Damned zombie-lovers----they didn't even inoculate their own kid against becoming one of them! How irresponsible can they be?

Land slid his hand down Hazelwood's thigh to her holster. He pulled out her service pistol, drove it into Paul's chin, and squeezed the trigger.

The Cyclist

SIMON WOOD

Before you condemn me, know this: I'm a product of society. You made the monster you see before you, the monster who will ultimately take your life. Just remember, you brought this upon yourself. You are responsible. I'm not. And what has changed me from someone like you into someone like me? If I had to put a label on it, I would have to say your selfishness. People like you stopped me from doing what I love: cycling.

Ignoring health and environmental benefits, cycling is one of the last bastions of modern life where the individual defines the limits. I could ride as fast as I liked. I could ride where I liked. It was freedom. But it's freedom I don't possess anymore. I'm cursed; damned by all motorists to trawl the streets searching for vengeance. But, don't worry; I only kill those who deserve it. And you deserve it.

You ran the light. You didn't think about me. The shriek of tires matched the panic in your eyes when you realized it was all too late and you wouldn't stop in time. I bet you shit bricks when you hit me and thought you'd killed me.

I wonder, did you see me smile? No? Pity. You should. It's a sight to behold. Scar tissue isn't as resilient as skin and splits easily. My face bleeds when I smile too hard. Are you sure you wouldn't like to see me smile?

Don't turn your head away. Look at me. You should see this, the damage you've done, your contribution to my tapestry of wounds. Yes, the scars are nasty and the malformations are disfiguring. When you've shattered every bone in your body and have had every square inch of flesh flayed from you, from repeated collisions----like I have----what do you expect? I'm a patchwork of past agonies.

But don't worry; it doesn't hurt. It used to, but I'm incapable of hurt now. I'm calcified bone and scar tissue. My bones can't break and my nerve endings can't bond to my scars. I'm indestructible, like a superhero.

Two months after the doctors had set my last bone and grafted my last scrap of virgin flesh, a UPS truck struck me. I should have been killed, but I didn't have a scratch. I realized I had a gift and shouldn't waste it. That's when I knew what I was meant to do.

Lying there, watching the driver panic, euphoria and hatred mixed in my veins creating a volatile cocktail. I got up and snapped that UPS driver's neck. I can't remember ever being happier. I was striking back for the cyclist, giving back what we'd been taking all these years.

I don't kill drivers indiscriminately. I'm not a psychopath. I kill those who would have killed me. The universe has to remain in balance. Someone has to pay the ferryman, right? If it's not me, then it has to be you.

Actually, I'm performing a public service, ridding the world of the irresponsible, the reckless, the drunk and the fun seekers who hurt cyclists for kicks. You wouldn't believe the number of people who've run me down because they think it's funny. People have thrown bottles at me, squeezed me into walls and flung doors open as they've passed me. But the fun ends when I tear the smile from their faces.

Yes, I know, you didn't mean it, but what has that got to do with anything? Just because you got lucky hitting someone like me today doesn't mean that it couldn't have been someone less resilient. You've done what you've done and you have to pay.

You have no idea how much I despise you drivers, and how much pleasure I get from watching you squirm. I'm so driven by hate that my bile is corrosive. My spit cuts through blacktop like it's wet Kleenex, so you can imagine what it can do to flesh. Shall I spit on you to demonstrate?

I wish you wouldn't plead. Look, being a parent is no qualification for having your death sentence commuted. I was a parent once. You wouldn't think it to look at me, I know. My wife and child left me when I refused to give up my bike. They were seeing a transformation from husband and father to... this. I couldn't give up cycling, you see. I'd done nothing wrong. Outlaws surrounded me and I was the last innocent man... and innocent men don't surrender. I learned that from western movies.

No, I won't look into my heart. I already saw it when an eighteen-wheeler ripped my chest open. My heart did nothing but twitch and squirt my blood out of holes that shouldn't have been there. Give me one good reason why I should let you live. Think long and hard now. Impress me and I might just reconsider, but if you don't, well, you know what will happen.

Hmm, an interesting point. No, I don't have anyone to tell my story. Everyone who knows me is dead, like me. Do you think you can make me a legend?

Are you just saying that so I'll let you go?

No? Good. But I can't let you off that easy. A spook story never convinced anyone by itself. People like to have something tangible to believe in. They'll believe you if I leave my mark. You can tell my story, but you'll never drive again. I'll let you go, but I'm taking your eyes.

You had to know there would be a price. Now don't wriggle. You're not going anywhere. If you thought my spit could burn, you'll be amazed by the heat of my uric acid.

Ah, your screams flatter me.

Don't worry; the pain won't last. When it's over, tell everyone I'm riding the roads. They won't know which cyclist is me and they shouldn't try to guess. They should just know to beware the Cyclist. I'm here and I'm waiting for them to break the rules.

Family First

JG FAHERTY

Intense pain filled the man's head. He couldn't think clearly. He tried to focus but a burning hunger filled him, obliterating all other thoughts.

Where am I? Woods, trees. Daylight. This is all wrong. I was in my car. Driving... those people, on the road...

Teeth, biting... blood.

The rest disappeared into a hazy, black cloud. When it cleared, new thoughts came to him.

Wait... my name is John. I have a family. A wife. Sheila. She's blonde. The children...

The ground slanted in front of him, causing him to lose his balance.

Must climb, go home. Find my family. One hand on the ground, then the other. Move my feet.

I can do this.

He reached the top of the hill. A car sat there, the door open, the windows broken.

My car? Was there an accident?

Why didn't anyone find me?

Walk, must walk. Someone will see me. Find me.

He took one step and then another. It was hard to move his feet, as if they didn't want to obey.

So hungry. It hurts, hurts inside. Need a hospital.

Need food.

The sound of an approaching truck broke the stillness. The tractor-trailer came to a stop in a squeal of airbrakes.

He tried to speak to the man climbing out of the cab.

"I... I... help..."

The sudden smell of food overwhelmed him, pushed away all other thoughts.

Food. Must eat. Must...

Oh, God, no! I...

Must eat.

~

"Mom, why can't we leave? Everyone else is gone." Bobby Grainger set down his binoculars and turned his piercing blue eyes, so much like his father's, towards his mother.