deer

Was it the deer mafia?

I came home the other night and went to get my mail as normal. I live in a community where we have a community mail house where we all pick up our mail.

Strolling from my car to the building I was utterly unprepared for the shock that greeted me. I turned the corner and there it was. It leaned against the package boxes like a ne’re-do-well punk waiting to sell stolen goods or bum a cigarette from upstanding citizens. It smirked. It’s eyes were glassy and distant. It even was a bit horny.

It was a dead deer head.

deer

There was even a little sign with it “Give me a home, my name is Charlie”

At least it was a stuffed and mounted head rather than a bloody trophy dumped by a lazy hunter.

The first thing I thought was “OMG the deer mafia has left a warning”

Less than two hours after my discovery, Charlie had disappeared, presumably to a new, good home.

The things you see in rural America.

 

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Hell Ascendant Episode 2

Hell Ascendant

Episode 2

by Edmund de Wight

 

1

I remember someone once told me that a glacier moves about three feet a day; that guy never saw Las Vegas glacier. Vegas glaciers are like crazed horses. They race along, grinding everything in front of them to paste. You know when they’re approaching. They’re audible even over the roar of the blizzards that haven’t stopped since the day the sky turned to blood. First you feel it deep in your chest. A subsonic rumble rattles everything for two blocks. Next, a sound like a wood chipper trying to digest concrete blocks tries to draw blood from your ears. Within seconds of this shock and awe sonic assault the actual glacier gallops into view. They lurch and buck like living things. It’s a wall of gray ice defaced with the black smears of pollution and the shards of shattered civilization. Every once in a while a splash of red decorates the ice where some poor soul who was too slow or stupid to flee got ground to paste. Not a lot of people get run over though; most humans caught in the open by a glacier become fodder for the creatures riding on top, the yeti. I call them yeti, God alone knows what they really are. They’re built like eight foot tall silverback gorillas covered in white fur. They have these enormous fangs and glowing red eyes. Whatever part of Hell they came from, it wasn’t one of the parts with fire and brimstone.

I could hear a glacier approaching up Las Vegas Boulevard even from twelve stories up. There wasn’t a lot left of the Tropicana hotel but I called it home. The interior of floors nine through nineteen was exposed to the outside by a crescent shaped hole that looked like the bite of some titanic creature. The room where I lived was on the far side of the building from the bite. Every day I had to climb up shattered concrete to get from the ninth floor to the twelfth. The inaccessibility kept me safe from the roving creatures who hunted in the snow.

A shout drew my attention from watching for the glacier. I leaned against the window to see to the street below. A figure in a tattered blue parka balanced atop a snow covered bus. He was waving toward the shattered facade of New York New York. The faux cityscape looked like Godzilla and King Kong had brawled through it. The remains were then buried in snowdrifts thirty feet high. The figure knelt and began to sweep snow away from the windows of the bus which rested on its side. The figure waved again and another shout rang out. I couldn’t make out the words but the voice sounded male. Six figures crept from beneath the skirts of the headless Statue of Liberty. They trudged through the waist deep snow covering the boulevard toward the bus.

Couldn’t they hear the glacier coming?

The man on the bus stopped his clearing motions and stomped twice. He staggered forward. He must have kicked in one of the windows. He waved once more and then disappeared into the corpse of the bus. The other six people were bundled in ski jackets and layers of blankets, anything to protect against the cold. They reached the bus and two more clambered aboard. Several minutes passed, my forehead was growing numb where it pressed against the window. One of the figures within the bus emerged and tossed a bag to one of the four on the street. An assembly line of bags, coats and other goods found their way out of the bus into the waiting arms of the street crew. That’s when the glacier galloped around the corner ridden by half a dozen howling yeti.

“Run.”

The warning was a squeak that would have embarrassed a church mouse. I staggered back from the window terrified that one of the yeti might see the spectator in the nose bleed seats.

“Oh God, oh God.”

Mere whispers of my concern. My knees trembled and I felt ice crawl up my spine. I was safe in my aerie but my heart raced as if I were standing in front of the onrushing wall of ice. They needed to run. They were going to die. I stepped forward to pound on the glass, warn them. I hated myself as butterflies in my stomach robbed my arm of the strength to rise. I felt tears spring from my eyes. I was so ashamed. I couldn’t even risk doing the decent thing and shout a warning.

One of the street crew turned and pointed at the glacier. I think he shouted a warning but it was too late, the glacier was upon them. The wall of ice slammed into the rear of the bus. The roar of impact of metal and ice was deafening even twelve stories up. Shards of metal and plastic erupted like a volcano and the bus spun like a top. The screams of the people were drowned out by the roars of the yeti as they leaped from their perches. The four street crew scattered like roaches when the lights turn on.

Five of the fanged beasts fought each other for access to the bus. They knew that there were tasty morsels within. The sixth yeti leaped to the street and gave chase to the slowest of the four scavengers. I don’t know how someone managed to still be fat after the apocalypse. The runner lost his blanket wrap as he staggered away revealing a broad body. He stood no chance of outrunning the 300 pounds of savage muscle that was the yeti.

I squeezed my hands over my mouth to cover the scream that tried to escape when the Hell beast landed on the runner. Blood geysered creating a Rorschach pattern on the snow. It looked like a dancing clown and I fought the crazed laughter that tried to force its way from my mouth. A man was being ripped limb from limb and I was seeing clowns in his blood. What the heck was wrong with me?

God forgive me; I hunkered down and hugged my knees to my chest until the roar of the glacier receded. I hid until I no longer heard the howls of the yeti or the screams of their victims.

I don’t know how long I waited. It might have been five minutes or it might have been an hour. Finally the sounds outside were gone and I felt that I should look to see if there were any survivors.

The bus looked like a soda can that lost a fight with a blender. Very little of its shape remained after the glacier finished grinding it to confetti. Blood covered the snow around the bus. The clown bloodstain was joined by a Rorschach butterfly closer to New York New York.

Maybe the other two had escaped; I’d never know from up here. I couldn’t go down there though, the yeti might still be nearby. Lies. I know I was just letting my fear control me. I had lived through this snowy hell for a while and knew that once a glacier moved on it took the yeti with it. But the blood, the bodies. I screamed at my brain to shut up. God would never forgive me. I wouldn’t deserve this relative safety if I refused to find any of the survivors. I wasn’t a hero but I couldn’t live with myself or face my God if I didn’t at least exercise basic humanity.

I pulled on my parka and my backpack; never leave home without supplies. I crawled through the door of my apartment expecting a yeti or other creature from Hell to be standing there. The howl of the never ending snowstorm across the gaping hole at the end of the corridor was the only thing awaiting me. I picked my way down the piles of crumbled stone and twisted steel. My pace would have annoyed a geriatric patient. No matter how long I wanted to delay things, the ninth floor soon greeted me. Nine stories of stairwell went faster than I would have liked. I looked every direction at least three times before I opened the door and stepped out into the snow.

The only sound was the wind. The roar of the glacier was long gone. I crept onto Las Vegas Boulevard. I tried to avoid looking at the shattered remnants of the bus. Splashes of crimson and chunks of gore were quickly swallowed by the snow and ice. Soon there would be nothing to show that five people had died there.

The cold was already making my feet numb by the time I reached the doors of New York New York. The building was dark. Sin City, once known for being eternally lit, was now ruled by darkness. The inside smelled of mildew, rotted food, and spoiled beer. It wasn’t exactly a four star hotel anymore.

“Hello.”

My voice was swallowed up by the enormous casino. If the survivors were in here they could be hiding anywhere among the dust covered machines and New York building façades.

“The yeti are gone. It’s safe.”

“Who the fuck are you?” A man’s voice. The false bravado was doing a bad job of hiding his fear.

“I’m a friend. I saw the attack on the bus. I’m glad you’re all right.”

Something clattered to my right and the man’s voice called once more.

“Damn it Sharon stay here. It’s not safe.”

“Fuck you Dave, you’re not my boss,” she shouted.

The woman approaching me was short, barely five and a half feet tall. She was as thin as a straw and had wavy red hair that cascaded to the middle of her back. She held a parka in her left hand and was wearing tattered blue jeans and a tee shirt from some rock band I had never heard of.

“Willie? Harry? The rest?” Her voice shook as my face must have revealed her companions’ fates.

“There’s nobody left alive outside. I’m sorry.”

“You said you saw the attack?”

The man finally emerged from his hiding spot. He was six feet if he was an inch. He had a wild afro of black hair and a bushy beard that made his square face look three feet wide. He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders which barely managed to cover his broad, linebacker body.

“From a distance.”

“Why didn’t you do something?” He shouted.

“Damn it Dave,” Sharon said.

“For your information Dave, I was twelve stories up when it happened. I think you know that there was nothing I could have done to help even if I was as close as you were.”

I let the unspoken rebuke hang. The poor man was just chased by beasts from Hell. I didn’t need to remind him that he was as much a coward as I was. He glared anger and ill concealed shame at me but subsided.

“Is it just you two? Were there any others who didn’t go outside?”

“Just us,” Sharon said.

She plopped down on a ratty swivel stool in front of a dead slot machine and pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face.

“I hooked up with Dave and the rest a few weeks back. I was hiding out in the Ellis Island Casino and they were scavenging their way down the strip. I figured it was smarter to be with a group than alone. Maybe I was wrong.”

“It’s easier to hide when you’re alone.”

“So what’s your story?” Dave said joining us and leaning against a frost covered slot machine.

“Not much different from yours probably. I was here on vacation, do a little gambling see a show, the usual. Then the sky went red and the blizzard came. I was staying at the Super 8 but one of the glaciers flattened it. I found a spot in the Tropicana about a month ago and have been there ever since. It’s easy to find food and water in the big casinos at this end of the strip and the yeti don’t come down here too often.”

“Well they came this time,” Dave said.

We shared the silence for a minute, the recent horror was too great to address out loud. I shook myself after a bit. It wasn’t healthy to dwell on the deaths of those people for too long.

“Look, I know where we can find food and water if that’s what you were looking for. We just have to get over to the Excalibur and then we can use the covered walkways to move between a couple of the other hotels.”

“To the Excalibur? But what about those things?” Sharon’s eyes were wild.

“The glacier is gone and the yeti with it. Didn’t you hear it go?”

They both looked at me like I was speaking Greek. I sighed in disbelief at their lack of survival skills.

“When a glacier is moving it makes a low rumble. You can feel it in your chest. It’s like a hum that gets louder as it approaches. If you don’t feel the rumble, there isn’t a glacier nearby. No glacier – no yeti.”

“But what if those yeti things are still outside somewhere?”

“All I know is that every time I’ve seen a glacier there’s yeti. When it leaves, they leave with it. Nothing is guaranteed in this insanity. I know what I’ve seen and I have to trust that. The other option is to sit inside until we die of thirst.”

“We could use some provisions. We ran out two days ago,” Dave said straightening up. “I could use something better to wear than this damn blanket too. If you know where we can find food and clean water, lead on.”

The look on both their faces was terrifying. I didn’t want to be responsible for these people. They were looking at me like I was a lifeguard holding out my hand as they drowned in the deep end of the pool. Sharon must have seen my indecision as tears began to well in her eyes. She was just so damn young. I cursed myself for caring and then cursed myself for daring to consider saying no.

“All right. Follow me and we’ll get you what you need.”

I turned without waiting to see if they were following. I honestly was hoping they weren’t. Pausing at the Tropicana Avenue exit doors I strained to hear any hint of the glacier. Nothing. Damn. I was out of excuses.

“Are they gone?” Sharon said.

I almost jumped out of my skin. They had followed me.

“Sounds like it. Look, we’re going to jump the fence and get across the street as fast as possible and then into the Excalibur.”

“Why not take the walkway?” Dave pointed at the concrete pedestrian overpass spanning the street.

“Things lurk up there. Besides, most of them are unstable. It’s not worth the risk.”

“Things? What kind of things?”

“Just — things. Look, you asked for my help. Do this my way or not, I don’t care. I plan to survive. That doesn’t include taking unnecessary risks.”

I crawled over the half collapsed fence and landed in waist deep snow. Without hesitation Sharon followed.

“Come on Dave,” she said.

Dave looked at us half buried in the snow and then at the raised walkway.

“Dave?” I had a bad feeling that he was going to say or do something incredibly stupid.

The big man shook his head and jogged up the cracked stairs to the overpass.

Idiot. My feet were already numb so I trudged across the street. Huffing sounds from behind told me that Sharon was following.

The Excalibur once resembled a fairy tale castle. These days it looked more like the home of a mad scientist or blood sucking vampire. The pointed tower roofs collapsed under the weight of ice. The once colorful paint had peeled revealing the lie of the castle. It was not carved stone, just plaster and foam over industrial concrete and rotted furring strips.

I led Sharon to the base of the frozen escalator descending from the overpass to wait for Dave. The cold seeped into my bones as we stood. The wind whistled and whined through the shattered buildings. Small whirlwinds of snow sprang up in the street we had just crossed. It was too quiet. Dave looked like he was a healthy man. Crossing the overpass should have been a task requiring mere minutes. I looked up and down the street for any threats while chewing my lip.

“Dave,” Sharon shouted.

I cringed as her voice echoed down the boulevard. Be quiet woman, they’ll hear.

“Dave,” even louder.

Stupid girl, didn’t she remember the yeti?

“Shut up before something hears you.”

I looked down the street and then up the escalator. What are you thinking you fool?

“Stay here and be quiet.”

I ascended the stairwell which had not moved since winter blasted from a pit that opened on the side of a mountain in the Nellis weapon’s range. I remember someone saying that the aliens in Area 51 had broken free and were attacking. Anyone looking at the blood that filled the sky as the blizzard roared knew instantly that Hell had come to town. With each step upward I pictured some furred or scaled creature leaping from above to rip my throat out. The ice on the stairs was slick. The ice on the rail was jagged and tried to rip the skin from my hands each time my feet slid and I grabbed for purchase. I swear Satan himself organizes even the smallest indignities to test our resolve.

The snow on the overpass was shallow, no more than knee deep. A man as large as Dave should have stood out like a sore thumb but I could see clear to the other side and there was no sign of the fool.

In for a penny, in for a pound. I started forward scanning the snow ahead. He may have been hurt and buried.

“Dave.” A tense whisper was the best I was willing to risk.

“Help.” Dave’s hoarse cry had none of its earlier bravado.

By the sound he couldn’t have been more than a few yards away but I still couldn’t see him. I shuffled forward until he came into view, or at least his top half. Dave lay on the snow grasping a length of chain link fence torn from the upper reaches of the overpass. From the waist down, Dave was buried in the snow. I had to look a second time. By the angle of his straining body his legs would have to be somewhere inside the concrete of the walkway. The snow around his waist was rotating and pulsing like a mouth sucking him down beneath the surface.

“Sharon,” I screamed and dove forward to grab the dangling chain link.

I pulled for all I was worth but Dave remained buried to the waist in the snow or maw of whatever Hell beast was trying to suck him down. He was too heavy and the pull too strong for me to move him alone.

The spang of breaking metal split the air above me and the fence surged forward a foot as one of its anchors broke free. Dave was running out of time. Where was that girl?

I couldn’t hold on much longer. My fingers burned as the metal fence leached the heat from my skin. Dave’s eyes were wide with pleading. He was going to die or worse. My fingertips felt like they were about to snap off when I felt a tug from behind and Dave surged upward several inches. Sharon braced behind me and strained with her entire body against the pull of the snowy maw.

“I’m going to shift.”

Sharon nodded her understanding, and gritted her teeth against the strain. I rotated my torso to get my feet under me without releasing my grip on the chain link.

“Pull.” I matched my command with action and threw my entire bodyweight against the fence. We grunted and strained. Dave began to slide toward freedom. Inch by inch the sucking maw of snow vomited Dave back onto the walkway. A final heave, and Dave popped from the swirling snow like a cork from a bottle. Sharon and I crashed to the ground in a pile.

Dave’s pants were shredded. Hundreds of tiny tears in his skin wept rivulets of blood, staining the snow. From the waist down he looked as if he had stood in the path of a sand blaster with shards of glass mixed in. He wept in relief while Sharon and I struggled to pull air back into our lungs.

“We have to get out of here.” My voice was a wheezing whisper of exhaustion.

BUYITNOW

 

 

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Mind of the Zombie

Mind of the Zombie

by Edmund de Wight

jackson tripped over the half eaten corpse of a woman in a yellow sun dress.

He could hear the uneven shuffling of the zombie pursuing him. He tried to leap to his feet and continue his flight but a stabbing pain in his ankle threw him back to the litter strewn pavement with a scream. A cliché; he was going to die as the worst zombie movie cliché ever. He began to crawl, cursing himself the entire way. Why didn’t he watch where he was going? If he hadn’t turned at the last moment to see how far ahead he was he could have hurdled that woman’s corpse and been half way to his shelter by now.

Zombies weren’t fast. One on one, Jackson could outdistance any zombie within a couple blocks but at a crawling pace the undead creature was gaining ground like a sprinter chasing a snail. The smell of mold and rotting meat enfolded Jackson as the zombie caught up to him. He rolled onto his back to face his attacker and grabbed the hammer hanging from his belt. The creature had been a man once. It wore a blue sport coat crusted with blood. The fabric was shredded in places and the left sleeve was missing. Its eyes were a bilious yellow color with irises the color of blood. The zombie’s skin was a waxy gray with gaping wounds, probably received when it was killed and turned into an unnatural creature by others of its tribe. Drool flew from its gaping mouth as it dove onto Jackson, clawing and snapping like a rabid animal.

Jackson swung the hammer with frantic strength. He missed the head and hit the zombie in its shoulder. He might as well have hit a brick wall. The creature tore at his skin, unfazed by the repeated blows Jackson rained down on it. Jackson screamed and redoubled his efforts when the monster locked his head with a grip like iron and pulled itself up until its mouth was above Jackson’s forehead. The pain as the teeth ripped into the flesh of his scalp was worse than the time he had cut his palm to the bone with a fillet knife, worse than the burns from the exploding firework on his thigh when he was a teenager, worse than the boiling radiator water that had hit him in the face on a road trip during Sophomore year in college. He screamed so loud that his voice cracked and ceased to provide sound to accompany his agony. He felt and heard a grinding crunch as the zombie’s undead jaws cracked the bones of his skull. The world contracted to a small circle of pain and blinding light surrounded by encroaching darkness. The pain stopped; everything went black.

 

#

Jackson sat up. He searched his head and face for damage. The last thing he remembered was the zombie noshing on his gray matter. Had it been a dream? No. Jackson remembered waking up just before dawn and working his way past the quiescent zombies to the supermarket where he had raided supplies for the past month. He remembered gathering supplies. Then there was that stupid zombie who was moving around when all the rest still stood like the corpses they were. It wouldn’t stop pursuing him. His normal tricks to lose the undead failed to shake it from his tail. Jackson remembered the fight and then his defeat. His dreams were never that structured and vivid, it had to have happened. If the encounter was real, where was the zombie? Why wasn’t he injured? Where was he for that matter?

Jackson stood. His ankle also seemed to have magically healed. The ground was black and smooth. All he could see was black. Was he blind or just in unrelieved darkness?

“Hello,” he shouted.

His voice was absorbed by the darkness. No echo returned. The space he was in must be quite large. He stretched out his hands and walked hesitantly forward. After three steps it occurred to him that he could see his hands clearly in front of him, he wasn’t in pitch blackness, every surface of this space must be black – blacker than night – but he could see. He did a quick inventory. Everything he had been carrying was gone or had been taken from him. He had only the clothes on his back. The zombies were mindless. They couldn’t have disarmed him and brought him here. There had to be some other agency at work. Maybe the government was finally taking action and had brought him here after he was attacked. If it was the government, where were the guards, doctors or any sort of official either to tell him what was happening or demanding information?

Jackson continued walking, still moving cautiously in case there was some hidden danger he couldn’t see. After counting a thousand steps he stopped.

“Where the hell am I,” he screamed.

Jackson saw a flicker of light far to his right. The light winked out but then returned. He sprinted toward the light. He wanted to reach it before it winked out again. Jackson had been an athlete before the zombie apocalypse and had run many races. He knew how to gauge distance as he ran. His internal odometer told him that a mile had passed beneath his pounding feet. He wasn’t even breathing hard. The light remained stationary and appeared to grow larger as he neared. He could see that the light source was shaped like a circle. Its scale expanded as he raced onward until it towered over him; twenty feet across. Jackson came to a stop before the circle of light. It appeared to be some sort of screen. The entire circle was filled with a dim gray-blue light. He was torn between the mystery of the enormous screen and the fact that even after running full out for more than two miles his heart was not beating fast nor was his breath labored. He was in shape but not this kind of shape; nobody was in this kind of shape.

Jackson reached out to touch the screen. His hand stopped at the surface of the circle of light but he felt nothing. It was as if he were touching nothing more than the air before him. He felt resistance as if the air grew denser and would not allow his hand to press into the light. He walked to the edge of the screen and tried to view the reverse side but the blackness to the sides likewise resisted his passage with an annoying lack of sensory feedback. He had at least found one boundary of his prison.

Jackson sat on the black ground. Even the ground felt as if he were sitting on nothing other than air. What kind of place was this? He would be damned if he would let his captors see him panic or plead. Jackson was determined to out wait his captors. After an unknown time of staring into the blackness he began to count; partly to occupy his mind and partly to keep track of how long he was waiting. Seven thousand, one hundred and twenty seven Mississippis later the dull uniformity of the screen changed. The gray-blue light winked out then on. It flickered twice more and then an image filled the screen. Jackson knew the view on the screen. He recognized the warehouses and dilapidated buildings of Wyck Street, not far from where he had been hiding the last two months. The sun was just rising and long shadows filled the trash strewn streets. He could make out the rotting half consumed corpses of his fellow citizens scattered like toddler’s toys after a tantrum. A dozen zombies stood like statues, locked in the torpor they all entered during the darkest hours of the night.

There must be a camera, probably in a doorway from the line of brick he could make out on the right edge of the scene. Why would his captors show him a view of the horrors he had been enduring every day for the last few months?

The view shifted right and then left and then moved forward. Was some poor bastard out there with a camera?

“Why are you showing me this,” Jackson shouted.

The darkness swallowed his voice and gave no reply.

The cameraman continued onward from his station. The view tilted as he stepped over debris and bodies. The view pivoted to focus on zombies as he passed, they were still quiescent, but with the sun rapidly climbing in the east that would soon change.

Jackson saw movement to the left. A zombie shook itself and began to move. Didn’t the cameraman see it? The camera continued forward as if the cameraman was out for a stroll in the park rather than walking into the middle of a zombie horde about to awaken. The zombie to the left continued to close then the camera pivoted to stare directly at the face of the approaching creature. The zombie tilted its head and opened its mouth in a silent scream. The cameraman continued to focus on the zombie for several more seconds and then turned aside as if nothing were wrong and continued past the creature. It never attacked; somehow the cameraman was safe from the zombies around him.

All around the seemingly invulnerable cameraman zombies came alive. They moved singly and in groups; there was no logic to their movements. Jackson observed zombies poking at both corpses and rubble as if either might be potential food. It was repulsive yet fascinating at the same time. The monsters moved among each other without recognition. Jackson had been to New York once during the morning rush and the crowds racing along to their jobs exhibited the same attitude. They were unaware or uncaring of anyone outside their own little bubble of existence. They brushed past each other, occasionally colliding, without a care.

Jackson witnessed zombies feeding on long dead corpses and puzzling at the refuse of civilization. A zombie held a hat it found on the pavement and repeatedly turned it over in its gray hands like it was an alien artifact rather than a piece of clothing it may have worn every day when it was a living man. The view had progressed with the crowd onto the walking mall where storefronts were shattered and the corpses lay thick on the ground. When the zombies first descended on the town the shoppers had fallen like wheat before a scythe. Jackson still did not understand what caused some bodies to remain dead while others rose to prey on the living. Perhaps it was a function of how intact the body remained after attack. He had heard that the only way to stop one of the walking dead was to destroy the brain. Maybe those who did not rise again had suffered too much damage to their brains.

The view jerked left. Jackson saw that every zombie within view had pivoted and was staring in the same direction. The cameraman and the zombie pack took off at a fast shamble, which was the closest the dead could come to running. Jackson felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. There was only one thing that caused zombies to move in such a coordinated fashion; living meat.

The horde staggered down the mall and turned a corner. A middle aged man lay on the ground at the base of a chain-link fence. He had a large backpack strapped to his back and his right leg was twisted at an odd angle. Jackson could see blood and the tip of a bone where it punched through the man’s pant leg. He must have fallen while climbing the fence; he wouldn’t stand a chance against the zombie pack.

No less than a dozen zombies surrounded the cameraman and together they closed on the man. Jackson could see that the man’s bald pate was coated with sweat and his eyes bulged from his head in terror. He lifted a shotgun from the ground beside him. A bloom of fire erupted from the gun and the head of the zombie to the right of the cameraman exploded into black ichor and pulp. It was surreal watching the zombies attack in perfect silence. Jackson knew from experience that the alley would be filled with the sounds of moaning and gnashing teeth. He could see that the man was screaming, probably hurling curses at the zombies or prayers to God. He tried reloading another shell into his weapon but the pack reached him first.

It reminded Jackson of a shark feeding frenzy. Zombies all shoved past each other to rake torn fingernails through the man’s skin and rip chunks of flesh from his body with their unnaturally hard teeth. The camera view was in the thick of it. Jackson recoiled as the view drove intimately close to the man’s belly and blood erupted across the image. A gray hand moved into view and pulled a loop of intestine toward him. It disappeared just below his field of view. This wasn’t a cameraman; some psycho had strapped a camera to the head of a zombie and set it loose. What kind of person would want to see the depravity of the undead up close like this?

Jackson turned from the screen and dry heaved. He couldn’t bring himself to look any longer. He wanted to find the maniac who thought it was a good idea to imprison him with this perverse video and hand him over to the zombies.

He didn’t know how long he sat there feeling ill and angry but at some point the screen became bright again. Afraid to look but unable to resist, Jackson turned to the screen again. The zombie was moving across a park. There were a handful of parks around the walking mall but Jackson had rarely allowed himself time to visit them; he was too absorbed with climbing the corporate ladder to appreciate the simple things in life. He had no clue where the creature was walking. Other zombies moved into view; wandering to and fro. The camera zombie moved toward a large bush and then leaned down. Jackson saw that a leg was wedged in the branches of the bush. It was covered in blood and appeared to have been torn from its owner.

“Why are you doing this?” Jackson screamed.

He couldn’t take it any more. He had to find a way out of this torture chamber. Jackson moved to the side of the screen and placed his hand on the invisible wall. He still felt nothing there but his hand refused to pass beyond the plane of the screen. Turning aside from the revolting images he began to move to the right of the screen using his hand to trace the boundary. Someone had put him in here so logically there had to be an entrance. He would move around the perimeter until he found it. If nothing else, he would learn the extent of his prison.

Jackson moved along the wall until the screen became a distant dot. The wall remained maddeningly invisible and unfelt but held him at bay as if it were solid steel. Even the ground was as unknowable as the wall, only the evidence of its ability to support him proved it to be a solid artifact.

His internal clock, which he was beginning to doubt in the unchanging black expanse of the room, told him that he had been walking for hours. He felt no sense of fatigue, or hunger, or thirst. Hours couldn’t have been passing without some physical discomfort. Was he in shock? Had his captors done something that was affecting his system?

More time passed with the invisible wall continuing to flow by beneath his moving hand. He walked for so long that he eventually lost track of time. He may have been walking for a handful of hours or even days.

There’s no end to this place.

Jackson stopped, frozen, and a creeping shiver of horror pulsed through him.

Maybe I’m dead and this is hell.

Jackson pinched himself; it hurt. He had never been so happy to feel pain.

I’m alive. I feel. I’m a prisoner and when I find my captors I’m going to make them pay. Onward, must press onward.

Jackson continued along the wall. He had no sense of direction. He may have been traveling in a straight line or in a curve; he had no visual reference to orient himself. After an eternity Jackson saw a dim light ahead. He checked his impulse to run toward it and continued his measured tread along the invisible wall. The light grew in size and Jackson felt a sinking sensation in his gut. The light became a large circle of dim bluish gray light. It was another screen, or possibly – God forbid – the same screen. There was nothing on the ground or wall to indicate if this was the same screen he had left behind a lifetime ago. Jackson hung his head, defeated.

He didn’t know how long he stood there feeling sorry for himself before his head snapped up, driven by a furnace hot flash of rage. He would not give in. He had to know if this was some new screen or if he was trapped in a featureless circle. Jackson clawed open the buttons of his shirt, removed it and then wadded it up in a ball. He placed the shirt on the ground immediately in front of the screen where he could not miss it and then set off once more along the unseen wall. Time became a distant memory as he walked. He tried to count steps but after several thousand steps he began to lose count and then gave up the effort as futile. His mind gibbered at him and then began playing tricks, phantom pains and itches raced over his skin.

I’m going insane.

The wall stretched on forever. He again saw a light in the distance.

Please God, don’t let my shirt be there.

The circle of light grew in scale. Soon it revealed itself to be a screen. Jackson collapsed to his knees as he reached the screen; his shirt was lying exactly as he had left it.

It’s a circle. It’s a fucking circle.

—End of the Preview–

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