"You know why, sweetie. It's too dangerous. Those things are out there. There's no place for us to go." Sheila ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it back from her face. Her hand came away greasy. It'd been four days since the dead rose up. Since then, the closest she'd come to bathing had been washing her hands and face in the kitchen sink.

There was no way she was leaving Bobby and Stacie alone, not even for ten minutes. And at ages nine and eleven, they refused to stay in the bathroom with her, or bathe together.

She knew the severity of the situation hadn't sunk into their MTV-trained attention spans. To them this was something new, something exciting, not a life-threatening catastrophe.

Not yet.

It would take them a while to realize television, school, their friends, the mall, all those things might be gone for a long time to come.

Maybe forever.

"There're zombies here, too, Mom," Bobby said, using the one word she hated to hear. "Maybe we could drive into the city, find the police. Or go deep into the woods, to a cabin or something."

Sheila shook her head. "No. All the cities, from Princeton to Manhattan, are full of them. Don't you remember the news before the TV went out? And we don't know what's in the woods. They could be there, too."

"Besides, dorkwad, you don't know the first thing about camping. You couldn't start a fire with matches and gasoline." Stacie, her dark blonde hair still streaked with pale yellow from their vacation at Seaside last month, gave her younger brother the kind of smug look pre-teens seem to develop from nowhere.

"Oh, yeah? Well you..."

"Enough, both of you." Sheila used what her kids called 'the tone.' Four days stuck in the house with her two children and they were already on each other's nerves.

For the thousandth time she wished John was here with them. He had a way of saying just the right thing, a funny, off-the-cuff comment or a calming word, to diffuse almost any situation.

He'd gone missing the same day the dead began rising from their graves. He'd been working late----she hadn't expected him back 'til after midnight----so it wasn't until morning that she'd realized he'd never made it home.

By then, the police had their hands full and weren't even answering the phones, let alone looking into missing persons cases.

Every time she thought about him, a reluctant acceptance of his death struggled with the hope that he'd gotten off the turnpike and found a place to hide, a motel or office building, and that he was alive.

And if he was alive, she knew he'd find a way back to them. That was the real reason they weren't leaving. But she couldn't broach that subject with Stacie and Bobby.

It wouldn't be fair to get their hopes up.

Not when the chances were so small.

~

John Grainger looked down at himself.

God help me, I did it.

The memories had returned, his thought process almost normal. As if...

As if the flesh and blood restored them.

He wiped his hands on his torn and filthy shirt, leaving red smears, strings of skin and tissue, and pink gobs of brain.

He'd devoured the man from the truck. Torn his throat out. Clawed into him until he reached the softest parts, the juiciest tidbits.

His mind had screamed in horrified disgust but something else had control.

The craving.

The human meat had tasted better, more satisfying, than any meal he'd ever eaten in his life.

And it had restored him.

I'm a monster.

But was he? Maybe it was only this one time; maybe the human flesh had returned his sanity, his 'self.'

I need to get back to Sheila and the kids. They'll be worried. Have to make sure they're safe, then they can get me to a hospital, a research lab. Someplace where they can study me, find a cure.

Return me to normal.

John stepped over the remains of the driver and looked inside. The oversized gear lever and confusing array of buttons and gauges convinced him he'd be better off walking.

Home. Have to get home.

John headed north on the Turnpike towards Fort Lee.

Towards home.

~

"Mom, I see something."

Sheila hurried over to the front window, alarmed by the quiver in her daughter's voice. It had been three days since the last creature approached their cul-de-sac, let alone came near their house. One of the neighbors had shot that one, just before he'd packed his whole family into their Denali and taken off for God knows where.

The body still lay on the sidewalk, a bloated sack of putrefying flesh after seventy-two hours in the hot, muggy July weather.

It's like a giant version of a dead woodchuck, she thought, barely able to contain a sudden insane giggle.

Now isn't the time to lose it. Get a grip.

She moved Stacie aside and peeked out the window. Sure enough, something was moving at the far end of the street where it branched off from Culver Avenue, right by the Henderson's house.

"Bobby, give me the binoculars." The sudden magnification made it seem as if she'd leaped down the street.

The person was dead, no doubt about that----the herky-jerky movements, the shuffling feet, the dirty, torn clothes covered in blood.

Sheila's stomach did a flip-flop, threatening to release the tomato soup she'd had for lunch. She closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping the food down.

They didn't have enough to spare to waste it on being squeamish.

When she had herself under control, she opened her eyes. The thing---- zombie, dammit. Call it what it is----had turned away and was now walking towards the Henderson's front door.

She realized the Henderson's car was still in the driveway. Were they still home, hiding out the same way she had her family hidden here?

The zombie stopped and tilted its head, turning first one way and then the other. She couldn't see its face but it looked as if the creature was sniffing at something.

Smelling for food? Can they do that?

"Bobby, Stacie. Shut all the windows in the house. Hurry."

"But Mom, it's hot out. If we shut the windows..."

"Goddammit, Bobby, shut up and do what I say!" She kept her voice low, not shouting. If the things could smell people they sure as hell could hear them.

Footsteps behind her let her know the kids had gone off to do what she'd told them. She'd explain later. She pulled down the windows nearest to her, the ones on either side of the front door, and closed the gauzy, blue curtains as well.

She pushed aside the material just enough to aim the binoculars out.

The undead man had moved again. She managed to catch a glimpse of his leg as he went around the side of the house, heading for the Henderson's back yard.

She watched him open the gate, realized they couldn't be as mindless as the news said. Theirs is funny. It sticks. You have to jiggle the latch and pull up on the gate at the same time. Unless you knew that you could stand there forever trying to open it.

The kids came back down the stairs, Bobby's sneakers thump-thumping on the wood. The way his feet grew, he'd soon need another pair.

Doesn't look like we'll be shopping anytime in the near future. By now the Paramus Park and Garden State malls look like something from Dawn of the Dead.

Hell, we mightall be barefoot by winter.

If we're still alive.

That last thought was a black crow that circled endlessly through the landscape of her thoughts. She'd catch sight of it during the day, sometimes far away, sometimes close by. At night it roosted right over her as she lay on the bed, Bobby and Stacie sleeping on either side of her.