"Father!"

Even before the garage door was halfway open, Ernesto was out of the truck and running for his father. Robert, tears running down his face, embraced his teenage son as the door rumbled towards the ceiling. "Oh, Father, I'm sorry, I should have saved them..."

"Shhh. There is nothing you could have done. You're alive...that is blessing enough." He patted his son, trying to sooth him. "I am glad you are alive, my son."

Rhino carefully climbed down from the back of the red pick-up truck as the door opened. "Alright, move it inside, Peter, and let's get this place sealed back up." The truck moved forward slowly, the driver taking great care in bringing the vehicle inside. As soon as the tailgate had passed the threshold, I hit the "close" button, and the metal door started to lower on its guiderails. Relieved to be back behind sturdy doors, I turned to sneak a final peek at Manhattan before we buttoned back up, taking my mask off so I could see it with my own eyes.

The city still shined bright, a thousand lights in a hundred high-rises. But tonight, the city burned as well. We had passed two burning buildings and several cars that were alight in our recent journey, along with a few storefronts where broken glass and dropped merchandise littered the sidewalk. Sirens weren't as evident as they had been earlier that night, but the sound of automatic gunfire echoed through the stone canyons, and if I strained my ears, the sound of helicopters was evident. The street lights aligning the West Side Highway were the last thing I saw before the door lowered in front of me. As soon as it finished closing, I stepped back to help Rhino unload the back of the truck. It belonged to a Romanian couple, a Ford F-150 from the last 1990's that they used for catering. Peter was the driver, Anna was in the shotgun seat, and the back of the truck, aside from hauling Rhino during our trip back from Soho, held several boxes and bags from their bakery.

It turned out that Peter and Anne were the people who had baked me my birthday cake earlier that day. Apparently, Aleksei was a long time customer of the place, and almost family to the couple from Romania. When we had shown up to the bakery with Ernesto in tow, the two of them had been packing up to head out of town, upstate to a small town where one of their cousins lived. Rhino convinced them otherwise. I couldn't follow the conversation, as Romanian is one of the hundreds of languages I have no clue how to speak. Next thing I knew, though, I was standing lookout on the streets of Soho, blasting a few zombies, as Rhino, Peter, and Anne loaded damn near everything edible or could-be-cooked-to-be-edible into the back of the truck. Rhino sat in the back...and I'll say this, those Ford commercials where the truck holds steel girders and scrap metal? After watching Rhino sit down without too much fuss from the shocks, I'm a believer. The rest of us sat up front for the trip from Soho to TriBeCa.

The roads were getting worse. There were more pile-ups on the highways, along with ambulances racing about and military caravans, several Humvees packed with freshly activated National Guardsmen. I guess that seeing a known supervillain chilling in the back of a red pick-up truck, speeding across Lower Manhattan, didn't rank too highly on the "imminent crisis" scale. Though I did find it a little off putting when Aleksei waved to one of the caravans and some of the soldiers waved back. Nothing like a zombie apocalypse to put aside criminal/law-abider conflict.

I took my mask and vibro-smashers off, gulping in the relatively fresh air. As Robert and Ernesto were still embracing each other tightly, Ashley made her way over to where I was standing. "Mr. Shocker, I'm glad you're back ok," she said to me.

The gratitude was still a bit unnerving to me. Eying her for a second, I finally put on a weary smile. "Thanks. Everything ok here so far?"

"As well as it could be." Rhino and Peter had lowered the tailgate of the truck, and under Anne's direction were starting to unload the boxes of baked goods and ingredients. "What's all that," Ashley asked me.

"Apparently, we don't have to eat all the Spam I have saved up from the Hulk's rampage last summer," I managed to joke to the blonde. "Aleksei's friends run a bakery down in Soho, and they insisted..." My words trailed off for a second. "Um...er...I was just the lookout." Lord, how many times had I said that to a judge or a lawyer? "All I know is, when a Romanian woman points at you and says 'grab the flour,' you grab the flour."

Ashley giggled at my comment, maybe the first smile of humor I'd seen from her all evening. "I can imagine. I used to date a Polish guy, and his grandmother..."

"What we said was, if we're going to be cooped up in a warehouse somewhere hiding from the undead, at least we're going to eat well!" Aleksei dropped a large cooking pot on the kitchen counter. "I mean, no offense Herman, cheese, crackers, spam, beer, and water gets a little boring after a day."

"You got me there, man. And I ain't gonna complain if someone else wants to cook." I looked around the warehouse, and I realized...something was missing. Or someone. Someones. "Where's Boomerang and...and...the clerk guy?"

"Bobby's taking a nap," Ashley said. "He was up watching TV with Mr. Myers all night long, and passed out on the couch about an hour ago. Mr. Myers is up on the roof. He went up when he heard you guys were coming up the road."

"Alright. And if you're calling him Mr. Myers...you can call me Herman. And that's Aleksei," I said, nodding to where Rhino was closing the tailgate of the truck with one hand and holding a large box on his shoulder with the other. She nodded, and wandered off into the kitchen, where Anne had started to take over. Immediately, stereotypes were engaged, as I heard her booming voice begin to direct Ashley as to what to unpack from the various containers and boxes. I would have chuckled again if I didn't have a direct view of Robert and Ernesto comforting each other in their grief.

X

We had arrived at the Prosario's too late.

The security door to their building was hanging off its hinges, glass covering the inside of the lobby. It crunched under Rhino's feet as he led the way into the building. Our trip up from TriBeCa had been ghoul-free, and now I was wondering if it was because they had all descended upon this place.

"Aw, damn, Herman. This place is a slaughterhouse," Rhino rumbled softly. Beyond the lobby, the hallway of the first floor had been the scene of a massacre. Nearly every apartment door had been forced open. Pools and streaks of blood covered almost every surface. And as I stepped around my friend, I could see several discarded limbs scattered across the floor. Teeth marks were apparent in the wrist and hand closest to our feet, and the ring finger was missing as well. "I don't see any ghouls..." Aleksei began.

"Shhh. Listen." I was speaking quietly, damn careful not to pique the curiosity of any of those things possibly lurking nearby. It took a few seconds, but from the floor above us, we could hear the sounds of shuffling feet. A low moan greeted our silence, along with several soft thumping sounds. "I think they're all upstairs."

"You think someone's alive up there?"

I shook my head under my mask. "They'd sound a lot more agitated if there was, I think. Come on, we're wasting time." I took the lead now, walking down the hallway, my large companion following. The Prosario's apartment, luckily for us, was on the first floor, second door on the left. The door was wide open, a broken security chain hanging from the doorjamb. The wet bloodstain soaking into the foyer's carpet didn't inspire much hope either. But, we were here for a reason, and we went inside anyway. Rhino took up the foyer, careful not to step in the blood, and kept watch as I scanned the apartment. Three-bedroom, not too bad for this part of Manhattan. Aside from the sticky red pool, the only sign of a disturbance was a lamp that had been knocked from an end table. The light bulb was still illuminated...and it helped me spot a splattered blood trail, snaking its ways from the bloodstain in the foyer through a nearby doorway. As I got closer to the doorway, I could hear snarling, and what sounded like nails being dragged across wood. I raised my hands, ready to defend myself if needed, and stepped into the bedroom.

The trail of blood ended in the brightly lit bedroom, at the feet of a young female zombie, not even ten years old, who was trying desperately to claw her way through a closet door. Her fingernails dug into the wood, and she left a trail of skin down the wooden door with every clawing motion, snarling and growling as she pressed her head against the door, which shook violently under her efforts. Next to her, an older female gently thumped her arm against the door, snarling only slightly, almost lazy in her actions to get whoever was behind the door. It had to be a someone. The only time these things got really agitated was when living dinner was around.

Neither of them noticed me as I walked up behind them. In such close quarters, I didn't want to risk shattering the door and driving splinters into anyone who was alive inside. Not even waiting for them to acknowledge my presence, I pulled back and landed a jab directly in the back of the active one's head. Unlike the light tap I gave the zombie outside the 7-11 earlier, this one had my entire body behind it, like I was fighting Spider-Man. I felt my vibro-smasher activate as it impacted her skull. By itself, the punch wouldn't have been anything too special. With my vibro-smasher going off at level one, the zombie smacked against the closet door, silent for a second, before sliding down the surface onto the floor. I did the same thing to the second zombie, smashing its' nose in the process. As it was falling, I quickly tapped on the closet door. "Hey," I said softly, "whoever's in there. I'm a friend. Robert sent me to rescue you."

After a few moments, I heard some rustling, and the door slowly opened. A teenage boy peeked out at me, eyes wide with fear and surprise. "My father sent you? He's alive?" he managed to choke out.

"Yeah, I have a note..." That was all I got out before the door flung open, and the teen ran out. His arms flung wide open, like he was trying to hug me.

"Oh, thank God! I was thought Papa was dead!"

I managed to side step him a bit. Him hugging me would have set off my contact plates and probably violate the trust that had instantly formed. "Yeah, no time for that, kid. We gotta go, those things are crawling all over the top floor. We'll get you back to your dad as soon as we can. Just follow me and be quiet, alright?" The teen nodded. "Alright, good. Where's the rest of your family? Are they hiding too?"

Clear eyes shining with fresh tears looked down at the two corpses on the floor...

Oh, nice job, Herman. You killed the kid's mother and sister...well, no, they weren't his mother and sister anymore. But seeing their zombie corpses couldn't have helped the teen's state of mind too much. I mentally crossed my fingers and hoped he managed to suck it up and deal, because...I was doing this out of some sense of altruism, but I was hoping to avoid hysterical, weeping, grieving civilians as best I could. To his credit, the teen stepped over their corpses without fuss, and was right behind me as I moved back out into the living room, careful to avoid stepping in the ribbons of blood that wove across the carpet.

As we approached the front door, I saw Rhino's head turn to the right, towards the lobby. "We got one," he hissed as me and the teen closed on him. "Just wandered in off the street."

I glanced back at the teen behind me before responding. "Can you take care of him so we can get the hell out of here, Aleksei?"

"Sure." He moved out of the doorway, disappearing from sight. Almost immediately, the two of us still in the apartment heard a low moan coming from the hallway. Turning around, I whispered to the teen. "Give him a minute to clear the way."

The teen nodded, but he was trembling with fear. "Is one...one of those things out there?"

"Yeah," I said, trying to be reassuring. "Rhino'll get rid of it and we can get out of here, but... trust me, you don't need to see..."

I got cut off by a loud roar...and then, something flew past the door to the apartment, causing both the teen and myself to snap to attention, heads whipping around. I caught a glimpse of white and red tennis shoes passing before my eyes. A second later, a series of loud bumps came from the doorway, as whatever it was landed and bounced along the hardwood floor. A small squeaking sound closed the cacophony of noise as whatever it was (ok, it was a corpse, but I had a scared kid beside me. Positive thoughts, positive thoughts, keep thinking unrealistic positive thoughts...) slid along the surface before coming to a halt. "Move it," Rhino rumbled from the lobby. I went out first, stepping to my left so the kid wouldn't see the formerly-flying zombie with a bashed in face as he left his home...

All night long, I'd been hearing these things moan, the only sound they made other than a growl or a snarl. At first, it was a solitary cry from the zombies outside the Bar With No Name. Then, outside the 7-11, it was a bunch of them, but I couldn't quite make out the particulars over whirring of the traffic helicopter just overhead. In the confined space of the empty apartment building, the sound echoed off the walls, through the hallways, down the stairs, and to our ears. It was one, at first, starting with what sounded like a deep breath, followed by a climbing, keenly pitched cry. But that was all I heard before another one soon joined in, lower in pitch...but more urgent in tone. They mixed and built on one another.

So, you could imagine that I wasn't too enthused when the third ghoul chimed in with their version.

I lost count of how many more joined in over the next few seconds.

Any attempt to describe the sound they make...it falls short. The sound...look, I was never one for too much hyperbole, but it felt like someone was trying to strike a match on my soul, the way the sounds blended into each other. It was a horrible song, made by horrible creatures. It was a hunting cry, a call that said "here, humans here, blood here, flesh here. Flush them out of the bushes, of their cars, of their homes." But it was worse than that. Underlying their moans, just below the surface...need. That's the only way I can even come close to quantifying it. A cry of need, of want. It didn't have any joy in it, any happiness. It was like, as they advanced on you, bloody hands clawing at you, they were saying, "we need to do this. We have no choice. The engine that's driving us demands that we rip you apart and wolf you down. "

The kid froze, and I damn well didn't blame him, because it stopped me in my tracks for a second. That little "flight-or-fight" moment I had earlier in the evening was starting to rear its ugly head again, and before the battle lines were even drawn, "flight" was the clear winner. But this kid just lost his mom and sister (thanks to me, and that couldn't have helped matters any) and now the hordes of Hell were abo...

"Kid, move."

Leave it to Aleksei to cut through all the mental red tape and provided the metaphorical boot to the behind. He grabbed the kid by the shoulder and manhandled him through the lobby, dragging him by his upper arm. Right behind the two of them followed yours truly. My friend's feet crunched over the broken glass, but I barely heard it over the noises from behind.

The street was clear as the three of us made it back out onto Versey Street. The street itself was ghoul-free, I concluded after taking a quick look around. "Alright, Rhino. SoHo next, then back to the ranch."

"Alright." Rhino still had a massive hand on the teenager's shoulder. "Ok...what's your name, kid?"

He choked out, "Ernesto..."

"Ernesto, listen up. You're with us now, and we ain't gonna let those guys put a hand on. We're gonna take your back to your Dad as soon as we go check in on some friends of mine." Aleksei was face to face with the teen, crouched down, speaking softly with his gravelly voice. "It'll be fine, just keep up with us, and when you see those dead guys, don't panic. We can take care of them. Just be brave and don't do anything stupid. Got it?" Ernesto nodded, which earned him a pat on the shoulder from Rhino. "Alright. Soho's this way, Herman." He pointed towards the east side of Manhattan. "Think we can just cut across?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Let's not spend any more time standing around, though. You lead."

"Come on, kid." Rhino waited for Ernesto to catch up to him, and, side-by-side, they started to walk up the street, away from the apartment building. I took a moment to glance inside the lobby. I could barely hear the moans of the oncoming horde from out on the street. But I did see them coming down the stairs from my vantage point...five or six pairs of feet, shuffling, limping, barely under control. Forward, always moving forward, never retreating or falling back. Just pushing onwards, because whatever had brought them back to life told them to...

A low voice rumbled at me. "You want me to engrave an invitation?"

Rhino and Ernesto had stopped after a few steps. Both of them were staring at me as I shook my head and trotted up to them. "Sorry...got distracted. I'm here, let's go."

"Head in the game, Herman. You're supposed to be the smart one," my friend quipped at me as we headed away from the scene of the massacre.

X

"And he's back in one piece!"

The door to the roof slammed as Boomerang started walking down the stairs. In both corners of the warehouse, a set of white metal steps, left over from the days when this building was a functional warehouse led up to the roof. In case of emergency, the steps were an evacuation route to the roof and the fire escapes down to the street. One of the first things I did after inheriting the hideout from the Tinkerer was to remove the fire escapes. A way down to the street is a way up from the street. Besides, in case of fire, a level three blast would blow a hole big enough in the metal side of the warehouse to let me escape.

After setting my vibro-smashers on the workbench to recharge, I trudged over to meet Fred at the bottom of the stairs. He had a wide smile on his face as he clasped my shoulder. "Two times stupid, mate. Don't give Lady Luck a third chance to screw you over."

"I ain't plannin' on it at the moment," I responded.

"At the moment...I'll take it and put it in the 'win' column. Herman, you look like hell." Concern wasn't an emotion one would often associate with Fred Myers, but he was giving my face a good once over with a worried look. "You walked all the way across Manhattan, on top of the 7-11 fiasco. How the hell ain't you dead on your feet?" I involuntarily cringed at his choice of words...and a second later, so did Fred. "Christ, I didn't mean..."

"It's ok. Hell, I probably feel as bad as I look."

"Why don't you get a nap, then? Hell, it's four in the morning, mate, and you've been jumping all over the island like a kangaroo."

At the word 'nap,' my body signaled its agreement with Boomerang's suggestion by letting out a huge yawn. My mind took a little more convincing though. "Fred, there are dead people walking around New York City. What in the hell makes you think I'm going to able to fall asleep right now? Besides...someone's gotta stay up and keep an eye on things..."

"Aleksei and I can do that. Besides, this place is secure, right? You set it up so Spider-Man would have a hard time kicking in the door. What are the odds of those clumsy things being able to break in?" The cornerstone of my argument was going to be the smashed security door at the Pasario's apartment building, but Fred cut me right off. "Herman, if you don't get to bed now, I'll get Aleksei to tuck you in. Got me?"

I sighed, throwing up my hands, grateful in a way at losing the argument. "Alright, alright, you got me. Six hours, ok? Wake me up at ten."

"Ten? What self-respecting supervillain gets up at ten am?" Boomerang chuckled to himself as I walked away. "Oh, and Herman?"

"Yeah, Fred?"

"Happy birthday."

I admit to smirking even as I shot my laughing friend the middle finger before leaving him for the evening...

X

You may be wondering how, after the events of this evening, how in the hell I can force any attempt at humor, after seeing the results of the massacre at the Prasario's apartment building. More importantly, how can I put a smile on my face when it's likely that the end of the world was staring me, Aleksei, Fred, and everyone else on the planet in the eyes? Simple answer – in the profession I'm in, a sense of humor keeps you sane. Think about it for a second. Men in spandex fighting each other using technology years ahead of anything currently in mass-production, aliens dropping in to eat the planet, demons from another dimension just showing up for a weekend excursion.

Do you know how ABSURD that sounds?

I said earlier, around here, strange stuff is normal. You just gotta roll with the punches as best you can, and for most of us costumed ladies and gentlemen, that involves somehow keeping a sense of humor about the situation, no matter how out there it is. I don't mean quipping like Spider-Man, because that's just annoying. But when the chips are down, gallows humor helps keep you sane.

Now that I was actually on my way to catch some sleep, I felt the weariness really sink in to my bones. Since about 7 pm, I had been almost constantly on the move across Lower Manhattan and putting myself in harm's way against a bunch of walking corpses, pushing my body physically. The one time I had a chance to sit down and breathe was when we watched the Wrecker try to eat Colonel Fury, which, to me, counted as a mental workout...

My sleeping area was just past my workbench. It was walled off by some folding wooden partitions, stained a dark brown with light tan drawings of children at playing around the fabric center, the kind of furniture that attempts to pass as antique the second it rolls off the assembly line in North Carolina. Behind them were a futon, a nightstand, and a dresser, all from Ikea, which is pretty much the official furniture brand for villains. It's cheap, easy to put together, and if need be, most Ikea pieces can be used as impromptu weapons against any do-gooder intruders. If the company had survived the end of civilization, I'd recommend the Klem product lines. Splinters well under pressure, turns into wooden shrapnel without too much effort.

I demagnetized my uniform one piece at a time, starting with my chestpiece. As I pulled it over my head, my arms and shoulder protested loudly, causing me to wince with discomfort. My suit's built for absorbing the impact and recoil of all the vibro-blasts I throw around, but I still have to lug the damn thing around, and it's heavy thanks to layers of quilting and all the contact plates. Add in how many hours I had been active that evening...

Once I got my boots, belt, and pants off, I took a look in the mirror. I didn't see any bruises, which was always a good sign. My body wasn't anything to write home about, but for a guy my age (thirty-two, as a reminder), lugging around a heavy padded suit and metal gloves as a profession...I wasn't Iron Fist, but I wasn't the Blob, either. Short brown hair, a nose broken only once, brown eyes. As far as New Yorkers go, I was another body on the sidewalk.

Grunting, I sat down on the edge of the futon. After setting my alarm for 9:30 am, I rummaged through the nightstand's drawer, looking for something to take the edge off. If I was going to lie down, it was to sleep, not to toss and turn because my muscles ached. Vicodin...tempting. But I wanted to remain alert just in case something went down and I needed to snap to full readiness in five seconds. Right, then. A Schultz Cocktail should do the trick. Two Bayer, two Tylenol, two Advil, two St. John's, and a big gulp of water to help the kidneys and liver process everything. For the same reason I passed on the Vicodin, I passed on the NyQuil. Say no to illegal drugs, kids, but stock up on the over-the-counter ones. Turns out, I didn't really need the NyQuil anyway, because almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, the last thing I heard was Aleksei laughing at one of Fred's jokes before I conked out.

X

"Oh, screw YOU!"

9:27 am. That's what the clock said as Boomerang's comment woke me up. Never fails. Something always opens my eyes just before the damn alarm goes off. That morning, I would have probably slept right through the ringing anyway, as my body was heavily protesting the interruption of roughly six-and-a-half straight hours of sleep. Hell, I would have probably just rolled over and drifted right back off...

...if Boomerang's next utterance hadn't gotten my attention.

"You're a bloody idiot, Norman Osborn."

I was out of bed in an instant at those words.