《Zomi-zona》


 1. Everybody Who Dove Here Died.

    We live in a society with no disease, no shortages, abundant clean energy, and really no need to work because of micro-robotics and the advanced artificial intelligence that operates them.


    I, for one, find it boring.


    I want a frontier, danger, adventure. That struggle makes life meaningful for a man. Yeah, that kind of life. I don¡¯t need to get into the tech class and have a harem to occupy my time when I got games! And when it comes to zombie games, I¡¯ve played everything out here worth playing. But I¡¯ve never found anything worth going into the full insanity of active cryo-stasis for.


    Until that day came. The greatest full dive MMORPG featuring a zombie apocalypse, Zomi-zona, released. Zomi Apocalypso! I obtained the first ticket. Yes, I said a ticket. This game is full dive, one server, one time play per server reset. Any player that dies in the game is removed from the server and retina scan locked from playing until the server resets. Cryo-stasis time is three days, though the player will experience a possible life-time due to time-dilation.


    There¡¯s no character selection. The game transfers your body¡¯s data. Every player is themselves, no disguises, no catfishing, no only girls when online! You can¡¯t even play this at home, you have to use Other-World¡¯s dive stations in select locations throughout the country. They have a warehouse in Dallas where they put your body in cryostasis gel incorporating microscopic enhancement robots. If you don¡¯t die, in-game of course, you can literally spend a life-time in the world. But I said that already. An entire life in a zombie apocalypse though!


    Let¡¯s go! So, I got to the center and the staff was so kind. The line moved fast and efficiently.


    The method of playing this game made some people sus. Not me. I mean, people go into stasis all the time for all sorts of reasons. Since the discovery of brain active stasis with time dilation people have been able to live in any world for any purpose. The technology has made everyone¡¯s lives so much better because of the magnified research time. But I¡¯m not smart or a researcher. I¡¯m a survivor.


    In I went, right in the tube. It only felt cold for a moment because I went under quick. And before I knew it, bam, a simulation of Arizona in the late 1990s. I opened my eyes. There I was.


    The radio played with reports of the spreading illness. The infected were rampaging through the cities as government radio told everyone to keep indoors. I checked my body, arms, legs. I found decent physique, good muscle. This was the reason I started working out, this game. Strength and cardio were key to survival. A map and some address cards on a nearby desk indicated a rural spawn location outside Tuscon.


    Car keys. Heck yeah.


    The television volume didn¡¯t seem threatening. All the windows were closed. I was sated, hydrated, in perfect health, and most importantly, young. The one allowance to this game was the ability to shave a year off your age in game for every three hundred dollars extra. I took a deep breath as I went through my starter home to see what treasures I could find. There was a full pork chop and a pan of cooked lasagna in the fridge, an eggplant, and a bag of fries with a carton of ice cream in the freezer. Shelves contained a few cans of carrots and one big bag of sugar. Then there were plates, endless plates. But no silverware? Honestly the developers could do better than this. I dug Neapolitan ice cream out of the carton with a plate and ate. It tasted so good, so cold on the tongue.


    It wasn¡¯t hot in here. I saw the thermostat, starter house had central air. If only there was a second floor and not so many windows. Speaking of which, I closed all the curtains. This wasn¡¯t going to be my long-term base but I¡¯d stick around a bit unless something happened. Running off to Tucson or Phoenix in the early game would not be part of plan. This wasn¡¯t a sprint; it was a marathon. Time to take inventory.


    No container in my starter house was left unturned. I searched with impunity as not so much as a groan could be heard from outside. I found a fanny pack, a stick of beef jerky, summer clothes, and a box of adhesive band-aids with on bandage left, nothing that could be used as a weapon. I didn¡¯t even see a car. Time to risk going outside.


    The heat! The dry merciless heat and sharp beating sun hit me like a brick to the face. I hadn¡¯t been prepared for Arizona heat and I¡¯m from Dallas! I thought dry heat meant it would be endurable. I felt like my tongue dried up the moment I took a breath.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    There it was, tucked out of sight. An old ford pick-up truck that looked like it was on its last legs. I crept to the door and peered in the window. The key fit the lock. It could be out of gas, but since I didn¡¯t plan to travel, that engine wasn¡¯t going to summon every undead within a hundred-meter radius. Sometimes vehicles had just enough gas to start and create a loud roar that summoned the dead before they stalled.


    I already had a friend strolling over to say high anyway. He stood about six feet tall, pale, hollow eyes, salivating and groaning as his arms hung down. Easy stuff. First survey your surroundings to make sure nothing is coming from behind. Next, face the enemy. Third, give it a good push until it falls over. One, nothing. Okay, two. Come on! Three. It can be a bit infuriating when they refuse knockdown. But once down, curb stomp it in the face until the skull chamber pops.


    A slick pop followed my first kill. The smell hit like nothing I had imagined. This was full immersion. I wanted to puke. I didn¡¯t think the smell would be a thing until there were piles of them. It smelt like a skunk took a bath in cow diarrhea. My nose, my poor suffering nose. Why did the developers make them smell so freaking bad? The retching of ice cream mixed with stomach acid pushed at my throat as I turned away for fresh air.


    The bed of the truck had a tire iron.


    I grabbed the slim metal because I had to steel my nerves. A few more friends heard my earlier struggle. They moseyed on over to take a gander at my brand-new tire iron. The tag from Auto-Motion still stuck to the shimmering zinc plating. Sure, it¡¯s no baseball bat, but batter-up! The tire iron has a specific strategy for optimum use that requires strength and aim. You want to bring it down over the top of the skull with enough force to bash through it. Sometimes it takes a few hits. If you¡¯re at low strength, it¡¯s always better to get the zomi on the ground, but you can¡¯t do that too easily when there¡¯s more than two.


    I bashed away while walking backwards around my starter house. Making a safe area was my primary concern, but there was a big hole in my strategy. I trusted the rules. I trusted Other-World to run a fair game. I trusted the No PVP clause.


    The roar of a turbo-charged diesel pick-up truck in the distance distracted the deads. Only the stragglers remained at my door, three that I had no trouble beating to a second death. I gripped the steely tire iron in my hand as the Arizona heat baked the blood stains into a dried powder.


    Dehydration already gripped my throat. The roar increased. The diesel engine became overpowering. The big pick-up with high wheels appeared at the top of a far hill. I watched in awe as I heard the sound of a shotgun blast. Somebody hit the motherload and felt being an idiot was affordable. They were so loud, I almost didn¡¯t hear the young woman tied with bungee cords to the hood. Her sneakers kicked just behind the intimidating horned animal ornament glaring from the very front. Ripped stockings covered her legs.


    Role-players. I wanted to face palm. But the young woman with her turquoise hair and fair skin caught my attention. Jean shorts, a loose white-t-shirt, and a green summer jacket graced a captivatingly pretty figure. Someone had great taste in avatars. She had a mystical girl next door vibe, or she would have if she wasn¡¯t squirming and yelling. They had taken the time to cover the hood to keep from burning her. Role-players.


    But wait a minute. Nobody in this game had the chance to choose an avatar. Didn¡¯t that mean¡­ a gamer girl! A real honest to goodness gamer girl who wanted to survive the zomi apocalypse. And she needed help. No, this was roleplay, if I got involved, they¡¯d just accuse me of being a white knight and then it would be my problem for the rest of the game. I didn¡¯t want that. But their little roleplay could get her killed for real. For real in the game. No. Nope. No way. No how. Not going to interfere or get involved. I about had it. I¡¯m getting out here because this quiet cul-de-sac would be zomi central thanks to these buffoons who can¡¯t take the zomi apocalypse seriously!


    The vehicle pulled forward and came to a harsh stop that caused the back of the girl¡¯s head to hit the window. That was harsh. This game was a full immersive experience and that meant pain and permanent in-game injury came with the package. Plus, it was against the rules to harm or cause intentional trauma to another player. I would know. I read the entire terms of service twice. Some fat red neck looking guy smiled at me before his sawed off shot gun pointed in my direction.


    ¡°Yeah, player killing is against terms of service!¡± I shouted, ¡°A hoard is approaching right behind you and in front of you! I¡¯m out of here!¡±


    The girl cried. She kicked even though the zombies were still closing in from the houses. I saw her mouth move. I swore she pleaded for help. But I had my own problems. This neighborhood had gone bad quick and more than enough noticed me on their way to the vehicle. It was time to run away.


    Or that¡¯s what I would have done. Something loud blasted. A sharp pain went through my torso. My fingers ran over my chest. It wasn¡¯t zomi blood. Everything went black.


    My eyes opened. My face slammed into hot metal. A sharp thin tightness bit my ankles, then my wrists. I coughed blood. It ran into the metal floor of the pick-up bed as I felt the truck accelerate with a roar.


    This was a pure violation of terms of service. This was an illegal player killing. Surely the game would be reset. Surely, the violators would lose access to the world. Surely, it would be okay. Surely, surely, surely this was a fair game.


    I coughed blood until a fat hand began wrapping duct tape around my head. The honor of being one of the first trophies taken by the player collectors was mine.


    This was how I died in Zomi-zona. But I never woke up. I never went back to the dive center. I remained here, dead. This is my story.

 2. Cages, Cages Everywhere.

    I didn¡¯t feel pain. I didn¡¯t feel cold. I didn¡¯t feel much of anything. When I woke up, I found myself on the floor of a large cage. The duct tape was off my face and my wrists were free. Sneakers, shoes, and heels kept stepping on my face. It didn¡¯t even hurt, just felt like unpleasant pressure. I told them to stop. My head felt pretty clear. I shifted my body and hopped up to stand amidst the caged crowd. Keeping players in a cage was against terms of service. I took a closer look at my fellow prisoners. They looked a little disheveled. I heard groans. Blood dripped from a woman¡¯s hair. I pulled her toward me.


    ¡°Hey, are you all, right?¡±


    I jumped back. My shoulder blade hit the bars! She had no eyes and maggots crawled out the holes. Her skin was a sickly bloated and burnt greenish brown. It wasn¡¯t just her! I was in a cage full zomis! I¡¯m dead! I¡¯m dead. They¡¯re going to eat me. I screamed as I shook the bars. The zomis paid no attention. Why? I brought my hands up against the bars. Somehow, they were pale, purplish, and a sickly shade of green all at the same time.


    ¡°No, no, no, this can¡¯t be. There¡¯s no way to play as a zomi. If I¡¯m dead, I should wake up at the Other-World dive station in Dallas. What¡¯s going on!? What the hell man!?¡±


    And then it was feeding time. I heard a desperate voice pleading from above.


    ¡°Jimmie, Jimmie, come on man!? You know I was only joking about the beer belly. I got one too. That ain¡¯t no reason to kill a man. Kind of oversensitive, I mean not in bad way but I was just joking. Come on, JIMMIE! JIMME! I¡¯m begging ya! I got the message Jimmie!¡±


    I noticed all the zomis looking up. They reached. They walked in unison toward the back of the cage. Left me standing to the back by my lonesome. At least it gave me some space. I looked up too. The cage had no ceiling. A plank extended from a catwalk above. And wouldn¡¯t you know, the man who¡¯d been saying Jimmie over and over again stood precariously close the edge with his hands in the air. A man in a red ball cap wielding more pot gut than shot gun gave him little shoves.


    ¡°JIMMIE! I¡¯m begging ya man! Don¡¯t do this. You know I¡¯m good right. I¡¯m one of your best looters man!¡±


    I didn¡¯t have the best vantage point, seeing as I was looking at their boots an all. Jimmie didn¡¯t seem in the mood to forgive whatever this poor skinny SOB had done him wrong with. I winced as the man slid at the edge, caught his balance, and tottered towards falling right on top of my new friend group. I would have sweat for him if I had been capable of it.


    The heavyset man gave him a little tap on the chest with the business end of his shot gun. Down he went. I tried to calm everyone down but you can guess how well that went. As many sets of teeth that could reach the man who offended Jimmie tore flesh for a feast that I was pretty sure they weren¡¯t enjoying. And where the teeth didn¡¯t reach the nails did. I just leaned into the bars away from the whole affair. Surprisingly I didn¡¯t feel nauseated at all. It didn¡¯t even smell bad.


    ¡°That¡¯s what ya get! Hruuuck!¡±


    The big guy spat a loogie right in my hair, super gross! By the time I looked up, he was gone. I dug into my hair and combed the slimy mess out with my fingers. The phlegm stuck between them. I shook it off my hand onto the horde of zombies who were trying to feed on the now fresh corpse. His screams hadn¡¯t lasted long. Well, I guess that¡¯s what ya get for offending Jimbo. I¡¯m pretty sure old Jimbo was the guy who shot me too.


    Too bad I was in a cage, a locked cage. Looked to be some sort of warehouse. Junk sat about everywhere. Sunlight streamed in from windows near the ceiling. Lots of dust hung in the air. The sound of hungry zomis smacking their gums and gnashing their teeth behind me didn¡¯t heighten the mood any.


    Was I a zomi? No way. I mean, the smell of fresh blood only made salivate a little bit. Otherwise, I had no desire to join the feeding frenzy. And I was still thinking, zomis didn¡¯t think, they acted only on instinct. I jiggled the door of the cage. It had a simple latch mechanism with a pin. But it wasn¡¯t locked, just a bit too complicated for a zomi. Well, I quietly played around with it till I figured it out. The door pushed open. I slid out, and made darn sure to close and relatch the door.


    My feet ached so I shuffled into a dark corner. Living, Dead, human, or zomi, it wasn¡¯t a good idea to let anyone in this warehouse see me. The best idea, get out of town. So, I shuffled quietly along the edges of the warehouse looking for an open door into that bright Arizona sun.


    Instead, I found a girl sitting in a dog crate. There were female zomis in the other dog crates on the shelves. I wasn¡¯t too sure about the hobbies of these players. I approached her crate. While her shirt was bloody and her clothes torn, she looked human enough. She was even crying. Those torn black stockings and that blueish white hair were unmistakable. This was the girl that had been strapped to the hood of the truck!The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°Hey, you okay?¡±


    She took one look at me and shuffled to the other side of her cage with a whimper. Then she put a hand over her mouth as if for some reason she wanted to scream but for another reason she didn¡¯t. I stood there deep in thought. Then I waved to her. She looked confused so I gave her a thumbs up. Then I made the okay symbol. Now she looked really confused. But she giggled. I found that a perfectly acceptable and cute response.


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m not a zomi. It¡¯s probably a glitch.¡±


    She tilted her head at me, still looking confused. At least I thought she looked confused. I pursed my lips and stared; she stared back. I wasn¡¯t sure how long that lasted because I spaced out. I gave her another thumbs up.


    ¡°Can you understand me, blink twice and nod.¡±


    I blinked with some effort. My eyes felt, kind of dry. Nodding wasn¡¯t much of a problem. Now we were getting somewhere.


    ¡°I¡¯ll get you out of here. One moment.¡±


    As I looked around for the lock, she shifted her body away from wherever I was at. I gave her a thumbs up, but it didn¡¯t seem to calm her nerves much. The dog crate pretty much had the same latch as my cage. Only one problem, there was a padlock on it. I jiggled it but didn¡¯t want to make too much noise. She was curled into a ball in the center of the crate as she watched me work. I pointed to the padlock, even gave it a little push with my finger.


    ¡°Do you know where the key might be?¡±


    ¡°The padlock, yeah, it¡¯s locked. Can you understand me?¡± she asked back.


    This was annoying, but I nodded again to humor her, ¡°You¡¯re a player, right?¡±


    ¡°Okay, I think there¡¯s a key upstairs. Jim might have it. If you can get it for me and open the crate, I¡¯ll trust that you¡¯re still somehow human enough not to try and bite me. If you can, bring the key to the DodgerBeast-1500. It¡¯s the only vehicle here they keep full on gas.¡±


    I nodded. I was always a sucker for the cute ladies, especially crying ones with blueish white hair. I made a mental note of the features of the warehouse so I wouldn¡¯t get lost. Then I started to shuffle off to the end of the aisle. There was a set of metal stairs amidst the shelving and a well-lit area above. I could hear voices.


    Moseying on up there and asking politely for the keys didn¡¯t seem like a good idea. I didn¡¯t exactly have ninja skills either. I could wait, but there was no way I was sliding back in that pen full of zomis. I went back to the girl to let her know my thoughts on the matter. I picked up a metal pipe as a peace offering. She might feel safer with a weapon.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to wait until night time,¡± I said while sliding a metal pipe into her crate, ¡°There¡¯s too many people and I¡¯ll just get myself killed if I¡¯m not sneaky about it. Do you know where I might be able to grab a flash light for myself?¡±


    ¡°Why are you giving me a pipe, that¡¯s not what I wanted. You really can¡¯t understand me, can you?¡±


    I nodded and blinked, then nodded and blinked again. At this point, it seemed likes she was the one who couldn¡¯t understand me.


    ¡°Maybe your consciousness hasn¡¯t faded yet, but is slowly fading?¡±


    I shook my head. That was unfair, my thoughts were clear as day. There wasn¡¯t thing wrong with my noggin and it was just like it ever and always was! I took a deep breath, which came with a whistling wheeze through the holes in my chest. It was then I realized that I hadn¡¯t taken a breath since I left the zomi cage. Maybe I really was one of them now?


    ¡°I said I¡¯m going to wait until dark fall. And I¡¯ll need a flashlight.¡±


    She looked away, disheartened, ¡°Whatever, you¡¯re no use to me. Just go away so you can finish turning.¡±


    I suddenly had a strong urge to find a mirror, which was really of no use whatsoever in this current predicament. The keys were upstairs. But they were upstairs. They had guns, and there were at least five or more distinct voices talking and yelling at each other. I could let the zomis out and take the keys in the confusion. Better yet, if I could check the surroundings, perhaps I could lead a horde into this place. But both of those options would put the girl at risk.


    I found myself at a loss for new ideas. So, I decided to take a little shuffle under the second floor and squeeze myself between the shadowy arms of a metal support beam. It would be nigh on impossible to spot me here if they weren¡¯t looking for me. I thought I could pick up some valuable information about where the keys would be at. But most of their conversations had no bearing on anything and wasn¡¯t worth repeating here.


    Sounded like they were drinking too. I heard a bottle smash against the wall. A lanky man ran down the metal steps to get something from the truck. I could see them through the holes in the catwalk. There were about ten, all men, including big Jimmie with his big ole gut.


    Perhaps if I used the noise mechanics, I could lead the herd up there, and keep them up there. This would assume they still weren¡¯t interested in me. I was loathe to depend on that discovery. But the more I thought about it, the more it felt like the only way. Lead them up the steps, in the dark, make sure they took everyone out, then grab both sets of keys and escape. I grabbed a rusty iron pipe for later.


    Dusk approached, but I had to confirm they weren¡¯t going to feast on me. I quietly went back to the zomi cage. They stood listlessly as I reached my hand in and waved it around. Nothing, not so much as an attempt at a nibble. I carefully unlatched the cage. Opening it at only the slightest angle ensured I could slip back in. Then I readjusted the latch. Back in the cagie wagie.


    Unbelievable, I was one with the zomis. My life, officially over. The distinct lack of feeling or pain from my body felt depressingly disconcerting.


    There was nothing left to do but wait for it to get dark. Then lead the horde in the battle for the keys.

 3. Supplies, Friends, And Metal Stairs.

    As I sat in the cage watching the sun sink low, it occurred to me that I had forgotten a few things. First, I left the location of the keys to fortune. They were keys, so they¡¯d be on a desk if not in a top drawer, or on the boss. That meant I had to kill these men. Not that I had any moral compunctions about their murder, after all, they shed no tears over killing me like a dog. No, I was quite looking forward to see them folks die horribly.


    The problem was, if one of them got away with the keys I was screwed. If I let too many zomis out and the girl got hurt, I was screwed. If I didn¡¯t leave enough zomis out and they killed us all off, a second time, I was even more screwed. The longer I waited, the greater the chance of something bad happening to what was left of me. The girl would be at greater risk too. If I left in the cover of darkness without the girl, she was screwed. In other words, no matter what I did, I had a good chance of somebody worth saving being screwed.


    And that thing that would come in handy, what was that again. A flashlight! I really felt hung up over that flash light. None of the friendly neighborhood zomis had one. Then it hit me. This was the past, but it was still the late 1990¡¯s. Lots of people carried cell phones and many of them had flash lights. I started going through clothes like an amateur pick-pocket. My marks had no inclination to care.


    Empty. Every last pocket. These zomis had clothes on their backs and that was it. More like rags on their backs. Nothing else, not so much as a pack of matches or a tissue. It made sense, this base housed looters, so supplies were life. Considering how this big ole warehouse had rows upon rows of shelves and boxes, they were probably pretty keen on keeping their loot organized too. They were upstairs drinking, eating, and yapping, so what was stopping me from quietly checking the inventory while the sun still lit the building?


    I opened the latch to the cage again and slipped outside for the second time. The side of the warehouse near the pick-up truck was filled with groaning zomis in dog crates. This played into my hands, because with all the cages rattling about and shoulders thumping into bars no one was going to hear little ole me shuffling about playing with crates.


    The problem with the crates was that many of them were nailed shut. Perhaps it was a good idea to see if there was a downstairs work room. The area under the cat walk hadn¡¯t much of anything besides being under the looting crew¡¯s living area.


    There were some sinks, cabinets, and metal shelves against the sheet metal walls. If I went there and someone decided to pay attention from that second-floor perch, they would spot me for sure. I crept like a ninja, stayed to the shadows.


    One of the men walked behind the safety rails. He peered over the side as he held a big green bottle by the neck. With how red his face was, he looked lit up like a Christmas tree. There was no way he¡¯d spot me if I stayed on all fours, so I crawled like a dog. I slowly opened the cabinets, even tested my luck by standing to rummage through the higher shelves. I found a pocket flash light and a crowbar, so I left my pipe behind. The crowbar felt heavier than it should have, but I could still wield it.


    Seeing as I was having so much good luck, I decided to see if I couldn¡¯t get myself a gun. Any gun would do, even their second-rate stuff. A zomi with a gun would have a huge element of surprise. It would surely be the icing on the cake. Plus, it was a great way to lead the horde. Kind of a nice advantage that I didn¡¯t have to worry about them biting me.


    The men on the platform yelled drunken slurs at each other while stumbling about threatening to fight each other over gravy packs. They weren¡¯t even talking about the human they were keeping in a cage, not so much as a word! I didn¡¯t feel quite the need to be as careful and started walking about in the open.


    One of them saw me. A lanky guy with a huge Adam¡¯s apple and short dark hairs shading his long chin squinted at me. I squinted at him as I held the crowbar lengthwise in front of my face. Then I jiggled it a bit. He took a big sip from his bottle and went right on back to yelling about his gravy pack. This might not be as difficult as I worried after all. But you know what they say about proper planning and how it relates to performance.


    Being a master of survival games, I wasn¡¯t about to slack on my planning. Since the guy with the green bottle stumbled into the interior to yuk it up with his buddies, I was free to quietly duck down and crawl around the inner perimeter of the warehouse. I could hear the hum of a generator outside, which meant this place most likely had some fine defenses, or at least in-depth defenses outside. Nobody was on lookout. They were all drunk at the moment.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Then I found it amidst some gun parts lying around. An intact Smith and Wesson revolver that looked to be in working condition. Six shells in the cylinder too. There were a bunch of 9mm pistols and ammo magazines lying around on the middle shelf, but I¡¯m a sucker for revolvers. When it comes to dealing with the living there is no better gun. No really good quality stuff or submachine gun rounds down here, which meant they probably kept all the good stuff on the second floor. Their lights were bright on the platform, but it was getting increasingly more difficult to see in the warehouse. I decided to stuff the revolver and a few extra bullets in my pocket and head back towards may cage. But I decided to make a mental note of the paths as I returned to my hiding spot between the metal wings of a steel beam. I needed to see where they went because I¡¯d be navigating in the dark.


    Once they turned everything out and tucked in, I crept my back to the cage in the dark while feeling the floor. I kept my crowbar tucked against my waist in fear that I might accidently drum on something. There was no moon, so I never realized how dark the place would be.


    The main cage was only a left turn and a short walk from my hiding spot. Finding it was easy enough thanks to the groans. These looters were not true survivors. No true survivor would ever keep a zombie pit in their base. And this group didn¡¯t even bother to lock it. All it would take was one angry member to plunge this place into chaos, and from what I had seen during the day, the social dynamic of this group wasn¡¯t all that stable thanks to big Jimmy.


    Finding the latch was more difficult than finding the cage. My fingers fumbled around bars as the other zomis became attracted to my attempts. They shuffled to the front of the cage. Now they decided to be interested. The more they pressed their weight against the door, the more difficult it became to slide my hands around the bars. I felt teeth on my skin!


    False alarm. It was just the metal reinforcement weld. My sense of touch wasn¡¯t all too good. I couldn¡¯t register hot or cold very well. All hard things felt like teeth. My skin felt numb and fragile, but I could move my finger just as well as I always could baring a little stiffness. I could feel the latch. These idiots were leaning on it. I wanted to push at them. Hand went through the bars to feel at my flesh but soon lost interest. The only problem was they left their arms dangle out the bars, leaned into the cage door, and jammed up the latch in doing so.


    I tried giving them a shove but there were too many of them. Perhaps I wasn¡¯t thinking clearly. Because just a walk to the back of the cage and some gentle noise would get them moving. After fifteen minutes of fuming, I thought of this. They took their sweet time shuffling over to the back of the cage. One zomi remained, so I shoved them back with the crow bar. She growled but didn¡¯t even snap her teeth at me. I tip-toed to the front, felt the latch, and opened the door. The creak as the door slowly made me stiffen up, but no lights went on. The die had been cast. I was now the horde whisperer.


    As they shuffled out and started wandering, I became worried. A few taps of my crowbar, then another few taps. They weren¡¯t listening.


    ¡°Don¡¯t wander off!¡±


    It was barely above a whisper, but that felt stupid. The zomis looked at me before they pressed around in a tight circle. I felt a hand tickle my side and another grab my left arm. For the first time since I died, I could feel my beating heart. If I had a heartbeat that meant alive, and alive meant food! But they didn¡¯t drag me down. How long did I stand there like a deer in the headlights pressing flesh with the undead before I realized they didn¡¯t include me on the menu anymore? That¡¯s when I felt it. They breathed. They had heartbeats. They weren¡¯t really dead. They were infected. They just had a disease that needed to be cured. Even myself, every now and then, I felt maybe the slightest of breath enter my lungs. But here we were, all huddled together in the aisle, and I barely felt any heat. What I wouldn¡¯t do for some warmth, hot breath, warm blood, flowing wonderful life. My teeth clenched so hard. But I was just infected. There was hope of a cure.


    ¡°Are you hungry? Let¡¯s go.¡±


    I lifted the crow bar, but not to swing it. I could push them around, direct them to move. They followed me. We flowed like water. We moved like a slug. If they got out of line, I could tap my crow bar on the floor and they¡¯d center on me. The feeling proved a bit of a rush. I worked this group to the step with little taps, shoves, pushes, sometimes I grabbed arm and pulled a straggler. I didn¡¯t want any of my team wandering off. The steps approached. They were metal, so I gently tapped them with the crowbar before ascending the first step.


    ¡°Are you hungry? The meats upstairs. Good meat. Fresh meat. Full of blood. Full of veins. Veins.¡±


    My stomach ached.


    They sensed something. How fast they shuffled up the steps shocked even me. Can''t say the drool wasn''t pooling on my own tongue. I readied my crowbar and my gun. They might have been equipped to handle ten or so zomis, but we had the advantage of surprise. I felt something slimy and squeezed it between my fingers. The man that big Jimbo killed had been opened up pretty badly. It was probably him. I couldn¡¯t tell in the dark. My hands pressed his back and encouraged him quickly upstairs. If any zomi had a first shot at big Jimmy, it was this one.


    We were almost at the top. I heard snoring through the low gurgles of my infected friends. Drunk idiots hadn¡¯t even woken up from all the clattering on the stairs. The crowbar went in my belt as I prepared my gun and my flash light. Now where were the keys to that pick-up truck? Where was the light switch?


    The zomis, infected people like me, pushed me aside toward the source of the snoring.


    I felt around for the light switch with the Smith And Wesson six shooter in my left hand.