Dusk of the Dead
           By [TinotheJuggalo]


   Closing his cell phone and placing it on the dashboard, Mike began to wonder what was keeping his parents from picking up their phone. Normally they were eager to hear from him especially since he is on his way home. Mike turned his radio up and listened to a heavy metal station. He had to try to stay awake, the music helps a little. Friggin coach, Mike thought, making us have a practice the day we leave for break. His aching muscles, tired body and the warm cozy atmosphere were not a good combination right now. Mike cracked the window a bit and a rush of cold air hit him. More alert now Mike turns his attention to the radio again, the station has stopped playing songs, and is now doing one of their segments.

“There have been reports of an unknown disease spreading across the U.S., the disease is quite fatal. People are urged to stay indoors and lock their doors. People that have already been infected are roaming about and infecting others. The infected spread this disease by...” Mike turned off the radio, Yeah right, another War of the Worlds thing, I’m not buying it. The station has been known to put out false reports just to have fun with people. It must be a bad time for them and they need to boost their ratings, Mike thought. A fog had started to roll in, so Mike clicked his lights on low beam. He hadn’t realized how close to nightfall it actually was until now. Maybe I should call my... The car started to sputter and stopped right on the road.

“Shit!” Mike yelled, followed by a few choice words directed at the car. As Mike started to beat the steering wheel for the cars unresponsiveness, he saw the gas gauge. Impossible, staring at the red needle resting on E, I filled it this morning. Mike jumped out of the car and made his was to his trunk, but not before kicking the front tire of his car. He popped open the trunk and grabbed out a gas can. He started walking in the direction that he was originally heading, he remembered seeing a sign about a town up ahead. He just hoped it wasn’t too far so he could get there and back before it was completely dark. 

The fog began to recede slightly as Mike slowly made his way into the quiet town. As he continued his march into the town he looked at the bright red gas can in his hand, wondering about why his car had just suddenly died on that lonely stretch of road. Mike shivered from the cold air around him, his shorts and t-shirt provided little protection from this chilly fog. His muscles started aching from the walk, almost as bad as after his wrestling practices. He figured it was from dehydration and when he got gas he’d get a drink. As he was contemplating what sports drink to buy, he noticed something odd. All the lights in all the houses were off; only the street lights remained on, bringing an even stranger sight. Doors were opened to all of the dozen or so houses on his right,    
some were off their hinges. He looked to the left and noticed the same thing. Mike spotted a gas station a little ways up ahead, so he quickened his pace.

He approached the gas station and saw the windows were broken and the door smashed in with large splinters of wood pointing towards the street. As he carefully made his way to the pumps, avoiding dark purple puddles, of what he couldn’t say, he noticed an unpleasant odor. Taking the cap off the gas can he took another look at the town. While filling the gas can, he couldn’t help but feel like he was in a ghost town. He shivered again, Damn cold, should have brought a jacket. Mike was replacing the cap when he heard a noise from behind him; he barely turned his head and saw the blue coverall uniform of a gas station or car garage worker.

“Don’t worry I’m going to pay for...” he was cut off by a hand grabbing his arm. “I said I’d pay,” Mike repeated. Just then the attendant lurched his head forward with his mouth open towards Mike captive arm. At that moment Mike remembered a reversing move from wrestling and grabbed the attendants arm and twisted it behind his back in a smooth movement. This was the first chance he was able to get a true look at the attendant. The man’s face and body was grayish, his arm felt cold and clammy, his face had no expression and the eyes...he shivered again, maybe not just from the cold this time. His eyes were sunken in and rolled back slightly. They looked as if there was no life in them. The odor had grown stronger now, it smelt like something rotting. He let go of the man’s arm and turned back towards his gas can.

“Dude are you sick in the head or something? I just want to buy some gas. My car broke down a ways from here; I need some gas to get back home.” He got to the can and turned around; he wanted to know what the man’s problem was. It was at this point he noticed the man was following him, slowly walking towards him, arms outstretched. “What do you want? I’m going to pay, leave me alone!” Mike yelled. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and took out a twenty dollar bill. He threw it on the ground at the man’s feet. The garage worker continued towards Mike, completely ignoring the money thrown at him. Mike braced himself for another grapple as the man lunged at him. The two spun around the station’s driveway as if in a dance and ended at the front of the station. He finally broke the man’s grip and pushed him away. While stumbling backwards the garage worker tripped on an upended toolbox and fell towards the splintered door. Mike turned away when it happened; he knew what he did, but didn’t want to see. Shaking he returned to the can, picked it up, but stopped when he heard movement behind him. He turned and saw the garage worker getting up, the wood slowly sliding out of the man’s chest.

At this point the man let out a loud eerie moan. Mike stood still and watched as the man once again resumed his march towards him, too scared to move. The can dropped from his hand and landed with a thud. The man was a few paces away when Mike snapped out of his daze and he began to back away. He was almost in the street when he noticed someone walking down the sidewalk towards him. He sprinted to this person and stopped a few yards short. It was a woman in her middle years but there was something wrong. She shared the attendant worker’s same grey skin and when he looked at her face he felt his stomach churn. The lifeless eyes stared at him and she raised her arms at him and let out the same moan that he had heard seconds before. Mike turned around again and saw that the man was still pursuing him. He slipped past the woman and started running away, right towards the center of town.

Mike turned a corner, there was a church in front of him. I should be safe there, he thought. He ran up to the door and pulled, the door wouldn’t budge. Mike began to pound on the doors and yelled, “Someone please open the door, help me!” There was a noise sounding like wood scraping for several seconds before the door opened. Mike was grabbed by the collar of his shirt, pulled roughly inside and thrown on the ground. He heard the door close behind him, the sound echoed in the large building.

Sitting up Mike began to observe his “savior.” The man’s appearance made him almost want to go back outside...almost. What most captured his attention was the eye patch over the man's left eye and the scar trailing from underneath it leading to his cheek. He seemed like he was out of an action movie, with ammo clips strapped diagonally cross
his chest and meeting a handgun holstered at his hip. He was decked out in camouflage gear. If he wasn’t so scared Mike would have laughed at the sight. The man pointed a gun that was already in his hand at Mike.

“You been bit or scratched by ‘em?” The stone-faced man asked him.

Mike felt his arm for scratch marks “Nope,” he replied honestly, “What the hell is going on here?” The man pulled out a little flask, took a sip and turned his back to Mike. “What is going on?” Mike asked again, this time a little more fiercely. The man turned back around and handed him the flask.

“You might want a drink before you know what’s happening,” the man said. Mike took a few swigs from the flask before he noticed a little tube in the man’s hands. He tried to stand up but the world decided to work against him and gravity brought him down. The drink was drugged, Mike realized before he slipped into unconsciousness.

It was early morning when Mike came to. He opened his eyes and noticed the rough edged man checking the door and windows. He remained lying motionless on the floor to see what the other man was going to do next. The man drifted around the church checking every possible entrance and exit making sure they were secure. It wasn’t until this point that he heard the moaning outside. The church had been surrounded during the night.

“I knew I shoulda left you out there to die,” the man said abruptly, “They’d have only wanted you. They wouldn’t have even known I’m here. Now they won’t stop till they’ve devoured us.”

“Why would they eat us?” Mike asked, he knew the man knew he was awake and sat up..

“‘Cuz that’s what the infected do.” The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes from one of the pockets on his camouflage pants. Taking out a cigarette, he flourished a Zippo lighter and tried to light it. He shook the lighter, and tried again, this time it lit. The man brought the flame to the cigarette. He took a deep drag, closed the lighter, put it away, and started to explain. “They eat flesh, human, animal, anything with blood and is alive, mainly human” Upon seeing Mikes confused and mortified face, the man took another drag and continued. “I am from an elite group of special operatives called Z.A.P., the Zombie Annihilation Patrol. My code name is Striker, well my only name now. This is a secret government program meant to keep the secret of the walking dead unknown to the public. It is our job to find and take care of any outbreaks that occur. Forget what you’ve seen in the movies. These things don’t go down easy. You have to destroy the front part of the brain, the only functioning part of the brain left. And no, cuttin’ off the heads doesn’t work, the heads can still bite you. They don’t need a body to bite.” 

“How are these things real? I thought they were only make believe, you know? Hollywood creations, that’s all zombies are, fictional creatures,” Mike said, slowly regaining his composure he stood up.

“Don’t call them that,” Striker barked.

“Call them what?”

“Zombies”

“Why? It’s in the name of your organization.” Mike asked.

Striker stared at Mike, clenching and unclenching his fist fighting the urge to hit him upside the back of his head. At this point the seasoned undead fighter decided it would be for the best if he wasn’t violent this time…this time.
                       “No one knows exactly how they came into being, outbreaks start and we go to stop’em. I was sent to take care of an outbreak with my team.” Striker took another drag of his cigarette, “I noticed that there were trails leading from the one town in this direction. They were regular people heading this way, afraid of what happened, unknowing of what they were dealing with, but turned before they got here and they sought flesh. Now this town is infested with the walking undead. I got no radio, and the only living person that can help is someone that looks as if he’s gonna throw-up.”

Mike started shaking. He looked at Striker and asked “So how do we get out of here? Can we get out?”

“Of course we can get out,” replied Striker, He took one last drag on his cigarette, dropped it and crushed it under his boot. “We need to fight our way out.” He took his handgun from the holster and tossed it to Mike. “Have you ever used a handgun before?” Mike shook his head “I thought so, it’s simple, point the muzzle at their head, pull the trigger. When you’re out of ammo, push the release button, the cartridge will pop right out, and slide one of these in.” Striker tossed Mike three ammo clips.

Mike stared at the gun, “I have a car a few miles away from here. If we can get to it we can go to a town and you can call in for back-up.”

Striker was at the door, “Sounds good. When I open this door be on your toes, I’ll cover you what I can, but I need to protect my ass too.” Striker noticed Mike staring at his eye patch and said “I was on a raid mission, and an undead snuck up behind me. I turned around too late, but one of my team members shot it. Their body fluid, saliva and blood, carries the virus that turns people into walking dead. Well, that things blood got into my eye, the only way to not turn is to immediately get rid of the infected body part, or shoot yourself in the head. I still had a mission to accomplish, so I took my knife and removed my eye. We are always told that if we are in a situation where we might not make it, to take ourselves out. This way there ain't another infected person walking about.” A silence followed, only interrupted by the constant low moans from outside. “Ok,” Striker said, “Remember what I told you, sure shots, be on your toes, and move fast. We’ll make it out alive. Ready? 1...2...3...Go!”

Striker threw open the door, and Mike could not believe what he saw before him. People with chunks of skin ripped off, dried blood crusted on their bodies and that same emotionless face. These foul looking creatures were closing in on them, they had only a few feet on each side, the stench was almost unbearable. It was almost enough to make him empty his stomach. His observation was interrupted by gunshots close by. Striker had already emptied a clip and reloaded, over a dozen fallen zombies were proof of his marksmanship. A path started to clear in these foul beings, Mike fired a few rounds some finding there targets.

“Let’s move it!” Striker yelled over those haunting moans, and followed his own advice running towards the gap, Mike followed. They were soon in the street running    
towards the main road Mike’s car was on. Heart pounding, Mike ran as hard as he could, just as they were about to hit the town’s edge, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“The gas!” Mike gasped.

“What?”

“My car ran out of gas, and I came here to get gas, I filled a gas can at the station, I have to go grab it.”

“No!” Striker barked, “Fine time to tell me that.” He let out a sigh, “I’ll get it, they might be there waitin’ for you. It might be necessary to fight your way back out again. I can’t let you do that. Keep heading towards your car. I’ll catch up don’t worry.”

“It’s my fault though, I know where it is anyways,” Mike replied.

“No it’s too dangerous, I know where the gas station is. Now get your ass back to your car and wait for me,” Striker ordered. With that Striker took off at a sprint down the road towards the gas station. Mike continued towards his car at a half walk, half jog.

            *  *  *  *  *

Stupid kid, I can’t believe that he left his god damn gas can, Striker thought as he ran towards the gas station. Striker saw the gas can, he walked over and picked it up. He scouted out the area, not sensing any immediate danger went into the station, dropped the gas can on the counter and hopped over. He began to browse the cigarettes that were in stock. Menthol, that’s all they got? Striker noticed some cigars behind the counter and grabbed a handful, These’ll have to do. He hopped back over the counter, grabbing the can in the process. He started towards the door and stopped dead in his tracks. Shit, Striker turned back towards the counter, and slowly reached inside one of the compartments of his pants. As he got back to the counter he pulled out his Zippo, Piece of shit, and chucked it away. Striker plucked one of the Zippos from the lighter rack, and looked at it. It was black with flames in the background and a skull lay on top of the flames. Kinda fits the mood.

Striker started back towards the door, and was just walking past one of the pumps when he heard them. He saw what must have been the whole town, all undead, and all walking towards him. They were about 100 yards or so away, Striker started to laugh. He pulled out his handgun, Guess I should finish what I started. It was at this point Striker noticed that he wasn’t the only one at the station. He turned around but the infected man was too close. Before he could swing his gun arm around the undead man had grabbed and bit his other forearm. Eighty yards. Striker yelled and fired a shot, he dropped his gun and fell to his right knee. He pulled his knife from his left boot, and with a shallow arc brought the blade to the zombie’s right temple. The grip on his forearm was released, it dropped to the ground, blade still lodged in its head. Seventy yards.

Striker took one of the nozzles and pressed the lever, gasoline poured out. Striker doused the pumps with gas, and sprayed a large puddle around them. Sixty yards. He tore off his sleeve that had been ripped by the undead man’s teeth and tied the lever on the nozzle so it continued to spray. The hose only came out ten feet, Shit. Striker started pouring the gas from the can and led a trail about another fifty feet. Forty-five yards. He ran back to the hose and filled the can up again, and grabbed his gun. He grabbed the can and went back to the head of the gas trail, and took a few paces beyond it. Thirty yards. Striker pulled out one of his cigars and his new lighter. As he flipped open the Zippo he pushed the can back with his right foot. Twenty yards. With the cigar in his mouth he lit it, smoke surrounded his face, as it cleared he smiled. Ten yards. Just a lil more, Striker took a few more puffs from the cigar. “You know,” Striker started, five yards, “My doctor said these things’ll kill me one day; as a matter of fact, I should probably quit right now.” He flicked the lit cigar towards the puddle of gas, and watched it sail in the air. It landed a few inches short of the puddle. “Shit! That didn't work...” A light breeze blew in and the cigar rolled into the gas puddle. The trail lit up and the fire ran towards the gas station. Striker picked up the gas can and ran as fast as he could. The blazing line hit the pumps, Striker heard the explosion. He turned around and saw burning bodies walking around and falling to the ground. He stood there and watched till he saw the last body fall. Houses were on fire now, not that it mattered they wouldn’t be used anymore. Striker turned back towards the direction of the car and started running again.
  
            *  *  *  *  *

When Mike heard a gunshot he ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Mike got about halfway to his car when he heard a loud boom thunder in the air. He stopped and looked at the town behind him. The sky was lit up by a huge ball of fire. Mike stood in horror and stared at the blazing town. He soon snapped out of this daze, turned back towards his car and continued on. He finally got to his car and leaned on the hood trying to catch his breath. It wasn’t long till Striker came jogging up to the car with the can.

“What the hell was that?” Mike exclaimed, pointing back at the town now engulfed in flames. Striker handed Mike the gas can.

“What? Oh that, it was nothing. It just looked like they could have used a smoke,” Striker replied. “Fill the car.”

Mike began to pour the gas into the car. He couldn’t help but notice Striker favoring is right arm. Must have gotten hurt, Mike drained the last of the gas out of the can and threw it in the backseat of his car. He got in the drivers side and buckled up. When Mike started the car he noticed Striker had not gotten in. He rolled down the passenger window and yelled out at him, “Hey Striker, you coming?” Striker put his hands on the roof of the car and peered inside the window.

“You gotta know before I get in this car with you. I’ve been bit, and within eight
hours I’ll turn into one of them. Certain information needs to be relayed to HQ. Outbreaks have been happening across the U.S. more frequently. Most likely the next town you come to will be over run with the walking dead. So there are two options for you. One, you don’t take me with you I give you the information you need, the guns and all my ammo, and you go alone. You will have to kill me before you leave. Or two, I go with you, we go to the next town, I try to find a radio and get back up. I’ll stay with you as long as I can; if the town is infected I will help you survive. But when I start to turn you have to shoot me.” A moment passed, Mike just looked at Striker, jaw dropped. “Well now you know. Decide.”

Mike sat in the car and stared at the steering wheel. A few minutes had passed by when Mike said “Get in.”

*  *  *  *  *

For the first ten minutes they rode in silence, Mike concentrated on the road while Striker tended to his arm. After he wrapped the bite in gauze, Striker tied a piece of cloth around his elbow and pulled it tight. "By restricting the blood flow to my arm I might be able to buy an extra hour or two," Striker said.

"Uh huh," Mike replied. He kept his eyes on the road, doing what he could to avoid eye contact with Striker. He was uneasy about having the other man in his car, he knew that he needed him, but was afraid of what Striker would become. He had a hard enough time just trying to kill those zombie things without feeling like he killed a human. He didn’t know if he’d be able to kill Striker. While he was pondering what he would do he noticed a sign:

                Village of
                Rensselaer
                5 miles

Mike looked over at Striker and saw the hardened man checking his weapons. He loaded bullets into clips and inserted them into his handguns. It looked as if he was getting ready for war. Striker opened up the glove box and searched around until he found two road flares.

"What are you going to use those for?" Mike asked.

"They're attracted to movement, lights and sound, these flares might distract them in case we need it," Striker responded. He took a deep breath and continued, "Ok, here is the deal. We don't know what we will run into at this next town, could be normal people, there could be the infected. So we need to get in, contact my team and get out, no matter who or what is there."

"Why would you think this next town has zombies in it, it’s almost twenty miles away from the other town?"

"Jesus Christ! Stop saying Zombie, and didn’t you listen to anything I said before we left?" Striker yelled angrily. "The walking dead have been infecting others and outbreaks have been occurring everywhere in the past few days. Today it was raised to a class three, which means we're screwed if we can't control this outbreak. Pull the car over, we're almost to the town's edge anyway."

Mike pulled the car to the side of the road and turned off the car, with the lights off total darkness enveloped them. He said to Striker, "I heard something on the radio about it earlier, but I thought it was a joke. I didn't know it was serious. What were you saying about a class three?"

"Well," Striker started, "Outbreaks are registered in classes; class one is anywhere from one to fifty walking dead, class two is about fifty to two hundred, and class three is two hundred to one thousand, and class four," he laughed, "Well, we won't have to worry long about that if it does happen."

Striker got out of the car and Mike followed. As they began to walk towards the town Striker handed Mike his extra handgun and gave him a few extra clips. They had to walk in the darkness towards the town, guns at the ready. The village itself gave very little light to guide them, they were only about a half mile away from it, but the town was almost as black as where they left the car. On the road there were abandoned cars, windows were broken, and doors were open. Some of the cars in the front of this stationary parade were smashed in the back end, the reasons laid behind them. For about forty or fifty feet cars were wrecked, one smashed into next on both sides of the road. Mike was uneasy; he knew that this would not be as easy as he hoped it would. "I don't like the way this looks," Mike said.

"Shh...You want them to hear us," Striker yelled in a whisper. They had just entered the town, and there was no sign of any infected. Striker immediately began checking behind them, and to the sides, Mike watched in confusion. Striker got closer to Mike and whispered, "Do you smell that? It smells like rotting carcasses, there’s a group of them moving in towards us at about five o'clock. Walk fast but quiet they don't know we're here yet, follow me, we'll find a safe place to stay for a bit till they pass."

“How can you tell…” Mike started, he stopped then sniffed and could now smell that foul stench he had at the gas station. It was at this point that he realized that they were downwind. Striker had already started towards a building, the marquee on the building said: Rensselaer Central School. As the got to the doors Mike whispered to Striker, “A school, you’re taking us to a friggin’ school, are you serious?”

Striker turned and looked at him and shook his head “High schools got heavy
metal doors and wire reinforced glass windows. It’ll be hard as hell to break in here. Plus you can find a lot of shit to barricade doors, like desks and chairs.” Striker opened the door and Mike followed with out another word.

They walked down the hallway, past the main office and the cafeteria, Striker stopped and pointed to a sign on the wall.

                Gymnasium->
               Concert Hall ^
               Bus Garage <-

“You head to the gym, and get ready to barricade the doors. When I get back from calling for help, we’ll wait there. The bus garage will have a radio and I can contact HQ, they will send reinforcements…maybe.”

“What do you mean maybe?” Mike shouted.

Striker turned towards the bus garage and started off, and said “Keep it down, do you want to bring the whole town in on us?” Mike stood there watching as Striker headed out the west doors of the school. Mike followed the sign towards the gym. He looked at the class numbers hung above the wooden doors on their beige frames as he passed. 112… 113… 114…115… As he approached room 116 he heard muffled noises; he peered into the dark room through the slim rectangular window in the door. Mike saw a group of people all huddled towards the back of the room, they were around a body lying on the ground. He opened the door, the people started to move when they heard the knob being turned.

“It’s okay; I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here with a friend, and he can help us,” Mike said. “What’s going on here?” He approached the body, it was a man in his middle years. A woman, who must have been his wife was holding his hand. The man stared up at him wide-eyed, sweat poured out of every pore on his body. His breathing was raspy, he was fighting for his life, and Mike knew what it was. All of a sudden the man stopped breathing, the hand holding his wife’s went limp. “Get up and back away,” Mike ordered as he flicked the safety off of the handgun. “Go to the other side of the room, he’s gonna turn into one of them.” Everyone got up except the wife, she remained clutching her husband’s head in her lap crying. “Get away!” Mike yelled. “Listen he’s gonna…”

"No I can't, he's not dead," she cried hysterically. He stood there with the gun pointed at the man trying to get a clear shot, but the woman started rocking back and forth. There was no way he could make the shot without injuring the woman.

"Do you know where the gymnasium is?" Mike asked the group. After he saw some nods he continued, "I want you to go there and start barricading most of the doors there but leave one set open. We’ll be safe from the zombies. We will wait there till help
arrives."

"But the gym only has one set of doors," stated one of the men in the group. Mike sighed and turned towards the woman kneeling on the ground. He opened his mouth to ask her to move again when the body convulsed. The man grabbed his wife's arm and bit it, blood spouted out as he ripped of the skin with his teeth. The woman screamed, loud and long, Mike jumped back and ran towards the door.

"We have to get to the gym, let's go!" Mike yelled as he ran by. The people in the room followed him, falling over each other to get out of the room first.

Outside the walking dead turned towards the source of the noise, and began walking towards it. They started moaning, their new destination was the school.

              *  *  *  *  *

As Striker moved slowly and cautiously to the bus garage he couldn't help but think about his arm. What would become of him when he turned? Would he have any memory of who he was? Could he fight the urge for flesh, or would he be destined to be another despicable abomination. When he got to the garage one of the shop doors was opened, he flicked the light switch next to the door. Nothing. Shit, Striker pulled out one of the road flares and lit it; good thing the kid had these. He walked through the garage flare in one hand gun in the other, following the walls to the office. He got to the door of the office and bit the unlit end of the flare ad opened the door. Striker ran to the CB radio and tried to contact his headquarters, after a few seconds he remembered there was no electricity in the garage. He ripped the radio out of the wall, and sprinted out of the office.

When Striker got outside of the garage he stopped dead in his tracks. Standing about fifty feet from him was the leader of his squad, Jester. It wasn't Jester though, what stood before him was only the body of Jester, the brain of the undead. Striker's instincts brought the gun up, Don't wanna bring any attention on us. Better do this quiet like, besides, Jester'd want it this way. Striker laid done the radio and his handgun and reached for his knife, and grabbed at nothing. Shit, the gas station, Striker stood up flare in hand. He looked over Jester one last time; this should not have been the way it is. Jester’s right arm was completely torn off, and his stomach was ripped open, entrails swaying in the light breeze of the night. As Striker kept observing his former leader he noticed that Jester still had his boot knife. As Jester opened his mouth to let out that eerie moan Striker threw up the flare into the air. The undead leader watched it sail in the air mesmerized by the light, and Striker made his move and ran at his fallen comrade. He dove for the boot knife, tucked and rolled a few feet, came up with the knife. Jester watched the flare fall to the ground behind him and saw his prey as well. Striker hooked Jester's knee so that the undead man started falling down. He hooked his arm under the infected man's head, and drove the blade into the top of the skull and twisted the knife. Just as the body stopped moving he heard a scream coming from the direction of the school. Not much time now and they'll be on us, that was all for nothing, thanks a bunch kid. He let the motionless body fall to the ground, went to his gun and the radio and headed back towards the school.

He got back to the west wing doors and as he reached for the door handle he heard a click. Right by his hand was a handwritten note:

Doors are locked at ten o'clock for the safety and preservation of our school and students, thank you for your understanding, Administration.

"I don't give a shit about your school," Striker yelled at the note. He looked behind him and saw a solid line of the walking undead coming towards him; he had about a minute maybe two at max before they would get to him. I'm not gonna let him down. Striker backed up a few steps and aimed his gun at the hinges of the right door. He shot the three hinges in three shots and went to the left. As he aimed for the top hinge the world swirled and blurred for a second, and was normal again. He focused on the hinge again and the same thing happened. He shook his head and quickly fired off another three rounds taking off the hinges of the left side door. Striker sprinted at the door shoulders lowered, he crashed through the door way bringing the doors with him. He laid on the ground for only a second and got up. As he started in the direction of the gym, clutching onto the radio and his gun, his vision became distorted. The hallway was shifting, and his walking became unsteady and uncoordinated. Striker made it back to the sign when he bent over and released the contents from his stomach. I have to make it, Mike's counting on me...He continued in that direction, unaware of the undead filing in through the opening that he had created.

            *  *  *  *  *

Mike was orchestrating the people around the gym trying to secure the entrances and exits. Apparently the man that said there was only one set of doors didn't realize that the gym was reconstructed and had two sets of doors to the outside and two sets of doors leading to the school. He had them stack carts of sports balls and weights against the two outside doors . He was helping with one of the school to gym doors when striker stumbled through the other one.

"Striker," Mike yelled "Somebody start preparing this door too." Mike went up to Striker and put his arm around the other man and helped him to the ground. He noticed the radio in Striker's hands. "Did you make the call? Is help coming to get rid of the Zombies?"

Striker looked up at him and pulled his gun out and pointed it, hand shaking, at Mike. “What did I say… about the word…Zombies…” Striker struggled to say. The gun fell to the ground, and he handed Mike the radio. In almost a whisper, between gasping for breath he said, " There was no power...You have to...channel twenty-eight...ask for help on...research...about rescuing...wildlife...you'll transfer...tell HQ what's happening." He collapsed on the ground, and Mike jumped back and stared for a second at the crumpled body.

Mike stood looking around for a power receptacle, and found one by the red and gold bleachers. He ran over and plugged in the radio, he reached for the knob and stopped. He hadn't noticed till now the low moans, but they grew louder. There was pounding on the outsides of the doors. He looked over to the school doors and saw the people working on the door. "Hurry up, they're here!" Mike yelled at them. No sooner had the words come out of his mouth than the doors started shaking. "Push against the doors, hold them out." Mike turned back towards the radio, and turned the knob, he heard nothing on any of the channels. When he got to twenty-eight he stopped and did what Striker told him. There was no response; he tried again, still no response. It's happened then, they have spread everywhere. The doors leading outside started shaking hard and weights and carts starting falling off. One of the men ran over from the other side to go fix them. "Noooooo!" Mike screamed out. The door the man left sprung open and in filed the walking undead.

Mike went to the middle of the floor and picked up Striker's gun, and took his gun out. He fired a couple shots at the crowd of infected people, alternating shots between the two guns. The doors behind him flew open, and Mike turned Striker's gun in that direction and fired two shots and heard a click. He dropped the gun and concentrated at the mob of the undead moving in towards him. The people were fighting for their lives using hockey sticks and lacrosse sticks to fend off the dead. They were being overcome by the countless numbers of the infected. He emptied the clip into a few of the walking undead, released the clip and reloaded. He spun around and saw Striker getting up a few feet away from him. He fired at the undead coming towards him. He noticed Striker had those cold eyes and knew what he had to do. His hands shook as he pointed the gun at his hero, “I’m sorry it had to be this way,” Mike whispered. He fired a shot and it hit its target, right between the eyes. Striker’s body collapsed to the ground, Mike fired again at the approaching horde, and a few more went down before he heard the eerie click of an empty chamber.

Mike's eyes started to well up with tears as he released his emptied clip and put in his last ammo clip. He looked around quickly before settling back into his task. No one else from the group stood they were all being ripped apart by these flesh hungry monsters. He was being encircled by the undead, and he fired off shots. He knew that he could not keep this up forever; they would eventually get him when he ran out of bullets. Mike remembered what Striker told him about being in a situation like this; he knew what had to be done. As they closed in around him Mike put the barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Click. Mike dropped the gun. The low moan was the last thing he heard before he felt the extreme pain of being ripped apart and slipped into unconsciousness.