We're small, but we're friendly!

Population: 512 and growing!

Something's wrong.

He started walking up the street, not sure what he was looking for. The houses gave off an aura of wrongness, or menace; but as far as he could tell, everything here was wrong. The street itself wasn't long, ending in a cul de sac a few hundred yards up the hill.

It's just a dream. I'll walk to the circle, turn around, and walk back. Then ...

Then what?

He stopped walking. The end of the street was no closer. The sign was still off to the side of the road.

Cold Comfort, Colorado.

Come for the view, stay for the service!

Population: 418 Hey - A skeletal hand closed on his arm and Timmy screamed like he just won 'American Idol'. The woman looked to be about two hundred years old. She was wearing a filthy dress and her mouth was filled with dark dirt. Both eyes had been sewn shut but one had popped open, a thread hanging down her cheek like a bizarre eyelash. A zombie but - But she's terrified.

"Take it out. Take it out!" For someone with a mouth full of dirt, she had quite a set of lungs on her. She kept on screaming, "Take it out!" At first he thought she was talking about something in her mouth, and there were quite a few somethings moving around in there. But then, with the certainty known only in dreams and to tea baggers, Timmy understood she was talking about something else - The rock. The rock!

It's just a dream. Nothing can hurt me here.

He grabbed her hand and pulled it off his arm. It came off easy, and literally. He threw the hand down in disgust and ran up the street until he couldn't hear her shouting.

Still a fair ways from the circle when he stopped running, Timmy put hands to knees and tried to catch his breath. Whoever heard of running out of breath in a dream? The big green sign stood at his side, and he rested against it for a moment.

Welcome to Cold Comfort!

Come for the brains, stay for the meteor!

Population: 257 and dwindling!

Up ahead another zombie shuffled onto the scene. Something's wrong. Timmy felt it in his gut. And it wasn't the fact that he was alone on a street - a dark street now. Night had fallen and put in its claim here, with an undead - mailman. That's a mailman - shambling toward him. And something else made the hairs on his arms stand up. Something about - Then the mailman was there, quick as you please. The first thing he noticed was the name Potts sewn above its pocket, which was eye level with him. Timmy was used to seeing zombies covered in filth and gore, but everything looked pretty spic and span on Mr. Potts. The uniform was clean and his shoes looked like they were just polished. Mr. Potts looked like he was shooting for undead employee of the month, except for the rock lodged in his skull. The back of Mr. Potts' head was pushed in. His left ear seemed to be missing and the whole left side of his face was droopy, like melted wax. Timmy was reminded of that cartoon with the depressed ba.s.set hound.

"Hi, Timmy." Mr. Potts slid the mail bag from his shoulder and after some time fumbled open the pouch.

"How do you know my name?"

The undead civil servant didn't look up as it searched the bag. "You're on my route now, yessir." Timmy could see the back of its head, the rock nestled in there. There was a faint green glow about it, and looking at it made him queasy. "In here somewhere," Mr. Potts moaned. "What to get for the dead who has everything ..."

Something's coming.

"Listen, I don't know what you want."

"What you want." George straightened up. "Not here," he moaned. "Not here. Not what you need. Not what Fred needs."

Timmy started. "What Fred needs? You mean my dad?"

Mr. Potts was really glowing now. Turned up the wattage. His head bathed in eerie green light, bright enough to light up the street.

"Something you need."

Timmy looked up to see a few more corpses standing in the back yard across the street. "What about Dad - Fred? What does Fred need? Do you know where he is?"

They're waiting.

George Potts looked up at the sky. "I'm number one, Timmy. I'm the best. The best of the unrest, and everyone wants the best."

Suddenly the screaming woman was standing next to Potts. She was mute now, quite still and - broadcasting - staring at nothing. Potts was lit up like a Christmas tree on crack and Timmy was forced to look away. He threw an arm across his face and turned to the sign.

Cold Comfort, Colorado It's the METEOR STUPID!

Population: 238 undead - and growing!

The other zombies started toward him. He could see their elongated shadows on the street. "Can't hurt me. It's just a stupid dream."

George Potts was laughing. He'd dropped the pouch, and letters had spilled across the street. Timmy saw a postcard, yellowed with age. It was a picture of a family, grinning like idiots. They were standing behind a barbecue. "Happy Fourth from the Tysons" in red, white and blue block letters underneath.

Who sends out July 4th postcards? He bent down to pick up the card. I know this place.

"Dreams can't hurt you, son," Potts laughed. "But waking up can be a b.i.t.c.h."

Timmy opened his eyes to bright sunlight and the smell of cedar. His face was pressed against the deck, the bag of food still clutched in his hands.

"What?"

And then the corpse fell upon him.

Chapter 26.

Respite Pennsylvania was cold, rainy and dark. Not a big problem for an army of walking dead. And now that they were holed up in an IKEA, Fred could feel the tension melt away, although his mortified flesh remained as stiff and unyielding as ever. Something about the endless aisles of household goods appealed to his inner zombie. Shopping malls, government buildings and waiting rooms drew the undead, like vodka and hookers drew Charlie Sheen.

They were making pretty good time, for zombies. This was their first stop since leaving the aquarium. But determination and relentless shambling didn't change the fact that Comfort, Colorado was a friggin' long way down the road.

He'd had another dream. This time he found himself standing in the street with George Potts, the mailman, whose head was glowing an unhealthy green despite it being midday and sunny. Even in the dream Fred felt stronger just being that close to the rock. The mailman just stood in front of Fred, staring up at the sky. The rock, that wonderful rock, nestled comfortably in the back of his skull. Fred's fingers itched. He took a half step forward when he noticed the mail bag at his feet. Something inside it was moving.

Something important.

"What's in the bag?" Fred surprised himself. Apparently he could speak here. George Potts, however, was not a good listener. Ignoring the question he continued to study the stars. Fred felt torn between his desire to get his hands on the rock and his need to see what was in the bag. "Come on, Georgie, what's in the bag?"

Still ignoring Fred, Comfort's tireless civil servant picked up the strap and lumbered down the street, dragging the heavy bag behind him, its secret package still moving inside. Fred had started to follow when the dream ended.

I need that rock.

He'd 'woken up' from the dream to see Aleta and Karen standing a few yards away, in gla.s.sware, each ignoring the other as far as he could tell. He shambled over and placed his hand on Aleta's shoulder. She wore a black c.o.c.ktail dress he'd acquired for her. It was torn and she had it on backwards, but it still looked great on her. Karen didn't move or otherwise acknowledge him. No surprise there.

One thing he learned since becoming a zombie was that nothing was easy. He had no illusions about his chances of reaching Comfort, Colorado and getting his hands on that rock. Two thousand miles on foot was a tall order, even for him. If he was going to have any chance of success, he'd need all the help he could get. And that was a problem. His army was dwindling. They'd picked up undead stragglers along the way, but he was losing more than he gained. Some were wandering off when he wasn't paying attention, others picked off by the occasional armed breather. Most troubling were the ones that just ... stopped. Those gave him the creeps. So after crossing over into Pennsylvania he decided he needed new recruits.

At first they simply came to him. IKEA apparently retained its charm with breathers as well as the undead. Small groups wandered into the store, looking for supplies or meatb.a.l.l.s. But the easy pickings were short-lived, and the word soon spread among the locals that IKEA was off limits. So Fred had resorted to sending out small patrols to find fresh meat and turn it into ... not so fresh.

Their numbers were more or less replenished at the moment. When they were ready to leave he'd do a quick walk around the area and see what undead he could sc.r.a.pe up to flush out the ranks, but he didn't hold out much hope there. Since that first time back in Wayne he hadn't been too successful in bringing more zombies into the camp. He'd spent no small amount of time trying to remember exactly how he'd done it that first time. But the whole thing was a bit hazy, and try as he might he couldn't get back his zombie magnetism.

He stared blankly at a bin of cushions for patio chairs. Recruitment wasn't his only concern. There was also trouble at home.

After dying and becoming a walking corpse, the last thing Fred expected was kid trouble. Like all zombie children Karen was fast, which should have been an a.s.set for Fred. Undead tots were invaluable as cavalry and scouts for his little army. They'd proven themselves time and time again these past few weeks, rooting out small patches of breathers and even giving advance warning about an approaching column of infantry, something Fred was always keen to avoid. Karen was fast and relentless, even by 'runner' standards. The problem was he couldn't control her.

Yesterday they had stopped at an abandoned Friendly's, and two breathers, both children, had lit out the back door. Fred ordered Karen to go after them. Two more runners would be invaluable to him.

Get them.

Karen twitched but her feet didn't move. She remained standing in front of the freezer display next to Aleta, staring at buckets of melted ice cream. She heard him. He knew she heard him. But she didn't listen.

Angry, he had taken a step toward Karen, just intending to give her a little push in the right direction, when Aleta turned and faced him. She just stood there, staring blankly in his direction, but he didn't need Dr. Phil to know he was on shaky ground here. Like the rest of the undead Aleta did whatever he told her to do. But so far he hadn't tried to come between her and her daughter.

She coddles that kid. He'd be lying to himself if he said he understood it. Aleta had no problem eating Karen and turning her into a zombie. But since killing her daughter, she'd become quite protective of her.

Women.

There was something about Karen that gave him the heebie-jeebies. He got the feeling that there was something more than simple blind rage going on behind those blank eyes. Her refusal to obey his every command just added to his mistrust.

Turn around.

Karen turned around. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't; another mystery to worry over. He mentally sighed. I need more runners.

Time to get moving. Colorado wasn't getting any closer and he'd have to pick up more recruits along the way. Besides, it might be another day or so before he found his way out of this place.

Chapter 27.

Bad Habits Timmy screamed and tried pulling his foot away, but the corpse had a good grip and she looked hungry.

She'd managed to get her fingers underneath the cuff of his pajamas and wrapped around his bare ankle. She tightened her grip and clear pus oozed from underneath the fingernails as she squeezed. She began pulling herself up his leg, arms above her head, head below feet, her mouth getting closer to his foot.

He kicked at the arm with his other foot to no effect. The fingers kept tightening and the thing's mouth came a little closer.

Oh G.o.d, it's going to break the skin.

Desperately Timmy searched for anything he could use as a weapon. What he found were two more zombies coming into the back yard, both male.

That is not - Hands grabbed him from behind, eliciting a fresh bout of screams. The thing behind him screamed as well.

"Get ... off!" Annie shrieked. Timmy felt her yank him backward a good two feet, dragging the zombie along with him. The thing moaned, dirt spilling out of her mouth.

Making room, always room for Jell-O. Part of him knew he was hysterical. The rest of him wasn't thinking much of anything.

The zombie reached out with her other hand, trying to double down on her death grip. Timmy frantically kicked at it, tears of fear and pain streaking down his face. Annie pulled for all she was worth and Timmy felt something tear under his arms.

The two other zombies were next to the deck. They hadn't found the steps yet and seemed content to cheer the undead b.i.t.c.h on with growls, their hands reaching through the s.p.a.ce underneath the built-in bench. Behind him, Annie started screaming.

"Leave him alone, b.i.t.c.h!" She redoubled her efforts and with one great pull, dragged him halfway inside.

Timmy felt his ankle pull free and screamed in triumph. Then he saw his ankle. Three deep scratch marks gave testament to the zombie's tenacity. Blood was already welling up in two of the tracks. He felt himself being dragged the rest of the way inside, then she slammed the sliding gla.s.s door shut so hard he thought the whole thing might shatter.

The zombie clawed futilely at the gla.s.s. The other two zombies lost interest and started to shamble away, making random half circles in the yard.

Annie leaned against the wall, eyes closed, drenched in sweat. Her robe hung open and Timmy turned his head away in embarra.s.sment, still crying.

"My ankle, my ankle," he moaned. He heard Annie hiss and turned to see her staring at his wound. It wasn't bad, but ... "I don't want to be a zombie!" he cried.

Annie grabbed his face with her hands and turned his head until they were eye-to-eye. "Did she bite you? Timmy, did she bite you?"

"N-no. I don't think so. But ..."

She pulled him up and fresh pain blossomed under his arms.

"Ow!" He knew there'd be big bruises on both sides of his chest.

She dragged him upstairs to the bathroom and ran a bath.

"The water's cold, but it will have to do," she murmured.

"I had a dream. I think it had something to do with Dad."

"Get in the tub. We have to wash the wounds now."

There was no soap in the bathroom, just a bottle of Head 'n Shoulders conditioner. Annie emptied half the bottle on Timmy's ankle and the other half in the tub.

"Am I going to be all right?"

Annie said the three words no child wants to hear from a parent.

"I don't know."

Fresh tears ran down Timmy's face. His ankle hurt, his sides felt like they were on fire and he thought he could feel himself changing already.

"As far as I know, they have to bite you to turn you. But that's just from the movies. I don't know what happens if they scratch you. You need antibiotics but we don't have any."