It's been five years since the daring military rescue at that unforgettable, lonesome old farmhouse in Alleghany, Pennsylvania. Five years of military examinations, being shuttled from one quarantine zone to another, and, occasionally, being conscripted to help with "sanitization." This last was just a fancy word for zombie-killing; sometimes, a military officer would decide they were running out of space, and an immunes-only "sanitization team" would be ferried by helicopter into an infected zone with orders to "clean it out." This was a nightmare job that no one wanted. House by house, room by room, closet by closet, an area of up to several city blocks would be cleaned out. Most of the time, the area would have lost power, and you would be stumbling around in inky blackness with nothing but your dim, flickering flashlight to see by, kicking down doors and ripping open closets, deliberately looking for the infected. Sometimes there were fights in the camps when sanitization time drew near.
But before all that started, back when the national animal of America seemed to be the zombie, four people walked into a lonely, desolate farmhouse in Alleghany. Four people barricaded themselves in, called the military, and prepared for a siege. Only three people got on the APC and were evacuated out of there. Francis was left behind, left for dead. Abandoned. When push came to shove, a side of the gruff, grizzly biker no one had ever seen before emerged. The APC had parked outside the farmhouse, the soldiers inside shouting for the survivors to just get in the damn vehicle! What they didn't see was the tank. It dropped from the roof of the farmhouse directly in the path of the APC, roaring and bellowing. Francis was the first to see it. "Get in! Get in!" he yelled, shoving his closest teammate - Zoey - into the belly of the waiting APC. Bill and Louis followed without thinking, and Francis slammed the hatch close button. From outside the vehicle. "What the hell are you doing!" Bill yelled, eyes going wide. Zoey leapt for the door, throwing her shoulder against it to try to stop it from closing, practically in tears. "God damn it, Francis, open that door and get in here! We're all leaving together! You promised!" Francis turned and gave her a long look, his face a picture of deadly calm. "If someone doesn't distract that tank, it's going to smash the APC like a cardboard box, and no one's going to be getting out. With my bad attitude and criminal record, they probably wouldn't have been too fond of me in the safe zone anyway, eh?" A hint of a smile tugged up at one corner of his lips, a hopeless attempt at humor in a humorless situation. Zoey slumped down on the floor, crying and murmuring "No… no…" Bill stood up and walked over to the hatch as it slowly, inexorably closed. "Let me do it, son," he said, ramming the bolt home on his assault rifle. "You've got a long life ahead of you, whereas me… well, I'm getting' up there in years." Francis shook his head, and said simply "They're gonna need you," before the hatch slammed shut on any further protestations.
Unslinging the autoshotgun from his back, Francis strode forward towards the tank, grim and outwardly emotionless. Raising the big weapon, he gave the hulking monstrosity a blast straight in the face, then turned and dashed off away from the APC, luring the tank with a few more shotgun blasts over his shoulder. Turning, the behemoth gave chase, roaring in fury. With a roar of its engine, the APC lurched forward and sped off, smashing through the flimsy fence that bordered the farmhouse and escaping into the wilderness as the sun broke over the horizon.
Now it's five years later, and the survivors of the "Green Flu" - as what's left of the American government calls it - are all finally leaving the army internment camps they had been placed into when they were evacuated. Those lucky enough not to be carriers of the infection were all returned to "regular" cities along the mostly-uninfected west coast; Los Angeles, Seattle and Las Vegas being the three main "rehabilitation hubs," as the army was calling them. All of those who were carriers, however, were segregated from the rest of society: driven out by bus into the middle of some godforsaken wasteland and dumped unceremoniously into an immunes-only refugee camp. Little more than shanty towns, these ramshackle villages of wood were highly reminiscent of towns back in the Wild West days, both in look and in attitude.
Bill sat at the grungy bar, sipping idly from a glass of beer. It tasted like, in Bill's own colorful language, "piss-water," but it was better than water to calm fraying nerves. The old veteran's age was really starting to show; his beard had grown out and was now silvery-white instead of its previous grey color, the lines on his face were deepening, and he moved with the unsteady, jerky gait of one on whom arthritis is starting to take hold. The holstered handgun at his hip, however, spoke volumes about his undimmed fighting spirit. His beloved beret was gone, letting his long, unkempt silver hair tumble about his neck and shoulders. Steely eyes glared out from under bushy brows at the far wall as he toyed absentmindedly with his glass, the almond-colored liquid inside sloshing about as the cup moved. It had been five years since Francis had lured the tank away from them, and Bill could still picture the expression of grim determination on the biker's face as the APC's hatch slammed shut. From the tautness of his face, the way his chin muscles worked, Bill knew the big man was fighting back tears, which was what really got to the old veteran - Francis never cried.
Shaking his shaggy head to clear it of unwanted memories, Bill threw back the last of his beer and stood up shakily. Even though age and arthritis had rendered his legs unsteady, Bill grimly refused to use a cane. He was too proud to accept the weakness slowly taking hold of his body. As he passed through the front door of the bar, his eye was caught by the wanted poster standing nearby, as it had been every day for the past week since it was put up. Something about the muscular, broad-shouldered figure in the low-quality photograph was eerily familiar; the way he stood, his thick arms folded over his broad chest; the tattoo on his bare upper right arm. Bill got the feeling he'd seen him somewhere before, but couldn't place him. Scratching his thick beard, Bill shook his head and walked past.
"Well lookie right here," a slightly nasal voice, thick with southern accent, burst from somewhere to his left as Bill entered the mechanic's shop. Turning, the old veteran grinned as he took in the young man striding towards him. Ellis had grown quite a bit in the last five years. No longer the 'kid' of the group, he had bulked out significantly, filling out the old Bullshifters T-shirt that he stubbornly refused to get rid of, even though the thing had more holes in it than a cheese grater. He'd somehow found a tattoo artist in the refugee camp, and the tribal design on his right bicep had been extended to cover his entire arm. A five-o'-clock shadow was evident on his chin, and his ballcap rested atop a shaggy mop of brown hair. "Bill!" he said, taking the vet's hand and giving it a hearty shake. "Well hot damn, but it's good t'see you! Tell me, what bring's ya'll out here t'day?" "Just checkin' in on my girl," Bill said, nodding his head in the direction of the jungle-camo pattern jeep that crouched in one corner of the shop. "Oh, she's doin' jus' fine," Ellis said, grinning and not letting go of Bill's hand. "She's a real beaut, she is. She reminds me o' this jeep mah buddy Keith used to own…" Bill smiled indulgently as Ellis went off on one of his usual rants. Even after five years, the man had never run out of crazy stories about Keith.
Several minutes later, Bill stepped out of the garage, waving back over his shoulder. Ellis's voice trailed out after him, saying "Now you come back right soon, y'hear me? Yer girl's just 'bout all fixed up, an' I'd hate t'see a purty thing like her sit 'round in a shop like mine all day!" Yelling over his shoulder "I think I'll do just that! Thanks a lot, Ellis!" Bill made his way down the street, glancing around at the building around him. A slapdash amalgamation of architectural styles, this place was as eclectic as you could get. It had been around for years, with a slow, steady stream of newcomers trickling in and adding on, piece by piece. The oldest buildings were made of stone and masonry, almost medieval in appearance, with thick walls, small windows and reinforced doors. Those were back from the time when occasional roving packs of zombie still wandered into town. Then there were the slightly newer wooden houses and bars that looked vaguely reminiscent of buildings back from the days of the Old West: when new refugees had moved in, they lacked the funds, time and necessity to build their houses out of stone, so went for the cheaper and easier route of wood. And finally there were the newest addition to the towns, the shanties and lean-tos made of quite literally anything and everything. These were the houses of the destitute and the homeless, those who had most recently arrived in the town and hadn't had enough funds or time to build anything else. They were crammed in between buildings or in empty backlots, jumbled together anywhere there was room. Ellis's mechanic shop was in between a saloon and a shanty; with sturdy wood walls and an actual proper door, it was far nicer than most of the newest houses, but was still in its infantile stages, some of its corrugated iron reinforcements and cloth-covered windows still remaining from its earlier stages of life.
The house where Bill, Zoey and Louis lived was one of the old stone ones. It had been recently vacated when the threesome moved into town, and they had snapped it up before anyone else could get their hands on it. Zoey and Louis had worked together to make the place a little more livable, going out and buying rugs, lamps and various pieces of furniture to fill the barren abode, but there was still something about it, something primitive and unfinished, that left it feeling a bit less homely than it otherwise would have.
Pushing open the heavy oak door, Bill stepped into the candle-lit living room. A leather couch was pushed into one corner, a rickety coffee table set before it. The room had two arched doorways leading off from it, one on the far side that led to the dining room and kitchen, one directly to Bill's left that would take him to the staircase that led to the second floor. It was down these stairs that Zoey came running as she heard the door open, skidding to a halt in the door to the living room. She had replaced her sweater with a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows and a black denim vest - although she would never admit it, Bill knew it was an homage to Francis - and had bought a new pair of jeans and cowboy boots. She had let her hair down, and it now dangled about her shoulders in an ebony curtain that bounced as she ran.
"Heya, Bill!" she said, grinning that grin that she only broke out when something really special had just happened. Planting his fists akimbo and giving Zoey a slightly skeptical look from beneath his bushy brows, Bill said "What happened now? Has someone in the area baked us some brownies?" Zoey's eyes took on a dreamy look, and she murmured "God, what I wouldn't give for some brownies right now…" A few moments later, she snapped out of her daze, and said "Come upstairs and see!" "Damn it, Zoey, you know I hate stairs," Bill grumbled, and Zoey flashed him a wicked grin that implied she knew very well just how much he hated them. Then she whipped around in a swirl of dark hair and dashed back up the stairs. Muttering, Bill followed.
Louis and Zoey were waiting for him in his bedroom, a small cardboard box sitting on the floor between them. Louis didn't look much different than he did in the apocalypse, still wearing a white shirt and slacks, but he had lost the tie and now sported a mess of dreadlocks. Bill folded his arms over his chest, and said "Okay, what's in the box?" "So, the military went and reclaimed that old farmhouse in Alleghany," Louis began, "And they found something interesting inside." He stooped down and picked up the box, passing it over to Bill. With a sigh, Bill pulled out his combat knife and sliced open the packing tape that held the box closed, then pulled open the flap on top and rifled through the packing peanuts inside. What he extracted from the box made his eyes widen in shock. It was slightly singed and punctured with a few bullet-holes, but was easily recognizable as his old beret. "How… what…" he stammered, looking back and forth between the beret and his two friends, who were both grinning like loons. "They identified the owner by the nametag on the inside, and had it shipped here upon discovering you were still alive." Bill was about to say something else, when the ground shook and the air was rent by a massive explosion from somewhere outside.