face with skeletal gray fingers that felt like paper pressed against his cheek.

  His skin prickling with fear, he grunted, backed up and pushed her away. Her body flopping like a fish out of water, she rolled across the hood and plopped face down onto the street. The old man took a tentative step toward her and called out to her, his face drooping under a mask of terror and shock.

  His heart tripping inside his chest, Colin slid the strap of his shotgun above and over his head and aimed it at the Woody’s grimy green hood.

  "You hurt my Abigail, you—"

  "She isn't your wife anymore."

  His words had hit Colin on a personal note he had no problem shrugging off. He was more concerned about where the dead woman was and less about the old man's sympathy.

  The old man and charged at him. He gave an angry growl and swung a left hook at Colin’s face. Colin grasped the shotgun in both fists, held his breath, ducked and spun from the path of the old man’s liver-spotted fist.

  The old man’s fist struck the back window. The glass shattered spilling tiny jagged shards onto the back seat. The old man groaned, cradled his blood-soaked fist inside the crook of his right arm and stumbled back against the right front quarter panel.

  Something appeared out from the corner of Colin’s right eye. The kids stood between two discarded vehicles and watched the whole situation go down with fear on their faces. Stacey cupped the back of Rosie’s head with her right hand as Jason looked on with wild fascination.

  Colin flicked his gaze back to the injured old man, his finger never wavering from the shotgun, and waited for the old man to make his next move. He saw something appear from behind the old man and raised the shotgun. The dead woman stumbled around the front of the car and clutched the back of her husband's shirt in her skeletal gray fists. His eyes wide with fear, the old man grasped at the hood with pale withered fingers; screams echoed across the street.

  The old man followed Colin’s gaze and gasped. His face etched with stark-white terror, beads of cold sweat poured down his temples and coated the back of his neck. A scream started in the core of his chest and rose toward the back of his throat.

  The scream burst from his lopsided lips and fell on deaf ears. She clutched the back of his shirt with both hands and, her eyes and mouth wide with insatiable hunger, bent him backwards. His eyes wide from shock, his mouth twisted into a lopsided grin.

  His body rigid with stark-white terror, she buried her skeletal-gray fingers into the crown of his right shoulder and pinned him against the hood. She opened her ghastly black mouth and sunk her teeth into the crown of his forehead. A frantic cry of terror bellowed from the man’s quivering lips as blood sprayed from his lips, slid down his face and slapped odd bibs of blood down the front of his shirt.

  Colin waved the children over, gripped the shotgun in his white-knuckled fist and, the bag sliding across his chest, led them down the street. They turned left around two conjoined pickups when that sharp putrid stench wafted across his face. He heard a guttural moan in his right ear, sidestepped around the children and braced the stock of the shotgun tightly against his shoulder.

  Abigail stumbled toward him, uttering a soft plea through her warped lips. He waved the kids over to one side of the street, raised his shotgun at shoulder level and wrapped his finger around the trigger.

  He imagined the woman’s skull bursting upon impact, spraying bits of blood and brain and skull matter against the passenger side of the red Chevy Sonic sitting behind her when the loud grumbling sound of an engine blared across the street behind him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HIS body flooding with fear and adrenaline, Colin clutched the back of their shirts and pushed down the street ahead of him. He spotted a red Ford Fusion sitting on four rusted metal rims and guided them toward the passenger side door. The front windshield was missing and a bright-orange tree-shaped air freshener hung down from a thin white string fitted around the neck of the rearview mirror.

  His heart pounding, he hunkered down beside of Stacey and waited for the sound to dissipate. The dead woman hobbled after them, her slick red mouth warped into a hideous black grin. Her dress fluttered around her legs, her tall emaciated shadow stretching out ahead of her.

  Something glinted from the corner of Colin’s left eye. He slid down behind the car, sliding his rail-thin frame between Jason and Stacey and pressed his back against the passenger-side door. A loud thunderous blast erupted across the street.

  He flinched, tightened his grip on his shotgun. He heard a soft thudding sound, followed by the loud screech of brakes. He glanced at the kids, pressed his left forefinger against his lips, crouched onto the ground in a spread-eagled push up and peered from beneath the car.

  Abigail laid face down onto the pavement between the Fusion and a light blue SUV, glaring at him through a fist-sized hole in her left eye socket. A pool of blood and soft gray brain matter spread under her head; a Metallica song blared across the street. He ignored Stacey’s insistent pleas, held his breath and peered around the trunk.

  A bright-yellow Hummer screeched to a halt behind the SUV, filling the air with the stench of burnt rubber. When the passenger door opened, the volume was reduced.

  "Got that little bitch good, didn't I?" said a boisterous female voice.

  "You got her good, Ella." said another female voice from inside the Hummer.

  He saw a teenage girl sitting behind the steering wheel with an impatient look on her white oval face. She wore a pair of tight blue jeans, brown-leather cowboy boots and a long sleeved blue shirt under an ivory-white vest. A second gunshot cracked the air and deleted any thought of him jumping the girl and taking the Hummer.

  The dead woman flinched from the second gunshot. He was surprised that Rosie hadn’t cried by now considering all the noises she’d heard in the past ten minutes.

  Another teenage blonde girl appeared out from the rear of the Hummer. She wore dark-green khakis, black-leather cowboy boots and a black tee-shirt under a sheepskin jacket; the black Chicago White Sox ball cap resting on her head shaded the top half of her face; curls of thin white smoke drifted from the barrel of the bolt-action rifle cradled in the crook of her right arm.

  He considered taking the risk by asking them for help since they looked to be more equipped than for the long journey ahead but he wasn’t sure they’d go for it. If going on foot was going to keep them alive, then so be it.

  "I think you got it, Lacey." The driver said.

  "I got to be sure, Emma." The other girl said. “Remember what Daddy said, two in the head and they’re dead.”

  Two seconds rolled past before Emma popped her head out the window and said, "We need to get home before Daddy pops his fucking top."

  Colin watched as Lacey spun away from the dead woman and jogged back to the Hummer, her bright yellow ponytail whipping across the air. She climbed in, slapped the roof of the car twice and said something he couldn’t understand. The Hummer backed up and took off in the opposite direction, dragging Metallica with it.

  He waited ten seconds and stood. He wasn’t sure if they’d seen him but—he reminded himself—it never hurt to be careful.

  The Hummer floated down the street, bursting through sporadic tree shadows before tapering toward the horizon. He stood and backpedaled toward the shoulder of the road when his left foot slid across a slick patch of mud.

  His eyes wide with fear, he stumbled back. The shotgun flew from his grasp, the late afternoon sun glinting off the edge of its sleek black barrel, and out of reach. His body tightened. He flicked his gaze toward the bright blue sky, felt the warm sunlight pressing upon his cheeks and a soft cool breeze caressing the back of his neck.

  He landed sideways, his right hip striking the ground first before bouncing his head off the grass like a basketball. Needles of pain prodded his hips and probed the back of his head. His teeth clicked as tiny pinpricks of light burst across his eyes.

  He slid down the hill, his hands grasping for something that wasn’t there, for anything that could keep him from sliding away from the kids. He spun around on his back, glanced down a tall wooden fence erected at the bottom of the hill and clenched his fists together, bracing himself. He heard a loud panicked scream but he wasn’t sure if it was coming from him or them.

  He stretched his feet out in front of him and planted them against the rickety wooden fence hard enough to jostle the nails pretending to hold it together. He drew a quick breath, sucking large clouds of pine sap deep into his lungs and exhaled. He buried his elbows into the grass and sat up.

  He peered up to see Jason staggering down the hill toward him, his face beaming with excitement. Stacey descended down the hill carefully on the sides of her feet, her arms extended from her sides. Rosie peered over her shoulder, her face twisted with fear.

  Kneeling down beside of Colin, Jason said, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He said.

  “Can you walk?” Stacey said. “I don’t think we can fit you inside of this, too.”

  She flashed a sarcastic wink at him and motioned toward the baby carrier with her right finger. Rosie bunched her tiny pink fists together and uttered a cute angry scowl.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Colin said.

  “Why didn’t we just take one of those cars up there. We could’ve been there by now.”

  Colin bent over and beat the small clumps of grass and dirt from his jeans with the back of his hand. His hip still flared with pain but it was his pride that hurt more.

  “We can’t take the chance that someone’s not hiding inside of them.” He said. “If you want to give it a shot, go ahead. We’re gonna have to stay on our toes until we can–”

  Something collided against the other side of the fence and prodded against the middle of Colin’s back. The sound of ruptured wood filled his ears as the strong odor of rotten flowers stung his nostrils. His skin bristled as a guttural moan bellowed into his left ear.

  Shock registered across the kids’ faces and wrung a strangled cry from Rosie’s bright pink mouth. Stacey clamped her right hand around the back of Rosie’s head to shield her from the flying debris. Jason gave a low wheeze and, his eyes wide with shock, stumbled away from him.

  A huge gnarled gray hand burst through a large gap in the fence, clasped its gnarled gray fingers around his right sleeve and yanked him back. The zombie’s noxious smell assailing his senses, the back of Colin’s head rapped against the fence. His heart lurched as a puff of air burst from his lungs.