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He returned to the cockpit and sat down at the controls. The ground was flowing white beneath him. He looked about the cockpit. He needed some rest. He set the altimeter so if he lost more than 100 feet he would be woken up by a series of alarms. He then set his watch to two hours from the present moment. He dropped his head back and hugged his bottle of champagne. Soon enough, my friend, he thought. Soon enough.

He was awaken later by a ringing watch. He pulled his head up, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He then stroked his bushy, white beard. He looked out the window and preformed a double take. A few dozen miles in front of him sat the archipelago known as Tierra del Fuego. His vision suddenly went black and his heart rate skyrocketed. He had not seen such a variety of colors in five years. He swallowed hard and waited for his vision to clear. If he had not relieved himself he might have urinated in his pants.

He could see no people yet. He could, however see an airstrip. He entered the appropriate procedure for landing his craft. The landing was a bit rough, which was to be expected, since he hand not made a landing in five years. He finally touched down and taxied to the fuel pump. He hopped out of his jet, feeling the warmest he had felt in five years. He pulled the hand pump out and stuck it in the port. He held it down and set the stop in its place.

Normally he would have stayed with it so as not to waste fuel, but he did not care. He popped the cap off and the foam poured out into his mouth. He smiled deeply as the sweet champagne rolled down his dry throat, so sweet a taste has eluded him for what seemed like centuries. He threw his arms into the air walked clumsily along the runway. He was not drunk, but he was overly happy.

He headed towards the radio tower, thinking that someone might still be there to welcome him. It had been well over five years since he'd been with a group of people. Would they recognize him? Perhaps, but then again he had grown rather old and had quite a bit of facial hair. Not to mention the whiteness of his appearance. Someone might recognize him. He was quite an important celebrity, or at least he'd like to think so.

He approached the door with a sense of complete satisfaction. He opened the door and twisted through a few halls before coming upon a door. It was an office. He opened it up and looked inside. There was a person with short hair, probably a man, facing away from him. He was wearing a somewhat tattered business suit the man was lazily pressing buttons on a copying machine. The man in the doorway called out to him.

"ANOTHER HUMAN! THANK GOD!"

The man turned somewhat slowly and set his white pupils upon him. The entire left side of his face had been ripped off and his left eyeball was hanging suspended above his mouth. The man let out a low-pitched, mournful groan. It was the first time that man set his eyes upon warm flesh in a long time.

"AHHHHHHHHHH!"

The man in the doorway turned and ran. His knuckles were white holding his bottle of champagne. Had his grip been any tighter he might have broken the bottle. He turned each corner sharply, sometimes almost slipping. He ran out the door and looked around. If this weren't such an action-packed moment, he might have cried. He came back to Argentina to be greeted by a Zombie. His mind was traveling faster than he could process the information.

Why was this happening to him? Did God wish to punish him? Would the Zombies ever die? Would he live to see the re-population of the earth? He ran to his plane and began taxiing. He didn't get more then 300 feet when the jet stopped. He did not click on the safety catch properly when he re-fueled. He took a sip of his champagne and jumped out of the plane.

If he were thinking properly, he wouldn't have started running. If had had a clear head, he would have stayed in the aircraft and formulated a plane. He would have been better off trying to push the plane back to re-fuel it, but no. Now he was running in this foreign land, to where he did not know. The stress was mounting as he ran. His head was humming with a horrible noise. It was like scratching a record needle over a record spinning very fast. Every now and then he would hear groaning as he ran.

The pain of running fifteen miles struck him like a ton of bricks. Suddenly his entire body hurt and he fell to the ground. He did manage to pull himself into an open Fed-Ex van. He pulled himself into the back and shut the doors, breathing heavily in complete darkness. Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow he would formulate some sort of plan. He had done enough movies to know how to formulate some kind of solid plan that couldn't fail.

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