Author's Note: It's been a bit since I updated! (Ahem.) A long while back, I wrote the second (shorter) half of this fic, but for some reason didn't post it. Well, better late than never, I suppose! Even if this doesn't get read, I feel better that it's at least complete. And if there is someone reading this, wow, you're awesome.

Part 2

A group of people walked, slowly and purposely, down a filthy, viscera-strewn road.

Of course, they could only assume it had once been a road; it could just have easily been a dirt field that Tanks had used for pitching practice. Sizable chunks of concrete lay cracked on the ground, some of which covered remains that the marching group chose not to uncover just yet, while others had been smashed halfway through store windows or buried deep into the hoods of cars.

The strange troupe of men were dressed head to foot in some form of slipshod Hazmat suit, every one consisting primarily of orange plastic garbage bags and duct tape. Their faces were hidden behind goggles and standard hardware store gas masks. The whole ensemble wasn't perfect—in fact, it borderlined on causing more harm than good, considering that the sound of the plastic bags could probably be heard from a block away—but the people believed them to hold the worst of infectious fumes at bay. Whether they did or not remained to be seen, but as many people learn, some of life's best results stem from the power of wishful thinking.

"How long do we have?" A man with pink swimming goggles called. He waved his weapon—a sharp metal piece that originally could have been the leg of a ladder—to get the attention of the person leading the group.

The leader, whose leadership was based solely on the fact that he was the only one with a gun, checked his grungy watch—the grunginess, incidentally, being older then the infection's reign. "The chopper guy said we had 'til three. He also said to make damn sure that anyone we found weren't a zombie before takin' them with us."

"Look in their eyes, I'm guessin'?" Pink Goggles said, squinting his own, trying to focus through his foggy lenses. "Why do we only have until three? It ain't like the zombies go by a schedule."

"Nah, they don't. It's not like there are much left, anyhow. But the guy said he'd taken his last aspirin three hours ago, and they only last about five. He said there was no way he was flying through a headache." The leader scratched his head. He'd put his favorite hat, backwards, over the plastic bag he had covering his scraggly hair.

"I hear takin' too much of that stuff gives you acid reflux," another guy piped up. He'd tied a lime green band around his head, in a solid effort to give himself originality.

"Maybe that's what makes a Spitter," Pink Goggles said, barring the ladder leg across the back of his neck and resting his arms on each end.

"So you're saying the cure, all along, was Tums?" asked a fourth guy, who was wearing a cowboy hat that looked half-chewed, and probably was.

That quieted them all for a few minutes as they contemplated this.

"My ex-girlfriend always had heartburn," Green Band spoke up meditatively.

"Yeah," Cowboy Hat said with a grin, nudging Green Band with his wooden cudgel, "but you always knew she was a witch!"

They all chuckled appreciatively at the joke. Cowboy Hat let out a honk like a feeble bicycle horn.

"Hold it, guys," Scragglehat said, holding up a scarred hand. "Quiet down, now. Do y'all hear that?"

They all fell silent. And they all heard, in the distance, somebody stumbling over broken concrete.

"Do you think it's one of them?" Green Band ventured, trying to sound cavalier and failing when the last word qualified as a dog whistle.

"Dunno," Scragglehat replied. He cocked his gun warily. "Don't attack until I do, though. Even if it looks like a zombie. Half the survivors look worse'en a common nowadays." He paused. "If it's one of those big mother truckers, I think it's okay, though."

"Unless it's Arnold Schwarzefucker." Pink Goggles said.

"Shoot anyway," Cowboy Hat said grimly.

The scuffling noises drew closer. Fingers tightened on weapons. Scragglehat, walking forward slowly, peered into the gloom of a side alley.

Without warning, a figure half stumbled, half fell over a huge chunk of concrete, directly in front of them. They all jumped backwards in shock, brandishing their weapons, though at their distance the effort was quite pointless. Scragglehat directed his gun at the figure, which by that time had collapsed onto his knees.

Scragglehat stared at the slumped form over his gun. He squinted. "Hey," he said slowly, "hey—hold on, guys, I think…I might know him." He lowered his gun and jogged to the person on the ground, who was clutching his ribs. "Hey, man, is that you?" Scragglehat couldn't believe his eyes. Of all the people in the world…

"Lookin…for…" the man on the ground gasped. He was either injured or out of breath. Possibly—most likely—both.

"Hey, radio the chopper, we gotta get him help," Scragglehat kneeled down next to the man. Last time he'd seen him, a hunter nearly tore him to shreds. Looks like he hadn't fared much better since they'd separated. "Listen, man, you can't look for anythin' in your condition."

The man couldn't answer; he just groaned and hugged his own abdomen. Scragglehat prayed the chopper was fast. Sometimes people were allowed to come back and search for survivors—or closure, since a body was usually all that could be found of lost love ones. Scragglehat led a party every week, and yet this was the first person he'd found in a while that was still moving and not trying to bite his face off. It was possible he had been part of a search party and had somehow gotten left behind.

"Is he on his way?" Scragglehat asked Green Band urgently, who nodded, looking bewildered as he stuffed away the walkie talkie. Scragglehat turned back. "Hey, man, don't worry, chopper's comin'." He shook the man's shoulder and grinned. "I mean, 'snot like you haven't been through worse, right?"

The man looked up at him, still clutching his ribs, with pained gasps hissing through clenched teeth.

The sound of a helicopter grew louder overhead. Wind whupped all around them as it slowed down, preparing to land on the tiny patch of uneven street. Smaller bits of crumbled concrete danced across the cracks in the blacktop as the aircraft touched down on the destroyed road.

""GET TO DA CHOPPA,"" Pink Goggles bellowed gleefully. Cowboy Hat looked about two seconds away from clocking him.

If you asked me how I felt the first day away from zombie-filled hell, I wouldn't have answered. However, there is the good possibility that I would straight up deck you.

It wouldn't be anything personal.

In all honesty, even if I asked myself, I wouldn't be able to answer. For the life of me, I couldn't tell you how long the helicopter ride was, or what questions we had to answer (or in my case, ignore completely), or even what level of medical treatment we had to go through before deemed fit for the human masses. Come to think of it, I supposed I could have been drugged with painkillers that jacked my memory. Though I don't see why they'd waste drugs on someone like me. Fuzzy recollection or no, I can be pretty sure I acted like a right bastard.

I found out later that the chopper took us from Rickman Center to another center about a hundred miles off. It was a place partway underground, with rows and rows of barbed wire fencing, and tall towers of bare scaffolding that served as watchtowers. It was one of the many truly safe points in the country, all government owned and run. Of course that would be the case. I'm surprised they didn't demand two pieces of ID before letting us into the center. I wouldn't have been able to help them if they did; I'm pretty sure I'd chucked my wallet at a Jockey when it was riding on Coach's head at some point.

The first thing I was aware of, when I woke up on a worn, army style cot, was that they'd taken my jacket.

They'd taken. My jacket.

They'd taken my…

Aw fuck it, they could haveit.

I sat up, pushing off a blanket that couldn't be scratchier if it were made of pissed-off cats. My head pounded like a conga drum—I felt close to throwing up.

"Whoa, there, hon, you aren't close to being fit for that yet," a laughing woman's voice came from the right. I felt a gentle pressure on my shoulder, which I resisted automatically. "Just lay down there, that's it—"

"Where's everyone?" I asked groggily. I pressed a hand to my throbbing temple, almost expecting some tiny monster to snarl and snap at my fingers before going back to gnaw on my brain.

"I don't know, hon. You came in with a group of people—you were separated depending on your state of wellbeing." She gave a small, sad chuckle. "I mean, if anything can be described as that nowadays."

I blinked; my vision kept going in and out. I shifted, and was suddenly aware of the increase in bandages snaking around my chest. I put a hand in my shirt to feel them; no longer frayed and filthy—they'd replaced them.

"Lord knows how you managed with your back like that," the woman said, a little wonderingly. I looked at her and saw that she was some sort of nurse; small, plain and brown-haired. Dressed in mismatched scrubs. "Those were some of the ugliest wounds I've had the pleasure of seeing. I lost count of the stitches."

"I came in with people," I said, shaking my head slowly to rid it of the muddiness. The muddiness didn't leave, but it did ramp up the headache. "Big black guy, black woman, and…" I stopped. Christ.

"I think I might know who you're talking about," the nurse said, oblivious. "They're sleeping it off as well. Didn't need as much medical treatment as you, though, so they should be up soon—" A howl came from behind her. She looked around, sighing. "That'd be Jeff. Broken leg. Though can't see why he needs to do that, we've drugged him enough…" Still muttering, she gave me one last fruitless push on the shoulder before walking off down, as I realized, a seemingly endless line of cots.

As soon as she left I flung the blanket completely off my legs and swung them to the ground. My knees sang; I supposed the near constant meetings with the pavement didn't agree too well with them. Standing up, I felt my back ache horribly, though not nearly as bad as when the wounds were gaping. My legs wobbled—I very nearly pitched right into a cart of medical supplies before catching myself.

I started walking down the line of cots in the opposite direction of the nurse, looking at each bed occupant. They were mostly asleep, except for one guy who looked pretty much dead, his fingers curled in claws on the blanket and gaze javelining up blankly at the ceiling. I looked away, and started walking quicker. So quick, in fact, that I slammed right into Rochelle.

"Ow! Watch where you're—Nick!" She grabbed my arm, as though expecting me to bolt the moment someone recognized me. Excuse me, Rochelle, I don't bolt. I subtly edge out of sight. Then I bolt. "Well, still, watch where you're going."

She looked remarkably unhurt, and was wearing new, clean clothes. Well, I'll just assume they were new; God knows where they actually got them.

"Ro," I said. Then, ingeniously—"Hey."

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked, seemingly just realizing the fact. "My god, Nick, half your back's in stitches." She tried to steer me back, but again, I resisted.

"Don't bother, Rochelle." I jerked out of her grip. "I'm not lying back down in that shitty bed. Where's Coach?"

"He's back down there," she jerked a thumb over her shoulder, "talking to some military guy." She seemed to understand that I wasn't going back to bed unless I was physically strapped down. Instead, we began walking down the row again, back in the direction she came. I wondered why she was even walking down the row in the first place, before realizing she'd most likely been going to see me. Probably planning to enjoy the last moments she had with me while I was unconscious and, consequently, on my best behavior.

Though the sound of the center was loud, the silence between me and Rochelle was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. Instead of bringing up the topic both of us were determinedly avoiding, I asked her about the place we were in.

"It's a permanent safepoint. It's been here ever since the beginning of the spread. There are more, all around the country. They move people from point to point, until they get to Canadian stations. It should be a lot safer there; it's October, it'll be cold soon."

She stopped talking when she noticed that I was barely listening.

We found Coach just finishing talking to some spitshined army guy with a bald head he probably buffed every morning. Coach saw me and Rochelle over the guy's shoulder. "Hey, Nick, you're up!" He nodded goodbye to the military guy, who walked off, heels clip-clopping on the dull linoleum. Coach came over to us, limping slightly on his bad knee. "How you feeling?" he asked me, raising a hand to presumably put on my shoulder before catching himself and scratching his neck instead.

I shrugged, which contradicted itself by sending spears of pain down my back.

All three of us stood there for an abnormally long time, not saying a word. Though, it wasn't an awkward silence so much as a necessary one. I tried thinking of something to say, but I was absolutely blank. Apparently so were they. I mean, what the hell could we say? Three out of four ain't bad?

"Nick…" Coach murmured. I tore my gaze from the pillow on an empty cot I'd been studying in earnest. "They have a station over there that gives out clothes. Yours are pretty much shot."

Yes, they were pretty much shot. And scratched. And bitten. And bled on. I looked at him, deduced that he had nothing more to say, then set off in the direction he'd gestured. I supposed it was just as well. It wasn't like we were going to accomplish anything standing around not saying a goddamn thing. To be honest, any necessary thing we needed to discuss is something I'd be perfectly happy to put off.

There was a line of people at the clothes station, a station that was pretty much just a worn beige plastic table covered in overused boxes. At least half of the people in the line were mud-spattered and bloodstained from minor injuries, others probably wanted extra pajamas or a better fitting shirt or something more fucking fashionable. I planted myself at the end of the line, scowling at anyone who looked at me, and at anyone who didn't. People who did see me gaped; despite the bloodstains on some of the clothes, they could dine in the Queen's court in comparison to my sorry state. They'd be even more discomfited had I told them the shirt had once been blue.

When I got to the front, about a half hour later, the woman behind the battered table raised her eyebrows. "Well, you've been living it rough, haven't you?" she said, her eyes flicking on the brown on different brown color scheme I had going on, between the tears that went parallel with rips in my skin.

"Nah, it's just a little stained, you hardly notice it." I said. She gave me a touchingly familiar look that said watch it, smartass.

She gave me some jeans and a T-shirt, along with some sneakers with mismatched, broccoli-topped laces. I eventually bugged her enough to give me a dress-shirt as well; I didn't want to give anyone a heart attack.

I managed to find a bathroom, though it was so filthy it seemed that people assumed the entire room to be a toilet, and simply shat where they pleased. After I'd changed, I threw my old clothes in the crammed garbage can. If I was able to flush them down the toilet I would have, but it looked blocked already. A lonely scrap of cloth swirled gently in the overflowing bowl of dirt-brown water.

The next week passed with the heavy, cramped feeling of waiting in an airport. Which, I supposed, it basically was. People got hustled off in groups of ten, to be flown to the next spot. Considering the hundreds of people and the fact that there was one flight a day, at most, we were going to be there for a while.

The food wasn't bad, unless you had something against cans. Utensils were a commodity. I'd been wandering the center on the second day there and passed two grown men who were violently scuffling, though were being paid little attention to. I guess it was a common occurrence. I wondered idly what the reason was, before seeing something silver fall to the ground from the tangle of flailing arms. I walked over, and saw that it was a spoon.

Needless to say, the fight was short-lived once they realized the catalyst was missing. That night, Rochelle was flattered, but slightly baffled, when I handed her a rusty, cheap spoon. "For special occasions," I'd explained. She looked at me, a little worried. But she'd pocketed the spoon.

People were expected to help out as much as they could. Rochelle and Coach had gotten into it. Ro spent time with wailing children, trying to make them wail less often. Coach helped with moving the injured and deceased; one in the door, the other out. I wandered around, pretty much doing shit-all, and planning on keeping it that way.

On the third day, I saw an old, fat man breathing heavily and chewing something as he waddled around. He'd brushed roughly by a nurse who carried an armload of fresh bandages. They fell to the ground, rolling impossible distances, and she looked up at the guy with a face of mixed fury and exhaustion. He'd glanced at her, then continued walking, stuffing something else in his wide mouth.

I walked by him, slamming right into his gelatinous side. He let out a furious burble, and I saw chip crumbs shoot out his mouth. "Sorry," I said, staring right into his tiny eyes. "Didn't see you."

He shuffled off, mumbling. Feeling chivalrous after just seeing the personification of groin sweat, I knelt and helped the nurse pick up the bandages.

As I walked off, I checked out what I managed to take from the man's pocket. Two chocolate bars. Basically gold in this economy.

I gave them to Coach.

It's curious how much a single event can stretch time. Like living in the close up shot of a telescope before that singular moment when it's flipped around, causing everything to slow down and become insignificantly small in comparison. To think that a day hacking at infected faces and running through impossible heat held the same number of hours as a day in the center was almost inconceivable. I go to bed feeling like I have been awake for a week. And even then, my mind takes about another week to shut the hell up. It's amazing how a mind can have the intellect of a grown man, but for all the control you have over it, you'd believe you're dealing with a very obnoxious child.

Despite the hours of silent solitude, I tried my hardest not to think about that final day. Because that's how I thought of it. The final day. That last day. It wasn't a beginning, and all that fancy wall-hanging bullshit. It was a goddamn end.

But I tried not to think about it. The thing is, my mind always sucked at listening to my head.

"When's the next search party leaving?" I asked a guy. He'd looked official. I took my chances.

"Uh," the guy scratched his large ear with a ballpoint pen, looking at his clipboard like it was the one who'd asked him. "Not this week."

"I didn't say when it wasn't, I asked when it was." Dipshit.

"Not sure, sir. Maybe next Friday."

A week and a half. I glared at him, though he remained lost in the ruminations of his clipboard. "Why the hell aren't they going this week?"

"I don't know, man." He ticked a tiny, pompous checkmark before the pen went back to the undying itch on his ear. "Why? You looking for someone?"

"Does it matter?"

"Where'd you last see them?" Scratch scratch.

I felt like grabbing the pen and jamming it deep in his ear canal. "On the wrong end of a zombie horde, prickstick."

The guy shrugged, finally looking up from his stupid clipboard. "In all honesty, man, it's more like roadkill service now." He looked closely at me, and seemed to read the expression on my face. He hastily continued, holding up a pacifying hand. "Look, I'm sorry man, I really am. But think of it this way; it's probably best you don't see whoever it is now."

I found it strangely cruel that the first time in weeks I didn't have a gun in my hand was also the first time I truly wanted to kill someone.

I rolled on my side, staring into the grey gloom. The center had nearly no windows, therefore all was pretty much black when they shut the lights out. Which they did at around nine. I didn't know why they assumed we were all in grade school. My best guess is that it gave the officials time to consume all the liquor they never let us have and to laugh at our pain.

From a few cots down I heard the sound of a woman whispering a prayer. It took all of my personal restraint not to snort loudly. It never made any sense to pray in my view; when you think of the countless times things go exactly the opposite of what you wanted, you start wondering if God uses prayers just to figure out how to most effectively screw you.

I suppose God is clever, if anything. He ignored me, and waited. Because there's no point in punishing someone like me—either I already hate what I have, or I don't give a damn when I lose something. It's an attitude that kept me in control of my life. If you treat everything in life like chips in a poker game, then you can keep life in a balance, more or less. Unless you plainly suck at playing. Then you're pretty much up the creek. That's how people who stare at you with dead eyes as they scan your bananas come into being.

Then, I suppose, God finally got bored, and dealt me the lowest hand he could.

Give and take, right Nick?

I moved onto my back again. I stared at the darkness. A few weeks ago, sleeping in a freezing safehouse, I would have considered a bed with more than a door between me and the zombies to be paradise.

Without effort, I thought back to the details of those nights. Sleeping on concrete, waking up to feeling like your back had upped and left during the night. Until you attempted sitting up. I remembered the stench that seemed to stick to everything, and trying to sleep through the sound of the Infected hurling on the road outside. And yet, despite plain reason, I wished I were back. Because I could also remember being with people who had my back no matter how hurt, how distant, and how bitchy I was. I could spend a lifetime patting myself on the back for surviving zombie-filled hell, for literally killing my way out of a nightmare, but the true feat overcome was something even I couldn't do; deal with me, every day.

Then again, maybe I have this wrong. Maybe God is on my side. After all, what did I want, from the day we missed that first chance of escape? I just wanted to survive. It didn't matter how; I wanted to live, no matter who I left in my wake.

Which I did, didn't I? I'd gotten out. Just what I wanted.

I'd woken up to the sight of Ellis strutting around the safehouse, wearing my jacket and barking insults to inanimate objects. Within a minute, I'd gone so far as to threaten him with a loaded shotgun, while assuring him that the single thing protecting him was the jacket being in the way. He eventually got my meaning and returned the coat with a grin. I'd shrugged it on, adjusted it, then walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Ellis, do not scare me like that again," I said in a serious voice. "You could have died."

He clapped a hand on my shoulder as well, and spoke in the same solemn tones. "Well, Nick, how can I say I survived the apocalypse if I didn't do the most dangerous thing I could?"

"Taking my coat was crossing the line to foolhardiness," I replied, while the sounds of a rampaging Charger echoed outside.

"No," he said, sheepishly holding up something in his other hand, "accidentally rippin' off a button was."

Rochelle and Coach woke that morning well rested, anticipating instant coffee, and enjoying the sight of Ellis leaping over furniture in a desperate attempt to avoid my crowbar.

I jammed the heels of my hands in my eyes. In the only way I knew to help me keep control, I began cursing everyone—everyone who had a hand in the infection, everyone who had succumbed to it, and everyone who had the goddamn nerve to survive. I didn't care if people heard my broken whispers—for all I cared, they could assume I was praying. Both produced the same goddamn result.

Some kid was yanking on his mom's hand, whining loudly. The mom, who had three deep scratches half healed on her cheek, looked about ten seconds away from a nervous breakdown. The kid gave his loudest wail yet—it echoed across the center, sounding like someone just harpooned a cat. The mom, closing her eyes briefly, knelt next to her bratty kid and began speaking in low tones, holding his hand.

Watching from one of my usual spots, leaning against a wall near a (broken) water fountain, I felt my lip twitch. From what I remember, my mother wouldn't hold my hand and talk to me if I was being annoying. She'd hold my hand for the moment it took to gear up a sharp slap to the face. Then she'd tell me to go outside in the street and "f'cking amuse yourself." I think I was five then. Ah, memories.

Some middle aged, grizzly guy in dirty track pants was staring at me, from a small distance away. I ignored it for as long as I could, before it began being incredibly irritating on top of slightly creepy. I gave him a look, which I left for his imagination to translate.

To my surprise, he started making his way towards me, roughly shouldering past people. I saw him accidentally hit the small kid on the back of the head as he passed, which cut him off in mid-screech as he clutched the area, shocked. I very nearly grinned at the guy, who finally made it within talking distance.

He pointed at me, giving a yellow half-smile. "Is this who I think it is?" he asked loudly, with a voice scarred from what was probably a lifetime of smoking.

I looked at him, my face impassive, though my mind was whirring, trying to place the guy. "Depends who you think I am," I replied guardedly.

He laughed, sounding like an ancient exhaust pipe. "Ah, always the suspicious one, they said that 'bout you. 'Spect that's what makes you such a con'isseur in the biz, eh? Ha!" He slapped my shoulder before I could react. "Sure helped in this, eh? No fucking pansy coulda made it outta this shit…"

I stared at him. A flabby face (with cheeks rosy enough to suggest that he hadn't really been suffering that much), watery eyes, weak chin that flowed smoothly into his collar, leaving no visible neck…a face utterly forgettable. But as he talked, I realized, with growing apprehension, who this guy was.

"Hugh, right?" I asked, cutting him off completely. "You worked for RK when I did that drop off for him."

He laughed again, though he looked a bit affronted. "He remembers! Long time no see, Nickie boy."

"Yeah," I said shortly, looking around, trying to find a reason to cut the conversation short.

"Goddamn tragedy, this." Hugh said morosely, looking around as well. "Makes good ol' green cash worthless. I'd be richer havin' a bank fulla fucking toilet paper." He sniffed, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "RK's thinkin' up some new ideas, though. Might even be an upside—people are desperate and panicking, best time for business, 'specially since there's not much chance gettin' busted." He nudged me—I wasn't expecting it, and very nearly attacked his hand out of habit. "We could always use more people, Nick. RK always liked your style. And he ain't one to give compliments lightly." He nodded importantly, as though he just gave me the offer of a lifetime.

"Thanks, but no," I said abruptly, not even bothering to look at him. I'd just spotted Rochelle, and was wondering whether her getting me out of this conversation quicker was worth her seeing who I was talking to.

He looked scandalized at my answer. "Nick, I don't think you realize—"

"I'm not interested," I said quietly, keeping an eye on Rochelle, praying that she didn't see me. I looked away for a moment, and stared deep into Hugh's small, watery eyes. "But let's make a last deal. You don't tell anyone that you met me, and I won't give you a reason to sleep with one eye open."

He blinked very rapidly. "Well…I…" he sputtered. His mouth opened and closed silently for a few more moments before he finally turned around and hurried away. I watched him disappear into a crowd of people, feeling strangely light.

"Hey Nick." I turned to see Rochelle walk up, head tilted curiosity. "Who was that you were talking to?"

"No idea," I replied. "Guy just wanted the time."

It was the day of our flight to the next point, a full two weeks after we'd arrived. I'd met up with Rochelle and Coach purely by accident while walking aimlessly along the perimeter of the center.

Without a word, we continued walking.

In a way, it almost felt like coming home. This was natural, for us; walking through crowds, not talking—I almost expected the people to begin snarling and running toward us, and I felt almost uncomfortable not having a weapon in my hand.

I didn't know what I was going to do after we reached safety, or whatever was closest. I supposed Rochelle and Coach had lives to begin building again; normal, respectable, decent. They needed to heal and help heal. I couldn't begrudge them that.

But I also don't think I'd be able to join them. I wasn't like them; the very idea was laughable. I couldn't help people.

I'd have to leave. I wouldn't give excuses—hell, I probably wouldn't even say goodbye. Whatever they thought of me was fine; I'm sure there's nothing they could possibly think up that I didn't deserve, for one thing or another. If I were able to push aside the copious amounts of bullshit reasoning in my head I suppose, deep down, I knew that if I hung around, I would witness the full effects of people who were no longer forced to stay with me. And if I were to lose the last of the only people I cared about, then I, at least, wanted to do it on my own terms.

"What the hell is that?" Coach suddenly said, slowing down and peering through a throng of people. "People linin' up for something over there."

"Maybe it's the line to get on the helicopter," Rochelle suggested.

"Can't be, it ain't until four." Coach said, though he sounded a little worried.

Without voicing a suggestion, we all fell into the unorganized, jostling line. It wasn't like we had anything better to do.

It didn't take long. Before I even started complaining (out loud) we were standing in front of one of the standard scuffed plastic tables. A few people were behind it, chatting amiably amongst themselves. Another table was manned directly behind the first, servicing a line running on the opposite side. Aside from the clothes and food stations, I hadn't seen any other formal services in the center.

"Hey," the guy behind the first table said, grinning a gapped smile—one of his canine teeth were missing. He was poised over a laptop that rivaled the table in terms of shabbiness. "You puttin' in a name or lookin' for one?"

When people make no sense in my view, I will automatically assume they're fucking with me. I glared at the guy, who now looked faintly alarmed. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"Well, yeah…" He looked around helplessly, as though looking for a way to say because you're in the goddamn line I obviously thought you knew the fuck why without sounding impolite.

"What do you have going on here?" Rochelle jumped in, somehow managing to smile at the guy and give me the stink eye at the same time. Sometimes I doubt that she's human.

"Well see, ma'am," the guy said, relief in his voice, "it's a system that aids people in findin' other people." Obviously we all looked lost, because he continued quickly. "See, people get separated, and no one keeps phones nowadays, so this is an easier way to find people you've lost." He spun his laptop around, looking proud. "I figured hey, why not tap into something we all are used to using, and that's still around to use?" He started pointing at parts of the screen enthusiastically. "I made a website—it ain't perfect, it still needs work—but here, see, you can put in people your lookin' for, like a personals ad. And then, here, you can put your own info, and whoever can look you up and see if you're still kickin' around."

He twirled the laptop back to face him, and started pecking at the keyboard. "It's just startin' up, but I figure it'll catch on soon. A buddy of mine thinks it'll go nationwide—he's already usin' it to find some people." He looked at the screen, talking to it avidly. I had a feeling we could have left a while ago, and he'd still be talking. "I'm thinkin' of putting in a separate section for just cadavers. Some people want closure, you know? And it ain't real fair puttin' the dead names in the section where you usually find the livin'." He looked up at us. He looked almost shocked that we were still there. "So, uh, any of you want to look up a name or two?"

Coach gave a few of his old friends, then some of his students. The guy tapped them in, and shook his head somberly. Rochelle asked about some of her old coworkers, and got the same result. "It's okay, though," the guy said earnestly. "There's barely anyone in here. You guys would probably do better over at the notice boards. That's where most put their info." He pointed towards a row of stand-alone bulletin boards that I hadn't notice before, probably because they were completely surrounded by people.

Coach and Rochelle both headed for the boards. I was just about to follow, figuring I'd stand at the back of the crowd, when I heard the guy call out. "Hey, buddy!" I looked around. He scratched at his patchy beard, smiling at me. "You never gave me any names. Anyone you wanna find?"

"No one I'd care to see alive," I said flatly.

The guy stared at me, as though at a loss for words. Then, I realized his face was dawning with comprehension. "Hey, man, I think I know you."

"I'm pretty sure you don't."

"Naw, man, I'd know you anywhere," he said, laughing a little. "I almost didn't recognize you without your fancy ass suit, but I never forget a face!"

I stopped short. I looked closely at the guy, who was now grinning from ear to ear. Holy shit. It was him, the guy I'd met on the mad dash towards that first evac point. Scragglehat. He was missing the hat, but it would forever be on his head in my mind. "Oh. Hey." In a way, I was absolutely not surprised to see him alive. He seemed the type to avoid the flying acid of a Spitter purely because he'd bent to pick up a penny.

"Well shit, man, how's it goin'?" He leaned back, as though gearing for a good chat. "Last I saw you were getting tore up by a hunter! Those things are bastards. My buddy always got hit with them—couldn't even turn 'round without one pouncin' him the next second. They're kinda like mosquitoes, aren't they? Likin' certain people."

Using the term "mosquito" when I still couldn't bend down without the lacerations in my back tearing open seemed, in my opinion, a bit bold.

"Hey, listen man, if you can't think of anyone, that's cool. But you can still put your name in, here—" he twirled the laptop around again. "See, some people might think different. You'd be surprised who looks for who."

I glanced, uninterested, at the laptop. "I'll pass. Let people who actually give a damn take up space."

He blinked. "Well, the internet's pretty much endless. I mean, we still find everythin' we want, even though ninety percent of it is porn."

I didn't say what I should have said there—that ninety percent of the time porn is usually what people want. But I was too distracted. I'd only just noticed what Scragglehat had named the site. Across the top of the screen, in bold black letters, was "KeithsList".

"KeithsList?" I asked, looking at him.

"Well, yeah," he said guiltily. "Figured I was entitled." He suddenly beamed. "Literally. Get it?"

"Your name is Keith?"

"Yep." He cocked his head. "I never told you my name? That's weird. Usually it's the first thing I say. My buddy Ellis said when we first met, I'd introduced myself seven times. I think he still forgot my name, though."

I felt something explode in my gut. Jesus H Christ. "You knew a guy named Ellis?"

He gave me a strange look. "Yeah, man. He was the first one to put in names in KeithsList." He looked proud for a moment. Then he shrugged. "First to get diddlysquat, too, but we don't think about that bit."

"When did he put them in?" Before we'd all met? And whodid he put in? His sister? His bastard of a father?

"Uh, I don't know. Hey Ellis," he said loudly, leaning back and hitting the guy manning the other table on the head. "When did you put your friends into the site?"

"Ow." The guy turned around in the chair, rubbing the back of his head. "I dunno, Keith, few days ago. Why? Did you get anythin'?"

And then Ellis looked up and saw me, rooted to the ground, and his mouth fell open.

The telescope zoomed out again. I have never felt so unbalanced in my life. Like someone had flicked my feet from under me with a pole, then used the pole to crack me over the head.

"This guy was asking. He's the guy I told you about, too, who—"

"Nick!" Ellis all but yelled, leaping to his feet. Well, he struggled and stumbled to his feet—I just barely registered the crutches leaning against the table. "Man, I don't believe it!" Ignoring his crutches completely, he launched himself over the table, sliding across like I've seen him do so many times over the hoods of cars—cars that would, incidentally, almost always end up having alarms. Keith snatched his laptop out of harm's way, clutching it to his chest and looking horrified.

Ellis almost went to hug me, but seemed to think better of it when he realized that I was, in fact, me. Instead, he extended a hesitant hand, but looking like it cost him plenty to keep things formal. I stared at his offered hand, then looked back up at him. Well, fuck that. I grabbed his arm and yanked him toward me, into a hug that I hoped would hurt like hell.

"What the goddamn fuck, Ellis?" I snarled, sounding angrier then I've ever been. Though I have to admit, I was having a tough time getting words out. "How the hell are you alive?"

"Jeez Nick." He sounded more shocked then I felt. He also sounded strangled, which I realized was more due to his not able to breath then any suppressed emotion. However, when I finally let him go, he was beaming. He looked me up and down. "Nick, you aren't wearin' your suit! Man, that's a sight I thought I'd never see!"

I glared at him, wanting to shake him, but also wanting to keep him in my vision, to be sure I wasn't dreaming. "How, Ellis? We left you in a literal pool of infected!" And wreckage. And probably his own blood. It wasn't goddamn possible.

He thought for a moment, then shrugged, grinning away. "I guess they were too damn lazy to move the chunks of concrete off me." His face, I noticed, was riddled with half-healed lacerations and bruises.

I just couldn't bring myself to ask my next question, as it'd probably result in an answer like well, I guess the Tank punched me so hard that the concrete was smashed into nonlethal rubble. I was just deciding whether to hug him again or punch him—it was honestly a pretty close match—when I heard my name being called behind me.

"Nick! Who're you talking to?"

Rochelle. She sounded pissed. I guess she'd been looking for me.

"We gotta get going, Nick, they aren't going to wait for us, you know!—"

I'm not one to work for an argument when I don't need one. So instead of offering any explanation, I simply grabbed a bewildered Ellis and pushed him in her direction.

"What—" It took her a moment to recognize him. Then she gave a squeak that was so adorably female that I will hold it against her for the rest of her life. She flung herself on Ellis, who laughed and hugged her back, though I could see his injured leg buckle slightly.

"Nick." I saw Coach a few paces behind Rochelle, looking at the scene with a frown as he approached. "Is there something I'm missing?" He nodded towards Rochelle, who by that time was sobbing uncontrollably into Ellis's neck. Then, it seemed to click, and he gave a roar of joy and went to join Rochelle in what I hoped was rebreaking every one of Ellis's ribs, the goddamn son of a bitch, dumb shit bastard

"I never thought I'd see you smile, man." Keith said from the table, staring at me with all the grace of a five-year-old staring at a war amputee. "Then again, I never thought I'd see you alive again, either."

I laughed, adding to my own surprise. Justifiably, I was probably in shock. That is the explanation I'm sticking by, because there's no other way in hell I'll admit to ever wearing the smile I had on my face that day. "On the other hand," I said to Keith, "I think I always knew I'd have to meet you, eventually."

"Hey, wait…" Keith looked as though he was having an epiphany. He pointed at me excitedly. "You guys are the ones Ellis put in the database, aren't you?"

And it was then that I finally believed this man could, indeed, find it prudent to deep fry a turkey.

"Man, you guys are all Ellis could talk about!" Keith shook his head, sighing like a man who had been through the wars. He leaned wearily against the table. "I don't think you understand—like every second minute he'd have a story about what you guys did." He glared at me with an unfathomable look in eyes. "Every second minute."

"I can't imagine." I replied, deadpan.