After the call came in, them and everybody else in the store ran back outside. It was slower going for Cameron, Horace, and Becky as they were carrying survivors. When they finally did make it back outside, Cameron saw a large queue of people trying to make it back up the trucks at the same time, while others on the ground were shooting at the rapidly approaching zombies—probably because they saw no point in adding to the congestion.

"Make way!" Cameron shouted, pushing his way through the throng of people. "God dammit, make way! I have survivors here—and they get priority!" Eventually they made it back to the rope ladder, where others helped him get the two barely conscious men up the on the truck. He might have wanted to open the doors of the trucks, but that would probably let in zombies.

When the two men got up, Cameron called Becky forward, and made sure that she went up too. As she started climbing up, Cameron tried to immediately follow, but he was pushed out of the way. He tried again, but was met with similar results.

"Cam!" Becky shouted hysterically over the edge of the truck.

"Pass me some ammo!" he told her, making a decision. Becky tossed a magazine over the edge two seconds later, and Cameron caught it, sticking it in his back pocket. With that, he stepped into the open to face the approaching zombies along with the some of the others.

Cameron raised his rifle, picked his oncoming target, and fired. The monsters may have been taking fire from both the people on the ground and on the trucks, but it was such a large mass that it didn't do much.

Finally, at one point, it was time to retreat. When they were only five car lengths away, Cameron turned tail and ran back into the Target. As he ran, he looked behind him to see what others were doing. Most ran into the store with him, but a significant amount tried to get up those rope ladders—a foolhardy decision. Most just ended up being pulled back down and feasted upon.

But the fresh meals didn't deter all the zombies. A lot of them gave chase to those fleeing into the store. Cameron simply kept on running.

When he found himself in an open enough area, he decided to turn around to face the monsters. Cameron shot off perfectly aimed headshots to those that were closest, and began to back away while he kept on firing.

In no time the magazine he was using ran out, and he had to swap it out for the new one. Throughout the rest of the store he heard others trying to make valiant last stands. He was about to resign himself to be one of those people when he remembered the storeroom.

Firing a few more times for good measure, Cameron once again broke into a run. He turned around every once in a while to shoot any zombie he sensed was getting too close, and eventually he ran out of ammo again. Fuck, he thought, slinging the useless rifle over his shoulders and breaking out his pistol.

He finally made it back to the storeroom. Cameron was about to go in and lock himself inside, when he heard someone shout from behind, "KEEP THAT FUCKING DOOR OPEN!" It was Horace and he was running from four zombies that were on his tail.

Raising his pistol, Cameron tried to shoot the monsters behind Horace, but he really did suck out loud with that gun. He managed to empty half his rounds, and kill only one by the time Horace joined him inside and closed the door behind them.

Panting, together they moved the shelf back to the door, to effectively keep out the savages outside.

"Shit, that was close," Cameron breathed, as pissed off, rabid zombies banged against the door.

"Too close." Normally, that statement would mean that he agreed…but sounded like he disagreed.

"What do you mean?" Cameron inquired.

"This," Horace answered. What "this" was Cameron couldn't see since it was pitch black. So, he removed the flashlight from his rifle, and pointed it in Horace's direction. "Fuckin' A."

Fuckin' A was right. On Horace's left hand was a horrible bite mark.

"I'm such a shit head," he said, crying softly. "I thought I'd be able to climb up, but—but before I realized it the fuckers were on me." Horace lowered his head and began to cry even more.

Other than Marge, Horace was the closest thing that Cameron had to a best friend in Yuba—and he liked to think that he, Horace, thought of Cameron the same way. It was hard to just stand there and watch the man knowing he would die. Horace had fled all the way from Oshkosh, survived two months in Yuba, and now the zombies finally got him.

"It's not your fault," Cameron said firmly. "Blame whoever had the bright idea to come out here in the first place!" Cameron certainly did. Madison! Why would they send them to Madison?

"I don't wanna turn into one of those things," Horace cried.

"Well," Cameron replied, his mouth drying up again, "you know your choices." Shoot yourself, be shot, or wait until you die and be shot. Cameron hated that those were the only things a bitten person could choose between.

"Gimme the fucking gun," Horace declared, extending his hand.

After giving him the pistol, Cameron turned off the light, sat in a corner, and bowed his head. Soon enough he expected to hear a resounding bang, signifying that his friend was gone. But for the next few minutes all he heard was the clinking sound of teeth, some mumbling, and cries of frustration. Cameron didn't want to turn the light on again to see what Horace was doing, but the same time he couldn't risk him reanimating right in the room, especially without a gun. Yes, Cameron carried his knife, the same knife that he used for his first kill, but he didn't fancy having to use it again.

"Horace?" Cameron asked hesitantly, turning his flashlight on again.

"I can't do it," he said, blubbering and sliding the gun away. "I can't fucking do it! God, I'm such a pussy!"

"You're not!" Cameron told him firmly. "Dammit, you know how ballsy it is just to come out here in the first place?"

"But if I can't do it—"

"Not wanting to kill yourself isn't a weakness!" Cameron declared.

"Then what should I do?"

"You still have two more options," Cameron reminded him.

Horace thought long and hard, and with each passing minute his condition grew worse. "I," he finally said, "don't wanna turn into those things."

"You won't have to."

"No, I mean—I mean that I don't want to die with the possibility of coming back as a monster," he clarified.

Cameron just stared at him, now knowing what he was asking.

"I know I shouldn't be asking you this, but I really don't—"

"Stop," said Cameron raising his hand. "Horace, if we switched places I'd want you to do the same thing." Standing and walking over to his gun, he picked it up and aimed down at Horace. It shook in his hand, so he used the other to steady it. Cameron had killed countless full blown zombies, and one just before he had a chance to reanimate…but never before had he shot a person that was still living.

"Thanks, Cam," Horace said softly, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes.

"See you on the other side, buddy."

"Here's hoping."

Cameron pulled the trigger.

Two and half hours later a knocking came at the door. Tossing aside his Twinkie, Cameron moved the shelf, and Dennis Bright along with Isturez came in.

"Cam!" Dennis greeted joyfully. "Glad to see you made it! Phew! What's the smell?"

Cameron jammed his thumb at the waste pile that he had to endure.

"Oh god," Istrurez said, looking sadly at Horace's dead body. "Well, Horace makes nineteen."

"That many?" Cameron asked in disdain. The Sergeant nodded.

The parking lot was simply paved with the bodies of the undead. Cameron was amazed that they had enough ammunition to kill every single one of them. The process of loading all the supplies on the trucks had started, but seeing as what Cameron just went through he was exempt.

As soon as Becky spotted Cameron, she let out a cry of relief, and kissed him so hard their teeth clacked—like lovers that haven't seen each other in two years, instead of a few hours. He would've put more energy into that kiss, but he was exhausted. So he simply sat down on the benches inside the truck and slept.