Carey was sitting on the back bumper of a desert shaded Humvee and picking at her dinner with two others when the first call came out. She'd barely put the container down and rose to her feet when the shooting started. She looked at her fellow survivors and was sure her face mirrored the same horror she saw in theirs. This can't be happening. Not again.

Explosions shook the ground and a grisly rain of body parts fell on everyone inside the compound. Carey wiped a line of gore from her arm as a minigun atop a neighboring Humvee began whirring away and she had to move before she was buried under its torrent of red-hot spent shell casings. Orders were being yelled back and forth and she wondered how anyone could hear anything in all the noise and chaos.

The fence fell and all hell broke loose. From somewhere in the vast concrete expanse of the safe zone, she heard the sound of helicopter engines spooling up. A second breach caught her eye and she watched as hundreds or even thousands of the walking dead poured through a new hole in their supposedly impregnable wall. Panic began to set in among the survivors and they started running in every possible direction. Refusing to resign herself to a grim end like the rest of the cattle in the pen, she ran to where the supply trucks were parked, determined to find some sort of weapon and go down fighting.

She had barely reached the small depot when the helicopters screamed low overhead. Carey threw herself to the ground and covered her ears, hardly able to look at them through the downdraft and the heat their engines were putting out. If the zombies don't kill me, those things will, Carey thought as she rolled under the truck. She watched the long barrel under the machines' noses twitch slightly back and forth before they spat long lances of fire. Rockets leapt from the rails under the stubby wings. Carey found herself screaming along with the thundering.

It was all for naught. Even one of the most lethal weapons money could buy couldn't stop a horde of thousands of zombies. All too soon the cannons and rocket pods ran empty and the helicopters were just multimillion dollar birds flitting above the zone. Carey pulled herself to her feet and looked in the back of the truck and, for the first time since she stepped foot in the Big Apple, had something go her way. She had reached in and was pulling a matte black shotgun from a pile of weapons when a voice from behind made her jump and nearly drop the gun.

"Can you shoot that?" Carey whirled around and saw a small group of men in uniform standing behind her, a man who appeared to be somewhere near her age who wore sergeant's rank and another six who looked like they might have to shave twice a week.

"I grew up on a farm," she said as she fed shells into the shotgun.

"Good enough for me," he told her. "If you want to live I suggest you hop in the back. We're getting the hell out of here." He turned to one of the young soldiers. "Riley, start this mother up." He turned back to the rest of his group. "Marines, we are leaving." Carey waved away their offered help and climbed up and inside the back of the truck. She carefully made her way over the randomly piled items of war and took a seat near the back of the cab.

"What about the rest of the people out there, Sergeant?" she asked once the truck had come to life and everyone was was getting situated as best as they could among the boxes of supplies.

"I don't think you'd like the answer to that question, ma'am."

"Nothing you say is going to offend my delicate sensibilities, Sergeant," Carey told him. He took a second to think before he answered.

"Ma'am, I hate to sound heartless, but they're already dead. They just don't know it yet." Carey leaned forward and looked out the back of the truck and knew that the young Marine was right. A half dozen other Marines were doing their best to wave the survivors to a group of waiting trucks and Carey could see barely twenty had been rounded up. She shook her head slowly and the truck lurched forward.

"It's not heartless. It's terrible, but it's true." The truck picked up speed and the sergeant yelled for everyone to hang on. The truck staggered as it plowed through a wall of walking corpses. Carey bounced on her make-shift seat as bodies fell under the wheel. They'd lost quite a bit of speed when they met the zombies and they were soon surrounded.

"Keep them off the truck!" the driver yelled back through the small window as he gunned the engine.

"You heard the man," the sergeant said as he rose shakily to his feet. Carey and the other soldiers did the same and brought their weapons to bear. The sound of hundreds of shotgun blasts and screaming rifle rounds ripping through their attackers nearly deafened her but she fought on. Finally, they made it through the thickest part of the mob and began to pick up speed again, their need to clear space around the truck diminishing with every second.

"Nice shooting, ma'am," the sergeant said to her when they returned to their seats. He quickly began feeding shells into his weapon.

"Thanks, and I'm Carey. Carey Martin."

"Clinton Vincent," he said, offering his burly hand. Carey was in the process of shaking it when a loud shit! came from the cab and was nearly thrown on her face when the truck lurched and seemed to drop a hundred feet in a fraction of a second. "What the hell was that, Riley?" Sergeant Vincent yelled through the window into the cab.

"Mother of all pot holes, Sarge. Might have even been a blast crater. Whatever it was, I hit it when I came around a corner."

"You hit another one like that and you'll break the fucking truck. You won't ever get to come again," he told the driver. "Sorry, Ms. Martin." His face blushed and the other young men snickered.

"I have twin boys. I've heard much worse." Despite everything she'd seen, Carey still refused to refer to her sons in the past tense. They'd barely gone another block when something under the truck started grinding.

"Uh, Sarge?"

"I hear it, Riley. How bad is it?"

"We're probably going to have to call AAA and get a tow."

"Well that's good news. I was afraid we'd have to ride out of here in style and miss out on all the fun." Carey could see the fear in his eyes that he was desperately trying to cover up with his bravado. "Everybody gear up. As much as you can carry. We're going to need it."

The grinding worsened and one of the men handed her a tactical vest. "Lots of pockets in this thing, Ms. Martin. Ballistic plating in it, too." He tapped the front and back pads with his knuckles and Carey heard a dull thonk. "But I don't think I need to tell you that if you're getting shot at we have a whole new set of problems."

"I'll say," Carey said and let him help slide it over her head before joining the men in stuffing every pocket and pouch with shotgun shells. She found a small satchel among the random equipment and filled that, too. She slung the shotgun over her shoulder and got a round of catcalls. "If any of you call me Rambo I'll shoot you where you stand," she joked.

"What about Rambabe?" one of them asked and they all laughed.

"That will work," Carey smiled as Sergeant Vincent handed her a pistol and told her to tuck it away in one of her pockets.

"This little thing won't do much against the zombies but if it gets really bad..." he trailed off, not wanting or needing to finish the thought.

"I understand. Thanks."

"I hate to break up the party back there," Riley called out from the cab, "but something's burning under the hood. I think this girl's done." Almost as if he planned it, a gout of smoke erupted from the side of the truck to punctuate his statement.

"Well the good news is that I never liked this truck all that much in the first place. Not very fond of the olive drab paint."

"What's the bad news, Sarge?"

"There's fucking zombies everywhere, son. That's the bad news. Let's do this."

The truck ground to a halt a block later and the grey smoke turned black and flames shot through the hood. Riley jumped from the cab and was tossed his gear and quickly donned it all while the rest of the crew dismounted. Vincent looked around and pointed and they took off, walking as quietly as eight people carrying hundreds of pounds of equipment and ammunition could. They halted at a corner and hunkered down while Vincent pulled a map from one of his many pockets.

"Thanks to Riley's crack driving, we're here," he said as he jabbed the map. "Our fall-back point was supposed to be here." He pointed to a place halfway across the map. "You'll notice that we're nowhere near it." A quiet chorus of thanks for Riley followed.

"We might as well head for it anyway, Sarge. Maybe we can find another truck and Riley can wreck that one, too."

"Fuck you, Sanchez."

"Save it for the honeymoon, ladies," He said to the two arguing Marines. "That's my plan. As of yesterday morning we still held a toehold down by the river. We'll head there and maybe get a ride off this shithole island." The matter was settled and they were moving again, advancing in groups of four down the deserted streets, speaking in only hushed whispers as they wound their way through the remains of New York. They avoided as many groups of zombies as they could but Carey couldn't help but notice how they fought with zeal against the groups they couldn't. It had just passed four a.m. when Sergeant Vincent called a halt.

"Everybody grab a quick bite," he said as he pulled his map back out. Carey saw a scowl cross his face before he could hide it.

"What is it?"

He looked up and studied her. "We were supposed to have passed a strong point a block back."

"Maybe they got overrun."

"I didn't see a single shell casing on the ground, Ms. Martin. Didn't see any signs of struggle, either. Recent struggle, anyway. Makes me wonder." He said no more, letting the others draw the same conclusion he had. "Let's go." Carey took a quick sip from her canteen and screwed the lid back on and fell in with the rest of them. They had just passed Central Park when everything fell apart. In one second, things were going smoothly and in the next, zombies were seemingly coming out of the woodwork.

The eight survivors waged a savage battle for their lives as they tried to escape down side streets and alleys. Each turn brought them to another mass of zombies, each somehow larger than the last.

"Yeah, the zombies are stupid, they said. The zombies are slow, they said. The zombies can't-"

"Stow it," Vincent ordered as he snapped another clip into his rifle. "We can talk shit about the intel guys later." They fought their way out of the frying pan and directly into the fire.

Someone, Carey wasn't sure who, announced that this was all bullshit and that they were telling their mother. Another indistinct voice laughed.

It had been twenty years since Carey had held a gun in her hands but she quickly realized that it was much like riding a bike; you learn once and it will come back to you. She'd been a crack shot back on the farm, shooting aluminum cans and scavenged bottles off fence posts but this was entirely different since bottles didn't try to kill you.

Her hands seemed to be working on autopilot. Carey barely noticed them pulling shells from her many pockets and slamming them into the receiver. Shoot one, load one, shoot two, load two. She heard someone screaming during the battle and was surprised to discover it was her. One zombie had somehow managed to make it through the wall of lead and shot they were putting in the air and got close enough to swipe at her face. She took a step back and put the muzzle in its mouth and pulled the trigger, blowing what looked like oatmeal all over a useless street lamp.

If her hands were on autopilot, Carey's brain was a million miles away. She saw every last one of the zombies as roadblocks between her and her boys back in Boston. Roadblocks that had to be removed. Her mind targeted one of the deadheads and was already marking the next three before the gun had been brought to bear on the first. She was playing the world's deadliest game of chess, trying to stay as many moves ahead of her opponent as possible.

Finally, after ten minutes of vicious hand-to-hand and point-blank fighting, the battle began to wind down. They'd fought their way out of the middle of the horde and a mostly empty street lay before them. The group made a break for it and stepped into hell when they rounded a corner.

"Ah fuck," someone muttered as they saw another mass of zombies. "This is getting ridiculous. Someone needs to remind them that we're the good guys here."

Carey felt her spirits drop and her head followed. She sighed deeply as snapshots of her boys ran through her head. Zack jumping off a swing set and sailing a good twenty feet through the air before coming back to earth in the controlled crash that only little boys are capable of. He brushed his knees off and laughed, she thought to herself. Would have done it again, too, if I'd let him. Cody was standing on the edge of a diving board, bouncing slightly as he tried to work up the courage to jump into the water. His arms were tightly wrapped across his little chest, she saw, and he was shaking his head no so hard he almost fell off the board. He finally jumped and ended up loving it. They were both doing their utmost to stay up late on Christmas Eve and wait for Santa. She allowed herself a smile as she remembered them.

Carey was just about to admit to herself that she wasn't going to see them again when she saw the manhole cover at her feet. She stared at it, almost daring it to be a mirage. It wasn't. Why hadn't it occurred to her sooner? "The sewers! We've got to go into the sewers!" Heads turned in her direction, only four, she noticed and winced, and she pointed down. "It's our way out."

She moved aside and let one of the men yank the cover off while the others where was Sergeant Vincent? laid down covering fire. The clanking of the steel had yet to stop echoing off the buildings' brick walls before they were climbing down a rusty ladder into the filth and muck of the undercity. Carey looked up as the last man down slid the cover back into place and blocked out the moonlight, dropping them all into darkness. Flashlights quickly popped into life and they surveyed their new surroundings.

"Where's Sarge? Where's Mitchell and Smith?" one of the men asked, his voice betraying how young he really was. Carey had tattoos older than him.

"We lost Mitchell right when it happened," Riley answered. "I never saw the others go down, though."

"We've got to go back after them," the terrified voice said. "They might still be alive."

"You first, hero" the voice she recognized as Sanchez told him.

"No one's going back up there," Carey told them all. "If they're up there, they're dead."

"She's right. They paid with their lives so we could get away. We aren't ruining that by trying to play Superman," the young driver announced. Now everyone rest up, reload, and let's see how we're doing." The small band relaxed and took stock of their remaining supplies and found them dangerously depleted. They ate a silent meal in the near darkness, no one tasting the food they ate.

Carey was nearly finished with her MRE when a light began jumping across her body. She looked up and gave Riley a questioning look as it danced over her legs. "Just checking." She watched as the light played over Sanchez next and stopped when it reached his shoulder. "You okay, Sanchez?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"What happened to your arm?" Everyone watched as Sanchez turned his arm and looked at his shredded triceps.

"No idea, man," he said, but his voice shook. "Maybe one of you guys shot me."

"Let's see it." Riley's voice took on a hard edge and his finger wrapped around the trigger of his rifle. "Now." The man's head drooped as he started taking off his shirt and Carey was almost sure he was crying when he turned his naked shoulder to the group. "That's a bite."

"I'm fine, Riley, really."

"You are far from fine, Sanchez. Far, far from it."

"You can't do it, Riley! You can't. We've been together since fucking boot camp, man!" he cried.

"You know I have to. You knew it when we signed up for this." Carey's hand went to her mouth to cover a gasp when she realized what they were talking about.

"C'mon, guys. Please. Don't do this." The others quickly but silently snapped to action.

"We don't want to but we have to. If we don't, you'll end up coming after us."

"But I'm not a zombie!"

"Not yet, Sanchez, but you will be. You know there isn't a cure." Riley looked him straight in the eyes. "Don't make us do it the hard way. Please."

"Okay," he said after an age. "But promise me that if you guys make it back home because, seriously, fuck this city and anyone left in it, promise me that you'll find my family and watch out for them."

"We will, Sanchez. I swear."

"Good." he sighed the deepest sigh Carey had ever heard. "Let's get this over with."

Carey watched in muted horror as the young man she'd met just hours earlier began stripping himself of any useful gear and piling it along the wall. When he was done, he simply nodded and started walking down the tunnel. Riley looked at the remaining Marines with a silent question.

"Fuck, man...You're the ranking, Riley, it's on you. I couldn't do it even if I wanted to."

"I know," Riley said sadly. He turned and followed Sanchez. No one made a sound as he left. Eventually the flashlight stopped moving and they all waited for the gunshot they knew was coming. It was a long enough wait that Carey was beginning to think that maybe Riley was going to let him go instead of killing him. Then the gun went off and the shot reverberated off the narrow sewer walls.

"Oh my God," Carey stammered as she leaned against the stonework, chin on chest and a hand over her eyes.

"I know, ma'am. It's terrible," a soft voice said in an attempt to comfort her. Not another sound was heard until Riley's footsteps signaled his return.

He looked the three of them over before sitting against the wall and didn't speak or move for almost ten minutes. "Someone tell me that I just did the right thing," he said at last. "Because right now I think I'm a monster."

"You're not a monster," Carey told him when it appeared the other two Marines weren't going to wade into the conversation. "You did what had to be done."

"Did I?" Riley didn't sound convinced.

"Yes you did. If you hadn't, he would have eventually turned and come after you or me or your friends there." She nodded her head in the general direction of the two silent soldiers. "Or if you'd have let him go, he might have found another survivor and bitten him instead."

"I know you're right, Ms. Martin, but it's sitting so wrong with me. I sure could use about a hundred beers right about now." When no one offered up even a single beer, he pulled his canteen and took a long, slow drink.

"So what's the plan?" a young, doe-eyed man who Carey believed to be named Cook asked when Riley's drink was done.

"Originally, the plan was for us to hold the former safe zone and somehow manage to reclaim LaGuardia so the rest of our troops from Europe and the Mid-East and wherever else around the world could return home and retake our country. I think you can see how much of a donkeyfuck that plan turned out to be. So, I say we go home. Like Sanchez said, the hell with this city. There isn't anything left here worth saving," Riley said after giving it a moment's consideration. He looked at what was left of what were now his men to see if there were any objections and saw nothing but two faces that were just as eager to get out of New York as he was. "Ms. Martin, I don't know what you plan on doing but you are more than welcome to come with us."

"I can't. I have kids back in Boston."

"Ms. Martin, the chances..."

"I know. But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't check. I hope that you can experience that for yourself one day," she told him. "I have to go to Boston."

Riley frowned and began digging through Sanchez's gear. "I understand but I don't like it." He began rooting through what remained of Sanchez's gear. "It's dangerous to go alone. Take this," he said.

"If you're going to give me a fierce little kitten..." Carey said, and was surprised to hear a few short laughs.

"No, no kitten. No magic sword, either," he said, surprising her by getting the joke. "I'm afraid you'll have to settle for the rest of the shotgun shells and a grenade." He handed her a small pouch. Carey tried to resist, telling them that they'd need it more than she would but Riley wouldn't hear it. "Take them. The three of us are better with rifles anyway."

"Thanks," she told the three of them and slung it over her shoulder before surprising them all by hugging them. "Thanks for getting me this far."

"All in a day's work, Ms. Martin," Cook told her and the others nodded..

"It's late and I think we could all use a little rest before we part ways," Riley said with a stifled yawn. "Besides, I don't know about you all but I'm not very impressed by this city's night life." The exhaustion of the day had caught up with them all and they quickly agreed. The small group bedded down and tried to catch a few hours of shut-eye before starting the next parts of their journeys.

Carey had a rather restless sleep. She kept waking up from imaginary gunshots or another random sliver of nightmare. Eventually, she decided that enough was enough and stayed awake. She wrapped her arms around her legs and waited for the first rays of light to slip through the holes in the steel lid, doing her best to not think about everything that had happened in the last few hours.

After a quick breakfast and a slightly teary goodbye filled with calls for luck and admonitions of caution, Carey went her way and the three Marines went theirs. She moved quickly but carefully up the island, running into only a fraction of the zombies they'd encountered less than six hours before. She chose to avoid them and save her small supply of ammunition. She knew she could find more but wasn't sure when. Her eyes were constantly scanning the skyline for the first peek of her way out of this hellhole, and she felt more than a little relief when she got her first glimpse of the George Washington Bridge. Carey picked up her pace to almost a jog and was working her way up an on-ramp within the hour.

The sun had risen high enough in the sky by the time she made it to the bridge's deck to burn off most of the morning fog and what she saw stunned her. From her vantage point over the middle of the Hudson River, it looked like all of New Jersey was on fire. Hadn't the sergeant said something about a fort being across the river? She didn't remember. "What the hell?" she said aloud and sat on the hood of an abandoned car. All she could do was shake her head. "Worry about it when you get there, Carey old girl," she told herself as she put the shotgun back on her shoulder and stared walking again.

This chapter took me absolutely forever to get done. Sorry about that. You all didn't think I'd just kill Carey off like that, did you? She's my favorite non-twin character on the show. Anyway, this chapter gave me such fits that I started working on the next chapter with Z&C in it for a little while before it worked out. So that one will probably be up after the weekend.