It started in Tokyo. From there, the virus spread across Japan, to Korea, to Hong Kong, and beyond. Within weeks no city had escaped the infection, humanity was devastated. But some had escaped, though they were slowly being hunted to extinction by the stocking dead.

A strange tale of saccharin horror.

Shrieking snapped Matt awake, but only silence greeted him. Memories, nothing more than terrible memories that found fallow ground within his mind during those moments just before sleep ended.

“Can’t sleep, Rock Star?”

Matt looked towards Jase, recognizable in the sliver of moonlight that squeezed through the boarded up window at which he kept watch. Not yet answering the one time drummer of their band, Fade to Gray, he sat and stretched, cushions and mattresses found in the farmhouse having offered a good night of sleep, at least until the nightmares struck. Careful not to disturb Jennifer, nor any of the other sleepers scattered about the room, he rose and joined his friend.

“Nightmares.” Matt answered.

“Thinking about tomorrow?” Jase asked.

“Yeah.”

“We can do it, Matt.”

“Yeah but, ahh fuck, screw it, Jase, you’re right. It’s just all of this, you know, it just gets me down.”

“It gets us all down, Matt.”

“Sorry, Jase. Why don’t you grab some sleep? I’m not going to sleep anymore, so I may as well take watch.”

“Will do.”

“And thanks.”

“We’re in this together, just be there when I need the reminder.”

Ignoring the chair in which Jase had sat, Matt walked from room to room, checking with the others who stood watch. A motley crew, some of whom he couldn’t name, but who he trusted all the same, for they needed each other to survive and the untrustworthy had long ago become victims.

The watchers had seen nothing. Not surprising, since the day’s scouting had found no sign of the undead horde within twenty miles, nor did the dogs with whom they surrounded themselves bark a warning. Besides, members of the horde rarely ventured beyond the cities and towns that had once been their homes, there they waited for scavengers searching for food and supplies. And all survivors, even ones as well organized as the commune to which Matt belonged, found reasons to scavenge.

In the commune’s hierarchy, scavenging and scouting fell to those who did not have more needed skills, such as the members of Fade to Gray. Daily they would head out on dirt bikes looking for zombies. Usually they only spotted stragglers, which they unhesitatingly killed, but whenever a migratory pack formed they would bring warnings to the others. While a move was conducted, the scouts along with the hunters and soldiers would snipe from a distance at the pack, eroding it away over a period of days. In both of these situations, the openness of the countryside minimized the danger to the living, their vehicles providing speed and their guns offering distance. However, the scavenging mission, when they entered the towns where the horde congregated, were much more dangerous. Memories of past missions and worries about the next that awoke Matt from his sleep.

Medical supplies had become a concern; therefore, Ryan, Matt, Jase, and Tucker decided to venture into Buhl. In early days, knowledge gained from books and movies led them to spend days watching a target before going in. But time had taught them that this provided greater opportunity for the zombies to find their prey than for the prey to spot the monsters. Now they relied on memories of surviving locals, information found on the internet, which seemed destined to outlast its creators, and speed for scavenging missions.

Soon after sunrise, a time offering the optimal compromise between the horde’s nighttime sluggishness and being light enough to minimize surprise, the four rested in a field just South East of town, finalizing their plan. Satisfied, they restarted their bikes, raced across the field, just South of Aiken Avenue, and dashed a couple blocks North on Fair Street. There they found their target, the Family Health Services clinic.

Matt and Jase dismounted to go inside, while Ryan and Tucker stayed outside to keep watch, the two pairs planning to stay in touch via walkie talkies. With guns drawn, all four carried Mossberg 500 shotguns found in an abandoned cop shop, the two friends found the entrance unlocked, offering easy access, both for them and the horde. Cautiously they ventured inside, to the hum of still working fluorescent lights. Following the directions of Gus, a local farmer who had made use the clinic, they steadily headed for the medical storage room, pausing to look into every room and down every hall to see if any zombies lurked, nervously wondering what waited just out of sight.

They found the heavy door still locked, though marks and scratches around the simple punch lock showed they were not the first to attempt to get through the door. Either the previous scavengers had not known what they were doing, did not have the needed tools, or had not had the time to finish. Hoping for the first two reasons, and with Matt watching the hallways, Jase took a crowbar from his backpack and went to work on the lock. Like most of its kind, the lock offered only convenient security, which meant that Jase`s dedicated effort soon had him inside.

“Jackpot!”

“Hurry up, Jase, this doesn’t feel right.”

Before the virus, Jase would have answered with a smart ass remark, but the boys had become men. So Jase, feeling just as nervous as Matt, got busy breaking into the drug closet and filling his hiker’s backpack with the plastic bottles he found inside. Finished, the two switched places, soon Matt’s pack also bulged full.

Just as he finished, they heard, over the walkie talkie, Ryan say, “Get your asses out here, they’re coming.”

Rather than asking how many or how soon, Jase and Matt rushed back the way they had come. As the two neared the reception area that they came face to face with a pair of zombies. Ones recently turned, maybe, probably the scavengers who had left the marks on the door to the medical storage room.

During this phase, only about a month after receiving death’s kiss, the two were already deadly, but looked anything but. In fact they looked adorable. Neither was five foot tall, nor weighed more than eighty pounds, but something about their forms, covered in knee-length yellow school dresses over white knee length socks and patent mary-janes that hinted at what would come. And their faces did more than hint, framed by long, pig-tailed brunette hair, their fair complexions highlighted by pouting lips and large brown eyes, bereft of worry. Preteen princesses on the cusp of becoming teen temptresses.

The zombie on the left spoke, rather shrieked. “Oh-my-Gawd, it’s Justin Bieber.”

Barely were the words out of her mouth before the roar of Jase’s shotgun responded, Matt’s echoing its agreement. Not watching as the yellow clad figures fly backwards, the young men ran for the door. Jase snarling, “I don’t fucking look like Justin Bieber.”

Matt would have laughed, but the sound of shotgun blasts from outside, drove away all humor. Bursting through the door and sprinting to their bikes, they saw that Ryan and Tucker shot towards a pack a half block away, the numbers of zombies who approached turning each into sharp shooters.

Those that approached were not recently turned, they were fully evolved into their naughty evilness. No longer adorably cute, their heels had grown taller, their socks had thinned and climbed above the knees, while their skirts had turned to tartan, and shrunk to a height that offered hints of tiny panties as they ran. Dazzling, each and every one, lust personified. Or they should have been, the dreams they now engendered were those of nightmare and terror, instead of fantasy and lust. Now these gorgeous school girl zombies offered sure-fire damnation of body instead of the possible damnation of the soul.

Trying to ignore their approach, the two scavengers hopped on their bikes and kicked them to a start. The four raced out of the parking lot, now only fifty yards ahead of the leading members of the pack, and raced South along Fair Street.

Then that Matt made a mistake. He forgot the first rule of scouts, ‘Never look back, worry first about flight, then about fight.’

Barely out of the parking lot, he looked back and saw a stunning blonde pull away from the rest of the pack. Momentarily he thought how much he would love for her to catch him, which was immediately followed by the fear of being caught. Of course fear led to anger and anger led to a fired shotgun and a shouted, “Die, Zombie Bitch, die!”

Six months earlier, when he had been a guy from suburbia, traveling the boondocks with his band, Matt had never fired a gun nor operated a dirt bike. Since then he had grown competent at both, but firing the shotgun to the rear, while speeding along the street, proved more than his skills allowed. The combination caused him to wobble, then over correct, yanking the bike against the curb. From this would be no recovery, the tires jerked violently in different directions, then the bike snapped completely out of control. The next thing Matt knew, he tumbled down the street, his bike bouncing crazily over top of him to crash in a useless heap.

Rolling to a stop, bottles of drugs spilling from his pack onto the street, his helmet and leathers offered surprising protection. Yet it took an unknown something to force Matt to his feet, his shotgun still in hand, to turn towards the horde of undead. He felt a moment of satisfaction that the blonde was down, but the others passed her by without a glance. No time to run, instead he raised the shotgun and fired once more. Five more times, each remaining shell jolting a zombie back to sprawl on the dirty gray pavement.

That should have been the end, if not for his friend’s ignoring the second rule, ‘Leave him, don’t go back.’ Suddenly they appeared beside him, each firing into the nearby pack, their concerted fired actually making the zombies pause.

“Get on. Get on.” Ryan yelled.

Running towards his friend’s bike Matt jumped on the back, wrapped his arms around Ryan and shouted. “Go.”

It was a near thing, for the bike did not jump forward with its normal zip. One of the zombies, a red head, dove towards the back of the bike and wrapped her arms around Matt’s right leg, but he kicked her off. This time they pulled away with no looking back, no stopping. Staying on Fair Street all the way to Cemetery Road, where they turned East, which they followed most of the way to Twin Falls, before heading cross country to the farm that served as their current base.

There they were greeted by others, including Matt`s girlfriend, Jennifer, who had studied to become an EMT at the College of Southern Idaho before the outbreak. Fortunately, the virus came while she summered on her parent`s farm. Now she served as a medic to the commune, her worries being those that led to the days mission. Worries forgotten as she saw the state of her boyfriend’s leathers.

Just as she was about to chivy him inside, to tend to his scrapes and bruises, they smelled it. The sickly scent of synthetic cherry.

Matt did not need to look, Jennifer’s gasp and stare told him everything he needed to know. Still he stuck his right leg out and looked at the long rend in his leathers. Through which he saw road rash, but also a pink mark. His kick had not been quick enough, the zombie who had grabbed his leg had left a perfectly shaped imprint of her two lips, as if on a mirror.

The kiss of death.

Looking up, he saw his friends watching at him, stricken looks on their faces. Yet that was better than the others, who backed away from him as if he already was a monster. In ways he was, for no cure existed and within thirty hours he would be unconscious, racked by the fever that would eat away at his body until he shrunk to the size of child and died. Only to rise, but as a mindless beast.

It surprised him that he felt no panic. He realized he never expected to survive, doom had stalked his steps from the day the virus had crossed the Pacific, finally he had been caught.

A crooked grin forming on his face, he said, “Perrine.”

Four hours later, still only early afternoon, Matt drove a Peterbilt semi-tractor into Twin Falls, along Addison Avenue, the sound system blasting through open windows. The truck seemed almost like a tank, perfect for his last hurrah, one he unhesitatingly steered at any zombie who he saw upon the streets. He sought them out, soon a pack formed behind him, consisting of those who survived when he blasted through the smaller groups ahead. Watching for Highway 93 signs, Matt slowly turned North on Blue Lakes Boulevard, keeping those behind within sight, speeding up only when more looked to block him. After passing the campus, it seemed no time before he reached the outskirts of the city, yet still the horde followed.

Like the Pied Piper, he led his flock further North along Highway 93, towards Snake River, keeping his speed low enough to keep them close. For he wanted them to continue the chase. He did not increase his speed until he spotted the opening that foretold Snake River Canyon. Now he needed some distance and knew they zombies would continue to chase.

About one hundred yards short of chasm, he brought the Peterbilt to a stop on the shoulder. Jumping out, Matt ran to a dirt bike that waited and zoomed towards the canyon, the shrieks of his chasers almost drowning out the metal blasting out of the truck’s windows.

Matt sought not to emulate Evel Knievel failure, instead he crossed onto I. B. Perrine Bridge, which carried Highway 93 the nearly fifteen hundred feet across the river, far below. However, the bridge offered no escape, though it had once. But that one time, for those who fled Twin Falls when the virus first struck, had ended when survivors had blasted a hole about three quarters across. Something the members of Fade to Gray had found during a scouting mission, something which led to a plan for what they considered a great swan song, one Matt now played.

Just before the gap he found the chicken wire fence they had installed, its posts bolted into the pavement, which stretched across the four lanes of the bridge and the walkways beside. Calmly he dismounted and entered through the one gate, bolting it shut behind him.

Crossing the ten feet to look over the edge, down at the river rushing far below, he felt no fear, no remorse, no desire to escape. Instead Matt walked towards the small generator in the center of the bridge, where the divider that had separated North and South traffic had broken away. With the generator were remnants from the van in which they sought their fame. His amp, his guitar, speakers, and a mic, all of which had been hooked up in the simplest manner. He swung the strap of his guitar around a shoulder, hooked it in place, then reached for the mic.

“Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3.”

It sounded horrible, but none-the-less brought a manic grin to his face. Matt played and sang, as his adoring audience rushed the stage. The fence held, barely. As all the shrieking school girl zombies, who had chased him through and from Twin Falls, hundreds of them, swarmed along the bridge.

If any were not mindless beasts and if they had seen Fade to Gray play in the past, they would have recognized it as Matt’s best ever performance. But he knew and that was enough him. Five, then ten minutes went by, the zombies pressed against the bulging fence before he saw them. In the distance, four more vehicles approached along Highway 93, unnoticed by any but him.

Not until the four snow plows, side by side, two in the North lanes and two in the South lanes, were well onto the bridge, their own CD players in harmony, did any of Matt’s audience turn to watch the approach of their own destruction. And as the trucks grew closer, Matt let his guitar swing free, as he growled the chorus to the song they played.

Then the snow plows barreled into the pack, causing the chicken wire to strain further under the pressure. But now the fence served as a burden to living, so Matt reached for a small controller, shouted “don’t forget to tip your waitress”, and pressed the button. Immediately a number of loud bangs were heard, snapping many of the posts, allowing the fence to clatter down, the zombies spilling over top.

But their target was gone. Matt had flung himself backwards, into nothingness.

For a couple of seconds, he was alone, even the sounds from above having disappeared, but then the first of his pursuers fell over the edge after him. Smiling at the success of the plan, he spread his arms, almost in welcome. Seeing this, those who fell after him shrieked their adoration.

It almost made him feel like a rock star.

The End.

*Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie