Warnings: Blood and gore, death and torture via dog this chapter. (Seriously, wat brain. Torture via dog? Eh whatever). So, dog attack/biting. Just in case that's a trigger for anyone.


Maya stared at the corpse in the corner of the room.

Flies still buzzed around it, their fat shiny bodies plump as they busily worked, the air humming with their movements. Maya sat with her back against the wall, an open window just above her head and tried not to breathe too deeply. Outside, she could hear the hoard still moving through, a big one of at least a few fifty zombs. They shuffled down the road, groaning and grunting, their stench almost as bad as the stench currently in the room.

She had painfully made her way down the dirt track to the main road, but had found the way up to the farmhouse blocked by the same hoard. She'd had no choice but to head to the industrial estate, hoping against hope no more ferals would appear, and that somehow, the old enclave that used to live there had left supplies.

She was lucky in that no ferals tried to rip her apart. Unlucky in that whatever the enclave had once had, was gone.

In the end all Maya could find were bodies, and now she was forced to hunker down with them, hidden away in the small room on the second floor as she waited for the hoard to pass. She wasn't even sure she would be able to walk back, her feet were cut to ribbons, and even just making her way here had been hard, taking her twice as long as it would have normally.

Her arms and shoulder throbbed, and when she pressed a hand to her cheek, her skin felt too warm and clammy. She was going to get an infection at this rate. What she wouldn't give for some clean water, peroxide and bandages.

Maya shifted uncomfortably. In only her shorts and now shredded shirt, she was freezing. She had briefly thought about taking strips from her shirt to bind her arms, but needed what little warmth it could offer, and didn't relish the thought of walking around in a dingy bra. And god knew what sort of gunk the feral had coughed on her; she'd probably do more damage wrapping it around her wounds.

She glanced back towards the body. Its clothes hung in wet tattered ribbons, rank with decaying juices, and useless to her. Sadly, she recognized the coat and hair. Becca, the girl with the past Maya had once investigated. Maya had liked her well enough, and felt a pang of sadness that the young woman hadn't made it. Beside her stretched the bodies of the rest of the group, Maya recognized Quentin, the boyfriend, as well as a few others. Seemed the group had been forced up here into a final stand. Maybe by the same feral who had dragged Maya here.

She darkly wished she could kill the bastard all over again.

Her stomach rumbled, and Maya leaned back against the wood, closing her eyes. She hadn't heard any cars to signal her own group coming to the rescue, and the shape she was in didn't bode well for her chances either. She had checked the bodies for a weapon, but came up dry. She had found a broken two by four by the cracked bed, but she barely had the strength to carry it, let alone wield it. Whatever strength she had summoned to dispatch the feral was long gone, and Maya felt weak as a newborn.

"Things are looking grim, kid," she directed towards her belly, keeping her voice low. The hoard just wouldn't move on. Maya had been trapped for hours, and every minute she wasted here she felt her energy slipping away with it.

She risked a glance out the window. Finally it was the back of the hoard coming through, the slowest of the zombs. A good dozen though, too many to consider trying to slip by. Maya slumped back down dejectedly.

All she could do now was conserve what little strength she had and hope she had enough to get her home. Her tongue felt like sandpaper, scraping along the roof of her mouth, and to get her mind off of her hunger and thirst, Maya tried counting the flies.

It didn't help. They seemed to taunt her, gleefully filling their bellies with putrid meat and buzzing by her face. Maya didn't bother swatting at them, concentrating on keeping still and quiet.

She must have fallen asleep for a while, because she jolted back into consciousness as a car engine cut through her uneasy thoughts.

Disorientated, she hauled herself up to the window, peering outside, blinking. The zombs were agitated outside, their moaning rising in volume. But above it all, was the unmistakeable sound of a car.

Heart pounding, Maya struggled to her feet, swaying precariously. Her shoulder throbbed in agony, and she hissed, grabbing for it without thinking.

Pain lanced along her scratched forearms as the movements stretched the swollen flesh around her cuts. Maya bit down on her lip to stop from crying out, squeezing her eyes shut as she waited for the pain to pass. She breathed in through her nose, but immediately regretted it as the sickly stench of decay seeped into her lungs.

Her stomach threatened rebellion, but she had little in it to begin with, a small mercy. When she was sure she wasn't going to pass out, Maya slowly and carefully moved towards the door. Pain shuddered up her legs with every step, her cut feet leaving bloody footprints on the wooden floor. Maya just gritted her teeth and somehow pushed herself on. The car was coming closer, and she needed to get down and outside if she was to have any chance of them noticing her.

She stepped over the bodies, bracing her hand on the wall so she wouldn't fall. Boy was she going to have a thing or two to say to Marcus. So he called this a rescue? He was a few hours overdue.

The stairs seemed to yawn in front of her, a steep decline that could mean a broken neck if she wasn't careful. Maya went as quickly as her injured feet would allow, keeping her hand on the wall as her head spun with every step.

At least it was light out now, the sun beginning to reach its peak. When Maya had made her way to the building she had barely been able to see in the dim glow of the moon. She hadn't been able to pick a safe path across the floor littered with glass, and had ended up doing herself even more damage. Now in the light of day she could pick her way through it, but it was of small comfort.

The front windows of the building had been blasted in, covering the floor in tiny shards of glass that were next to impossible to avoid. Maya made a note to investigate this place when she was able. It didn't look like a typical zomb attack, and might be worth checking out.

As was the fact that a feral had tried to run off with her in the first place. Since when did they carry people off?

Maya struggled out the door, leaning heavily on the wood wincing in the bright light outside. She could hear the car better now, maybe a truck by the sounds of it, bearing down on her location. A few zombs had raised their heads at her movement, but seemed more interested in the increasingly loud engine.

Hobbling, Maya slowly made her way towards the road. Squinting, she could make out a cloud of dust, the car in the distance mowing down the very hoard Maya had been waiting on. For the first time since the feral grabbed her, Maya smiled.

"Marcus you crazy son-of-a-bitch," she said out-loud, voice cracking slightly. "You'll never wash them out of the grill now."

Undaunted, the truck barreled forward. She could see it better now, the metal glinting in the sun, and she frowned.

Did they have a black truck? Maya's was red, and the only other truck she knew of that they used was a beat up old blue Ford.

Well, people were people. And people were better than zombs.

Maya waved her arms in what she hoped was a not-zombie like manner. She didn't look much better than the corpses beginning to amble towards her, but she'd never seen one wave before, so hopefully it would grab their attention.

It seemed to; the truck was slowing as it barreled towards the industrial estate, swerving occasionally to hit a zomb. A body leaned out the window, a rifle in one hand, and automatically Maya ducked, her body protesting.

The stranger took out a zomb that had come too close, picking others off in quick succession. Maya was too busy trying not to puke all over the ground, swallowing down her dry heaves at the waves of pain that seemed to come at her from every body part she had.

By the time she had gathered herself enough to raise her head, the truck had come to a stop, doors opening. Two men stepped out, unfamiliar to her.

The one who looked like a throwback from a Western movie adjusted his belt, grinning as his eyes narrowed on Maya's crouched form.

"Well look what we got 'ere. You 'aint lookin' so good there little darlin'."

His friend spat, sucking his tooth thoughtfully.

"Good thing we came along. Wouldn't want somethin' bad to happen to ya."

And just like that, Maya knew she was in even more trouble.


Despite what the folks around town used to say, Mickey had never killed anyone. Beat a man senseless once, sure, but actual, all out murder? Never.

Even when the zombs came, and Mickey found himself shooting people-shaped targets for the first time. He hadn't killed a human. Had been bad enough recognizing dead faces before he blew them to pieces. The thought of putting down someone living was…well, unthinkable.

Until it wasn't.

Mickey didn't recognize the man he murdered. Made it easier, honestly. As the stranger's chest exploded in a wet splatter of red, Mickey went down onto one knee, getting a more solid sight on the second, taking the man down as he turned and tried to warn the others. Might be once he'd have felt cowardly shooting someone in the back, but he couldn't afford to let the man live. Maya's life depended on them dying.

So by God, they would die.

Behind him, he heard Doc fire, and a body fell from the top of the barn. Three down.

The dog was barking, and with a bellow, Mickey yelled to Doc to release her. She was an older bitch; past her breeding years which was partly the reason the old crazy bastard in the woods had bartered her. But she was trained good, and she came to Mickey's side instantly, teeth flashing against her black gums as she snapped and snarled at the men now scrambling out of the barn.

"Girl, dræbe!" Mickey shouted, reloading. "Dræbe!"

She went, in a streak of brown. She brought one down quickly, jaw clamped around the man's calf. Doc's rifle boomed, and another man died as he tried to duck behind the barn.

Like fish in a fucking barrel.

Grimly, Mickey brought his rifle back up, sighting at the ones who were trying to flee into the field. On the ground the dog had changed her bite, going for the man's throat instead. He squealed, once, then there were only four left.

Mickey kneecapped the closest, the man collapsing. He went down with a scream, and obediently the dog left her now still corpse, zeroing in on the thrashing prey, ignoring his flailing arms. Hadn't even gotten his gun out. Mickey had had his doubts at Fred's promises, but it seemed the old man had been training his dogs to be killing machines at the end of the world. Useful as hell, but also fucking terrifying.

Poor bastard.

Mickey tuned out the wet gurgles and the dog's growling, concentrating on getting the fleeing ones back in his sights.

Boom, and then there were only two.

Mickey got to his feet, moving forward at an unhurried pace. They could run as fast as they liked, they weren't going to leave the field alive. Finished, the dog circled back to Mickey, sticking close as she was trained to do. Her weight against his legs was reassuring, and Mickey's finger twitched on the trigger.

Doc beat him to it, the doctor appearing beside him, face unreadable as he took another life. Both men had been prepared for this, had talked about it all the way down to the farmhouse. Doc had explained everything he heard when Lily radioed in, about Maya, the group of strangers, though he hadn't dared radio Lily back in case there were others listening in.

Mickey knew this game. He knew what type of men staked out groups, what type of men would stake out this group. Weren't any of his or Job's. Weren't friends of Mayas. They were enemies, and they were stopping him from finding Maya. Might even have something to do with it. There could be no survivors.

Mickey understood that, and made his peace with it quick. He had expected Doc to dig his heels in, to protest, lecture on about how he was meant to preserve life, not take it, but the old doctor hadn't. Seemed Maya was more important to him than a few strangers too.

Mickey watched the man trying to run, tripping over his own feet several times in his headlong flight. He dropped the rifle.

"I'm thinkin' we question that one," he said. Doc looked at him incredulously.

"Thought you said no survivors."

"Who says I"ll let him live after?" Mickey glanced down at the panting dog at his feet. "Girl, hente. Hente."

She understood, and shot off like an arrow, disappearing from view into the tall grass and tail held high. The list of commands Fred had given Mickey was safely stowed in his shirt pocket, along with pronunciations. Apparently he was doing alright so far.

Doc tapped his rifle against his thigh. "I swear to God, that dog's smarter than anythin' I've seen. Usin' a different language too."

Mickey watched the man reach a fence, almost getting over it before the dog hit him, latching onto his leg. As he fell backwards, she went for his arms, stopping him from getting any weapons. Mickey slung his rifle back over his shoulder, stepping over the downed bodies as he moved towards the wrestling duo.

"Folks used to say ol' Fred trained every dog in a different tongue. Used to do some sort of competin', before he went all crazy and decided to live up in the woods. Heard he trained up police dogs too. Fuck knows, but damn, she knows what she's doin'."

Doc glanced at the carnage around them. "I'll make sure these poor bastards are all properly dead. Don't want any of them coming back."

"You do that, Doc." Mickey could see movement from the farmhouse as the others began to come out. "You fill them in yeah? I'll be back in a tic."

The field was luckily zomb-free as Mickey strolled through. As he neared he could hear the man whimpering, the dog growling.

He nearly laughed as he kicked away the grass. The man was on his belly, curled up like a possum to protect his vulnerable front. The bitch had the back of his neck in her jaws, giving him a little shake now and then whenever he cringed. She kept her eyes on Mickey's face though, waiting for his command.

"Komme," he motioned her away with a hand and she released the man immediately, trotting back to Mickey's side.

"Well, look at what the dog dragged in," Mickey drawled, kicking the man in the side. "Looks like trash to me."

The man uncurled, raising his head. His face was bloody, his shirt torn and arms bleeding heavily.

"Fuck you, Wilkerson!" he yelled, though his voice shook. "The hell you think you're doin'? We 'aint got no quarrel with you and yours."

Mickey snorted, aiming another kick at the man's side. "That so? That group back there happens to be one o' mine. And you're gonna tell me just what the fuck you were doin', who you work for, and where Maya Torres is."

The man quivered. "We were just watchin'. 'Aint hurt nobody, and you…fuck, you killed them all didn't you? Crazy bastard."

Mickey sighed, sinking down on one knee. Beside him, the dog growled warningly and the man cringed.

"Why were you watchin'? Who put you up to it?"

The stranger avoided his eyes. "No-one. We just thought it looked like ripe pickin's. We been on the road for a month now, just wanted somewhere to rest."

He yelped as Mickey grabbed him by the throat, hauling him forward, their faces only inches apart.

"You think I'm stupid?" Mickey said dangerously. "Your boys knew who I was. Greeted me like a fuckin' friend. You 'aint one of mine. You 'aint one of Jobs. You're someone elses, and someone who knows what a Wilkerson looks like."

The man stayed silent. Mickey rolled his eyes, releasing him. "Alright. We'll do this the hard way then."

He got to his feet, and before the man could react, kicked him onto his back.

"Wh…what are you-"

Mickey ignored him, stomping down on the man's shoulder with a boot. He grabbed the arm, and pulled, wrenching the arm up and back with all his strength.

The grass vibrated around them as the man screamed, and Mickey let go, the arm flopping back onto the grass, dislocated. He tried to claw at Mickey with his other, but Mickey dislocated that one too with alarming efficiency.

"You fuckin' fuck!" the man bellowed, flopping onto his back and writhing. "You piece of shi-"

"Girl," Mickey said, and the dog at his side looked up at him. "Bide."

The man's screaming rose in pitch as the dog lunged, sinking her fangs into the meat of his thigh. He jerked helplessly, unable to bat her away. Mickey watched dispassionately.

"It doesn't have to be this way," he managed to say over the screaming. "Just tell me what I want to know, and she stops."

The man was crying, tears streaming down his dirty face. The dog savaged at his thighs, tearing away bloody chunks unflinchingly.

"I'll talk!" he screamed. "I'll talk, please, oh JESUS!"

Mickey took his time fishing out the command list from his pocket, finding the right one.

"Slukket," Mickey barked, and the dog released, backing away. Triumphant, Mickey tucked the list away again, crossing his arms, and glaring down at the heavily bleeding man. "Talk. Who do you work for?"

He whimpered. "Is…Isaiah."

The name didn't mean anything to Mickey. Probably someone Job dealt with.

"Why were you watchin' that group?"

The dog growled, and the man curled up on himself. "Bo…Boss told us to. Said…said there were women to be had."

He groaned. "We…we were supposed to start bleedin' 'em. Get 'em weak and scared so we could hit later."

Fuck. A gang had Maya's group in its sights. Mickey lifted his foot, pressing down on the man's torn up thigh, grinding the sole of his boot into the bloody flesh.

"How many of ya?"

The man's howl had the dog stiffening, but she didn't move. Mickey pressed harder.

"I dunno! A…a couple dozen maybe. Swear to God! Please…please don't hurt me no more."

Mickey frowned. A large group. If this Isaiah was dealing with Job, then he wouldn't attack anyone in Wilkerson territory without permission.

Which meant Mickey's brother had something to do with this. Godammit.

Filled with rage, Mickey stamped down, hard. The man's screech rivaled a screamer.

"Where's Maya?"

"I don't know!" The man was all out sobbing now, chest heaving, snot oozing from his nose. "Please, sweet Jesus, I don't know no Maya. We just waited 'till the zomb distracted 'em then took up position. I swear, that's it!"

Mickey, drew back, surprised. "You knew the feral was gonna attack."

The man looked up at him with wet, red-rimmed eyes. "Yeah. Yeah we knew. Isaiah, he's into some fucked up shit, man. I…I dunno much, but I know he trains some. Fuck knows how, but he sics 'em on groups to split 'em up. Make it easier to attack."

Mickey stared down at his prisoner. "You mean he trains zombs? Like attack dogs?"

The man groaned, head thudding against the earth. "I've said too much man, Isaiah will kill me. Just…just let me go. I won't say nothin' to no-one."

Mickey frowned, foot hovering in threat. The man cringed. "Was it supposed to take someone?"

"No! It…it was supposed to get inside, kill some. Make it easy for us to go in. But…but somethin' happened. There were still too many of 'em to take on, so we waited. We waited and…and…Jesus you killed them."

Fuck. Things were getting more complicated by the second.

"Please…please I've told you. Let…let me live."

Mickey shook his head. "That was never on the cards. You fucks threatened one o' mine, and you're gonna have to pay in blood."

The man's eyes were almost resigned as he looked helplessly up at Mickey. "Then…then make it quick at least. Give me a fuckin' bullet to the braincase, I'm beggin' ya."

"I almost feel bad," Mickey sighed, "But I can't do that either. I 'aint wastin' good bullets on fucks like you."

He glanced over at the dog. She wagged her tail expectantly. For a second, Mickey balked, but the thought of Maya out there, injured, alone...pregnant... it was enough to steel his resolve. These assholes had attacked his family, there would be no mercy for them. Not from him.

Mickey's gaze hardened. "Girl-"

"No!" the man was begging now, begging and blubbering like a child. Like that would save him. "No, please! God have mercy! Wilkerson, have mercy, please God I-"

"Dræbe."

And like the highly trained canine she was, she did.