Page 2

The hallway, lit only by a single dim bulb, led in one direction to a locked door, in the other to a flight of steps that went up. Neil moved out into the hall, easing the door to the room behind him closed. His nose wrinkled (the clothes reeked), he moved noiselessly down the hall to the door. It was a simple hasp and padlock. He reached up and tugged- and was surprised when the lock dropped open.

Of course: the building was crawling with zombies, most of whom (no doubt) had no clue as to how to go about opening a lock, locked or not. He turned the handle and eased the door open. He smiled.

The armory.

The ground floor of the building had been converted into some kind of power-generating factory. Machines, the likes of which no living man could have designed, shuddered with power. Moisture glistened on black steel as steam was released into the cavernous warehouse; rivets threatened to snap as metal plates vibrated violently.

Spread across the floor from wall to wall, from front to back, the monstrous machines hummed with alien life. Their purpose was clear: the dissemination of Evil. It was being released into the atmosphere through an elaborate blower system.

This was no doubt the source of the Zombie Plague sweeping the Earth…

Neil moved unnoticed from the doorway at the top of the stairs. He was dressed from head to toe in a form-fitting black biosuit, the goggles over his eyes, his face hidden beneath a filtration mask that covered his entire head. On his back, he wore a satchel charge. He slid a sleek black revolver from its shoulder holster and moved along the wall, using one of the machines as cover. Coming to a place where the machine plugged into a wall outlet, he squatted and took a magnetic charge from his utility belt. He affixed the explosive to the side of the machine, rose- and froze, staring.

He could see a display case made of plexiglass. Inside stood the stuffed and mounted bodies of filmmakers George Romero, John Russo, and Tom Savini. Romero's corpse sat in a director's chair, bullhorn to his lips, Russo standing at his side; Savini's corpse was pointing, as though directing performers on a set.

Neil crossed himself. The unwitting filmmakers had stumbled upon a well-guarded secret, and the Secret Zombie Squads had hunted them down, killed them, and mounted them like trophies for all to see…

A zombie growled. It was close. The incessant hammering of the machinery had covered its approach. Neil crouched low, looking wildly about. The thing was coming down the narrow aisle toward him from the front end of the building, its arms eagerly outstretched. Like most of the others, it was a gray worker drone and not a thinker. Raising the alarm would never have occurred to it.

Neil holstered the gun and slid a bayonet from his boot. As the thing came within arm's reach, he drove the blade between its hands and through the shriveled neck, neatly severing the brain stem. The motorless corpse collapsed in a heap. A worm of black blood crawled slowly down across the gray flesh.

Neil stepped over the body, moving toward the doors at the front of the building.

The world had to be made aware of this threat, had to be warned that this threat was real.

Someone grabbed him from behind. He dropped the bayonet.

Spinning, he drove his knee up into the unprotected groin. The grip on his neck did not slacken and he found himself face to pale gray face with death.

The zombie had been a world-renowned power lifter in its past life: it stood feet wide apart, fingers hard as steel slowly tightening like a vise about Neil's neck. He tried to catch his breath, but was unable: the monster was choking off his air. He grabbed the thick wrists and twisted with all his strength, but to no avail. He tried to break the hold by bringing both fists down hard on the forearms of his attacker, but again he failed.

He felt his head swim; he was getting dizzy. I'm blacking out, he thought.

The realization galvanized him and he hooked hard with both hands to the creature's head. The head snapped left, then right, but the grip remained unbroken.

The gun!

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