At the very moment Wade demands to bolt, Tom rises. Carla sputters and backs up, clearly in a state of wide-eyed shock and panic. Tom's eyes are now glazed over. He growls at Carla the way a Doberman might growl at an intruder, then he springs as if he's a pouncing panther. That terrible wound that was so troublesome earlier is no longer an issue for him.

Carla screams. She scrambles out of the way in time to dodge his attack, and bumps into the end table. The lamp falls to the floor and shatters. Tom collides with the wall hard, but it doesn't seem to phase him. He turns immediately toward the noisy sound of Carla's panicked crying.

"Tom," she sobs, stupidly.

Something bulky goes flying by your head. You see it crash into Tom-bie and realize it's the other lamp. Wade is throwing random items.

"Come on! We have to go," he says.

Tombie is taking the blows by the objects without flinching. It's as though he's a brick wall. Unstoppable. And you're rooted to your spot with fright.

Tombie grabs ahold of Carla, who tripped and was too engulfed by fear to remember how to stand back up.

"Come on!" Wade shouts, digging his rough fingers into your wrist.

You get a sickening glimpse of Tombie biting into Carla's shoulder before Wade pulls you away.

"No-" you say, but instead of running toward Carla, you come to your senses and realize it's too late. The same infection that made Tom what he is will make Carla the same, now that he's bitten into her.

Suddenly you snap. The mystifying spell of horror is broken and you know you have to get out of there. You sprint down the hallway, but as you hit the kitchen, nearing the back door, shadows outside cause you to skid in your tracks. The mangled shapes, the awkward movement, it's unmistakably the shadows of the undead. There must be twenty of them.

"The basement," you say at the same moment Wade says, "The front door."

"What? We can go to the basement and escape through the bulkhead door-"

Wade begins tugging you toward the living room. "I'm not staying in here another minute." He jerks the metal paper towel rack off the wall. Wall crumbles where the screws broke free of the drywall. You're sure that if you live through this, you've got about an eighty-percent chance of not living after your mom sees the house.

The undead are groaning and ramming into the back of the house. You can imagine the white siding smeared maroon with the festering blood of the dead. You're surprised you can still walk with your legs feeling like jello.

Tombie is standing in a menacing crouch. Low grumbles emanate from his throat. As he pounces, Wade drops your wrist and swings, like a batter aiming for a home-run. The towel rack makes a loud, sticky thunk on Tombie's skull, spraying zombie blood across your mother's clean wall. Make that ninety-percent, you think. Beside the blood spatters, you can see a portion of the yard. More undead are in front, though not nearly as many as there were in the back.

You spot your machete, customized for long distance swinging, near the couch. You pick it up and hear a groan beside you. It's a deep sound, with a feminine quality. Out of the corner of your eye, there's movement. Carla is awake. Her eyes have the same dead look you saw in Tom's, but you can't remember them being as wide. You don't recall the chill sweeping over your body when you saw his, not like you feel now. Of course he hadn't been so close. All Carla has to do is reach out and you'd be in her grimy, infected grasp.

A mere moment passes - only one Mississippi - and you swing your machete. Good thing your dad keeps it sharp. It slices right through the middle of Carla-zombie's skull, so that the top part - from nose up - slips into the floor with a sickening splat. Her body, driven by whatever infection, continues to blunder about. There is no danger from that source, you realize, as it misses you and swipes at the air. It's senses are shot. Without smell or sound, it's useless. As soon as the thought passes your brain, the body falls to its knees and topples over as if admitting defeat.

"Come on!" Wade says angrily from the doorway. "Stop shitting around!"

You peel your eyes off of the twitching body of Carla-zombie. Shaking like a leaf in high wind, you run out the door behind Wade on wobbly legs. Adjusting to this kill or be killed attitude is going to take some time. It isn't natural to face this kind of carnage. The back door bursts just as you pass through the front, and you shut the door behind you, thinking it should hold them a while longer.

Meanwhile, Wade is slinging the metal paper towel rack like a pro. In his other hand, he's using a trash can lid as a shield. The ting-thunk of the lid is as loud as fireworks as they bang against it. One by one they fall, but it seems like another always comes in its place.

Fight or flight signals flood your limbs. You run forward and swing like mad. Every move your brain had soaked in while your lips had been busy laughing at old karate movies are suddenly quite handy as you spin, pivot, stab, and slice. It seems like you've cut down the undead crowd by half, when in reality you've only killed three and injured one.

Sweat is drenching you, but you don't have time to mentally complain about how uncomfortable it is. Just swing and slice. These things are fast. Sometimes they dip and swing dangerously close.

This is no good, you think, looking at your weapon. You break the makeshift handle off. Now, you can stab with one hand and swing with the other. Immediately you're rewarded as you stab one in the eye and it crumbles.

You're working fast, but wearing down. Zombie slayage is a tough gig. Almost as if a prayer were answered, Wade pulls you away by your shoulder. The undead, they're busy tripping over and getting tangled in each other.

"Here!" he shouts. "I found a ride."

The ride is a big SUV. It's doors are wide open as if the owners bailed out in a hurry. Just what the hell makes Wade think the owners didn't bail because it was out of gas or damaged somehow, you don't know.

What you do know, is that there's a church a short piece down the road. Being in a life threatening predicament sort of has you thinking about it. You'd bet your left pinkie that there are people there. Instead of wasting precious time with the SUV, you could run on down, pound on the doors.

It's your choice. . .

Stick with Wade - SKIP TO CHAPTER 19

Run to the church - SKIP TO CHAPTER 20