I'm not going to sit here and beg for your forgiveness for letting this story die more than two or three years ago now, even though I promised consistent updates and again failed you all. I don't want or deserve your forgiveness or support, but I have a story to finish for those of you who never stopped believing that I would come back.

If you don't care about what happened and are just here to finish what you started, skip to the bottom of the italics and start reading the story; I don't blame you. But please, PLEASE, IF YOU ARE A WRITER AS WELL, PLEASE READ WHAT I AM GOING TO SAY, I BEG YOU. This could save your life one day.

Passionate writing is a truly beautiful and engaging thing, I don't need to tell you writers that, but it can also be extremely dangerous.

A couple years ago I started a separate project. I wanted to write a somber fiction that dove into the mind of a depressed, alcoholic veteran and followed her hard climb back into society. But to write about such a deep set of emotions—so raw and merciless—I had to read and research everything about it to ensure I did justice to those who actually suffered through those terrible things. I had to put myself in the mindset to truly capture its essence; you know exactly what I'm talking about if you write too.

It didn't take long before I started becoming a victim of my own mindset; the false projection of myself that I had to take on started becoming who I was. I found it harder and harder to separate my writing mentality with my actual mentality. The lines were blurring and even when I stepped away from the computer, the horrible feelings remained, and continued to worsen as time went on. Seven or so months into writing the book I became depressed and drank heavily until I lost all desire to continue doing anything. It had just gotten so hard to exist without drinking, and I lived my life pathetically like that for a long time.

I joined a rehab group where I got classified as "Long term recovery" and took the full course of 120 days. I graduated late last year (2017) and am doing much better now.

What I want you, fellow writers, to take from this is:

If you are going to write about something dark and dangerous, and you know exactly what that is, you need to find what they called an Anchor. It's something that you can do on a moment's notice that brings you joy without any frustration and anchors you back to reality, and you need to do it every time you finish a writing session. It doesn't matter what it is: a funny video game, a sport, a hobby, ANYTHING that makes you happy that you can literally just stop writing and go do quickly. It helps to snap you out of your writing mentality and help your brain define the line between your reality personality and your writing personality.

Please, I'm begging you, find that thing if you are going into a deep and dark project. Even if you think there's the SMALLEST risk that it may turn out being a more somber project, find an Anchor immediately. Don't copy my mistake and waste years of your life, you'll never stop regretting it.

Thank you so much for hearing me out. If you're a writer that is struggling with these blurring lines now and just need ANYONE to talk to, please shoot me a message and let's talk. You should never go through that alone, it's a terrifying experience to start to lose who you are as a person and forget what your real life is like. You're not alone, and you have people who love you and will always try to help. I'm one of them.


Silence was seldom a welcome response. It was unnerving; allowing someone to explore the deepest recesses of their mind without giving a single indication of which direction those thoughts might be headed was the perfect catalyst for anxiety.

Bill and Louis exchanged tense glances before returning their gazes to Nick, who hadn't said a single thing since they finished describing the call to the radio tower that morning. A furrowed brow rested above two pools of grey, wandering aimlessly across the floor as if searching for their answer.

"Fifty thousand dollars for a couple taps on a microphone," the conman finally growled as he leaned back in his chair. "Even I don't like those odds."

Louis shook his head. "It's more than just a couple taps, you know that."

"Do I?" Nick's eyes came back into focus as he addressed the two hopefuls. "Do you even know that?"

"No," Bill shamelessly admitted. "None of us know for sure what's on the other side of that radio, but none of us would be here if we didn't take a couple leaps of faith."

The rhythmic pattering of approaching footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the room, bringing the conversation to a pause. It wasn't until the unwelcome company departed, fading into silence that even breathing resumed.

Privacy at Camp 17 came with a heavy premium—one that none of them could afford. Combined with inch-tall gaps beneath the rusty doors, the prison block-like residential structure shared every word spoken louder than a mutter with the rest of the inhabitants. And that was the most confidential spot they could get.

"Even if she is on the other side," Nick resumed, "even if by some crazy circumstance you turn out being right, what then wise guy, huh? You even think about what The Man would do if you tried to bring her back here?"

Bill's lips tightened around the unlit cigarette he held in his lips—smoking was prohibited in the bunkers. "I ain't had the time to fully bake this plan yet, son, but right now that isn't the problem. The problem is that there's someone out there in danger, and even if it isn't Hope we gotta get them to safety."

Nick snapped out of his seat, and though his face twisted and his teeth bared, the seasoned vet wouldn't even lend a flinch. "I didn't spend fifty thousand dollars to save some rando's life, you got that? I couldn't give less a shit who else could be out there; that's not what I paid for and it's not what I'm going to pay for."

Louis came to a cautious stand as to not further aggravate the man who delicately dangled their only viable option. "Now let's all calm down," he said softly, "we all know what we want out of this. What Bill's trying to say is that we haven't had the time to figure that out yet. Once he showed me the message in the tower just a couple hours ago, we found Lee and that's when you found us. Right now, the only thing we know is that we need to get back to New York City so we can know for sure if Hope is still out there."

Nick's chest heaved visibly as he switched accusatory glares between Louis and Bill, but much to both of their reliefs, the conman eventually slid back into his chair and crossed his arms. "Alright, you can keep your ticket back to the Big Shithole." He then added, "But I'm going too."

"We owe you that much," Louis agreed before looking to his partner for approval. Bill gave a sturdy nod. "Now all we need to do is find one more-"

A shift in lighting underneath the gap in the door caught Louis's eyes and locked his lips. Two distinct objects were interfering with the light's otherwise continuous beam across the floor. Without a word, he addressed the two other men in the room then glanced back towards the bottom of the entry. After tracing his gaze to the source, the three's faces tightened up in a scowl that screamed "Damn it" more than the word itself could express.

Bill quietly drew the M1911 pistol from his thigh holster and stood from his chair, nodding the unspoken plan to Nick and Louis.

Nick held his breath and took careful steps to the door with Louis, whose hand hovered shakily over the handle. They locked eyes with one another before their heads bobbed the countdown. 3… 2… 1…

Louis seized the knob and tore the door open, allowing Nick to pounce upon their unsuspecting visitor with one hand over their mouth and the other wrapping around their torso. The perpetrator released a muffled yelp as he was yanked into the room, the door closing silently behind. Nick threw their captive into the vacant chair, who had not a moment to breathe before they were met by the nozzle of Bill's pistol.

"Woah, woah, woah! Now hold on, it's just me!"

The thick southern drawl made it's way to Bill's ears before the man's face was defined. "Ellis?"

"Yeah it's Ellis!" he yelped. "Don't shoot man!"

"Shut up Ellis!" Nick hissed, jamming his hand back over the boy's mouth. "Stop yelling!"

Bill heaved a sigh of relief as he holstered his trusty sidearm. "What in the hell are you doing, sneaking around like that?"

As Nick pulled his hand back, Ellis's elbows fell forward to his knees, allowing him to suck in sweet air. "Look… look, I know what you're gonna say," he panted, "but I was just coming to check up 'cuz I saw that none of ya'll were in the lunchroom and they're serving some kinda tater and I thought-"

"How long were you standing there?" Nick demanded. Behind him, Louis took an uneasy seat and rubbed his temples.

"Umm…" Ellis's head cocked thoughtfully as he scratched at his scalp. "How long ago did you say somethin' 'bout baking?"

Bill groaned a curse as he shook his head.

"You need to keep this quiet," Louis reasoned, each word kind yet deliberate. "You cannot tell anyone, do you understand? Not a single person."

"Yes sir, not a peep."

All four men took a much-needed moment to catch their breaths and settle back down, shaking the possibilities out of their minds of how much worse that could have been.

"So," Ellis rekindled the conversation. "When are we all ridin' outta here?"

"If by 'we all' you mean us three," Nick gestured towards Bill and Louis, "as soon as we can. Earliest flight probably leaves tomorrow morning. You're not going anywhere, overalls."

Ellis grimaced. "Now, hold on. What you mean I ain't going, a'course I am. I heard you sayin' you need a fourth, I'm that fourth!"

"I hate to piss on your parade, kid" Bill interjected, "but we need muscle, and you…" his sentence trailed off as he evaluated the hillbilly's sub-par physique, "don't fit the bill. We need Francis."

"Hell no," Ellis persisted. "You can't let me in on no res-cue mission then say I can't go."

"No one let you in anything," Nick growled. "You already forget that you were the one spying, hillbilly?"

Ellis pushed out his lower jaw stubbornly and crossed his arms. He briefly evaluated each one of the men's composure, and after realizing they wouldn't back down, sunk deep into his chair and shrugged. "Okay then, ya'll can go on without me." He then hastily added, "I'mma tell."

The last millimeter of fuse on Nick's patience fizzled out. The conman casually leaned forward and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket to reveal his Glock 19. He held it flat against his knee before turning his ear to Ellis. "You want to try that again?" he asked, his voice oh-so coy.

Bill shook his head. "Put that shit away. Christ, you two are like kids on a playground." He turned his attention to Ellis, who was attempting to hide a hard swallow. "Look son, I admire your enthusiasm but this isn't about that. The more dust we kick up the more suspicious it's going to be for the Colonel and Zoey. We're trying to fly under the radar, you understand?"

After a few thoughtful weaves of his head, Ellis's arms finally fell to his sides in defeat. "Yeah, I understand."

"Look, we can still use you." All eyes shifted to Louis. "We need someone to stay here and keep an ear to the ground, but more importantly, to take care of Zoey and make sure she doesn't get suspicious. If she catches any wind about what we're doing without her being in on it… man," he trailed off.

"Zoey?" Ellis's face warmed with her name and his complexion flushed. "Yes sir… I can do that for you."


"Arms up."

Rochelle's lip lifted in disgust, but her arms remained crossed. However, her stubborn resistance was met with a tight grip on both her triceps that tore them away from her sides and forced her into a T-pose.

"I said arms up."

Rochelle tightened her abs to ensure that not a single grunt escaped from her lips as a pair of hands overzealously pat her down. Upon completing his work, the armed guard stood up and nodded the all clear to his squad. "She's clean."

"Good," the squad leader purred, though his demeaning sneer remained fixated on Rochelle's defiant glare. "Better keep it that way." A moment passed while he waited for the woman to break eye contact, but when she gave him no such satisfaction he gave a quick snort and spat at her shoe.

Rochelle refused to break form.

"Where's her dinner?" he asked, holding an arm out to his team.

A metal tray of composed of hardtack, a cubic inch of kidney beans, and a tin can partially filled with vitamin beverage presented itself into his hand. Preceded by a sadistic smile, the squad leader jerked the serving before himself, causing the contents of the tray to splatter onto Rochelle's shirt.

"Oops," he taunted as the tray slid off his hand. It fell noisily to the floor, but even the thunderous clattering yielded no reaction from Rochelle. "Rumor has it they clean the floors every now and then. For your sake, hopefully those rumors are true."

The squad leader spun on his heel and exited out the impractically narrow doorway with his team following his example. If there was a door, Rochelle would've gladly slammed it with all her might.

"That ain't right." A gruff, low voice reminded her that she was not alone. "It just ain't right."

"It ain't," Rochelle grumbled. She steadied her trembling fists and took a deep breath. "But there's nothing I can do about it."

In many ways, Camp 17's probation program was worse than its prison. In exchange for freedom to walk the grounds, Rochelle had to suffer through negligible portions of food, a lack of any privacy in her miniscule accommodations, and arbitrarily timed weapon stings composed by an excessively bitter squad leader. It was the price she had paid for her decision back in New York, in addition to being branded as a traitor by those she used to identify as friends. Her testimony fell on deaf ears; all the other survivors said that she had threatened the life of a fellow survivor and barred her from entering the chopper. Not a single member of the panel believed her when she said that "survivor" was a witch. How could they?

Rochelle mustered the strength to turn to her one and only friend left, who had remained so silent during whole affair that he seemingly melted through the wall he leaned on.

"I'm sorry baby girl," Coach offered. "You're doing the right thing. Keep your cool like you been doing and they'll let you out quick."

A breath of sardonic laughter slid through Rochelle's teeth. Her feet dragged as she strode to the wall, turned her back to it, and sunk down to the floor. "I can't take much more of this. Why am I being punished for doing right?"

A sigh heaved through Coach's heavy chest. "We been through this Ro, you can't keep asking that."

"And why not?" she demanded, the wound re-opened. "Why should I not be pissed that I'm dealing with this shit for killing a witch?"

"She was part of the team."

"She was a zombie, fool," Rochelle snapped while shooting an accusing glare. "Don't make me get ugly with you too." However, Coach's remorseful demeanor smothered the fire in her eyes. "I thought you were on my side, Big Guy," she whimpered. "Isn't that why you don't hate me for what I did?"

The gentle giant took his place on the floor next to his broken friend. With a small sniffle, Rochelle rest her head on his shoulder where he stroked her hair. "You know I'm with you baby girl," he cooed. "We just gotta figure some things out. We'll get through this."


A sigh crawled its way through Francis's unkempt beard as he stood unenthusiastically before the metal door that had become so familiar. In his hands, another crudely assembled meal that would surely go to waste, just like each one before it. How the girl on the other side was still even alive was far beyond him, but it wasn't a blessing he overlooked.

Francis cleared his throat. "Zoey? I brought you some breakfast."

The response was as expected: nothing. Although, once in a blue moon Zoey would take it upon herself to open the way without him having to ask, and that day was his blue moon. The door squeaked reluctantly as it was pulled open, mirroring Zoey's sentiments.

Francis cautiously walked in, careful not to spill another drop of from-concentrate OJ onto the plastic tray. However, upon reaching the table where he ritualistically deposited his offerings, he noticed that the usual spot was occupied by none other than the dinner he had brought the night before.

She didn't even bother hiding it this time.

Francis's lips tightened. "You're still not eating," he grumbled. He briskly slid the meal next to its predecessor, dismissing the fact that the two beverage containers emptied half their contents onto the stale food. "When are you going to eat?"

"I'm just-"

"Not hungry," he finished.

Francis's eyes engaged Zoey's; that was enough. He had let her have her way for far too long, fearful that her fragile state couldn't handle any form of confrontation. But he was beginning to see that his lack of conviction was only contributing to the pale, gaunt form that sat stubbornly on the bed. "I hate it when you say that, but it's not good enough today. You're knocking that off and eating."

"I said I'm not hungry, Francis," Zoey reiterated, breaking eye contact defensively.

"And I said you're eating, Zoey," the biker growled.

The girl dawned the most defiant glare she could muster. Her arms crossed tightly on her chest as she turned her head away.

Francis inhaled sharply—the conversation was far from over. He seized the stale breakfast croissant within his grasp, ignoring the hail of crumbs, and aggressively presented it inches before Zoey's nose. Her delayed response came initially as startled, but quickly turned to irritation as she feebly swatted at his muscly forearm.

"Stop it, Francis!" she demanded, turning her body further away from him.

"You haven't had more than three bites of food since we wound up in this damn place!" Francis shook the croissant in anger, shedding more flakes into the air. "You're going to eat whether you like it or not!"

Zoey's weak attempts to remove the food from her personal space only service to strengthen Francis's resolve. Even when she tried with both hands, the staunch presence of crusty bread remained.

"You're being a real ass, Francis!" Zoey said through clenched teeth as she put her miniscule body weight into her shoves.

"You're being an ass! Treating yourself like shit isn't going to bring her back!"

Zoey's feeble resistance came to a screeching halt and the room feel to stillness. Slowly, she turned her head to the biker. "What did you say?" The words dripped like venom from her lips.

Francis remained stalwart, though the daggers she shot momentarily made him regret his decision. However, she needed to hear the truth—the very one that she had been dodging since they landed in Camp 17.

"I know you miss her," he said softly, ensuring his natural gravelly tone didn't betray his sincerity. "We all do, Zoey, but you're not doing her sacrifice any right by killing yourself. You're never going to want to hear this, but I'm going to say it anyway: you have to move on. She would've wanted you to-"

"Don't you dare tell me what she would've wanted." Zoey's expression twisted into a seething snarl of hatred as the demand slithered through clenched teeth.

"Zoey… darlin'… we just want to take care of you-"

A hand lashed out across Francis's cheek, the sudden attack stunning him. "Don't you dare tell me what Hope would've wanted!" Zoey shrieked. "Don't you dare even say her name!" Another slap followed, and though he could have avoided it, no attempt was made; Francis knew she needed this. "You want to know what Hope wanted?! She wanted to live! But no one cared then, so why do you suddenly care now?!"

"Of course we cared damn it," Francis muttered. "None of us wanted her to go, she was part of the team; part of the family."

"Then why didn't anyone stop her?! Why didn't anyone stop Rochelle?!"

The question drew Francis's brows together: Why didn't anyone stop Rochelle?

The haunting memory crawled back into the man's conscience, crystal clear despite the fact that he had tried so hard to block it out. He had been strapped into the deepest seat on the chopper when Rochelle pulled out her pistol and blocked the two girls from entering. He remembered reaching… grasping desperately for the traitor, caught so far off guard he failed to acknowledge the restraints that held him back.

Francis couldn't reach Rochelle, but who had been seated next to the entrance?

Another hard slap jerked him from his conscious nightmare and back into cold reality. Francis's lips flapped desperately for an answer, but his words abandoned him.

"No one even tried to help Hope!" Zoey drilled. "Tell me why Francis!" The girl's voice crumbled with her demeanor. Full sobs tore through her trembling being, her stinging slaps reduced to futile, desperate caresses down his beard. "Tell me why!"

The creak of a door opening was the rescue Francis so direly needed. He looked up to find none other than Nick to be his ironic yet much appreciated savior. The suited man's eyes switched deductively between the biker and the broken, though his upturned lips remained constant.

"Hey, tough guy," he addressed, "We need to talk. Now."


The beating of spooling chopper blades some ten yards away sang in cadence with Bill's escalating heartbeat. It felt like they had just been lifted out of the hellhole that became of New York City a moment ago, and now he was saddling up to dive back in. However, he refused to let the uneasiness show on his face. The worn vet took one last, deep drag of the cigarette stub hugged in his lips before dropping it to the earth and stomping it out.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled his attention. A man whose face was mostly covered by the bug-eyed visor style of his helmet approached, each stride filled with a certain pride that Bill had seen only from pilots.

"Alright boys," EZ LZ called over the screaming rotors, "we're gassed up and ready to fly! I'll be dropping you off at the same pad that I picked you up at the first time. The radio should still function and we'll keep the frequency locked in the radio tower and manned twenty-four seven. Call back when you're ready for evac. Any questions?"

No hands were raised from any of the four volunteers. Strapped with rifles, shotguns, and sidearms, none of them were strangers to rescue missions, though this particular one carried much heavier implications.

"Alright then, let's get loaded up!"

The group followed EZ to the chopper, but upon approach an operator in the co-pilot chair of the bird caught Bill's eye. A tinted visor and black bandana hid the man's face from sight, though he made no effort in suppressing his gaze that remained locked on the team.

"Hey!" Nick yelled to the pilot, having noticed the same presence. The group came to a halt. "Who's the tag-along?"

EZ peeked behind himself, then turned back to the men. "You didn't hear it from me. The Colonel has this guy sitting in to oversee the drop-off and make sure everything's A-OK. I don't think I need to say he doesn't trust you guys, but he doesn't trust you guys." The pilot threw a few nervous glimpses towards the empty space around him before continuing. "Look, I'm going to be straight with you guys. I don't know what I did see or didn't see when I came to pick you all up the first time. Is there anything you need me to know before we take off about what the hell is going on?"

Bill nervously glanced at the pilot's headset microphone. "Nothing out of the ordinary, son!" he strained to overpower the chopper's engines. "Same horse shit extraction!"

EZ nodded. "Alright then, if there's nothing to say I suggest you keep it that way in the ride!"

The march resumed; the group jumped into the belly of the bird and strapped in before donning their headsets.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bill noticed Louis's frequent returning glances at the silent co-pilot, who was now fixated on the cockpit window before him.

"Hey," Louis finally greeted, giving the enigma a light tap on the shoulder. "You look nervous," he joked, "don't fly much?"

Nothing—not even a turn of the head to acknowledge Louis's presence—was given by the copilot.

Nick rolled his eyes. "Not much of a talker, are you?"


The two hour flight passed in the blink of an eye, and from the astounded reactions of his fellow squad after EZ LZ's confirmation of arrival came through, he knew he wasn't alone. All four of them had been lost in their thoughts, carefully recalling every tell—every sound—that the special infected made upon their approach. It was their advance warning: a faint cough, a garbled gag, a deranged laugh. Each one was tied to one hideous face after another, as well as manual-like instructions on what needed to be done to save the victim… or to resist becoming one.

A jerk of the chopper signaled that they had touched down. With a suppressed, hard swallow, Nick undid the buckle of his belt, slid off his headset, clutched the heat shield on his M16A2 that had been stored beside him, and made his way out of the chopper behind Francis as the last of the four to exit.

Nothing had changed on the rooftop from their departure. Nick's jaw tightened as he fought his stomach from lifting into his throat.

Decaying, motionless bodies of fallen zombies littered the floor, rigged with bullet holes and burn marks. Their jaws were cracked open in an eternally silent scream, with an almost visible stench emanating from their rotten throats. The spaces that lacked bodies made up for it in blood that had been cooked onto the concrete landing pad in all shapes and patterns.

It was the very hell Nick drank to mentally escape from.

The sound of boots hitting the ground behind him caught the conman off guard. He verified the presences in front of him, mentally checking the boxes next to Bill, Francis, and Louis's names before grimacing with confusion and pivoting around.

"Oh hell no," Nick muttered under his breath, shaking his head adamantly. "This was not part of the deal! We are not babysitting one of Alan's goons!"

It was the silent co-pilot whom had joined them on the ground, the helmet and bandana keeping his features a mystery. In his hand was the barrel of his sniper rifle, the butt of the gun rested firmly on the ground as if to indicate that he was going nowhere.

"No!" Nick screamed as EZ LZ lifted back off the ground. "Get your ass back down here! This is bullshit!"

His cries fell upon deaf ears as the chopper leaned away and took off into the distance.

"Guys," Francis's voice came through the silence. "What the hell just happened?"

Bill's sigh was full of disappointment. "Looks like we've got ourselves a babysitter. Seems like the Colonel pulled out all the stops for this one."

Nick's blood pumped rapidly—he had been duped. He had used his trump card against Alan Lee, but the man got the last say after all. How were they going to execute the mission now? If this man was tasked by the Colonel to make sure everything was "A-OK", what was he instructed to do if he saw something he didn't like?

"I don't care," Nick answered himself aloud. "I did not come all this way, and spend all that cash, to fail now." In a single motion, the conman swept his sidearm from its holster and pointed it at the co-pilot, who appeared to be unfazed. "Looks like you volunteered for a suicide mission, pal, but play your cards right and I might let you walk. What did Lee tell you to do?"

Without a word, the co-pilot used his free hand to unbuckle the strap that held his helmet in place. With his bandana freed, he pulled it down around his neck and lifted the helmet off of his head-

"God damn it!" Bill barked. "What the hell are you doing here Zoey?!"


I won't say how often I'll post because I don't deserve any of your trust yet. But thank you for reading through, and coming back to this journey with me. This will be finished. I am so wordlessly thankful for those of you who kept commenting, kept messaging me and asking me when I was coming back to finish this piece. Thank you for not giving up on me even when I gave up on myself.