Wrenching open the rear door, Cameron flung himself over the backseat. "Drive!" As Marge drove, he looked out the back window to see the receding zombies pour out of the house. There were a lot more than he thought. The car came to a stop at the end of the street and Marge made a U-turn.

"How long until back up comes?" Cameron asked.

"They said in twenty to thirty minutes."

He cursed.

Opening the sunroof again, Cameron stood up through it and aimed his rifle down at the approaching monsters. Trying to be as conservative as possible with his ammo, Cameron took one carefully aimed shot after another. Unfortunately the zombies were moving erratically, and were a lot farther away than any target Cameron ever had to hit. By the time his magazine ran out, only five zombies were taken down, with well over a dozen still running at him.

"Now what?" Marge asked frantically.

"Back to the house."

Cameron sat back down on the passenger seat and threw his useless rifle in the back. The organizers didn't think they'd need more than one magazine. As Marge raced back to the house, she tried to run over as many of those things as possible, but she only managed to take out one or two.

After coming to a stop, with the zombies once more behind them, Cameron grabbed his pistol and Marge her shotgun. They ran back into the house, where the two girls that flagged them down were waiting.

"Get back upstairs," Cameron ordered.

"But—"

"No buts—NOW!" They followed without further question.

The front door's lock was busted in, so when Cameron shut it he and Marge had to haphazardly push the couch, table, and anything else in front of it. All too soon the zombies were back, and slammed themselves against the front door. The furniture moved slightly but held. The two of them raised their weapons, ready to fire as soon the zombies broke through.

"You go up, too," Cameron told Marge.

"What?"

"Go up there, too. I've got this covered."

"Like hell!" she argued.

"Dammit, Marge, you have a kid! Go upstairs!"

"I'm not leaving you here!"

"That's an order!"

"Who the fuck do you think are you ordering me around!"

They argued like that for a good minute when the door opened further, and the zombie growls got louder. Cameron raised his pistol to head height, and let off half the rounds through the door. It didn't seem to have any effect.

Finally, the furniture gave way, and the zombies poured in. Cameron let off the rest of his rounds, and Marge began using her shotgun. The recoil was a bit much for her, and it was seconds between shot.

The both of them pulled back, and ran into a bathroom. As Cameron tried to close the door, one of the things managed to get its arm though.

"Blow its fucking arm off!" he yelled desperately.

Not needing to be told twice, Marge shot the arm, splattering it, and allowing Cameron to shut the door completely. Keeping his back against the door, he planted his foot against the wall, breathing heavily. So here Cameron and Marge were, stuck in a bathroom, engulfed in darkness, with ravenous zombies on the other side of the door. The only comfort he had was that all those things were probably focusing on him, and leaving the girls upstairs alone…. But they weren't just focusing on him, Marge was right there with him.

"For fuck's sake, Marge, why didn't you listen to me!" he raged.

"I wasn't going to leave you alone," she explained, trying to stay calm. "What kind of bitch do you take me for?"

"Jack doesn't need you to risk your life like this," Cameron said angrily. "He's your only family."

Seeing as it was dark, Cameron didn't see her close the gap between them to hug him. "You're my family too, Cam. You were there for me and my son."

No longer seeing any reason to argue, Cameron kissed her forehead. "Thanks…but that doesn't change the fact that we're potentially fucked."

They waited there for ten grueling minutes, when blessedly the sounds of gunfire were heard from outside. The banging against the door eventually stopped, and the moaning disappeared.

"Think it's over?" Cameron asked.

"Only one way to find out." Raising her shotgun, Marge turned the doorknob, and slowly opened the door. A quick sweep told them that no zombies were around. But looking outside, Cameron saw as the last zombie had its brains blown out. The bus had finally arrived.

"Marge!" Dennis Bright called out delightedly.

"Glad to see you joined the party," Marge called back.

"Have any extra pistol ammo?" Cameron asked.

"Sure thing." Dennis extracted a magazine from his pocket, and tossed it to Cameron, who swapped it out for the empty one in his gun. "Where are the survivors?"

"I'm getting them now."

Going back in the house, he raised the gun as he went upstairs. One could never be too careful. The hallway was clear, so Cameron knocked the bedroom door.

"Is if safe?" one of the girls called out.

"Yeah."

When the door opened, the older of the two girls flung out and embraced Cameron. Her brown hair was lanky, her skin semi-sunken, and there were bags under her eyes—and the other one looked to be in the same shape. But then again who'd look like a million bucks after what they went though?

"Thank you!" she cried, hugging him so hard he could barely breath. "Thank you so much!"

"What about Dad?" the younger asked tearfully. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen.

"I'm right here."

Looking behind him, Cameron saw a man emerge from one of the other rooms. He was pale and sickly looking with a bite mark on his arm. Shit. All the same the man still hugged his daughters when they ran up to him.

"Oh god, you look awful," the older one said. She turned to Cameron. "You have medicine back where we're going, right?"

Hesitating, he shook his head regretfully. "Sorry, but we have no cure for bites."

"What does that mean?" the father asked, all relief draining away.

"You'll become one of them soon enough. We can't take you with us." It was heartbreaking for Cameron to tell them this, but he had no other choice.

"Cam?" Marge called.

"You can go with her," Cameron told the girls. "I'll stay with your dad."

"What're you gonna do?" the older one him asked fearfully. The answer was written all over Cameron's face. "You can't! He's all we have!"

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely but firmly. "I truly am. But there's no other choice."

"There's has to be some other way," the father said desperately. "Please. They already lost their mother."

"Like it or not, you're gonna end up turning into one of those things," Cameron stated. "Do you really wanna let your daughters see you like that?"

"Look here!" the older one raged, getting into his face. "We aren't—"

"Becky, he's right," the father interrupted sadly. "Go, please. No! You have to go with Sarah. I love you both so much—but that's why you have to leave me! GO!"

With much persuading, the two girls finally let go of their father, and left tearfully with Marge. Cameron told her to go on without him, saying that he'd take the Honda back.

He heard the bus turn on and leave, leaving Cameron alone with the man.

"So what happens now?" he asked.

"Well," Cameron started, his mouth severely dry, "I can shoot you now, you can shoot yourself…or I shoot you after you die." Oh god, please don't pick the first one.

"Not much of a choice, so the third sounds good…. Well follow me." He led Cameron to the master bedroom, where he went to the dresser and took out a pack of cigarettes. "I promised my family I'd quit, but that doesn't matter anymore, does it?" He smacked one out and then offered one to Cameron. Cameron didn't smoke, but it would've been insulting to refuse.

"Dave's the name," he announced, lighting the cigarette.

"Cameron."

Dave sat on the floor, back against the wall and took a drag from his cigarette. "So," he started, "how old are you?"

"Eighteen."

He frowned. "Damn, a year younger than my Becky, but it'll have to do." Cameron's response was a questioning look. "Can you do me a favor?"

"What is it?" he asked. Cameron was not about to agree to a dying man's wish until he knew what it was.

"Make sure my girls move on."

Cameron nodded. "I'll try."

The rest of the time they stayed there in silence waiting for the inevitable. When Dave was half way done, his head drooped to the side, the cigarette fell out of his mouth, and his breathing ceased.

Stubbing out his own cigarette, Cameron aimed the pistol at Dave's head and pulled the trigger.