[December. Alabama. 2023]
"So this wire goes where?"

"To the battery," Olly explained again as he pointed to a 9 volt battery that had been mounted on the inside of the van. "And then...poof. That's all she wrote." The man who had asked the question, Andrew, had been nervous already. Having the operation of a crude self destruct system didn't ease his nerves. "Its not like you are going to need it anyway. This is barely a level 5 zone, and only because no one else has had the balls to come out here." Grabbing the M-4 he had been carrying since he left Shaw Air Force Base, Olliver added "And its almost January. The zombies probably took the rest of the year off! So just keep your eye on the monitor and watch our exit."

Turning to the back of the van, he waited for the loud mechanical click which indicated that the rear door had been unlocked. The white panel van that he had "acquired" had been refitted by the company he worked for to be safe for field use. Almost half of the storage space in the rear was fitted with weapon racks and benches on either side for passengers. It was separated from what used to be the remainder of the back by a thick sheet of industrial plexiglass. On the other side sat Andrew, his techie, and Melissa, some kind of a doctor or vet that served as their field medic. They were both fresh A-15's, having received their licenses two months ago, but he believed they were ready for a simple scouting trip like this.

They had been on a supply run to nearby Guntown, Mississippi to search for weapons and ammo since it was uninhabited. Technically it was inhabited by humans, only the current residents were those infected by the live strain of Kellis-Amberlee, the virus that had swept the globe turning the dead and infected into zombies in less than six weeks. They could have just bought what they needed, but anything they found in a hazard zone was theirs by the laws of salvage, and killing zombies was just a sweet bonus. The info on the CDC's website indicated that it was a level 5 hazard zone, but they all knew that the organization, under its current burden of saving humanity, didn't update the reports on zones often enough. It was likely less dangerous than the site listed, but Olly secretly hoped not.

"Check," Olly said as he exited the van and closed the door quietly behind him. Though his voice was almost a whisper, the throat mic he wore carried his voice clearly to the other end.

"Jeez that took forever! Are you going to wipe his butt when you get back too?"

"Yes I am in position Olly," he answered, indicating the response he expected from Mark. Mark was a fellow Irwin, the name that someone had decided to hang on those that like to go out and play with zombies, but had less actual combat experience. What he lacked in combat prowess, however, he returned more than double in his dead-eye accuracy.

"Crap, I thought this was supposed to be fun," Mark playfully whined. "I'm on top of the building up to your left and I got a clear view down the main drag."

Mark served as his team's sniper, not that you needed one against zombies. Generally they shuffled towards you about as fast as an old lady with a walker, so you could just point and shoot. But the fresh ones were faster, and more wily. And zombies were much smarter than they seemed if there was a big enough group of them. It wasn't something anyone could explain, it was just some kind of invisible group-mind kind of thing where packs of zombies could function as a single unit. Pretty much the scariest thing on earth...if the earth you live on is already infested with zombies that is.

"Alright," Olly stated quietly, reiterating the plan. "Watch my ass. If you see runners, you don't wait..."

"I shoot," Mark interrupted. "And then I shoot some more! And if you get bit, I spray paint the street with your brains! Cowboy!"

Olly could't restrain his laughter. Every time Mark got excited he would end each sentence with "cowboy", his way of going with the high, Olly supposed. He tried to keep himself at a slow walk as his skin tingled all over. Mark was pretty much safe because zombies were too stupid to figure out how to climb ladders, so it was alot like a shooting gallery. Andrew and Melissa would monitor the camera's mounted on the exterior of their van to make sure no zombies approached and blocked off their escape route. It was unlikely, seeing as how the van was in the middle of an abandoned car lot on the south-west side of town. His job was the dangerous one: on foot moving down streets where live zombies had been seen moving around. Olly frowned to himself as he considered that the sightings might be older than the reports indicated. Given that the average shelf-life of a zombie was about a month, he calculated his chances at 50/50.

"Lets have some fun," he whispered excitedly as he approached the nearest building, an old paint store, from the south. Olly paused at the corner and slid his mask down over his face and slid his weapon up to his shoulder. He didn't bother to check it, it was on semi with a round in the chamber. He was so used to readying his assault rifle the instant he stepped from a field vehicle that it had become an automatic response. With his weapon at the ready, Olly made a low and quiet tactical turn around the corner on to Main Street as he deliriously slung one of his own lines: "Let's see whats behind door number 1!"

"This is total bullcrap," Olly exclaimed without regard to his noise level. Zombies apparently had a heigtened sense of hearing and could pick up noises of average intensity a mile away if the terrain was accommodating. They also had heightened night vision, enhanced sense of smell, and eating rotten flesh apparently gave their stomach's no problem.

"I know," Mark answered, from the roof of a nearby building. "There should have at least been a few corpses, or something." In truth neither of them had expected much. The area had been declared a level 5 hazard zone, but nobody spends a half hour in a place like this without some kind of contact. Olly knew what they both were thinking: the reports were way off.

"No corpses means no feedings. So what are they doing?" Olly lifted his mask up as he came down to the first floor of the small brick apartment: mind-numbingly all clear. He considered the question again when Mark answered it for him.

"Got them. Three shamblers at the end of the street. I can take them out..."

"No," Olly yelled loudly while running out onto the street. He stared at the zombies with delighted wonder without even remembering to draw down his mask. They were about 100 yards away and shamblers. There was plenty of time, Olly thought as he remembered to share. "Ok, you can have the one on the left." He no sooner began his concession when a shot rang out over the quiet town, permanently adding to the airflow of that zombie's head.

"I said left!"

"Left? I thought you were going to say middle."

"Why would I say middle," Olly asked, not even looking at the zombies but instead at mark's position behind him.

"Uh they are getting closer..."

"I dont care," Olly scolded. "Look at them now: 1 dead guy, a guy with a broken elbow, and a chick."

"Shoot the chick," cursed himself silently.

"YES always shoot the chick! And do you know why young head-popper?" The zombies were almost withing 50 yards, and throught the rant he had heard one moan; but the point was criticial.

"Because chicks are tr....

"Chicks are trouble!" Olly's shouting could be heard two blocks away in this little town, if there were anyone left to hear them. Instead the total population had apparently turned out to greet them.

"Well let me go make nice now with the Mayor and his wife," Olly playfully scowled as he dragged his M-4 behind him and slid his mask down over his face. When he had gotten within 15 feet, something about the moaning sounded off. Both of the zombies were moaning, which was universally zombie for "Y'all come'n eat!" There was no response.

"Dude ask him for the key to the city. I have always wanted one of those. Cowboy!"

"Where is the response," Olly questioned himself as he stared at the ground in thought. One of the zombies lurched forward, coming just inches from him as he turned towards the target that had quickly shifted in his peripheral vision. "I was not talking to you," he snapped as he placed the muzzle of his weapon on its forehead and let a trio of shots pop off before returning his gaze to the ground.

"Olly, I mark him at 7 feet. You want me to fire.? Mark asked in a flat and serious tone. His finger was already easing the trigger back slightly.

"GO GET THE VAN," he yelled as it occurred to him. This was a level 5 zone and they had fallen right into what equated to a zombie trap. Though it was several blocks away, Olly was sure that the van was now surrounded by a starving horde. He had heard of zombie packs using baiting tactics, and had even seen it once before, but he was not expecting them to completely ignore the most immediate threat. Turning towards the remaining zombie, he made the requisite step back before haphazardly aiming and pulling the trigger. Nothing besides a small metal click threatened the oncoming zombie, now with arms spread straight out as it bypassed the weapon trying to reach at the target.

"Jam!” Olly’s warning was immediately answered by a snapping pop that ended with the back half of the zombie’s head exploding onto the street. “Get back to the van," he ordered hastily.
“What? I don’t…”
Olly cut his partner off with a quick explanation as he sprinted off on a circular route back towards their field vehicle. “They flanked us. The bitches went straight for the van!”
“Unholy madness,” Mark muttered quietly before his heavy breathing was audible. “I’m heading downstairs now!” Olliver listened as Mark’s gasps for breath nearly matched his own. The roof he had been on was too high to reach with the ladder, so he had taken the same stairs he was now descending rapidly. As much as Olly wanted to take the shortest route back to the vehicle, he knew that in the short time they had been lured, it was most likely surrounded. That meant the most direct route would run straight through a mob of zombies that, if reporting had been accurate, was at least 30 large. Instead he went a full two blocks out of his way before turning south in order to come up behind them, possibly take out a few and draw off the bulk of the pack, and hopefully figure some way to get everyone out of this hell-hole.
"Oh crap," Mark exploded in his ear. His shout of mixed surprise and terror was followed by a few short shots. Then silence. He didn’t have to wonder what happened, he knew. A zombie is a pretty harmless thing, even if it was fresh. A few zombies was a challenge for most mortals. Confronting a mob that, by some invisible guiding, thought as a unit and attacked separately was every bit as suicidal as taking a swig of buck shot mouthwash. An option Olly fully considered as his heart pounded in his chest.

As he sprinted the 100+ yards of open territory between himself and the paint store they had parked behind, Olly’s skin crawled with fright. The van was almost invisible, a white spot in the midst of a throbbing body of grayed flailing limbs. Working with a sort of disorganized harmony, the mob rocked the van back and forth as they beat on its sides. Drawing his weapon to his shoulder, Olly took a single deep breath before he saw Melissa’s face pressed against the windshield in horror as she wildly waved him back. By the time he understood what she meant, it was already done.

Before The Rising, suicide was considered an unfortunate reality, something that people who had no hope would do to themselves. Now it was a tactical option. The idea of having the flesh ripped from your skin as you are eaten alive is only made worse by the thought that you might just survive, and then go on to eat some of your best friends or family. In the current madness that was called America, suicide was a sane man’s last option.

Thrown wildly back by the concussive wave created by the small block of C-4, Olly tumbled through the air like a rag doll before bouncing recklessly against the hard pavement. The noise of the explosion had been deafening, and would attract any infected that were within a 10 mile radius. Those killed by the blast would be fresh food for the new arrivals, since the virus required a steady diet of flesh, whether it was infected or not. No one else would come to investigate given that it was an area which most people avoided anyway. These thoughts occurred to Olly later; immediately his mind, dulled by the pain, circled around the question of whether or not he was actually alive.

from "Olly Way!", the personal blog of Olliver Wayburn

On Getting a Golden Steve-O

I cursed a bunch that day. Not just cuz I was screwed harder than a rabbit prostitute, but because I screwed up. I know alot of other Irwins will gloss over their mistakes with bravado, but that's crap. I screwed up, and the whole thing was my fault.

Did I really survive a solo trip in and out of a level 3 zone? Yes, but to be fair, I was under the impression it was a level 5 zone at the time.
Did I really walk over a hundred miles through territory that was generally considered uninhabitable and come out without a single bruise? Yes
Do I really deserve to receive this year's Golden Steve-O? No

I should have seen that Andrew and Melissa were digging each other. I should have known that they would use the chance to be alone in the van to "get jiggy with it". I should have been more aware of how prone Andrew was to freak out and react badly in certain conditions. I should have done alot of things different.

But I didn't.

So when those two were freaking out because they didn't realize they could probably last more than a day in our van without worry, and decided to use the self destruct...well, I'm not going to say "who the hell puts C-4 in a field vehicle?", because the answer would be "I do!" But I will say I might as well have set it off with my own hand. I won't make apologies for America. There's alot of screwed up crap going on and alot of people end up on The Wall for really dumb reasons. But this one was all mine.

I didn't want to be an Irwin. I was just trying to stay alive and have as much fun as I could while I did. To me it was the same as before The Rising when I pretty much accepted any challenge that started with "bet you can't..."; I was just having fun doing stuff. I don't even remember who first told me I was one of the craziest Irwins they ever saw. I just went with it. But the thing is, Grand Master Steve screwed up too. If you can find any copies of his pre-Rising show, you will be amazed he never got himself killed. Oh wait....Well look, the point is when some snake bit his balls he didn't call it quits. He kept going. Im pretty sure he just did it for the attention, But he kept going. Anyways, I don't give a crap about ratings. Don't even read this junk. See if I care! But there's still stuff I can do to help, so I'm not going to stop just cuz I got two people killed, and some journalist, horny for ratings, decides to turn me into some kind of scheming villian.

When we get things back to the way they used to be, sue me! Take me to court, throw me in prison, put me in the chair and watch me sizzle! Until then I got too much to amend for and too much to fix to care about what some ratings whore newshound thinks about what I did two years ago. There's too many zombies to kill and too much land to take back.

So thanks for the award! It's great to be recognized for your ability as a zombie slaying badass! But I swear if one of you even nominates me for this again, I'm going to drag you to the closest level 3 zone and leave you there. Give it to someone else who wants to be "the best."

Im out. It's Zombie-time.

It was the gurgling that roused him. Close by. Definitely a gurgle and not a moan.

Standing to his feet with his head about three seconds behind him, Olly looked around quickly to see which of the zombie parts scattered all over that were still moving. Off to his left, a crawler was coming towards him and approaching 'turtle speed'. He picked his rifle up and aimed without even looking at it until he saw that there was no front sight post. A piece of metal from the van had apparently sheared 4 inches off the barrel making it basically useless. Without thinking he ran over and delivered a vicious stomp to the head of the pitiful thing. It was missing everything beneath the waist, its entrails snaking out on the road behind him, and its throat had been shredded by some kind of shrapnel. It wouldn't have had long on its own, but in the field any kind of a movement above blinking an eye is sufficient threat. It took two hard stomps before the skull split sending pieces of bone and grey matter everywhere. It smelled about twice as bad as it looked.

But that never seemed to matter to Olliver. It was just processed though his brain as weird, not worthy of self-induced nausea. Had been every since he was a kid and he blew up a squirrel with a cherry bomb when he was standing too close and ended up laughing with bits of mini-animal guts hung from his face. His mind, still lagging behind, caught back up for a visit as he stared at the corpse in the middle of the otherwise motionless street.

Injuries?

"Shit," he yelled and began groping every inch of his body. The explosion had created alot of blood spray but it mostly hit the streets and nearby buildings. He couldnt find any on himself so he figured he would just do a final check on the van.

"Which is scrap metal," he said audibly with regret. "Great! Oooh are there some dumb zombies out there? Im scared! I will just blow us AND OUR ENTIRE LOAD OF GEAR to high heavens!" Olly was barely restraining his temper. "You fucking idiot! What the fuck is your problem..." "I could have saved you," he muttered as tears formed in one eye. Olly examined his hands much the same way a father would check for splinters on his child before wiping his eyes or face. The K-A virus is not picky. It will take any access to direct blood flow it can get. Today, because he felt a little frisky, Olly hadn't even worn he Kevlar reinforced gloves. "One little prick from a sliver of metal followed by contact with the live virus, and then I'm going to be wanting that C-4", he thought.

After standing there for a few minutes checking and rechecking, his paranoia was finally satiated and concluded that he was mostly clean. He would have used a blood test unit from the van, even if possibly got infected. But they were all melted. The explosive pretty much rendered the vehicle unfit for humans, and then decided the computers, saftey glass, guns and ammo, it all needed to go to. A small pile of it was melting into slag as he got closer. He was quite literally jaw-dropped holy crap amazed when he saw a machete sticking into the side of the building. "The flat shape must have allowed it to just get pushed out of there, he figured." Using his strength reserves, he pulled it from a crack in a slab of marble and eyed it lovingly. It wasn't much, but it would have to work given is current circumstances.

He had no food, no light, no winter clothes, no guns, no ammo, no phone, and no way to get out of here fast.

The closest level 7 zone was an awful distance away, he didn't even know how far. So he did the only thing he could. Running back towards where Mark went down, he found three zombies sniffing the air as if confused which direction to go. "Oh so you want to just munch on my bro's nuts like thats ok and shit?" Olly had already slid the mask down on his face, which covered his snarling face of rage. "You want to be all ghetto like that Z," he spat as he drove the blade into the head of the first zombie where it stuck solidly. Humor, Olly had found, often served as the thin line between madness and sanity. The remaining two instantly moved towards him with a lingering trace of drive from the previously mob. Dodging quickly between the shamblers, he stepped into the building and rushed to the rifle Mark had dropped when he died. Fortunately enough for his former partner, there wasn't enough of his grey matter left to undergo amplification.

"Sorry Mark," he said sincerely but harriedly as he ensured the weapon was still loaded. Olly turned as he looked at the single round in the chamber, seeing the two zombies from the street bump awkwardly against each other as they tried pass through the narrow doorway. Intentionally hesitating, he watched as the zombies, now free of whatever intellect they had possessed, managed to file into the building in a natural line.

Not missing a beat, Olly raised the weapon, took a breath and then fired. "Boom! Attention shoppers: We have a sale on head shots, 2 for 1!" It wasn't an impossible shot given the fact that zombie skulls have been proven to be just a little bit more brittle than ours due to K-A, but it was difficult enough that he should have been taping it. Seeing Mark's legs turned at odd angles kept him from celebrating too much. Going through his pockets, Olly found a couple rounds for the Remington 770, and a granola bar. He knew all the rules of field work that applied to this situation, such as "never look back," but that knowledge couldn't stop him from staring uncontrollably at the mutilated form of his partner. After a long silent moment, he finally averted his gaze and moved out to the street.

"Time to go," he said to no one with tears in his eyes.

Olliver couldn't remember who had first suggested the idea of taking back lost sections of the country, but he was currently overflowing with gratitude towards them. When The Rising took place, most people focused, naturally, on defending themselves and then their neighborhood. That grew to a sense of community within given towns and cities. But beyond that, well it just wasn't their problem.

Olly remember clearly how the country had lost its sense of being one nation until almost 2015. And even then it was more like the divided states of America. It was somewhere in the late teens, some time after Memphis, when the idea started to catch on that people could actually take back what was theirs. It was understandable that it took that long; the threat of infected wasn't limited to locations where the populace had basically been lost to K-A. Every time anything, even dogs, over 40lbs would die, they would just get back up again and start attacking everything. He remembered the first reports of zombie dogs. He thought it was some kind of twist of cruel fate, like a pack of dogs raised for dog-fights had gotten loose. No, it was just death. Everywhere. Waiting for you to die so you could join the ranks and take out your neighbors. He supposed that the country wouldn't have stood for it for long, at least if they had they would have gone extinct as a people. But it was Summerton that really made the difference.



Olly kept his body close to the ground, unmoving except to swing his head from side to side looking for anything. After minutes of stillness, which had already started bringing numbness to his extremities, he stood up on the snowy bank and walked on to Interstate 25. Being on an interstate is usually mentioned in sentences that also include words like "armored van", "lots of ammo", and perhaps even ".50 cal", but those weren't options available to him. He was fortunate that the road was pretty much empty; a direct result of Summerton. The completely ordinary town was thrust into the annals of history when some people from a nearby town got fed up with zombies that kept wandering over from Summerton. So they formed a posse and marched on the town. There was only one video of the march and it is regularly in the top ten list of most downloaded videos of all time. The video shows a crowd of 30 or 50 people; some have guns, some have shovels, some in a sort of pre-Irwin flare had big pointy sticks. Whoever it was that was calling the shots, he was an organization genius. Small teams each with a specific function. Splitting up evenly, they searched the whole town with one rule: No mercy.

Anything that moved got it. They were amatures, but some of the earlier portions of the video showed men who would have been some of the best Irwins ever seen. The only probelm is that they were followed. About two miles outside of town, one of the infected picked up their sent. A moan, still beyond the hearing range of the town people, summoned more. And just when they were working the last block, having single handedly taken back a U.S. town with no outside help...the screams started. But they didn't last long.

The pack that rushed in broke the ranks of the virtually untrained civilians, and they killed, and they feasted, and the camera caught it all. Resting on the ground where it lay after falling from the hands of one of the civilians, it kept recording until the memory was full. Some other random person found it later, and passed it to a friend over the internet after recovering most of the data. His friend, a newsie who's identity has been lost in time, woke america from their defensive slumber with about 78 minutes of bloodshed. Demands were instantly made of their local leaders and, for the first time in The Rising, the government felt the pressure. One of the first major operations was to sweep major roads in a particular area of any rubbish or dead bodies so as to keep them from being a future infection point. It was really how interstate travel was re-established. So it was safe. Or as safe as he could get.


Olly knew the score: You dont travel unless you are traveling to someplace to kill someone. Any mammal over 40lbs that was observed along a major route could be killed without any further investigation as to whether they were infected. In the government's mind, the only people crazy enough to be on foot along major routes of travel were those who had lost their minds already. After covering about 15 miles, Olly considered himself blessed by fate that not a single vehicle had been seen or heard on either side of the interstate.

He was considering how open the terrain was, and how easy it would be to hear a vehicle approaching as that same sound echoed in his ears from far away. He regarded it first as a product of his hyperactive imagination which had kept him on the alert for any sign of infected as the sun began to settle into the sky. When it approached, he could tell it was coming fast, probably doing over 80. With no time to run away, he crouched down next to the metal railing and tried not to move as they shot past. His hopes that they might just not see him were shattered when he heard the squealing of tires sliding on the pavement as the brakes were viciously applied.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard them shouting not more than a single second after he had stood to his feet. Amateurs wouldn't have shouted, they would have just been heavy on the trigger. And only people who were experienced in the field could exit a vehicle and have weapons trained on their target that fast.

"I'm not infected," Olly tried to say as he stood and raised his arms high above his head, but his throat had dried and the words were choked off.

"Don't you fucking move," the larger of the two that had exited the vehicle had screamed authoritatively. He was carrying a shotgun, which was not really the best choice when your target was over 50 feet away. The driver, on the other hand, was holding a pistol. Olliver began to sweat, though he doubted the two could see it. "Just another stroke of bad luck," he cursed inwardly.

Zombies didn't sweat. It was some sort of function of the virus that conserved water in order to keep the host alive as long as possible. Zombies also had no ability to speak intelligently; even the freshest ones mumbled. Standing as still as possible, Olly considered his options as his assailants, equally as motionless, stood far enough away to open fire safely. He couldn't approach them: move too fast and he would be considered a fresh kill moving in to eat, move too slow and he would look just like any other zombie. He couldn't reach for his rifle, now laying on the ground beside him where he had been crouched, in order to prove the point that zombies don't carry weapons, because then they would just think he was an attacker and would shoot anyway. Really he should have already been dead, and every second that passed was a gift from the two men who silently debated on how sure they were Olly was a zombie.

His mind, heightened to a state of near panic with the thought of being in an active infected zone and being at the business end of deadly weapons, seized the one unzombie option he could think of.

"Young man, there's a place you can go..." His voice bellowed even as it cracked and he continued singing the lyrics to YMCA. After the first two lines, he threw caution to the wind and started doing the dance as well. Olly was well into the second verse before he noticed the men nearly doubled over with laughter.

"Well, that's one way to prove you arent fully amplified," the driver said with a big grin. He approached at a casual speed but kept the pistol, a .40 caliber automatic Olly now observed, trained on the center of his chest. "Get a kit," he shouted back to his partner who was already moving to the back of the dark blue van, and then spoke again to Olly. "You understand."

"I would expect no less," Olly said with a slight smile as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.


A few seconds later the large man returned to his partner, running up with a small object in a white plastic wrapper. "I'm guessing you know the drill," he said as he set the object on the ground and drew his shotgun up from where it hung at his side.

"You two are going to back up and I will voluntarily test myself. If I don't take the test, you open fire."

"And if you come up red," the driver spoke, finishing Olly's thought. "Well, this will be your last stop."

Olly knew full and well that he was not infected, or at least as much as one person could know. It could be hard to be sure considering that live K-A could live outside of a host for at least 48 hours. And the danger was made more real by the fact that all that was required for amplification to take place was for live K-A to make its way into the blood stream of a host in the minimum ammount of 10 microns, as in 4 times smaller than the width of a human hair 10 microns. Given that any open wound of any kind could serve as the point of transmission, and that the K-A in an infected's blood was still there long after the blood had dried, no one could ever really be sure. Not if they had been in the field. Still, Olly was pretty sure he was clean. Unfortunately no one in their right mind would take his word for it.

Picking up object in one hand, he tossed it frivolously into his other. It was a sort of check in and of itself: loss of precise physical dexterity was one of the first visible signs of amplification. Olly opened the field blood testing kit, tossing the wrapper carelessly aside, and then pulled the thick sticker from the top which served as a second seal to guarantee that the unit had not been contaminated. The sticker covered an oval shaped hole with two small squares directly above it. Placing his left index finger into the small white box, Olly winced freely as the needle pricked his finger, lack of sensitivity to pain being another indication of amplification. The trickle of blood that gathered at the bottom of the opening was channeled into a reservoir that was sealed inside the unit once it was full. When the needle retracted, the indentation in which his finger had been flooded with an antiseptic fluid that was a combination of bleach and other chemicals which both sanitized and sealed the pinprick to the flesh. The designers ingeniusly determined that there was no point in causing an uninfected person to amplify simply because they had an open wound on their finger. Setting it back down on the ground and stepping away, Olly waited as he stared as intently at the two squares as the other men did. The unit would check the blood for traces of live K-A and then would trigger the appropriate light. Green indicated clean blood, or at least blood that was free of the live strain of K-A. Red, well as the saying went nowadays, "Red is dead."

After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, one of the squares on the kit flared a bright green which caused all parties to noticeably relax. Olly didn't even bother to look over his shoulder as he turned to retrieve the Remington, knowing that the tension had subsided. Getting a green light from a blood testing kit was now tantamount to getting a pardon from a death sentence.

"So where are you two headed," he asked as he picked up the rifle and quickly checked to make sure there was still a round in the chamber. Because you never go into the field with an unloaded weapon. Ever.

"We are heading out to Arizona," the driver answered casually. "Gerry's got family in a safe zone out that way. But we can drop you somewhere. Like Memphis. We are going right by there because we heard I-40 is pretty clear most of the way."

"Memphis Burning," Olly said rhetorically with a smile. The pair just looked at him in wonder.

"Were you there," the big one, Gerry, asked as they walked back towards the van.

"No." Olly scoffed at the thought, and then doubled back. "I mean not really. By the time I got there, most of the fires were out and all that was left was grunt clean up work. But I suppose its not the worst place for an Irwin to cut his teeth."

"So its not just urban legend?" The driver again.

"No," Olly replied matter-of-factly. "When you go by you will see some of the burned out buildings still standing outside the perimeter. Its crazy enough to sound like some kooky story out of a movie, but its true. In fact, if you think about it, its probably what gave those guys in Summerton the idea."

Having reached the back door of the van, the pair stood silently gazing at him as though they just found out they had been walking with a movie star. It wasn't a look Olly got often, and never one he relished, but he had already begun to understand that sometimes it just couldn't be helped.

"I hate to say this," the driver began apologetically. "But we got to put you in the back. I mean, your blood is clean, but we don't know that your gear is."

"Again, understandable," Olly said flatly as they opened the doors. The rear of the van, much like his previous field vehicle, was sealed off from the rest, the only difference being they had used chain link fence instead of plexiglass. The idea was that the rear of the van was sealed off from the rest so that if there was anyone or anything that was carrying live K-A, it was physically separate from the other passengers thereby reducing the risk of infection. And it was true that he very likely had bits of blood or bodily fluids on his clothes that had now dried, which mattered not at all since the CDC proved that live K-A could live in a blood stain for at least 40 hours after it had dried. The problem was that the fence was not even much of a physical barrier, much less of one against a virus. There were a few other mistakes they had made in prepping their vehicle for the field, but Olly's hesitance to nag kept him quiet about it.

When he was seated on the uncarpeted floor, one decision they had made correctly since fabric would just absorb any liquid it touched, they introduced their female journalist partner, which Olly acknowledged with nothing more than a silent nod. And a moment later they were begging him to talk about Memphis as though he were the one who had set the blaze. If only to pass the time, he reluctantly gave in, trying not to embellish as much as he could.

Memphis was ripe for the taking when The Rising hit, but it was not lost, and the reason why is also the reason people were always fascinated to hear about it. No one ever found out how it had started; some suspected it wasn't even related to The Rising and was just the byproduct of gang warfare, but a large fire had been lit on the eastern edge of downtown sometime around a month after things were in full swing. The Rising had hit and swept America in the summer of 2014 but it was almost a week when most of the country knew what was happening; Memphis saw packs of more than 20 zombies in the first week, but they had mostly been in the outlying and surrounding areas of the city. The fire, however it had been set, was seized as a good plan. It doesn't mean it was one, but when dealing with the living dead a bad plan put into action most often wins out over a good plan on paper. Soon people began spraying gasoline and other flammables in a continuous, but wholly asymmetrical, circle around the city, with the river serving as its western border since zombies, although less dependent on oxygen, are horrible swimmers. It cut off most of the city's population like a hot fire surgery.

By cutting themselves off behind a wall of fire that grew out of control in the first day, it ensured that none of the living dead made it into the downtown areas. It was pure insanity, but it worked. While the fires burned, police and everyone else who owned a gun (which was most of the people of this fine southern locale) declared open season on anything that looked like it wanted to eat them. Although it is doubtless that many innocent people died just for looking like a zombie, Memphis is solely responsible for dispensing the first universal truth on identifying the infected: zombies don't carry weapons. Even if they were holding a gun when they were killed as a person, when they get back up they just drop it like it were a useless rock. It stands in the new history of America as the single most idiotic and also effective way to survive a zombie invasion. By the time Olly had arrived, hearing that the whole city of Memphis was on fire, everyone had begun directing their efforts towards extinguishing the last of the flames and picking off the occasional zombie that happened to wander into town. Needing the publicity for a re-election that never happened, the President swooped in and declared it a model city. At least Memphis was responsible for many of the security protocols that were still in place today. And it makes for a good story. That is, until Olly gets to the end and begins describing the grotesque horror of shoveling deteriorated bodies into the back of garbage trucks. Its the part that one ever likes to think about but, Olly realized, is completely central to everything Irwin: Killing a zombie in your front yard is truly awesome, but if you don't clean up afterwards you are just digging your own grave.

After telling them everything he had known about Memphis Burning, Olly began to explain the questions he knew would come. Where had he been coming from, how had he gotten there, was he travelling alone, and the like. The female journalist who had been busy on her laptop, graciously offered to put his team up on the Wall for him. Olly accepted, making a remorseful mental note to go in and make some sort of proper comment on each of their pages later. He had not been expecting them to ask permission to use his stories on their site. After a quick verbal agreement of technicalities, links back to his own site with a standard but meager percentage of any earnings their site made as a direct result of the story, he consented to the deal, realizing after the fact that they had likely been recording him the whole time anyway. Olly didn't like to make money off of bad situations, but gear didn't replace itself and, so far, there were no job openings for zombie hunters. It was just the reality of the new America that they lived in: pretty much everyone who went into the field was a freelance journalist regardless of their other motivations. The goal was to not be so obsessed about ratings and dollars that you walked over the people's lives you reported on, and by Olly's estimation these were not those kinds of people.

The van stopped about three miles outside of the Southwestern checkpoint of Memphis; Olly had discussed it with the driver before hand. They weren't planning on stopping here, and if they just pulled up to the checkpoint to drop someone off, the chances were that the armed military guard would suspect them of creating an infection hot zone and fire on the whole group at worst. Best case scenario, the van, all of the equipment inside, and all of the occupants would be subjected to a very rigorous inspection and decontamination. More hassle than it was worth to not have to walk three miles, so Olly hoofed his way in. The group had sent an anonymous message to the local CDC that they had dropped off a hitchiker who had tested clean just outside of the city. At least that way he wouldn't be shot on sight. They would wait until he tested positive for live K-A to systematically exterminate him with no remorse what so ever. The one advantage he had is that the checkpoint was up past a curve in the interstate which, this close to the city, was lined with 8 foot high concrete barriers. They wouldn't see him until he was close enough to be considered their mess to clean up should they decide to open fire, a thought that gave Olly some hope that they would at least wait until they were sure.

Olly was delightfully surprised at the professional candor of the military guards at the checkpoint. It wasn't like before The Rising, when amred members of the military considered any action they perceived to be threatening as a possible act of terrorism. These had been well trained and experienced soldiers which, upon his appearance, had take no action beyond calmly aiming their .50 caliber machine guns at Olly as he approached. They had killed before, they would have no problem killing again.

Instead of shooting on sight, they had spoke over a P.A system mounted on the exterior of their bunker with even voices of authority as they instructed Olly to stand still at a red line painted on the pavement about 10 feet from the large steel gates which provided access to and from the city. It was a second test, the first being visual confirmation, which meant that they had the lawful right to open fire on you just for looking too much like a zombie. The command had been a test of auditory responsiveness. Even if he had been driving a vehicle, he would have been ordered to exit and stand on the line. Failure to follow any orders from the checkpoint was punishable by death.

Next he had been required to place his ID card and step back five feet. An instant after doing so, a guard in full riot gear with shield exited the solid concrete bunker which sat perpendicular to the gates. His partners, each behind a large machine gun, watched carefully from the bunker. The soldier picked up the ID without taking his eyes off of Olly and began speaking less calmly than his partners had, but only just so. It was a string of standardized questions designed to both obtain information and check the individuals ability to think on the spot. "What is your name? What color are ravens? Where are you coming from? What is 2 x 12? What is your business in the city," and so on. While it was true that zombies couldn't speak intelligibly, the examination part of the questioning demonstrated whether or not the individual was undergoing amplification at that moment, since mental clarity became increasingly reduced as one approached the final phase of conversion. When he had heard Olly's answer to the third question, he paused for a moment before speaking slowly and carefully.

"You left Guntown, Mississippi, a level 3 hazard zone, on foot?"

Olly tried not to move as he errupted with several colorful expletives. He instantly knew the guard was right; any person experienced in the field maintained a good knowledge base of hazard zones in their area. Military guards received updates directly from the CDC daily listing the status of all areas within 100 miles of their location, and they knew it the way IRS agents knew the tax code. "Well....," Olly finally began exasperated with grief. "I had a van...but...yeah. Its gone now." Olly stared at the ground while fresh tears formed as the guard slowly backed towards the bunker and re-entered it with his ID in hand. It wouldn't have mattered, he thought. He would have still gone, but he would have been more prepared, or he would have left Andrew behind, or he would have....something. He wasn't exactly sure, but the guilt of losing an entire team weighed down on him again.

"Please remove any sensitive equipment you are carrying and set it on the line," the voice from the P.A. had ordered, interrupting Olly's thoughts. "And then turn around and slowly walk backwards to the gate. You will receive your identification and possessions on the other side."

Doing exactly as ordered, Olly pulled out the few electronic items he carried and set them down along with the Remington rifle. When he felt like he was nearly at the gate, he heard a loud metallic clank behind him followed by the order to stop. He didn't need to turn around to find out whether or not there was a shotgun carefully pointed at his head, there was. Memphis had one of the largest CDC labs in the country, after Atlanta of course, and was guarded by soldiers who were trained not to play around when the threat of infection was even remotely possible. After walking backwards through the door in the gate as instructed, Olly continued to do as he was told. "Walk to your left. Turn left. Step inside and wait for further instructions." Had his ID been registered with Memphis as his home, he would have been escorted to the decontamination units just inside the gate without as much fanfare, but he was a guest, and if The Rising only taught America one thing, it was that guests weren't owed any measure of trust or hospitality. Next to the door leading into the unit was a single finger shaped hole that angled downward, a blood testing kit without the lights. If the tested blood was clean, the door would open. If not, Olly was sure that someone would be with him shortly to assist him. Thankfully the door opened moments after he had plunged his finger into the hole.

The building he had entered looked very much like a giant metal cube from the outside, but Olly had seen similar decontamination chambers in Atlanta. While guards in rubber suits that were designed to protect against chemical and viral attacks instead of physical ones had gathered up his equipment, Olly removed all of his clothing, knowing what would come next. The interior, looking much like a seamless and windowless cage of white plastic, had only three visible fixtures: a showerhead that was installed to be flush with the ceiling, a metalic handle on the left side wall, and the handle to the exit door in front of him. The door he had come through had no handle on the inside, and he knew without checking that the exit door was locked from the outside. Only the floor was not white, being a dull metallic gray grate through which all the runoff water would flow. After a moment a voice sounded inside the chamber, but from no visible source, "Remove all clothing and place it in the bin on your left." It was at this time that a soft click indicated to him that he could now open the small door on the left wall that functioned as a laundry chute. "Stand still with your eyes closed," the voice had instructed after Olly had closed the small door.

It didn't matter where you stood in the chamber, the showerhead was designed to created a large flood-like spray that doused the entire chamber. And trying to keep your eyes open would just invite blindness from the chemical bath that followed.It was similar to the solution that was used in blood testing kits, only more concentrated in order to kill any traces of the live virus that might be on the skin. Technically the spray was a cure for live K-A, but only as much as a bullet to the brain was. A person could no more rid themselves of infection by bathing in a decontamination chamber than a zombie could be killed by being sprayed with it: it didn't enter the bloodstream so it wouldn't remove all traces of the virus. In the end it was more ideological than practical since going through a decon shower made others feel safer because you were "clean". And in post-Rising America, safety was the most valuable commodity on the market.

Thirty seconds after the warm burning had started, it was over, being replaced by a cold deluge of filtered water which served as a "rinse cycle." Olly tried not to yelp but the shock of cold water on the skin was as fresh each time as staring at the corpse of a zombie. Olly's mind turned towards the fact as the water continued to pour over him. There was just no getting used to it, the revulsion and accompanying inner struggle after the zombies were all dead. It was easy to hat them as some kind of horrible monster when they were alive, existing only for the excitement and joy of those foolish enough to pursue them into dangerous territory and hunt them in less than safe conditions. But when they were dead they looked just like people, like regular people who had been the victims of some tragedy. Especially the children. Every good Irwin maintained some kind of mental ivory tower in which they trapped all of the horrors, doubts, and fears that they experienced from killing. Were they really a zombie? Did I have to kill them or could I have gotten away? What if there is a cure right now and I just don't know about it? I wonder if this one had a family? It was possible to shrug off the nagging guilt that came from taking a life, even when that life was a zombie, but it was impossible to avoid it. The mind, Olly had figured, was much like a rubber band: it can stretch and bend in all sorts of ways and under all kind of conditions, but it will snap back. And if it didn't it would just break. The psychological blowback was not unfamiliar to Olly but it was, he assumed, about as much fun as being eaten by a zombie would be. Maybe a little less because you couldn't run from yourself.

The shower ended abrubtly, interrupting his dark musings, and hot dry air wafted furiously upward from the grate he was standing on. A minute later he was as dry as he had been when he entered. When the exit door unlocked with a muffled click, he pulled it open and stepped into the curtained section that was built onto the chamber. His clothes were unceremoniously dumped onto the ground beside him from a chute on the side of the building a moment later. A few requisite forms for visitors later, Olly was reuinted with his equipment and on his way into the city to pick his life up where it had left off.

Although he had lost his field vehicle, and the rest of his possessions lay in his apartment in Alabama, Olly was not completely "lost in the sauce." The government had instituted mandatory National ID cards for every citizen from birth back in 2012. The photo ID cards, which were actually smart cards, which held the individuals medical records, as well as serving as a sort of pass card. Having become a national standard, it was not long before banks, hospitals, and even gas stations accepted the ID card as a form of payment and access to services. The Rising only pushed things along. Some time before The Rising, before Olly was born, no one left home without cash in their wallet. Then it was credit and debit cards. Now no one carried a wallet, the only thing you needed was an ID card.

The first two nights Olly was forced to rough it, having to get a cheap hotel which didn't require proof of residency in a level 8 zone. But by day three he had acquired a temporary apartment on the east side and had arranged for his possessions in Alabama to be shipped to him by air. It was expensive, but it was quick, and Olly had just enough to cover himself. Though setting up the van and acquiring other gear had been costly, the jobs he worked for various agencies that were contractors of the CDC had paid well enough. And he had saved everything he could, since there was nothing to spend money on out in the field where he spent most of his time. The one golden piece of news, however, he received while sorting through emails on his new smart phone: the Tri-Spear had been picked up for production by Guardian Industries.

The Tri-Spear was a new take on an old weapon that he had contacted several weapons production companies about with repeated failure. Guardian Industries, a post-Rising arms company, was the only one who had agreed to buy the rights to it. Attached to the email was a statement of deposit that was not insanely huge, but had enough zero's to keep Olly happy for a while, and the email requested a mailing address to send one of the first models to.

It was an idea he had come up with in the field on one unfortunate occasion when he was forced to use a broom stick to fend off a zombie that had gotten the jump on him. Olly managed to successfully spear it through the gut, but it had been fresh enough to wrest the broom out of his hand by breaking it in half. His team had been close enough to "pull his ass out of the fire" and Olly learned two important lessons that day: soloing was for suicidal maniacs, and the post-Rising world needed a decent close range weapon. Thus the Tri-spear was born.

When it was retracted, it looked similar to a collapsible baton with a built in circular crossguard, measuring just over 2 feet in length. A switch in the tail of the cap released the internal spring and allowed the spear to extend to a full 5 feet. What made it unique was that the head would split down the middle as it reached its maximum extension and a conical spike would slide out into a locked position. The arms that were formed by the two sides of the head folded back to where they were perpendicular to the spike as metal rods connected to both the arms and the main shaft of the spear slid into a bracing position. The effect achieved was that any zombie speared would not be able to reach the wielder, so long as they retained a firm level grasp on it. It had worked too, though Olly suspected that a professionally crafted version would hold up to more abuse than his had, which was basically made out of discarded aluminum and copper tubing. Regardless, the first field test proved successful to Olly, and to the rest of the world that was watching that zombies could not in fact bite through chain mail.

City life fit Olly about as good as a wetsuit on a cat, which he found to be reasonable since his primary joy in life over the past years had been going out into dangerous areas and seeing what kind of trouble he could stir up. It was this brooding irritation over having nothing to do that caused Olly to wake up one morning in Memphis with a dream, a dream of a truck. It had only taken him a week to get so out of sorts that his subconscious rebelled with this dream but Olly assumed it was for the best as last time he had a fit he had nearly caused an outbreak in a level 9 zone.

The hardest part of building a worthy field vehicle, Olly knew, was the foundation. He had used a generic white panel van with his last team and, partly out of a desire to honor their memory, was determined to do better. After turning up his nose at over two dozen vehicles, Olly had made his grand discovery. It had been in a crushing yard just outside the main perimeter of the city where abandoned vehicles were destroyed and then shipped to a nearby facility for meltdown in order to recycle the metal that had been used. Off to a corner of the yard, as if hoping to hide and put off its demise by being forgotten about, was a dust covered hulk of a vehicle. It was an armored truck that looked as though it had been sitting since The Rising. It was not completely unreasonable because ever since the country was descended into chaos, the military with its specially designed tactical vehicles, did most of the driving in unsafe areas. And when civilians ventured out as far, they generally opted for speedy as in "get-away" instead of massive as in Godzilla on wheels. For Olly, it was love at first sight.

It had cost him $10,000 but the owner of the yard had agreed to let Olly work on the vehicle there and take it away, so long as he could do so within a month. Having nothing else to devote all of his energy into, Olly found himself up to the challenge. The main reason it had been abandoned is because it had an engine that was barely 300 horsepower and clearly did not match the purpose of the rest of the vehicle. Between sessions in which he completely gutted the interior of the vehicle nearly down to the frame, Olly scoured the yard for any engine that would suffice. While he searched the vehicles in the crushing yard which usually were present for no more than a week before they were off to be melted down, he ripped out every piece of fabric (due to its highly absorbent properties) and widened the access door between the main cab and the rear, which had been only large enough to allow passage of completely unarmored passengers. The yard manager, a salty old retired truck driver named Winston, had assisted with the task mostly out of curiosity over what the abandoned behemoth would transform into.

Somewhere in between Olly's frequent trips to and from his small apartment, he had received a phone call. Something about government something. He used his polite, listening voice, which really meant he didn't care, and made a mental note to call them back later, which he quickly forgot. After two weeks of hard work, the truck was nearly done. He had covered every surface in a very flexible white material that was similar to the leather found in pre-Rising luxury cars, but less comfortable and completely impermeable. He literally could have poured blood all over the interior of the truck and just left it there until it dried, it would never be absorbed. And that was important for times when this beastly beauty would have to be scrubbed from end to end to ensure it was completely clean. Olly had begun to get a bit frantic over the fact that he still had not found an engine on that Tuesday that he had arrived at the crushing yard on the small motorbike he had bought simply because the commute to and from his house was too long to take on foot. He knew something was up when he pulled up to the gate and found Winston waiting for him, smiling.

It was a 500 horsepower diesel engine that had been pulled from a military vehicle that didn't make it. Winston told him that the whole thing was destroyed but the engine, minus a few dented parts that were replaceable, was fine. When it had arrived at the yard to be crushed and subsequently melted down, "Well," as Winston explained to him "It just ain't right for sumthin like that to go to waste." It took them all of the day just to get the large motor repaired and into the vehicle, but the sound of it turning over for the first time was worth all of the time they had put into it. It was night when Olly pulled away, leaving his bike as trade for the engine, and so he couldn't be sure. But he had thought he saw Winston wipe away a tear as he closed the gate.


The crushing yard was less than 5 miles from the southeastern gate to Memphis, but it was still the scariest stretch of road Olly had ever driven. The truck was driveable, and that was about it. He had no weapons of any kind, except for his beloved Tri-Spear which had arrived in the mail the week prior and was now never far from his side, and the vehicle itself was still yet to become the mobile island of safety that Olly had envisioned. He had called the government number he had so quickly dismissed earlier on the way back to Memphis mostly to distract himself from the creeping feeling of fear that a million zombies would jump out at any moment and take advantage of his poorly defended state. It was a very sub-par distraction.

"Let me get this straight," he had said at one point when he had nearly run off the road. "You want me to go out and kill zombies, and you are going to pay me? And give me me the guns and ammo to do it? This is a joke right?"

The voice on the other end had assured him that the offer was completely legitimate. It was some branch of the Department of Homeland Security that he couldn't remember the name of, and they were putting together what they called "Field Survey Teams". Had been putting together. The agent on the other end of the line explained how they already had over two dozen teams in service and expected to add at least 6 more that year. The offer was for him to lead a team on operations directly funded by the U.S. Government. As he wondered how they had managed to pick him for such a task he informed the agent that he had to hang up since he was approaching the checkpoint.

"Yes, we know. We will meet you inside." The answer had nearly spooked him out of his seat. Apparently the days of "Big Brother" were far from over.

After he was almost literally waved through the checkpoint, an average looking man in a black suit and matching non-descript sunglasses stopped him on the other side of the gate and entered the vehicle without asking.

"I could be infected," Olly admitted freely.

"I could shoot you now," the agent replied quickly. "But wouldn't you like to hear the deal first?"

It was the kind of humor that only an Irwin could laugh at, and the agent had known that well, he discovered. As he was given directions into the city, Olly listened to this unknown person summarize the finer points of his life, both before and after The Rising. The question of why was answered when the agent explained the stir Olly had created by walking out of a level 3 zone. The first response was to have him executed, since anyone that crazy would ultimately be a danger to society in the government's eyes. But cooler heads eventually prevailed and he was put on a very special list of talented people.

"So you take back cities," Olly questioned after being told to take a right.

"Yes, but only where we can," the agent explained. "Up three more blocks then take a left please." "We cant be everywhere," he continued. "So we support people like you as you go out there." Olly doubted from the way he had said it, that the agent had ever spent much time out there. "Since you journalists and thrill seekers are determined to head into parts of the country which rational people avoid, we just figured 'why not give them some help and a specific goal?' So far it is working; we have two towns we plan on having redesignated as level 7 zones this year."

Olly listened silently. He had heard of 8's going to 9's, and even 9's hitting 10, a virtual paradise in zombie filled America. But he had never heard of a town becoming a level 7. Those were just places were people were too stubborn to leave, or too stupid.

"You are talking about a clean sweep. No infected, no animals over 40 pounds within a few miles of the city." Olly only halfway believed it was possible even as he came to the conclusion.

"Well...Yes, left here. We aren't talking about sending you to Alaska!" The agent laughed at his own joke as they pulled up to a large windowless warehouse; the entire state of Alaska was designated a level 1 hazard zone. "There are some places out there we can take back for America, we just need a little help." It was his sales pitch, and as resistant to being sold as he was, Olly inwardly confessed that it was a good one. "Well, we are here," the agent announced happily as he looked forward out of where the windshield would go once Olly had obtained one.

"We're.....where?" Olly looked at the two story building as they sat parked in front of a pair of massive doors.

"Home Olliver," the agent spoke as though his failure to understand was a mystery. "This building is yours now. Its your new base of operations. Comes with the deal. So what do you say, want to check out what we have been doing to the place?"

Olly breathed deeply twice and blinked his eyes rapidly. If it was a dream, it was the best damn one he'd ever had and he hoped he never woke up. "I usually have my team call my 'Olly'," he explained as he stared straight ahead. "But you can call me Mr. Wayburn. And how can I seriously say no?"


~~~~~

The inside had some very decent beginnings, but it would need some personal touches, Olly-style. Before he had left the agent had handed him a stack of folders. "They're recruits," he had explained, individuals who had been selected to be on Field Survey teams for the skills they possessed. All he had to do was pick out a few and, bam, they would be hired as part of the team. Olly had spent enough time in the field that he could tell from their reports who he would be able to work well with and who he wouldn't.

"I'll take these two," he said flatly after looking over the individuals reports for a few seconds. "And you can screw the rest of these guys." He handed the remaining folders back to the agent as though they were a waste of paper. "I have my own fourth, you guys just got to get him on board. After assurances that he would be allowed to conduct the Field Trial for the individual's A-15 license himself, he waved the agent off not caring where he was going on foot at this time of night, and pushed the button to seal the large hydraulic garage doors.

"Frikin hydraulic doors," He exclaimed as he headed upstairs to one of the bedrooms. "I hope that guys still has time to work on my truck. If he sees the truck, he'll be in. He's just gotta." After undressing and laying in bed, he analyzed the guy again, checking for anything he might have missed in their first meeting.

The guy was Fenix Miller and Olly had approached him when he was still gutting his truck. He was new to town, but he was no kind of stranger around computers. Just asking him if he could "do up a field vehicle with computers, exterior cameras, a base station for radio communications, as well as persistent connection to the internet" had caused him to belch forth a spewing of convoluted language that Olly only vaguely understood to be tech-related. "I'll call you," he had said with a smile as he left. And he had been thinking about it even before the deal, although he had no way of paying for it then. Now that the government was picking up the bill for his teams initial set up, he would definitely call. The guy had an edge to him. It was like having your face stained with a paint that only certain people could see. It didn't matter that he was only an A-20, he had seen some of the real stuff, maybe even things beyond the "holy crap" moments Olly sometimes still dreamed about. Whatever it was going to cost, Olly had to have a man like that backing him up. But that was for tomorrow. Tonight he slept, with a broad toothy grin on his face the whole night.

Fenix had been working for all of three hours when, finally, the monitor inside of the truck came to life, the screen crackling for only a moment in its initial throes of awakening. Glancing back into the hold of the armored behemoth, he could see that the secondary screen was also coming to life. Wires running along the floor of the vehicle served to connect the two screens together, and then, together, to the CPU, which had been installed into the dashboard. The wiring, alone, had taken nearly an hour, as a few small holes had to be drilled to clamp the wires down to the floor. Similar wires ran down from the walls of the truck, where the exterior cameras fed into the truck. These, too, ran along the floor clamps to join up with the monitors as they ran into the dashboard. Otherwise, they would be a tripping hazard.

Cause, you know.. Safety first.

Even as the manufacturer's logo danced across the display, Fenix was up and picking has way back through his equipment to the secondary monitor. From here, the passengers delegated to the back of the truck could go over briefings, inventory, equipment specs, and could even access CDC-run site regarding the surrounding regions; which zones were what class, today, recent reports of activity and what have you. Everything was real-time and current, thanks to the modem now hooked up and fastened to the nearby wall. The signal was relayed via cell towers, meaning reception would be sketchy, at best. Still, it was better than nothing. As an added bonus, anyone sitting at either station could access the exterior cameras he had installed all along the vehicle's hull; two along the side and one in the back. The display also came with camera control, allowing a full 180-degree view from any of the three locations. The truck, in essence, had no blind spots, which was all-important.

Through the eye-holes of his mask, Fenix watched as the regular start-up procedure finished, and the main display appeared on-screen. The background was a plain puke green color.. which Fenix quickly swapped for one of a more colorful picture of a sunny beach; Fenix's trademark. Basically, a "Fenix was here" stamp. With a few keystrokes, the "control panel" window came up, quickly followed by the "network connections" window, which displayed a single option labeled "CDC Nation". Tapping into it, Fenix quickly entered in the appropriate WEP key, which prompted a waiting screen while the request went through the usual channels. His gaze wandered over and out of the back of the truck, which was left open. The surrounding area wasn't much to look at; the base had only recently been appropriated by Olly, who Fenix was certain had a few screws loose. Still, he knew how to get things done, and had even rebuilt this tank from the ground up.

He had met Olly only once before, when he had been working on a van for another Survey Team. They were built similar to the armored truck, but they were little more than tin cans with added tin. It was clear to Fenix that Olly would never settle for anything less than the best, and had told Fenix as much. While he had been installing a similar system into that van, Olly had walked right up to him to begin asking questions about how it worked. "You want me to explain how a computer works..?" After getting that out of the way, Olly had suggested that he might have a bigger job for him, which almost sounded too good to be true. In essence, he had offered him the chance to be on one of the Survey Teams, which entailed a field test for an A-15 license. That had gotten his attention. A-15's weren't handed out every day, and Fenix would have to work for months just to get another shot at one. He had given Olly his information, and the man went about his business. For a long while, he had figured it was too good to be true, as Olly hadn't called him back for almost a month. The second time around, it had been a suit to approach him, saying he spoke for "Mr. Wayburn".

The rest, as they say, is history.

Fenix was used to having a tight budget to work off of, having worked for the government, which was usually stingy on such projects. With Olly's seemingly bottomless pockets, however, he had managed to secure two touch-screen units to serve as monitors, a CPU from this decade, the three moveable cameras with electronic motors, as well as a working modem, not to mention the multitude of wires and other equipment that Fenix had to maintain. In comparison to most professional computer engineers, Fenix was an amateur, but the way he could work with what he was given had seen him many grateful employers who were more than happy to recommend him to others, which kept food on the table, and that suited Fenix just fine.

For now, at least..

As the connection was finally established, he sighed contentedly to himself and set to work running systems checks on the exterior cameras. No doubt, Olly would want to look everything over, himself, as he would be relying on this vehicle to keep him and his team alive.

New York Harbour, New York
Year 2015

A sharp crack echoed across the empty waters of New York harbor and a zombie snapped backwards, toppling into the debris infested water. Nothing moved for a long moment then another zombie, drawn by the sound of the shot, ambled into view, slack jaw hanging low, one eye dangling from its skull as its head turn, looking for the source of the noise. A second shot tore its head off in a spray of brain and bone.
The source of the shots was a small warship sitting at anchor in the middle of the harbor. To a casual observer I appeared to be empty, a faded Irish flag hanging at her stern, flapping occasionally in the fitful breeze. Then something moved on the bridge, a man who had obviously once been heavily built but had clearly not eaten well in some time. A thick beard covered his chin beneath blue eyes that scanned the harbor as he stepped onto the bridge wing. Cradled in his arms was an M16 assault rifle, a fire axe slung across his back.

He surveyed the shoreline through a pair of powerful binoculars before turning back to the bridge and pulling out a heavy pack. He wore full tactical boarding gear, a few minor changes like Kevlar hood and a gas mask that he now pulled over his face. He climbed down the aft ladder and onto the boat deck, carefully watching the steps as he descended.

Here he stepped up to the flag and lowered it slowly. A second similar flag flew from the mast above the bridge and he kept his eyes on it as he lowered the stern flag, folding it and tucking it into his bag. With a final look around he stepped to the side of the ship to where a boat was suspended above the water by a frozen crane.

He tossed in his pack then climbed in, reaching up and giving the manual release a pull he clutched his weapon tightly as the boat sank slowly towards the surface of the water. Once on the surface he quickly released the crane cable, fired up the engine and with a final salute towards the flag on the mast he angled the bow away from the ship and raced shoreward.

As the boat bounced through the small swells he kept a sharp eye out for zombies who had reanimated after drowning and still floated on the surface, trapped in their life jackets. It took him five minutes to make the trip, only once did he have to avoid a small group of floating zombies, shuddering as their blank eyes tried to follow him across the water.

When the bow bumped against the pier he took his pack and sprang up the ladder, dropping into a crouch and sweeping his weapon across the pier when he reached the top. Nothing moved. He readjusted his pack, made sure his fire axe was easy to reach and headed into the city.

Olly bounded down the stairs as the buzzer sounded. It wasn't just a house delivery that excited him, but what the delivery was. Because paranoia was almost as readily available as oxygen, all sorts of delivery services had ceased with the reboot of society. Mail generally was sent to the UPS facility closest to the recipient's home. In the pre-Rising days UPS, which was short for United Parcel Service, had store's unimaginatively called "The UPS Store." At these small retail locations, individuals could rent mailboxes to receive parcels as well as send them out. This was a smaller part of the company's business however due to the fact that most people received their mail at their door. The Rising had changed all of that. Even in a level 10 zone, a delivery driver had no way of knowing as he sat in his truck outside if the occupants of the house had been victims of an outbreak or not. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow. But apparently the line was drawn at the threat of being attacked by a zombie.

It wasn't just mail. All home deliveries, whether it was appliances, mail, or even food, trickled to a stop. All business was conducted in public places where blood tests could be run and the threat of an outbreak was reduced. Even then people would conduct their business over the internet and merely drive to the respective store just to retrieve their goods. Agoraphobia was no longer a disorder, it was virtually the new national past time. With more and more people leaving their homes less and less often, companies eventually conceded on home deliveries but raised prices to cover the possible loss if an outbreak occurred. It hadn't deterred many at all, as Olly had overheard one businessman say, "Never underestimate the willingness of cowards to pay for convenience." Had he actually been paying for the delivery, it would have cost him about half of the price of the goods he was receiving. But he wasn't paying for them either.

"Its just like Christmas," Olly said as he ran past Fenix who was working hard in the truck. "Oh, yeah take the modem out. Might have to rewire some stuff, but I don't know." It was the only comment he had made about the work his first teammate was doing since he started. If he was going to quit just because he didn't get praised endlessly over his technological talents, he would never last on the team. But Olly secretly respected the level of mastery he displayed. As he pressed the button to open the large garage doors, he explained over his shoulder to what he imagined was a very frustrated Fenix. "We got windows! And a satellite dish!"

As the doors opened Olly stared at the large white boxes with a grand smile, not even giving so much of a hint that he had seen the armored man standing behind them with a shotgun. It was standard procedure: drop off the boxes, press the buzzer, stand back and be prepared to fire. It didn't matter that zombies weren't very good at opening doors because sometimes they accidently figured it out. If anything looking like a zombie came out, the armored driver could open fire and take the packages back and still get off in the name of self defense. It was amazing you what you could get away with when a zombie threat was involved, sometimes, but only rarely, Olly went so far as to describe it as scary.

"So I got to sign something or something," Olly asked, trying to look at every side of the boxes without actually moving. He was clean, but it was better not to give already jumpy drivers an excuse.

"We already sent digital confirmation that the order was delivered," the driver said as he backed towards the vehicle. "Making sure you are home is just another courtesy we provide."

Olly smiled at him knowingly and waited until he had reached his truck before tugging and pulling at the boxes to bring them into the garage. "Forget whatever you are doing Fenix, this is industrial polycarbonate man!" Olly slapped one of the flat rectangular boxes as he spoke. "It would take an elephant to crack this stuff. He had managed to drag the pile of boxes into the garage before he distracted himself. "Zombie elephants....that would be totally badass! Man I got to get to Africa as soon as they lift the intercontinental ban." Turning to look at Fenix who had been silently gazing at him from the rear doors of the vehicle, he chided him playfully.

"What are you standing around for? We got a brand new mini-dish for our data networks, elephant-proof plastic to cut for our windows and windshields, and then we have to write congress and get an exemption to the ban so we can travel to Africa. Zombie elephants wont be around forever man! Lets get the hustle on!"

Only just when Fenix had finished finalizing the modem's connectivity did Olly make himself available, with an order to undo it all, no less. Removing the modem would be easy, in relation to the work it had taken to put it in. All he had to do was cut the wires near the clamps and jimmy the ends out. He could always splice it back together, should they need to salvage the wire later.

It was a wonder what one could accomplish when delicacy wasn't a factor.

A curt nod was the only greeting he offered to Olly as the man continued towards the doors of the garage. He wouldn't have acknowledged a proper hello, anyway. "No problem." His voice was well-modulated; devoid of any prevalent emotions without coming off as too unfriendly, which was a chore, considering the metallic echo that his mask granted his every word made him sound, more or less, like an automaton.

Fenix was never anywhere without his mask. In essence, it had become his face; his identity. Wherever he went, it was always fastened to his head and obscuring his features. It was the first piece of clothing he put on in the morning, and the last piece to come off, at night. The patterns he had painted onto it were faded, slightly, and scratched away from use in various places; mementos of previous adventures.

It said everything one needed to know about him.

Even as Fenix began to cut the wire that ran into the first clamp, he heard Olly's voice, saying something about a shipment of windows that had, apparently, just arrived. This was quickly followed by the whine of mechanical motors springing into action as they all strained, in unison, to lift the doors to the garage, revealing the outside world. As the doors rose to reveal the rest of the scene to Fenix, he immediately spotted the heavily-armed man standing behind a row of white boxes. Instinctively, his right hand dropped towards the stock of his Twinbow, which was always loaded with a bolt already in the groove. He never did like these delivery types; complete strangers tasked with the delivery of often-times all-important packages; shipments that could mean the difference between life or death to the recipients. And yet, they rarely, if ever, knew the contents of their parcels. It was like playing god while thinking you're playing hopscotch; it somehow seemed wrong, to him.

In any case, this one was armed to the teeth, and jumpy(as much as the next guy, he supposed), to boot. As the exchange went forth without incident, Fenix relaxed, somewhat, watching as Olly brought one of the boxes into the garage with that goofy, fucked-up look on his face whenever he was off on some random, often-times gruesome, tangent.

Fenix's own mind wandered, though, as he thought of the implications of the polycarbonate that now rested inside of the garage. It was strong, yes. Strong enough to stop an elephant(a zombie elephant)? Maybe.. once. But, against a swarming horde of dozens; against hundreds of deformed hands beating relentlessly in a maddening crescendo of the damned as they clawed with every ounce of their ill-gotten strength at their would-be victims.. he had his doubts. Still, it would be worlds better than their current defenses, and would, if nothing else, grant them precious time to formulate a plan if, god forbid, their haven ever came under attack.

Snapping back to reality as Olly speaks directly to him, Fenix moved for the back of the truck and hopped out, ready to assist with the polycarbonate, as needed. "Whatever you need, Oliver."

They had found him, holed up on the rooftop of an abandoned high-rise, the undead trying to force their way onto the roof after him. He was out of ammo, thin from lack of food and at his wits end as he smashed his axe into one face after another, trying to build a blockade of dead to stop the living dead.

Their helicopter was one of a rare few that were still in operation, a big slow moving transport chopper. Had they been in something faster, they may never have spotted the movement on the roof. They had circled once, finally getting his attention with a megaphone, the look of shock on his face something to behold.

There was just enough space to edge the tail end of the aircraft over the building without tangling the rotors. He had tried to jump high enough to reach them but he was so weak that he only managed to get his fingers onto the ramp, it was enough for a couple aircrew to grab him and drag him onboard. He brought nothing with him but his axe.

The living dead began to swarm through the door as they lifted him away but he never looked back. He sat on the floor of the helicopter and cried.

Manhattan Island, New York
2017

“Hey, Paddy! This one’s yours!” The voice of Lisa Janelle, his first fire team partner and former US Marine who had been on hand when Patrick was first cleared for work with the Manhattan Defence Force (MDF).

He flipped the safety off of his weapon, took careful aim and blew the head off a zombie that was slowly dragging itself up the beach, life jacket still around its neck, eyes fixed on him. The two ex-soldiers laughed. This had been part of Patricks challenge, and the ex-Marines job, to make him unafraid of the living dead. His time trapped amongst the high rises had been hard on him mentally and only through a careful process of rehabilitation had the MDF been able to reverse the process. In fact, they had discovered that, once his fear of them had subsided, Patrick took to the task of destroying his undead opponent with relish.

“You know, this is the only time I ever see you laugh or smile.” Said Lisa as she stepped up to his side. She smiled up at him, a mischievous gleam in her eye. She couldn’t be more then 5’6 with shoulder length brown hair and soft hazel eyes. “It’s really nice.”

To him it was the only time he felt happy. It was a small revenge for all of his shipmates who had been killed, and no one knew what had happened to his beloved Emerald Isle. In fact, it felt as if he were getting a part of himself back every time he killed one of the undead.

“Aye, well, makes a lad feel alive if ye catch my meanin.” His Irish accent had not gone anywhere in the last few years and he was very popular amongst the rest of the MDF for his good humour and old world charm, traits that only appeared when on the hunt.

“Yes I do.” She whispered as she slid her arm through his. Going against regulations the two had been involved for nearly a month. When one might die any day, one hardly gave a damn what the regulations were. For both of them it was an escape from the hellish reality they lived in.

“I think our patrol is up, lets go back to base and take that shower you promised me.” She said with a grin, gazing up at the towering Irishman.

“Well, I c’nay turn down an offer loike that!” He replied with his own grin and together they trudged back towards the MDF post they manned with six others. They did two weeks in, two weeks out for 8 hour patrols a day. It was a simple formula but it kept the troops fresh and alert.

They arrived back at the post, went through decontamination and the blood test before returning to their rooms for the night. In his own space Patrick stripped down and stared at himself in the mirror. Since his rescue he had regained his former size and strength. He took a moment to run a hand through his hair and beard, only turning when knock sounded at his door.

He opened it to find Lisa standing before him wearing a long coat. He pulled her inside and stepped back as she pulled the coat off, dropping it at her feet, naked as the day she was born. He smiled and took her into his arms.

By using the spare tire, which would eventually get mounted underneath the vehicle, and the bench that would sit on the right side of the larger section in the rear, Olly and Fenix managed to hold the polycarbonate still enough to cut it to the pre-measured dimensions. Two side panels for the doors on the front of the vehicle, two windshield panels, two smaller rectangular panels for either side of the rear of the vehicle which would serve as windows; the back door was windowless on purpose. Olly had coordinated with several other skilled laborers before Fenix had moved in, prepping the vehicle redundancies.

The spare tire was also a Runflat, tires that would continue to operate with only minor loss of control after being punctured. Technically having 4 Runflats was like having 8 tires, but people generally didn't die in infected zones from overpreparation. The windows on the rear of the vehicle were less than 12" high, but were themselves an easy 6 feet from the ground and only 6" from the exterior roof, which meant even though a zombie could reach through one of them (assuming they had somehow managed to break through the industrial strength material that was used in pre-rising vehicles for bullet proofing) they would have to be on the roof to do so. SInce zombies weren't especially skilled at climbing or maintaining their balance while reaching over a ledge, it was a safe bet that the windows would not serve as a viable access point.

The windowless rear door contained a solid magnetic lock that could only be released by direct command from one of the terminals inside. It could be done from outside as well, but wireless access to the terminal was allowed only after uploading the results of a clean blood test that was no older than 3 minutes from the attempt to access the system. And that was assuming that the signal came from one of the registered devices on the computer, and that the password was input correctly on the first try. The front doors utilized a similar lock, but these could not be opened from the outside at all, and even lacked exterior handles; this would further direct all traffic from the front of the vehicle to the rear.

The front cab of the vehicle was the problem, at least in theory. The windshield was well above the size limits for CDC limits on a permanent structure (less than 18" in diameter), and the side windows, although smaller, would be less than 6" from the passenger that sat beside it. Olly had covered for the first problem by layering the windshield with two panes of the material, but there was nothing to be done about the second in terms of the window itself. The doorway between the cab and the rear, however, could be closed by use of a steel net that remained rolled up above the rim of the door when not in use. Loops in the edges of the netting would slide onto hooks on the inside of the door that faced the rear compartment, and then those hooks could be locked in place with a metal pin, allowing the entire rig to endure more than 1,500 pounds of direct force before it would come close to breaking, leaving the zombies only one option: chewing their way through. Additionally the netting was spaced well enough that the barrel of a weapon could still be aimed through the net without fear of doing damage to the cables. That would of course lead to blood spray, but that was why he had the thick plastic tarp and roll of duct tape hanging by the door; they could always seal themselves in.

And then of course there was the last resort. It was a single red button high on the left side of the vehicle which had been placed so awkwardly that it could not escape notice and could not possibly be pressed by accident, the latter reinforced by the clear plastic shield encasing it. The button would send a small electrical charge to the detonator which had been placed beneath the floorboards of the vehicle along with enough Semtex to blast the armored vehicle into pieces likely no bigger than a football. Semtex had remained an effective, although hard to obtain, explosive because of its malleability, its operational temperature range (-40 to +40 C), and the fact that it would not explode unless acted upon by a detonating charge. The charge had been wired to the button and into the explosive underneath the floorboards in such a way that it was insulated from any outside electrical shock. Even a bolt of lightning to the vehicle wouldn't set it off. The floorboards had been bolted in place and then covered with the same laminate material that was in the front, making safe removal pretty much impossible, and all of this had created a "safety": the material simply would not detonated unless you wanted it to. As a last resort, Olly imagined it would be as effective as it was scary, and it had been scary enough that he hadn't bothered explaining what the red button did to Fenix. He imagined that his new partner wouldn't have even agreed to work on the vehicle had he known, so he had only told him that he should push it only if he really really really wanted to die.


Olly had finished up the work on installing the windows as Fenix had silently finished the programming of the system and testing of the electronic locks. That left the smallest portion of actual labor to be done. The only thing that remained would be bolting the rear seats into place (in pre-drilled holes that were insulated from the explosive), mounting the spare tire to the frame beneath the vehicle, and installing the waist-high weapons locker on the left side of the rear compartment. When two people sat on the benches, with another at the small computer desk, the rear of the vehicle would be quite "cozy", but it wasn't a luxury vehicle and, worst case scenario Olly figured the vehicle could haul a total of 10 passengers if it really had to.

"Hey dude," Olly exclaimed brightly as he wiped his hands on his pants. "Im gunna go heat us up some burritos. We can put the seats and weapons rack in tomorrow." He exited the rear of the vehicle and turned back with a smile. "I want to take this momma out for a test drive before it gets dark!" The mask that Fenix wore constantly kept Olly from perceiving what kind of reaction he made, but hoped it was a grin that matched his own as he headed up the stairs. Fenix had displayed some odd qualities, like hiding his face all the time, but he resonated with a toughness that couldn't be faked. And he knew. Other Irwins had approached Olly before with a bravado as if they could take on the world, but it was a far cry from the kind of shadow that lingered over a man who had seen hell and lived to tell about it. He knew that Fenix didn't have hardly any licensed time in the field, but he equally as sure that he was not at all lacking on experience.

The garage, serving as a main point of entry, was sealed by hydraulic doors that, Olly figured, could pretty much withstand a direct impact from his new field vehicle at over 40mph, but he wasn't exactly going to experiment with that one. Though it wasn't obvious from ground level, it was plain to see from 15 feet up that the floor was sloped so that any liquids would travel to a drain centrally located in the floor. The drain, like the rest of city's sewer pipes, had a pressure valve that would allow liquid of any weight to pass into the pipe, but would not allow travel back out. And there was no fear of contaminating anyone else because all of the lift stations which pumped the sewage on to its final destination had been supplemented with additional pumps that put concentrations of bleach into the line that were well above even the loosest safety limits. And if that wasn't enough, the material was directly piped into an incinerator at one of the city's three sewage plants where nothing living could stay that way for very long.

The stairs that took him to the second floor were pretty much as minimalistic as possible, not even having a handrail. Olly figured that if a zombie was fresh enough to climb them, maybe they would do him the favor of falling off the edge so he could save ammunition. The only railing was at the top of the stairs on the metal platform that was just wide enough for two people to pass, so long as they both turned sideways and neither of them had a protruding belly. It made the moving in process a bit more difficult, but it, much like the behemoth beneath him, was not designed for comfort. The stairs themselves were a model that had only come into existence after The Rising and were like an inverted pyramid: they remained in place because of the force exerted upon it from each of the steps above it. The final step was locked in place with two levers which were painted a bright red, releasing them would cause the whole thing to collapse making ascent impossible.


At the far end of the platform was a hallway, only slightly wider than the platform, that extended perpendicularly into the rest of the building. The hallway ran seamlessly to the rear of the building and then turned 90 degrees to the left until it reached the opposite exterior wall, at which point it turned 90 degrees to the left again leading to a metal door that allowed access to the living area. Olly had often imagined in his mind that if the roof could be removed it would look like a squared "at" sign. The metal door, naturally, had to be slid to the left into the wall once unlocked and could withstand several thousands of pounds of force even when it was closed and latched but unlocked. The hallway behind the door turned 90 degrees again but here the previously barren hallway was "decorated" with two doors before the hallway turned a final 90 degrees with another two doors on the left. The first pair was the bathroom/decontamination shower and the weapons closet respectively, the second pair were bedrooms. At the end of the snaking hallway stairs descended towards the left, leading towards the rest of the living space.

At the bottom of the stairs the space opened up into a common area that was an amalgamation of living/common room and briefing room. Behind the stairs on the rear wall was shelving that served as the building's pantry and the opposite wall was separated into three more rooms: the kitchen, and two bedrooms. This is where Olly had his room, originally choosing the room closest to the weapons closet, but then wisely switching to the one nearest the kitchen. There was a door on the left wall next to the kitchen that was the only other door that allowed access to the building. It was a thick metal door and looked as if it had been salvaged from some kind of ship as it had one of those wheels in the center to lock it closed. It was wide enough that it could be used to bring in furniture and appliances, but the exterior, like his field vehicle, had no handle of any kind. In fact, from the outside it looked much like an oval slab of metal had been built right into the side of the building. Mostly he came and went through the garage, as inconvenient as that was, but since it was not only the team's base of operation but their home, he had no problem trading "cozy" for "impenetrable".

Stepping into the kitchen, Olly's stomach reminded him of why he had come. He had been so enthused about the vehicle and its immanent road test that he had gone the whole day on a Twinkie, which had no problem repelling the infection through and defending its title of "most durable food ever." Maybe they would run to the grocery store, he considered as he began heating up a pan full of frozen burritos. He hadn't had time to restock supplies since he had moved in.

"Definitely the store," he delightfully decided. "Right after we take a spin through the closest level 5 zone!" Olly could hardly wait.

“Memphis? What the fuck did I ever do to you?” Patrick tossed the paper down on the desk of his commanding officer, a man younger than him who picked up it up and held it out again with a patient sigh.

“Nothing. They asked us for our best guy and we’re sending you. They want to start clearing out infested zones and let’s be honest, of everyone on this island you’re the best qualified and, well, you enjoy it the most.” He continued to hold papers out, waiting until the big Irishman took them with a resigned grunt.

“Damn your eyes sir. Can’t argue with someone who strokes your ego.” He opened the folder again and scanned the papers. “Only a couple hours to pack eh? Generous of you.”

He winked at the harassed looking officer before the man could reply and stuck out his hand. “Been a pleasure sir. Stay white.”

“A pleasure paddy.” Replied the major with a chuckle. “Take care of yourself, hope to see you again.”

Patrick gave a salute and then spun on his heel and walked from the room. It took him a few minutes to reach his quarters where he carefully packed his few belongings, ensured his weapons were in one piece then slung it all onto his back. He gave the small space another glance then made his way towards the exit, a final stop to make.

He found Lisa curled up in the lounge, her small figure tucked happily into a large arm chair. He stood over her and smiled as she glanced up.
“I’m leaving. Thought I’d say goodbye.”

She uncoiled from the chair and wrapped her arms around his neck to give him a long kiss. The Rising had been a long, nearly endless, series of goodbyes and this was one of the few where both partners were still alive.

“Be safe Patrick. If this ever ends, come find me.” She gazed intently into his eyes for a moment, and then kissed him again. “Good luck.”

He nodded and with a last glance he left the room. His steps took him to the airfield where a large, well used Hercules transport aircraft sat on a runway built atop what had once been part of the waterfront. He was the only human passenger, the rest of the shipment was material or mechanical items, the entire passenger area was his. He pushed up several arm rests and stretched out on the seats, falling asleep before the plane had even begun to taxi down the runway.

Only once did he wake up to use the washroom, taking a moment to gaze down at the world empty below him. Once it had been well lit and cars covered the roads but now it was nothing, dead, empty. He didn’t even want to dwell on what had happened in Ireland. No one knew.

When the plane finally touched down in Memphis he was met with a wall of security and anti-virus paranoia that surprised him. He had always thought Manhattan was bad but the system here was at least twice as strict. Part of him had wanted to make a joke about how he was expected to get sick on a plane but decided it might not be wise.

Once he had managed to make his way through airport security he looked at his papers and managed to find a driver who would take him where he needed to go. The drive was a fairly short one and when he arrived he thanked the driver and climbed from the vehicle. He slung his bag over his shoulder and glanced at the name again. “Oliver Wayburn”.

He shrugged and raised a fist, banging loudly on the reinforced door of what he took to be some sort of garage.