Pulling on her dressing gown she went downstairs. There was a shadow waiting there and she hesitated, flashing back to that morning almost a week ago. But something told her not to be afraid this time, something told her to open the door.

So she did.

And it was like a replay of before: There was the man who'd looked so much like Matthew, who she now knew wasMatthew, only he'd been changed, just like she herself had been changed. And it was time to go somewhere, she knew that as well, although she had no idea how.

"Hello Mum," said Matthew.

Instead of passing out this time, instead of being afraid, lashing out, she put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. "Welcome home, son," she whispered, her eyes watering. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," he assured her. "None of that matters now anyway."

"We have to go, don't we?"

He nodded. "I was allowed to come and get you. But yes, they're waiting."

"Right," she said. Irene shut the door behind them and was about to lock up when she realised how daft that would be. She took her son's arm and he walked her down the path. Birds were flying overhead----huge birds, almost humanlike----and it was a beautiful day. The flowers were blooming on her front lawn. He opened the freshly painted gate and the new hinges didn't make a sound.

The streets beyond were full of people. Some she recognized from round and about, like the pot-bellied man from across the road, others she'd never seen before. Relatives: long lost sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, grandfathers, grandmothers, and back further still. It would be the same the world over; she knew that as well.

"Will he be there, too? Arnold?" she asked Matthew as they went through the gate.

"Dad?" he said. "Of course. He's waiting for us."

Irene smiled at that and patted her son's hand. "You're a good boy."

They joined the throng, fitting into place alongside them. The living, the dead----all were here. All were heading off over the horizon. As finally, it had come: a time to be judged rather than to judge.

The day that lasted a thousand years had finally begun.

' Marvel not at this: for the hour is coming, in the which all that are in the graves shall hear his voice, and shall come forth; they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation.'

(John 5:28-29)

Of Cabbages and Kings

NATE SOUTHARD

Holly stumbled down the winding country road, her feet sore and her legs tired. She tried to remember how long she'd been walking, but she couldn't. It felt as though she'd been shuffling along forever. Her eyes drooped closed, and she forced them open again.

Jesus, she wanted to sleep.

But she knew that was a bad idea. She hadn't seen any dead since she'd escaped the bus, but that didn't mean anything. They were quick, and if one caught her off guard, she wouldn't stand a chance.

Just like those poor bastards in the bus.

Twenty-two souls, all that was left of Millwood. They'd barely made it five miles before the dead had swarmed them. She could still hear their shrieks of terror, smell the rot-reek of the dead as they surged over the moving bus or crunched beneath its wheels. She felt the twist of her stomach as the vehicle lurched, spun, and finally rolled, sending the people inside this way and that.

And then the dead had come through the windows.

And Holly had run.

It was luck, dumb fucking luck. The wreck had knocked her off her feet, and she'd rolled down the aisle until she rested against the emergency exit. An instant after the bus had finally stopped her wits had returned in full, and she'd thrown the exit open, setting off the bus's alarm. The sound had confused the dead for the briefest of moments, and in that time she'd leapt from the bus and bolted to the edge of the forest.

She'd been too scared to drag anyone else along with her.

Even now, more than a day later, or maybe it was closer to two, she felt a great weight of shame on her shoulders. There had been children on the bus, and elderly. They had been her responsibility because the escape plan had been hers.

Well, hadn't she escaped?

She almost cracked a weak smile at the thought, but another crushing wave of guilt fell on her and she felt a fresh round of tears well up in her eyes. She blinked and they spilled down her cheeks, cutting furrows in the grime that had built up there. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut until the tears stopped, but every time she tried she heard the screams emanating from the bus, the cries to God and others, pleas for help or mercy that had gone unanswered as the dead tore everyone inside to pieces. She remembered how she had felt so powerless and scared standing just beyond the edge of the forest, knowing a braver person would try to help, would think of a way. She had only stood there, however, afraid to move and make any sound that might give her hiding spot away. She had watched for more than an hour, terrified and sickened, as the dead ate the people she cared about, not stopping until they had finished every last morsel. And then they had charged back up the road toward Millwood, no doubt hoping to find others who might not have made it out.

Holly turned to look behind her. In the distance, filtering the morning sunlight, rose a column of black smoke. She assumed it was from Millwood, but she couldn't tell with any certainty. She wasn't very good with direction or distance, never had been. Even now, she could only guess that she was somewhere between Versailles and Madison. She had probably walked more than twenty miles in the last day, but she couldn't be sure. She wasn't even positive she was heading toward Madison. She had to stay away from the main roads and towns. That's where the dead gathered. Then again, the bus had been on a country road yesterday and it had still been attacked. Maybe the dead had been on their way to Millwood, coming from Milan or Dillsboro, and had just lucked into a meal.

She growled to herself, trying to push the thought out of her brain. She didn't want to think about the bus anymore, about the wreck or the screams or the dead surging through the windows and doors or how she could only----

STOP IT!

Shrieking with rage, she fell to her knees and pounded both fists into the gravel. She hissed as the rocks bit into the flesh of her hands. She punished the ground again, crying out, and felt the warmth of her own blood as it trickled down her wrists. She cursed herself. The dead could smell blood, or at least she was pretty sure they could. She'd have to move faster now. If any were in the area they'd have no trouble locating her.

She pushed herself to her feet and continued along the gravel road. Her hair fell in her eyes and she brushed it back with her fingertips. It was getting long again. She'd kept it so short over the last twenty months, ever since Blake had failed to return from Rundberg and she'd decided to take a more active roll in Millwood's welfare. The shorter hair had helped keep the others off balance, see her as something other than John Manton's daughter, who used to work the counter at the Dairy Barn. The short hair had helped them see her as a leader, somebody to listen to. She had kept it short right up until things started to get bad, until the pressure began to weigh on her as she had to think first of the town's defense and then of escape. Now it was long enough to cling to her face and chin. Had it been months? Had it really been so long?