Author's note: Dead Opportunities is going through a complete re-write at the moment. New chapters have slowed daramatically whilst I do this. I am taking this task quite seriously to inflate the first Book from 65K words to closer to 100k and preparing it as a proper manuscript for consideration by an agent or even to publish it on my own website. I think the new chapters are much more polished and deeper than they were before, delving into Craig's mind much more to help you understand him and the action is more graphic and gripping.

I still intend for Dead Opportunities to be a Trilogy. I have many ideas in the back of my mind and I need to restruture Book I to better fit into the continuity. The ending of Book I is likely to change and more characters will feature.

I would very much appreciate any reviews with regards to these new chapters and I will likely re-write them and polish them again at a later stage. Many thanks to all who have given their patronage to my work and left reviews and comments. They are very important to me and I give them my utmost attention.

Kind regards,

Hoobajoo

CHAPTER 1 (re-written)

"Get up." Craig waved the pistol towards the open doorway.

"Please, man, don't-"

"Shut up." He barked coldly, waving the pistol again as the groggy and confused man complied and climbed out of bed, clothed only in a pair of boxer shorts, which clung to his dirty and oily skin.

"Hands on your head. Up. Move."

The man reluctantly rested his quivering hands above his head, conscious of the sudden and rapidly growing need to relieve himself as he steadied his balance.

"You do what I say or I'll shoot you in the balls right here, right now. Understand?"

He nodded dumbly, unable to speak as he willed his bladder to clasp shut, clutching his legs together. Craig had to get this guy to calm down before he pissed himself or fainted.

"What's you name?"

"J-J-John."

"Okay, John. I'm not going to hurt you. OK?"

John couldn't help but start to sob. "P-P-Please don't hurt m-me."

"What did I just say, faggot!" Craig barked, shaking his head condescendingly as though he was talking to a 5 year old. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"OK" John was obviously not convinced, but seemed to gather himself somewhat.

"Now, I want your car. Where are the keys?"

The wide eyed disbelief in John's eyes threatened to progress into anger at the thought someone would steal his precious baby. "Fuck off! I ain't giving you my car!"

Instantly, he regretted the protest as the full view of the pistol's short barrel enveloped his vision, suddenly seeming as though it was a large as a vintage cannon, pointed right between his eyes, amplified by its promise of quick death. His legs quivered as tiny drops of urine started to seep out, warming his crotch.

Belying his outrage at being refused, Craig spoke calmly, aware of the effect the pistol was having on his hapless victim. Further shouting would be useless, maybe counterproductive if the guests in the other rooms heard and called the cops.

"Look, mate. I can either shoot you and find them myself, or you can help me and get to live. Choose."

Surprisingly, it took a moment before the poor man decided, reaching the obvious conclusion that, despite his car being his most prized and beloved possession as though his own child, his own life was more valuable. With a dejected, but barely audible sigh, he shuffled over to the nightstand and plucked the tinkling keys out of the top drawer.

Like a school boy standing before an irate head master, he shyly and reluctantly stepped forward and held the keys up, flinching as they were snatched away from him. If he wasn't going to cry before when his life was threatened, he appeared he might now, as though already in mourning for his best friend.

"Alright. Outside."

Without a murmur, he shuffled towards the door, his boxers rubbing uncomfortably as they clung to his skin, soaked and dripping as he let go and pissed himself freely. Urged on by the gunman, he couldn't help but pause in the open doorway as the glow of the morning sun caused him to squint, the first natural light he had seen for a few days now. The asphalt of the walkway dug into the soles of his feet and the chill of the morning air froze his sweaty arm pits, causing him to shiver, but he couldn't help but wonder which direction and how far his brains would fly out into the car park if the man behind him pulled the trigger. But why would he do that?

After the brightness of the daylight started to clarify and his eyes adjusted, even if they still ached, he looked down lovingly on his car, parked neatly a few steps ahead of him. Most people saw an ordinary silver pearl Holden Commodore, but he saw his life flash before his eyes. He remembered the girls he had fondled in both the front and back seats, the times he had smoked joints with his best friends on the way to a club and the time he drag raced a dumb blonde in a Porsche at a set of lights and won.

Startled, he watched as the boot sprung open, the gunman behind him having pressed the release button on the car key.

"Get in."

Incredulous, John turned around and opened his mouth to protest, but Craig stepped forward and shoved the gun right at his face.

"Get. In."

John started crying, choking heaves of air into his lungs between sobs, but slowly climbed inside the boot of the car with his hands still quivering above his head. He couldn't help but flinch as his bare skin came into contact with the icy cold felt material lining the floor. Thankfully, it was empty except for some old wrappers and dead insects.

"But.."

"NOW!"

The stench of rotten food and damp clothes assaulted his senses as he tried to touch as little of his confines as he could. He kept the car in reasonable condition and cleanliness, but how often do you expect to have to climb inside the back? Whimpering, he tucked his feet against his stomach and retreated inside just as Craig slammed the boot lid down and locked it.

Craig could hear his smelly hostage panicking and screaming inside, but he calmly ignored the muffled cries and sat down into the driver's seat, throwing his sports bag full of spare clothes in the passenger foot well. With a solid turn of the key, the car coughed to life and the dribbling throb of the engine drowned out the cries still trying to permeate from the back.

He needed the car, his own being a very run down Toyota with over 300,000 kilometres on the clock. There was nothing in it of value, so it was now destined to lie alone and abandoned in the hotel car park. There was no intention to ever come back for it.

This car was light years ahead for quality and reliability and he had previously pondered just waltzing in to John's room next door, simply putting a bullet in him and taking the keys, but you never know when a spare hostage might come in handy.

Besides, John was a low life stoner that liked to crank up his stereo full blast at all hours. He hated him. A bit of revenge wouldn't go astray, he surmised.

Again, Craig was pleasantly surprised and impressed at the contrast between his own dirty car and this example as he stared out through the near spotless windshield. Lazily, the car rolled to the exit, passing the hotel front office where he got a quick glance of a concerned young boy at the front desk, presumably at the end of his graveyard shift, probably trying to call the police.

Unfazed, he ambled along out onto the driveway and turned left down a lonely street, empty and devoid of any activity, much like most mornings in this area. Frankston was once one of the poorer suburbs of Melbourne, formerly known as the single mother on welfare capital of Victoria. The entire area was gentrifying, retirees and families with money lured by the proximity to the coast and it being the gateway to the Mornington Peninsula. However, elements of its former squalor remained, either lazily or defiantly resisting the urge to clean up.

Round here, no one was awake, let alone getting ready for work. No one worked here really either. Craig's meagre wage at as fruit picker at an orchard a short way down the coast was like a king's ransom compared to the squandered fortnightly welfare payments these lowlifes received.

It was coming on 8am, but none of them would be awake for a few hours yet, and even then they would just drown the day away in drugs and alcohol, their bedrooms and lounge rooms almost perpetually clouded with the sickly sweet smell of marijuana.

A lone soccer ball lying in the gutter of a dilapidated house caught his attention. It was the only clean thing in sight. Every house in the street had overgrown lawns, their weatherboards chipped and peeling, fences broken and falling over, cars abandoned and stranded on hopelessly flat tyres. 'Charm' as the real estate agents put it.

This kind of environment was no place to live, but Craig had no choice. Circumstance had conspired to reduce him to what he now was. Bitter. A drunk. Depressed. Worthless.

XXX

Craig raised the loaded pistol to his head, staring blankly ahead at a picture on the wall across the room. It was one of those cheap paintings of a beach with the sun shining and boats off in the distance. Little white smudges in the blue blotches of water…. far away.

He continued to stare at those boats, the gun barrel now glued to his right temple, ready to fire. The little boats in the picture were calling him to that little blurred horizon that might promise something nice and free from all of this.

How nice to escape, never see this place again.

Start over.

His finger twitched and depressed the trigger as he shut his eyes in anticipation, expecting a violent crack and a sudden darkness to envelope him, pierced by a white light calling to him softly.

CLICK.

He opened his eyes to see the little white boats still there, defiantly teasing him. Ha ha, you're not going anywhere!

Sweat rolled down his face, threatening to sting his eyes and he trembled so violently he feared the gun would fly out of his hands.

Clasping it tightly, he lowered the pistol and cupped it in his lap, looking down at it longingly as though his best friend just let him down.

"Fuck…"

He forgot to flick the safety off.

Sobs wracked his body as he carefully placed the gun back on the nightstand, pointing it away from himself.

"Too fucking stupid to even kill myself. A goddamn fuck up." he cursed

Like a lonely child, longing for a mother's comforting touch, he curled up on the bed, crying and blubbering until he fell asleep.

XXX

He awoke with a start in desperate need for a leak. With a groan, he rolled out of bed, remembering the gun was still on the nightstand next to the half empty bottle of whisky. Despite the disgusting amount he drank just last night, his head was surprisingly clear.

The barely working hotel clock radio beamed '6:49am', bathing the room in a very soft red glow that was barely enough to see where his pillows where, right in front of him.

Carefully, he tip toed around the edge of the bed, but misjudged a step and stubbed his toe against the wooden frame, cursing loudly.

Grunting and mumbling, the warm pain finally subsided and he turned on the TV to get some extra light. It was the news.

Further on, he tip toed around the remaining debris of unwashed clothes scattered in his way and practically exploded into the toilet bowl, almost missing. The relief was instantly satisfying as a relieved sigh escaped between his dry and cracked lips.

The slight mumble of the newsman dribbled around the bathroom door, mixing with the sloshing of the water in the toilet as it felt the weight of the world was leaving his shoulders.

"Ahhhhh".

Craig ripped off a square of toilet paper, wiped himself and held the slightly damp paper above the toilet between his thumb and index finger. Eyeing it in the glow, he let go and watched as the wad fluttered down towards the bowl in a series of arcs and stuck to the side of the bowl, just shy of the water.

A grin stretched across his face as he pressed the button and watched the hapless wad disappear, before turning to the toilet paper roll on the metal ring fixed to the basin.

"See what you guys got to look forward to? Enjoy, you little fuckers!"

Craig washed his hands, whistling an improvised tune while he lathered, aware that he felt strangely relaxed. All thoughts of last night seemed far away for some reason.

"Whatever. I feel good. Why question why?" he mumbled.

Stepping out of the ensuite, a glance at the TV revealed a man with carefully styled hair mouthing softly using a very serious expression. A picture materialized next to him of a gruesome dead body accompanied by a tagline "flesh eating maniacs" in blood red lettering.

"Uh?"

Flicking on a light switch and sitting on the end of the bed, he turned up the volume to listen, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the harsh light.

"…-own at this point where the assailants came from or why they did this. This culminates in a series of reports of brutal and mysterious murders that we have received tonight. All seem to share similar outcomes including people being bitten by crazed and rabid assailants. Eaten alive, as bizarre as that seems. Wait….. I understand we are now going live to the Alfred hospital where I think we have a report of a survivor of an attack…."

The newsreader stared concernedly. Those newsreaders do it very well, they frown, nod and go "hmmm" like they actually care, he mused as he waited for the feed to begin.

An Asian woman standing in what looked like a hospital foyer held a microphone in hand staring into the camera intently, eyes shining excitedly at the prospect of reporting something so weird and gruesome. Her hair looked as though she had a $500 salon treatment and had then promptly bumped into something, messing it up slightly.

"Yes Troy. We received a tip off that a rush of patients had arrived covered in blood after an attack from a crazed man. We don't know what's happened exactly, but it does appear that…. Huh?"

The newsreader turned around and pointed her for the cameraman to get a shot of something new. The camera panned to the right where were working frantically over a stretcher. The camera microphone didn't pick it up very well, but it sounded like there was lots of shouting going on.

The Asian reporter screamed as a dark figure seemed to leap off the stretcher and attack one of the nurses, tackling her to the ground. Everyone was screaming, but the cameraman's 'scoop' instincts sprung into action as he rushed forward to better capture the scene.

Suddenly, blood sprayed everywhere and the poor nurse on the ground clutched her throat, panicking and flailing around.

The attacker surged for the camera and the vision went blurry in a flurry of motion, the sound having also disappeared.

Craig stared at the newsfeed dumbfounded. He was only aware then that he was holding his breath.

The vision then seemed to stabilize and the image showed what looked like a security guard on top of the attacker bashing his head with a truncheon, his back to the camera.

The feed was again momentarily lost in a blur and a view of the hospital foyer doors appeared, with two figures running full pelt towards the camera.

"Oh my god, omigod!"

"Get outta here!"

One of the figures filled the screen and seemed to charge the cameraman. A fleetingly gruesome sight of a blood-soaked figure filled the view before the feed cut to static.

The screen cut back to the perfect hair newsreader back in to the studio, a shocked and numb look on his face. "Um…. It looks like we lost the feed there. Do we know what happened? Can we get the feed back?" He looked off camera, seemingly to his producer or a floorman.

Craig continued to stare at the TV, watching the newsman stumble through trying to explain what happened. Mercifully, the ads started rolling.

"Jesus Christ!" he stammered. He could remember last night in between shots of whiskey that there were similar, although much less detailed reports of people being attacked in the street, but they were much more isolated. Hospitals around the country had reportedly been flooded with people over the passed week bearing symptoms similar to the flu, but much worse, vomiting blood, hypothermia and aggressive behaviour. All week the news had been buzzing with the prospect that an epidemic was afoot, not just in Australia, but around the world. No one knew what it was or where it was coming from. One reporter called it 'blood flu' and the name stuck.

An ad for business consultants of some sort, prompted him to change the channel. Programs for children's cartoons, music videos and infotainment were all replaced with other newsfeeds, each of them centred on scenes of chaos and destruction, whether in the city or local hospitals and police stations. One channel in particular caught his attention when an army representative spoke to a panicking press.

"This is a national emergency. As implausible as it may seem, people everywhere are suddenly exhibiting signs of cannibalistic behaviour and attacking members of the public for unknown reasons. It is unknown whether this has any correlation with the recent flood of cases dubbed blood flu. Cases that have been investigated thus far have shown that attackers typically show no or little vital signs and drastically reduced cognitive ability. Their behaviour has been described as aggressive in the extreme. There is an unconfirmed theory that the virus attacks the brain leaving sufferers with drastically reduced brain function, which may account for their aggressive behaviour.

We have received reports all over the country of this abnormal behaviour and advise all members of the public to stay indoors and await a concerted military and police response. Should you ever encounter a hostile, it is advised that you contact your local police or emergency services and avoid any contact if possible. We will provide more guidance and clarification when more information becomes available."

"Fuck me." Craig whispered, stunned and shocked at the update. Surely this can't be real.

Thoughts of blood thirsty maniacs suddenly crashing through his window assaulted him and wouldn't let go. Their faces hidden by darkness except for pearly white teeth, grinning through slivers of blood, dripping on the floor as they piled onto him, pounding him into the carpet and tearing him apart.

Lurching around the room in a panic, he tripped over his muddy work boots and tumbled onto the night stand. He yelped loudly as the corner of the little table jabbed into his thigh painfully, but the sight in front of him caused him to freeze, the pain suddenly forgotten.

Next to the upturned and rapidly emptying whiskey bottle, he saw his pistol, black and ominous against the white table top.

Yes.

A plan formed in his mind. The thought of his gun blowing away his attackers, cutting them in half was exhilarating, but his excitement was dulled by another realisation.

More would come. I gotta get outta here. Down to the coast where it's isolated, he thought.

Quickly he grabbed the gun and tucked into the small of his back, reassured as it jutted uncomfortably into his skin and he hungrily searched for a bag. Gathering his dirty clothes, still lying on the floor, cluttered and draped in all sorts of places in his pig sty of a room, he shoved them inside and grabbed his car keys from the top drawer of the nightstand.

Carefully, he searched the room looking for more possessions of value to take with him, but he was surprised that the bag of dirty clothes and the gun still poking into his back were all he could think of to take. The whiskey bottle had already drained onto the floor and… well that was it. There was nothing else. The room suddenly looked so empty.

Even then, the room was not his. Just rented out to him for $100 a week. You could feel more at home and comfortable in the chair of a doctor's waiting room reading a six month old magazine about bathroom renovations. The bed stank of sweat and piss, the shower coughed out as much clogged hair as it did water and it felt like a jail cell. Well not quite. Jail cells get cleaned out at some point. This one's been passed over a bit for that. The poor cleaning lady hated waking Craig up to get in and do her job. Having decided she wasn't getting paid enough to be routinely told she was fat and ugly and should go back to her own country, she simply decided to skip the room over every time, which suited Crag just fine.

Well, the bitch was fat and ugly, he mused, shrugging his shoulders in an apathetic defence as he heading outside into the morning sun. Fingering the gun tucked behind him, he slowly stepped out into the empty and grey car park, looking for threats. With a tinge of disappointment and in contrast to the panicked tone of the news reports on the TV back inside, everything was quiet.

No movement and no noise, at all. Just dull concrete and tired trees, not even bothering to house a bird to see in the morning with a song.

Sighing, his eyes settled on the old and faded Toyota parked before him, purchased for $600 from a pot head a couple of months ago. It was a shit box, to be sure, but it got the job done, he felt. Well mostly. The threat of a dead battery had been hanging over the sorry machine for a little while now. Nevertheless, he unlocked it and climbed inside, pulling out the pistol and setting it down on the passenger seat, next to an empty water bottle and hopelessly out-dated street directory.

With a hopeful pause, he fumbled with the keys and wrenched the key around in the ignition.

Over and over again, the engine coughed and wheezed, but refused to catch. Useless. Now of all the times.

Panicking, his eyes settled on the gleaming Commodore in the car space next to his. His hotel neighbour owned it and always kept it clean. It was much bigger, better and newer than this rust bucket. Looking back and forth between the shiny car and the pistol lying on the passenger seat next to him, he wrapped his hand around the weapon and stepped back outside, creeping up to the owner's hotel room door.

XXX

The stench of death thickened the stale air, but could not dull the screams of an unfortunate woman who woke just in time to witness two assailants crash through her bedroom window. Terrified and confused, she only had a moment to try and untangle herself out from her bed covers and dive away, but was too slow as the crazed attackers surged across and tackled her down in an instant. Desperately, she tried to struggle out of their grip, but they were too strong and her screams turned into a choking gurgle as one of them tore her throat out, sending great streams of dark blood shooting across the floor.

They seemed to relish the struggle and slowed as their victim twitched and writhed, slowly succumbing in wide eyed horror. Satisfied with their work, they began to devour their prey, but hesitated when they heard a noise from outside. A promise of more fresh meat.

XXX

The car radio crackled at first as the automatic antenna rose out from the sleek body work, but the baritone voice of the calm news announcer was clear and smooth compared to his old Toyota. Everything about this car and the thrill of its theft was giving Craig an erection.

"Further reports have been coming in as chaos threatens to grip Melbourne. Traffic jams have crippled the city district and main arterial roads as riots and looting spiral out of control. Police and army units are being deployed to contain the situation, but many are still reeling from the suddenness of it all. Government representatives are still at a loss to explain what may have caused this, but continue to advise residents to stay indoors and barricade their homes. However, many people seem to have ignored this advice and are trying to flee the city, causing many inner suburban roads to clog amid reports of accidents and blockages."

As he reached the end of the street and looked for traffic, Craig caught sight of two figures in his rear view mirror running towards him. He leaned out of his seat and peered through his back window for a better look.

They were about 50 metres away and closing fast. A pair of young men running side by side, covered in blood, one of them with an arm missing, the whites of their crazed eyes visible even from here. Must be these psycho bastards, he surmised. His heart pounded as he stabbed the accelerator down, sending the car lurching forward as the tyres squealed, searching for grip and finding it soon after as the traction control kicked in, bleeding the accelerator off until the tyres bit into the asphalt.

Quickly, the car reached 40 kmph and the men continued to give chase, although already stared to drop back. Craig had been watching them in his rear view mirror so intently he forgot where he was driving and had to swerve to the right to avoid crashing into a house fence. The car bucked and rolled but soon righted itself, having lost precious speed as the tyres squealed again and the pursuers gained some distance.

The car now stable and the road ahead open and straight, Craig tried to run through his options. He originally intended to get to the local supermarket and somehow stock up on food and water. That plan was going to go out the window if he didn't get these guys off his back.

John.

Time to put him to use.

Reaching down, he found the boot release catch by his feet and looked out through the back window to see that it had indeed popped open. John, at first grateful for the opportunity to escape, opened the boot up and recoiled back inside as the blood soaked pursuers bore down towards him, growling.

"Jesus Christ!" he screamed. "Fuck! Shit! Help me!"

The attackers were still running in hot pursuit, visible in Craig's side mirrors. It was a wonder they were still following him. They were still running at full steam in a sprint. "They shouldn't be running this fast. One of them has an arm missing for fuck's sake!" he thought.

Nevertheless, the car was speeding along faster than the men could keep up and Craig slowed down for them. He had to get them to catch up and get John, hopefully giving them a target to occupy themselves with and abandon their chase.

Wild with fear, John felt the car markedly decrease speed and the pursuers promptly caught up, reaching for the boot's edge as he screamed again. "Oh God! Faster! Faster! Don't let them get me!"

Craig increased his speed as a tight corner in the road approached. As he accelerated, one of the attackers dove forward and latched on. With one hand clasped tightly around the boot latch, its other hand searched inside through the half open boot lid, trying to grab the naked prey inside like a bird pecking inside a snail shell. The other attacker tried in vain to keep up, but lost ground quickly.

Craig approached the corner and swerved the car around just as John reached up from inside the boot to try and dislodge the determined attacker. However, the car bucked and snapped around so violently that he lost his balance and tumbled out through the open space, smacking into the rough asphalt and skidding along into the gutter.

Craig saw his flying pink blur in his mirror and arced the car around to watch the coming carnage as the two crazed attackers quickly closed in on the hapless and torn man.

John, dazed and semi-conscious from the fall, snapped awake as the pain of his open wounds and the various stones and pieces of asphalt lodged into his skin registered, feeling as though has was sitting in a bath of searing hot water. Everything burned as he opened his eyes, screaming at the pain, just in time to see his attackers bear down on him.

Nothing could describe the sheer terror and horror he felt as his throat disappeared, replaced by a gurgling choke, torn away and the gushing blood drowning him. Try as he could to swat them away, he could not stop the other attacker grabbing his face and biting down, scraping its teeth against his eye socket, piercing his eyeball and taking away his vision.

In a way, it was a merciful thing as he didn't have to see the two abominations smile and chew down on the flesh they had torn off him. He couldn't see their triumph as they tore into his stomach and pulled out his intestines, draping them over him like tinsel on a Christmas tree.

The unholy sight was hidden from him, but not from Craig who watched, both horrified and utterly fascinated from his parked car. Whilst he had his suspicions, the sight before him confirmed it. He had seen zombie movies before. He had seen movies of the re-animated dead when he was younger. It was unmistakable.

These were zombies.

The walking dead. Bullet to the brain. All that business.

However, all the ones he had seen in the movies were slow and shuffling morons. These bastards could run.

"Goddamn!" he exclaimed breathlessly.

A slither of movement across the street woke him from his thoughts and away from the gruesome sight before him as an old woman's face poked out from between curtains through a window. She looked as though she intended to complain about the noise, but froze in a horrified stare at the carnage. John only now started to succumb to his death as the blood loss from his throat filled his lungs, despite his choking attempts to breath.

The old woman looked up at Craig, disbelieving and incredulous before retreating back inside to vomit on the floor with disgust and horror.

Somewhat stunned and in a daze, Craig looked back down at the sorry and unholy sight, John's naked and lily white skin stained black and red with his blood as his intestines snaked out onto the road and into the gutter. The two zombies seemed not to care for Craig, satisfied they had made their kill and were intent on enjoying the spoils of their efforts.

Acknowledging their indifference, and thankful for it, Craig slowly drove on, heading for the main road for the supermarket, unable to hold back a smirk.