American Revenant: Hometown Exodus by John L. Davis IV Page A

the drifts of
bodies would the dead come walking.  But come they did, in singles and pairs,
in groups of ten or more, entire massive herds. 
    Hearth and home had taken on a new
meaning for this small and not so merry band of survivors.  They had taken
refuge in an abandoned school building that had been slated for demolition. 
The large rooms and three floors allowed plenty of room for everyone to move
about freely.  It was something they thought would work well for the long term,
as it was easily defensible against the shambling, shuffling hordes of
face-biting, neck-chewing, gut-sucking dead.
    They quickly realized that the
“freaks”, as one of their group so fondly called them, were not the biggest
threat to safety and survival.  People, the kind that are hungry and heavily
armed, (or even lightly armed) and more than willing to violate all moral codes
to get what they wanted posed the greatest threat to them all.  It was the
violent death of two of theirs that brought this into blood red contrast with
the morose gray ideal of safety they all shared.
    2
    Two days after the EMP three
members of the group had decided to see if they could find four people that
were missing.  Many members of the group had agreed years ago that should an
event of a catastrophic nature occur, or should there ever be a time when the
government either broke down or took the country down a horrible road to
destruction, they would all meet up at the old school within forty-eight hours. 
If someone did not show up, and should the situation permit, three people would
go out and search for the missing group member at one of six pre-determined
locations. 
    The three members of the group left
just at sunrise, hoping to make the searches quick, and get back to the safety
of the school.  They moved quickly, searching two checkpoints before noon. 
    A small, inconspicuous brick shed
that sat on the north-west corner of an abandoned lot served as the third
designated meeting-place.  The lot was overgrown with weeds that were nearly
chest high, and the shed itself was covered in thick green ivy.  If someone
didn’t know it was there it would be easy to overlook.
    The rescuers were still a block
away when they heard shouting voices and the revving of a tired old engine, a
gunshot, and then a loud scream.  Quietly placing their bicycles in a shallow
ditch, the group quickly moved toward the shed, and the sounds. 
    The rendezvous shed was surrounded
by six very rough looking men, all carrying a weapon of some type.  A beat up
rust-bucket pickup truck that had to have been made sometime in the 1950’s sat
about ten feet from the shed door, a crusty looking cretin wearing a dark grin
behind the wheel.  The hard case crew looked back and forth from the door of
the tiny shed to a large greasy-bearded man standing next to the truck. 
    It was this clue the rescuers
needed.  After a brief and whispered discussion two of the men readied a
pistol, the third lay prone with the cold red eye of his carbine’s sight
centered on the head of Greasy Beard.  The pistol-bearers took careful aim at
the two closest men and waited for the whispered call of death. 
    “Now.”
    Three shots cracked, two men died
instantly, one man lay on the ground screaming and holding his stomach.  Greasy
Beard’s gray matter splattered the side of the old truck, and the driver as
well.  In the moment it took for the driver to realize what had happened, the
three gunmen came up from the bushes about twenty feet away. 
    Bullets began to fly, though most
went wild.  Grinny the driver lost his grin at about the same moment his foot
slammed the pedal to the floor.  The old truck shuddered, nearly dying before
it kicked up dirt and weeds, slewing wildly back and forth as it headed away
from the shed.
    The two remaining marauders stopped
their firing to follow the pickup on foot.  One screamed when he caught a
bullet in the back and flopped face first into the weeds.  The