"What are you doing?" Azile asked.

"I am going to destroy these motherf.u.c.kers." I took off my hat under the severe protests of John.

"Listen, bud, I just need you keep the line of firecrackers straight as I set them off. Can you do that?"

"Sure, man, but you should still keep your hat on."

"I'm fine for the moment." And I was. The white noise was replaced by an eerie silence in my head. Eliza was nowhere around, at least not in broadcasting mode. I 'pushed' the closest zombies away from the running board and opened the door. The nearest ones were straining against invisible bonds, their teeth gnashing at the empty air like Doberman Pinschers trying to find a meaty thigh. And did I tell you how much Dobies scare the s.h.i.t out of me?

When I was eight, I had a friend in my neighborhood that had two of them. To get to his door to knock, you first had to go through the gauntlet. The walkway was up against the house, and the dogs were chained on the right hand side, their saliva dripping muzzles could just reach the edge of the walkway. I would walk with my back up against the house with my arms outstretched as if I were walking on a six inch ledge forty stories up. Those dogs would be snarling and snapping; long lengths of saliva would be pouring out of their muzzles as they strained against their chains to get at me. The leather on their collars the only thing holding them back from my certain death.

I shuddered thinking of those d.a.m.n dogs and pushed a little harder against the closest zombies, I wanted them as far back as possible. It didn't seem to me that they were heeding my 'advice' quite as well as I would have hoped, but I had other things on my mind, so the dividing of my thoughts may have had something to do with. I placed the barrel of the machinegun in the crux of the window frame and the truck body. I pulled the trigger and nearly flung myself off the truck.

"Umm, Trip, maybe come over here and grab my belt," I said before I dared shoot again. I was thankful when my instruction did not lead to a four minute explanation. When I felt he had a good grasp, I let loose with a torrent of h.e.l.l.

Aiming wasn't even necessary, annihilation surged from that barrel. Zombies liquefied as the steel-jacketed 7.62 rounds would slam into first one zombie and then into his mates behind him-maybe as many as three deep before the bullet was finally sated with death. As I looked over the mult.i.tude of zombies that day, there were all kinds from all races. Men, women, children...f.u.c.k, even babies. Some were black, some white, Hispanic, Asian, there were medical workers in scrubs, cops, construction crews, some McDonald's workers (hopefully Becka was in there-see journal number two), my point being, no one escaped this plague. It's that, in my memory, I choose to believe that ALL zombies resemble Durgan: white, male, a.s.shole. That's how I can sleep at night. I just need to pretend that every former human I destroyed that day resembled that one particular a.s.shole. It was that and only that thought that kept me on the good side of the sanity line.

Watching what that large caliber round can do when it strikes a five-year-old girl is not something that is conducive to my already thinly spread mental health. My zombies are ALWAYS big goons who are deserving of that bullet. That is all I am saying. Zombies fell like wheat to a Harvester, and wasn't that what I was doing? Harvesting the dead? The bullets slammed into them, the sound almost louder than the percussion of the rounds being expended. The ones that weren't neatly cut in half were pushed back as if the thumb of G.o.d had pressed them in the abdomen. Heads disintegrated into a spray of blood, brain, and bone, to mist down on their brethren like a b.l.o.o.d.y spring rain. But there would be no b.u.mper crop rising from the resultant moisture.

"Where are they going?" John asked over the din of the gun.

It was time for a break anyway, the belt was getting low on rounds, the barrel wasn't glowing quite yet, but it was thinking about it. Something strange was happening, zombies were still being attracted to the noise, but they were moving away from my firing zone; well...at least the ones that still could.

Azile's mouth was hanging slightly agape. I don't know all she'd been witness to since this started, but it may have been safe to say it was nothing quite on this scale.

I leaned my head in so she could see my face. "Drive, girl, before they figure out I'm not firing."

She might have been in a bit of shock. It didn't stop her from getting the truck in gear, though. She slammed both feet on the brake, almost sending me once again off the truck, when she ran over the first fallen zombie. She was frozen, her feet were pressed solid on the brake, and her arms were locked straight out in front of her. Her back may as well have been adhered to her seat.

"s.h.i.t," I said.

"You have to go number two too?" John asked.

I didn't even have time to respond to that. "Hold this," I said to John as I handed him the machinegun. "Do not touch the barrel." And before I completely lost my mind, I removed the remaining rounds.

I had not even finished climbing over him when John screamed in pain. "That's f.u.c.king hot!"

"I told you not touch the barrel," I said as I got between him and Azile.

"That's the barrel?" he asked.

"Azile, you alright?" I asked gently. She didn't even acknowledge my presence. "Plan B it is," I said aloud as I watched the zombies stop their evacuation, they weren't yet coming back.

I grabbed Azile's right hand and pried her white-knuckled fingers from the steering wheel; the left came off a lot easier. I then reached down and pushed up on the back of her knees so her legs would bend. Then I stood up over the gear box and physically slid her over to my previous spot.

"Here goes nothing," I said as I restarted the stalled truck. She still hadn't moved on her own or even looked over at me.

The truck bucked wildly as I threw it into what I thought was first gear (it wasn't). I had to stick my hand out to keep Azile from slamming off the dash.

"Buckle her in, John."

"You said hold this and don't touch the barrel. How many more things do you think I can do?"

"One more?" I asked hopefully.

"Okay, fair enough."

John effortlessly got the belt around her and secured her in. I started the truck again, hoping for better results.

"John, one more thing and I promise that's it."

There was no need for the precursor statement, he had already forgotten about our previous conversation and was looking at me expectantly.

"Put your seat belt on."

"Seat belts are just a way for the insurance companies to impose their will upon the people."

"I don't f.u.c.king care, put it on."

Thankfully he did. I again engaged the truck into gear, the bucking was much less severe. I must have been somewhat closer to first this time around. I was so intent on watching my hand on the gears and making sure I was giving adequate gas to the engine, I at first could not figure out why we were thrashing around so violently. I thought I had been doing everything right, then it finally dawned on me as I looked through the windshield, I was driving over the fallen bodies of hundreds of zombies.

The bucking had been so much better, it hid a majority of the bone splintering sounds of tires crushing human skeletons. Occasionally I would see matter spray off to my left, coating the curb and sometimes nearby buildings. No matter how much I tried, I could not convince myself that I was running over garbage-sized bags of ketchup, unless the condiment now came packed with meat. Chunks of the spray dripped down from whatever it hit; lamp posts, mailboxes, cafe furniture, even nearby zombies, though they didn't seem to care too much.

Azile had the right state of mind for this: catatonic.

John was diligently studying the machinegun. A hundred more feet of the sausage grinding and we would be free-free physically, never mentally. This would be something we all took with us for the long haul.

"Just babies," Azile muttered.

I wanted her to shut the f.u.c.k up, like yesterday. The zombies to our side fell in step with the truck, some tried to get in, the rest were content to follow for now, most likely waiting until we became an easier target.

"Take a right up here," John said, never looking up from the gun.

I did it. I didn't even ask. I didn't know if it took us any closer to our destination, all I did know was that it would take the zombie skid line out of my rearview mirror. And that...well that was fine by me.

"Left up here," John said, again not looking up.

"Buddy, I appreciate the directions, but are you sure?" I asked. He didn't even question my calling him buddy. There were zombies outside the truck and apparently inside too. He didn't answer, so I took the turn. Right, left, straight. Didn't matter much; I had no clue where I was going.

"It's up on the left about another mile," John said.

"You sure you've never been here?"

He finally did look up this time. "I think I'd know where I've been or not been."

"Just asking."

Then there it was: a Brown Stone Hotel in downtown Philadelphia. At one time it was probably a pretty nice place. Ornate windows looked into a Victorian themed lobby adorned with marble floors and ceilings. Now, however, it looked exactly like what you would expect a building in a war zone to look like. Bullet holes pock marked the marble in a hundred different places. Furniture was burned or stained a brownish red color. (Don't dwell, don't dwell-I said the little mantra over and over.) Zombies that had been milling around inside came out when we rolled up. My first impression was that n.o.body was alive in there. How could they be? Then it dawned on me. Zombies only hang around when food is available.

"Hey, f.u.c.ktard!" Someone shouted from above. "Yeah, you, f.u.c.ktard!" the guy said as I craned my neck to look up the hotel. "Why don't you get that big zombie dinner bell outta here!"

"We're looking for someone!" I yelled up.

"Do I look like the f.u.c.king white pages, get the f.u.c.k outta here!" he yelled back, this time he showed the muzzle of hunting rifle to move his point along.

"Give me the d.a.m.n gun," I said to John as I pulled my head back in the window. John carefully handed it over the slowly awakening Azile. "Two can play that game, a.s.s wad!" I yelled up as I stuck the formidable machinegun up and out my window.

"Oh s.h.i.t!" He pulled his head back in. "We don't want any trouble! Loud noise brings zombies, that's all I'm saying," he answered, not showing himself.

"You just let us know if you have someone up there. If you don't we'll be on our way." I was about to ask if John's wife was up there, but I didn't know her last name. I looked over to John, his eyes were closed and his fingers were crossed. I was really hoping this went well, but I wasn't counting on it. Let's face it everyone knew the city's nickname about brotherly love was a misnomer. New Yorkers feared this place.

"John, what's your last name?" I asked, embarra.s.sed that I had either forgotten it or that I had never thought to ask. Tracy told me I had the social graces of a goat, now I believed her.

Again I was surprised when he didn't start in on some diatribe about how last names were a way for the government to keep us in check.

"Stephenson," he said quickly.

"Okay," I told him as I poked my head back out. Now I had my fingers crossed. "I'm looking for Stephanie Stephenson!" I shouted up.

There was nothing for long moments. I was about to yell back up; the street was starting to get crowded and I wanted to get out of here before I opened up again with the M-240.

Had I not been sitting, I would have had to find a seat when the a.s.s wad from above answered. "Who wants to know?" he asked.

"Do I look like a process server, you idiot?" I yelled up. "Her husband is here."

A pause but much shorter this time. "John, John is here?" a woman asked.

I was about to respond, but that was before the wind was knocked out of me by John crawling over my lap. "Stephanie, I let the sour cream expire!" he shouted.

"John, you silly, silly man. I have missed you so much," she said, tears were dropping from her handsome face. She was pretty in a feminine, lumber jack sort of way. Her meaty forearms hung out as if she hoped she would be able to scoop her man up. "I don't know who you are, mister," Stephanie said, obviously talking to me. "But thank you from the bottom of my heart."

John didn't quite catch the connection when he responded. "I was afraid you might not remember me, you missed you're last scheduled visit."

"I would never forget you, my sweetheart. I was thanking the man that brought you to me."

"Who? Ponch? Yeah he's a good guy. He had shoes just like yours."

"John, man, you're really pressing on some places that are making me uncomfortable." He didn't move.

"Ponch?" Stephanie asked.

"It's actually Mike, and you're welcome. Your husband is a...unique man he's saved my life more than once."

"Thank you, Mike."

"Okay, this has got to be snap decision time. We don't have much time until this place is flooded with zombies. Either you guys need to come down here and travel with us, or I need to know how to get John up to you."

"Hold on," Stephanie said, going back into the room.

"John, what do you want to do?" I asked him.

"With what?" he asked back. He was looking at me less than three inches from my face, my personal s.p.a.ce was getting severely violated.

"The general consensus is to stay put," Stephanie echoed down. "But I'm doing whatever John wants me to."

"I'm not sure he gets the gravity of the situation, Stephanie, this is probably your call," I told her.

"Hi, Steph!" John yelled up.

"Hi, baby," she said softly, throwing him kisses.

"We have food here for months, we have guns, and we're relatively safe. Why don't you all come up?" Stephanie said.

I'll admit I was pleasantly surprised when I didn't hear a bunch of protestations from behind her.

"Make sure he brings that d.a.m.n gun with him," was the only thing I heard from behind her.

"I think John should go up with you. n.o.body deserves to go where I am."

"Mike, there's plenty of room for you and the girl," she said as she shielded her eyes so she could see into the cab.

"I'm coming, Stephanie!" John said as he started to climb out of the truck.

"Hold on, buddy," I said as I pulled him back in.

"I've been meaning to ask you who this buddy guy is."

"We'll circle around to that. Just hold on for a second. Azile you back with us?" I asked as I focused my attention on the girl.

"Mostly," she mumbled.

"They're offering sanctuary here. My suggestion to you is to take it."

"Will Eliza be here?"

"Not anytime soon, and never if I have any say in it," I told her honestly.

"I'm going with you then."

"I don't think that's the wisest choice you could make, but I'd love to have you because I can't stand driving this kidney killer."

She actually had the corner of one lip pull up in a sliver of a smile.

"It's just going to be, John," I told Stephanie.

"How close can you get to the side of the building?" she asked, pointing to her right. The hotel ended and ab.u.t.ted up to an alleyway. "Right at the edge of the alleyway is the fire escape, the truck should be just the right height."

Except for a couple of lampposts and a mailbox, I thought I could get pretty close.