Life was good. I was a senior in High School in Southern California, I had been making great pay at my new job. Also that year, I had mustered up enough guts to ask out the girl I'd been dreaming about for nearly four years. We were so happy together. I look back on it now....and I yearn. I long for those days when my family and I, and all the other little people, were striving to live the American dream.

Sure, things could be hard. In our society, the way it was, much of your paycheck went to paying the bills. The working class (which I was a part of), always got screwed by the big people, one way or another. But they were also the days when I'd go behind the bleachers up on the football field and smoke a pack of Winstons with my friends, with not a care in the world. Those were the days when my chums and I could sit there for hours, looking at the girls go by, deciding which one we'd most like to "do." They were the days when I had my family, my dreams, and my life. The biggest thing we had to worry about was some fat prick in the Middle East named Hussein. And those were the days...when the world was still pulsing with life.

Those days are no more.

Did I forget to introduce myself? Goodness, gracious me. My name is Greg Barry. I seem to be forgetting a lot these days. One thing I'd like to forget is life as I knew it. A tear comes to my eye whenever I think of it.

It was a November day, the twenty-seventh I believe. A Friday in 1998. That was the last day of heaven (sure, people complained about the country, saying it was "going down the tubes." I would pay anything to go back).

I had just lost my virginity (practicing what we called in that ancient civilization, "safe sex," mind you) to my girlfriend. We felt like one...even after we got our clothes back on. Even after we had gone home, and were sleeping in our own beds across town from each other....we felt like one.

All of my classes had their grades posted. I happened to get an 'A' in every one. This was a first for me in my entire school career.

I had been notified of a raise, and a promotion at my job, which was a popular "video" chain store.

I was walking on air. Nothing could stop me now. Now, I could actually apply to a good college...with a glint of hope. It was a perfect day.

Little did I know it would be my last as a striving-for-the-American-dream citizen. Little did I know, it would be the last day of life as I knew it.

That following Saturday morning, I sprang up out of bed, and scrambled out to the kitchen. My family was out of town, having visited relatives in L. A. (Los Angeles, in case you, dear reader, have never heard of the long-forgotten city) for Thanksgiving. I had to stay behind because of conflicting work schedules. I whipped myself up some breakfast, and plopped down in front of the big-screen TV which presided in the living room.

I sat down, smiling a little at the movie I had fallen asleep to the night before, Night of the Living Dead, a little black and white B-movie. It had stayed on my mind (though, of course, sex that same night with Danielle was foremost on my mind), because that ending was such a kicker. I would have to tell some friends about that.

Saturday Morning Cartoons appeared on the screen. Instead of subjecting myself to such rubbish, I tuned over to MSNBC, a prime 24-7 news channel.

A reporter whose face I had grown tired of was on the air, commentating on the President Clinton affairs. Same old shit.

But in a few moments, the reporter disappeared, and was replaced with Brian Matthews, looking worried and distressed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have some breaking news," he said. My eyes widened at this point. Who died this time? "In Brazil, there was an attack on the American embassy. It was not a bombing, but the assailants appeared to be in....a crazed state. We have received some footage via our NBC offices in that region. We must warn you, that what you are about to see will be shocking."

He silenced and looked down. Usually, the anchors said MAY be shocking. He said WILL be shocking.

On the TV screen, was a scared Marine, with his back to the camera. He was holding up a pistol. The Marine was dressed in the standard U.S.M.C. issue, a tan, short-sleeved shirt, and blue pants with a red stripe running down the leg. He was a Sergeant. There were a few others around him. One appeared to be another Marine, but the rest were seemingly civilians.

Suddenly, the whole group around the camera became alert, and agitated.

"Quick! Shoot it! Shoot it!" a woman yelled.

The Marine raised his gun, as a lumbering, staggering, bloodied man—who was of a sickening grayish-white color—came into frame. The scared serviceman squinted one eye, aiming, and shot the....man? What was it?

It took a shot in the torso area. It was forced back a bit, and to my astonishment....it regained its footing, and came back for more.

Finally, the Marine raised the gun a little bit higher, and shot the creature in the forehead. It stopped suddenly, as blood poured out of its head, and fell to the ground with a thud!

Brian Matthews reappeared.

"What you just saw was one of many attacks on the American Embassy, by.....dazed assailants. No one has been able to identify why the attacker was not phased by the first bullet.....and no one has been able to explain the attacker's...dead appearance. We now have an incoming report from Gunnery Sergeant Lenny Peters. Sergeant?"

A young, yet salty Marine replaced the image of the confused reporter.

"Thank you Brian. What you just saw, is what has puzzled us most about the continuing attacks."

The world seemed to turn in slow motion as he continued:

"First, and foremost," the Sergeant said, "was the first bullet. It was a direct hit on the man, yet, he simply stumbled back...and kept coming. Secondly, and the first-noticed, was the man's appearance. I'm sure you all noted the pale skin color....the staggering walk...and the blood, caked all over the attacker's body."

"Do you know anything about that?" Matthews interrupted.

"Yes sir, we do. We had an on-base American doctor examine the corpse, after it was killed. After an hour of examinations, the doctor concluded that....the assailant had been dead, for four hours before we killed it."

There was utter silence on Brian's end for a good thirty seconds.

"Uh...um...what are you trying to say, sergeant?"

"I'm trying to say," the Marine began, "that what you saw...was a walking corpse."

The Gunnery Sergeant stood looking at the camera, a world of experience in his eyes, while there was another long stretch of silence.

The screen cut back to the frightened anchor, who was looking into nothingness, wide-eyed, rubbing his forehead with his left hand.

"Jesus Christ....Jesus Christ," he kept saying. He picked up a glass of water on an unseen desk, and gulped it all down.

"And how many...attacks have there been by these assailants on the Embassy?" he finally managed.

The view finally cut back to the Gunnery Sergeant, who had a What, never been faced with death before, panzy-ass? look on his face. This look was also accompanied by an expression of fear. Such a phenomenon was simply unheard of.

"There's been....approximately forty in the last hour-and-a-half. Something really, really fucked up is going down here." The "fucked" was bleeped out.

I heard another Jesus H. Christ come from MSNBC's end of the line. Matthews spoke again:

"And all of these....offenders have been like the one we saw earlier?"

"Yes sir," Gunnery Sergeant Peters said. "All dead as a mother-fuckin' doornail." He cracked a smile that said, I don't know what in God's sweet name is going on here, but would someone please get me the hell out of here? Of course, another "bleep" to censor the Marine's words.

By now, my skin was whiter than the creature's skin, and I could hear my heart beating frightened, hot blood in my ears.

Matthews was no different. He was sweating, and pale. "Someone call the MOTHER-FUCKING pentagon right now!" He screamed. No bleeps this time. I could hear hollering from somewhere behind the camera. Someone had apparently snapped him out of it. At least it seemed that way.

"Thank you, Sergeant," the frightened and unstable anchor said.

The screen went back to Gunnery Sergeant Peters. "No prob," he said, voice shaky.

All of a sudden, a chorus of screams erupted. Some said "Sir look out! Sergeant!!!!!"

He looked back, and the instant he turned around, two more of the creatures had pounced on him, and what I saw still haunts me to this day. It seemed to flow in slow motion.

The creatures sank their rotting teeth into his throat, and forearm. They bit down once their teeth were in, and a dribble of blood trickled out of the entry wounds. The damned things bit down harder—all the while the Sergeant seeming to scream in a voice that was played on the SLOW mode on a tape-recorder—and pulled away flesh, and began chewing hungrily....and almost happily. I gagged. The sergeant screamed again, and broke free of their grasp. The cameraman had run away, but the camera remained; it was mounted on a tripod.

Peters was gone from view, but the creatures were still there. Not for long, however. The closest dead thing was kicked out of frame, by another Marine with the rank of Lance Corporal. He, too, was in the U.S.M.C. standard issue uniform, the same the first Marine, and Sergeant Peters were in.

As the serviceman jump-kicked the creature, he screamed in anger, and was carrying an M-16 in his right hand. He punched the other creature in the jaw with fierce anger and force, knocking it on its back. It later struck me a bit funny how this brave fighter was giving what-for to these assailants in a nice dress uniform.

The first creature began to get back up as the Marine took care of the second. He turned around just in time, and his shiny Coraphram military shoes met with the face of the thing in another nice jump-kick.

The fighter aimed the gun down, and squeezed off a few rounds into the head of his attacker. It never got up again. He then took to the other one.

B-b-b-b-BOOM! The rifle roared again, and the adrenaline-controlled Lance Corporal slung his rifle to his back, and his chest was heaving up and down; he was trying to catch a breath.

A few cheers came from unseen spectators, but the cheers were cut off by yet another round of screams. They were also joined by the sound of a helicopter engine, which, by the sound of it, was obviously soaring above.

Near a massive concrete wall off in the distance, seven more of the creatures had decided to join the party.

The Lance Corporal suddenly unstrapped his rifle, and dropped two of them immediately, and three other Marines joined by his side.

They all fired, dropping three of the creatures, until there was one left.

The brave Lance Corporal, once again, took care of the problem. Like a Valiant Knight, he raised his M-16. He seemed to stand alone.

The gunfire broke through the morning air, and dropped the last creature.

Suddenly, a whole horde of the walking corpses raided the embassy. A few of them were chewing on human limbs and entrails. I could not believe what I was seeing. Screams broke out once more. One of them, even though I was hundreds of miles away, was mine.

Suddenly, the chopper dropped into view. It was an Apache. The numbers on the side, which were in black, said MC-54397.

A Marine, who was in battle fatigues, appeared in the doorway of the Apache, and signaled for the Lance Corporal to hop aboard, before the stark-raving civilians took his seat. They had obviously known each other.

Excited, the young fighter ran to the aircraft, handed his M-16 up, and climbed on board, with the help of the Marine in battle fatigues.

After the Lance Corporal was aboard, another fighter was signaled to join them.

A young man armed to the teeth, and also in battle-fatigues, had to climb on board, mostly on his own, as the chopper was rising to the air.

Many civilians and other Marines begged for a ride, but the chopper was full.

The whirly-bird began to lift off, as the dead closed in on the grounded unfortunates.

The Door-Gunner yelled something to the pilot, which looked like "We gotta help 'em!!" And the chopper lowered...but not to take on more passengers.

The Door-Gunner started firing many rounds upon the walking-dead below. He was successful in dispatching a small crowd of them, but there were just too many. He waved his hand in the air, as if to say That's it, it's all friggin' useless now, take 'er up!

The chopper soared off into the air, as the creatures moved in on the ones who had to stay behind....and devoured them.

Many of the walking-dead staggered towards the camera, and all of a sudden, the view tipped...and fell to the ground, and an explosion of static. The static continued as bloody victims fell to the ground, and the dead marched on to a warm, fresh meal. The static grew stronger, and finally, Blink!

It was all gone. All there was now was an MSNBC logo. Under it was a "We are Experiencing Technical Difficulties" message in red.

I could hear the pumping of my blood in my ears. It got so loud, in fact, that I couldn't hear any of the noises of the everyday world.

I got up, face as white as a ghost, and headed over to the sliding glass door which lead out into the backyard. I looked over the backyard, admiring how peaceful it looked, as a started to feel a little lightheaded. I looked up at the sky, and watched a humming bird buzz by. The light-headedness was soon accompanied with a feeling of drowsiness. I got one last look at the backyard, before I felt a hot rush tear through my head, and fainted.

The world can come crashing down quickly...the world can fall into the depths of hell, much like beach sand through the fingers of a loose hand. And the flow of fate can not be blamed, either....it is we, the humans, who are to be blamed. The human race is like a wild animal who will sacrifice a dry, warm cave for cow hide on a stick...and kill anyone who stands in their way.

I woke up, right where I had been on the living room floor. The TV was still on, but it was, oddly enough, only playing commercials.

I looked outside, it was afternoon. Afternoon? I thought. I passed out at about 8:30 a.m. I sat up, and looked at the cable box clock.

5:30, it said. P.m. I had been out for nine hours. It had to be a massive black out. It also helped that I didn't get much sleep the night before. When you have recently-lost virginity on your mind, it's hard to make that transition into slumberland.

Suddenly, it struck me like lightning. My parents. My little brother. My twin sister. My family. Were they still alive? Was society still in working order?

I got up and raced to the phone in the kitchen.

I had gotten hold of Aunt Claire, who was frantic, due to the bizarre incident at the American Embassy in Brazil.

She had told me my parents were worried about me, so they packed up and headed back towards San Diego prematurely.

I said the complimentary goodbye, and hung up. That was the last time I ever talked to good old Aunt Claire.

I strolled back into the living room, worried sick about my family. I sat down in the La-Z-Boy recliner chair again, and the news was back on. This time the anchor was an unknown. Apparently, Brian Matthews had flipped out, and had to be replaced.

I changed it to the local news. I had to find out what was happening "in my neck of the woods."

The next words uttered by the anchor would bruise and batter my soul, for years to come:

"An I-95 San Diego freeway bridge was blown to bits an hour ago, in what seems to be a terrorist act. There are over one-hundred people estimated dead."

You probably know what I was thinking: My family was on that bridge.

I don't know for sure if they weren't, and sometimes I doubt it. But they never came home.

A week had gone by, and they were still keeping us in school.

Danielle and I stuck it out together, but our relationship had turned gray. That's what happens when death is marching its way towards the home front.

And that's what happens.....when you know your family's dead.

I didn't pay attention to my classes for those painful five days. But on the last day of that school week, Friday, there was something I did pay attention to.

They called us out for a school assembly on the football field, but there would be no pep rally.

Friday is considered by every student, everywhere, to be the best day of the school week, for it is the end of a long hard haul. But today would be far from what we once knew as a cheerful Friday. It was a black Friday; there were now reports of corpses re-animating....in the United States. Whatever it was, it appeared to be some kind of plague, only effecting the dead.

On the green field, was a podium, some school staffers, and.....men in military uniforms. What was going on?

The principle, forlorn, stepped up to the podium.

"Next week, students, will be the last week of school," he said. It struck my heart cold. Sure, school was a downer, but if school ended....that meant that life would never be the same. "There have been reports, from here in the U.S., of dead bodies reanimating."

A frightened gasp traveled through the audience.

"You're probably wondering why we have Military Servicemen here," he continued. "Gentlemen....they need your help." At this, a sea of male faces grew concerned. "I'd like to present to you Army General Norton. General?"

The general stepped up, as a very minor round of applause could be heard.

"Thank you," the General said. "I'm sure you all know of the crisis which plagues the world at this very moment. It's found it's way here. And in order to keep the crisis in check, we are going to triple-up man power. We must NOT let this get out of hand," he said as he smacked his fist into his hand. "On Capitol Hill, a law to reenact the draft was passed."

A groan passed through the male audience.

"And you might want to choose your branch before you get drafted. We've

given you that option."

Every time he mentioned a branch, the representative gave a respective nod.

"We have the Army, the Marines, the Air Force, and the Navy here for you to

choose from. You don't have to volunteer yourselves, but the draft may find

you anyway. If you would like to join one of these branches, please, feel free

to step down, and come out onto the field, and meet with the representative of the branch you'd like to join."

At first, a few straggled out. These were obviously the ROTC (Reserve Officer Training Corps, a.k.a. High School Military Training) cadets. Some went to the Marines, others to the Army, and to the Air Force and Navy.

And the ROTC cadets were followed by some students who were on the verge of being flunked, and decided the military was the best move.

While this was going on, I thought of the Marines I saw, fighting for their lives, fighting valiantly, to protect not only themselves but the citizens.

I thought of my father, and his father before him, who had both served in the U.S.M.C. And then I thought not only of my father, but my whole family as well. And how they never come home.

If it wasn't for this damned "crisis," I was sure, no, I knew, through some sort of intuition, that it was because of this crisis I would never see them again.

The dead would have to pay.

I thought of the pictures of my father in the United States Marine Corps, those proud pictures...and how I never got to say goodbye to him.

I wanted to honor him somehow. And I wanted to get revenge. I stood up, and began to walk through the rows of students. I didn't even say a word to Danielle as I did so.

She stopped me. "Greg, what are you doing?" she asked me, obviously

scared for me.

"Joining the corps. I have to do this. I'm sorry."

"Wait, don't! You can't!" she argued.

"Look, Danielle," I said with a strong voice. "I'm never gonna see my family again. My life was going perfectly. Everything was perfect. And those...things took that from me. Well...I'm taking something back."

I began to walk off. She tried to pull me back, but I was stubborn, so I walked off. It broke her heart, to see her true love volunteering his life in the midst of a world-wide crisis, that was worse than any war, or any normal plague.

I walked down through the stands, and onto the field.

I walked on the grass, and towards a Marine recruiter, who, while serious, had a welcoming smile on his face.

I stormed up to him, he knew I was there to join. There were about twenty other students standing around him.

He held out his hand as I came near, and I shook it with a strong, outgoing grip.

"Greg Barry," I said. The Marine recruiter introduced himself. And as we stood there shaking hands, I realized then, that this was the very first swearing-in process. I was a Marine.

I looked out at the crowd. I finally spotted Danielle's pretty face. She never took her eyes off me. I smiled, and waved. She returned with her own modest wave, and I could tell....she was on the verge of crying.

Looking back on it, I realize that I could have stayed behind with Danielle, and we could have been happy together 'till the bitter end. I could have stayed an average citizen, as opposed to heading on my way to fight the dead. I could have stayed behind, and NOT virtually sacrifice my life for the government. But the irony of it is.....I was joining what might have meant my death sentence...but oddly enough, it saved my life.

When I got out of the grueling, hellish boot camp near the downtown area of San Diego, I received a disturbing report.

There was a "plague" breakout in a nearby community hospital, and the "plague" was released. My High School, unfortunately, was only over the hill from this certain hospital. During the class sessions, the marauding dead wandered their way into the school boundaries....and killed nearly every student there. A tragedy. They should have been under better guard. It happened the week after I left. Exactly four days later. If I had not joined the Marines, I would not be writing this memoir, dear reader.

I heard this from a friend whom I had run into on the San Diego waterfront, and right then and there, I broke out crying. I went to my barracks, and I cried myself to sleep. Danielle was dead. And so were all my friends whom I had grown up with. Now my life was really never going to be the same. It might as well have been over.

Almost a year went by. Society was still there, surprisingly, but it was very weak. Riots and looting were commonplace. Neighbors killed neighbors for food and water. Many Americans were forced to wait in public soup-lines for a small, warm meal. As a Marine Infantryman, my job was to go out and "dispose" of any walking-dead uprising. I'd been doing it for most of the time I'd been in the corps. With every corpse I laid to rest, I felt that pang of justice being served for the death of my father and my family. It felt great. My good work had earned me the rank of Lance Corporal. Just like the Marine I saw on Television a year before.

And the frightening parts about the crisis, were that there were quite a few communities across the nation that had been overrun by the living dead. And it was discovered, soon after the beginning of the situation, that the plague could be spread to humans. All it took was to get bit. You lasted close to a week, and then you joined their ranks. If you were bit, and died from, say, bleeding to death, upon your death, you would re-animate. I tried oh so very hard to push the thought of Danielle being one of them out of my mind. I couldn't bare the thought.

No one ever knew why the dead came back to life. Religious fanatics believed it was God laying down punishment on his defiant and sinful children. Those with a scientific take on things, blamed an "outer-space" virus. Those who couldn't decide on either, thought it was a natural occurrence, a fluke of nature.

I was out on a one-man search-and-destroy mission. I was sent alone because I was only scouting a mile or so out in the Southern California countryside. I didn't mind being alone. It was good to sort my mind out once in a while, amidst all the chaos.

I was driving my Hum-V through the countryside, which was utterly deserted. I had gone off road, and was searching for any of those creatures. Was I searching for creatures, or enjoying being alone with my thoughts? Perhaps both. And perhaps, I enjoyed both. I would never forget this day. You'll find out why, soon. It was an extremely gloomy one. The kind of day that chilled you even if you had a heavy trench coat on.

Finally, my eyes spotted a bluish-white (some where grayish-white, some were bluish-white) figure off in the distance, near a patch of trees. I pulled back the hammer of my gun, smiling a little; one more dead stiff. Dead for good. I floored the gas pedal, driving off to meet with death.

I aimed my Magnum (a very popular gun back in those times) out the window, as soon as I came within range. I trained the barrel at the dead thing's head, and finally squeezed the trigger.

At the back of its head, some of the hair flew up, in a sickening red mist, full of brain matter. It fell to the ground, dead. I got a little laugh every time that happened.....they died, and fell, so....funny. Marauders with guts were often known to make sport of the creatures; while they were the personification of evil, they're lack of problem solving skills, and any skills, resulted in occasional comic relief.

I drove on, looking for my next victim. In a way I had become a murderer, I was killing what was, essentially, us. Humans, that is. If you sat down and thought about it, they were us, but in a lower form of consciousness and existence. That was one of the many chilling factors in the whole damned situation.

I sped off towards a huge patch of trees, which were almost bare. I thought I could see a few moving figures within the trees, and I had to be sure.

I hit the breaks almost too late, causing my Hum-V to nearly hit a tree. I looked ahead, and there were, indeed, creatures within the woods. The smile returned to my face, as death marched towards me.

I hopped out of the truck, walked to the edge of the small forest, and unslung my rifle.

B-B-Blam! My M-16 roared furiously. A creature fell to the ground. I couldn't get enough of killing the hideous things.

Everything was hunky-dory, that is, until I heard something from behind me and turned around.

How could I have missed them? There were a good....it looked like thirty almost, behind me. I ran to get to my hummer, but the dead mob had already passed the doors up. I couldn't head into the woods, where I would be greeted with thirty more dead fucks, so I had but one thing to do next.

I hopped on top of the hood, and then proceeded to the top of the hummer, on the roof. I thought I was safe, but one of the stiffs below got a hold of my foot, a grip that seemed nearly impossible to break free of. As I struggled, I hardly noticed that I was falling back-first onto the hood.

I impacted, and winced in pain. I had escaped the monster's grasp, but there were seven more at the side of the truck, bellying up to the hood to make me a nice, warm meal. I couldn't let it happen. Just as they were reaching out for me while I lay on the hood, I did a backward summersault, and landed on the ground, luckily on my feet. Yet they still reached for me. I did two more backwards summersaults, gaining me a window of escape, that was mere inches from the reach of the dead. I had no choice but to run into the woods.

I ran through the trees, doing my best to dodge the trunks. All it took was one bad turn, and I would have been on the ground, nose broken, and a feast being gathered by cold hands.

I navigated my way through the trees, and through the lumbering stiffs. I punched and kicked as I went by.

As I pushed my way through the woods, I noticed, far off in the distance, in a clearing, where the forest ended, was an old shack, abandoned. It was my only hope. I continued thrashing out wildly at the creatures as I ran past.

Finally, I reached the clearing, and I made my way towards salvation, the old shack.

I got up to the door, and gingerly turned the knob. Locked. Who in his right mind would lock and abandon his cabin?

The dead has also emerged from the woods, and were heading towards me. That look of hunger in their eyes, still to this day, haunts me.

They were getting closer. I couldn't blast out the doorknob, because then there'd be no locking it again. And then the age-old solution came to me.

I stood back, and kicked the door open. I might break the lock, but when the top of the food chain was heading towards you with hungry jaws, you were willing to accept anything.

The door flew open, and as I ran in, I tripped. Of all the things I could do, I tripped.

I crawled desperately to get inside, my heart going faster than the speed of light, but I felt a hand, a cold hand, grip my ankle, and pull up my pant leg. Then the pain. That pain. I looked back, and sure enough, one of the stiffs had pulled away a chunk of the flesh on my ankle, and was eating it hungrily. I drew my pistol, and in anger, shot the damned thing with what was the last bullet in the barrel. I kicked the now-dead corpse out of the cabin, and with my good foot, I slammed the door shut.

Miraculously, the lock was still intact. I sat up and locked death out of my sanctuary.

I slowly got to my feet, and pulled an old, sturdy workbench in front of the dilapidated door to barricade it. Now it was time to take care of my leg.

After sterilizing it with my cigar-lighter, I brought the ax down upon my leg. With one hit, my foot, and part of my leg, were lopped off. The pain was unbelievable.

I once again put my trusty cigar-lighter to use, to cauterize the wound. I screamed in agony, and I am sure I could be heard all across the expanse of countryside land. Now, I had experienced pain before, but this......was pain.

I found an old ragged sheet under a rotten sleeping cot, and tore thin bandage-like strips away from the cloth. I proceeded to bandage up the wound. It was a hastily done job, but it would have to do.

I laid there on the floor, the pain gripping every corner of my mind and body. I passed out, from both pain and fear....the fear being.....of dying.

When I came around, I could still hear the dead pounding on the door and windows. The daylight, which came in through a boarded-up window, was poor. Like a year before, I had been out for a few hours. From what I could tell, it was almost night.

I noticed something else, however. I did not wake up with a fever. I felt just fine and dandy. Usually, bite victims, even if you successfully severed the infected limb, would pass out and awaken, sick, sweaty, and headachy as if they had the flu. I could feel none of these symptoms. Maybe I would be okay after all.

But one thing I was sure of....I wasn't going to get anywhere with one foot.

I found an old pile of firewood in the second room (there were only two rooms in this compact cabin), and I got lucky; there was a staff about four-and-a-half feet tall. I was going to make myself a crutch.

With my Bowie knife, a drilled a hole in the staff, all the way through. I then inserted a six-inch-long loose stick of wood, that would serve as the handle. With an ancient role of duct-tape I had found on the floor where the work bench was, I taped it in place.

I took the shoe off my disgusting, severed foot, and cut out a section of the sole. This would be part of the padding for my armpit. I ground the section of rubber sole into the top of the staff, and reinforced it with tape.

Next, was the old sheet I had used part of for bandage. I almost used the rest of it up, to wrap it around the rubber rectangle at the top of the staff. I proceeded to duct-tape it off. The padding was done. I had a crutch.

Now, that hour or so of crawling back and forth on my belly would be over.

I sat on the cot of the cabin, trying to take care of the pain, with an old whiskey bottle I'd found in a termite-infested dresser (I wasn't that lucky, though. There had been maybe three shots-worth of liquor left). It toned the pain down a bit, but the agony was still screeching inside me.

As I began to doze off, I heard a continuous chop-chop-chop coming from...the sky. As it grew a bit closer, I knew it was a helicopter. I was saved. But I had to get up off my close-to-hammered ass and do something about it (I could never handle my liquor that well).

I stood up, and hobbled over on my effective makeshift crutch, to the window in the second room. Through a crack in the boards, I could barely make out (nightfall was probably less than a minute away) the shape of a whirly-bird flying through the air, silhouetted against the fading sky. My heart began to race again, as I completely forgot the pain.

I took my severed foot out of what was left of my shoe, and hobbled over to the main room window, and pulled off a board. I yelled through the broken window, attracting the stiffs' attention. They all took notice, and I had a gift for them. I threw my dead foot out, and they all encircled around it. Weather they ate it or not, I don't know. But I do know the decoy sure worked.

I grabbed what was left of the old sheet, retrieved a small stick from the woodpile, and wrapped the sheet around it. I then took a final swig of the whiskey, and poured what was left all over the sheet.

I crutched my way over to the second window, and began pulling off boards.

I had carefully crawled my way out the window, miraculously avoiding pain. I stood up, and as the chopper approached, I lit the bandage, and I had myself a torch. This has to work, I told myself. If I could not get their attention, I would shoot myself. And that would be the end.

I waved the torch back and forth, as I saw a member of the living dead approaching the distance. Night had fallen.

I continued waving. The chopper did not lower it's position. I waved and waved, as another stiff appeared next to the first, and another. I could hear the moans of the dead from the other side of the building; they were beginning to defuse.

The whirly-bird seemed not to even notice me, as it began to fly over the clearing where the shack was. But just as it was about to pass the clearing up, it stopped suddenly, circled around, and began a quick descent. I was saved. I was saved.

But more dead were appearing out of the darkness, as the chopper lowered.

But to my fortune, the helicopter was lowering faster than they could reach me. I looked up at the chopper, and noticed something absurdly familiar:

As the chopper came down above me, I noticed it was an Apache. The numbers on the side, which were in black, said MC-54397.

Where had I seen that number before? I remembered seeing it on TV, but not exactly sure where or when on TV.

The faint firelight revealed a strangely familiar Door-gunner, itching to kill the first creature he saw.

I looked into the helicopter, and recognized a certain Lance Corporal looking down at me, leaning out with his arm outstretched, waiting to retrieve me. I then knew who they were.

They were the Marines on TV, that first Saturday morning, who had escaped death at the American Embassy in Brazil. A smile came to my face as I eagerly hobbled over to the chopper, and was helped up into my new salvation.

The Lance Corporal, who was now a Sergeant, clapped me on the back and said, "Close one there, pardner!" What was he talking about?

I looked back, and saw a horde of the living dead, their arms in the air, as if they thought it would do some good to get me into their reach. I didn't realize it, but I had completely ignored the gesturing of the other Marines to "Come on! Hurry the hell up! They're after you!" while I staggered to the chopper. I had barely escaped death.

The whirly-bird lifted off, as the walking death lobbied below me. The former Lance Corporal who had displayed heroism on TV a year before introduced himself as Clyde Hurst. I told him I'd been a "fan" ever since I saw that live report. We both got a laugh, as the chopper soared off into the night sky, destination.....away.

Well, it turns out those Marines had all been friends, which was why they were still together. They had stayed in the corps for a half a year after the "incident." After the city they had been stationed in was overrun, they decided to go AWOL. It just wasn't worth it anymore. They had been on the run for the second half of that year, and had lost about three of their number in the process. I decided to join them. Besides, the U.S.M.C. wouldn't need a foot-less cripple like me anymore.

We eventually found a survival camp in the Colorado Rockies, full of refugees. We stayed there many years, as the crisis slowly began to blow over.

I was 19 then, and it's been seventy years since these incidents happened. In case you haven't already figured out, I never turned into a "zombie."

Speaking of which, their numbers, all through the years, rapidly began to decrease. We humans proved to be excellent fighters, in the long run.

The dead still rule many of the major American cities, which is why most human folks live out in the boonies these days. Life is quite decent now, but it's not what it was before this whole damned thing, as we have to live within fences, and under guard every day of our lives.

At the survival camp, shortly after we landed, I met with a beautiful girl, older than me by a year, and we settled down and got married. I have moved on from the memories of Danielle, but she will always have a special place in my heart.

I look back on my life, and I can tell my grandchildren, that I was a veteran of a horrible war, that I saw what they only hear fire-side stories about. I can tell them that I was there.

But am I proud? Not really. All those memories of experiences that make me a part of history......I would trade them in, any day.....for memories of a peaceful life.

But that was never meant to be.

- THE END -

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This story was based on a dream I had one night.

You are probably wondering what, exactly, I dreamed of that paralleled the story you just read.

It was the report that the character, Greg Barry saw on that Saturday Morning. Indeed, in the dream, I was watching MSNBC, watching footage of the dead attacking the American Embassy, and I did in fact, see that Marine in my dream also; laying waste to the dead. That's where I got the "Lance Corporal Clyde Hurst," character from. In fact, some of his actions at the embassy, if not all, were based on what I saw him do in my dream.

It was such a frightening dream, because it felt so real. The feeling of "it's really happening," even though I only experienced it in a dream, is a terrible feeling. Which is why I had the main character watching "Night of the Living Dead" the night before, because (of course) I am a "Dead Trilogy" fan, and seeing what I love happening for real would be the ultimate shocker. The dream brought up some serious personal questions: How would I feel upon hearing the news (the dream has showed me how I will feel), and what would I do....if it actually happened.

Such "dream materials" and after thoughts were the basis for this story.

You'll also notice that this is not set in Romero's "Dead Universe." The reason for that is, in my dream, I had not simply "gone in" to Romero's universe, but I saw it coming to me.....the real thing.

(c) 1998 Delcan W. Desmond. All rights reserved.

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