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"Just put your hand out and let yourself feel."

Valencia was a petite Asian woman. At twenty-two-years-old, she still seemed remarkably innocent, despite the fact that she had traveled in the dead zones for most of her teen life. The pretty girl with a gothic appeal and two big pony tails at the top of her head frolicked about with the older woman, to whom she called America.

"Go ahead, just do it; you’ll see." Valencia giggled.

America put out her hand and closed her eyes, and soon, just as the young woman said it would, snow flakes came falling down from above. They were wet and heavy and brought with them a sense of freshness that filled the dank air as if daring to rescue the two from some dimension of desperation. All around her, the white flakes danced about Valencia in the dim light from the campfire. America, nearly six feet tall, pushed herself towards the girl and the two embraced. The cold night suddenly got much warmer, and America’s heart began to beat faster as her lips pressed against the liquorish-colored lipstick that laced Valencia’s full kiss.

"I-I love you, America," whispered Valencia. "I love you more than life itself."

America responded by caressing Valencia’s body so smooth and subtle that it instantly transcended the woman’s deep feelings for her. The two close friends had spent the winter months mapping the southwest for the Civic-Belt’s ever important politics; and it was in these harsh times, nestled together in Valencia’s armored vehicle, that they grew so very close. The Aphrodite was an apt name for Valencia’s transport, for the owner was well-suited for its title. Like the goddess, Aphrodite, Valencia was caring and beautiful, virtually immune to the mind-bending horrors of the undead that always awaited them just beyond the thin boundaries of safety. In coalition, the Civic-Belt was the three-hundred and forty-four mile stretch of fenced-in towns that ran through the heartland of the post-pandemic United States. That haunting kiss of theirs was a heralding memory for America, since they planed to take up residence on the better side of the Civic-Belt when their guardsmen duty was over. But those dreams were torn apart in horrific tragedy.

"America! Please, don’t leave me!"

Valencia last words echoed in endless reverberating horror, battering against the innards of her skull. On the last expedition to San Francisco, the duo had been separated during a bombing raid, which left a huge chasm of molten fire between them. She tried to reach her young lover, but by the time the flames began to die, the oncoming rush of hundreds of speeding ghouls tumbled over the flames in maniacal, cannibalistic fervor. The fire that once separated them was now replaced by tons of wriggling, decayed meat, operated by the hunger of reanimated bogeymen. America was dragged away, and into the rescue caravan by Sergeant Kyle. As the mass of rotted flesh faded in the distance, the slight shadow of her petite lover disappeared in the blurry mob of monstrous in-humans.

"Just put your hand out and let yourself feel."

America Maldonado remembered that simple statement. It filled her with a kind of warm joy that she hadn’t felt in years. She put out her hand; standing there, alone in the wastelands of San Francisco. Thinking about the odd request that her dear friend, Valencia, once uttered. Her hand was outstretched and the cold of the night encompassed her. But no snowflake fell from the sky; not this time. Did it ever snow in San Francisco? It certainly had before, only four years ago, when she and Valencia were busy mapping for the president. Although the president was a female matriarch with a strong mind and powerful influence, America, the "nation" that is, was still in great peril. Hyper-kinetic ghouls and slow walking, zomboid cannibals now infested the once great superpower.

"Hey, America, get into the groove, lady; we got incoming at 3 O’clock!"

Hearing her commander’s order, she took to the back of the eight-wheeled vehicle they rode in and commandeered a large 55 caliber gun, which was fastened to the top of the Medusa. The Medusa was as long as a bus, but far more agile. It also had some very unique attributes that made it the flagship of the much heralded Samurai Squad. As America aimed the huge gun towards a rushing assemblage of speedy ghouls, molten fire ripped through the barrel, cutting into the mob with such force, that parts of their decomposed limbs flew high in the air.

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