"Do not attempt to leave your homes," another man intoned. "These creatures seem to stay alive, as improbable as it sounds, by... by consuming human flesh."

"Every person who is killed will become one of them. If you are bitten, you will eventually die and become one of them as well," a woman's voice said, sounding like it came from a place just this side of desperation.

"These are not your family, folks. They are not your neighbors. They are not your friends... not any longer."

The group all looked at one another once again; eyes scanning eyes in a vain attempt to gain understanding. The radio's terrifying voices tumbled into the room like inebriated sailors.

"...the brain...

"These things must be eradicated as quickly as possible. There's no time for sympathy or compa.s.sion. There is no time for religious services to honor them, no time for what one might call a dignified internment. There is only time enough for their destruction and their burning."

Finally, Betty had had enough and switched off the radio.

"As long as these things have access to a food source... in other words, us," the commentator said sadly, "they simply will not run out of food."

As the speaker went silent, one last sailor fell.

"If a day were to come that they did run out of things to eat, it would only mean that we were all dead and gone."

Silence enveloped the store and the only sounds audible were the soft tapping and guttural moaning coming from the front window.

"Well, that's just f.u.c.king crazy," Monroe sputtered over his mouthful of microwaved burrito.

"It certainly is, Son..." Dillard said in a soft voice. "It certainly is."

The gathered group stood silently, each going over in his head what they'd just heard. The more each of them thought of it, it could only be that everything that was being broadcast on the radio was true. Given that Boyd and Jocelyn still stood leering in at them through the front window and more and more people who looked as bad as they did were now wandering the parking lot, it couldn't be argued that something horrible was indeed happening. There were now at least a dozen of them outside, each with the same drawn appearance and the same sorts of splatters of red and black on their clothing.

As all of their eyes scanned the crowd outside, one by one, the locals were able to identify them. Fred Norwood, the mechanic at the Union 76 down the road was there, his face lacerated savagely. Nick Buford, who delivered the town's newspapers in his little truck, wandered the parking lot aimlessly. From the looks of things, his Datsun had hit something very big and very hard because his arms appeared to be broken and his chest looked caved in. Jorge Velasquez, the short order cook over at the diner, was just standing out by the phone booth; his face and upper body a landscape of hot oil burns and feverish blisters. The list went on and on. One after another they picked out both long-time friend and casual acquaintance; each of them was smashed and injured beyond repair.

As more of the reanimated dead gathered in front of the gla.s.s, the group inside became even more concerned. All of this was like nothing they'd ever imagined and so they had no past experience from which to draw. This kind of thing just didn't happen in this small town.

h.e.l.l, this kind of thing just didn't happen.

Period.

"Are you sure that gla.s.s will hold them?' Cody asked. "There's getting to be quite a few of 'em out there."

Dillard nodded.

"That gla.s.s is pretty thick, Code," he rea.s.sured. He turned and spoke to Betty behind the counter. "Betty, you remember last summer when those kids shot at the front of the store with that huntin' rifle?"

Betty nodded and a.s.sured everyone, "It'll hold.

"Look," interrupted Monroe as he came up from the back, wiping his hands on a napkin. "I'd love to sit around and discuss old pals and how solid the construction is on this dilapidated s.h.i.thole, but... quite frankly, I'm more concerned with how we're going to get help and get the f.u.c.k out of here."

Even though it had been put rather rudely, everyone had to admit the fella had a point.

However, any further discussion of the topic was halted when the sound of whining tires was suddenly heard from the street and all eyes turned toward the front of the store. A large brown delivery truck came careening into the parking lot; its a.s.s end fishtailing and weaving erratically. In the seconds between the time when the truck bounded over the curb on the street and when it hit the pavement and angled toward the gas pumps, it was pretty clear that there were several more of those people-like the ones outside-hanging off the sides of the vehicle. A couple more were holding onto the back gate. A pair of legs stuck out of the pa.s.senger window, kicking at the air. On the driver's side, a large man was holding on for all he was worth, his head angled into the window and he seemed to be fighting with the driver.

"Jesus, he's going to hit the pumps!" Cody cried out and took a small step backward.

"Oh, my G.o.d..." Irina said dumbstruck, but remained standing near the two front doors.

There was a moment when everyone agreed that impact was imminent, but at the last second the truck veered away and, back end sliding, skated around the small but potentially explosive island. Abruptly, relief turned to panic and, to everyone's horror, the truck high-sided and headed straight at the building. Its speed never let up as it hit the curb stops out front and became airborne.

"Ooooh, s.h.i.t..." Claire whispered from her position near the magazine racks.

The truck smashed into the door and instantly shattered all three of the large panes of gla.s.s. In a shower of glittering hailstones, the windows went from protective barrier to lethal shrapnel. It all happened far too fast for anyone to doc.u.ment, but the end result was the same. One second they were safe and sound behind the supposedly bullet proof windows and the next all h.e.l.l had broken loose. The truck continued on through the gla.s.s and crashed into the first few rows of groceries. Irina Kovalenko, who thought fleetingly of how she'd only stopped in for a moment to use the bathroom, took the brunt of the truck's front fender in the chest. The weight of the vehicle bore down on her and slapped her to the ground. Blood gushed up and out of her mouth and in the milliseconds that it took her to draw in a breath to scream, the bulk of the truck's weight came down on her and crushed her head and chest into paste.

Cody, who had been standing to Irina's right, was knocked back and into the Hostess display. Cellophane-wrapped baked goods exploded around him and he fell hard to the linoleum. Dazed, it took a moment for him to gather his wits and begin to climb to his feet. No sooner did he stand up then two of the people who had been hanging off the sides of the truck sprang up from where they'd landed and swarmed over him. The three of them went down and the boy's blood curdling scream rang out. Blood spurted into the air and painted the image of Twinkie The Kid in a deep crimson.

Once the explosion of gla.s.s and metal settled, Betty (who, when she saw the truck jump the curb, ducked behind the counter) came up and into view. She looked at the demolition that was, seconds before, the front of her store and began crying. She was desperately trying to take it all in and therefore never noticed Boyd and Jocelyn climbing through the empty window frames. Before she even knew what was happening, they were on her and the three of them disappeared behind the counter. Her screams and the sound of tearing cloth echoed in the ensuing stillness.

Stanley Dillard saw all of this go down and instinctively knew that they were in a heap of hot s.h.i.t. With the store front collapsed, their only source of protection was gone. Dillard, who by now had moved away from the demolition and toward the back of the store, turned to Monroe and Claire and pushed them both in the direction of the backroom.

"Run!" he bellowed.

Monroe looked around bewildered.

"Where to?" he shouted while looking around frantically. "There's nothing back there!"

For a split second, Dillard glanced about and realized he was right.

"The room..." Claire said. Her previous humor gone, she now sounded extremely scared. "The one that lady was talking about."

"Right! That a girl!" Dillard nodded and shoved Monroe back again. "Go!"

With that, the three of them were off and running. Claire rounded the corner first and scurried toward the storage area of the store. It was basically a long hallway which ran along the length of the back of the building. Looking quickly to the left, she noticed the back access doors to the Beer and Bulk Soda refrigerators. To the right was a roll-up door which led presumably to the loading dock outside. Next to that, set in a st.u.r.dy metal frame, was a small room addition which looked recently built. The structure looked strong and heavily armored. Its walls were made of cement and thick metal rebar could be seen threaded through the concrete. On each side of it, stacks of soda cases and metal CO2 canisters stood like sentries. Thinking that must certainly be the Count Out Room, she ran off to open the door.

As Dillard and Monroe rounded the corner, they could both hear movement coming from behind them. Small racks of food and large displays were being knocked over and a chorus of low moaning could be heard. From the sounds of it, there were at least five or six of those things running up behind them, coming on fast. Monroe's feet suddenly went out from underneath him, his designer shoes slipping on the slick concrete. He went down with a painful sound.

Dillard heard Monroe fall and slid to a stop. He looked back and saw the people coming up the aisle toward them. They were moving far faster than he'd thought possible, but he felt as if he still had time. It wasn't like he could just leave the guy there to be killed by those things. He raced back and grabbed Monroe by the wrist and hoisted him to his feet.

"Go! I'm going to try to hold them off!" Dillard shouted.

Monroe needed no further urging and was off like a shot. He ran to where the small hall they were in met the long one at the back of the store. He whipped his head around, trying to decide which direction he should head next.

"Phillip!" he heard Claire shout to his right.

Monroe turned and saw her holding open a metal door. Frantically, she pointed inside. He smiled and started running.

"That's my girl!" he said between frantic breaths.

Dillard managed to grab several milk crates as well as some flats of soda which were stacked against the wall and dumped them into the aisle. It wouldn't deter the quickly approaching crowd for long, but it should delay them long enough for him to catch up to Monroe and get inside the protection of the room. He took off running as the sound of people stumbling through the wreckage reached his ears.

He ran off and turned the corner in time to see Monroe and Claire reuniting at what could only be the Count Out Room's door. Monroe was pushing Claire inside and he turned to grab the door's handle.

Dillard sprinted toward them as fast as his legs would carry him. Behind him, he heard the sound of his pursuer's feet begin to slap on the concrete. He knew he'd have to be quick or they'd catch him with the metal door open and they'd all be lost.

He ran as fast as he could, pumping his legs harder, and judged that he'd just make it.

Monroe saw Dillard coming toward him and then his focus shifted to the crowd moving rapidly behind him. There were almost a dozen of them now and they all seemed to be moving impossibly fast.

He's not going to make it!

As Stanley Dillard got to within an arm's length of the door, his eyes met Monroe's. For a split second, he thought he saw Monroe silently urging him on. All of a sudden, Monroe's expression changed and it seemed as if he'd just given up on the old man. It was as though he thought it would be too close and risking his and Claire's lives was too much of a gamble.

As Dillard took his next-and final-step, he saw Monroe tug the door closed behind him. With a heartbreaking finality, the metal door slammed in its frame just as Dillard felt the first pair of hands latch onto his shoulders. Slamming into the door, more hands grabbed onto him and pulled him down toward the unforgiving ground.

Inside the small room, Monroe and Claire panted and held on to one another. Claire started crying and Monroe pulled her tighter. Over the sound of her sobbing, a frantic thumping and hysterical screaming from outside could be heard.

The next morning, Monroe and Claire awoke on the floor of the cramped Count Out Room. Once the noise from outside subsided, they'd cleared some s.p.a.ce by pushing the chairs and a.s.sorted boxes out of the way and created a makeshift bed for themselves. The floor was freezing, so they'd spent most of the time with their arms wrapped around one another for warmth.

Lying there, Monroe repeatedly ran the scenario of what had happened to Dillard over in his mind and, as was his way, he'd even managed to convince himself that he'd done the only thing he could have by shutting the door on the man.

After all, if he hadn't, they all would have died.

The only thing Monroe now found himself regretting was him not having had the foresight to grab some food before locking themselves in here. It had been a while since he'd eaten the microwaved burrito and his hunger was now something he couldn't ignore. Claire was hungry as well. She'd been b.i.t.c.hing about not having anything to eat since she'd woken up. Monroe wasn't sure what she expected him to do, for chrissakes. It wasn't like he could just unlock the door and go grab them some snacks.

The only choice they had was to wait.

So, that was what they did.

And as the hours pa.s.sed, they'd done little else except lie there on the cold floor and bide their time. Hopefully, someone-the cops, the army, someone-would come along at some point and find them and rescue them. All they had to do was be patient. However, if too much time pa.s.sed, there would be no recourse but for one of them to take the risk and go out into the store in search of rations. It'd be dangerous and, if there were still any of those things still around, that person might not make it back.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Monroe was sure he could talk Claire into it.

And as the hours wore on, Monroe closed his eyes and he began to formulate his side of the argument.

The Mouse Print The fading light of day came spilling in through the polarized windows of the high-rise office; rays of diffused illumination splashing across the lush carpeting in broad strokes. The slate-colored floor covering was deep, soft and very expensive. The fibers soaked up the light's warmth like a sponge. The thick ply was not only a comfort to the feet that trod upon it, but it was also an eye-pleasing accent to the room's deep brown mahogany walls. Near the floor-to-wall panes of gla.s.s at the far end sat a large, regal cherrywood desk. Regimented piles of paper were set in very ordered rows near a thin, white computer monitor that jutted up through a hole in the desktop. Behind the desk's leather upholstered chair was a wall covered with framed 8x10" photos. In each, the same man grinned out excitedly from the frame with one arm around someone. Upon closer inspection, those someones were all political dignitaries, film stars, recording artists and fashion models.

Off to one side, the man who appeared in the photos stood looking out of the window at the teeming city far below. The view fell away sickeningly and it was easy to get the impression that to fall from such a vantage point would mean a very long time might be spent hurtling through the emptiness of s.p.a.ce. Looking out, vertigo clawed at perception. All that gla.s.s and open air was enough to make a person feel dizzy and off-balance when he entered the room.

It was exactly the response Joseph Weber wanted to inspire in his visitors.

Almost sadly, he turned and ambled over to the bar hidden in the bookcase on the other side of the room. Pulling the cabinet open gently, he s.n.a.t.c.hed up a handful of ice and filled a short gla.s.s. Scanning the array of bottles set out before him, he selected his poison and poured three fingers of scotch. The frozen cubes crackled and settled deeper into the squat, pre-chilled tumbler.

With drink now in hand, he returned to his vantage point and sipped the harsh, smoky liquid. The fluid coated his tongue and made his mouth burn in a soothing way. It had been a rough day. This respite was a welcomed diversion from a schedule chock-full of meetings with sponsors, b.i.t.c.h sessions with networks, and the ever-present ch.o.r.e of filling his talent roster. Off in the distance, a lone hawk circled the sky, hunting the concrete and gla.s.s landscape for prey.

Weber knew exactly how that sort of thing felt.

He drew another mouthful of liquor and swirled it in his mouth before swallowing. The scotch's intoxicating effect nibbled at the edges of his consciousness and he felt some of the stress he'd acc.u.mulated begin to melt away. He knew he'd have to be careful and not let the alcohol carry him too far. He still had one more meeting to get out of the way before calling it a day and heading upstairs to the penthouse he called home.

As he stared out over the spires of the city, he dimly recalled a quieter and far less prosperous time from what seemed like a lifetime ago. His reflection told of the years that had pa.s.sed. His face had a few more lines carved into its flesh. His hair had a bit more gray. His eyes looked more worldly... and also more weary.

"So much..." he whispered to himself. "So much has changed."

Back once upon a time, he'd been a poor day laborer-a grunt-working long hours on construction sites hauling heavy loads of wood and concrete for some very s.h.i.tty pay. He'd been dead last on a fast track to nowhere. At least that was what everyone-his boss, his friends, his white trash family-kept telling him. All he'd had to look forward to was a lifetime of backbreaking work, maybe a loveless marriage or two with some ungrateful kids who would no doubt grow to resent him, and then a good ol' fashioned chest-crushing heart attack before being dumped into a low cost casket and buried deep in the ground, ultimately to be forgotten. The only thing that would mark his time on earth would be his name and a couple of dates chiseled into a concrete marker somewhere.

Then, that depressing future had all been changed by some multicolored streaks of light tearing across the sky, a sky not unlike the one he now found himself looking out over. With one swipe of Fate's hand, everything that had been in his cards was shuffled away. The whole game got changed when that first dead body opened its eyes and began its search for breakfast. He'd been one of the smart ones and had managed to suss out the whole walking dead situation pretty early on. He figured being forced to cave in the skull of a foreman as he tried to chew his arm off was a pretty big give-a-way.

Weber was not a man who learned fast... but he did learn well.

So, as quickly as he could, he found himself a safe haven and tried to think things through. By luck or by providence, he met up with a guy named Jimbo who, while not a mental giant, was a physical behemoth. An alliance was quickly formed and a plan was just as quickly hatched. By the time the dead gathered enough of their numbers to be a consideration, he and Jimbo had been ready and waiting.

Looking back, those were some fine days and he and Jimbo had definitely had themselves a time. It had been just the two of them, like a modern day Harold Hills, travelling the countryside, sleeping where they could, and methodically bilking the yokels out of their cash and commodities with a grift that was anything but square.

Livin' off the fatta' the lan'.

The way he and Jimbo had it all figured, the dead were dangerous and could be a real handful if you found yourself surrounded by a group of them, but... one on one, they were a manageable threat if you were smart (which Weber was) or built like a Caterpillar track loader (which Jimbo was). Together, they made a formidable pair. As the public's interest in what they were doing grew, Weber was smart enough to see the potential in their little enterprise and had already figured a clear cut way to make some big cash in it. With a business model based more in professional wrestling than in anything out of Forbes, he was patiently waiting when the television boys came snooping around with their Brooks Brothers suits and fancy watches.

Now, years later, he'd parlayed it all into a bonafide empire.

Yeah... Jimbo was gone (he'd gotten himself bitten by one of those things when he'd one day gotten a little too lazy and lot too complacent) as were the four other Jimbos after him.

But, Weber had prevailed, and in the end wasn't that the most important thing?

It was the way Weber saw things.

Jimbos came and Jimbos went, but the business...

The business continued.

Forever and ever... Amen.

Weber sipped at his gla.s.s and then casually glanced at his Rolex. His Acquisition Team would be here any minute, so he downed the rest of his drink and went and put the gla.s.s away. Closing the cabinet, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the small bottle of breath spray he kept there. Two quick spritzes and any trace of the alcohol was gone.

A soft, tinkling chime came from the intercom on the desk and his secretary's throaty-and downright s.e.xy-voice came pouring out of the small speaker.

"Sir, Monica Johansson, Richard Murphy, and Phil Monroe are here to review the contracts on the new fighter."

Weber walked behind the desk and pressed the small red b.u.t.ton on the console.

"Ok, Alicia. Give me a moment and then send them in."

He took his seat and got himself settled. He'd worked very hard with the building's designer to make it so that the first image people got when they walked in the door was one that exuded power and influence. He always judged how successful they'd been by the awed look that bloomed in people's expressions when they first walked in. It was a testament to their efforts that it happened no matter how many times the guest had been here. Every time he saw that look, it filled him with a sense of pride.

It was, after all, important to enjoy the little things in life.

As he waited, he took a second and went over what he knew about the Jimbo his team was here to discuss. From the video he'd seen, this one was impressive. Although not exceptionally big, he was strong and seemed to be a dyed-in-the-wool natural when it came to doling out The Pain. The three people waiting outside had come from a meeting with him earlier in the day and would have more information on where this Jimbo's head was.

Not that it much mattered.

The Jimbos all came to The League with stardust in their eyes and dreams of being rich in their hearts. Such simple-mindedness was almost endearing. The truth was, however, that Weber was not about to give any of them a glimpse at the true reality. He was far too smart a man for that. He and his people would promise them that they'd soon have more money than G.o.d and see more p.u.s.s.y than a G.o.dd.a.m.n litter box. It wasn't his fault these dopes never had the sense to read the fine print of their contracts before signing on. The writing there was small and concealed by legalese, but it was there.

In fact, it was Weber's favorite part of the whole friggin' contract.