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My Dad, Perry Neal Crawford, shared a previous draft of this here before. Sadly, he has passed away months ago, so I'm here to share how I've been improving for him. This is what I have shaped it into so far.

Odyssey of the End Times:

By

Kyle L. Crawford

Chapter One:

She was there again. Floating in the mud and the blood. Wondering how she had lived. Hoping they believe she is dead, just like before. Unclean water seeps into wounds as life flows out in crimson. Her eyes remain transfixed upon the unmoving back of the only life that matters more than any other, including her own. And all she can do is watch. She’ll die if she moves.
Please, she silently pleads. Please be alive!
Dark, swollen bruises cover the back of the girl before her, snaking across her shoulder, arm, and side from armpit to abdomen. Head resting in the thick mud, the girl’s blonde hair is a matted mess of filth and drying blood. Her torso rises and falls ever so slightly, her breathing far too shallow to hear.
Relief floods Baerta Adler’s body, knowing her sister had survived. But the memory is different this time. Men and women babbling nonsense have reached the crater too soon. And since when were there women among the enemies that found them? And when were there so many of them? There were only two of them when it happened, not five. And never did they jibber such nonsense. Begging forgiveness from a deity she does not heed. Lamenting their miserable predicament. Calling out for help, any help. Lamenting, “Why me?”
They came closer. At that moment, her sister turns. No! Baerta shrieks in her mind. No, they’ll kill you! Please, stay still –
“Wake up, Baerta,” commands her sister, her voice growing louder with each syllable, turning and lifting her upper body out of the murky water as if rising from the dead. “Wake up!”
Suddenly, in the distance, there is a pop and a crackle, followed by the sound of a body crashing hard against stairs as something reacts through gritted teeth. That is followed by another body bouncing off a railing and down the center of a stairwell. The voice attached to it snarls as the doppler effect carries it away.
“Wake up, Baerta!” shouts her sister again. “Wake! Up!” She begins pounding on a door that should never have been there. Angling out from the water, it is almost a raft, yet somehow, it bellows urgently with every desperate blow as if it were standing upright in a doorway and far from any water.
Her sister’s one good eye, beautiful and blue, flashes with growing desperation as she hammers at the door. Her face is a tapestry of horror, left eye swollen, blackened by cruelty. And then she speaks in a voice that isn’t her own, yet equally familiar.
“Baerta?!” shouts the new voice. “Baby, please open the door!” The pounding on the door increases in speed. The woman attached to the voice struggles with her keys with a curse.
“Eh, might as well shoot them just to be sure,” says a man above, at the lip of the crater. Just like before, there is a click, followed by a curse.
Baerta feels her left hand reflexively draw her sidearm and lift up toward where the enemy is. She lets her head loll as if she were a disturbed corpse, just like before.
“I got this,” says the second man. “Mine still has a few sh – [naughty word removed]!”
Baerta squeezes the trigger.

* * *

This isn’t a riot. That much is certain to Corporal Aiden Wagner as he leans in to open fire upon the converging crowd once more. Many are still in sleepwear; pajamas, nightgowns, oversized shirts and sweatpants, all barefoot. Some are completely naked. Few are in street clothes. Yet all are marked by the red fever and running mucus of the Uber Flu, covered in blood, bile and vomit, with feral gazes and frothing mouths.
Their faces and eyes are frightening, their relentless charging demoralizing, but Wagner sticks to his post, guarding the rear of the fleeing protesters among a series of bounding firing lines. Littering the street are the remnants of a fierce melee; broken and discarded signs, water bottles, various articles of clothing and other property either surrendered or lost to escape, and the occasional blood trail. Those remnants accentuate the horrific carnage as well as the perpetrators of that horror.
Leveling his sights upon the crazed mob, aiming at their center mass, Wagner swiftly picks his targets as he sends every burst into the abdomen of a crazed citizen. Just like before, of the fifteen he drops most get back up again. Worse, only three are reduced to crawling by severed spines. Worst of all, both his fellow squad mates and the police officers flanking him seem to be experiencing similar results.
“Nothing,” someone shouts. “We did nothing to them!”
Falling back behind the next two firing lines with the others, reloading, Wagner voices his concern, “At this rate we’ll be serving another course, free of charge!”
Backpedaling beside him, Sergeant Fines, the woman running his squad, briefly seems content to overlook Wagner’s remark and heckle the panicking beat cop nearby. “At least I hit my targets!”
Ignoring the sharp curse given in reply, Fines turns back toward Wagner, saying, “Well, corporal, either keep blaming our excellent training, or suggest a better option.”
As the firing lines before them rapidly melt to the rear in turn, Wagner recalls the troubling words of another woman he knows, a fellow veteran very dear to him. Suiting those words to the current purpose, he says, “Center mass may be super effective, sir. But I strongly suggest we start making them kiss a bullet.”
“And that’s how we win, corporal,” replies Fines, nodding her approval. She then addresses the rest of the line, “Semi-auto only this time, people! Lean in and make them kiss a bullet!”
The next few minutes are lost to violence.

* * *
The pop and crackle are unfamiliar to her, even frightening. Using this weapon goes against everything that she believes in, yet here she is, sending its cruel barbs flying into the crazed man before her. When the lightning flows into him upon impact, the man twitches and drops with a thud like a stone, fully compliant with gravity. Helsa still feels that she’s at least partially responsible for the injuries that he sustains from the fall.
But he isn’t a man, she warns herself. He’s something else now. She’s never had such thoughts cross her mind before. Until now, dehumanization was never a part of her vocabulary. This is a first.
“Great shot, Helsa!” shouts Deena, fear still in her voice. “Now let’s go before he gets back up.”
Her heart still in her ears, Helsa doesn’t react to Deena’s words. Her world swims in a tunnel. Is this what it was like for them? Is this what combat was like for Baerta and Aiden?
Someone squeezes her arm and she jumps. Turning sharply to yank herself free, she realizes that that someone is Deena.
Helsa’s friend steps forward, gently touching her shoulder. “Hey,” she repeats. “It’s okay. It’s me!”
“I’m – I’m sorry, Deena,” Helsa stammers with a gulp. “I’m not used to this. We’re still in our scrubs!”
Deena stifles a laugh. “Neither am I. We need to go.”
Helsa nods. She then realizes her finger is now resting above the trigger. She grins despite her fear, proud that their training stuck.
“That’s so cool,” she exclaims with a short laugh.
“What’s cool?” Deena asks, a puzzled look on her face.
Before Helsa could answer, the fallen man stirs. Strangely, the first thing about him that Helsa remembers is his tee shirt, green with a band name, The Yodeling Cows, splashed across its front in cow patterned black and white. He’s around her age, in his thirties, with dark stubble on his face and close cropped hair. Former military, perhaps. His muscle tone certainly suggests it. They tend to take good care of themselves. But then she sees his eyes! They are feral, crazed. But there’s also a flash of astonished fear in them, like he couldn’t believe what just happened to him. He sits up.
“Momma, why’d you do that?” he snarls, briefly clutching his obviously bitten arm as if remembering the pain and betrayal.
This unsettles Helsa deeply. She presses her finger back down onto the trigger and holds for five seconds like before. The man writhes in pain and rage as he froths at the mouth. When he’s still again, Helsa ejects the spent cartridge from the taser.
She looks up. Deena is already across the emergency throughway, heading into the parking garage. Helsa shivers, her dark skin damp from a cold sweat. Stifling her anger, she wastes no time catching up. She steals one last glance back at the hospital along the way. She hopes her other friends, her colleagues, and her patients are okay.
“My car is this way,” Deena says, not even acknowledging the fact that she had just abandoned a friend.
Helsa quietly fumes while keeping pace. Perhaps Deena is panicking, too. Since neither of them are used to such violence, it makes sense. She looks up at her friend’s face, noticing apprehension. Deena is tall, her strides long. And so is her hair, a lovely shade of brown, pinned back to flow over her shoulders in a hairstyle ripped straight from the ancient nineteen seventies. Her grey eyes are focused ahead, her lips pinched in quiet frustration. The light clomp, ka-clomp of her boots echoes through the garage. She’s quiet for a long time.
“You’re a good shot with that thing,” Deena compliments. “Where did you train at? I might have to take classes from them.”
“My partners Baerta and Aiden taught me a couple years ago,” Helsa replies, scratching absentmindedly at her wild mane of auburn hair.
“Hmm,” is Deena’s only response. Her face is briefly unreadable.
Helsa furrows her brow, genuinely confused. That was weird.
“You know,” Deena says after a moment, “I could have helped back there if [naughty word removed] got real. I’ve been taking classes for a couple years now.”
“I don’t think kickboxing would have helped much against that guy,” says Helsa, hoping she didn’t come off as dismissive. “He was acting like he was on bath salts. I got lucky with the taser.”
Silence from Deena. Silent like the fully packed parking garage around them. I may have hurt her feelings…
Her thoughts are briefly lost in the rhythm of Deena’s boots. She then hears the crazy guy in their wake start shouting obscenities and complaining how much his arm hurts. He’s even angry at his mom for biting him. She recalls the wound being near the wrist, on the inside of his arm. That would be a painful spot to be bitten.
“Try to keep up, shorty!” Deena calls back, now halfway up the nearest ramp to the second floor.
“Don’t be so loud,” Helsa hisses as she trots up next to Deena. She then talks in a hushed tone, “What if there are more like him? What if they hear us?”
Deena stops with a scuff of her boots, then flails her arms out in exasperation as if to point out how quiet it is, her face full of irritation.
“There’s no one else out here, Helsa. It’s just us!”
“You don’t know that!” Helsa quietly retorts, hands thrown up in frustration.
“Listen, you little poly bitch,” Deena snaps, stepping toward Helsa menacingly.
Deena’s eyes are now full of an anger that Helsa never saw before. She either masks well at work, or she’s so frightened and overwhelmed that she’s switching to fight mode. Neither option makes Helsa feel any safer.
“Deena, let’s go find your car so we can get out of here and feel safer, yeah?”
The silence answering back makes Helsa shiver. Deena simply turns around and continues walking toward wherever her car is parked. The noise of her boots resumes. There is another long bout of silence as the two women march to find Deena’s car.
This doesn’t feel right. Not just because of Deena’s outburst. Helsa thought there would be more people trying to leave right now. But there is no one else anywhere in sight. That scares her even more than her friend’s anger. Suddenly, she hears Deena’s boots turn and walk to her left then stop again. Deena found her car. Helsa breathes a sigh of relief.
That’s when she hears it. The rapid footfalls of numerous feet. The hissing and heaving of overtaxed lungs. Helsa glances right. Oh, [naughty word removed], they’re coming!
The sudden chirp of a deactivating car alarm gets Helsa to glance back left. She watches Deena quietly slip into her old silver 2032 Grumman Motors Estartée and close the door. Starting up her car’s engine, Deena wastes no time backing out of her parking space, nearly running Helsa over.
Hearing the hissing, the heaving, and the thundering feet closing in, Helsa rushes past the car before Deena can accelerate, slapping an open palm down on the hood in anger along the way.
It must have distracted Deena as she steps on the gas. Helsa hears a loud metal crunch, as the once pristine Estartée smashes into someone else’s car. The hissing and heaving crowd behind her scuff and squeak to a halt, hammering on the outside of the Estartée. Surrounded and trapped in a newly found panic, Deena’s muffled screams are heard in the growing distance amid snarls and hammering fists as Helsa runs away.

* * *
She is still running, and they are still pursuing. If she stops, if she is slowed down in any way, they’ll rip her apart. So Baerta decides not to make it easy for them. Hurtling over a concrete checkpoint barricade that she knows she hurdled before, within that half a second, she can see one of the bodies now before her stir, his hand smearing the pool of blood formed from his head.
This never happened before, Baerta thinks in a mild panic and frustration. They were dead as can be. And now I can’t get his gun!
She leaps, tucks into a ball and flips over the not-dead dead man as he reaches, landing back into a run with practiced ease. Half his head was gone. She remembers that detail well, having turned his body over to frisk it for spare magazines. What was left of his probably once handsome face was distorted from the bullet’s impact. And she remembers that well, too.
Did he have a wife, a girlfriend, a husband or boyfriend? Did he have a dog or a cat? These questions still cross her mind from time to time, even six years later. She doesn’t know why she doesn’t think about the other two men. Are they not worthy of remembrance?
Coming back to reality – Is this reality? – she remembers running through this checkpoint with her sister… Her sister! Spotting her in her peripheral, her bruised and battered face smiling with a mouthful of shattered teeth, running on two legs that she remembers being broken; Baerta does what used to be unthinkable. She slams into and shoves her sister, forcing her to the pavement with a tumbling thump that breaks her heart.
I’m sorry I did that, Tara, Baerta laments to herself, tears in her eyes. But you’re scaring me!
Now running over a bridge, the freezing rapids of the Brandenburg River rushing in her ears to the right, Baerta hears the dead getting closer, her sister probably among them. Forcing herself to pick up speed, to run on the balls of her feet, she desperately attempts to widen the distance between her and the dead. But she knows what she’ll be facing ahead. And they’re dead, too!
Ahead is another checkpoint, but this time the dead men are up on their feet and aiming their rifles at her. So Baerta does the only thing she can do. She runs to her left, toward the high sidewalk and bridge railing, uses both like stairs into two quick strides, and jumps into the water below. The zip and crack of the bullets sent to greet her rocket past her head.

* * *
Aiden sends another two shot burst into his next target, a young woman in an oversized shirt with a disturbing look in her eyes. He swears it’s raw hunger. The impact sends her falling into a crouch before he lines up third shot, which he sends down into her pretty face. Her eyes rolling back, she crumples. Her head hits the pavement with a thud.
To Aiden’s right, Corporal Gruber and Officer Weisner drop a pair of threats with a few good shots. Both are currently masking their fear well. He hears Gruber mutter something about respecting boundaries.
“Great, I’ll write him a ticket,” replies Weisner, her grin wide.
To Aiden’s left, Sergeant Fines is holding her own well. Reloading, he watches her put down two more threats with a single well placed headshot each. He isn’t entirely surprised, with her being a Lithrian. She turned two hundred fifty-two two weeks ago and had passed up several promotions to stick with her squad. It’s a shame, because she would have been great as a lieutenant, or even a captain. But she insisted that her pointy ears belonged at the squad level, where the action is. Her words.
To Aiden’s rear are Officers Krendl and Gabbs. Gabbs is busy reloading her pistol as Krendl levels his shotgun at a doorway. A howling man in boxer briefs rushes out and is practically kissing the shotgun’s barrel before he’s shot, sending blood and chunks of his head flying in every direction. A piece of skull fragment lodges itself into Krendl’s left cheek, causing him to grunt in pain and clutch at the wound. Aiden watches in horror as a petite, attractive young woman in a blood spattered hoodie also rushes out, climbing onto Krendl with ease. Seizing his uninjured cheek with one hand, thumb in his mouth, she tilts his head with her other hand and sinks her teeth into his neck. Arterial spray coats the woman’s face with blood before pulsing onto the building’s façade, then up to the sky with every adrenaline fueled heartbeat.
“Oh [naughty word removed],” Gabbs calls, “Krendl!”
With her mouth full of neck meat, the petite woman that jumped on Krendl rips his cheek free from his face, stuffs it in her already full mouth, and audibly savors her meal as she chews in triumph. Clutching at what is left of his face and neck with both hands, Krendl falls onto his back. Backpedaling, Aiden raises his weapon, leans in and sends two rounds into the base of the woman’s skull. Her body collapses onto Krendl like a marionette cut from its tethers. Privates Burton and Schneider step up to throw the petite woman aside and drag Krendl back toward the center of the formation for triage. Aiden doesn’t think he’ll make it. That was a lot of blood.
The bounding firing lines are getting sloppy. People are tired, scared, and thirsty. Aiden feels someone reflexively tap him on the shoulder to relieve him. He sees that it’s his friend Private Kaisner. With him is a middle aged man with a death wish named Sven, an army veteran. He can see a flustered Fines about to cuss them out in his peripheral, but she instead waves them forward to relieve her and Weisner. She lets her rifle hang free while bringing her canteen up for a sip.
“Hutchins, Landau, get up here and help form a new rearguard,” she commands. “Wagner! You, Gruber, Weisner and I will form a new second line behind them.” She then points back toward everyone taking breaks in the middle of the formations. “You! Four volunteers, now.”
Burton and Schneider run up to form a third line, alongside some girl in a barista smock and a hairy man in a turtleneck. Sergeant Fines greets those two warmly.
“Hi. What are your names?”
“Greta,” says the barista.
“Bernard,” says the hairy man.
“You two are doing great,” says Fines.
Turning his attention to two squadmates still in the middle group, Aiden doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation.
“The [naughty word removed] are you two doing?” he shouts.
Private Falton replies with a rude gesture. Private Gazner points at his ankle.
“It’s just a broken finger and a sprain,” Aiden replies with feigned exasperation. “Get up here and get some!”
“What do you mean, broken?” asks Falton.
“It will be when you get here,” Aiden threatens, “unless you apologize.”
He feels Fines strike him on the back.
“Sorry, sir,” Aiden replies.
Meanwhile, Gazner forces himself out of a restaurant’s outdoor seating and gets to his feet, grumbling. The crackle of small arms fire from the vanguard resumes with some hollering. The shooting starts up again among the rearguard with a curse. But Aiden isn’t worried. The infected have been busy elsewhere. 34th Street has been quiet until recently. Even then the action is at a trickle. He grabs his canteen for some water.
“Hey, Wagner,” says Falton. “You got any intel from up there?”
Towering over his entire squad, and everyone else there, Aiden stifles a laugh, then pantomimes searching for more threats all around.
“Nothing yet, private.”
“He’s lying!” shouts his friend Kaisner in a singsong voice.
“Just watch our rear!” Aiden sings back with a grin.
“Yes, I knew him too, Greta,” laments Fines nearby. “But that’s not him anymore. Do you understand?”
Damn, that killed the mood, thinks Aiden, his expression now souring. He turns his attention to a narrow alley.
“Falton, guard that alley,” he orders. “Gazner, is your ankle splinted?”
“Yes, sir,” Gazner answers with a long, hard sigh.
“Good. Join Falton.”
As Gazner reluctantly takes up his new position, Aiden gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Unfortunately, right now, pain must be ignored for unit safety. They don’t know when the next rush will come, or where from. He glances at the civilians and cops still resting in the middle as the paramedics desperately try to save poor Krendl’s life.
“Officers,” Aiden calls out, “get some eyeballs on the surrounding buildings. We don’t want anymore throats ripped open. And go relieve 5th Squad, please.”
“I can use some relief,” chimes Kaisner.
“No you don’t, Kaisner,” Aiden says, turning with a chuckle. “You’re fine.”
Right on queue, a group of terrified civilians come running through the ranks of the rearguard. There must be nearly thirty of them. And hot on their heels are dozens of the infected. The rearguard opens fire with a chorus of expletives. Two of the civilians are caught in the line of fire and drop like stones. Then the vanguard starts intensifying their own shooting. Some of the infected fall, some of the civilians are dragged down and ripped apart alive. Others turn to help fight back against the infected, but most just keep running deeper into the formation. Aiden worries when their panic will become its own infection.
Fines seems to think that, too. She leans in and starts barking orders.
“Hold the line, goddammit!” she roars. “Hold the fucking line!”
“We’ve got contact!” hollers Falton, opening fire alongside Gazner.
Will I ever see you two again? Aiden’s mind briefly swims into beautiful memories shared with Baerta and Helsa. Until now, he hadn’t had a chance to think about them.
“Wagner, dammit, we need you!” shouts Sergeant Fines, snapping him out of the brief respite.
Aiden’s world is then lost in a cacophony of small arms fire, screams, and inane babble. With a curse, he leans in and opens fire.

* * *
Helsa sends the prongs out to make contact, with a quick press of the trigger. Rushed at by a boy no older than twelve, wearing only his pajama bottoms, she didn’t hesitate to defend herself this time. The boy falls, hits his head on the curb, twitches briefly, and doesn’t get up again. Feeling awful as she holds down the trigger for the full five seconds, Helsa crouches behind a tree at the outer edges of Tenflower Park. She then quietly ejects the spent cartridge.
She jogs here three times a week, and the paved trail takes her all the way home from here. Far from the hospital now, and higher up in elevation, she cannot believe her good fortune so far. Being petite kept her hidden from most of the infected during her journey here. Only the boy had seen her so far. She hopes it stays that way.
She tries not to think about the boy that she just killed. She tries not to cry as the nearby screams, and the echoes of sirens and gunfire throttle the sky. She forces her mind to focus on reuniting with Baerta and Aiden. They had a plan to rendezvous at this park, but neither of them are here. Judging by all the shooting throughout the city, Aiden will be delayed. But what about Baerta? She had a serious bout of seizures lately. So she had to stay home all day. Perhaps she’s still packing for everyone.
She remembers when they first met in the park. In fact, she met them both in the park, Aiden being first. It was a Saturday and she sat alone at one of the chessboard tables. He asked if he could join in a very sweet, smooth way.
“You look like you could really use a challenge. Maybe I can give it a shot. Would you be up for a match?”
She was briefly lost in thought over how tall he is. And he was so handsome that day. He seemed so serene. So she said yes. She’s pretty sure she was blushing when she answered.
“Wow,” was his reply. He would later admit to being smitten by a smile she forgot was on her face. She was lost in his beautiful eyes for a moment.
“Never thought I’d ever be playing with anyone,” was his attempt to pretend he wasn’t smitten. He’s such a bad liar, and she loves him for that.
Baerta, on the other hand, can be cagey. When they met she was unhoused at the time, still in her uniform. Damn, she looked good in it! It fit her perfectly. She was out feeding the crows and really enjoying their company. And that’s what got Helsa hooked, Baerta’s genuine love of animals. The crows always gather for her. They probably have today, too. They may have sent an envoy to visit again. It’s most likely Thor, the largest of the entire murder. That bird is scary smart.
Helsa’s mind returns to the present as several people are heard running her way. A woman among the group keeps quietly calling for help. A man among them keeps encouraging everyone to run. The rest are simply breathing, but each breath is ragged. Meaning they must have been running for a while. Helsa stays hidden behind the tree. They could all be infected and simply babbling the last things they said before turning. No one except Baerta and Aiden is to be considered safe from now on.
Only when their footfalls are too quiet to hear does Helsa finally come out of hiding. It’s getting dark and hot, and a major storm is closing in. Helsa now wishes she was able to grab her backpack at the hospital. But people were fighting and security said it wasn’t safe for her. She recalls one of the men, Barry, being unconscious on the floor, only his feet in sight. The security guard that warned her, Simon, stooped and reached for something in the room, stood back up with Barry’s taser and two spare cartridges. He insisted Hela take them and ordered her to leave.
“It isn’t safe,” he said. She hopes they’re both okay.
Suddenly the ground shakes! The world shudders violently for three minutes. Helsa stifles a scream. Brighton Bay is a coastal city. It won’t be long until the water recedes and the inevitable tsunami hits. Judging by how violent this quake is, it’s going to be deadly. She must get home soon.
Rising to her feet, Helsa spots another small group of people, five of them. They seem distracted, so she wonders if she should stay put anyway for a few more minutes, or if she could risk moving now while their attention is elsewhere.
After a moment and a deep breath, Helsa decides to move. Lengthening her stride as much as she can, Helsa moves quickly past the dead boy and across the street toward home. Following the bike trail on the other side, she is about to sigh in relief, but then she hears them.
Damn!
They’re following her now. And she now sees their faces. They’re infected! Her skin crawls when their feral eyes light up, but none of them charge at her. They’re taking their time instead.
“What the [naughty word removed]?” she whispers to herself.
Helsa picks up the pace, her stride already at its limit. But they keep up with ease, all of them being taller than her, all of them men in their prime. Stealing another quick glance, she wonders why two of them look a little familiar. The first of those two is dark haired with a thin mustache and stubble. His hair is a little long and he’s dressed in dark clothing. The second guy is a little overweight, clean shaven with spiky blonde hair. He’s dressed in lighter clothing with a distinct red band tee for the Orgy Fists, a local pornogrind band. That just made her situation even worse. That subgenre leans heavily into misogyny with violent sexual lyrics. And the second guy looks like the posterchild for what kind of person such music attracts. That can only mean one solution to this new, very dangerous problem. And she can be fast when she needs to be.
Helsa bolts!

* * *
Coming up for air at last, Baerta gasps for her first breath in minutes. As the river pulls her downstream, a door creeps up out of the water ahead like a monolith. It rises, and rises, and rises until it towers above her. Baerta briefly feels like a frightened child expecting a monster to pop out before her, but the door remains shut.
She does, however, hear a sharp knocking. Something’s knuckles wrap loudly against the door in a quick, three note beat. It sounds very polite, but Baerta knows better. She dares not open the door. They tried this trick on someone else earlier while underwater, and she won’t fall for it like the old lady and her little dog did. She knew them. They were Beatrice Kinsley and her toy poodle Moxley.
A lovely lady, Beatrice; she trusted whoever was beyond her door far too easily, despite Moxley growling and barking up a storm. Unfortunately for the dog, who growls and barks at everyone, the poodle’s warnings went unheeded.
“Oh hush now, Moxley!” Beatrice commands. “Be a good girl.”
Those were her last words as she barely opened the door before several of those things rushed in and overwhelmed her. Her screams of terror and agony carried well through the water. It was as if she was right across the hall like in real life. The dog’s sharp whining, as she was ripped apart alongside Beatrice, was particularly haunting. No dog deserves to suffer like that. Now they’re trying to get Baerta to open the door. But she won’t fall for it. She never answers unless the person beyond says something.
“Hello,” a raspy voice calls out from beyond the door. “Are you okay?”
Well, that was scary as [naughty word removed]!
Baerta scuttles in place in the water, willing herself to fight the pull of the stream, and refuses to answer. There is a long pause before they knock again. Another hello. Another long, tension filled pause before they finally move one. Baerta then watches the extremely tall door slowly sink back into the water. She remains scuttling in place until that door is lost to the dark depths of the river. Then she is finally free to swim again and opts for the breast stroke.
She doesn’t look back. She knows that the dead are above, glaring down at her from the bridge. This is the first time she had to swim away from them. And those fallen sentries never got up before. Baerta can hear the sirens blaring and warbling all around her, the sporadic staccato of small arms fire, the military jets breaking the sky with every pass, the world shaking, and the loudness of the many explosions caused by the jets. The world is in pandemonium, and she has yet to find a safe way out of the water.
Suddenly, she hears several splashes from behind her. Then more splashes, and then even more. The dead are jumping in after her! Baerta switches to a side stroke to keep an eye on her many pursuers. This is going to be taxing, and it’s a long way to the docks.

* * *
Aiden and Gruber each chuck a grenade in their wake as they hurry down the narrow alley. Behind them are the screams, the babbling, and the running feet of the infected. And behind them are the screams of 5th Squad, most of the cops, and half of the civilians. Only Corporal Spiegler escaped the same fate as the rest. Even then, she didn’t make it very far. Seized by her legs at the threshold of the alley, she chooses to die by her own grenade, pulling the pin and clutching it tight against her chest as she’s pulled back into the hungry crowd like a fish on a hook. Her screams are swallowed up along with her. Then the grenade goes off, ending her suffering before it begins, and taking perhaps a dozen of the infected with her. The grenades that Aiden and Gruber just sent backward wipe out even more with an ear splitting thump! They don’t know how many they got, perhaps another twenty or more. But that doesn’t matter. All that matters is the time they just bought their unit until the next crowd of infected far behind them finally catch up.
Grabbing a hobbling Gazner by his arm and pushing him ahead, Aiden is one of four acting as rearguard now. Gruber and Kaisner are among them. Ahead are the rest of the survivors. And ahead of them is 36th Street.
Falling out into the street among the abandoned cars, Fines orders everyone to stay low stay in the left lane and beyond it.
“Hopefully the ones we’re circling around don’t see us,” she confides in Aiden, “and hopefully the ones giving chase don’t catch many of us.”
Several of the civilians linger too long in the rear and are spotted by the pursuing infected. In a panic, they run for the next alley beside them and are chased by dozens of the infected. Aiden feels his heart sink a little. That’ll be an ugly way to go out when the infected catch up to them. But they did linger.
Only ten civilians now remain, some of them crying softly, others looking lost or determined. Both paramedics have stopped to help Gazner strengthen the splint so he can move faster. Aiden, Gruber, and Kaisner stay behind with them. Aiden checks their nametags before addressing the medics.
“Noble, Dackler, do you need anything from my medical kit?”
“No,” answers Noble, sporting a fine mustache. “Not yet anyway.”
“I could use a new tourniquet,” answers Dackler, brushing her dark bangs away from her face. She then points toward 35th Street, “Mine is still on Jon back there.”
Aiden unzips his medical kit, digs out the tourniquet and hands it to Dackler. She thanks him with a smile. He thinks he remembers Jon. Older fellow, graying hair, a beer gut, blue jeans and a high visibility construction shirt.
“I guess Jon should have been a little more considerate and not died,” Aiden quietly jokes.
“Right?” answers Dackler with a huff.
Noble simply smiles with a snort. The rest stifle their laughter, fearing they might be heard. Officer Weisner crouch walks back toward them.
“Sergeant Fines says they’re waiting up ahead. Let’s catch up when we can.” She looks pointedly at Aiden, saying with a smirk, “And try not to get seen, Wagner.”
“No guarantees,” he quips back. “I’m a damn beanstalk.”
“Can you move?” Noble asks Gazner. He receives a silent nod in the affirmative. “Okay, let’s go.”
After they catch up with the main group hiding among the cars in the left lane, Sergeant Fines gets straight to the point, and she doesn’t sound happy.
“We’re falling back to the monument.”
“Why the monument, sir?” Aiden asks.
“Captain Krueller’s orders,” she says with a frustrated sigh.
“It doesn’t sound like you like those orders, sir,” Aiden says.
“No, I really don’t,” she admits. “But we don’t have a choice, corporal. We require ammunition, provisions, and reinforcements.”
“Why doesn’t he order us to the courthouse. It’s in the same area.”
“But a lot more secure, I know.”
“So why are we going if it’s not the courthouse, sir?”
Many around them quietly offer similar sentiment. Except for those on watch duty, most eyes are aimed toward the ground. Not because they feel any guilt, but because they cannot bring themselves to direct their frustration at Fines. It’s clearly not her idea. This idea is securely wrapped around the captain’s neck.
“I say we go rogue, sir. Force him to change venues.”
“I won’t leave anyone else there to die with him. I must warn them personally.”
“I don’t like this.”
“None of us do, but you know we can’t risk using our radios with the infected within earshot while we’re low on ammo and manpower.”
“You’re not lying, boss.”
Sergeant Fines looks tired as she acknowledges every face she can within her squad. Aiden knows she wants to keep everyone safe. But this is war, and he knows you cannot stay safe forever. Risks must be taken if you want the group to survive.
Everyone settles on the next phase of their current exit strategy. They’ll move ahead as three groups of six, and one of seven. Fines will lead the vanguard. Gruber will lead middle guard A. Weisner will lead middle guard B. Aiden will lead rearguard. Everyone looks scared, especially the civilians. Except Sven, of course. He hardly looks phased by any of what happened today. A storm is coming, and it looks like it’ll be a heavy downpour. Aiden offers Kaisner, his battle buddy, a reassuring peace sign.
Suddenly the ground starts to shake violently. Everyone is too shocked by the intensity of the quake to scream, but some are now panicking. The buildings and cars all around them are vibrating. The cars are bobbing on their shocks. Falton, on watch, grunts in pain as the bonnet of the car he’s peering over strikes him on the chin. He appears to have bitten his tongue. And his bulging eyes betray the fact the someone among the infected beyond have spotted him.
With a resigned expression, Falton’s eyes say goodbye to Aiden. He produces a grenade, pulls the pin, flips free the spoon, then runs screaming out of sight toward the infected. The loud thump reveals his fate.
Everyone moves as one, forgetting the original plan entirely. Fines tries to keep order but it’s too late. As the world rumbles the morale crumbles. People start shooting at targets that Aiden cannot see. Others bolt into buildings or alleys, never to be seen again. A rain gutter falls from above right on Sven’s head. His body twitches where he fell. Aiden takes his rifle, letting his own hang free for now, and joins in the shooting while battling the against the street rolling beneath him.
Dropping one of the infected with a lucky shot to the eye, Aiden spots Gazner in his left peripheral putting his sidearm to his mouth and eating a bullet. Immediately after, his position is overrun. A chaotic crossfire ensues with Officer Weisner taking a bullet to the face. Her body drops where she stood.
What is left of the group fights their way forward toward the monument. Toward anywhere safer than here. One of the infected rushes at Aiden. Aiming for the throat, he instead puts a bullet in one of the blonde woman’s lungs. She’s wearing a pinstripe suit now soaked in blood and gore. More blood is smeared on her pretty face and her mouth is full. She’s still chewing as she reaches for her next meal.
Aiden bashes the infected woman in the face with the rifle butt, and he continues to swing away the moment the woman stumbles, refusing to let up until she is twitching on the ground like Sven, her body slumped against a car. Noticing the shattered fiberglass buttstock, Aiden discards Sven’s rifle and reaches for his own as he starts sidestepping to his left toward the main group, others in tow to his right. He passes poor Landau being chewed on beyond one of the cars. Hutchins is being torn into on the stoop of a small apartment building. Schneider is seen gurgling, choking on his own blood, a hole in his throat, bleeding out on the bonnet of a blue car. He reaches out helplessly to Aiden, but there’s nothing that can be done for him. Aiden stumbles on.
Only ten people make it to the intersection beyond all the violence, Aiden among them. Car alarms are now blaring throughout the shaking city. Sergeant Fines is seen taking stock of their new situation. There is a flash of despair as she counts heads.
‘Wagner,” she calls out, a flash of relief on her face. “We are still heading for the monument. Everyone pick a battle buddy. We leave when the shaking stops. Officer Gabbs, you’re with me!”
The paramedics exchange an embrace, obviously sticking together. Gruber and Burton exchange a fist bump. Greta and Bernard hold hands.
“I guess you’re stuck with me, Kaisner,” Aiden coos.
“Oh no,” Kaisner halfheartedly laments. “Mom will be upset!”
The world suddenly stops shaking.
“Alright,” barks Fines, “We make for the monument. Let’s go!”

* * *
Tired, scared out of her mind, lungs and legs burning, Helsa wills her aching body to keep going, keep moving forward toward safety. The five infected men giving chase must not be runners. They’re slow and falling behind, despite their best effort. Despite their hunger. And that’s what scares her most. The raw hunger in their eyes.
Besides her pursuers, Helsa is alone in the park as the sky darkens. Everyone else is busy living or dying elsewhere. The lights lining the bike trail are now on, giving away her position to the next hungry throng. Rather than risk running into another group ahead, Helsa instead risks the tree line, running ahead off trail where it turns right.
She catches sight of someone being torn apart just beyond the public toilets farther up the trail. Four infected are making a sickening meal of them. Helsa’s stomach flips. But she feels relief over having prevented herself from joining the menu, with more guests to join the feast shortly after. Instead of suffering a brutal death, she’ll soon be safe at home. She can hear the pursuit stumbling, howling vainly as they try keeping up with her. But she’s too fast for them.
Then she falls with an audible pop, a sharp pain erupting from her right ankle. She rolls like a stuntwoman back up onto her feet and tries to soldier on, taser still in hand, but the pain is too great. And just ahead of her, perhaps thirty meters beyond the trees are the top six stories of a familiar building. She’s nearly home.
Built mostly into a cliff face, her home, the Nirvana Co-op, is a place of dreams. A toilet room, a shower room, a laundry nook, a full kitchenette with island, a living room that doubles as a bedroom, with a bed that folds into the wall. And two loving partners to share it with. Nirvana is a suitable name, for it is bliss to her. Now, if only she can get there alive.
Hobbling with all her might, Helsa makes her way to the entrance. Being small enough, she aims to squeeze between the electric bike racks, which would force the larger men closing in to go around. And since the bike racks are directly between her and home, she’ll have a straight shot to the front doors. Perfect!
As she slowly progresses toward her destination, she can hear the men behind her getting closer. She cannot let them catch her. Twenty meters till home.
Increasingly, the pain in her ankle builds. Knowing she must have sprained it badly, she presses despite the tremendous pain. She cannot let them catch her. Ten meters till home.
Skirting through the bike racks, the ragged breathing of the men now at her back, one or two of them tumbling over the bikes while reaching for her, she creeps closer, and closer to the doors. She cannot let them catch her. Noticing one of the doors is ajar, she reaches, gripping the handle and pulling with all her might. They’re nearly upon her!
Squeezing through sideways, Helsa tries desperately to close the door behind her, but one of the infected men has seized it, his strength overpowering. Thinking fast, Helsa produces a tiny canister of mace and empties it directly into the man’s feral eyes. He howls in pain but does not let go of the door. He does, however, block the rest of them from getting inside. Helsa decides that that’s good enough. She turns and bolts through a second set of doors, to the relative safety of the co-op.
Knowing she doesn’t have much time, Helsa hurries toward the elevators. Along the way she realizes she may not be safe even here. Passing by the open door of one of her downstairs neighbors, she spots in her peripheral someone beyond the threshold eating someone else’s arm. She keeps going.
Not far enough behind her, the feral men are fighting each other to get through the lobby doors first. She hopes that buys her time. The next door down is also open, with a pool of smeared blood in the threshold. The smears lead to a pair of paw prints, and beyond is the tragic end to the struggle. Helsa locks eyes with the old man feasting upon his poor corgi. This briefly stops her in her tracks.
His aristocratic good looks now marred by terrible bite wounds, his mouth caked with blood, long strings of chewed meat hanging from between his still chewing teeth, Mr. Werner is crouched in a pool of blood, surrounded by dog entrails just outside his kitchenette. He’s wearing a black silk robe with a golden Asian dragon patterned into it as if the dragon was encircling the old man midflight. It is now ruined by all the blood on it. Barefoot, an insatiable hunger in his eyes, Mr. Werner drops what is left of his elder corgi named Pixie. She was a good girl that didn’t deserve such an ugly fate.
Helsa simply closes the door and moves on. Mr. Werner begins pounding on the door in her wake. Beyond is the stairwell to her left, and the elevators to her right. She can now hear the echoes of people yelling and screaming, from both above and below. She steals herself for what is to come while pressing the up button.
Agonizing over the long wait for the elevator, Helsa hears the men finally get through the lobby doors and renew the chase. The moment they round the corner and spot her, they charge. A woman from the first apartment joins their ranks. Her heart and entire world drop into the pit of her stomach. She steps into the elevator just before the doors fully open and presses the button to the third floor. Thundering across the hall faster than she had feared, Helsa flattens herself against the back of the elevator as the men and woman reach for her in vain, having gripped the nook the elevators were tucked into, rather than waiting to grab through the doors that would have happily opened back up for more passengers. The elevator doors close on their snarling faces.
Damp from sweat, Helsa lets out a shuddering sigh of relief, briefly closing her eyes while basking in her current state of safety. Readying the taser still gripped in her right hand, impressed that she never dropped it, Helsa prepares to defend herself the moment the doors open.
As the elevator opens to the familiar muted green walls of the third floor, Helsa feels her heart jump out of her throat the moment she exits. Flying up the stairwell are the five men and the woman. They found her!
Aiming her taser at the man in the lead, the one with the mustache in the dark clothing, as he reaches the top of the stairs, the shock sends him tumbling backward down the stairs, his neck snapping, his skull impacting hard against the wall at an odd angle. Dropping the spent taser, Helsa then lunges at the next man up the stairs, the heavy one in the red Orgy Fists shirt. His height proves to be a disadvantage this time, as the sudden impact of Helsa’s hard shove sends him tumbling over the railing. His body bounces its way to the bottom with a satisfying thud that Helsa barely hears as she rushes to the safety of her apartment. To Baerta.
When Helsa reaches home, she tries to enter, only to find that the door is locked. She begins pounding on the door, panic building up inside her.
“Baerta?!” she shouts, crying. “Baby, please open the door!”
Hearing the last three men and the woman loudly storming their way up the last stairs, Helsa feels her heart beating fast between her ears. She starts pounding on the door even faster. She can hear one of the men slip on the last few stairs and stumble, forcing the other three to stumble, too. This is when she remembers her keys and reaches for them. But the moment they leave her pocket it becomes an epic struggle to keep them in her shaking hands. She must be coming down from the adrenaline.
She drops the keys!
With a curse, she stoops to scoop them back up. Lost in the tunnel vision of a growing panic, she steals a glance at her right. They are upon her!
Within seconds they drag her down, despite the valiant fight she puts up. They’re still much larger than her, and much stronger. She quietly laments the destruction of her beautiful body as they tear through scrubs and flesh with their bare hands. That’s when she lets go of the last of her sanity as she falls into the madness of agony’s embrace.

* * *
As the last lines of defense collapse under the weight of the infected onslaught, as Captain Krueller is dragged down to his destiny, Aiden takes shelter with his friends among the statuary. Joined by Privates Fengle, Hausen, and Colliette, the remnants of 3rd Squad, Aiden wishes he wasn’t there. Earlier, as the sky began to darken even more, as the storm clouds rolled in, he and Kaisner watched both Greta and Bernard – still hand in hand – abandon the rest of the group to find their own way. They watched Bernard guide Greta down a familiar staircase to a basement level door. It was as if he knew where he was. He and Kaisner said nothing. They made their choice. Only now does he wish that they had gone with them, perhaps demand the rest of the group even follow. Damn the orders and damn the chain of command!
The downpour of rain brings Aiden back to the present. Back to the monument that he and his friends are now trapped within. Dedicated to a massacre that took place near the courthouse not far from them, the Monument of the Great Horror captures the terror of the opening salvo that sparked twelve-hundred days of government sanctioned slaughter, and a revolution. Within the sea of statuary reenacting pure butchery, forever firing into the falling crowds, putting families to the bayonet, or haplessly cowering in the face of their doom, Aiden bears witness to what he fears may become a second act.
Taller than the life sized statuary, Aiden watches thousands of civilians, infected and uninfected alike, battle all around the monument. Some fall down the stairs beyond, others fight for their lives, or a fresh meal at the foot of the courthouse. No one is safe.
The infected surrounding the statues are reaching in, grabbing at whoever they think they can reach. Sergeant Fines is busy ordering everyone to fall back farther into the statuary when one of the infected lunges farther in and seizes her by the face. He then degloves her face from the eyes down. Breaking free, Fines clutches at her now sagging face and shrieks in agony.
When Burton and Gabbs attempt to move Fines farther out of reach, Burton is grabbed by the neck from behind and pulled hard against a statue. Aiden can only watch helplessly as he pulls both Fines and Gabbs to better safety. Burton struggles valiantly for a long time as his face turns purple. Maddened by the growing desire to breathe again, he bites through his own tongue and wriggles fiercely where he stands pressed against unforgiving bronze, his neck in the steel grip of a burly infected man. Soon his struggle wavers and he goes limp, his eyes bulging, face a dark purple, his tongue severed between his tightly clamped teeth.
With feral urgency, the infected begin climbing into the statuary to get to the survivors trapped within. Out of ammunition, out of breath, Aiden gives the final order.
“Knives out! Give the medics rifles to use as clubs.”
Everyone in army fatigues draws a knife. Two drop spare rifles by the medics. Gabbs readies her tactical light. Noble and Dackler tend to Fines. Only Fengle is unable to get to his knife. Cornered and separated from everyone else, he is torn apart alive, his screams eventually ending in a death rattle.
It isn’t much longer until the infected close in. It is an eerie site as they contort themselves through the statuary. There is no escape now. Aiden’s mind briefly drifts to memories of Helsa and Baerta. Happier times when the world hadn’t gone mad.
“Helsa, Baerta,” he quietly says, “I hope that you are safe. I love you. I’m sorry. I’ll see you again on the other side.”
Soon the fighting begins. Time begins to count down to the inevitable. As Aiden fights like a madman, everyone is torn apart around him, one by one. They swallow up Colliette first. She doesn’t stand a chance. Then they pull Hausen down among them when he attempts to climb his way out.
Suddenly Aiden is grabbed, his right arm torn free at the shoulder. The pain is indescribable. He barely feels the teeth that sink into his left shoulder, his left hand, and his right calf. So he pulls himself free and fights on. With his wounded, bloodied hand, he barely manages to pull his empty sidearm from its holster. As one of the medics helps him flip the pistol around so he can use it like a tiny club, the other secures a torniquet tightly around the stump of his severed arm. He will bleed out eventually, that much is certain, but at least he has more time to fight, to hopefully survive a little longer.
But the fight only gets worse from there. Gabbs falls trying to protect the medics. They fall trying to protect Fines. And Fines, even with her face ripped off, goes down swinging while trying to protect herself.
When Aiden, Kaisner, and Gruber are the last three standing, hemmed in at the very middle of the monument, Gruber chooses the easy way out and cuts his own throat. Aiden can’t really blame him. Gruber’s eyes widen with panic as he realizes his death won’t be quick. Too weak now to try again, he covers himself and the world around him with arterial spray. He dies with a whimper.
Private Kaisner is next, torn apart alive in front of Aiden. It hurts to watch. Aiden is left to die alone, trapped, crying in a fetal ball in the pouring rain.

* * *
Baerta awakens to a throbbing headache and sweat soaked clothes. The room is dark and silent, except for a slurping sound beyond her apartment’s front door. Sitting up slowly, she takes stock of her surroundings. Slumped against the bed, she’s partially buried in blankets a bugout bags. To her right are the floor to ceiling windows, a small collection of instruments, and the emergency exit to the fire escape. Behind her are the bed, nightstands, and a couple paintings on the wall. In front of her are the massive wall-mounted flat screen, the console and entertainment nook in the wall, pictures, more paintings, Aiden’s custom roll top desk, the desktop gaming rig that Helsa bought, and Baerta’s large foot locker. To her left are the kitchenette and other amenities, even more pictures and paintings, and the front door. Above her are the ceiling and lights. Below her is the hardwood floor.
The floor is cold.
Wrapping herself up in the blankets, Baerta settles herself into the recovery position. She lies there for a while until her head stops spinning, and her body isn’t overwhelmed by the pins and needles sensation. She recalls how real the nightmare was, just like every time before. But it was different this time. Tara was in it. And so were all her friends that she got killed during the war. The last thing she remembers, they were jumping into the water after her. The world was lost to war all around her. Then there was that door. It wasn’t just any door; it was her door, with Helsa on the other side begging to be let in. That couldn’t have been real.

I can already see where it needs improvement. Deena's prejudice needs to be explored more, enough for her change in attitude toward Helsa to make more sense. It should also be revealed that she thinks Helsa is a liability by arguing over her reaction to tasering a man earlier. Stretch out the dispute, build tension as Helsa is the one focusing on possible dangers nearby. I must also flesh out the street battle scene. Vehicles as obstacles that keep the number of infected from being overwhelming for the bounding firing line. Stuff like that. I'll see what I can workshop.

Hi KyleCrawford,

I'm not a writer, only a reader. your writing is very graphic and detailed. Like Steven King maybe. I'd like to see a hero immerge in your character line up.
Bill

Of the three already introduced, I already have a main protagonist in mind. I wanted the reader to feel an emotional impact when two of them died so early, because they're both important to the protagonist. I liked the idea of weaving three perspectives together so they converge when the hero fully emerges. I hope I was effective at that.

I'm sorry I hadn't added more to it yet. It's been a journey for a couple months. I'm hoping to have more done this month.