Author's notes and disclaimingness: This isn't EXACTLY a dawn of the dead fan fic, but it shares enough in common with the concept that it is being placed here. Eventually i'll pack all the chapters together and make them into a book I think. For now though this is the most appropriate place for them, despite what will happen later in the story, that some may not like so much.

Disclaimer wise: I didn't invent the idea of zombies. Nor did I invent dawn of the dead, which is the category this resides under. I do love the genre however, and truly enjoy the overall concept.

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It had been two years since everything had ended. It had been two years since the world had died. In that time all that remained was ashes, bitter tears, and the constant struggle to survive.

Things had not always been this way. The world had made sense once. There was a time when the nightmares stayed in their dark corners. A time when the mind of man did not write itself large upon the script that was everyday life. That time, now over, would come again. This was the steadfast hope of every single human being left alive in the after times.

People called it the apocalypse. Some called it justice. Still others referred to it as utterly ridiculous and insane. In many ways all of them were right.

The old world had fallen, in one week. That's all it had taken for everything everywhere to end. The first few days were utterly brutal. Savage street justice became the norm. The only law was the law of the hammer and gun.

I made my living in the shadows of the monsters that owned the world. The demonic former men and women of my race. Even the animals, the plants, the land itself had seeped downward into some shadow spawned version of itself. Mother earth, if such an entity truly exists, must weep inside her closet for the once beautiful world.

It wasn't all terror, and things that slither and refuse to die. Some of the remaining people had developed abilities. Minor talents really, but ones that had helped us survive. I for one suspect that the same force that brought nightmare into the living world had somehow dug deep into our psyche's and led us to a personal means of salvation. For good or ill it was here to stay and we had to deal with it.

My job in the past, even my name, are unimportant. What I have chosen to do now is the reality. I chose my trade and my name based on a dream I had while running from the horrors around me. A largely thankless job, but a necessary one. I was given a choice, and I chose.

They called the horrors many names. Zombie, walkers, stenches, and the risen were a few of them. My job was to cleanse the land of them, making it safe for the last remnants of my former race, and to free the afflicted from their cursed life.

an excerpt from the diary of the man known only as 'paladin'.

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THAT WHICH DOES NOT DIE

Scott awoke with a start his vision swirling. His alarm clock had buzzed rudely, as it did every morning. Shivering as the frosty mist escaped his lungs he wondered at why it had suddenly became so cold. True it was mid-winter, but he'd been up to date on his heating and electric bills, and had no issues with his thermostat of late. Wrapping himself tightly in his quilt he fiddled around until he found his sandals. He wore the ratty things even in the worst parts of winter, comfort being something he enjoyed. Besides, the floor was cold!

Shivering his way over to the door, Scott didn't yet hear what was going on just outside his humble frozen shack. He didn't hear the screams, and the half shrieked prayers as the biting wind and thick walls drowned out the world. In his half-drowsed stupor he knew nothing but his next step as he worked his way out of his bed room and slowly down to the basement seeking to understand why he had no heat.

Halfway down he remembered that he wanted to check out the news when he woke up. Rampant media images of ghastly rioters in halloween costumes the night before or some such. So, our intrepid arctic explorer made a pit-stop in the living room to turn on the tv. He tried to at least. A few quick presses and a short check to be sure it was plugged in later informed him that his power must be out.

He was baffled for a sleep-deprived moment until he recalled that his alarm clock was specially chosen for it's internal battery backup. He'd been late to work a few times because of black outs and hadn't wanted the same thing to keep happening. "Well the mystery of the missing heat is solved! Another case closed by.. Batman!" he exclaimed to himself while bringing his quilt up to mimic a cape and cowl his eyes taking on a squinty intense look. "Heh, glad no one was around to see that. No wonder I don't have a social life."

That little tidbit of geekdom out of the way our intrepid dark knight of the quilt worked his way into the kitchen and checked out his food supply. "Baking soda, a two liter of coca cola, and a turnip... where on god's green earth did I get a turnip?" With a little sigh of disappointment he knew he'd have to go to the store and get some groceries. Why he couldn't enjoy his first day off in two weeks was beyond him. Honestly, can't a guy look at internet porn in peace?

He spent the better part of half an hour shuddering his way into his clothes. A pair of jeans, a long sleeve shirt, and his steel toed knee -high boots. The boots had garnered him a few snickers now and then, but he preffered them or his sandals. While he enjoyed his sandals, today was NOT a sandal day. He grabbed his leather jacket. A purchase made in his 'wish I was a tough guy.' phase. He couldn't afford a motorcycle, but at least he could look the part.

The last thing he snatched was his walking stick. A 'stick' that was really a steel reinforced curtain rod. A quite handy thing to have in a neighborhood full of drunks and dogs who got loose way too often. He grabbed his house keys and headed towards where his bike was parked. Sadly, it was a flea market special bicycle, as opposed to a Harley.

He slipped on the backpack he had draped over it. along with the required safety crap he hated, and then quite casually opened the front door to hell.

The very first things he noticed upon opening his door was that his eighty year old neighbor was quite decidedly gnawing on the intestines of his lady wife. Scott stared at this somewhat unusual sight for a moment and then did the only sensible thing a man can do when faced with an octogenarian eating his wifes entrails on your lawn. He ran back inside and threw up on his carpet.

"Oh man... oh man, ohmanohmanohman!" babbled the man as he backed away from it. He was quite decided that this could not be good. The civilized indoctrination of his brain determined that he had to call the police to report how his neighbor had decided to cannibalize his wife of forty years. His more primitive survival side was shrieking at the brainwashed societal side, but couldn't get through the haze of programming just yet.

Running to the phone Scott dialed 911 and got a busy signal. He looked up the sheriff's department in his phone book nearby, and got a messaging service. His mental fog began to lift after the fifth busy signal he got from 911 followed by a more traditional in times of crisis 'We're sorry all our operators are busy at this time. Please call again later.'

His haze lifting was of course sped up by the sudden shattering beating on his door. A pounding sound really, followed by angry moans. "Damn.." muttered the man, as he realized old Ed wanted another snack. Scott gripped his mighty curtain rod tightly and only then wondered if he'd bothered to lock the door in his haste to 'do the right thing.'

A sudden half rattle of the handle alerted him that he of course, had not. With spider webs of anxiety radiating up and down his spine, he knew he had to run over and lock the thing before old Ed came in and tried to chew on his more chewy parts.

Scott was half way to it, mid-run when ed apparently slid against it just right to pop it open. Ed was on him like a rabid badger within less than a second.

The much younger man fought with every ounce of his strength to keep the much smaller and supposedly more fragile man from tearing a hunk out of his throat. As precious seconds fled away old Ed did eventually sink his teeth into Scott. His leather jacket at least.

As the elderly cannibal of distinction worried his arm like a raging pit bull, the younger man balled his fist and punched the ancient freak as hard as he could in the temple. Considering their current position, this wasn't all that hard and Ed, for all his years only vaguely noticed. He was busy trying to gnaw off the hard coating over his sweet candy flesh center.

Scott wrestled the much stronger old fart around a little, trying to gain leverage. He was desperate to get his quickly fraying jacket away from the old geezer's maw before he broke through to his skin. The pain was already intolerable as he could feel his flesh compacting and his bones starting to fracture.

Slowly, with pain raging throughout his arm, he managed to finally rip his arm away and press the old man against the floor. His bucking and squirming was not gonna allow this for long though. Scott, tried initially to choke the old fart out, but despite a perfect rear naked choke the old guy wasn't budging. Precious minutes passed and a sound the young man most definately did not want to hear approached from the doorway. Ed's lady wife was apparently coming to help her husband with his dinner.

Like a well practiced line-backer Marlene tackled Scott with all the force and fury a zombified 60 year old housewife could muster. Ed and Marlene's marriage had been such the scandal back then. Him a fortyish old rascal and her a young buxom bar wench. Scott had the most absurd notion that probably just yesterday Marlene had probably whined at Ed about not doing enough as a couple.

Marlene nailed Scott on the shoulder with a vicious bite mid-tackle trying her best to worry her way through his jacket. Ed was quickly attempting to right himself in that precious moment.

Scott fueled by utter desperation rolled with the tackle and somehow launched Marlene passed him. Her attempts at gnawing his shoulder off lasting less than a second. As providence would have it our would be, if somewhat chunky, hero landed beside his curtain rod.

He gained his knees as he gripped his mighty rod and met Ed's brutal charge with a vicious slam to the gut and a quick leaping uppercut to the jaw, that broke the slowly rotting part easily. The old man flew backwards off his feet and laid still at least for the moment.

With no time to breathe Scott instinctively whipped his rod around to crack Marlene across the face with all the strength he could muster. She too went down, if only for the moment.

Loud wailing and agonized moans from outside emboldened our tiring young hero to run to the front door and attempt to lock it. Managing to just barely beat another trio of the creatures to the entrance and perform just that feat. Inwardly he was thankful beyond belief that he'd rented a building with no windows on the bottom floor. His friends called it a dungeon. He called it 'home.'

As the creatures outside pounded fruitlessly on his hard oak door, Scott glanced at the bodies of Ed and Marlene. It sickened him to do it, but all those years of watching late night horror movies told him he had to take care of them before they came around. Ed was already starting to get up.

Scott took a deep breathe and then his world fell to a pin-point of necessity. The sounds of steel-reinforced wood battering the skull of an undead eighty year old man half his size echoed throughout the room. They repeated themselves moments later with the man's dear lady wife.

Tears trickled slowly down the man's cheeks as he clutched his bloody instrument to him and made his way to first, his back door, and then his basement. He had to make sure both street entrances were locked.

Then, when all ways said and all was done, Scott sat in his easy chair. He gazed up at the ceiling and the tears no longer trickled. The tears came in rivers.

All around him he knew death stalked the streets. It was breaking into the homes of his neighbors and eating their children. Death was in his living room, and would soon need to be tossed out the upstairs window. Death was in his kitchen, and his one turnip.

Slowly though the tears dried up. The terror, the fear, the self recriminations of murder and survivors guilt faded. As the hours passed and the numbers of the former neighbors began to multiply outside his front door Scott found the strength to stand up. He found the courage to wash the blood from his hands, his staff, but not his mind.

Though tears did threaten they did not show up again. Death stalked the living now, wearing the face of his former friends and neighbors. It would be around every corner, in every dark place, in every unsecured door. Death was everywhere and even now in him. He knew what he must do to survive. He would do what it took to secure his furture. There was no choice save life or death, and. though death touched him, he must become.. that which does not die.

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Whelp! There we go for chapter one. By all means read and review. If you hate it utterly.. then good for you.. your criticisms will actually help me despite your meanieness. If meanieness were a word.