Short of Decay - Survival of the Fittest

Chapter 4: Morals

They found them both inside the kitchen. Alex stood behind the white island counter top, gripping the edges with his head down, in what looked to be some sort of trance. His dark-blonde hair hung over his face, as if he were once a bald monk that had been meditating too long. He did not stir. Mrs. Carson, who was seated upon a stool at the bar, across a separate kitchen counter to Alex's right, turned her head their direction as soon as they entered; her eyes glowing with worry and face mask removed. It rested on the counter in front of her with a glass of water. The woman resembled a deer on high alert. Straight backed and perked, as if she had detected a predator or a hunter's scope upon her. Confused and afraid. Yet, Cheri and Kyle had done nothing to threaten her.

Cheri found her eyes chained to Alex, while Kyle explored the open-concept house with his.

"Uh, Alex? You okay?" Cheri asked, slinking forward off the carpet and onto the kitchen's shiny tile.

The Carson household deceived those outside. The interior was surprisingly spacious and airy, with numerous hints of a successful remodel. Such concealed the true age of the home.

Alex whipped his head up, hair flying back behind his head. He brushed a few rebellious strands free from his face. "Y-Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little…" he looked at Mrs. Carson, his expression concerned, "… you know. Bummed. He seems pretty—"

"—He said my husband's infected," Mrs. Carson snapped to the point, her tone stern. As though the idea were preposterous. "My question is what does that mean, exactly?" She took her time studying each of the three individuals standing in her kitchen. "Surely there's something we can do for him, right? And why aren't any of you wearing masks?"

No one spoke. The silence dug into her.

She threw up her arms, "I don't believe this!" Her gaze fell upon Alex as she pointed at him. "You said you would help me!" She rose from the stool, as if dignified despite her raised voice. She took a deep breath and seemingly managed to regain some control, "That's my husband in there, and he's hurting. We need to do something." Desperation had crept into her voice now. "Please. We can't just leave him like that."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carson, I'm no doctor but from what I've seen…" Alex paused long enough to rub the back of his head, "Ah, we really shouldn't be going in there back and forth."

"I'm afraid the boy's right. There's not much any of us can do for him. Its out of our control," Kyle piped in. He dared a couple steps in the homeowner's direction and was met with venom. The woman a coiled snake ready to strike. Just as she looked ready to do so, her cell phone began to ring.

Bewildered, she flailed a hand to her hip and pulled a phone free from her white pants pocket. She glanced at it, then answered, promptly. The others in her home no longer mattered. She turned and fled the kitchen while holding it up to her ear, "Elaine, is that you? Oh, goodness Sis you won't believe—," her voice faded as she disappeared into one of the house's back rooms, opposite of the bright living room.

Cheri and Kyle looked to Alex in the same instant. "How bad is he?" they asked in unison, then stared at one another. Apparently, they were operating on the same wavelength today.

Alex shrugged. "He's not like the guys we saw back at Colonial." He recognized his companions' disbelief, and shook his head. "Honestly, he looks move flu-ish than anything. Can't get out of bed or move much." Alex spun to look out the kitchen window, the day's waning sunlight kissed his face. "Definitely more human… seeming," he murmured, just loud enough for them to hear.

Cheri scoffed and cocked a hip. "Yeah well, I don't think us going in there will solve anything. Those infected people we had at home and downtown, they were mindless. Hissing and shit. What if we go in there and have to put him down in front of his wife?"

"I agree," Kyle said, eyeing the dried blood on Cheri's baseball bat, "this doesn't end well if things go south. We should take our leave and find some shelter ourselves." He reconsidered using the hospital as leverage in this exact moment, and waddled to the nearest wall. He put a hand against said wall for balance, then bent over to remove his shoes. "Besides, my feet are absolutely killing me."

"Man, I'm impressed you made it this far dressed the way you are."

Kyle gave Cheri an awkward nod. "Thanks, I guess," he replied, then proceeded to inspect the new hole in the heel of his sock.

"Okay, so what's the plan, guys?" Alex regained their attention. "We can't just leave her here by herself with him. I know them. Heck, I grew up with them next door. They're good people. Cody's a cop and she's a social worker."

Cheri frowned. "Just because he's a cop doesn't mean he's a good person. But I get that you want to help, since you know them. Just don't know what we can—" she trailed off when she spotted their host returning.

"I think I'm going to go in there with some water and medicine," Mrs. Carson proclaimed, snatching her sky-blue face mask from the bar counter. "Maybe I can make him remember me. Get through to him. It's worth a shot, right?"

Kyle swallowed audibly. Thus, all eyes landed on him.

"I-I don't think so… We don't know what this… thing… does to people's minds. For all we know, he could be in serious pain or void of thought entirely right now. I'm sorry, but I really don't think it's a good idea."

Cheri jumped into the fire with him, the room's tension building. "Yeah, I'm sorry, miss... but I'm with the little dude. I don't think you going in there will solve anything. Those infected we had at home, downtown, were pretty unresponsive." She made a disgusted face, "they acted like… rabid cats or something. Biting anything they could."

Kyle never saw words have such an immediate impact on a person. Either the way Cheri phrased it, or that she had backed Kyle's opinion must have created such.

Their host went limp and for a second, Kyle strongly feared that she might faint. Miraculously, she retained her balance by grabbing the bar counter just before Alex could reach her.

"Don't touch me," she shrieked, then recoiled. Her expression alert and eyes alight. She back pedaled away from the kitchen and into the living room, still facing the trio. "My husband's not hissing like some sort of animal! He's just… just… dying." She paused after the word, eyes drifting to the pristine white carpet of her living room. Abruptly, they flare back up to the trio. "And if we continue to do nothing but stand here, then that's that! He'll just die!" A gloss now overcame her eyes, as dusk began to fall outside, casting long shadows across the living room floor. "At the very least, I'm not leaving him to die alone."

Alex pounds a fist on the counter, as if he had a light bulb moment. He looked at Cheri and Alex, "You know what, she's right," he said, nodding in her direction. "He's not a lost cause. We can't just give up on everyone. I say we go in there and try to help." His gaze found its way back to his neighbor. "At the very least, I'll stand in there with you as support."

"Alex… thank you," she sniffed, clasping her hands together. The poor woman almost looked sick herself. Clammy and pale. Visible stress radiating from her very essence.

"Cheri, Kyle, what about you guys? Will you go in there with us?"

Cheri shook her head. "I think I'll sit this one out, man."

"Okay, but if it was your grandmother, Cheri? Would you just leave her in there to suffer? What if we had gotten there and she were alive with the disease?" Alex tilted his head, slightly, enough for his long hair to swing. "What then?"

Kyle interfered, "I don't really think that's a fair comparison. The woman passed in her sleep; she didn't have to go through—"

"—Enough. He's right." Cheri cut off Kyle, her tone a whip. Alex's words got her blood pumping. Cheri swiveled to address Mrs. Carson. "She deserves that chance to go in there and try." Cheri met Kyle's apprehensive stare, "And we're going to give it to her."

"Oh god, thank you so much," Mrs. Carson gasps, now shaking where she stood.

Cheri could relate. Somewhat. Her grief still so raw and recent. Anything she could do prevent her pain from afflicting others.

"But we should hurry," Cheri urged.

Kyle did not find himself on the same page. He figured himself to be in a different book series. "Please listen to me," Kyle said, moving to stand in the center of all three of them, on the edge of kitchen tile and living room carpet. "I think this is a grievous mistake. We shouldn't do this!"

"Okay, why do you think it's a mistake?" Alex questioned, then folds his arms, as if waiting for some elaborate answer.

Kyle fumbled with his thoughts instead. Do I share what I saw at the hospital with him? Or shit, do I tell Cheri her grandmother started walking after we thought she was dead? He fell deep into that abyss. The abyss where his morals and logic confronted one another. One armed with a mace of reason. The other with the shield of truth. As rude a man as he could be, Kyle considered himself a sucker for doing the right thing when the opportunity presented itself. With recent changes to daily life however, he may have to reconsider how he…

"We're waiting," Mrs. Carson snapped, regaining Kyle's awareness to those waiting. Those expectant waiting people wanted to hear his argument and without blurting things out, he did not have a very good one.

"What if he still attacks her and we're unable to help? I mean, we're not the police. We're not really armed or medically trained." He felt stupid taking this route, but did not want to scare or anger. He shakes his head rapidly, "If something goes wrong, we're as good as what we are. Civilians." He surveyed the faces of those around him. "Am I wrong in saying that?"

"I don't know about Alex over there, but I can vouche for myself. I ain't never just been any ordinary civilian, little dude. I'm a legit bad-ass. I'm helping this lady out in her time of need." Cheri twirled the baseball bat and leaned it on her shoulder. "I ain't scared."

Alex smiled, "With much less confidence, I feel the same. Let's control the environment and take things nice and slow, and we can do this. We can at least give it a try."

Some silence followed, only to be shattered when Mrs. Carson gushed, "Thank you both, so much." She started moving away from them, "I'm going to see what medicine we have. Be right back."

Kyle watched her walk away, "Forget little o me, then! Onward, I say!" He raised a fist. "Let's leave it to chance. Yay!" He twisted to meet disappointment from his companions. "Oh, come on, did you really expect me to act any differently after losing a debate?"

Cheri cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "No, not really. I do think we should share with Alex what you found out about the hospital, though."

"What did you find out about the hospital?" Alex asked, suddenly looking flustered. As if he had just woken up from a nap.

Kyle scratched at his jaw stubble, "Well because of the hospital, we're not safe here very long, actually. Allow me to explain…"

Five Years Ago. . .

The sun's powerful rays of light spilled into the room, warm and vibrant. As abruptly as a wave would crash against the shoreline. Matt looked forward to this daily sun bath while on leave. It would hit the sun-room just right at 13:00 so long as the clouds held off, and last for hours. Such created an infallible reading environment.

Every so often, his daughter would wander in and lay along the light gray carpet like a cat, just to soak up the rays and heat herself. She had napped in said spot on occasion. Matt was thankful she did not snore. His wife on the other hand, used the room as designed and read book after book in complete solace. She did so less often as of late.

Matt closed his eyes and tilted his face to the heavenly rays above. So perfect. So warm. Must not fall asleep…

"Hey," that childish voice obliterated his harmony. "Mom wants to know if you did what she asked."

Sighing, Matt opened his eyes and found his daughter Rachel beaming at him. Red-orange hair fell over her frail shoulders, her face round, and eyes emeralds, just like those of her mother. The girl tended to find him when he did not want to be found.

"Um," Matt grunted, rubbing his face profusely. "What did she ask me to do, again?"

His daughter giggled. A soul-reaching giggle. One so happy and innocent that it struck home every time. Right in the chest.

Matt cracked a grin. "What's so funny? Do I look like some sort of sleeping Sasquatch to you or something?"

His daughter giggled more, "Daddy you can't be a Sasquatch! You're like, bald and stuff!"

Matt straightened himself, looking as imposing as he could in his favorite cream-colored armchair. "Oh? Is there something wrong with being bald?"

"Nooo, it just means…," she clasped her hands behind her back and started spinning instead of finishing the thought. Just an eight-year old bit of extra sunshine spinning in a sun-room.

"Just means what, Rachel?"

Her spinning ceased, and she wobbled a bit. Though as she boasted, she was the best spinner in the world, and did not fall. Instead, she blushed, her cheeks going pink. "It just means… you're…"

Again, she did not finish the thought. So Matt guessed.

"Rachel Lee Dunbar! Are you calling me old?!"

The girl let loose a giggle of epic proportions and threw her arms backwards, as if she were a rooster cawing at him, "No I didn't! I swear!" Her eyes went as wide as dinner plates as he rose from his chair. "I didn't!"

"Well, you've left me no choice now." Matt tugged on his sandy-brown goatee; his forehead wrinkled. Then with no warning, he ran at her with arms outstretched and shouted, "Now this old Sasquatch has to GET YA!"

Rachel shrieked; a tone so high-pitched that Matt almost had to cover his ears. Before he could reach his daughter, she fled the sun-room with relentless laughter. Matt started to follow, but spotted something across their home's foyer that made him stop. Straight ahead, past the staircase, the glass screen door had a new addition of some kind. A smudge of some sort.

Rachel had ran around the bend and down the hallway toward their living room, likely seeking Sasquatch protection from her mother. Matt could not pay her any further mind though, for a snake had looped itself around his stomach and tightened. His vision tied to the mark on the screen door ahead.

As if walking through a stranger's home without a host, he carefully approached, the hardwood floor creaking underfoot. Soon he stood in their dining room and put his hand to the glass, to mirror what he discovered to be an exterior hand-print smudge. It did not belong to Rachel or another child, but to an adult roughly his size. The icy shiver he felt in that moment could never be replicated.

Day 1 - Present . . .

Until today, as that exact icy shiver returned, the blood-stained hand print on the glass branding its way into his mind. Solidifying itself permanently in that purgatory of things he wished to forget, but could not. There it would share a space with that hand-print on his screen door from five years ago; among other things.

He did not dwell on those thoughts as the cell block erupted into a chorus of noise. Just about everyone had something to say about the new mark on the door's upper third. Matt remained silent and surveyed the cell block. His vision came to a stop when he found the woman in black glaring. He held her gaze, and tried to conceal his irritation. What the hell does she want from me?

"Yo! Now would be a good time let us out, man," a heavy-set man in his twenties exclaimed, gripping the bars. He was part of the gang to Matt's right. "Seriously, man!"

Their commotion got Matt to rip free of the woman's gaze and focus on the officer who now stood.

Other inmates echoed their agreement for freedom. The guard looked too stunned to care or listen. He lifted the handheld radio from the small table next to his chair, at the cell block's end, and said something that could not be heard. Matt watched the man's expression shift into concern when he had to repeat his message. No one is answering from inside the station. Matt looked back at the bloody hand-print. But why? What was happening?

"Hey Pig, let us out!" someone shouted. The officer continued to ignore those caged and drew his gun. A Glock 22 Matt observed. But if his first instinct is to use lethal force on whatever is going on beyond that door … then he suspects a serious threat. Did people like the one's surrounding him break into the police station with the intent to harm officers?

Gripping his service weapon with both hands, the officer stalked forward in ignorance. He moved along the cells opposite of Matt, just close enough for the woman in black to do something unbelievable. She managed to reach through the bars and pluck free a ring of keys from the officer's belt. If Matt blinked, he would have missed it. In fact, most of the cell block did miss it. Especially since the woman hid them in the sleeve of her black hoodie right away.

"Hey man, don't open that door! They're not right out there! They got the FIV, I'm telling you," a frantic man near the front of Lock-Up screamed. Perhaps the most ordinary-looking person in Lock-Up. "I killed my neighbor because he was one of them! Please do not open that door! I'm begging you!"

The guard did not listen. In a swift motion, he pulled the metal door open and took three steps back with his gun aimed. What came through the door made Matt wonder if the tasers had done more than stun him. But upon rubbing his eyes profusely and making his broken nose hurt by doing so, he found that his eyes did not lie.

The person lumbering through the doorway was walking with a gaping red hole where his throat should be.

Fresh blood soaked the upper half of the man's once white button-up. With his mouth ajar, he continued his slow awkward gait toward the guard. He did not seem fully human to Matt. His skin looked moist, almost pasty white, and his dark eyes were a hazy red. As if had embraced marijuana or a harder drug before making his entrance. But even straight acid wouldn't allow someone to walk with that injury, Matt told himself.

Matt gave up the hunt for an explanation when other atrocities followed the first man. They too bore life-threatening injuries. Some were missing limbs while other looked to have been mauled by wild animals. All were covered in blood and seemingly mindless.

Is this what the disease is capable of? Why people were so scared?

The Langford police station's Lock-Up was a dead end with cells on either side of the central walkway. Now the gray slab floor and walls looked more dungeon and morbid than ever. Especially with the apparent walking dead. Matt could not take his eyes off them. Those bloodied shambles of humanity.

Those locked up like Matt, acted as if they were dogs in a pound. They paced and barked. Most hollered for freedom. Only the man who had warned the guard about opening the door acted differently. He sat in the corner of his cell in the fetal position. Covering his eyes, the man rocked back and forth there on the floor, until Matt could no longer see him due to the group of infected. He could only watch in stunned silence. His mind roaring for a rational explanation to what he was seeing.

The guard, now backed up about halfway to the cell block's dead end, went about police protocol. "Sir! Um, Ma'am! S-Sir—," he must have said 'screw it' in his head, as he abruptly took aim with his gun at the nearest man. "I need everyone to stop advancing right now, and put your hands in the air." The officer visibly shivered, the gun shaking in his grasp. "RIGHT NOW! I'll SHOOT!"

"What are you waiting for man, they aren't right! Shoot," someone yelled, Matt could not identify from where. The others' voices were hard getting hard to hear over the infected. They're half-open mouths made a raspy breathing sound, and occasionally, Matt swore they sounded like snakes. There had to be at least fifteen crowded into Lock-Up now, their attention solely on the guard.

In the cell to Matt's left, a thin man wearing a white bandanna and wife beater, stuck his bony arm thorough the bars. "Get me out of here guys! Fuck yeah, down with the system!" Clearly, he was still under the influence of something.

"LAST WARNING," the guard shouted, with veins popping from his neck and his face pink. "HANDS IN THE FUCKING AIR! I WON'T ASK AGAIN!"

Matt cupped both hands around his mouth and yelled, "Shoot!" Other jail birds echoed him, and that seemed do finally do the trick.

Crack. The handgun's muzzle flashed and the group to Matt's right covered their ears. Matt had no need. He and gunfire were well acquainted.

Crack. The officer fired again, another bullet punching its way through the first man's chest and into another. Matt cranked his head at an angle and stared at the approaching infected in amazement. That's two near perfect shots to the lung… he should have dropped…

"What the hell," the officer cried out, now backed up past the woman in black's cell. This time he stopped moving to shoot off three rounds. All three found homes in the bodies of those marching, blood sprinkling the cement floor, but to no avail. The mutilated humans kept up their lifeless march.

Matt cupped both hands around his mouth again, "Aim for the head!"

Miraculously, the officer heard him and gave a look of astonishment, before bobbing his head. Committed to his task, he tapped the trigger of his service weapon and sent a round through the neck-hole man's forehead. The shot proved effective. Instantly, the man fell backward into those that accompanied him. That did not faze them though. They marched on as living nightmares.

"Keep shooting," someone other than Matt yelled, and their cell block champion obeyed. His back nearly against the wall, he opened fire. Not a single round missed its mark. Body after body hit the ground; blood always pooling from the head. And somehow Matt did not feel remorse for these people. He could almost cheer in fact, if it were not for the running count in his head.

Crack. Ten. Crack. Eleven. Crack. Twelve. With the Glock the officer would have to reload after fifteen.

Crack. Thirteen and another down. But there were still at least seven more.

"Yeah fuck the police go get—Ah-Ah-AHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Matt spun to his left in panic to find his neighboring cellmate being attacked. The same arm the man had stuck through the bars earlier was being bitten by a once young woman. Matt winced as a shiny strand of flesh tore free, emitting a sound like ripping cardboard. Only then was the man able to pull his arm back and fall to the floor sobbing. There he screamed in agony, blood gushing freely from his new wound. Matt did not know what to think when the woman remained clawing at the man's cell. She seemed to be looking for a way in. As if the taste of flesh had ignited some sense of logic within her head of matted blonde hair.

Matt wasted no more time there watching. Instead, he turned in time to see the woman in black get sprayed by blood from one of the infected, as it collapsed in a heap against the bars of her cell. Means he's down to his final bullet, Matt realized in alarm.

"HEY, you have to reload!"

His instruction came too late. The fifteenth shot rang out and clipped the shoulder of an older infected person. Then the officer started to fumble with his belt, and did so too close to the bars. A hand seized the sleeve of his uniform, then another hand ceased his wrist.

"Hand over the keys and let us out," the incarcerated people demanded, while distracting the officer from the cannibalistic threat behind him.

"I-I-I can't! I'm sorry! Now let go off me, dammit!" To Matt's disbelief, the officer escaped and stumbled into one of the infected. The two grappled for a moment, before the taller man clamped down with his teeth on the officer's shoulder. Howling, the officer pushed himself off, but found himself surrounded. With nowhere to flee.

"GET BACK!" Gripping his shoulder, he pulled out his baton and started taking reckless swings. While his first few hits looked good; the infected were not dissuaded. To Matt's horror, they swarmed the guard and ripped into him from all sides. His panicked screams were terrible. Robust hands tore apart skin and clothing alike, while their teeth did the rest. What had once been a man, quickly turned into an indistinguishable bloody-red pulp that sunk to the floor with writhing bodies. There the victorious feasted, while the cellmates were left to watch the gruesome scene in appall.

"So, you're going to wait out here? Keep an eye on things?" Cheri asked again.

Kyle affirmed with a nod. "Yes, I'm going to wait out here while you two play… erm… good guys." Cheri did not look amused. "Apologies, I just. I don't know. I don't see the point. We should be leaving, not staying."

Cheri frowned. "I know and Alex agreed. Let us just see this through and we'll go. We'll be right back."

"All right. Just… be careful."

"I will, little dude."

Kyle said nothing more from his perch at the kitchen's bar, his feet dangling. He simply watched her cross the living room to meet Alex near the room Mrs. Carson had disappeared into earlier. An office, maybe? From there the two entered a hallway and left Kyle's line of sight. Thus, he sat alone in a house that was not his. Drinking from a glass of water he poured without asking. It did give him time to reflect further on the day's ludicrous events, though.

From the few hours he spent hiding in his apartment all the way into the home of two strangers. Not to mention the home of an acquaintance's grandmother. What seemed impossible this morning was beginning to seem frighteningly normal. The infected, the gunshots, the distrust, the hiding… all parts of our cheerful daily lives now, he thought. He frowned at such a thought and tried chasing it away with a swig of water.

When he set the glass back on the counter, he took out his phone and checked for any messages. Nothing more than the two clients from this morning. One even followed up with another text message. Still work-related. Which meant no one he knew had asked on his well being. Not even his small circle of so-called 'friends'.

Perhaps because they were in danger or harmed themselves? Yes, surely that's it. They wouldn't just not say anything.

Suddenly, Kyle put a hand to his face. So, you text them, dumb ass. And so, he did. He sent out four texts along the lines of, "Are you okay? I'm holding up somehow." Despite wrestling with his own mind games, that made him feel a little better. Something human and easy that he could do despite the circumstances.

The dreary thought train derailed moments later when tires could be heard screeching on the street out front. They penetrated his ears for several seconds and came to a sudden halt with a loud crash.

Kyle lifted his head in alarm. His body tight and locked up for a moment. He did not move by the time Cheri reached him, her backpack bouncing and baseball bat at the ready.

"What the hell was that?!"

Kyle shrugged. "I don't know. A car crash, maybe?"

Cheri snatched his arm and pulled him down form the stool with a thud. "Come on, let's go check it out." She led him out of the kitchen toward the front door.

"Where's Alex?"

"He's staying in there with her." Cheri froze at the front door, and spun back to face him. "And you know what? Her husband really isn't like the others." Kyle appeared ready to respond, but instead furrowed his brows in confusion at her. "I mean, dude definitely has a fever, but you can catch my drift."

"You're… drift?"

"Never mind, little dude." She gripped the gold doorknob. "Let's see what all the commotion is about."

Between raspy gasps there were crunches. Otherwise no one made a sound.

The officer's body could no longer be identified. It had been replaced by a multi-colored spaghetti. Browns, variations of red, and glimpses of bone that the infected still dug into. Their apparent diet at least gave Matt an idea of why they were so red and injured.

They're literally zombies. And they literally won't stop unless you put a bullet in their head.

Matt sat in his cell thinking, his calloused hands gripping his temples as he listened to the disturbing feast continue. Most of his counterparts had to avert their gaze. Many had even puked or made the same the mistake the man to Matt's left had. The gang to Matt's right for example, had their skinniest guy try reaching for the handgun lying near their cell door. The result proved devastating, as the man had lost most of his fingers to the yellow teeth of what might have once been a grandfather. Now two infected stood guard at cell doors, spitting and clawing, while the remainder carried on with their eating.

"You gotta get that shit cleaned man, or you're going to get infected," the heavy-set man said. Matt thought he heard him called Wayne.

"Yeah, no shit! So, get me the fuck out of here," the newly bitten man huffed from his slumped position on the floor. He squeezed the wrist of his wounded hand. A vain attempt to prevent blood from spurting out of his missing digits. It did not work well, and his pained expression showed it. "Shit Nate, why'd you put me up to that! Look at my fucking hand," he held it up to show a man with corn rows and baggy clothing.

"You need to put pressure directly on it," Matt said, absently, but loud enough to be heard.

Wayne moved to the bars and gripped them with his large hands. "Hey. You a doctor or something? Think you can help us?"

Matt looked up at the man and scowled. He leaned to get a better look at their injured man. "No. But the best thing you can do is keep pressure on it until help arrives." With that, Matt faced forward again and paid Wayne no more mind. He accepted Matt's advice silently, and shuffled away to instruct his companions on what to do for their friend.

As disgusting as the blood bath around him was, it did make Matt wonder which governments had introduced bio-chemical warfare upon the world. Russia seemed most likely to him. North Korea did not have the capability and the Middle East seemed too disorganized. At least in Matt's professional opinion. Which he based on his active-duty tours.

He kept watching the gluttonous creatures until a creaking door caught his attention. It caught just about everyone's attention. Everyone except those infected.

Straight across from Matt, the woman in black had opened the door to her cell using the stolen keys. She did so with great apprehension. Piercing blue eyes narrowed at the man-eating threats to her left. Somehow, the creaking door did not alert them and neither did her first few steps of liberation. The infected just kept at their tasks. Only one so much as looked in the woman's direction. Looked, but did not see apparently.

To Matt, it did not add up. They pursued the guard with too much intensity, and attacked the limbs of others far too willingly to just ignore her. Course, Matt would not be surprised if the young woman confessed to being a witch with magical powers at this point. He figured her to be in her teens or early twenties. Based on her lithe appearance and piercings.

In revered silence, every living person in Lock-Up watched the woman slink across the walkway to the front of Matt's cell. In confusion, he stood to receive her attention and winced at the flare of pain in his wounded leg. Then without speaking, he indicated the two infected on either side of his cell door. That made the woman hesitate a little, but when both looked at her and still did not attack, she made eye contact with Matt.

"Dye."

A proverbial hammer of surprise crashed into Matt's side. What? Die?

"Excuse me? Just what the hell—"

"My name."

Matt left his mouth open, despite the dull burning ache from his broken nose.

"It's short for Diane," she continued, her thin poker face impeccable. The blood spattered across her face and chest did not help ascertain things. "You're just like them. Aren't you?"

"Just like who," Matt whispered, as one of the infected gimped away from the bars.

They both kept quiet while the husk of a woman hissed her way past Diane to join the rest of its kind. Diane took the time to watch her fall into the pile of bodies clustered on the floor. Then returned to Matt.

"The men I killed for what they did to me."

Matt retreated a step, his muscles tensing. The cylinders in his head fired in multiple directions. He did not know what to do or say, but harbored solace knowing that she was unarmed.

"What's your name?" she pressed.

That question sliced through his thoughts with a blade of surprise. He grimaced, his eyes shifting to see the man in Wayne's cage struggling. To his left, the other bitten man looked to have passed out on the floor. How could she ask something so passive with what was happening around them?

"Your name. What is it?"

His eyes flicked back to her. Irritation pricking his skin. "Matt Dunbar."

She nodded. "I'm thinking you're like them, Matt." She looked down at the keys in the palm of her hand. As if they were something gross to hold. If Matt's arms housed less muscle, he might have been able to reach through and snag them…

"Because of that, I'm going to leave you here to your fate."

That made him balk. His brain clicking like a lagging computer again. The words actualized to him seconds later and adrenaline coursed into his bloodstream.

Like a rocket blasting off, Matt lurched forward. As close as he could get to the bars with his teeth gritted.

"Assuming I'm like who?" She stayed silent. Those pale-blue eyes stabbing into him. Her lack of emotion and stirring infected nearby, caused him to tone down his voice. "I'm sorry for what they did to you. Whoever they were." Then Matt pressed his lips together and wagged his head left to right as he continued, "But leaving me and the others here with these monsters isn't going to help you or anyone else."

Despite some of the infected pack rising behind her, the woman kept quiet and stared at him. Seemingly unfazed.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Matt groaned, resisting the urge to scream. Such resistance faltered swiftly. Out of nowhere, he slammed a hand into one of the bars, "Please let me out of here! I have family I need to get to!" The infected started shuffling towards them. Noise. The sound of his raised voice drew them. "Let me find them so I can protect them god damn it!" Rarely had he felt so helpless in life. Nor so insane. He still struggled to believe what he had just witnessed. It all manifested into a word he hated, "Please?"

"Goodbye, Matt," Diane said, casually stepping away. Matt's stomach dropped in response. Bile searing its way up his throat. His head and chest pounding. Her actions made no sense to him. Her reasoning shallow.

To every caged person's astonishment, including Matt's, the infected did not follow her. They merely replaced her in front of Matt. Their mouths stained dark-red and eyes alight with hunger. The four of them forced Matt to back away. After observing what happened to his neighboring cells, he refused to take any chances.

He peeled his gaze from the ghouls to catch sight of Diane dropping the keys a few feet in front of the doorway. Despite the monsters' lack of interest in her, she was still being cautious. Did she know why they were not after her? Did she plan it this way?

Frustration overpowered those thoughts.

"IF I SEE YOU AGAIN, YOU'RE DEAD!" Matt could not hold back the anger any longer. A mix of sheer disbelief and fire that harnessed itself against her lack of empathy. For sealing his fate. For lacking humanity and doing the decent thing. "YOU HEAR ME, DIANE?! YOU'RE DEAD!"

The woman pretended not to. Instead, she crouched and worked her way out the door. Once she was out of sight, Matt conceded.

He gave the ghastly people pawing at the bars a look of dismay. Then broken and defeated, he went back to sit where this terrible nightmare had begun.

On the bench in his cell.

Dark had fallen over Langford. A cold light rain came with it, but did little to cleanse the streets of chaos. What they saw on the drive in told them that much.

"Don't mean to be uh, that guy, but uh, how close are we?" Santa asked, his bulk taking up a good portion of the police suburban's backseat.

"Close," he answered, as he ran a red light. In places there were still people on the road, but most of the city had grown bare this late. People were in hiding and listening. Finally. Somehow Charles believed the hospital had a say in that.

The mammoth of a man named Paul, rode shotgun next to Charles and had been stoic most of the ride. This was despite his insistence to go with Charles when he and the deputy released people from the highway. That had bothered Charles at first, but with the rest of his department scattered about, he did not have much choice for immediate help. Last he heard from his father or anyone at the station had been an hour ago. Last he heard from Lieutenant Harmon or his men at the hospital had been two hours ago. Charles did not require more to assume the worst, given what he had seen last night and earlier today.

Charles swerved the vehicle around a decimated pickup truck he had responded to this morning. The accident had been FIV-involved and the driver himself was infected. The poor man had been discovered seizing with his seat belt still on. His logic abandoned and legs crushed. While an image that would haunt him, it also served as an important learning experience for Charles. The infected would only become hostile to others when near death. Or so he thought. That's what made the most sense based on his experiences.

Passing the pickup truck also meant they were very close. One more right turn and the station would be in view. There Charles could soothe his anxiety and find his father. He'd be there and he'd be all right. That stubborn bull.

Charles took the turn he anticipated and hard, but had to stomp on the brakes almost immediately.

"Whoa, there! Easy, Tex!" Santa exclaimed. The bearded man had to catch himself using the front seats. "What's the matter —" Santa noticed what Charles had. "Oh, holy shit…"

The sight ahead made it seem as if the seat belt were somehow strangling Charles, like a python. He felt out of breath at the wheel, his hands clutching it so tight that his fingers might break. Worse than how he physically felt, his fears ran rampant.

Shining in the headlights about twenty yards ahead of the vehicle stood a crowd of stumbling people. FIV- infected people. There had to be at least a hundred wandering about in the rain.

"How the hell are there so goddamn many?" Charles demanded, lifting a hand just to hit the wheel.

"You said there were officers at the hospital, right?" Charles turned to find Paul making eye contact. Charles gave a nod. "Then that's how. These are probably all the people infected prior to the attacks. Those that got hospitalized by friends and family when they had a fever that wouldn't break." Paul faced forward again, several of those he spoke about now approaching. "That's my guess."

Santa shifted in his seat. "Um, so where's the station?"

Charles scrunched his face and made a circle motion with his head. "Right there," he announced, pointing at the squat brick building. It seemed to be floating in a sea of bodies and moving away from them. If it were not for the station's exterior lights shedding some clarity on the situation, Charles might have believed the illusion his eyes were telling.

Santa gulped loud enough for all of them. "And these things… e-e-eat people, right?"

"That's right, old man," is all Charles said, his eyes fixed on those infected that were now with ten yards. His mind blanked on any immediate plausible actions to take. There were no more police strategies to employ. No more city to save. They were down and out. At least until the Guard arrived. But what about my old man? Is he alive?

"Why don't you try calling those inside again," Paul suggested, removing his seat belt. Without permission, he leaned forward to start fussing with the center console's two-way radio. "I'm going to try on here." He pulled the radio's handheld to his lips before realizing the officer's gaze upon him. "What? We have to try something. This the logical place to start."

Charles rolled his eyes and dug his cell phone free. "Yeah, yeah," he said, tapping his father's name in his phone. He pressed the phone to his ear while Paul repeated the following:

"Can anyone hear me? Come in."

Charles did not get through and neither did Paul when Santa pointed through the windshield. "Hey fellas, let's back up. Ol' one eye is almost on us!" True to his word, a terrifying woman missing her eye and part of her shoulder was practically on the hood of their suburban.

"Shit," Charles said, jacking the vehicle into reverse and stepping on the gas. They backed away safely into an intersection, the one-eyed woman now another fifteen feet away in the rain.

"We should turn back." Paul looked over his shoulder at Santa who shrugged. "Look at it out there! The place is overrun! And there ain't no way ol' Santa here is outrunning them fellas for long if we get out of this here ride."

"You won't have to," Paul replied, then ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair and looked at Charles. "But we will."

Charles whipped his head, an angry movement. Frustration had started its consumption of his actions. "Excuse me?"

"You want to try rescuing your father or not?"

Charles narrowed his eyes. "Of course, I do." Charles flicked his eyes to the infected outside again.

"Good. I have an idea," Paul assured, nodding. "You got gas in this thing?"

"Plenty."

"Good." Paul adjusted to get a better view of Santa. "Comfortable with driving this thing, old timer?"

Santa responded by scratching his white beard. "Uh yeah, I can drive most anything. Just needs working wheels!"

Paul put both hands out before him and cracked his knuckles all at once. "Perfect, now here's what we're going to—"

"—Why are you two helping me?" The officer's strong tone broke through Paul's words with ease. "Seriously, why are you two here and helping me do this?"

Paul exhaled an anvil, then made a half-smile. "Because it's the right thing to do. Nothing more, and nothing less."

"What about your kid? You just left her with a stranger at my house." Charles pushed the issue. Trust had to be earned per his father. "You wanna talk about logic? Well tell me hotshot, where's the logic in that? Huh?"

Paul's half smile returned. That annoyed Charles. The man seemingly found this funny.

Paul watched the one-eyed woman still approaching, but now she had an entourage. "One, she's not a stranger. We asked Touko to help someone on that highway not once, but three different times. Three different people. And she did it every time without hesitation." Paul leveled with the devil's advocate routine. "Two, one of those someone's is named Matt and you put him in there. How many others are locked up in there?" Charles put a hand to his forehead and dipped his head. "That's what I thought. Third is if we don't help each other through this thing…" he paused until the officer provided his full attention again. Eyes and all. "…Then we may as well dig our graves right now. You're the law. If anyone has an idea of where to start helping this thing get better… it's you."

Charles chuckled, while Santa whistled in the back seat.

"How's that for explanation, Officer? Am I free to go?"

Charles sighed after his brief laugh, "Yeah. I hear you.

"Good."

"Now let's hear this plan of yours."

A/N: Time for faster updates me thinks! Apologies for the wait friends, had a one year anniversary and job changes to deal with!

No new reader created OCs introduced in this chapter, but some key development & plot progression! In the next chapter we'll be introducing some more characters! Hope you all enjoy!

And be sure to check out the updated poll: "Who is your favorite character so far?"