There's six of them down there," Rusk said, as he peered through the lenses of his 8x30s. He lowered the powerful optics and glanced at the young woman crouching in the brush several yards behind him. "Maybe more in the scrapyard."

Jennifer crawled on her belly to where the older man lay prone at the edge of the woodline. She squinted against early morning sunlight as she looked into the shallow valley below. A BP maxi-mart sat almost directly beneath them, on the opposite side of a two-lane highway that ran from the hills to the north, and wound its way out of sight to the south. Her eyes adjusted to the light and she could make out the shambling forms of the living dead as they wandered in the parking lot. As Rusk had noted, there were only a few, but just seeing them again after so long sent an involuntary shudder through her body.

The food mart appeared to have been looted. Every window in the place had been broken and debris lay among the shattered glass. There were a few abandoned cars in the lot, but it was otherwise empty. Except for the movement of the ghouls, it seemed as deserted as the junkyard that spread out behind it.

"This is crazy," she said, her voice uneasy. "What do you expect to find?"

"There'll be somethin'," he replied, standing. "Right about now, I'd kill for a beef stick and a warm can of Pepsi."

Jennifer's stomach grumbled. It had been a while since she had eaten real food, but the thought of fighting her way through a group of walking corpses for a handful of Pringles did not appeal to her.

"It's not worth the risk. Let's go back to camp."

Rusk chuckled as he worked the bolt of his Weatherby rifle, extracting a .30-06 hollow-point from the top of the magazine, and loading it into the chamber.

"Are you comin', or not."

She rose to her feet and brushed dirt from the knees of her camouflaged trousers. She was the taller of the two; trim, athletic, though Rusk more powerfully built; squat, stocky.

"This is not a good idea," she said.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder, careful not to bump the Leupold scope attached to the top of its barrel.

"Get out of here," he said, a hint of disgust tainting his voice, "you're nothin' but dead weight anyway. If I find food, I might come back for you."

Rusk turned and began walking down the trail, stopping only when he realized she hadn't moved. He looked back, his dark unshaven face hard; cold. Not at all like the face of the man she thought she'd fallen in love with.

"Take off, Jennifer."

Her heart was torn in two directions. Tears filled her eyes as she stood in the uncertain morning woods, at the dawn of what was probably to be the last warm day before winter set in, and wondered how her world had come to this breaking point...

...what had begun as a simple weekend camping trip had gone maddeningly wrong following the first unbelievable radio broadcast of the living dead phenomenon. At first the thought it had to be a joke- the bodies of the dead simply did not rise to walk and attack the living. Steve and Christi, in their usual dope induced conditions, found it particularly amusing; but as the day wore on, and the reports came with increasing frequency, a more sober mood settled over them. It was Rusk who suggested they seek out the nearest comfort station and find out what was going on. What they discovered drove any disbelief definitively away.

Jennifer was inclined to agree and it frightened her more than she cared to admit. She realized that, if any of them were to survive, they had to pull together as a group and Rusk's behavior be dealt with in a way that would not bruise his frangible ego...

"I'm done playin' baby-sitter," Rusk said, still standing on the trail and staring at her. "The others are burned-out. There's nothin' you can do to help them. I'm ready to leave you all here to rot."

"I can't leave my friends," Jennifer replied, trying hard to keep from sobbing. "I'll only help if you promise to go back."

He thought about it for a moment.

"Half of everythin' we find is mine," he said, then turned on his heel and strode down the path. Jennifer dried her eyes and quickly followed him.

They made their way down the ridge and crossed the highway well out of sight of the wandering ghouls. Jennifer's heart began to race as they shimmied under the sheet metal fence that surrounded the junkyard. As they moved cautiously through mountains of rusting cars, the first twinge of panic swept through her. She had not realized how accustom she had become to the sheltering confines of the forest and now, in the open in unfamiliar territory, she felt extremely vulnerable. Rusk seemed to sense her uneasiness.

"You'd better tighten up, girl," he hissed. "Get ready."

He pulled a crowbar from one of the piles of scrap metal and handed it to her.

"Take it."

The bar felt heavy and awkward in her hands and she doubted whether she could lift it, much less deliver a killing blow. Meanwhile, Rusk had drawn a machete from a sheaf at his hip. The sharp polished blade winked in the sunlight. They approached the fence that separated the junkyard from the rear lot of the food mart. On the opposite side they could hear the sound of shuffling feet and an occasional unearthly moan. Rusk quietly pulled back a loose sheet of fencing, exposing a gap large enough for him to slip through. He ducked behind a garbage dumpster and watched the ghouls with a studied eye. They wandered about in the front lot, oblivious to him. When the coast was clear, he signaled Jennifer to join him and she darted across the open space.

"You got your shit together?" he asked, none too gently as she crouched beside him. She nodded meekly and tried, with little success, to control her trembling body. He fixed her with a stern gaze. "I'll do all the dirty work, you just cover my ass."

Without waiting for her reply, he stood and approached the walking corpses. She followed close behind. The ghouls, startled by the sudden intrusion into their domain, turned to face them. They advanced on the humans, raising their arms and howling like a pack of ravenous dogs. Rusk met them head-on. He lobbed off the lead creature's head with a quick slash of his blade, and closed on the second. The ghouls were spread out and easily defeated singularly, but movement from behind caught Jennifer's attention. A seventh zombie, one so small that it had escaped their earlier notice, came staggering around the rear bumper of a Ford Pinto. It was a child- a little boy no older than three, or four. His Star Wars pajamas were torn and caked with dry blood. The sight of this tiny creature filled her with pity, but she realized it was just as deadly as its adult counterparts. It staggered toward her, reaching out as though asking for a hug. Another of the zombies, one that had broken from the group Rusk was battling, approached from the opposite direction.

Jennifer looked to Rusk for assistance, but he was struggling with another creature. This particular ghoul seemed more animated than the others and had twice successfully batted his machete aside. Two others closed on him on a converging axis. She suddenly felt the clammy hands of the small zombie grab at her leg. She shrieked and tried to back away, but its grip was stronger than she had imagined. It held tight and nearly caused her to stumble. She brought up the crowbar, striking at the thing's skull, knocking it back by several steps. Unfazed, it attacked with renewed vengeance. It was only after she drove the bar down on the crown of its head that it collapsed in a unmoving heap. Bloody tissue splattered her hands. She shuddered with revulsion at what she had done, but had little time to ponder as the second ghoul closed in. It was also male- a big, ugly good old boy wearing a sheriff's deputy uniform. Its khaki shirt had been torn down one side, revealing an empty abdominal cavity and a slab of well-gnawed ribs. Jennifer tugged the bar free of the dead boy's skull as the zombie cop reached out for her.

She swung the crowbar with all her might, but the creature lunged at the last second, throwing off her aim. It knocked the bar out of her hands and sent it clattering across the pavement. Unarmed, she panicked. The dead cop grabbed her arm and opened its gaping mouth to take a bite. She began struggling violently to free herself and managed to get her other hand under the creature's chin, but the ghoul was larger and had all the leverage. Jennifer knew she wouldn't be able to hold its snapping jaws back for long. Then, she noticed the handgun in the dead man's holster. With remarkable speed she released her grip on the creature's throat, drew the pistol, and stuffed the barrel into the zombie's mouth.

The big .45 Long Colt roared, shattering the silence of the morning. The dead cop was blown from its shoes as the 250-grain hollow-point plowed through its brain at sub-sonic speed. The back of its head blew out in a fan-shaped spray of blood and bone. The creature back-flipped through the air, coming down on the asphalt with a sickening crunch. Jennifer slumped to her knees, weeping. All the fears, the terror she had held back for weeks, came rushing to the surface in the flow of her tears.

"Goddam it!" Rusk snapped. He had finally taken care of the other ghouls and was walking toward her, his face glowing with rage. "Why the hell did you do that?"

She barely heard his words as she sat trembling, staring at the blood of the child that covered her hands. Her stomach heaved and she felt her resolve crumbling. Try as she might to control herself, the tears continued to fall.

Rusk looked down at her with disgust. "Of all the stupid things...who knows how many dead-fucks heard that shot. This place will be crawlin' with them. Damn!"

Seven pairs of very living ears perked at the sound of the distant gunshot. Magato looked up from his pork and beans at the others, four men and two women, as they sat eating from tins around a small fire. They were a motley assortment of rag-tag road warriors, veterans of the last days of civilization.

"Did you hear that?" Magato asked, a rotten-toothed grin splitting his bushy beard. He tossed his plate aside and stood. The others joined him, looking off toward the west.

"Pistol shot," said Clyde Tate. He was a tall, lanky dude whose denim clad body was draped with holsters and ammo belts. Clyde had been a chopper pilot in Nam and the left side of his face still bore the scars of a too-close burst of flak.

A wiry, wild-haired woman moved in between them. Her name was Bam Bam and she was Magato's woman.

"Someone's at the gas station," she said, fondling the handle of her stag-bone Bowie knife. Bam Bam was a country girl and could skin a buck in short order.

Magato tossed back his shaggy head and laughed at the morning sky, as though thanking the high-heavens for such a fortunate stroke of luck. Several of the others joined in.

"Saddle up," Magato commanded.

A ripple of excitement passed through them as they readied their weapons and swaggered toward their waiting motorcycles.

Jennifer could not take her eyes off the splatters of blood on her hands. Oddly, they reminded her of the dollops of catsup she used to smother her fries with at the Brown Derby in the Monroeville Mall during one of she and Christi's week-end shopping adventures in Pittsburgh. Sometimes they would sit for hours among the brightly lit shops, rambling on about the new art film at the campus theater, or who was doing what to whom in the dorms after lights-out. Of course- the shopping malls had long since closed and, judging by the final radio broadcasts they had listened to, would not be opening again any time soon. She turned and began to dry heave, though her empty belly offered nothing but bile. Rusk, standing over her, fell silent. After a while, he nudged her with his foot.

"Get it together," he said. "We got things to do."

When she didn't respond, he grabbed her by the back of her shirt and hauled her to her feet. She turned and shoved him with a force that surprised both of them.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped. "Don't you ever touch me again."

"You listen to me, girl..."

But she moved away. She knelt next to the fallen cop and wiped her hands clean on its khaki shirt. Afterward, she removed its pistol belt and buckled it around her waist. It was oversized and the holster hung low on her hip, like a gunfighter's rig. She slipped the pistol into place and looked at Rusk with eyes chiseled from flint.

"Let's find something to eat," she said, walking over to retrieve the crowbar.

"Have you lost your fuckin' mind?"

She ignored him as she moved toward the shattered glass doors of the food mart. Now that he no longer held the monopoly in firepower, she felt much less intimidated by him.

"Don't lag behind," she said, without looking back.

Rusk's face bore only the birthing trace of the uncertainty growing within him. And the rage.

The interior of the mart was lit by sunlight filtering in through the broken windows, and stank of spoiled dairy products. The place had been thoroughly ravaged, just as Jennifer had assumed it would be. A cash register, wrecked beyond repair, lay on its side on the floor, whatever money it contained long gone. The glass in the coolers had been shattered. Overturned displays and inedible goods littered the aisles. Rusk walked among them, glass crunching beneath his booted feet. Occasionally he would stoop to pick something up, only to toss it down again in disgust.

"Picked clean," he muttered.

Jennifer noted a door set into the back wall.

"Storage room."

"What?" Rusk asked, looking up from his scavenging. He followed her gaze to the doorway.

"As long as we're here, we may as well check it out," she said.

He nodded, and they made their way to the back of the store. Three bodies lay in a pile near the door. All had been killed by shots to the head. Rusk dragged them aside and tried the knob. It was locked from the inside.

"Give me the crowbar," he said.

She handed him the bar and he wedged its flat end between the latch and the frame. After much effort, the latch popped and the door swung open on unoiled hinges. Inside, it was dark. They stood on the threshold, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the gloom. Jennifer could make out very little, but Rusk pointed toward the far corner of the room.

"Another door. Probably leads to the outside. Open it."

She moved carefully through the room to avoid tripping over the stacks of cartons sitting on the floor. The smell of death was strong in here and she was sure she felt the presence of someone, or something else. Movement to the right startled her. A cry of fear hung in her throat when she realized it was only Rusk's shadow on the wall. She reached the second door and gripped the knob. It turned easily in her hand, but wouldn't open. Her fingers groped along the frame and found a dead-bolt lock. She worked the mechanism and the door swung open, filling the storeroom with morning light. Jennifer felt her tension ease. She turned, and froze dead in her tracks.

"Oh God," she moaned, the short hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

Near the open door sat a metal desk and chair. A grinning man sat slumped in the chair, facing her. She reach for her gun, and drew it, before realizing he was already dead. There was a gaping hole in the side of his head. The wall over the desk was caked with blackened blood, interlaced with spongy bits of dried cranial matter. A revolver lay on the floor between the dead man's feet.

Rusk walked over and picked up the pistol, flipped open the cylinder, and checked the loads. All had been discharged. He stuffed the gun in the waistband of his trousers and turned to Jennifer who was still staring at the wide-eyed corpse.

"Forget about him," he said, beginning to tear into the cartons that lined the walls. "His troubles are over. Look for food."

She re-holstered her pistol and joined the search. The cartons offered little in the way of sustenance. They contained non-essential items like coffee and tea, disposable diapers; old register tapes and store records. After several minutes, Jennifer was ready to call it quits. Then, her eyes fell on a duffelbag that had been tucked between the side of the desk and a filing cabinet. The dead man's body partially obscured it.

"Rusk," she said, pointing at the bag.

He moved the body aside and dragged the duffel out of its niche. His eyes widened as he unzipped it and saw what was inside. It was stuffed full of canned goods- soups, fruits, and vegetables. Even Spam.

"Jackpot!" he cried happily.

Jennifer smiled, relieved. Maybe things would be okay after all.

"Let's get out of here," she said.

She was caught completely off-guard as he turned on her with a snarl. His fist came around in a roundhouse punch that smacked against the side of her head, hard enough that she saw stars. She staggered back with a yelp of pain. Before she could react, Rusk was on her again, grabbing her collar and slamming her against the wall. Motes of blackness danced before her eyes. She was helpless to resist as he unbuckled her pistol belt and tossed it near the open outside door.

"You didn't really think I was gonna let you keep that, did you?"

Through vision blurred by sudden tears, she watched as he unslung his rifle and leaned it against the doorframe. He then began unbuckling his own belt and loosening the clasp of his trousers. The revolver he had tucked in his waistband clattered to the floor. He kicked it toward the others.

"You seem to have forgotten who's in charge here," he said, unzipping his pants as he approached her. His hands fell heavily on her shoulders, pushing her toward her knees. When she resisted, he punched her again. She tasted blood.

"On your knees, girl. It's time for you to pray."

He allowed his trousers to fall around his ankles and Jennifer noted with dismay that an erection already bulged against the front of his underpants. She slumped against the wall, not believing the insanity of what he was suggesting. From somewhere in the distance, heard only dimly through her still ringing ears, came an ominous rumble; like the sound of approaching thunder. She could feel the wall begin to vibrate against her back. Rusk seemed not to notice. His eyes had taken on a glazed look and sweat poured down his face. Again his hands were on her shoulders, pressing downward.

Jennifer lashed out with the fury of a wounded animal. Rusk's breath whooshed from his lungs as she drove her knee into his unprotected groin. His eyes grew wide with pain and stunned disbelief; his mouth forming an almost comical O. Again she struck, this time feeling satisfaction as her kneecap neatly bisected his testicles. He collapsed to the floor, clutching himself, and gasping for air.

A shadow darkened the doorway.

Jennifer looked up from the anguished man as a ghoul staggered into the room. It was an older woman- perhaps forty or fifty, clad only in a filthy paisley skirt and a pair of well-run stockings. The creature turned toward her, its eyes registering sudden recognition. Jennifer hurtled the fallen Rusk and drove her shoulder into the zombie's mid-section. It stumbled and fell into the lap of the corpse sitting at the desk and the pair tumbled over in an obscene tangle of arms and legs. Outside, the sound of rolling thunder increased to the point that even the building had begun to tremble. Jennifer recognized it as the sound of approaching motorcycles. Apparently her pistol shot had attracted more attention than Rusk had imagined.

A second zombie stepped into the room.

Magato felt the thrill of the wind in his hair, and the vibration of his machine, as his little convoy rounded the final bend. Ahead, he could see the BP maxi-mart as it hovered into view.

"Lawrence! Psycho!" he shouted over the roar of the engines. "Take point!"

Two of the raiders throttled their choppers and shot ahead of the others.

The second zombie- a horribly mauled male wearing flannel and denim, launched itself at Jennifer with a fury. She tried to side-step, but its clawed fingers tangled in her hair and pulled her along. They crashed into the desk and nearly fell into the tangled heap that was the dead man and the bare-chested female. Jennifer screamed and beat at the thing as it bit at her. Rusk tried to rise, but the pain in his balls was too great for him to bear. He slumped to the floor, sputtering silent curses. Now, even he heard the sound of the motorcycles.

Magato pulled to a stop in the middle of the road and watched as his advance scouts approached the ingress of the filling station. Clyde Tate pulled up on his left. Danny, with his woman Tick riding shotgun, pulled up on the right. They were the youngest of the outfit, but had proven themselves in combat on more than one occasion. Tick held a big Ruger .44 magnum in her tiny hands. Bam Bam shot past on her own machine, then circled back around and stopped.

"What are we waiting for?" she asked, revving her bike so that it roared like a hungry panther. "Let's get up there!"

"Hold back," Magato replied. "Let's see what they find."

After weeks of surviving on the road, he had learned not to take unnecessary chances.

Jennifer struggled to keep the scabbed face of her attacker away. The flannel-clad ghoul had her backed into the desk. It pulled at her hair as its rotten teeth clicked only inches from her throat. Both Rusk, and the female zombie, were nearly on their feet. Rusk's face was a mask of seething rage.

"I'm gonna kill you, bitch," he said.

With strength fueled by desperation, she tore away from the ghoul, leaving behind bloody strands of hair in its balled fists. The creature lost its footing and crashed into Rusk. Both went down. The risen female zombie clutched at her, but again Jennifer dropped and drove her shoulder into the thing's gut. It toppled over onto Rusk and the second ghoul, who had become engaged in a wild melee. Without a second thought for her companion, Jennifer made for the door, pausing only to grab up the weapons, gear, and food. She sprinted along the back of the building toward the hole in the junkyard fence. Her shirt snagged on the jagged sheet-metal edge, but she freed herself and shimmied through the gap as the first bike hit the lot out front.

Lawrence guided his bike across the parking lot, swerving to avoid the fallen zombies that Rusk and Jennifer had earlier neutralized. His M-16, stripped only a week earlier from the body of a long-dead National Guardsman, rested across the handlebars. He came to a halt between the pump islands and shut the bike down. Psycho pulled up next to him and did the same. They eyed the shattered facade of the building.

"Whadda ya think?" Psycho asked, drawing an Astra 9mm from his shoulder holster. He was a small, rodent-like man with a shaven skull and gold hoops in both ears.

Lawrence dismounted. "Cover me."

It was then Lawrence discerned movement at the side of the building. He turned and saw the scurrying figure of Rusk, who was trying to pull up his pants and run at the same time. The big raider raised his rifle and cut loose with a burst of full-auto fire. Rusk danced and twitched as the .223 steel-cored rounds stitched a bloody pattern across the back of his legs and ass. Lawrence and Psycho trotted over to the fallen man.

"Looky here," Psycho said with genuine delight, "we got us a negroid!"

Rusk managed to roll onto his back. The raiders stared down at him.

"You're in a heap of trouble, boy," Lawrence said.

Jennifer made her way through the mounds of rusted refuse. A twinge of guilt tugged at her as she reached the gate and stepped out of the junkyard. Perhaps, she thought, she should wait and see if Rusk followed. Without his rifle, he was pretty much harmless and, even after everything he had done, she was sure he could be convinced that working together would benefit all of them. A sudden flurry of weapons fire changed her mind altogether. She looked back only once, before making a dash for the sheltering forest.

Magato and the others had waited until Lawrence had given the signal that all was clear, then pulled into the parking lot, stopping near the pump islands and shutting down their choppers. Lawrence and Psycho stood near Rusk, grinning like a couple of school boys. Magato and Bam Bam reached them first. Magato eyed the wounded man.

"Howdy," he said with a smile.

Bam Bam drew her Bowie knife.

She tested the blade with the pad of her thumb. It left a clean, nearly bloodless wound- no worse than a paper cut. Lawrence and Psycho giggled. It had been some time since either of them had had anything living to torment.

"Listen to me," Rusk gasped, his wounds causing him unbearable pain, "I know... where there are...others...women...I'll take you to-"

Magato silenced him with a steel boot-tip to the mouth. Rusk's teeth shattered and he fell unconscious.

"We heard it all before."

Lawrence and Psycho laughed out loud, loving it. Clyde Tate and the others joined the group. Tate's scarred face bore a look of disapproval.

"Take this piece of shit out front," Magato said, as he wiped his boot clean on Rusk's shirt. Lawrence and Psycho each grabbed one of Rusk's bloodied legs and began dragging him toward the front lot. Bam Bam followed closely, stroking her blade with a dreamy smile. Tate looked at Magato.

"Just kill the bastard, man," he said. "We need to be moving on."

Magato fixed him with a steely gaze. Tension between them had been high ever since the beginning of the crisis. Tate was a good soldier, a fighter in a tight spot, and Magato respected that, but the fact that the old veteran had begun to question orders with increasing frequency did not sit well with him. In time, Tate would have to be dealt with.

"We'll move on when I say so," Magato replied. With that, he turned and walked away, joining the others as they prepared Rusk for what was to come.

Jennifer reached the spot on the ridge where she and Rusk had earlier observed the maxi-mart. She lay flat on her belly, raised the 8x30s to her eyes, and watched what transpired in the parking lot below. The Weatherby rifle lay close at her side.

Bam Bam used her Bowie knife to cut away Rusk's clothing. He lay naked on the asphalt, his breath coming in harsh, hitching gasps. If he was aware of what was happening to him, he didn't show it. Bam Bam looked at Psycho, who had been watching with anticipation.

"I need fire," she said.

He nodded and trotted toward the gas pumps, where he began to fashion a torch from the leg of a price sign and some greasy rags. He doused it with what little gasoline remained in the hoses. With a flick of his Bic, he set it aflame.

Magato joined them. He enjoyed watching his woman at work and stood back, allowing her free reign as she concentrated on the task at hand. Rusk moaned, slowly returning to consciousness.

"We got company," Lawrence said. He raised his assault rifle to the ready position, but did not fire.

The flannel-clad zombie and the bare-chested female staggered out of the mart. Psycho held them at bay with his torch. The creatures hissed and swatted at him, but the bright flames held them back. Tate, Danny, and Tick stood off, ready to provide covering fire if needed. Several more creatures appeared on the roadway, walking methodically toward the parking lot. The gunfire, and the sound of the engines, had attracted them to the area. From all points of the compass, the living dead began to converge.

"Get some rope," Bam Bam said to Lawrence. He retrieved a coil from the saddle-bags attached to his bike and handed it to her. She tied a quick noose, bound Rusk's ankles securely together, then handed the loose end back to Lawrence. "Toss it over the post. Let's get him up."

Lawrence grinned, realizing what she had in mind. He threw the rope into the crook of an overhead light stanchion and tugged out the slack. Rusk's legs rose several inches from the ground. His eyes were wide with terror, but his bloody, swollen lips prevented him from making more that the most feeble of mewing noises.

"Give me a hand with him," Lawrence said to Danny. The kid, who had been watching the approaching ghouls with apprehension, moved to assist. Together, they began to haul Rusk into the air.

"Hold up," Bam Bam said, almost an after thought. "I forgot something."

She knelt down, Bowie knife in hand, and with swift, skillful sawing motions relieved Rusk of his genitals. Rusk wailed, a high-octave shriek of mind-blowing agony, as blood poured from the gaping, hollow void. Psycho trotted over and jammed the torch into the hole. It popped and sizzled, cauterizing the wound and stemming the tide. Rusk's eyes rolled back in his head and again he fainted.

Nearby, an ashen faced Tick bent over at the waist and vomited her breakfast onto the asphalt. An equally disgusted Tate turned away. Bam Bam laughed as she hefted the grisly mess, waving it in air like a trophy. Magato, Psycho, and Lawrence cheered her on as she danced a little jig around the parking lot, before tossing the severed penis in the direction of the ghouls from the maxi-mart. The bare-chested female pounced on it and, after fighting off the flannel-clad ghoul, sank her teeth into the still warm flesh. The zombies on the road quickened their pace, the coppery smell of blood drawing them like a magnet.

"That's right assholes!" Magato shouted at them. "C'mon! It's time for breakfast!"

The creatures converged as Rusk was hauled into the air, dangling helplessly. Lawrence tied off the rope and he and Danny moved to join the others. The ghouls gathered below the hanging man, clutching and biting at his hands, trying to pull him down. Rusk awoke with a scream and jerked his arms out of their grip. He wrapped them about his chest and wriggled like a hooked fish. The creatures reached for him, but the top of his head was several inches out of their range. A few of the ghouls broke from the pack and advanced on the raiders. The men bullied them back in line. The more persistent of the flesh-eaters were dispatched with shots to the head, but most seemed content to wait beneath the hanging meat above.

Jennifer watched from her perch on the ridge. Surprisingly, she felt nothing. It was as though all emotion had been drained from her and, although hatred for Rusk would be justified, it wasn't there. He had paid the price and the time had come to end his suffering.. She lowered the binoculars and picked up the rifle.

She brought it to her shoulder and peered through the scope.

Rusk twirled in the breeze, first one way, then the other. Jennifer waited until he faced in her direction. For a moment, it seemed he was staring directly at her. She settle the cross-hairs right between his wide, pleading eyes.

Gently, she squeezed the trigger.

Rusk's body gave an almighty heave as his head vanished in a pinkish cloud of expanding vapor. Below, the waiting ghouls were showered with bits of bone and brain. They went into a frenzy as Rusk went limp and his arms dropped to within reach of their frantically clawing hands. They pulled him down and began to feed.

Panic, and confusion, swept through the raiders. They scattered about, firing their weapons, and looking wildly for the unseen sniper. Psycho, in blind flight, stupidly blundered into the zombie frenzy. The creatures welcomed him with open arms. He cried out for help as they dragged him down, stripping him of his gold hoops- and his flesh. Magato and Lawrence sought cover behind the Pinto and fired randomly at the ridgeline. Their shots were poorly aimed and fell well short of Jennifer's position. Clyde Tate, Danny, and Tick ran to the row of waiting bikes. They leaped aboard and kicked their machines to life. Bam Bam stood defiantly in the open, a pistol in either hand. They bucked alternately, as she screamed curses at the top of her lungs.

Jennifer worked the bolt of the Weatherby, sighted in on the wild-haired woman, and fired again.

The round hit Bam Bam in the gut with the force of a freight train. It entered her belly just below the naval, boring its way through soft tissue, before exiting her. The wound channel, nearly an inch in diameter, spurted blood and entrails from either end. The wiry woman was slammed back into the gas pumps, her final scream cut suddenly short. She slumped to the pavement and lay writhing in pain.

Tate rode a wild wheelie across the parking lot. Once in the open, he brought the bike down and throttled it for all it was worth. Broken white-line blurred solid as he burned up the asphalt at break-neck speed. Danny and Tick followed, hot on his ass. None of them once looked back.

Magato watched with rage as his people abandoned him. He rose and carefully trained his rifle on the fleeing figures, his front sight resting nicely on the back of Tate's head. As his finger touched the trigger, the left side of his body erupted in a web of white-hot agony. He heard the sound of the shot seconds after the high-powered round punched cleanly through both sides of his leather jacket- efficiently decimating his left lung. The impact of the bullet spun him around, knocking him to his knees. His rifle discharged, point-blank, into Lawrence's chest.

Lawrence was lucky. He died instantly.

Jennifer lowered the Weatherby, a strange, almost sardonic smile curling her lips. She flipped on the rifle's safety and stood. It was time to move on.

Unfortunately, for Magato, he was still very much alive. He lay on his back staring into the sky as his blood pooled around him. The few minutes that had passed seemed like an eternity. Each bubbling breath he took was pure hell, but he was a big, tough man and even a sucking chest wound would take some time to kill him. A shrill, high-pitched squeal reached his ears. With much effort, he looked in its direction. The ghouls had found Bam Bam and were in the process of peeling her like a ripe cherry. Magato moaned, closed his eyes, and silently prayed that his wound would take him before they did.

Beside him, dead Lawrence began to move.

Jennifer walked with purpose through the wooded hills. Her weapons, and the duffel full of food, slowed her somewhat, but she was still making good time. Her best estimate had her safely back in camp within the hour. Steve and Christi should be up and moving by then. She was convinced that once they ran out of dope, and their minds cleared, she could whip them into some semblance of order. At least enough to assist in the day to day tasks of staying alive through the coming winter. Her hand brushed the pistol at her hip.

If not, there were easier ways of dealing with those not fit to survive.

- THE END -