From her NSFW blog

Uncle Al's Halloween Hoedown Day Ten: ROUGH PATCHES

Rough Patches

by

Al Bruno III

The following story was originally published by Eden Studios

Something stirred beneath four and a half feet of mud and snow. A rage so profound that even the February cold couldn't dim it. Instinctively, she began to claw her way to the light. It was almost like being born again.

Of all her littermates, she had been the strongest, the strongest of six. First to find the teat, first to open her eyes, first to notice the tall, pink figures that loomed over her mother's pen. Sometimes they would pick her up, their hands soft and subtle, and murmur and coo and tickle. It felt so good she couldn't help wagging her tail; she would lap greedily at faces and fingertips.

In the darkness of her shallow grave, she felt a pang of remorse at the loss of her mother and her brothers and sisters. Even now, she could still remember her mother's scent, the sound of her breathing, the pattern of the spots on her fur. So like hers.

Back then, eating to her heart's content and playing with her littermates had been her whole world. Occasionally, they would leave the pen to run through the tall grass, but always under the supervision of one of the Tall Ones. Of course, in those days, she'd paid no mind to their maze of fences and gates. She had been too busy exploring the sights and scents. She had been so very content then.

That contentment had ended when the other Tall Ones came to take her away. At first they had intrigued her, with their strange new smells and constant attention. She had particularly enjoyed playing with their child, chasing and being chased. He was so soft and pink and when she licked his face he would make a sound that was not quite like squeal and not quite like a growl. When they had put the collar around her neck, she thought nothing of it. She had thought it was another toy like the ball or the stick.

As the sun had set, she found herself bundled into a cage -- its bottom was lined with newspapers and a strange-smelling blanket. Before she could even utter a yelp of protest, she had found herself in their car. A long sickening ride later, she had found herself at her new home.

Thoughts of that place stirred her further. Rage goaded her, drove her to begin digging. Dirt and snow filled her mouth, choking her howls. The earth clung to her greedily, sucked at her. She was so tired, she just wanted to lie there and let go -- but she couldn't. They had taken so much from her. In the end, they had taken everything.

Despite her initial fears, she had adapted to her new life quickly. The Tall Ones fit into roles just like her own kind did. The male was called "Dad" or sometimes "Danny", a female was called "Ma" or "Shirl" and their child, "Billy". Everything had many names, even her, sometimes she was "Puppy" or "Doggie" but mostly she was "Patches". It had felt good to have a name, felt good to belong.

For a time, she knew nothing but joy. There were always treats and pettings to be had. She would lie on Dad's feet as he started mesmerized into his box of colored lights. Sometimes she would play in the yard, running from one end of the fenced perimeter to the other and chasing the occasional squirrel. She had accompanied Mom on her walks, enjoying the feel of the wind and the thick soup of odors it brought to her nose. She would play with the boy until they were both exhausted and then at night she would sleep under his bed.

But sometimes there had been pain. When she had messed on the floor, or chewed on the carpet, the male or the female would rain blows down upon her.

"No! Bad! Bad! Bad! Bad dog!" they would cry.

As the summers passed, she got better and better at following their strange rituals but some of the rituals still didn't make sense. Sometimes they had fed her from the table, other times they had swatted at her for begging. Sometimes they allowed her lie on the soft couch, other times they had yelled when they found her resting there. Sometimes Mom hit Dad, sometimes Dad hit Mom, and they both hit Billy.

It was for Billy that she'd damned herself. Dad had been in the throws of his strange madness; the madness that always seemed to be brought on by the strange smelling water he drank. The boy had tried to run when Dad turned on him. He'd almost made it too. He was young and strong, just on the cusp of his adolescence, but he'd stumbled and fallen. His father was on him, lifting him up by the throat, shaking him like prey.

The boy had been like a brother to her. He had always fed and watered her. Patches had reacted the only way she knew how -- she had growled a challenge. She had bared her teeth and readied herself. A warning nip, she had been sure that was all she would need.

The man had dropped Billy and rounded on her with a kick. The kick had caught her in the belly, knocking the breath from her. She had wobbled on her legs trying to recapture the boldness she'd felt just moments ago. He had came at her with his fists, dazzling her with the ferocity of his blows. For the first time in her life, Patches had thought that she might die.

"Fucking dog! Growl at me you cocksucker?"

"Dad! Leave her alone Dad!"

The darkness that had claimed her then was much like the darkness she found herself in now. Except that then she'd woken to find herself in the basement, locked into the barred cage they'd brought her here in. Through a fog of pain she had waited.

Time had crawled past. The cage had soon become too small for her -- she couldn't stand or turn around, she could only lie there and wait. There had been a window in the basement. She had watched the grass flutter in the breeze and had wondered when they would come for her.

Then the final day had come. Pressure had begun to build in her bladder. She knew better than to lose control in the house. She had to get outside. She had to let them know. There was a special whine she had used for just this occasion.

The whine had brought Dad storming down the steps. He had bellowed and kicked the side of the crate again and again, terrifying her.

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Do you hear me? Shut up!"

When he had exhausted himself, he had stumbled back up the stairs and slammed the basement door shut.

A day had passed. Patches had soiled herself three times before Billy and Mom came down to get her. They had cleaned her, cooed softly to her and fed her some of their food. When they took her outside, Billy had wept to see her limp.

After a few hours of bliss, they had brought her back down to the basement and put her back into her cage. Thankfully, they had cleaned it first.

That became the pattern of her life. All day and all night locked into that tiny box. A few hours of freedom in the afternoon was all she had left. Every night, it seemed the shouting and thudding upstairs became louder.

If she made even the slightest noise, Dad would come down to shout and beat her. She could sense that he was trying to break something within her; the part of himself that was already broken.

Time had passed so slowly in the cage, it was maddening. Occasionally, she had gnawed at the edges of her prison, hoping to free herself. She had gnawed at the cold, reflective lattice until her mouth tasted of blood but the door never loosened and the walls never gave away. On warm days, Billy would take her for short walks, sometimes she would hope that they weren't coming back -- that they would just keep walking and walking forever.

As the days wore into weeks, she had found her periods of freedom growing shorter. Billy had been there less and less and Mom had begun to carry the smell of the strange water on her was well. The boy had become a man, and had begun to walk and sound like his father. A swagger had appeared in his step that somehow made Patches nervous.

With her time in the yard growing less and less, she had become more frantic to enjoy it. She would race wildly in circles; she would entice Mom or Billy to play with her. They rarely did.

As the fall had become the winter, they had begun to forget to let her out. As hours had become days, she had began soiling her cage and herself again. When Mom had found her in this state she would groan and called her a "Bad dog." Which didn't seem fair.

When Billy had found her he would whisper "Damnit Patches" and call for Mom. If Dad found her, he would yell and let her out just so he could shove her nose in the mess she'd made.

Finally, she had began to cower at the sound of someone treading down the basement steps. She had cowered and shook when a hand was raised to her. When Dad saw her do this, he had made a noise that was not quite a bark and not quite a growl.

"Not feelin' so tough now, are you?"

With those words, Patches had found her exile lifted, to a point. She was only confined to the accursed cage at night but she had remained in the basement. Billy's visits had dwindled further and further. Sometimes they had forgotten to feed her, sometimes they didn't change her water. When she had cried or barked out of need or loneliness, they had banged on the floor and shouted at her.

The first few inches of the grave had already begun to ice over. It cracked in protest as her nose broke the surface of the grave. A savage wind blew litter and shell casings back and forth. She saw the moon through a veil of dirt and struggled to reach it.

The miserable routine her life had settled into ended when Patches found herself unable to hold down food. At first her vomitings had been rewarded with beatings and scoldings. Even Billy was striking her now, "Stupid dog! What the fuck is wrong with you?" His condemnation had made her want to die.

The more she had tried to eat, the sicker she became. Patches had heard them shouting above her.

" . . . damn dog is sick."

"Maybe if you stopped hitting it."

" . . . please no fighting just once . . . "

"Don't fuckin' talk to me that way! Besides, maybe if you took it out for a walk, got it some fresh air."

" . . . that would be nice. We could all take it out for a walk together . . . "

"Dad, if I weren't so busy with -- "

"Only thing you're busy with is playing with your dick in your room!"

" . . . there was blood in her vomit this time. She's wasting away . . . "

"Fuck you!"

"What did you say to me? You little shit!"

" . . . we have to do something . . . "

That night Billy had come down into the basement. Patches had wagged her tail when he collared and leashed her. There was something about his scent and posture that felt wrong to her, but still she had hoped against hope that this walk would be the one that never ended.

She had lead him up the basement stairs, past Mom sleeping on the couch and out the door only to find Dad waiting there for her. He had reeked of his foul water and he had carried a long dark stick in his hands. She had never seen anything like it before. Billy had led her into the thin forest behind their home; Dad had fallen into line behind them. They had spoken uneasily.

"Do we have to do this?"

"You gonna be a pussy all you life?"

"Can't we just take her to the vet?"

"You got two grand to waste, you fuckin' dumbass? It's just a fuckin' dog for Christ sa kes."

The recent snowfall had made the woods had take on an almost mystical aspect, she had shivered with delight at the way the snow felt under her feet. The moon had seemed to follow them, its light filtering through the trees. The cold had blunted the scents in the air but what she could smell was intriguing enough. There had been something strange in the air that night, the sickly-sweet odor of meat gone to rot. It had been strong and thick; the wind had carried it over her in waves. Something was coming, she had realized, something different and strange. She had been tempted to loose a howl of greetin g but then had thought better of it.

When they had arrived some distance from the house they had stopped. Her senses were driving her mad. Couldn't they tell? Couldn't they taste it in the air?

"You gonna do it or do I have to?"

"I can't."

"Tits on a bull that's all you are boy."

With a long, shuddering sigh, Billy had unhooked the leash and stepped back behind his father. She had wagged her tail uncertainly. Swaying slightly, Dad had hefted the stra nge stick, propping the thicker end against his shoulder, and pointing the other, smaller end at her. She had cocked her head with curiosity.

There had been a sound like a crack of thunder. Pain had lanced though her side, knocking her off her feet. Hot warmth had spread across her fur. She had looked desperately to Billy but he only watched from his father's shadow as she had struggled to move, floundering painfully in the snow.

"Jesus Dad she's still moving!"

"Shut the fuck up will you? I'm trying to aim!"

Through her torment, she had realized that they were doing this to her somehow. Her first thought had been, What did I do? What have I done wrong?

Another flash of lightning, another bolt of pain, this time right below her throat. Blood had gurgled up into her mouth, choking her. Coldness had swept up over her, robbing her of everything but a sudden blossoming rage.

How dare they? How dare they when she'd given so much? She had gnashed her teeth, dark spittle spraying onto the snow. The moon had loomed over her, a silent witness. She had made a vow to it, a vow and a curse.

"There, that's done it. Go back to the garage, get a shovel."

"But she's not -- "

"She will be. Now get a fucking shovel before I put you in the Goddamn grave with her."

The rage had remained even after she died, even after they had buried her in a hastily dug grave. It had gnawed at her. Somehow, it had spurred her lifeless limbs to action.

With a grunt, she tore herself from the grave, her grimy, bloody tongue lolled from her gaping jaws. An army of foul-smelling shapes surrounded her, passed by her on every side. They groaned as they hobbled, moving with one mind, with one purpose towards unsuspecting civilization. A curious sense of belonging washed over her, she knew she was welcome in their ranks. She knew that there would be no beatings or cages for her now. And meat, there would always be warm, pulsing meat to sate the hunger that clouded her thoughts. Cities of meat. A world of meat. All she had to do was join the shambling mass.

But not yet.

Entrails dangling beneath her, the dog named Patches began to make her way home. The moon seemed to shimmer with approval.

The fact of my fiction...

Hello friends and followers!

I just wanted to let you know that I am working on getting more Night Blogger stories done but it turns out we are going to have to move on 10/18/14 so a quiet moment to communicate with my creative side is hard to come by right now.

But fear not, I will get some fresh new entertainment to you as soon as I can.

2014 has been one Hell of a year around these parts.

Twin Peaks is coming back? HOLY SHIT TWIN PEAKS IS COMING BACK!!!

From BLEEDING COOL

by Lloyd Stas

David Lynch and Mark Frost are bringing back their television series Twin Peaks as a nine-part limited series on Showtime. The show will go into production in 2015 and air in 2016, 25 years from when the show ended its run on ABC. Lynch and Frost will write and produce and Lynch will direct all nine episodes. The show will be set in modern day and will continue the lore of the original series with the creators promising answers and a satisfying conclusion. Its unknown how many of the original characters will return but rumor has it Kyle MacLachlan will reprise his role as FBI Agent Dale Cooper. Prior to the airing of the new series, Showtime will air the first two seasons owned by parent CBS Corp.

This calls for A TWIN PEAKS GIF PARTY

A lot of these are from TWIN PEAKS .GIFS

Found via LAUGHING SQUID

A new GoFundMe update

It has been a quiet few days. Ness is recovering nicely but it looks it will be six weeks before she can exert herself in any real fashion.

A lot of the folks that made donations here knew me from my RPG.net rants days so I was inspired to try writing them again. I think my sense of humor is much gentler than it was in 2002 but people say I still got it so I tell ya what, going forward I will try my darndest to create one new RPG.net rant a month.

Also, we are moving! We found a new place for significantly less and plan to make the move as soon as we can.

So, that being said, anything donations you can send our way will be deeply appreciated. This is not gonna be easy but once it is done a lot of our financial pressures will be eased.

Thanks for listening.

Uncle Al's Halloween Hoedown Day Six: INNOCENT WHEN YOU DREAM

Innocent When You Dream

by

Al Bruno III

When I was young I was prone to fevers and nightmares, something that my doctors and my parents alike put down to a weak constitution and an overactive imagination. Even I grew older and stronger nightmares continued to plague me, nightmares that no drug could keep at bay, nightmares that frequently had me lashing out violently as I awoke. 

As you can imagine when it came time for me to attend the University I felt I had no choice but to live alone. The lack of companionship only aided my focus on all things academic, my grades were strong and my instructors began to take a special interest in my academic progress.

Unfortunately in my second year of studies I began to experience incidents of sleepwalking and nocturnal violence. On four separate occasions campus security had to apprehend me.

This is how I came to the attention of Dr. Palatine, the University’s leading expert on the subject of sleep disorders. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to say I was placed under her care and supervision. She was a handsome woman with iron gray hair that was streaked with red, she wore thick glasses and spoke with an Eastern European accent. Dr. Palatine explained to me that she had just returned from a long sabbatical where she had been conducting what she called 'the purest research’.

Dr. Palatine shared with me her theories about the nature of REM sleep and the source of dream imagery in the collective unconscious. She requested I keep a journal and a tape recorder at my bedside but I must admit that the nature of my waking terrors left me with little clear or consistent information to impart.

This lack of hard data to work from led her to invite me to live with her. I felt I had no choice but to accept. Dr. Palatine lived in a crumbling brownstone several miles from the college campus. She made a room for me in her basement so that my night terrors could be controlled and monitored with the greatest care.

My first night and last night of observation began that ordeal that consumed my life. Dr. Palatine gave me a mild sedative and had me lie down on the cot she had prepared for me. She sat beside me in an uncomfortable looking, rust-colored chair, pen and notepad in hand.

Soon I was asleep and soon I found myself in the most lucid dream I had ever known. In the dream I found myself alone in the basement staring up at the single bare lightbulb that was the only illumination. Dr. Palatine and the rust colored chair were gone. A strange feeling of dislocation washed over me as I stood and walked up the basement stairs.

I found the cellar door had been locked from the outside but I felt no panic at this realization. What better way to curtail my nightly meanderings than a locked door? I rapped on the door and called for Dr. Palatine, when there was no answer I began to knock louder and louder. I called her name over and over but there was no answer.

The feeling of dislocation grew stronger and in my mind’s eye I saw myself beating at the door in ever-growing panic. I looked so small, like a forgotten child.

Without warning the basement door rattled on its hinges as though something had been thrown against it. Fingers scrabbled and grabbed through inch wide gap between the bottom of the doorframe and the floor; they were thin and covered with thick tufts of red hair. They scratched and scraped.

Even now you might assume that this was all some sophomoric prank but my every sense told me this was not the case. Whatever was on the other side of that door was bestial and twisted. The grasping of the fingers became more frantic as though it were searching for something precious that was just out of reach.

It was as though my every childhood nightmare was coming true. Hadn’t the fear of seeing this very personal incubus driven me to night terrors and fugues?

I screamed at it. The claw-like hand retreated, there was a moment when I thought it was about to retreat but then it began to sing. I cannot describe that voice, I do not know if that voice can be described. All I can say it that the sound that reached my ears was a loathsome crooning. 

An image arose unbidden to my mind; that of the creature burbling nonsense, trying to lull the pink quivering shape at its breast to sleep.

Desperate to escape that sound I backed away only to lose my footing. I tumbled down the stairs striking my head and plunging my mind into merciful mindless darkness.

How long was it until I awoke again? I cannot say, but I do know that I blinked my eyes to see the basement door wide open. It took me some time to find the courage to mount the stairs but when I did I found myself in a barren house.

Of Dr. Palatine there was no trace, not only had she disappeared from her home she had also vanished from all University records. All my professors insisted there was no Dr. Palatine, that there had never been a Dr. Palatine.

The more I told my story the more I became a subject of derision and unease. I left the University in the middle of the semester never to return.

I found gainful employment far away from the University but I had lost the capacity to dream and with it I had lost all sense of certainty in the world around me. I began to fear that I no longer dreamed because I was still asleep in Dr. Palatine’s basement, that I had never awoken at all.

Uncle Al's Halloween Hoedown Day Five: TOURIST TRAP

Tourist Trap

by

Al Bruno III

The following story was originally published by Eden Studios

The living dead shambled aimlessly down the street, their clothes and flesh in tatters. My heart in my throat, I angled the van around them as best I could, but they flail at the vehicle as it passes, their slimy fingers streaking the body. I had hoped to find settlements here on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. All I found was abandoned cars and shattered storefronts. The Pancake House was in flames, the grocery stores had all been looted, zombies milled around inside the showroom windows of a department store, gnawing confusedly on half-clothed mannequins. Every few miles I tried the CB radio, hoping to find someone, anyone out there that could help.

The seat beside me was filled with ammo and weapons. The medical supplies and food was in the back with Laura. She breathed harder and harder with each contraction. This wasn't planned -- you have to understand -- none of this was planned.

I had been making my way North. Everyone's been making their way North since the zombies came. The theory is that the undead will be less active in the colder regions. Don't know if its true or not, but it seemed like a good idea.

I had came across Laura by the side of I-90; she had run over one too many zombies and it had gummed up the underside of her car. They had started to swarm her little Volvo.

I had pulled over to the side of the road and popped enough of them to give her a chance to make a run for my vehicle.

Sometimes it amazes me how good a shot I've become over the last year. When all this started, I didn't even know how to fire a gun. Guess all those games of DOOM were good for something after all.

I had figured I'd be dropping her off at a settlement someplace, so I had asked her where she was going.

"North." she had said.

And that's how we started traveling together. It was nice to have someone to talk to again, and someone to watch my back when I was foraging. She was no great beauty by any stretch. I mean, she could have been a real looker but there was something sour about her looks. She was good enough company though, and when we had made love at night in the back of the van she was eager and welcoming.

That was then. Now, the gas gauge read a quarter of a tank left. Laura was moaning in pain, she pushed and pushed but the baby just wouldn't come. It had been almost twenty hours of labor and still nothing. She was going to die if I didn't do something soon. I tried to CB again, hoping to find a settlement, a military base -- someplace with a doctor.

I knew I should have worn a condom or pulled out or something, but she told me she couldn't have babies. She said there was something wrong with her ovaries. Something gynecological, I don't remember what exactly. But she got pregnant anyway. Figures, I never won a damn thing in my life before.

Suddenly an idea occurred to me. Ocean World was up ahead. They have -- they had rides and animal exhibits and dolphins and killer whales. A place like that has to have a first aid kit, several first aid kits maybe.

Laura is saying my name over and over the whole time I made my way to Ocean World. The parking lot was empty. We drove around the skeletal remains of a bear on the way in but aside from that it was clear sailing. There didn't seem to be a lot of zombies milling around. Always a good sign. They had probably eaten everything there was to eat months ago. The living dead aren't above eating animals -- I've seen them chow down on anything from cows to kittens. I think they prefer people though, I've never seen zombies swarm a caribou the way they swarm people.

Maybe it's the way we taste.

I parked the van as close as I could to the main entrance but Laura was beyond walking now. I told her to wait there and I'd get a cart or something to bring her in. She begged me not to leave her, not to abandon her.

It took me fifteen minutes to calm her down. Jesus Christ! Fifteen minutes wasted! I locked her inside the van. I had the hunting rifle and a handgun with me. Extra ammo was loaded into the pockets of my jeans. Hopefully, I wouldn't need any of it but zombies are like fucking roaches. They get everywhere.

Ocean World might have been a fun place to visit before, but it was creepy now. The grass was overgrown and heavy with weeds. The rides creaked and rocked to their own rhythm. I found a couple of golf cart things right away but they didn't have any power. There was a sign that pointed me towards the Visitor's Aid Station. That was where I had to go.

Most of the animals were dead in their pens. Looked like starvation, but what do I know. Poor things. Some of the bears had gotten out somehow but the zombies had gotten to them and picked them clean.

Speaking of the devil, I spotted a pair of zombies staggering around the remains of little building called the "Snack Shack." They were bloated and weird looking. Huddling in the corner of the aquarium building, I thought about taking them out.

Problem was they might not be the only living dead in the park and I didn't want to attract too much attention if I could avoid it. I decided to cut through the aquarium and take the long way towards the first aid station. I passed through the archway that invited me to "Explore the Wonders of the Deep" and entered the darkness of the dead aquarium. I'd forgotten the flashlight, but I didn't want to go back to get it. I was afraid I'd loose my nerve.

Rifle drawn, I made my way through the murk by touch. Occasionally, my hand would stray across the clammy surface of a tank. I couldn't see the dead fish floating inside but the cloying stench told me they were there.

The passage I was in seemed to be turning. I wondered if I was going in circles. What if I came right back to where I started? Could Laura afford for me to waste any more time?

Squelching footsteps alerted me to the fact I wasn't alone. Something moved in the darkness, a shadow among shadows. I shouted a warning but there was a no answer. The shape moved closer. I fired, but th e shot was wide of the mark. The muzzle flash gave me a momentary glimpse of my attacker -- a zombie in the garb of an Ocean World tour guide.

The bullet shattered one of the fishtank walls. Water and dead barracudas spilled out over the floor, knocking the zombie off-balance. It wobbled a moment and then fell clumsily into a heap.

When its head was up over floor level, I fired again. It twitched once and then lay still. I slumped against the wall, trying to bring myself to keep moving. I really just wanted to curl into a ball and wish this shithole of a world away. Before Laura I used to think about suicide -- sometimes I would hold a gun under my chin and wait for my courage to take hold. Of course it never did. I don't know what scared me more, the thought that there might not be a next life, or that there would be a next life and by killing myself I'd lose the chance for it.

But I couldn't die now, I had responsibilities. I got up, started moving. Stagnant water and liquefied gray matter pooled around my feet. A few moments more of walking and I saw light at the end of the corridor. I picked up the pace.

The exit brought me out to a huge amphitheater, seashell-shaped with long benches interspersed with tall stairways. There was no stage at the heart of this auditorium though, just a huge tank. The thick glass walls of the tank were frosted with grime and lichen. The water was brown and murky and it sloshed gently over the edges. I had a momentary vision of warm weather, frolicking dolphins and laughing families.

From there it was quick sprint to the squat Visitor's Aid Station. I kicked open the locked door to find medical supplies in abundance.

And wheelchairs! They had wheelchairs!

I grabbed one and headed back for the van. I didn't go through the aquarium this time. I just popped the two zombies hanging around the "Snack Shack" and prayed my luck would hold out.

When I got to Laura she was hyperventilating and there was some kind of fluid staining the crotch of her sweatpants. It didn't look like blood or water.

Not good.

Not good at all.

I took a long hard look around before I set the rifle down beside the van. It was all clear.

"I didn't thin k you'd come back," she kissed my hand like I was the Pope or something. "I love you."

I shushed her and got to work. It wasn't easy loading her into the wheelchair. No matter what I did it seemed to hurt her. In the back of my mind, I started thinking about that Robin Hood film they did with Kevin Costner. I remembered the black guy in the movie had delivered a baby by cutting the mother open and taking it out.

Jesus. Would I have to do that?

Grabbing a knapsack full of iron rations and bottled water, we got moving. I rolled her through Ocean World. Halfway to the Visitor Aid Station, I spied one of the living dead off in the distance. I thought about taking it down, only to realize that I'd left the rifle back by the car. I still had the pistols, but I decided to save them for now. As we passed the amphitheater, something I spotted out of the corner of my eye made me stop dead.

There was a dead killer whale floating at the top of the stagnant water. Had that been there before? Or had it jut bobbed to the surface? I couldn't be sure. Huge swathes of its black and white flesh had been gnawed to the bone. It writhed with zombies. Th ey crawled over its massive bulk like maggots, immersion in water had left their bodies bloated and warped.

The awfulness of what I was seeing held me there I couldn't look away.

Suddenly one of them saw us. It fumbled off the whale's body and clawed its way over the thick walls of the tank. It flopped onto the ground with a wet smack. Others started following, seething up over the edge of the tank trampling each other in their hunger.

Laura's scream goaded me back into action. I started running, pushing the wheelchair ahead of me with all my might. I could see the Visitor's Aid Station just up ahead.

I didn't see the crack in the pavement.

The front wheel of the chair hit it at just the right angle, knocking Laura face first onto the pavement. The impact with the back of the chair knocked the wind out of me and I fell -- I wheezed something unintelligible about the baby. Laura stirred groggily, blood trickling down her forehead.

I rolled over and saw zombies, too many to count, bearing down on us. I drew one of the pistols and fired four times, three zombies fell, and one stumbled, th e rest just swarmed over them.

Laura was trying to get to her feet, but she was too swollen, too sore to move quickly enough. Our eyes met. "Save yourself!" she said, "Leave me!"

Save myself? I knew that alone I could outrun them, she was only slowing me down. And for all I knew she might die anyway giving birth. It wasn't cowardice. Not when she wanted me to do it.

The legendary settlements in the North beckoned me. I stood slowly, felt my legs tensing.

The zombies were close now, close enough for me to hear the squelching of their footsteps. Staring into a sea of putrid, black gummed mouths, I made my decision. I hefted the wheelchair over my head and with an indignant cry hurled it into the thick of them. Some of the zombies toppled like bowling pins; the others just kept coming.

Somehow I lifted her up into my arms and started running.

It wasn't long before my lungs were on fire and my muscles were screaming in protest. I was afraid to look back, too afraid to see how close they were. Laura moaned with fresh contractions.

I barreled through the door to the Visitor's Aid Station and let Laura slide from my grip.

Cold hands locked around the back of my neck, dragging me back through the door. I screamed and tried to kick free. More hands found me.

And I knew that this was it. I had failed her, failed my child, failed at everything, as I always knew I would.

Laura pulled one of the pistols from my waistband and fired over my shoulder. Blinded and deafened, I fell forward. On her knees, she fired again and again.

I can't believe I almost abandoned her. Funny thing, I wasn't really aware of how much she meant to me until that moment. I think that the real horror of all this isn't that the dead were coming back to eat the living. The real horror is what it's making us become. What we're letting it make us become.

Hours later, barricaded in the Visitor's Aid station, I watch Laura breastfeeding our newborn child. The zombies are camped right outside, we're both sore beyond description, and the only thing more limited than our supply of food is our supply of bullets. We don't know how in the Hell we're going to get out of here, and we have no idea what the future might hold.

But right now that doesn't matter.