Guest: I think there are three after this one. I don't really know, I haven't divided the text up yet.

D4rK Sid3: Good, the world needs more quality Lynncoln ;)

Lyrics to Layla by Derek and the Dominos (1970)

Lynn came slowly and groggily awake in a spill of morning light, sleep clearing from her mind like fog and sensation returning to her body the way it does to a limb after it grows numb. She yawned, shifted to her side, and drew her knees to her chest. In that twilight borderland between consciousness and unconsciousness, she was warm and happy, and everything was right in the world. The past three months had never happened, the dead did not leave their graves, her parents and sisters never died; it was a bright Sunday morning and she was looking forward to a long day of playing football in the backyard with her favorite guy.

Inevitably, cold reality began to creep in, and the vision dissipated, splotches of gray appearing on the sepia toned fabric of space and time. The dead did start to walk, her family did die (all because of her), and it wasn't an easy Sunday morning. In fact, she didn't know what day it was anymore, and hadn't since Columbus. The world was gone, and with it everything she had ever known. Football, basketball, soccer, morning jogs, all of her favorite TV shows and bands, her family, her friends, meatball subs - all now in the ash bin of history and never coming back.

One thing remained, however, one gold and glorious bright spot in the gloom, a precious stone among charred, radiation blasted rocks.

Lincoln.

Her lips turned up in a sleepy smile when she remembered the love they made the night before, the way their bodies, hearts, and souls melded into one being, one flesh, one sigh. She lifted her lids, expecting to see Lincoln's face, eyes closed and lips parted, but instead she saw nothing, and her heart jogged in her chest. She reached out and touched the spot where he should have been as if to confirm to herself that he was indeed gone, and when she felt only blanket, her stomach dropped. She pushed herself to a sitting position and jerked a fearful glance around the church: Empty pews, an American flag standing by the entrance to the vestibule, and a giant plaque on the wall bearing a Bible verse: I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die - John 11:25-26.

He was nowhere.

Sitting there pooled in blankets, wringing them in her hands, Lynn began to hyperventilate, feeling suddenly small and alone. He said he wouldn't leave her but he did, and now she had nothing, no one, a hell of her own making, and like the quote, she would never die, never escape.

The front doors opened, and when Lincoln stepped in, relief flooded through her and tears of joy came to her eyes.

Shutting the door behind him, he came over and smiled. "Morning," he said.

"Morning," she said, a giddy smile in her voice. He stood awkwardly over her for a moment, as though undecided, then bent and pecked her lips. Ummm. That wasn't good enough. She slipped her fingers into his hair and kissed him back, her tongue stroking his. He tensed a little, then dropped to one knee and kissed her back.

When she pulled back, he grinned at her and she giggled girlishly. "You kind of scared me," she confessed. She didn't want him to think she was weak, especially after her episode the previous day, but she couldn't stop herself. He was her only, and she found herself wanting to share everything with him - her thoughts, her fears, her secrets. Everyone needs a confidante - confession is good for the soul, they say.

He pinched her chin with his thumb and forefinger and kissed her again, chastely this time. "I'm sorry. I woke up early and after laying there for an hour, I decided to see if I could find keys to that van out front."

She smiled and kissed him, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth. His taste was addictive, the intimacy sublime. She grazed her fingertips across his cheek and looked into his eyes - it didn't matter if they were the last two people on earth or not, when she stared those limpid orbs, she didn't feel alone. "Did you?" she asked, inhaling his sweet breath.

"No," he said, "but I found a '74 Chevy Impala in the back. The keys were in the ignition and it runs like a dream."

His smug little smile made her grin. "'74 Impala, huh? I didn't know you knew so much about cars." She kissed his lips again, tracing them with her tongue and shivering when he caressed it with his.

"I had no clue what it was," he admitted, "there was an owner's manual."

She grinned. "Fronting like you knew." He started to reply, but she grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands and pulled him on top of her, bracing her socked heels against his butt and kissing him passionately.

Their third time was faster than the rest; Lynn wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as he pumped roughly into her, each rake of his crowned head against her rippling walls kicking sparks into her stomach, where they gathered into a hot ball of passion that swelled bigger and brighter until it exploded; his seed shot into her, and their cries of mutual nirvana rebounded through the church halls. Chist watched from his perch, sadness in His eyes.

Lincoln swept her into his arms, and Lynn snuggled contently against him; his essence dripped down the insides of her thighs in burning rivulets, and she pressed her legs closed to trap his warmth inside. For a long time, neither spoke, the afterglow of their sex heavy and tranquil upon them. Then, Lincoln propped himself up on one elbow and she turned to look into his eyes. "We need to get back to the Bronco," he said.

A twinge pinched Lynn's chest. "I-I don't know if that's a good idea. It's probably still surrounded."

"I don't know," Lincoln said thoughtfully. "We lead them toward the woods, so most of them probably spread out. There might be a few still hanging around…"

A few was too many.

Because all it took was one.

And she would lose him.

"No," she said.

Lincoln blinked in surprise. "Lynn…"

"We can't," she said, and tears came to her eyes again. She took a sharp breath through her teeth and tried to stave them off, she hated feeling this weak, but they spilled down her cheeks anyway. "I can't lose you, Lincoln."

A frown crossed his lips, and he cupped her cheek in his hand. "You're not going to lose me. Everything we have is in that Bronco. Guns, food, medical supplies, ammo, the maps -"

"We can replace that stuff," she said, "I can't replace you."

He drew a deep breath. "I know, but it would be safer to get to the Bronco than to run around collecting all that stuff over again. Every time we stop, we're in danger; every time we go into a grocery store, we're in danger. We need food, fuel, and ammunition now. That car has a quarter tank of gas. We won't get very far before we'll have to stop. We need the Bronco, and I have a plan to get it. If it's surrounded."

Gazing into his eyes, Lynn carefully weighed and considered his words. He was right, running around and gathering everything they needed would be put them at increased risk. The keys were still in the Bronco's ignition. All she would have to do is get in and start it. That was easier said than done when there are fifty ghouls all vying for the honor of dining on your flesh, but she was confident she could do it. "What is it?" she sighed.

Fifteen minutes later, Lincoln pulled the Impala to the steps and Lynn descended. The day was already hot and the landscape surrounding the church a sickly shade of brown. The Impala's tires kicked up dust that hung heavy in the dry air like nuclear fallout, and the August sun felt like acid on Lynn's bare arms. When she woke, she wore only her socks and a white tank top, now she was dressed in black jeans and her combat boots, the tank top clinging snugly to her bare breasts. Resting the Springfield against her shoulder like a girl coming home with her trusty fishing rod, she went to the driver door, waited for Lincoln to scoot over, then slid in behind the wheel; the engine purred like a big cat, and faint vibrations trembled through the frame. She laid the rifle across the back seat, next to Lincoln's, and glanced at him. He flashed a reassuring smile and she returned it, even though her stomach was a bubbling pit of nerves and her heart clinched with fear. The operation ahead was dangerous, even if it was better than the alternative, and the thought of something going wrong and Lincoln being hurt made her want to cry.

She'd lost so much, and if she lost Lincoln, that was it. She would have nothing, and no reason to live; she'd shove the Desert Eagle into her mouth and blow her brains out.

Fighting back the urge to tremble, she threw the car into drive and followed a gravel drive through a dense stand of forest. The land dipped down toward the highway, and she paused. "Right," Lincoln said. She spun the wheel and turned onto the blacktop - it went straight for a quarter mile before bending around around a hill. On the other side, ghouls stumbled aimlessly, heads hung and bodies swaying back and forth. Lynn didn't trust hitting them with a car as small as the Chevy, so she weaved through them; they turned and gave chase as it passed. Lincoln twisted around in his seat and watched them. Lynn glanced anxiously in the rearview mirror - every one of those dozen pitiful creatures held the power in their maws to rip the last thing she had away from her, to turn her precious Lincoln into one of them, to…

"Watch out."

Lynn whipped her eyes back to the road: Ahead, a Dodge stood in the middle of the road. They were fifty feet back still, but Lynn's heart skipped a beat anyway. She swung around it and started when Lincoln laid his hand on her thigh. "You alright?" he asked. "You're kind of jumpy."

She started to lie, to put a false front of toughness, but she realized that she didn't want to lie to him. "I'm scared shitless, Linc," she said, her eyes pointed firmly at the road now and not at him. He squeezed and she closed her palm over the back of his hand. "I'm scared of losing you."

"I know," he said at length, his eyes filled with sorrow, "and I'm scared of losing you too. We can do this, though. We have to do this."

In the distance, the road forked, the right down to a clear and sunny patch of farmland and the left up into dark woodland like a bad omen.

She was not surprised when Lincoln said, "Go left."

Faces stared at them from the undergrowth, flashes of white, gray, and bloated black. Lynn swallowed hard and tried not to look at them, but she did, stealing glances of torn skin, gaping wounds, empty eye sockets squirming with worms and maggots, jagged teeth snapping and gnashing impotantly as rotting hands clawed fruitlessly at thick walls of brush. One got free and staggered after them, its arms raised and its features lifting in all-too-human excitement.

After a mile, the road filtered out onto a main highway bordered by hilly pasture land bisected by wire fences and dotted with farms. Thin, wispy clouds hazed the dirty blue sky like smoke, and a the silvery roof of a distant grain silo glinted in the sun.

"Left."

Lynn turned and followed the road for two miles before they began encountering ghouls, a few at first, then more, their numbers growing until they were like buffalo on the plains. Lynn's heart started to race and her stomach twisted into knots. "There's too many," she said, a kneading edge in her voice.

Ignoring her, Lincoln reached into the back, grabbed the M-16, and rolled down the window. "Keep steady," he said. Zombies stumbled toward them, moaning and hissing in hungry anticipation. Lincoln climbed halfway through the window, parked his butt on the doorframe, and laid the rifle across the hood. Lynn tightened her grip on the wheel and toed the gas, creeping along. He fired, and a zombie fell to the ground, its head destroyed. BLAM! Another went down, then another. She chewed her bottom lip and spotted the Bronco ahead, sitting at the side of the road and facing them; zombies shambled heedlessly around it, perking up at the sound of the gunfire and lumbering toward them. Lincoln fired again and again, waiting to get a clear shot at each one's head. They were in the road now, as thick as a forest d hands and teeth. She threw a nervous glance at him, and he pulled back into the car. "Alright," he said with a nod. "Go."

She stepped on the gas and pulled to the right, leaving the road and swinging wide around the dead, the Impala's tires biting into the grass and kicking up puffs of dirt. Past the seething mob, she jerked the wheel to the left, the car jostling roughly when it crossed back onto the pavement. Ahead, it made a sharp bend around a rocky hillside overgrown with dense underbrush. When they rounded it, Lynn punched the brakes and the car came to a sudden halt.

This was it.

She turned to him, and her stomach wrang like a wet dish rag. He leaned over and kissed her; she hesitated, as though this were the final step of consent and nothing could be done - the world and time itself would stop - without it, then she kissed him back, her tongue stroking his in warm affection. "I love you," she said.

He brushed his hand across her cheek and smiled. "I love you too. If there's trouble, keep going and come back around." He grazed the pad of his thumb over her lips, then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

Never in her entire life had she been as terrified as she was in that moment, but she shoved her fear down and slammed a lid on it; he needed her to be strong and to play her part, and she was not going to let him down the way she'd let everyone else down. Hitting the gas, she pulled forward, then backed up and made a three point turn. Lincoln waited at the side of the road, his Beretta in his hand, and as she passed, he blew her a kiss; she smiled weakly, caught it, and blew one back.

God please don't take him away from me. I'll do anything just don't let my brother die.

She steeled her nerves - it wasn't God who would let him die, it was her, and she was not going to do that.

Around the bend, ghouls shambling down the highway, the vanguard twenty feet ahead, so close...too close.

The plan was simple: She'd lead them away so that Lincoln could fetch the Bronco. When he was safely inside, they'd meet up down the road. Of course a lot of things look simple on paper, but become very complicated when you try to implement them. Lynn's main concern was the Impala: She'd have to run zombies over sooner or later, and she wasn't sure it could handle such abuse without taking major damage.

It was too late to worry now, though.

Drawing a deep breath, she slammed on the gas and the car surged forward, the engine's low growl becoming a mighty roar. The dead kept coming, mindless in their infernal hunger. She whipped the wheel to the left and went around, clipping one and pushing it back into the crowd. Another leapt in front, and the Impala's big front bumper took out its legs; it doubled over the hood and struggled to push itself up. Lynn's nose crinkled at the sight of its misshapen face, its skin puffy and black and drooping from its frame like tar. One eye socket was empty, and the other festered with flopping, wiggling earthworms. It reached out, its rotting fingertips leaving a greasy smudge across the windshield. She pressed harder on the gas, and it lost its balance and rolled off.

She was ten feet ahead of the zombies now and passing the Bronco; some came at her from the right, streaming around the Bronco and for some reason reminding her of battle troops responding to an alarm bell.

Well...in this case a dinner bell.

She eased up on the gas so she wouldn't pull too far ahead, and shot a worried glance at the rearview mirror: The dead were packed so tightly that she couldn't see around them, an impenetrable wall of dirt-caked burial suits, decaying flesh, and skeletal frames. Were they all following her or should she go slower? She didn't want Lincoln to have too many to deal with, though realistically he'd have a couple.

The knot in her stomach tightened. She hoped he was okay.

A half mile back, Lincoln crouched next to the guardrail and peeked around the bend: A mass of zombies shuffled after the Impala, their moans filling the air and sending a shiver down his spine. It had been three months since the dead started to walk, and in those ninety days, he still hadn't gotten used to them. Kind of hard to grow accustomed to something so unnatural - a dead body getting up and moving...shudder. Some things just aren't meant to be, and when we come face to face with them, our minds either blank or we adapt just enough. Lincoln was one of the latter, and Luan had been one of the former.

Heavy grief crashed down upon him at the thought of his sister, and his mind went back to the last time he'd seen her, walking toward the woods to use the bathroom, as carefree as one can possibly be in the apocalypse. He remembered turning away and going into the woods himself, and that was that; such a simple, casual parting, not goodbye but see ya in five minutes. He longed to reach out and touch the specter in his mind, to at least give her a hug and kiss and tell her he loved her. I can't stop what's about to happen, but I just want you to know how much you mean to me, Luan. I'm so sorry.

A single tear formed in the corner of his eye, but he brushed it away with his finger, wincing as salt met broken skin. He could dwell and kick himself in the ass later, right now Lynn needed that Bronco and he was going to fucking go get it for her.

Getting to his feet, the Beretta clutched in his hands and pointing at the ground, he darted out from behind the corner and started up the road at a crouch. Most of the dead were flocking past the Bronco now, and he paused to try and look around them, but in vain. God, he hoped nothing went wrong. It would be far too easy for those things to flip the Impala and pin her inside. What would he do then? He was one boy with a Beretta, a single clip, and an M-16 with a quarter magazine. If they turned the car over…

He didn't want to think about that, because if he did, he'd go to pieces. Lynn was his everything, the love they shared last night and the not-as-new-as-he-liked-to-think feelings stirring in his chest aside, and he was not going to let her down. He was all she had, and that meant he had to be everything for her...everything but a pussy who wimps out and gets himself killed. Do you know what that would do to her? He didn't, not entirely, but he could guess, and he didn't like what he saw, so he wasn't going to let that happen.

Moving quickly, he came upon the first of the stragglers and hesitated. He could easily duck around it and keep on going, but after what happened to Luan, and to all of his other sisters, he kind of wanted to blast its fucking brains out. He almost did, but the noise might draw the others, so instead he spun on one heel, drew his foot back, and lashed out, snapping its leg and sending in to the pavement in a heap. He started to pass, but it grabbed his ankle and tried to drag its mouth to his flesh. Sneering, he yanked away. "Fuck offa me." He kicked it in the face so hard the toe of his boot sank into its overripe cranium; cemetery sludge oozed forth and gushed onto the pavement.

He jerked his foot back and glanced up as another ghoul staggered at him. This one he grabbed by the labels of its dusty coat and shoved; it fell back and thrashed like a dying bug. Lincoln left it there, hustling toward the Bronco, which sat a hundred feet ahead, the area around it clear. The ghouls followed behind Lynn, a writhing phalanx twenty feet across; they blocked the highway, some picked along the grassy flanks, and others still slunk through the forest, tripping and falling over rocks, logs, and their own mangled feet. He was almost to the Bronco's back end when one sprang from his right and crashed into him like an undead freight train, knocking him hard to the blacktop - the air burst from his lungs in a hot rush and the Beretta flew from his hand, skitting across the road. The creature straddled his back and threaded its fingers through his hair, its mewls of anticipation a tomb-like mantra. His heart throbed painfully and fear, like cold water, spurted through his veins. Acting on pure instinct, he drove his elbow back and caught the thing in the stomach. It held fast and tugged his hair, bringing tears to his eyes. A few ghouls at the back of the pack heard the struggle and turned, began to come like flies to a carcass.

Oh, shit; oh, shit; oh, shit. His eyes went from the advancing dead to the gun, five feet away. He reached out, his fingers clawing against the blacktop, but it was just beyond his grasp, mockingly close yet tauntingly far away. The zombie on his back pulled itself close, its stale breath breaking against the back of his neck and raising goosebumps up and down his arms. The others waddled closer, feet scraping like a harbinger of doom. Gritting his teeth, he shot his elbow back again and rocked from side to side, true panic beginning to grip his chest. The zombie's lips touched his neck at the same time a vision of Lynn's face flickered across his mind, radiant like sun, her eyes big, brown and shimmering and her lips in that cocky, shit-eating grin he'd com to love. In a flash, he saw her sitting in the dark and sobbing into her hands - she had no one now; she was totally, utterly, and completely alone.

All of the rage, terror, love, hatred, joy, and despair in his body rushed to his center, and with a primal scream, he threw his head back, crashing it into the zombie's nose and upsetting its balance just enough for him to snatch the Beretta. Rolling to one side, he bucked it off and drew himself to a sitting position, the gun coming up and swinging around, his finger tightening on the trigger...then freezing.

Luan, her throat a gaping, ruined wound and her head lolling limply to one side, struggled to her knees. Dried blood crusted the front of her shirt, and her eyes stared sightlessly, murky white with death. She was naked from the waist down, her privates veiled behind dangling entrails.

Lincoln's heart dropped into his stomach and his grip on the gun loosened, his vision blurring. A memory came to him - them singing that stupid song from Spongebob, getting on Lynn's nerves and loving every second of it because that's what siblings do. With a sharp pang, he realized that that was the last time he ever really spoke to her, the last time he would banter with her, the last time he would ever see her infectious smile.

You and Stinkoln both love my jokes, she said, her voice echoing through the chambers of hs skull, and deep down he always did. They were bad, but the fact that she told them, that she was always happy and upbeat, trying to make people laugh and spread humor...that was one of the things he loved most about her. She was viberant, so alive...and her life ended in a stand of bushes on the banks of some no name river in Vir-fucking-ginia, alone and afraid as she was ripped apart and eaten alive.

The thing before him, once his sister but no longer, gurgled in the back of her throat and reached out to grab him.

He shot her in the head; the report rolling like thunder, blood misting from the back; her body toppling over, landing on her side, and flopping to her stomach.

Scrape-scrape.

Coming awake like a man from a trance, Lincoln jumped to his feet and turned to the others, three of them. Seething now because they killed Luan - made her suffer and cry and bleed - he stalked forward, jammed the barrel of the gun against the closest one's forehead, and pulled the trigger, shattering its skull. He whipped around and shot the second, then the third. Others turned from the crowd and began to come; he aimed and fired at them too, missing their heads because he was shaking and starting to cry. Like dominos falling, more and more broke from the Lynn-chase and started toward him.

Under the pain and loathing, he realized he needed to get to the Bronco now before they swarmed it. He started to run, but stopped and turned to Luan's crumpled form. He glanced at the zombies, decided he had just enough time, and went to her, kneeling and dragging her into his arms, wrapping them around her from behind and squeezing. In life, her hugs were warm and soft, but now they were cold and hard. "I love you," he said around a lump of emotion in his throat. He glanced again at the dead, then let her go and got to his feet, his eyes going to the pale, fleshy globes of her butt.

He couldn't leave her like that.

Shrugging out of his vest, he tossed it aside, ripped off his shirt, and covered her with it.

With one final look, he started for the Bronco, his feet pounding on the pavement and his arms pumping. Two zombies were too close for his liking, less than ten feet from the front end, and as he ran, he aimed, jerked the trigger, and took one in the forehead, spinning it around. He shot the other in the face, driving it back onto its ass.

When he reached the door, he ripped it open and jumped in. The army, four ranks deep, maybe six, was closing in. He tossed the Beretta onto the passenger seat, turned the key, and threw it into drive. Punching the gas, he spun the wheel and angled across the highway, skirting the first row, coming so close they were able to slap the side.

The tires left the pavement and bit into the grass. He saw the Impala ahead, creeping past a driveway, dozens of zombies still behind it. He straightened the wheel and pressed the pedal to the floor, surging forward and blasting past the ghouls. The Impala's back lights blinked as Lynn tapped the brakes; Lincoln laid on the horn, and she took off.

Passing the final ghouls, Lincoln turned back onto the road and watched them dwindle in the rearview mirror. Adrenaline coursed through him and a grin cleaved across his face. "That's right, you sons of bitches. Party's over." He tittered and slapped the wheel. "Dinner is canceled." Despite just shooting his sister in the head and leaving her in the middle of the road, he felt good. His plan went off with a hitch, he got the Bronco back, and he'd live to kiss Lynn at least one more time. All in all not a bad morning. You know what? This calls for music. Isn't there a tape in the player? He leaned over, jabbed the play button with his finger, and sat up as fuzzy guitar blared from the speakers.

What'll you do when you get lonely

And nobody's waiting by your side?

You've been running and hiding much too long.

You know it's just your foolish pride

The premonition of Lynn sitting alone in the dark and sobbing came back to him like a brisk slap in the face, and his mood darkened. She was alone in the world, and he wasn't around to hold her in his arms, or dry her tears, or even to share a companionable silence with her.

Like a fool, I fell in love with you

Turned my whole world upside down

They still had today, though, and tomorrow too, probably. How many more after that? He couldn't say, didn't want to say. He'd learned to not look toward the future, because it probably wouldn't be there - as long as you have this moment, that's all that matters. Everything else can wait for another day.

Let's make the best of the situation

Before I finally go insane

Please don't say I'll never find a way

And tell me all my love's in vain

He spotted the Impala idling in a gravel lot bordering a general store, and pulled in, the Bronco's tires crunching rocks. He parked next to it, and Lynn got out, looked nervously around, before slipping into the passenger seat. "You okay?" she asked, a worried note in her voice.

"I'm fine," he said as he leaned forward and kissed her lips; she tilted her head to the side and kissed him back, her hands going to his shoulders and stroking the slope of his neck. He cupped her hips and pulled her body flush with his, the taste of her mouth intoxicating and the feeling of her warm, living flesh good and right under his touch. She pulled back and rested her forehead against his, her brown eyes pooled with apprehension. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too, Lincoln," she replied and caressed his cheek with her fingertips. Her voice lowered to a solemn whisper. "I love you so much." She threw herself at him and wrapped her arms fiercely around his neck. He nearly fell back against the door, but saved himself, and slipped his arms around her waist. "Please don't leave me."

Lincoln took a deep, leaden breath. "I won't," he lied.