Zombie City Stories

Ten Morbid Short Stories by

Gioal Canestrelli

Wal Friman

Fabienne Gschwind

Kilian Manning

Xander Morus

Kalle Max Hofmann

Will Hofmann

Angela Ruggero

Andreas Stetter

Shane Wilson

Imprint

Zombie City Stories – English Edition

Editor: Kalle Max Hofmann

1st Edition 2014

ISBN 978-3-942606-61-5

© 2014 Wiebers Verlag, Berlin

http://www.wiebers-verlag.de

All Rights Reserved.

Cover Design by Michael Schubert

www.balrogboogie.de

Fonts by Jayde Garrow and deFharo

Content

Imprint

Introduction

Mission Ember Rain

By Xander Morus

1 Nero

2 Caligula

3 Caesar

De(ad)mocracy

By Gioal Canestrelli

Keyboard Of The Dead

By Kalle Max Hofmann

UNCLE Z

By Wal Friman

CHAPTER ONE - WAITING FOR DINNER

CHAPTER TWO - DINNER

CHAPTER THREE - RESTING AFTER DINNER

History Never Dies

By Gioal Canestrelli, Fabienne Gschwind, Angela Ruggero and Shane Wilson

On the Alps, around 200 BC

Grenoble, around 2000 AD

MUSCAT ZOMBIE CITY

By Andreas Stetter

Maze of Mars

By Fabienne Gschwind

Blog Entry Day 5, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 9, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 10, Mars mission 4B, morning

Blog Entry Day 10, Mars mission 4B, midday

Blog Entry Day 10, Mars mission 4B, late evening

Blog Entry Day 11, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 12, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 13, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 14, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 15, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 16, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 16, Mars mission 4B, morning

Blog Entry Day 16, Mars mission 4B, evening

Blog Entry Day 17, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 19, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 20, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 20, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day 21, Mars mission 4B, noon

Blog Entry Day 21, Mars mission 4B, evening

Blog Entry Day 23, Mars mission 4B

Blog Entry Day X, Mars mission 4B

Happy Birthday, Zombie!

By Will Hofmann

BERLIN ZOMBIE CITY

By Kalle Max Hofmann

DAWN OF THE DISCONNECT

By Kilian Manning

About Our Authors

Bonus Story

JOSHUA

By Shane Wilson

Introduction

Dear Reader,

thank you for purchasing or renting Zombie City Stories. By doing so, you’re supporting an international multimedia project. As a small publisher, we’d like to use all the possibilities that ebooks offer to the best effect. In that sense, we will continually update and expand this edition of Zombie City Stories in the future, absolutely free of charge. And you can be part of it. If you come across any errors, don’t hesitate to report them to us and we will mention you as a contributor in the coming updates.

Feel free to contact us anytime via zombie@wiebers-verlag.de and send us your suggestions or even your own zombie and horror short stories. We’re looking forward to it.

But for now, let’s clear the stage for ten scary, gruesome, action-packed, thrilling, grossed-out, weird, ironic, explosive, morbid and even futuristic stories from the world of the living dead!

Have fun,

Kalle Max

and the whole team of Wiebers Verlag Publishing

Mission Ember Rain

By Xander Morus

1 Nero

I heard their heavy boots clomping up the stairs. For now, I just stayed in bed. I wouldn't be able to keep them from kicking in the door anyways. I didn't hit the lights either, I didn't want to face all that dirt. Plus, I didn’t want to make it too easy for them. Outside it was still dark, but I didn't know the time. Probably the middle of the night. I had slept, but then I woke up, as per usual. I thought, sleep would come and reclaim me - maybe with a little help from a little pill. But then, I heard those boots. The door trembled. I guess that was their way of knocking politely. I raised my head as far as I could manage without too much pain and stared into the hallway. The door flew open. Light beams were dancing in my apartment. Polished rifles glistened in the twilight. My eyes hurt when they found the light switch. Four black uniforms towered before me. Eyes stared at me from behind reflecting visors.

"Is that him?" asked one of them and pointed his rifle at me.

"Fuck yeah, that's him". The repulsion in his voice was hard to miss. Becker had never been fond of me. He tore his helmet off and tried to look grim. His face had PTSS written all over it. Sweat had clotted up his hair and to my surprise, he wasn't even shaved.

He barked at two of his men: "Secure the building!"

They rushed out immediately and were swallowed by the dark hallway. Becker lowered his G36. He had a quick look around my flat, with a disgusted expression on his face. Then, he spat on the floor. I didn't even twitch. Of course, I was naked, save for my boxer shorts. I decided it would be better not to offer them anything to drink. Becker pulled a tiny microphone out of his collar.

"We found him. Get ready".

He waved at the remaining soldier who retreated as well - not without coughing demonstratively. Becker put the safety catch on his rifle and switched off the intercom. He kicked a bottle that cluttered across the floor, spilling its contents. A burning smell filled the room.

"For chrissakes,  you pissed into that thing?"

I groaned. "Your place still has plumbing?"

Judging from the look on his face, Becker didn't think this was a witty reply. The rings below his eyes were a deep black.

"Come on, get dressed. We need you" he said dryly.

"Fuck off, Becker. And close the door behind you".

He wiped his face with the back of his hand. His eyelids were fluttering. He had probably not slept for days. Without a single word, he stepped over to my cupboard, ripped it open and grabbed my army pants. They flew right into my face, followed by my belt and shirt. When I pulled the clothes off my face, Becker's G36 clicked in front of my nose.

"Interesting suggestion", he grunted, "anything else?"

His nostrils trembled. There wasn't just dirt on his face, but also dried blood.

Three minutes later we left the house. Becker had regained control of himself and gave commands via intercom. "We need about fifteen minutes. Keep the street clean. We need the Marder IFVs for backup!

I was walking right next to him, but he ignored me. His people had taken up a post outside my front door. Two infantry fighting vehicles were covering both ways of the street. There wasn’t a single soul in sight though. With all the racket they were making, they must have scared away any plunder for miles. And infected hadn't been seen here for quite a while.

Becker grumbled something and pointed at a banged-up troop transport. The back doors opened to reveal two more soldiers. They were typical Becker guys. Young, loyal and still impressed by his tough-guy routine. His orders were divine commands to them. Even if he looked like shit right now, 24/7 duty was probably his only way of coping with the situation.

It couldn't have been his idea to get me. We never functioned as a team. I climbed into the truck and dropped myself on a bench. Becker waved at the tanks, then he jumped on board and pulled the doors shut. A red emergency light came on. His men remained silent, but they were eyeing me up curiously. One of them was a skinny redhead, he was guarding the equipment. The other one was kind of chubby, with a surprisingly good-natured look to him. He was digging through a box of clothes and armor. The truck reeked of oil and sweat. They were probably sleeping in here. Becker slumped onto the other bench and closed his eyes. For a moment, he was gone. Then, he banged his fist against the side of the truck and we hit the road.

The chubby guy handed me a flak vest. I put it on. My head was still ringing. The truck careened like a lifeboat in a storm. The redhead prepared an XM8. So they had been counting on me. My preference of the XM8, a modified version of the G36, was widely known. Becker sighed, supported himself on his rifle and leaned forward. A strand of hair dangled across his face. He was my age, thirty-five, and yet he looked much older.

"Three hours ago, there was an incident downtown. Probably refugees and plunderers who somehow managed to get through the safety zone. They tried to storm the depot. We had snipers on the scene, but we're still on Code White."

I listened to Becker without raising an eyebrow. Of course, this is why they need me. They messed it up. It probably wasn't even his fault or that of his men - maybe another unit that was stationed in the safety zone. Code White meant we couldn't kill civilians. Unless they were infected, of course.

"Some of them we could stop with leg shots. Others got in."

I was handed the XM8. It felt good. As I checked the scope, the red laser dot danced over Becker’s uniform. He didn't even seem to notice.

"A Vectronix 4 with night vision, also I'll need a KM2000", I said while I calibrated the rifle. The big guy handed me the requested range finder and combat rifle. I stashed them in my vest.

"How many?", I asked.

Becker took a deep breath. The truck sped up and swerved around some obstacles. I got up and fastened my vest. Through the small rear window, I saw burning piles of bodies. The IFVs followed us closely.

"Fifty, maybe sixty."

I gave him a scrutinizing look. His face was tense with stress, he looked like he was in pain.

"How many infected?"

The other soldiers held their breath. The information was probably classified. I gave Becker some time to think and addressed the redhead: "A USP or P8".

He dug through his crate and produced a shiny USP. I tucked it in my boot. Becker looked up.

"Probably all of them. Those we were able to stop were all carriers, without exception."

Instantly, there was a dead silence in the truck cab. Obviously, the other two were shocked. The redhead pulled out his mobile. Becker shook his head slowly. "Don't do it", he said sternly. His voice was regaining authority.

"Holy shit!" the chubby one whispered and I had to agree. We sat in silence while the convoy approached the depot.

A helicopter thundered in the distance when we got out at the Reichstag, the German House of Parliament. The wind tore at our clothes and a chilling cold crept under my uniform. It was December. There hadn't been any snow, but it was so cold you'd literally freeze unless you kept moving. Actually, this was a good thing for us, as it worked against the infected.

The mobile command unit consisted of four Leopard tanks which had formed a kind of circle. Fog crept over the ground. Beams of light probed the darkness. In between the tanks, soldiers, policemen and some suits were running about. Most of them looked exhausted. The politicians probably wanted to return to the depot as soon as possible. After we had cleaned up the mess, that is. As we passed them we were eyed up cautiously. A soldier waved a red signaling disc at us as we entered the inner circle. "Assault unit in the circle!" he reported into a small microphone.

I didn't know any of those men. My old unit had been disbanded. Hopefully, they had followed my advice and left. Not everyone was a fanatic like Becker.

Becker led me to a steel desk that had been standing there for months. I had helped to install it. It was still sheltered by an improvised camo tent. Gas burners provided some heat and there was even coffee. I didn't know the officer in charge, there was a new guy every couple of weeks. If you did well in this post, you could quickly earn your ticket to the island. Despite the cold, the officer only wore a white shirt and a black tie that fluttered in the wind. He was small and plump. I’d guess he was a Colonel. But since the Geneva conventions had been lifted, none of us wore any markings. You'd never know what you could be accused of later. He eyed me up, but refrained from remarking my shabby appearance. No-one looked pretty in here. With a quick gesture, he drew our attention to two cups of coffee that were shaking on a ragged trolley. Becker and I helped ourselves without hesitation. Coffee was a welcome luxury, no matter how bad the situation was.

The hot liquid ran down my throat and I thought back to how things used to be. The taste reminded me of Claudia. We'd had the last coffee together. It was lousy.

Becker coughed. He looked up to the sky and I followed his gaze. A large transport helo appeared out of the blackness. It carried a huge container; resupplies. Food and weapons for the soldiers. It was coming right at us and the noise was getting uncomfortable. The officer made a face.

"My name is Roskau. Thank you for coming!"

He probably even meant it. He looked like a bureaucrat who was trying the best he could, but was overwhelmed with the situation. He probably had a wife and kids somewhere and had promised them the island. I couldn't hold it against him.

"You were the last soldier inside the depot. Is that correct?"

I nodded briefly. Roskau began to speak even louder.

"We would be grateful if you could join this operation as well."

I didn't say anything, but I could feel that everyone in the vicinity was listening. They were staring at me uneasily. Up until now, they had only known my name. Now the former commander of the "Black Brigade" was standing in front of them in person. Roskau seemed to hesitate. He loosened his tie. I checked my XM8 and knew that he was going to ask something. All of them wanted to know. He licked his lips. The noise from the helo was deafening now.

"My file on you says that Code White does not apply to you. Is that still the case?"

I looked up and nodded again. "Positive."

Roskau breathed a sigh of relief. Ditto all the others. They were all the same. If their asses were on the line, they didn't care who was shot by whom. I didn’t expect to hear what he said next though: "You're the last man with this clearance. The UN has decommissioned the practice".

I didn't reply. So I was the last Black Brigadier. And I looked like an alcoholic.

Roskau pointed at the former lawn in front of the Reichstag, then he gestured towards the XM8. I switched on the night vision and scanned the field. I could make out some craters and about a dozen torn bodies. We had turned the former Square Of The Republic into a mine field. It hadn't stopped the maniacs. They weren't impressed by threats. A lot had changed in the last six months in which I hadn't left my flat.

"The others got inside!" Roskau shouted. The helo was still circling above us. Slowly, the container was coming down. Soldiers grabbed it and helped to stabilize it. Papers were blown off Roskau's desk and landed on the icy ground. Roskau leaned onto the remaining documents and took another deep breath.

"You will understand that this is a voluntary mission!"

I nodded once more. A walkie-talkie at his belt was crackling. "Mission Ember Rain is awaiting green light!"

Roskau looked at us sternly. The Container hit the ground. The helo was about ten meters above our heads. The heavy cables were disengaged labouriously.

"You have one hour. Then we evacuate the government and launch a gas attack."

My face dropped. Roskau shrugged it off. The container was standing on the field by now, and the helo was gaining height. Now I saw the markings on the container: Biohazard. They weren't wasting any time. Furiously, I put down the coffee and turned away. I had no time to lose either.

"Not my decision, Rollberg! Good luck!"

He was still shouting, even though the helicopter was only humming in the distance by now. The other soldiers looked on as we left. I cocked the XM8, then I noticed that Becker was still walking besides me. In silence, we arrived at the barricades surrounding the mine field.

"How many volunteers are there?" I asked while I stared at the Reichstag, which we now called the depot. Depot, because it offered food and water - not only for the government. The former plenary hall had been turned into a camp that housed about a hundred civilians. The depot was the only safe place in Berlin. Many of us had brought our wives and children there, and then we had secured the perimeter. My assignment had been to place the mines. No-one should have been able to come in on foot anymore. Back then, I was sure that Claudia was safe in there. Claudia and her new guy.

"Just one", Becker finally said, "Me."

Seconds later we walked through the minefield. Becker was smart enough to stay right behind me. I remembered pretty well where I had placed the mines. But it didn't matter anyway, most of them had gone off already. Body parts everywhere. I tried not to look down as we walked, but here and there I spotted movement. The mines had not killed them all. But instead of looking at the disfigured bodies, I focussed on the white flag that was flying above the dome. The Flag Of Unity, which had been raised almost twenty years ago, had been replaced by the flag of the New Federation. Every country that was affected had to use quarantine flags. Mostly, a blue circle on white. A blue circle on black meant that martial law was in effect. Italy and Spain had to take that step. Shots were booming behind me. I spun around, Becker fired upon the infected. Black blood sprayed up in the fog. "That was unnecessary!", I shouted. Becker closed up to me with a glint in his eyes. He didn't say anything.

In a cowering stance, we arrived at the wide stairs to the main entrance. I looked up at the dome again. A red signal light was flickering up there. A sign that the government needed our help. The building itself was hardly damaged. Even the inscription "To The German People" was still intact. Someone had sprayed "Nero" above it though - the nickname for the epidemic that had first been identified in Rome. From there, it had swept across all of Europe. And no one had been able to come up with a cure.

The pillars next to the entrance were marked with bullet holes and bloodstains. Slowly, we climbed the stairs. Everything was quiet.

The heavy door was useless. They had simply broken through the glass. I peeked inside, but couldn't make out anything in the darkness. It was pitch black inside. Becker glanced at his watch.

"We lost contact about three hours ago. All the civilians have probably barricaded themselves in the plenary hall". He took a breath. "It is locked two ways. From the outside, and the inside."

I nodded sternly. We could only hope that they had been able to make it in time. In which case the infected would be wandering through the building.

"Okay, we shoot after the first warning", I said.

Becker didn't answer. This was unusual. I knew him as someone who shot first, reloaded, and then asked questions. At this point, I really believed he was here to save civilians. I turned on the night vision, still nothing. Slowly, I pushed myself forwards.

2 Caligula

Something was wrong. I stopped on my heels and had Becker stumble into my back. He cursed quietly. I ignored him and pushed myself against a wall on the first floor. Pictures had been hanging here. Now, they were in shatters. Silently, I turned to Becker and put a finger on my mouth. He understood and breathed flatly. We listened into the darkness for a couple of seconds. It was dead silent. No dragging feet, no moaning, no screams. The typical sounds of the infected were completely absent. I felt Becker breathe besides me.

"What does this tell you?", I asked.

Becker groaned.

"They have to be here somewhere. Maybe they're hiding!"

I didn't think so. The infected never displayed any sign of controlled behavior. Once the virus had broken out, all they knew was rage and hate. They behaved like hosts running amuck, hell-bent on spreading their disease. Everyone who was not infected was attacked and bitten by them. Then, they hurried onwards. If they had caught our scent here, they would've had attacked us by now.

As I said, something was wrong. The silence could only mean one thing: There were no infected in these hallways. And that left only one place where they could be. Becker knew what I was thinking.

The first floor held the only access to the plenary hall. The Blue Chamber, as it was called in the old days. The Government had set up shop at the rooftop restaurant, right next to the dome.

"We have to check the plenary hall!" Becker whispered. "Let's go then!" I said and headed off . The both of us had a good idea of what we would find there. I was still keeping a close eye on the walls and the floor. There were hardly any signs of a battle here. So the infected hadn't been in these hallways for long. Maybe the virus hadn't broken out yet when they were coming through here? Normally, the virus leaves a wake of blood and destruction. We had to prepare ourselves for the eventuality that all of them were inside the plenary hall. But I just couldn't bring myself to imagine what this meant. However, the silence was not a good sign at all.

Becker and I advanced, rifles at the ready. The XM8 was buzzing in my hand, as the infrared sensor was continuously scanning for focus points. I had tables, chairs, lots of luggage and even a bicycle in my sights. Everything was dead, but there was no sign of any bodies.

The plenary hall was only seconds away. Suddenly, I registered a movement between two columns. I followed with the XM8, definitely a moving shape.

"Light!" I shouted as a warning so Becker wouldn't be blinded. Then I turned on the rifle's flashlight. A yellow beam of light drilled into the darkness ahead of us. Dust was dancing in the cone of light. I balanced the beam while Becker held his breath. We didn't move. Carefully, I moved the spotlight through the darkness.

"NSK!" I yelled. It was the familiar abbreviation for the National Special Commandos, an organisation that was forged from the remains of army and police after the outbreak. Everyone knew that the NSK would shoot infected people on sight. All of us had bluestrips on us all the time. A saliva sample was enough to determine an infection. What would happen upon a positive result depended on the situation. The only thing that was certain was: There was no cure.

"NSK!", I repeated.

"Don't shoot!" a voice answered from the darkness. It was a male voice, and something about it seemed familiar.

"Come on out with your hands in the air!", I yelled, still uncertain with whom I was dealing here.

"A blue one", I quickly whispered in Becker’s direction. He fumbled around in his vest, ripped open a velcro and handed me a thin strip of paper. My eyes were nailed onto the column in front of me. A slender figure was pressed into the shadows there.

"Step forward, please", I said sharply. The shadow began to move. A man emerged from the darkness and stumbled into the hallway. His hands were up, back turned towards us.

"Turn around, slowly!"

While he was moving painstakingly slowly, I grabbed the bluestrip. He must have been scared shitless.  Finally, the man was facing us, and I instantly recognized him. His name was Markus Tromper, Speaker for the Ministry of Economics. I hardly knew him, I had met him a couple times on boring receptions that I attended for Claudia's sake. It was much later that I found out he was already fucking her back then. He had always been very nice to me.

"Rollberg, is that you?" As he squinted his eyes in the beam of my flashlight, I threw a bluestrip at him for an answer. Clumsily, he caught it.

"Go, do it now!" I shouted and raised my rifle. This was a critical moment. If he was infected, he’d have to admit it now. Out of sheer desperation, most of those who had been bitten basically threw themselves into the muzzle fire. I wouldn't mind if he did the same. But Tromper simply took the strip to his mouth, licked it like a stamp and threw it in front of our feet. We were silent for the entire three minutes the test needed to work. In the meantime, I looked him up and down. He looked pretty beaten up. His skin was grey and his face had become gaunt. Malnutrition. And all this time I had been thinking that at least the depot got adequately supplied.

"It's blue!" said Becker. Tromper was good.

"Okay, come over here!", I exclaimed. Tromper took his hands down and shuffled over to us. Head and shoulders were hanging.

"Get a move on!", I demanded. When he finally arrived, I noticed how thin he was. His lungs rattled and I had the feeling he would have liked to lean onto something. Becker gave him water from his flask. He drank greedily and gave us a suspicious look afterwards.

"Are you alone?"

He nodded.

"Where are the others?", I continued.

Tromper took a deep breath. Becker took his flask back and wiped it clean. Strangely enough, Tromper seemed to think carefully about what he was going to say.

"Didn't you understand the question?", I hissed.

"One moment please", he answered slowly. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Becker and I gave each other a puzzled look.

"We don't have much time", I said, not mentioning the gas attack for now. Tromper nodded, as if he would finally understand the situation.

"They appeared out of thin air. It all went so fast. Before we even got a warning, they were at the door."

"The doors are secure", I replied, "They are even bulletproof!"

Tromper just looked at me for a couple of seconds.

"Something must've gone wrong. The main door opened… a malfunction, maybe."

Oh my God, I said to myself.

"We had no weapons, so we did what we could. A couple of us managed to escape."

I looked at him with rising suspicion.

"And you were among those lucky ones, by chance."

He didn't respond to my allegation. Instead, he seemed to read my thoughts, as I wondered what had happened to Claudia.

"I don't know where your wife is. We broke up."

Becker had enough. He looked at me with unusually ernest determination.

"Let's wrap this up!"

We grabbed Tromper and headed off for the plenary hall.

The doors were closed. Behind them only darkness. It was still dead silent. I peeked through the greasy glass doors of what used to be the main entrance. The heavy Federate Eagle was hanging on the opposite wall. I switched on my flashlight. The beam lost itself in the blackness of the hall. Becker rattled the door.

"Why is it locked", he asked. Tromper shrugged.

"The security system must have sealed it."

I gave him a disbelieving look and then stepped closer to the door. Why the hell was it so quiet and dark in there?

"Can we bypass the fuse?", I asked Becker. "Sure!", he snarled and raised his G36. I barely had time to pull Tromper back before bullets started flying. The glass door was smashed to bits. As the smoke settled, we discovered a trail of blood that lead into the darkness.

"Hello?" Becker shouted.

"NSK!" I added. No response. We were facing the stillness of a graveyard. Becker and I were reluctant to enter the hall. Without light, this was a risky undertaking. We couldn't just fire blindly, and the light from our rifles just wasn't enough.

"Rollberg", Becker said and stepped closer. I turned towards him a bit, without taking my focus off the darkness.

"I could use the signal flare."

I thought it over. If we did that, we wouldn't be able to signal the mission's success. On the other hand, things weren't exactly going according to plan anyway.

"Alright."

Becker pulled out the red stick and set it alight. Red sparks started flying and wafting smoke poured out. Becker counted to three and then he threw the flare into the middle of the hall. My eyes were blinded, still I took a few cautious steps forward. Then, all hell broke lose.

That rotten smell must've been buried underneath their bodies, because I first noticed it once they started getting up. The signal flare must've woken them up. It was pretty obvious that Code White didn't apply here, not even for Becker. We looked into the disfigured grimaces of the infected who stared back with empty eyes. It felt like they had awoken from some kind of hibernation, when in fact the attack had only taken place a couple of hours ago. They must've gotten in here first thing. So much for that security system.

"Attention!", I hissed. Becker was waiting, too. We gave them a couple of moments - because sometimes, they just weren't that aggressive. We were wrong. The lighter the room got, the more the masses started moving. The first few jumped up. An incredible energy seemed to be driving them. The virus worked fast and affected muscles and coordinative skills. Movement was faster, snappier. Angrier… Now their eyes were glowing red in the light of the flare. And there were way too many of them…

"Retreat!", I yelled. But at that exact moment, Becker's G36 sprang to life. Instead of following my order, he stormed onwards and fired upon the infected. They came from everywhere. The plenary hall glowed in a ghostly red. The benches had long been torn out and replaced by makeshift beds. Backpacks, canisters and food littered the floor. And in between, bodies. I stumbled forwards, feeling somewhat paralyzed. Most of the infected seemed to have been hidden behind the large stage wall at the speaker's desk. Now all of them were storming towards the center of the hall. Becker whizzed around. His bullets ploughed through the line of attackers. Headshots burst some skulls, the dark blood gushed from the wounds like fountains. Volley after volley.

Finally, I awoke from my numbness. Tromper was shivering behind me, but I didn't have time to worry about him. I left him and closed in on Becker, firing controlled bursts at the enemy. The XM8 is more precise and has a higher range than the G36, but the barrel heats up much faster. Still, after firing a couple of rounds, I decided it didn't matter here. I switched to full auto and the rifle started to scream. In rapid fire mode, it really sounds like a heavy MG. And it just mowed down the attackers. Legs snapped, arms were torn off. Chunks of flesh hit my face. It smelled of burnt meat. Black blood rained down on us as we advanced, firing. Becker screamed over every shot. A tactic to attract even more of the infected. I couldn't even see who he was aiming at. With this noise, he was attracting most of their attention towards himself. The speaker's stage was completely covered in bloodstains. Some enemies were still stumbling through the rows of beds, but Becker had significantly decimated their numbers. And it didn't look like he was going to stop.

The light started to fade.  "Controlled bursts!", I yelled. He didn't follow. Hate burned in his face. He reloaded magazine after magazine, like a machine.

"Becker! Firing discipline!" Even if he heard me, he obviously didn't care. That was how I knew him.

It was only now that I saw the little kid storming towards Becker. A girl, undoubtedly infected. Becker hesitated, he even let his guard down for a beat. Then, he fired abruptly. The girl hurtled against the stage with a lethal blow. Becker's accompanying scream sounded differently this time. Like desperate pain. He was staggering. I took a couple of strides towards him and grabbed him by the shoulder. He was in tears.

"What's wrong?"

But Becker only pursed his lips and jerked himself free. He shouted something incomprehensible. Saliva and tears splattered onto his uniform. Now I got it and turned around. A classic beginner's mistake. I had turned my back for too long . Now I was facing the giant federal eagle and another mob of infected. But Becker had my back. He took out the infected who were coming for me from the left and right. I stumbled and grabbed onto the speaker's desk. A dash of blond hair caught my eye. I knew it. Becker fired another volley over my head. Blood was flying. Instinctively, I dropped to the ground. Under the bellowing of the G36, I crawled towards the back of the desk and pulled the shadowy figure from her hiding place. She was as light as she used to be. I hadn't been wrong. It was Claudia. She was alive, but hardly looking it. I dragged her out and stumbled towards Becker.

He was still firing like a robot. We hurried past him in a ducked stance. "Retreat", I yelled "let's get out of here!"

Claudia was almost motionless in my arms. The destroyed glass door was shaking in front of us. Tromper was standing there, frozen in shock. At last, we were up the stairs. Breathless, I let Claudia down next to the splinters of the door. Her eyes looked blank, she was barely conscious. I pointed towards her, "Tromper, carry her down the hallway!"

Tromper looked at me, completely bedazzled. I raised my rifle in a threatening pose and he finally snapped out of it, hurrying over to Claudia. I left them to get Becker.

The flare was dying, and the darkness came in waves. More and more I had to orient myself by the muzzle flashes. Then, the light was gone. Instead of using infrared I switched on the lamp, to help Becker. A narrow path in front of me was now glowing in a blinding light. Becker was still standing right in the middle of the arena, firing in all directions. I switched to single shot and closed in on him. I took out some of the attackers with well-placed shots. He noticed and grinned at me conspiratorially. When I got to him, I noticed two infected women crawling on the floor. I shot them in their heads and they slumped down instantly.

"Soldier Thomas Becker", I shouted, "hold your fire!"

"I'm sorry, Rollberg!" he shouted back and moved a couple of steps away, firing. It was controlled suicide. There were more coming from the wall. I aimed at them.

"Becker!", I shouted as a last warning. He jerked around. He looked terribly desperate, but kept firing upon the attackers.

"Get your wife out of here!", he yelled. I couldn't believe it. He was playing the hero. The usual Becker. I ignored his blabbering. He was only paying attention to the infected, who came swarming towards him in spite of the continuous fire.

"Back!" I yelled as loud as I could. He gave me a dumbfounded look, but instead of elaborating, I demonstratively aimed my XM8 above his head. He followed my line of fire with his eyes and finally understood. I fired, the XM8 shaking in my hand. The projectiles hit the Federal Eagle. The gigantic steel design broke from its bracing and slowly tilted towards the floor. For a second, it stood there upright, staggering, until it came crashing towards us. I pulled Becker out of harm's way, as the Eagle buried the infected. At an instant, the hall fell silent. Only the steel kept creaking for a bit. Finally, I had a chance to catch my breath. But it didn't last. Maimed enemies came crawling out from under the Eagle. I fired once again, but this time, a couple of well-aimed hits were sufficient. Still, this was madness. I had seen my fair share of infected, but there'd never been any maniacs like these. Their rage knew no boundaries, even when they were lethally wounded. Without saying a word, I dragged Becker with me. On the stairs to the exit, we turned around one last time. Only a slight hissing could be heard in the darkness, and even this slowly died away. I turned towards Becker. He stared at the floor, the rifle dangling by his side. He raised his head and looked at me expressionlessly.

"We call it Caligula. It's a new mutation. A hybrid virus. Faster, harder, deadlier. Mortality rate 100%."

Now I got it. That's why it was a voluntarily mission. That's why they got me? Because I had quit anyway? I had to pull myself together.

"I need you", he said staring into the dark. Then he added: "and I'm sorry."

"Okay, get a grip. We have to get the Government out of here!"

Becker was twitching. He gave me a bitter look and his eyes started to flicker once again. But I had no time for his sensitivities and cocked my XM8.

We ran up the stairs and stumbled out of the plenary hall. Outside, my ex-wife and her ex-lover were waiting for us. We checked behind us once more, but the infected seemed to have enough. We probably killed most of them.

"Get back!", I commanded our group and hurried them down the dark hallway we had come through. We got up to the visitor's gallery, then to the second floor. The dome wasn't far now. In the dark corridors of the third floor, we had our first break. It was pretty evident now that we weren't being followed. I looked at my watch. Mission ember rain would begin in less than ten minutes. That meant, we didn't have much time, but the strained faces of Claudia and Tromper said it all. They were spent. Becker just stared grimly.

Claudia and Tromper slid to the floor, and I told Becker "two minutes". He nodded without a blink. As usual, I used a fire break to get some good breathing going. Just take the air in and let it out. Observantly, peacefully. There was silence for about a minute. Then, I addressed my ex-wife.

"Hello Claudia", I said quietly. She stared at me like a returning veteran who had been thought dead for ages. I don't know if there was any regret over our separation, but there definitely was something. She looked bad. I hadn't seen her in six months. She had stayed here. I told Becker he could go to hell and then holed up in my apartment in the Lichtenberg district.

She had been living in the plenary hall all this time. And she looked it. Her hair was greasy and thin, she was skinny and her lips were cracked. She leaned her back against the wall and shivered.

"Why haven't you been flown out?" I asked. Becker had calmed down in the meantime and was checking the hallway ahead of us. It was quiet. Apparently, all of the infected had been in the plenary hall.

"The flights were shut down about four weeks ago", Claudia said. Tromper was wriggling next to her. His nervousness was contagious. Still, Claudia didn't seem to notice. I poked Becker, giving him a quizzing look. He just shrugged. It was impossible to get anything out of these two. I pointed towards the dark corridor and readied my rifle.

"We have to get to the dome."

"Wait!", Claudia said. I gave her a surprised look. She got up slowly and staggered a little, then got a grip on herself. She was terribly thin, but somehow her appearance was still attractive to me.

"Can I have a weapon?"

This was the question I had expected least of all. I looked at the floor for a beat, then I pulled out the USP from my boot and gave it to her. Claudia took it with shaky hands and held it like a blessed artifact.

"You have to…", I began, as she mechanically jerked around and aimed at Tromper. He just managed a surprised look before she fired and hit him straight in the forehead. He hit the wall like a ragdoll.

"Claudia?!?", I screamed as the let the weapon fall to the floor. She stared at the dead man, then she turned to me.

"Please don't ask", she whispered. I picked up the USP and stepped back.

"Onwards", I said hoarsely. No-one objected. While we climbed up the stairs to the dome, I wondered why the flights had been cancelled.

"Becker", I asked, "what do you know about the islands?"

He looked at me dead tired.

"No-one knows anything certain".

"And the flights?"

"As far as I know, they're still on", he said. His voice sounded strangely monotonous. Claudia just trotted behind us in silence.

3 Caesar

The German Government had holed up in the Reichstag's Dome without hesitation. As soon as "Nero" was confirmed in Germany, the upper level was sealed off completely. The former tourist attraction now resembled a fortress. The chancellor insisted that he would not be brought to the islands. Instead, it became our job to secure the Government District. The "Special Units" were founded . Some of the ministers fled the city right away. Among them the Minister of the Interior and the Health Secretary. The ones who bravely stayed on were the Chancellor, the Minister of Defense, and some key staff members. Claudia hat been working as a consultant for the Ministry of Economics, just like Tromper. This is why I visited the Reichstag a couple times, even before the epidemic. When I was recruited into the NSK, I was assigned to work here. Both Becker's and my unit had a hell of a lot to do out there. When more and more soldiers deserted, our companies were joined. The "Black Unit" was born. The decision to create the "Depot" was quickly made. The mobile command center of the NSK was placed directly outside the Reichstag. After we had secured the building and installed a helipad on the roof, the Chancellor decided to open the plenary hall to refugees. It might have been a political show of good will. For the country, it meant that the Chancellor wouldn't leave his people behind. All of us were glad about this news. I ran into Claudia's office to give her the good news, and that was when I caught her fucking Tromper. So much for that. But I couldn't turn my back on the others. I was the only one with anti-personnel mining experience. The ordered me to rig the entire Square of the Republic. Back then, we still had infected running about. Not all of them were an immediate threat. I protested on the grounds that civilians could be killed as well. Instead, Code White was lifted for me. And indeed. When I installed the mines, I was attacked by looters who wanted them for themselves. I had to shoot them, shoot uninfected civilians. After I had placed the last mine, I left without even turning back. And now, I was back in front of that spiral staircase. Right in front of the dome.

"Open up!", I yelled. Nothing happened. I hit the door with the butt of my rifle. We heard footsteps. A chain rattled, and the door was slowly opened. We entered the dome and saw what was left of the Government. They were busy packing. Those, who could still be called the Reigning Force, were down to the Chancellor himself, the Minister of Defence and and a boy. I wondered if the Defence Secretary was his mother. They looked us up and down with a strange kind of expectancy, almost suspicion. I saluted briefly and lowered my rifle.

"Rollberg, NSK!", I identified myself. Becker didn't say anything. The Chancellor looked up from his laptop and slammed it shut. Then, he addressed me directly.

"Finally, you're here!"

I nodded.

"Are they any infected here?", I asked.

They froze. The boy looked at my rifle in fear. Quickly, the Chancellor shook his head.

"We locked ourselves up as soon as they came", he took a deep breath, "we were lucky!"

I was satisfied with that answer.

"We have to escort you to the platform right away!"

The Chancellor nodded at the others. At once, the little group sprang back to life.

"We'll just pack up and then we'll gladly come with you."

I stepped back in order to secure the door. Then I bumped into Becker. Menacingly, he stared into the room.

"Let's secure the passage to the platform!", I said loudly, to wake him from his trance.

"Mission ember rain begins in three minutes!" I heard the Minister of Defence say.

"It's a go!"

This order surprised me.

"You can call off the attack", I said, "most of the infected are dead. It will be sufficient to send a cleanup squad."

I paused for a beat before I overstepped my boundaries.

"The building should be kept in use, if Caligula really is that dangerous".

The Chancellor and Minister exchanged glances. They ignored my plea.

"Better safe than sorry", the Chancellor said. I was going to continue, but the Minister cut me off.

"I'm sure it will be a precision hit", she said reassuringly. Now, the Chancellor finally recognized Claudia. His face lightened up.

"Claudia!"

But she remained silent. Something was wrong. There was just something in the air that unsettled me. But our mission had priority. I would definitely make my statement at the debriefing. Or so I thought. Until everything changed the next moment when Becker raised his rifle. He took the safety catch off and aimed at the Chancellor. I spun around, but there was nothing I could do.

"Cancel the attack NOW!", Becker demanded. His eyes were glowing with rage and determination.

"Becker, what the hell?!?", I burst out, but he ignored me and stepped up to the Chancellor.

"I'm telling you for the last time: call off mission ember rain immediately!"

"How dare you!", the Chancellor shouted. Becker cocked his rifle. There was sweat on his forehead. The Defense Secretary pointed at me.

"You! I order you to arrest this soldier!"

My eyes jumped from Becker to the Chancellor to the Minister and back again. I took a step backwards for safety and backed against the wall. Reluctantly, I raised my XM8. At this distance, it would tear Becker to pieces. A thundering sound got my attention for a second. The helo was coming.

I aimed at Becker.

"Lower your weapon, Becker!"

He didn't even seem to notice me. He was just staring at the Chancellor. I had done a couple of difficult missions with Becker. Even though we never saw eye to eye, he always had my back. And I his. I knew him when his mind was made up. The way he looked now, he had always looked right before he shot someone in cold blood. Was the Chancellor infected?

"Becker!", I said louder. I tried to exert my authority, but I had to take up a screaming contest against the landing helo. The situation was about to escalate. No reaction from Becker. He had the Chancellor's head right in his sights. Then, he nodded towards the laptop.

"Open the protocols for the last couple of hours!"

"Lower your weapon!", the Chancellor shouted. Saliva was flying through the room. His face turned red.

"Becker, what's going on?". He barely looked at me for a second. Incredible desperation was written on his face.

"Rollberg, check the protocols!"

"We don't have time to play games!", the Defence Secretary hissed. Her voice seemed very nervous all of a sudden.

"Thirty seconds!", I said to Becker and hurried over to the laptop. The Chancellor stepped aside in silence. His gaze pierced through me. In front of me, an emergency protocol log file flickered to life. The entries were inornate:

"Suspects in the vicinity… contact… positive… door breach… infected in the building… Attention: Caligula positive… take appropriate measures… please confirm… please confirm… please confirm…"

Then, there was the only entry coming from the dome:

"Protocol Caesar activated… Authentication: Brutus… Over:"

I looked up and searched out Claudia. Her lips only formed one word: Tromper. My lungs contracted involuntarily. In silence, I took a step back. Becker panted.

"So?", he asked.

I just nodded. The Chancellor turned white.

"It was a necessary security measure. You are in no position to judge this."

Becker shook his head very slowly and asked:

"So that was the purpose of the plenary hall?"

The Chancellor gasped. The Defense Secretary waved her hands. "Remember your mission!"

Becker didn't react.

"Becker…", I tried again. I really wasn't sure how to handle this. It definitely had to be reported… but could we prove anything? The ember rain would eradicate all proof.

"Stop the attack", I ordered the Chancellor.

He stiffened up for a moment, then changed his mind and slumped into his chair. He stared at me totally flabbergastedly. At that moment, the helo touched down.

The Chancellor rolled his eyeballs and nodded at the Defense Secretary. Becker and I started to relax. They were finally seeing reason. The Secretary raised her hand and let her intercom fall to the floor. Then smashed it with the heel of her boot. I blinked in disbelief. She looked at me with cold eyes.

"We have two minutes before the gas arrived."

That one moment had been enough to distract me.

"Fuck you!" the Chancellor yelled and pulled something out of his pocket. I saw a muzzle flash in the corner of my eye. Becker and I fired simultaneously. Our lines of fire crossed. Mine went for the Minister of Defense, his for the Chancellor. A second later, there was silence. The Government was no more.

When we rushed across the roof, the bombs were already in the air. They cracked open above our heads and released a rain of reddish yellow embers. Fiery lances struck everywhere around us. But the helo crew had been waiting for us. When we took off, the Reichstag was glowing from the inside. Seconds later, it exploded. Claudia, the boy, Becker and I were pushed into our seats. Quickly, the helicopter pulled away. Becker was breathing steadily next to me.

"It was your idea to get me, right?", I asked.

He nodded.

"So you knew all along?"

He shook his head.

"My daughter was in the plenary hall. The last message I got from her, was that the doors had suddenly opened. From the inside."

I remembered the girl he had shot.

"I'm sorry."

"They lured the infected into the hall. They didn't hesitate for a second. Those people were nothing but bait".

The helo dived into the darkness. The burning Reichstag faded behind us.

"So why me?"

Becker looked at me tiredly, then a faint smile ran over his lips.

"You're the only one I could count on. I know you can't be intimidated. That's why I trust you".

I tightened my grip around the Laptop. Becker was right.

THE END

De(ad)mocracy

By Gioal Canestrelli

At first, it had been a problem. A rather huge problem.

I mean... I'm certainly not one of those Retrogressives, who are stuck in the past, unable to live in the present… unable to move along with innovation. Life is a long, flowing river, and remaining attached to traditions and old-fashioned beliefs is a silly, improper attitude, that in some ways could even be deemed criminal!

But when they arrived... I will admit that a number of practical problems arose, and in the beginning I felt puzzled as well.

“Biological incompatibility”... that’s how the Retrogressives called it ... obviously they were mistaken, but back then, it still had to be proven.

And then to think that the past century had seen the supreme triumph of Integration, and had been a time during which all minorities, no matter how large or small they might have been, had been found a proper place to be in the world...

Even so, there were still pockets of narrow-minded people who despised and feared all who were different, or rather all who, seen from their limited perspective, SEEMED different.

Without any doubts, the economic crisis that had affected the country for over fifty years didn’t favor a spirit of dialogue and cooperation... "They should be sent back to where they came from," thundered the reactionary press... but heck, even those fanatics must have realized that it simply wasn’t possible to do so... not by any civilized means, at least.

"If they cannot adapt to our lifestyle, they must be eliminated!" A dreadful call from our ancestral past... because obviously, seeking a compromise was up to those who benefitted from a finely-structured cultural background! How could one say anything like that about the disadvantaged?

Wanting to be fair, it must also be acknowledged that, at first, finding a common ground was virtually impossible... too many differences indeed... but Rome wasn’t built in a day, right?

Coming about to fill the gap was OUR task... even though, as I said, in the beginning the situation seemed critical.

And, as it always happens, there were those who took advantage of the situation to spread further their delusional beliefs: religious fanatics, paramilitary associations, fascists... there were even a bunch of lunatics who organized themselves into terrorist cells, took up arms and began performing what they called a "cleansing."

Despicable... they were acting just like barbarians, if you care to know my opinion.

Unfortunately, our politicians did not know what to do, and while the Retrogressives contributed to increasing confusion and anxiety with their foolish acts, the suburbs which did not benefit from the continuous protection of a security force fell into total decay, and venturing there became dangerous even in broad daylight!

"We need a new State integration project!" whined the liberal press.

And they were right about that indeed.

During the past century, humanity had been able to perform miracles dealing with cultural incompatibilities, and even though most third- and fourth- generation immigrants still took modest jobs, they had all been happily integrated in a modern society regardless of the disparity of their native environments and cultures.

Sadly, this seemed impossible with the newcomers.

Incredibly enough, salvation came from our closest past. “We must stop fearing them, and try to see them as a resource", said someone - and that was the key.

We needed to think about this, to reinvent this idea, apply it in a modern way, suitable to the present circumstances.

Besides, we had already done it many times, in one way or another, adjusting something here and there, and it had always worked out.

Yes, this time the matter at hand was a bit more complex... but our civilization, based on noble principles of Respect, Acceptance and Democracy, would have never stepped back only because things had gotten a little harder.

The turning point, incredibly enough, came from the International Industrial Corporation.

The newcomers could really become an asset... granted, they weren’t particularly intelligent, but they still were strong, vigorous and cheap... a combo that in the past century had repeatedly proven to be winning, if properly exploited.

Granted, they weren’t able to carry out fine or complicated tasks... but something simple and repetitive like an assembly line would have certainly offered them a chance to give the best they could in order to contribute to society.

Unfortunately, they were still very difficult to control.

They were instinctual - the Retrogressives would say even beastly - but certain designations should not be used to address a human being, whichever its nature may be. Terms like this belong to a dark past rather than to the bright present, which shines with the loving light of Democracy.

As I was explaining earlier, seen that we undoubtedly sat in the more favorable and advanced condition - both culturally and technologically - finding a meeting point was up to us. And so we did: the International Industrial Corporation assembled a task-force lead by the best biotechnologists and biochemical engineers available on the market, and they soon started working on the issue.

Obviously, quite some time had to pass before they made any meaningful progress. In the meantime, both we and the newcomers had to make some sacrifices, each according to their own nature and possibilities...

And finally, after less than a year, the Harmonizers were patented.

I would not exactly know how the Harmonizers works, but I am not a scientist... the important thing is that such an instrument is capable of suppressing all of the newcomers’ antisocial and aggressive instincts, without compromising their motor skills and eye-to-hand coordination.

Established that the Harmonizers really worked, a new problem arose, however infinitely smaller than the previous one: someone had to ensure that they wore them.

A delicate and fairly troublesome job, sadly too complicated to be performed by the lucky ones who had already been harmonized.

But luckily, as I mentioned earlier, we were going through an economic crisis... and even if now, mostly thanks to them, we're coming out of it, there are still plenty of third- and fourth- generation immigrants willing to take up professions which may cause some slight discomfort.

After all, a job is a job, and regardless of the depressingly high percentage of work injuries, there is always an endless line at the employment department dealing with the admissions to the Reception Squads, especially now that all the other simple jobs - factory workers, miners and the like - have been steadily allocated to the newcomers.

Being in a Reception Squad is not easy, and I personally think that staying there such a long time, waiting for anyone to come through day and night shifts must be very dull and gloomy... and also, when they finally do show up, you need to be both fast and careful or you might end up having to wear a Harmonizer yourself! But really, every job has its own peculiarities and risks, and one could even find poetry in the fluidity of the perpetual replacements that take place in such peculiar field of employment.

As it was to be expected, a number of Liberals and more than a few Anarchists didn’t fail to rail against the Harmonizers calling them "inhuman"... as if it had been the first time that a product conceived by civilized men helped bridge cultural differences regardless of causing some negligible side-effects to its users... like whiskey with the Natives, or heroin with the Africans... ahahah!

...

Forgive me... I’m sorry, that was a rather petty joke... worthy of a Fascist... distasteful... I humbly beg your pardon... I really don’t know what came over me...

Back to us, the next problem concerned the Harmonizers’ aesthetics. All those engineers must have been geniuses in their field, but they surely didn’t understand a damn thing about empathy... because even though belonging to the past, a collar is always a collar, and won’t evoke any pleasant thoughts regardless of how we may all hope that one day it will no longer be associated to any dark chapters of our history!

Fortunately the matter was quickly resolved with the development of a new design, and the Harmonizer was turned into a full-face helmet... which let me tell you honestly, although it may sound Illiberal and Retrogressive, also helps making dealing with them more tolerable.

Some of the latest models even come painted with funny smiling faces from the most popular cartoon characters... isn’t that cute?

Certainly, now we all know, thanks to the Neo Ethics, that “beauty” is subjective, and everything is beautiful in its own way, but the point is that their beauty... how can I explain... their canon differs a lot from all of our own... not to mention that, even though it has no real security function, an unbreakable full-face helmet always manages to be subconsciously reassuring.

Of course, they can’t eat while wearing it... but feeding them would raise endless ethical – not to mention practical – problems... and seen the speed at which they arrive, a short life expectancy only makes them better manageable.

Sadly, from time to time one can still read in the newspaper that a terrorist squad of deluded Anarchist fanatics has breached into a factory and removed the Harmonizers from a team of workers... but I am confident that this phenomenon will rapidly expire, since at that point such idiots usually get a chance to see by themselves how certain ideals can be misleading and impractical... and in any case, they certainly won’t be able to do it a second time.

So here we are, happy citizens of a perfect society which has magnificently succeeded to cope with a new problem and continues marching towards a shining – and especially productive – future in the name of Democracy.

Needless to say, also thanks to them.

Although I’m sure, when the first of them arrived, digging his way out of the grave, staggering around and groaning "BRAAAAAAIIIINS!" no one would have ever been able to imagine it.

Keyboard Of The Dead

By Kalle Max

KahdhafiCH.

DSLAKFHDSHFK

Ow. Ghcdk, what. What this. Is it. This? Alfabez. Key BOARD: Letters. Or sumzin.

What? Why? Where? Where is I? Why sitting? Why letters on screen? Why keys on board? W H A T HAPPEND?

Yes. Remember. Very slowly. Brain slowly. Dry. Wet. Drink, yes. Eat. Yes. IT HELPS rememember.

First: I swim in Blood. Sea of blood. Down and down. Choking. Pain. So big pain. Then, drinking. Breathing blood. No breathe anymore. No need. No matter. I dive down. And down. I swim down. I see dark shadow. More dark shadow. Another swims. One like me. And more, we all swim down. Many more come. We all swim down, to big dark sphere. Small sphere. We swim down, small sphere get big. Come close. Sphere made of ones like us! Black swimmers. Torn and ragged.

I can't go on. But need to go on. I know: Down there, I must go. My new home. But no can go down more. No space. Just black swimmers in blood.

More come. Everywhere around me, black swimmers. They push. They all come down. Dive down on me. So many. All want to got to sphere! No place to go. All I see is black now. They push me. No good. I choke again.

I choke again, and again. My mouth dry. I spit. I spit earth. Ground. Sand. Dry earth in my mouth. I am in the earth. I open my eyes, but sand goes in eyes. Only blackness I see. No black swimmers anymore, just earth. I can't see. I can't hear. I wait. And wait.

Suddenly. Voice. Someone here? No. Just Earth. Who speak?

"c o m e . . . " voice says. Silent voice. Voiceless voice. But I hear. "c o m e"

I want out. Out of earth. Broken board above me. I push. I want out. I kick boards. More earth come, but I push. More and more. "c o m e", voice says. I kick. I wriggle. I dig. And suddenly: light.

I look. I am in park. Or somezing. Night. The voice: "c o m e".

I want to go. But no can. My legs: stuck. Stuck in Earth. I dig. Free to go now. I get out of earth. Look. Stones. And the black swimmers too. Also come from earth. They call. I call them. But not the silent voice. Their voice: hard. Rough. Sick. The silent voice: smooth. "g o t o t h e l i g h t" I hear it say. We go. Other swimmers hear voice two. Black as night, we go. Out of park. In streets with the light. I remember. Hungry. I remember. Screaming. Then we eat. And eat. And then, I forget.

But I remember this keyboard. I look down. "QWERTYUIOP". These keys make words. I remember the words. Better and better. But before? It was boring. After the eat, nothing. We eat everything. I walk around. Black swimmers everywhere. But we no swim. We just walk. Or stand. Hungry. Sometimes, I fall over. Sun rises. Sun sets. Get up? Why. Hungry. Want food. Get up, walk around. No eat. Nothing left. Day, night, day. Sun. Moon. Boring.

Then: The voice comes again. "g o .... g o". The voice says. Where? It says not. But I know. I know where voice wants me. So I go. I walk. Day. Night. I walk. Sun rises. Boring. " g o ", the voice repeats. No break. Just walk. The voice wants it. I walk through forest. I walk big road. Highway it was called. Or something. Then, arrive.

Yes.The memory comes back.

I arrived at big compound. Before I saw it, I heard: Shots. Gunshots. Then, I peek over the hill. Down there, in valley, the compound. Big fences. Big walls. And many black swimmers. And men. Men in green clothes. They have metal pots for heads. And rifles! They shoot black swimmers. They shoot them in the head. The men are bad! But the voice tells me: " t a s t y ". So the men are bad, but tasty. Hunger. I am so hungry. I was so hungry. This happened already. I am just typing it. Why am I typing? Because I can. Cause I'm supposed to. The key. Keyboard. Or something. I remember now:

Suddenly I was at the gate. Men shoot. Black swimmers fall. I see: some eat the green men. I am so hungry! I want to eat, too! I run. Green man shoots at me. It hurts. He shoots me in leg. It hurts. I stumble. More hurt. Shot again. I fall. But so hungry I am! I look at green man. He shakes.

" t a s t y ", the voice says. I get up. Man shoots no more. He plays with his rifle. Takes out a box and throws it down. He takes another box from pocket. But he shakes. Other box falls too. Water falls from his eyes, too.

So hungry. I bite. The green cloth tastes bad. I rip it off. The man screams. I bite again. White flesh. Tasty. Like the voice said. So tasty. And the blood. So, so tasty. To drink the blood. It makes me strong. No more dry mouth. " g o ", the voice says. I run, to eat more green men. The other black swimmers come running, too. We can share the men. Take them apart. Pass around the parts. Tasty. Different parts, different taste. Still, some of them shoot. Some black swimmers get holes in head, drop to floor. Must hurt. Shooting is bad.

"g e t t h e m" the voice says. Get the green men with rifles, it means. So we do. We get them all. The sun sets. Night. All green men, gone. We eat.

The sun rises. I see no green men. Belly full. Still hungry. "g o" says the voice. Go where? To a door. Where is that door. I look around. I am strong now. Eating was good. And drinking. There is a door. I press handle. But it opens not. I smash door. I am strong now. But not strong enough. "g o" the voice says, and more black swimmers come and push. We all smash door. Together. It opens.

Now, we are Inside. Big room. Lots of doors everywhere. Some wide open. Others, we smash. "f i n d t h e m" the voice says. Find who? Don't know. Must look in all doors. Me and black swimmers go in door. We come in a room with many keyboards. I remember something. I remember going into room like this. I remember machine that pours brown blood. I remember drinking the brown blood. I remember sitting down to keyboard. Like now. I remember, spilling the blood on keyboard. Some man come. He furious. Why do I remember that? That was not me. That was before the swim in blood.

But the room. So many keyboard. The other black swimmers smell a woman. They call out to me with their rough voices. "t a s t y" says the smooth voice. Yes. A woman. There was something about a woman. I remember milk. Or something.

The woman also pours water from her eyes. She screams without a voice. Other black swimmers eat her now. Now, she has a voice. It is loud. And high. Not beautiful, like the smooth voice. It hurts my ears. It hurts my brain. Ahhh yes. Brain! I smash her head open. The hurty voice stops. Yes, brain, tasty brain inside head. That was it about women. Or something.

I feel stronger now. And as I remember this, eating that brain really helped me. Not only the hunger. But somehow the smarts. I got smarter. A bit.

"f i n d t h e m", the smooth voice demands. Me and the other black swimmers keep looking. Where are they? Finally, we find a locked door. All of us smash against it. Does not open. The voice calls for more swimmers. They arrive. We smash. The door cracks. But it still not open. I can see through hole. See inside the room. Something moves in the shadows! More green men! More food! I hope there are women too. Brains!!!

The door still doesn't not open. I look through the hole again. There are these keyboard stands piled up behind it. Desks, they call them. Or something. I reach through the hole and push. The desks shake. Other swimmers see it, and push. The desks move. Finally, the door opens. Finally, food! Brains! Some green men. And some white men with pens in their white coats. And hooray, there is a woman! She is wearing green, too. But I don't care. I run to her. She looks at me. She has a black swimmer's eyes. And she don't smell tasty. I look around. All the black swimmers stand still, confused. They don't eat. The green men are black swimmers, too! Even the woman! Disappointment.

The voice again: "f i n d t h e m". I don't want to. I want brains! But the voice... It's so convincing. Maybe it means "find brains". Very good. The voice is good. We have to keep looking. We smash a door, and there are some stairs. Must go down. Stairs are difficult. Some black swimmers fall. They make funny noise when they fall. Some of them have twisted heads. They don't get up. Must hurt when you fall that deep. And twist head. I think they sleep now. "g o", says the voice. I try. But stairs are so difficult. I fall, too. But I fall soft. I fall on sleeping swimmers. Very nice. Thank you. I get up. "d o w n". The voice says. I remember now. It has also called me in the blood. When we all were swimming down. But there was no way to get through. Too many swimmers!

Now we go down, but there: even more stairs. So hard. "g o" the voice says, but I don't want to. There is a glass door. We smash the glass. Some swimmer cuts his arm on glass. The arm comes off, falls down. But there is no blood. Not tasty. I pick up the arm. "g o d o w n" says the voice. It sounds a bit annoyed. Why? Stairs are hard. Doesn't it know?

I climb through the hole in the door. I drop the arm. It is useless. But something about the arm, the hand. What is it? I don't remember. Was it something in the voice? I don't care. Many black swimmers go by. They are hungry. They tell me so, with their rough voices. When they are hungry, and they find food, they will eat. Will there be some left for me? I follow them. I am so hungry. Maybe I should go faster, and push them away? Because now I smell it. I smell food! Or something.

And yes: a shiny door opens and green men come out. They have black rifles. They shoot the black swimmers, shoot their heads. The swimmers fall down. Now they shoot me. It hurts! "o n w a r d s", says the voice, and I notice: The green men don't shoot the swimmers that lie down! So I lie down. The green men keep shooting their rifles, but not me. They shoot other black swimmers. I crawl forward, slowly. The men scream. One plays with his rifle again. I bite his leg. The green sock tastes bad, but I also taste blood. Tasty blood! The other green man kicks me, it hurts! I roll away, but I have a good chunk of flesh in my mouth! It's tasty!

I chew and enjoy. I look what happens. It's interesting. The green man with the hole in his leg screams. He tries to touch his hole. Why would you touch a hole? There's nothing there. Another black swimmer jumps onto him. Latches on. Bites. The other man screams too. He puts the rifle against the black swimmer's head and shoots. Boom! The head is gone now. It's in pieces, everywhere. Now something funny happens! The two men look at each other and stop screaming. I think they like each other. They look so long. Then the standing man booms away the head of the other man! Stupid green men.

Now that stupid man drops his rifle. He picks a metal apple from his belt. I'm bored. I bite his hand. It tastes salty. Salty yummy, though. Blood spurts from the hand now. The green man screams. His hand twitches, and the metal apple falls to the floor. It doesn't look tasty. I don't like it. The man seems upset. He tries to get a hold of the apple. But the other black swimmers are hungry, too. While I chew on that salty piece of hand, they eat the rest. This one has a lot of blood. Or am I imagining things? Maybe the wrist is so salty and doesn't have much blood, so I want more blood. But they leave nothing for me. "g o d o w n", I hear that stupid voice say. It is very insistent now. Reminds me of that furious man in the brown blood incident. Or something.

The other swimmers seem confused. Some are still hungry, they moan.

I'm hungry too. But there's nothing left. The voice keeps calling "g o d o w n", and some of them leave. But I don't want to twist my head on those stairs and sleep. That is boring! I look at the head from the green man. Why is there no brain? I look at that metally green pot. Women have beautiful hair with a brain underneath, but the green men just have these ugly pots. They are not tasty. I pick up the pot. It is heavy. Some black swimmer has chewed off as much as he could. There is a strap of cloth. I bite it. Can't even say why. Cloth is not tasty. Call it a hunch. But suddenly, something comes off the pot: Some flesh with hair on it! I am very excited! I smash the hair-thing into the wall, and yes: there is a brain inside! So men have brains too! Or something.

I remember now: Eating the brain made me feel very good again. Made me almost feel like dancing. I remember how good it felt, to eat that brain. Everything became much clearer. And becomes even clearer, now. Yes, so it happened back there. Up there. It wasn't even long ago, I think. But I felt good. I felt alive. "g o d o w n" the voice nagged. And I felt like: "yeah, now I'll show you, how to get down some stairs properly!"

I walked down the stairs without even slipping once. It was a piece of cake. A walk in the park. But not the park with the stones. My feet were still in the ground there. No. It's just a figure of speech, as they call it. Or something.

Some of the other swimmers were down there already. Some were sleeping with twisted heads. Boring. What is it that strikes me about these twisted heads? Nevermind. Actually, the space down there was quite packed. Lots of black swimmers. Why weren't things going forward? There was a huge shiny door. A metally door. It was big. "f i n d t h e m" said the bossy voice, and we tried to smash the door. Tried and tried. But the door didn't even shake.

"o p e n", the annoying voice demands. Very funny, that voice. "t h e

k e y" it says. Did the other swimmers hear that too? They don't do anything. I look around. There is a keyboard at the door. It's a very small keyboard. Actually, it's only one key. Pretty small. Black. I push the key. A red light comes on, and goes away. The key makes a sound that hurts my brain. Annoying!

"t h e k e y", the voice repeats. "I w a n t i t" Well good for you, voice. What am I supposed to do if that annoying black button won't let me in?

"t h e y h a v e i t", the voice adds. Oh. I think, I get it now. I grab one of the black swimmers in the white coat. He seems a bit irritated, and groans. But the voice is happy all of a sudden. "y e s !", it says. So I drag the white swimmer to the very small keyboard and push its finger against the black. A green light comes on, and a sound that is smooth. The door opens.

We rush inside. There are lots of white men. With pencils. Some have goggles. Funny. "t h e k e y" the voice says again. "g e t t h e m". The voice doesn't really say it, but all of us can feel it: "b r a a a a i n s ! ! !"

Yes. I know now that men have brains too. I'm not as stupid as some other black swimmers. The white men look tasty. Some of them shake. Some of them pour water. Clear water, and some even pour yellow water. Nice trick. Some black swimmer groans furiously. So we run, and start eating. "n o o o o !" screams the voice in my head, "t h e k e y !!!". Yes, silly voice. I'm getting to the key. I have eaten two of the white brains already. They help me. I feel good. But the voice gets more and more furious. Screams about the keys. But we eat. And drink blood. Aaaah, so tasty!

Suddenly, something happens. Something important. Time stops for a moment. The air turns inside out. Darkness becomes light and back again. I am blinded. I squint my eyes. In the middle of the room, everything is black. And bloody. Body parts everywhere. And in their center, in a wave of dark light: a big red man. His horns almost touch the ceiling. He screams.

"M O R O N S ! ! !"

The voice booms. But I recognize it. It's the silly smooth voice in my head. I stop eating. I look to the big red man. "t h e v o i c e", I think. The big red man looks at me for a moment. I think his eye twitches. The other black swimmers keep eating the white men. The big red man is furious. He throws the black swimmers around. Rips off their limbs. Hits them on the head. Their heads twist. They lie down. Some heads, he even rips off. But more and more black swimmers come! Some even manage to bite the big red man! This seems wrong. He bleeds. More and more swimmers come, the red man takes them apart. One by one. I just stand there and watch.

Now, all the black swimmers are in pieces. Only I stand there. I look at the half-finished brain at my feet. It looks tasty. Should I eat? Somehow, the angry gaze of the red man irritates me. I better wait. Now he comes to me. He speaks without his mouth: "t h e k e y !". He comes to me, and touches my head with his hand. Boom. From his fingers, an energy runs through me. Like an earthquake. Like a Tsunami of blood. I shake. Then it is over. I look up. It feel like a veil has been removed. I see much clearer now. The red man is shaking too, he looks exhausted.

"n o w e a t", he says without speaking. He moves back, nods at the half-finished brain. Good idea. Yummy. I eat. And suddenly, yeah. It all comes back:

I was in the office. I had just poured some brown blood from the machine. I sit down at my keyboard. I need to write something. Machine code. Programming. But then, I spill the brown blood. The keyboard gets wet, and hot. And this man comes. He is furious. He is bossy. He screams! I get furious too. The man presses on my keyboard. Pictures of Women come. They have no clothes. Pawns, he calls them. Or something. I look in my cup. There is still some brown blood. It is hot. I splash it in the man's face. He gets red. Like the big red man. Only smaller. I push him. He is very angry. He screams something about a fire. I am confused. I run on the street. Here comes a car.

A woman looks at me from the car. I see her eyes. I see her beautiful hair. On the other side, a children's seat. The child looks at me. It's gaze hits me. Then the car hits me. I fly in the air. The car flies, too. Over the curb, into the wall. I am on the floor. I need to see. I turn. My head is twisted. The car is broken. My head is broken. The child is on the walkway. There is a lot of blood. It flows my way. It touches my face. I can't move. "I'll go to hell for this!" is what I think, before it all goes black.

Then, I swim down, in the blood. But that was before. Now, that big red man is standing there. It points at keyboard. "t h e k e y !" it demands. I don't like the red man. I look at the black swimmers. They lie on the floor, their heads twisted. The blood from the red man touches their faces. It makes me mad. I am hungry. I see the wounds of the red man. He bleeds. He is exhausted.

"I M B E C I L E ! D O M Y B I D D I N G !" he demands. What's a bidding? I don't care. I bite his nutsack. It comes right off, and he bleeds. And he screams. Suddenly, his voice is not so smooth anymore. I poke his eyeballs and chew them. He threshes, tries to hit me. He falls. I grab his horns, and smash him against a big metal keyboard stand. Again and again. He screams in an unpleasant voice. It hurts my brain. I make him hit the keyboard stand again. And again. Finally, he stops screaming. His head is cracked. I pull the horns, something breaks. The horns come off. I see a big red tasty brain now. So big! Hooray! So tasty. Yummy. I eat it all. Something feels strange. I sit down by the keyboard. At first, I only strike some keys. Hit them with my fists. Feels familiar. A little lamp lights up. CAPS LOCK. Ah. I remember. I write my story. Or something.

Finished. Writing is boring. Always was. I remember that now. I look over, another keyboard there. Another screen. "MISSILES ARMED. ENTER LAUNCH CODES" it says. Ah. The key. That's what the big red man wanted. The code-key. The key-code. Should I enter? I don't want to. Boring. What use are missiles? I rather want brains. "b r a i n s" suddenly a voice says. Who said that? "b r a i n s", I hear again, "I rather want brains!"

Oh. It was me who said that. But there is a reply. A hundred rough voices in my head. They groan. "c o m e", I say. And another reply: Thousands of rough voices moan in agreement. I look up. There are more screens. Many screens. I see the compound, and the land beyond. A lot of black swimmers are approaching. They are turning to me.

"Brains!", I say, "BRAINS!!!" I raise my fist in ecstasy. All the black swimmers groan approvingly, and they raise their fists too!immer

I think, now I am their god. Or something.

UNCLE Z

By Wal Friman

CHAPTER ONE - WAITING FOR DINNER

Five-year-old Lucy presses her tiny hands flat against the glass door and hits hard. She has been left all alone out on the backyard and isn’t let into the house to the others.

A stranger observes her from outside the garden. He’s dressed into a trench coat, is unshaved and glances to his sides. Suddenly he steps over the fence, into the garden where Lucy tries to avoid the man. But she can’t, she is cornered.

Inside the house, Lucy's mom walks down the stairs. She goes to check on her daughter and gets a scare.

“Tony!” she shouts and looks upstairs.

No instant answer. Mom hectically runs back up.

“Tony?!” she shouts angry half way up, as Tony’s head appears to check what’s the matter.

“I think it’s your half-brother.” says mom almost whispering and points towards the backyard.

Tony sighs and goes to see what has brought him this time.

And quite right, outside Tony finds his half-brother Robbie telling jokes to Lucy.

Lucy hides behind mom's leg, as the adults talk. The half-brother gets a bottle of wine and takes off.

“Okay, okay”, he says a little grumpy and expects no response.

“Bye Robbie”, says mom after a short delay, clearly relieved to see him leave.

As Robbie steps over the fence, Lucy still hides behind mom's leg.

“Scared of him?” says mom and adds delighted: “Just a harmless bum.”

Meanwhile, not far away, a grocery-bag lies abandoned on a bicycle path. Bread-baking mix and eggs have fallen out.

An estimated 20 meters further, a zombie has managed to bite a woman. He pulls slices of meat from her face, stuffs them into his mouth and makes it look like the most normal thing to do out in broad daylight.

It has rained during the night, so there are water puddles on the ground. The zombie pours the flour into one of them and stirs it to dough.

He has no face. Only a skeleton head looks out from under the hiphop hoodie. He takes dough in his hands and smears it over his cheekbones. As his whole face is covered he makes holes for the eyes and the mouth. Now as he’s got a face again, it can clearly be seen that he used to be a sadistic prick already before he died.

On the backyard Lucy plays with her dolls the way she always does. She has them talking to each other about things in her own life.

“I think I will skip dinner today”, says Lucy and gets it to sound like a good plan.

Then she switches to do another voice. “Then you also won’t get your cookie for dessert”.

“Hhhh”, says the first doll again and sounds very sincere. “I would want to dine, but I think mommy doesn’t want me there. Because I heard her. She doesn’t want to be my mom anymore.”

Her next door neighbor is out to pick up some plastic from the ground that the wind has brought. As he bends down, Doughface surprises him. As this happens, Lucy babbles on. “I will give mommy one last chance”.

Doughface has bitten the neighbor, as he hears Lucy. “If mommy isn’t nice to me during dinner I must leave her and find someone else to love me”, says Lucy. “Someone that loves me honestly”.

The neighbor’s legs are still kicking, so the zombie holds them down. Nothing further can be heard from Lucy, so Doughface starts to eat.

Lucy is back by the door. She wants so badly to get in to the others that she bangs her head against the glass. There’s no response now either, so Lucy silently sobs, then slowly turns away.

Right then Doughface stands up straight to dry his mouth on the sleeve and Lucy notices him. She curiously goes closer and peeks through the fence.

Dressed into a trench coat he looks a lot like Robbie. Lucy gets happy and points.

“Bum”, she says, remembering the newest word in her vocabulary.

Doughface looks at her like she was his dessert, so Lucy runs scared away, as fast as she can. To her luck, the second she’s out of sight the zombie forgets about her. He puts his head down to the neighbor’s throat and bites for all his worth.

Mom and Tony have left a half-full wine bottle on the garden table. Lucy grabs it and carries it carefully.

Doughface inspects the inner organs of his victim, as Lucy approaches him from behind. She stops next to him and puts down the bottle. Then she takes a step back to see how happy he’ll get, noticing it. He doesn’t, so Lucy moves it slightly more in front of him. Steps back. Observes.

Then a blood dropping hand reaches out and grabs it. Lucy expects to see a happy reaction and maybe get a compliment, but he just coldly consumes the wine KLU-KLU-KLU and puts the bottle down again. Lucy giggles a little and gestures “so say something, was it good?” Doughface stops... turns his head to look at her. His crazy dough face glares for a second, before he brutally tries to hit her to the ground. Time to eat my dessert, he figures. He hits again and she jumps aside and giggles delightfully, not realizing that he tries to kill her.

“Lucy!”, a voice shouts. It’s mom from the house.

Lucy hears her, right when Doughface throws himself towards her like a soccer goalie.

Mom looks for her daughter. Checks if she hides under the garden table.

“Lucy! Stop hiding!”, says mom, not in the mood for games.

Then Lucy appears and crawls through the fence. Mom gestures that she can now come inside.

But Lucy doesn’t run in, she waits for Doughface. Waves for him to come with her. He grabs his bottle and follows. Steps over the fence and hardly stays on his feet because the wine has made him drunk. He holds out both his arms, ready to jump over her. She believes that he wants a hug, so she opens her arms, too. Right then Doughface throws up. Poorly chewed flesh and a yellow sauce spray out of him. At the same time he passes out and drops to the ground like a sack of dry bones “crutch”.

The throw-up smells so badly that Lucy covers her nose and goes into the house ahead of him. She peeks amused over her shoulder to see if he’s just playing games. He doesn’t move, so she vanishes in through the door... and after a second her head comes out again.

“Stay”, says Lucy to the zombie.

“Lucy!”, screams mom from the kitchen and Lucy instantly runs to her.

CHAPTER TWO - DINNER

Mom and Tony have prepared dinner. Lucy gets to carry the plates, so Tony puts three of them in her open arms. But Lucy wants one more.

“But there’s only three of us, honey” says mom.

But Lucy insists to get a fourth plate. Mom gestures to Tony “let her have it”.

“Okay. Can’t see why, but here, one plate too many”, says Tony and places one more on top of the stack.

Lucy carries all four plates happy to the garden door. Carefully she peeks out to look at Doughface. But Doughface is gone. Right then Tony sneaks up from behind.

“Boo!” he says.

Lucy freaks out and almost falls on her back.

“Don't drop the plates, honey”, says mom and carries out the salad bowl.

Lucy gives Tony the eye.

“Ha-ha-ha! What's the matter?” he laughs and walks out. “Cheer up, Lucy”.

The food lands on the table and Tony helps Lucy with the plates.

“But Lucy”, says Mom heartbroken.

Mum has found their wine bottle on the lawn where Doughface passed out.

“What has gone into you lately?!”, says mom and glares angry at her daughter.

Mom holds the bottle upside down for Tony to see, “completely empty”. Now both glare angry at Lucy, who only meant well when she gave away the bottle.

“I'll open another”, says Tony and is off into the house. “You don’t have to”, says mom. “Of course I open another”, says Tony.

Mom lifts Lucy to sit in her chair and her hands are brutal, because she is angry about the bottle. Then she walks into the house after Tony and shakes her head the whole way.

Lucy wishes that her new friend Doughface would come back to see that she has brought a plate extra, just for him. She adjusts hers and Doughface's plates, so that they are just right and close to each other.

As they all have sat down to eat, Tony fills mom's glass with wine. Then he puts the bottle down at the table. Lucy looks at it and Tony moves it further away from her, to make sure that she won’t empty this one, as well.

Lucy tries to cut her bacon, but she only has been given a fork, so it is impossible. And mom doesn’t even notice.

“Mom” says Lucy, but gets no response.

The adults have eyes only for each other. It’s tough for Lucy, who wishes that they’d tell her straight, if they’re better off completely without her.

CHAPTER THREE - RESTING AFTER DINNER

Mom and Tony fool around while they put the plates into the dish wash machine. Lucy watches the fourth plate with a long nose. It wasn’t needed and goes straight back into the cupboard. What’s most heartbreaking for Lucy is that the adults seem amused over that Lucy seemed to expect a secret friend to show up.

“Mom you lied”, says Lucy, looking sad at the floor. “You said I couldn’t be in the house because you wanted to cook just the two of you. But you didn’t even go to the kitchen”.

“We prepared dinner”, says mom. “Had a little fun on the side”.

Tony agrees with mom and they both giggle. That hurts Lucy even more. “So they must lock me out to be able to have fun... and now they make fun of me”.

“I saw”, says Lucy and points a finger. “You went upstairs. And stayed for long. Before the first bum left you didn’t cook at all”.

Mom gives Lucy a cookie. “Here. Go out and play”, says mom.

Lucy looks shattered at her mom who only wants to be alone with Tony. “That’s it. Mom doesn’t want me”. Lucy lies down on her back and kicks so that she glides backwards over the floor. Glides and glides towards the backyard door with a determined look on her face.

As she reaches the door she leans her head sideways and looks out. The garden is empty. Lucy runs out.

She runs up to the fence. Crawls through and starts to walk away. But she hesitates. Isn’t sure if she dares to run away. The forest looks so scary. Lucy runs back to the fence. Leaves her cookie on it and hopes that Doughface will find it.

Lucy goes to her dolls. Now she starts to play that one of them eats the other and makes the blood slurping sound that Doughface did when he ate on the neighbor. She does it pretty loudly, too. So it can be heard a long way.

Doughface isn’t far away, so he hears. And starts to stumble towards the sound.

Soon Doughface shows up by Lucy. And he isn’t alone. Zombies appear from every direction. Lucy jumps from excitement and runs into the house.

Mom and Tony cuddle on the couch and suspect nothing, as footsteps approach. After a while Mom gets a bad feeling and looks up. But it’s too late. The zombies dive over them.

Lucy watches amazed when blood spurts up against the wall.

As Doughface’s stomach is full he sits down on the floor. Lucy looks at him with affection and goes closer. He looks tired back, so she pushes with her fingertips on his face. She has baked with mom and can tell that it is made of dough. As she squeezes his blood stained nose it falls off. It’s eatable, so Lucy tears it apart and puts some of it in her mouth to chew on.

She rolls the rest between her hands.

“You do like this”, says Lucy and makes it to a mini-roll that she chops with her hand at the floor.

“See?”, says Lucy and the zombie looks curious at her snappy fingers. Then she puts his nose back in his face with a delightful chuckle.

Lucy walks up in front of the couch. Starts to pull in mom’s arm to get her to wake up.

“Mom!”, says Lucy, but gets no response.

“Mommy!”, says Lucy and sounds deeply sad. Mom’s eyes continue to stare empty up towards the ceiling and she doesn’t move a muscle.

Lucy goes to the phone. Dials 9... 1... 1. Waits...

“Mommy is dead”, says Lucy and listens to someone in the other end. “My mommy”, she repeats and sounds very lonely.

A car parks in front of the house and two Social Service Women step out, staring sternly at Tony’s front door.

As the doorbell rings, Lucy puts Doughface’s head inside of the oven. She adjusts the oven heat up to maximum.

The two Social Service Women ring on the door once more, before they start to look for a way around the house.

Doughface takes his head out from the oven. His hair smokes, but at least his face has got a healthy tan. Lucy remembers to turn off the oven.

“Hello...”, says a female voice from the garden. “Is anyone here?”

Lucy runs frightened behind a chair. The women peek in through the door.

“Well, hello there!”, says one of them. “We're looking for your mummy and daddy. Can you tell us where they are?”

Lucy just stares confused back at them. One of the women

crouches in front of Lucy. Suddenly Lucy attacks and tries to bite the woman’s hand. But the woman expected this and threads a dog leash around Lucy’s neck. Lucy is captured and can’t get the leash off her head.

“We need the cage”, says the other.

Only one room away, Mom and Tony lie half eaten on the couch.

“Where's your mommy, honey?”, says one of the women, not completely friendly anymore. “Your mommy?”, she repeats out of patience.

Lucy points her arm towards the TV room.

“In there, you say?”, says the woman and is about to enter with her colleague... to where the whole bunch of zombies hide, ready to surprise the intruders.

THE END

History Never Dies

By Gioal Canestrelli, Fabienne Gschwind, Angela Ruggero and Shane Wilson

On the Alps, around 200 BC

A long column of soldiers and animals was fighting through the half-melted snow, trying to make their way across the Alps. The weather was still sunny, but the dark clouds hanging over the highest peaks presaged a storm.

Hanno, who was walking with the last quarter of the column, felt dizzy—the bright snow dazzled his eyes and gave him a terrible headache. Also, the woolen bandages he had wrapped around his feet and sandals for extra warmth were completely soaked; he could barely feel his feet and he was beginning to worry about his knees. But the worst pain was that coming from his right hand: his wound had deteriorated further, so that now two of his fingers were black and swollen, surely rendered useless in the cold and nothing less than a signpost for the somewhat brutal Grecian healer who surveyed their ranks.

His thoughts went back to his home, Qart-Hadasht of Iberia… not as magnificent as the mother city, Qart-Hadasht of Libya, but still wonderful and rich, with the inner gardens of the temple district, the Tofet, the sumptuous houses of the head merchants, and even the narrow alleys of the docks district, full of so many colors, beside the calm and warm Mediterranean sea. He missed its brightness and beauty; its cerulean warmth and shine would be welcome amidst this rocky landscape of grey ice and rock.

It was not only for the pride of Qart-Hadasht of Libya, but mainly to defend the freedom of the Carthaginian colonies of Iberia that his lord commander, Khenu-Baal Barak, had decided to wage war against the Romans.

The Romans—for a moment he contemplated spitting upon the road to the left—rapacious bastards, always looking for new lands to exploit, always keen to expand no matter what. They’d put an eye on Iberia… so, of course, it was merely a matter of time until the attacked, and Khenu-Baal had decided to strike first.

It must be said, a man such as Khenu-Baal, who was close to the needs of his people and understood their necessities, inspired in him much more loyalty than the Suffetes of the inner circle of Qart-Hadasht of Libya, far back on the distant African shores… old, filthy bureaucrats!

Their interest in the Iberian Colonies was limited to the amount of silver they could send back to the motherland. Nothing more, and nothing less.

But Khenu-Baal was different. Even if he had been born in one of the most powerful and rich families of the old Qart-Hadasht of Libya, he had been brought to Iberia as a child by his father, the great Abd-Melqart Barak, and had witnessed the very birth of the Colonies. Furthermore, like his father, he was a warlord, not a politician.

And despite all this, despite his certainty that Khenu-Baal was a worthy man to follow, despite the certainty that Khenu-Baal knew what was best, Hanno had been puzzled and terrified like most of his companions when the general announced that they would attack the Roman territories from the North.

"But… this means marching all along the Iberian coastline, crossing the Pyrenees, and then marching into Gaul - which is full of Celts, filthy blood-craving savages - and after that, crossing the Alps too! It can’t be done!" thought Hanno as he heard the news.

There was no need to voice such doubts: Khenu-Baal explained his thoughts with crystal clarity: that exactly because it sounded so foolish an idea, the Romans would never expect an attack from the North and that, therefore, was from where the attack must strike.

There was hope in his message; it seemed that the filthy savages of Gaul might prove less filthy than expected, and a number of tribes had apparently promised assistance for the journey, providing them with warm clothes and food to face the undeniably daunting task ahead: to cross the Alps.

Hanno felt bolstered somewhat by their proximity to the Celtic tribes that dwelled at the other side of the mountains, in what now was freshly conquered Roman territory. These proud Celts had not only sent them guides to help find the best mountain pass, but were also ready to join with the Carthaginian forces and rise against the Romans in one united force. Hanno liked that idea. If not together, then what?

So, it was decided, and, one star-filled night Hanno decided that even if he were given the opportunity to honourably take a different path, the General had his loyalty. The wonder of the universe spiralled above him, his head stuck out of the enclosure of the tent on this fatefully warm summer’s night, as the stars wheeled. Victory, he was sure, floated in the air.

And at that point then, if there was a cause worthy of fighting for, it would be home, and if there was a man he would have died for, that would have been general Khenu-Baal Barak. Or, as his enemies called him, Hannibal.

***

The pain in his hand forced Hannu's wandering thoughts back into the present. He stopped briefly and tried to pull the leather thong holding the baggage on his back. Its thick length slipped through his fingers painfully, tugging on the cord around his shoulder which carried his spear. His longche, a beloved and well-used short spear, complicated matters. He groped, unwittingly opening old wounds, regretting and making do; such was life in the army. His shield slipped from his shoulder, falling to the ground. He cursed and tried grabbing the longche with the right hand while he pushed the shield over the shoulder once more. The wounds on his hand ruptured again and thick, purulent fluids dripped to the ground, leaving red and yellow stains on the snow. His colleagues—his friends—made much of the matter, and so it was that next break saw the interest of the Enomotarch.

Hanno was one fortieth of an enomotia, and fully in possession of entire complement of fingers and toes the day he had been charged to walk as scout, his sole duty to ensure that no enemies hid in the dense forest at the foot of the mountain. He was not alone, patrolling with another Carthaginian soldier and a Celtic man named Magalo, a guide from the Boii tribe, who was supposed to help them get over the Alps. Magalo was a cheerful man, and conversed ably in the Phoenician dialect with Hanno and his mate Gisgo, providing good company as they kept their eyes open for any sign of danger. All was well, until Hanno noticed something shining in the distance amongst the trees, probably nothing special, but his duty to check all the same. He gave a signal to his companions and approached carefully. As he approached, the smell of decomposition filled his nostrils.

To Hanno’s disgust, he found a dead man, beside which a wolf lay in a pose of stiffened agony, a few arrows sticking out of its back. Hanno paused; it was not the first time he’d seen a man dead, but it was yet to be a commonplace occurrence. In truth, the scene felt nightmarish, and it took all his courage to proceed further. Nevertheless, soldierly roles possessed him, and he considered scout duty as he edged, unwillingly, towards the subject.

Possibly an accident, he thought: the man could have been a hunter, who had followed his wounded prey over a large distance and eventually been attacked. But while it was understandable that the hunter would be covered in wolf bites, there was no obvious reason why the wolf would display horrible gashes which could hardly have been inflicted by the man. Yet, there were no further traces of bears or other animals.

Hanno succumbed to the urge within and called, with a little more abandon than he intended, for help.

Magalo, to Hanno’s, relief looked similarly terrified as he approached the dead hunter and believed he recognised human bite marks on the wolf. "This is a monster... a wolf-man, versipellis! We must leave this place immediately," he said. But the soldiers who had followed Hanno’s cry laughed at him, and Hanno insisted that he take the golden amulet hanging from the hunter’s neck— it was this that he had seen shining in the distance. He grabbed his kopis—a curved Greek sword—and bent down to the throat of the man to cut the leather lace. But as he did this, the hunter suddenly opened his eyes.

"He’s alive! He’s still alive!" screamed Hanno as the man’s teeth sank into his hand. The knife fell free, and Hanno helplessly tried to pull his hand free. "Help me," he screamed, but the hunter’s strength was incredible, his teeth clamped with preternatural strength around the bones of Hanno’s hand.

His body sprang, one minute dead and the next in motion, rolling both men into the dirt. Hanno shrieked with pain, battering his other fist against the hunter’s bony skull, his opponent’s head whipping back and forth like a carnivorous beast tearing a chunk of juicy flesh from a live, blood-salty steak. Gisgo, his longche piercing the back of the hunter, ended the wrestling match, but not the fight; his blow paralysed the lower body, leaving the decisive blow of Magalo’s short sword to remove the monster’s head in one decisive blow. Gisgo released Hanno from the hunter’s jaws; a combination of battery and prising, with Hanno taking part. The wound was deep, and after cleaning it in a nearby creek, it was no surprise that several bones had been broken and two fingers almost completely ripped off. Biting down hard on a leather strap, Hanno wept unwilling tears as Gisgo tore his little finger free, like pulling away a hanging fingernail. It was an impossible agony, but better in the long run.

Upon returning to his enomotia, Hanno was brought to the Greek healer, who approved of the measures so far taken, but found that the remaining hand was too severely wounded to heal and he must, therefore, amputate. If not, gangrene would surely follow. Hanno fled as soon as he laid eyes on the saw, memories of Gisgo’s field medicine prominent in his mind. Gisgo, to his credit, offered his help finding a few healing herbs and swaddling Hanno’s fingers in a makeshift herbal bandage.

Hanno glared at his throbbing hand and thrust it into a snow heap–the cold bringing immediate relief. He took off his helmet and collected some snow in a piece of cloth that he tied around his head for refreshment. It was not easy with one hand—very little was—but it gave him such relief to keep both his head and hand cold. Finally, he looked around amongst his companions and managed to find Gisgo, now a firm friend despite the curious circumstances of their acquaintance, who was taking care of a mule transporting food and tents. Feeling much better, he started walking by his side hoping to hear the latest news.

"I heard that a few days before we found our hunter in the forest, a patrol from the sixth enomotia was attacked by some crazy farmers and their wolves," said Gisgo, just as an aside. "Several soldiers got bitten, and their guides wanted to kill them, afraid that they would turn inside-out to become wolves themselves... a heap of barbarians, these Boii! But how are you?"

"Much better, really. I still miss my mother and father, and of course my younger—but you don’t mean that. I know what you mean." He smiled and continued. "It will never be right—but I still have strength in the thumb and forefinger and I plan to hold my shield with those and train to fight with the left." He forced a smile, and found to his surprise that it came easily; regardless of the pain he had endured, it seemed he was now feeling certain he could survive whatever might come next.

Such is the way of humanity; what is expected may be turned suddenly aside, while the cold truth of reality is simple lost, a momentary fragment that simply slips away into time. For two days later, as the army marched past a glacier, a few men from the sixth enomotia quite simply turned mad, cold stark raving mad, and attacked their colleagues, the plain thought of blood in their minds. But there:  it happened at the very end of the column and the other enomotiai were several hours ahead, long gone; news travels slowly when all its reporters lie dead.

It was during a break during which Hanno and other soldiers ate some dried meat that the Enomotarch–commanding officer of Hanno’s enomotia–approached him. A few other soldiers and Magalo were following, but since Hanno was trying to chop off a piece of meat with his left hand, he didn’t notice. Magalo turned to the Enomotarch and pointed on towards Hanno: "He was bitten, he will soon turn to wolf as well."

The Enomotarch observed Hanno’s hand. Hanno didn’t even have to think about his expression to realise that he’d seen the cack-handed way he’d been cutting the meat.

"You are of less use to us now," he said, dismissively. "You cost the same in rations but give less value."

"Don’t abandon me," said Hanno, horrified. "I can still fight, still—"

The Enomotarch laughed, leaving Hanno with an expression someway between confusion and fear.

"Follow me," he said, nodding. Hanno lifted his equipment on his back, determinedly showing no pain as the pack brushed against his injuries, and followed his commander towards the glacier, further and somehow further, well away from the camp, completely out of sight of the others. "Push!" shouted the Enomotarch.

Hanno considered this, and was still trying to figure out who or what he should push when the sharp blow to his back tumbled him neatly over the edge and into the icy, welcoming depths of a crevasse. His fall was not uneventful, and the resting spot of an icy spur between the walls gave little comfort. He lay for a while, somehow feeling no pain even though his foot folded awkwardly between two rocks, and must be certainly broken.

Removing the backpack and shield took longer than he thought, but their weight could only encumber him further. He pushed himself up and looked around. The ice walls were steep and slippery... maybe he could try to use his kopis and his knife to climb out, but he was very deep in the crevasse and the sky was nothing but a faint gleam over him in the distance.

Above him, he heard the sounds of battle. A sequence of gruesome thuds turned out to be more bodies thrown down the crevasse, missing the ice spur that had arrested his descent, leaving them free to approach the bottom. Silence reigned for some time, during which he prayed to Melqart for their poor, broken souls. He surveyed the shaft above; ice-smooth and unclimbable. His kopis, trustworthy as it was, could never make the journey.

Hanno frowned. Some movement below - perhaps the fall of another, like his own, had not been fatal. But then no; how could any man fall that distance and not be somehow injured? He, himself, still sported bruised and afflicted limbs from his own arrested fall. He leant over the spur and recoiled from the scene below.

It was not that one soldier was stripping the flesh from another, slicing down to the bone with only nails and teeth to aid in his feast; nor was it the fact that the living flesh somehow hinted of a succulence that the feast-meats of his hometown only attained on special, sacred days; days when a whole lamb had been rent asunder and split to the backbone for everyone’s pleasure.

No, it was none of this; it was not even that he wished the man would be more neat in his incisions; less blundering and more precise in his tearings; it boiled down to pure and simple envy that he were up here, and the true prize, the flesh, was way down there, whilst he could do nothing but watch. And yet he could, surely, crawl this far for the prize, push himself on his broken, grinding bones... yet how inhuman, how indescribably barbaric was the scene below. Why was he not pushing himself away, as far as possible from the scene of desperate hunger written below in bold strokes of red?

And with the thoughts of hunger came an absence. Somewhere, and somehow, he was beside the dead soldier, chewing, in terror, on forbidden flesh.

Although he felt no pain, his body surely nothing short of invincible, frost demanded an insidious tribute, slowing his muscles and relentlessly crystallising the most vital parts of his tissues. His vision had dimmed long ago, the surface of his eyeballs hardening scarce moments before their humors began to solidify, and there, locked in a dark and soundless, touch-free world, Hanno’s consciousness briefly had time to think of his mother and what she would do now, once she knew her boy wasn’t ever coming home. A blackness encroached on his extremities, mirroring the darkening tissues of his heart, still withering in his chest, and death came slowly, lingering, conversing with that last vital part of him; a conversation which noted, with slow and relentlessly mounting horror, that Hanno was, perhaps not entirely, but was certainly very close, to being frozen alive.

***

Grenoble, around 2000 AD

An international team of pathologists, archeologists and technicians were standing around a high-tech-coffin. It was a sensation: as with the ice-mummy Ötzi, the carcasses of two soldiers had been retrieved from the Alps, close to the end of a glacier on the French-Italian border, near Mont-Cenis.

A mountain safety helicopter had been loaned, and using extreme caution so as to ensure the specimens remained undamaged, the experts had placed the mummies, carefully ice-packed, in refrigerated boxes to inhibit all decomposition.

Both corpses were brought to the pathologic institute of the University of Grenoble, a laboratory perfectly equipped to study them. Trained professionals were to remove the frozen mummies from their cool-boxes and investigate them fully. The first pictures taken on the glacier left little doubts about their Carthaginian heritage since the clothing and equipment had been preserved well enough to be recognizable; already there were thoughts of Hannibal and his expedition across the Alps—only further tests would show with certainty if the two men had indeed been frozen since the Second Punic War.

The extraction was an endless source of delight for the scientists involved. "Observe how finely crafted his chain-mail is... and this here, oh, how beautiful... look at this golden amulet." Professor Delacroix, the main investigator, placed the golden necklace in a plastic dish and allowed it to be passed around to the archeologists. "It isn’t Roman... possibly Gaulish? Do we have an expert in ancient jewelry?"—He raised his voice, a little humour breaking through: "Do we have an expert in the house?"

Doctor Scosti forwarded the question to the experts who were following the procedure on-screen from a nearby room, banished due to constraints of space. A woman raised her hand, and was ushered inside to observe the item properly. "Wonderful... a Middle La Tène design, I’d say. Before they crossed the Alps, Hannibal’s Army was aided by the Gaulish King Braneus, who helped replenish their food supplies and provided some equipment... maybe they could have picked this up along the way?"

Doctor Scosti also examined the item: "That would perfectly fit my theory that these two men were soldier of the Carthaginian army."

The Celtic expert Karolin Scherrer nodded and continued: "Look, there is also an inscription... very clear—remarkably so, after this many centuries."

Several photographs of the inscriptions were made and aired on the screens in the visitors’ room. Doctor Scherrer and a few linguists discussed animatedly and finally produced an initial translation. "Amazing... observe; the alphabet used was Latin, but the words were transcribed from both Gaulish and Latin."

MAPOVELCOS VERSIPELLIS

ANKOGRANOS IMMI

"Young man wolf, I am..." Mapovelcos could have been the man’s name, or it could be an ownership tag indicating Mapovelcos’ property. Then it continues: versispellis is Latin. I must make further checks, but the last word, worshipper of death, could be either another name or even a nobility or warrior caste attribute. I’d say we have found ourselves a fine cultural or cult object. For all we know, it could have been an amulet to protect its owner from evil forces."

The German expert in Gaulish artifacts, Karolin, was a child of the information age who possessed of a scientific attitude and a calm, almost phlegmatic, character. And yet, something about the inscription and the sinuous stylized drawing of the wolf on the other side made her tremble with fear, piquing her with an awareness of difference. She was well aware of the irrationality of such feeling, but the word versipellis would not leave her mind, to the point that she felt almost like it were preying upon her. She’d tweet it later tonight, perhaps, if security allowed. Who knows what you find when you tap into a global consciousness, as she’d said to her last professor. Besides which, it rang a bell; that meant someone else had seen it too.

Hanno felt like diving out from a depth in which he had been imprisoned since eternity. He retained only faint memories, many of which had been frozen stiff by the tons of ice that had compressed and caressed his frozen form. It was somewhat astonishing to him that he was not dead, although at a certain point he had conceived that such an icy imprisonment was a punishment the Gods had inflicted on him. At one, desperate, point, he had prayed to all gods and goddesses he knew—even the Gaulish, Greek and Roman ones, in the hope that one of them might listen and mercifully let him die if he was not worthy to be set free.

Within him were long periods in which he had dozed off in a slow and icy dream, populated with strange visions; crystalline nightmares. An eternity of ice-bright dreaming dulled, weakened as the light and pressure changed. His mother, her comforting arms so far away in time and place, enveloped him once more and he pushed through the gap again, immobile and cooling this time, and yet as alone as ever. No brisk uptake, nor even a swaddling blanket; the cold hardness of observation greeted him and somewhere within him the first signs of warmth for many a year kindled. Around him people moved, even daring to touch and probe his flesh. The warmth grew... became something akin to desire, and desire became an insatiable lust. He was starving.

He could hear people talking, but he didn't understand. His body was still frozen, but it seemed that he was slowly warming up.

"Are these bite-marks?"

Professor Delacroix was investigating the soldier who looked in the worst shape: his neck was broken, and many portions of his flesh were missing. A magnifier was brought, and a strong torch used to lighten wounds so deep they reached the bone. A few other pathologists moved closer to watch. "Human teeth?" They had all come to the same conclusion at the same time.

The finding brought chaos amongst the scientists, but a hypothesis was quickly made and confirmed by both practical evidence and historical sources. "They fell in a crevasse, and one of them died on impact. The other one," he nodded towards Hanno, "was desperate enough to try feeding on his companion to survive a bit longer."

"Polybius does report in his Histories that when Hannibal Barca revealed his plan to cross the Alps, Monomachus answered that the troops would have to be trained to eat human flesh in case of need, when they ran out of other supplies," added one of the historians.

The investigations continued for several hours, focusing above all on the perfectly preserved equipment of the two soldiers—a rare prize and one worth savouring. Finally, while a MRI scan was performed on the first mummy, Hanno was returned to the refrigerator, his examination due within twenty-four hours.

***

Karolin spent the evening alone in the library, browsing any hard-copy and online volumes she thought would help her figure out what the word versipellis stood for. Surprisingly enough, the internet had been most helpful, explaining the word’s etymological meaning as "capable of transforming himself through changing skin". This information led her further, through more obscure sources, to a publication from the early 70s, in which an archeologist named Peter Planchad described a number of artifacts retrieved in the Val d’Isère, themselves taken from the remains of a Gaulish farm dated somewhere close to 300 BC.

The circumstances held uneasy echoes: a number of skeletons were discovered, but dismembered and scattered, every bone marked with the gnawings of teeth. The archaeologist had surmised that a group of farmers had been beset by wolves, their ravaged corpses scattered and scarred as the wolves fed. It was a gruesome scene, and Karolin found it somewhat unsatisfactory. She was well aware of the idea that wolves killed more than they fed, but was no fan of the theory. To the best of her knowledge a wolf would be expected to consume between ninety-one and ninety-five percent of the flesh on any kill, and whilst they might separate the legs, skull and pelvis from the vertebral column, she had certainly read nothing to indicate that wolves actively scattered or rearranged the bones of their prey. Reading on, it seemed that only one of the skeletons appeared whole—aside from missing the head—which had been retrieved still wearing a golden necklace displaying intertwined images of a man and a wolf on one side, the other revealing an inscription VERTO CURDIS: 'turn-skin' in a Gaulish dialect.

The article also mentioned similar findings made by the same team in Aosta and in the Po valley, though Karolin failed to find any more articles, and no mentions of these excavations occurred in any other likely texts.

Later that night, she leant back and pondered, unable to sleep: not long before Hannibal and his troops had crossed the Alps, a farm had been viciously attacked by wolves, resulting in bite-marks on the bones of the villagers and a golden amulet bearing unclear inscriptions. Now, the remains of two Carthaginian soldiers had been found, one partly eaten, and the other - most likely the attacker, or at least one of them - carrying a golden necklace with a similar inscription. Lastly, there was a location showing similar findings in Cisalpine Gaul, in an area also possibly crossed by Hannibal’s army in its way to wage war against Rome.

Finally, she dragged herself over to her desktop computer and started looking up the names of all the participants to the excavation in Val d’Isère. Her lucky star must have been smiling to her that night since one of them, former PhD-student Carsten Stamm, was now a professor himself, teaching archeology at the University of Neuchâtel,  Switzerland.

***

Hanno struggled to open his eyelids, but when he finally did, he could still see. Age and dryness were all that ailed him, but his stiffened, ancient tissues were still, somehow alive. He could feel it. His surroundings were completely alien, a room made undoubtedly of metal, the very same metal of his kopis, his armour, but on such a grand scale. And the temperature—cold, but still temperate compared to the depths of the glacier.

A flood of memories rushed back: a glacier and its depths, an agonising haul towards a knife-edge, a moment between past and... wait—his feet were there, just there... they would—

And below, something within him had sharpened; an awareness was growing within him of flesh, in fat and fist-sized chunks, four-pawed and scuttling barely cubits down a gully beyond these walls. It is surprisingly difficult, in these modern times, to find human-sized, unfettered access to the systems which drain humanity of its filth and effluence, but Hanno, crippled by a glacial slowness as he was, sought out the only home of which he could now conceive. Precious as he was, the spindly remains of one, slight soldier fit admirably well down a single, loosely-covered drain at the far end of the autopsy room.

Still feeling stiff from his prolonged icy sleep, he could barely move his left leg and part of his right forearm, and the water dragged him down along the sewer for a while until he crashed against a pile of waste that had accumulated in front of a grate. Rats approached him curiously, scavenging for food, so he tried catching some of them to relieve his own hunger. Sadly, he could not open his hand nor move his jaw, just barely pinch the tails of some of them with small movements of his arm, and the creatures pulled away easily since he could not find enough strength to hold them in place. Soon, the critters grew tired of the game, turning it to their advantage as they scratched and bit at his fossilized extremities.

And the heat… the heat was growing, more and more steadily now he was surrounded by slippery waste and its noxious vapors. It was a terrible heat, drilling its way under his skin with searing needle fingers, eating him away and ripping his body apart, from the skin through his aching blood vessels, right down to the very meat of his cells. His mind drifted again, and when he regained consciousness he could no longer move at all, and his eyes were covered or had simply given up the ghost. He could still feel the water, a tender caress on his scorched flesh, but he was surrounded by complete blackness... and yet he could hear many sounds, some of which he almost recognized, others completely unknown, all of which frightened him. If only he could have finally died, and stop feeling anything any more…

***

Karolin made her call to professor Stamm, and upon hearing about the inscription on the soldier’s necklace, the man had insisted that they’d meet in Neuchâtel the same evening to better discuss the matter—face to face, as it were. His former PhD supervisor had also worked for the University there, so most of the artifacts from that excavation had been stored in the archive of the local Archeological Museum "Latenium", which specialized in artifacts from the La Tène culture. If she came over, they would be able to take a good look at them together the next day.

The trip to Neuchâtel would take about six hours by train, so Karolin hurried back to the library to prepare. She would make copies of the most interesting articles she had found even before making a quick stop by the university to see if more interesting objects had been retrieved from the corpses.

Here, before she even reached the campus, she found a crowd of researchers, docents and students standing helplessly on two sides of the street while several police officers made their way back and forth from the main entrance, where they had set boundaries of yellow crime-scene tape as if to celebrate the building’s successful evacuation. She patiently pushed her way through and managed to catch sight of professor Delacroix and his team. Delacroix was talking excitedly to two officers, gesturing and repeating obsessively the word "cambrioleur", which she assumed must be the French term for burglar although her knowledge of the language was limited and most of what the policemen answered to him seemed incomprehensible.

Head linguist doctor Scherrer waved to her, pushing through the crowd to rescue her, explaining in a subsequent, rather hurried briefing to her and a few other team-members that the mummy of the better preserved soldier had seemingly been removed from its refrigerated storage during the night. Apparently, the burglars had broken in directly to the morgue through an unsecure drain that reached the underground locals from the canalization system below, but had only managed to pull the corpse a few hundred meters before it had gotten stuck in the waste. Amazingly, they had been forced or had simply decided to abandon it. If this were not incompetent enough, it would seem these criminal amateurs had not even bothered to secure it in a waterproof bag, though the corpse remained relatively undamaged. Bacterial decomposition had raised its temperature somewhat, and a number ligaments had been twisted and broken in the process of forcing them to move, but it seemed that things did not look as bad as one would have come to expect, given the unfortunate circumstances.

Karolin had very strange feeling about this, but being a practical person and having a train to catch in a few hours, she dismissed any irrational thoughts and hurried back home to grab a few last things before leaving.

***

Later in the afternoon, the police completed their preliminary on-site investigations and the situation around the institute had normalized enough for Hanno’s body to be properly cleaned up and delivered to the laboratories for the previously scheduled MRI scan. Professor Delacroix was conducting the examination and carefully monitored his patient. MRI technicians were sitting at each of his sides, on the two other available chairs at the control station, while a handful of selected team-members had been allowed to squeeze themselves in the back of the small room and were standing side by side, silently overlooking the procedure.

One of the technicians commented, his voice hushed, tinged with awe: "Had I not known and only seen this one detail, I would have guessed that these scans belonged to a man only recently dead. Look at his eyes! They are almost perfectly preserved! It’s incredible."

Then—a yell. The scientists who had been standing scattered chaotically, nervous fish in a pool. Delacroix jumped off his seat and noticed a furry creature darting across the floor to reach a darker, hidden corner beneath a metallic locker. "It's a rat!" he shouted. "A rat!"

Doctor Scosti approached and crouched to look and reach for the animal, while professor Delacroix frowned. "There should not be rats here, but sadly, this is not the first time such a thing has happened. Besides, we do store large quantities of food palatable to rodents for the laboratory’s mice... and the building has been accessed through the canalization system as recently as this morning. It probably found its way inside following the heat, maybe guided by smell..."

"Ahi!" yelled Scosti, pulling his hand back from beneath the locker while the animal fled quickly through the now open door to the gangway. "Damned beast..."

"I’ll report it to the caretakers," sighed Delacroix as he grabbed a phone and dialled. Behind him, a somewhat humiliated Scosti disinfected the rather trivial wound and set about bandaging himself.

After checking-in in her hotel, Karolin found a text message from Carsten. "I regret I forgot I promised to watch my grandchildren tonight", he had written. "Enjoy your dinner and I will pick you up tomorrow at 7:30 to drive together to the Archeological Museum."

She sighed; a heady mixture of disappointment and relief. After he had rambled so much to convince her to travel the same day, it seemed very impolite of him to call their appointment off on such a short notice. But on the other hand, she was also very tired from the trip and happy for a chance to enjoy a quiet, lonely meal on the promenade of Neuchâtel’s Lake and go to bed early without having to engage an overenthusiastic talkative man like Carsten in a lengthy conversation.

The next morning, she sat reading the latest news on her phone while sipping her breakfast tea. As she had expected, several tabloids had assembled sensationalistic articles concerning the attempted theft of the invaluable, recently-discovered mummy of a Carthaginian soldier, but a few online journals also brought the news of the alarming rat invasion occurred during a conference at the University of Grenoble. Karolin noted that this building was located right next to the Pathologic Institute and, learning that several people had been attacked and bitten, felt very relieved to have left in time to miss it all. She hated rodents.

Carsten arrived just on time, and the way to the archive, which fortunately wasn’t very long, she started answering his questions about the recent discovery. Since they could both speak German, the conversation was fast and fluent.

"Professor Peter Planchad–my former PhD supervisor–would have loved your artifact," he finally stated, referring to the inscribed necklace. "He always maintained that Hannibal’s passage with his vast army had contributed to a large exchange between the Gaulish and Carthaginian cultures. Just too bad that foreign illnesses could also be spread together with artifacts!"

He left the subject somewhat abruptly, focussing intently on the driving until they reached the museum, which left Karolin observing the view outside the passenger’s window a bit puzzled by such a statement. Half of her wanted to ask more, but somehow his reaction intrigued her more. There was plenty to discover here, that was clear, and certainly more than one way to skin a cat.

Requesting, obtaining and collecting all of the boxes containing the various items and artefacts collected from the dig in Val d’Isère took about one hour. Carsten thumbed through a pile of photographs from the excavation, while Karolin carefully investigated the bones and objects, scribbling personal notes in a handy pad she had carried along in her bag.

"It would seem to me that belief in these... werewolves must have been rather common and widespread at the time, if people located at such distance from one another used the same motif and symbols connected to it," observed Karolin as she turned a piece of pottery displaying the stylized drawings of a man and a wolf between her fingers. The next image depicted the same wolf-man ritually biting or eating another man.

Carsten shook his head. "On the contrary, we have only ever located similar items in the regions surrounding the Alps. Besides, I’m not even certain that werewolves would classify as a proper translation of versipellis. My former supervisor believed that the term was attributed to people capable of crossing the boundary between life and death rather than indicating men who could actually turn inside-out to become wolves as from the Latin and Etruscan folklore."

Karolin frowned in return. "So when a versipellis died, a special ceremony would have to be performed in order to prevent him to come back again and pose threat to the living? Hard to imagine such a primitive belief could be long-lived, once people had a chance to see by themselves that a dead versipellis posed no further threat than any other corpse…"

"But that would only happen, when an untreated corpse would turn out not to pose any threat… and who would take such a risk, after hearing voices of what could happen otherwise?" he grimaced. "Here," he mumbled then, handing her a bundle of selected photographs. "This was our full team, including both supervisor all of the PhDs. And here… pictures of more artifacts, all of which were diverted to other museums or private collections."

"You recovered such a variety of interesting items, yet there is no publication concerning the dig. I note also that it’s scarcely mentioned in specialized literature?"

"As it happens, Professor Planchad died shortly after the excavation. The two other PhDs and myself were the last who graduated with him—he went into retirement right after he was done with us, a few months after the completion of this project. I am certain he must have meant to publish an entire volume sooner or later, perhaps once he was done with a thorough examination of our findings. I do know that he intended, perhaps as a kind of reward, to take a long holiday somewhere on the Alps. However, as you might already know,  he never returned from his trip."

"Oh! I am so sorry... now I recall, I must have read something about it while I was searching the names of all those involved in the dig and eventually ended up tracing you. What happened, if I may ask?"

"We—my former colleagues and I, I mean—were told that he must have fallen in a crevasse somewhere on the French border, just like our Carthaginian friends... and yet, we were certain he had rather meant to conduct some unauthorized research and possible digging somewhere down in the Po valley. You see, during one of our latest expeditions, we had discovered what looked like the entrance to a subterranean burial chamber, but at the time we were starting to run short of money—and wouldn’t have had the proper authorization to remove anything from it anyway, as it was located in Italy, far beyond our designated excavation area. For quite some time after he came back, he kept ranting about going back there to take a look inside, but finding a proper sponsor and setting up a taskforce became impossible after he retired. So we were pretty certain that he had meant to go back there alone... although they are only assumptions, of course."

Several hours flew past as the two browsed the museum’s collection, but they made poor progress, adding little to what they had been able to already assert since the beginning of their search. The markings on the scattered human bones had been subject to prolonged exposure, and the records made forty years earlier stated that although, at first glance, they seemed to have been left by human teeth, it was most unlikely that homo sapiens could exercise the kind of pressure necessary to inflict such deep wounds. "The human-like aspect was most likely caused by time-degradation," was the final assertion.

Karolin and Carsten collected several images of the least damaged bones and filed a formal request to resubmit the pieces for examination, hoping that a pathologist with access to modern technologies could produce more accurate results. In some ways a defeat, they consoled themselves with the thought that if the massacre had been perpetuated by men, perhaps as a part of some ritual connected to local superstitions, it would certainly be worthy of deeper investigations and future studies.

***

The same afternoon, the hospital of Grenoble received and treated over twenty victims of the previous day’s rat invasion, including one Dr. Scosti. Every wound, without exception, had blackened and swollen grotesquely, polluted by an unknown contaminant that failed to respond to initial cleaning and disinfection procedures. Victims complained such a terrible pain that many were kept overnight for observation, while all were prescribed strong, wide-spectrum antibiotics. On the top of that, the City Council for Health and Hygiene had reacted to the emergency issuing a general disinfestation order including the almost-unattainable sanitation of all systems running beneath the city—a near futile measure intended merely to reassure the public. Citizens were advised to avoid the risk of infection through contact and bites with rats or other wildlife, whilst cat-owners were advised to keep their animals safe inside their homes for at least several days, and to approach outdoor cats with caution.

In the evening, Karolin had travelled to Geneva, where she had planned to spend the night before resuming her trip back to Grenoble. Even though inconclusive by itself, the data she had gathered offered enough leads for further investigations and, to her pleasure, she had been able to assemble a list of the locations from which the artifacts and human remains had been retrieved. On the top of that, Carsten had been eager to draw for her a big red cross to mark the entry of the mysterious unexplored tomb on the copy of a planimetric map they had found in the same folder containing a bunch of Planchad’s old team photos.

Acting impulsively, she reached for her phone and, after a brief search, installed and checked the Swiss Railways App: a journey to Turin was on the cards. There was a train leaving at about six in the morning, which would arrive there around noon. From there, she could easily rent a car and drive along the Po to a village near the place indicated by Carsten. Even better, the train connections from Italy to France were frequent and she could simply board a high-speed TGV to Grenoble; one left every few hours, directly from Turin.

She smiled. It was a good thing that all of her travel, food and hotel expenses would be covered by the Research Institute she belonged to. Too bad that they would not cover her telephone’s roaming costs. The detour would obviously also cost her one extra day, but the possibility to retrieve additional information was far too alluring to pass it on. She booked the ticket online and sent an email to her colleagues informing them that she would only return to her office the day after tomorrow.

***

Doctor Scosti was lying back in the hospital. His bitten finger had blackened and was remarkably swollen, but thanks to a strong painkiller he was only feeling a strange pulse. What bothered him most at this time was photosensitivity, a sudden and persistent sensitivity that he attempted to ascribe to imagination, shifting his blame to a bad headache, and, in turn, the admittedly faint light of his roommate’s bedside lamp. Annoyed, he pulled the curtain separating the two beds and placed the pillow over his head.

Around midnight he woke, feeling suddenly much, much better. His hand, the one with the bite, was still stiff, but at least that nasty throbbing headache was finally gone. There—he checked out his vision, glancing toward the culpable bedside lamp of earlier, pleased to find its glow somewhat irrelevant. He pulled himself up and left for the toilet, dragging the wheeled transfusion holder with him—screw the nurses if they complained; they may not like it, but these things were supposed to be portable. Back again, with a glass of water in his good hand, he sat on the bed, taking something of an interest in his surroundings. The room was gloomy, his roommate was snoring, and yet he was feeling so well that he imagined he would be able to get back to work very soon. He smiled to himself and started reviewing in his thoughts: the recently-made discoveries concerning the Carthaginian mummies; picking the day-to-day events back up with his colleagues; brushing up his knowledge about life in the Iron Age. There was that book, about halfway down his to-read pile, that would be a real pleasure. And there, he was leaning back, suffused with pleasant thoughts, leaning back[A1]  into the comfort of the bed with only the slightest of gnawings inside him. A worry about work, perhaps? Or his hand? But no, it was more visceral than that. He looked down at his hands, folded contemplatively across his stomach, pressing down suddenly in realisation. My god... how long have I been asleep, he wondered. I’m starving. Starving! Time must be made up for, and perhaps at lunch—or is it breakfast?—he would take some something substantial, perhaps roast with potatoes… or possibly steak, very rare. His stomach beneath his clasped hands, musing gently on missed meals, he slept.

He woke abruptly, his mouth watering; a foul flavour in his throat. Reaching out for his glass, rationalised the nightmare as the result of the combined effect of the antibiotics he had been administered and different memories from work. He desperately wanted to dismiss it, but it had felt so real, so weird, it still gave him shivers of mixed horror and pleasure as he recalled sinking his teeth in raw human flesh. In fact, some kind of tremor seemed to be still growing within him… or was it outside? For a moment, he felt like drifting away, watching his own body from above…

An allergic reaction, he thought in panic, finding his limbs unresponsive. The emergency button was there, right over his head, but for all that, completely out of reach. Keeping his thoughts and eyes desperately focused on it, a bright noise spreading fast in his head, the white static of switched-off oblivion, he finally managed to force his hand towards it, his final conscious act as his hand flopped to press, however briefly, the call button.

"Did you call?" called the nurse who entered room shortly thereafter. "Doctor Scosti?’

No answer came. The nurse sighed and began to move down the ward. Oh God—the good doctor was glaring towards the ceiling with a frightened expression on his face, his back arched in agonised stiffness. The nurse ran to help, pressing the button again for extra support before he checked the man’s blood pressure readings and, with exceptional professionalism, began logging vital statistics and collecting a blood sample.

Doctor Scosti, for his part, was currently paralysed, but hungry—desperately so. An inhuman urge to eat filled him, his limbs aching to act but locked, somehow, in a spasm of terrifying intensity. He tried to growl, his teeth squeaking as they ground together, his body actually leaving the bed as his muscles locked in a writhing dance of agony. And then, a sudden slump. His vision blurred, all muscles sagging as he slumped back onto the fine hospital sheets, a sharp sting as the nurse expertly delved for a vein. And that tiny prick, that slight and single moment of pain brought it all back, focusing in one sudden, unexpected jerky lunge of snapping teeth. But the experienced white-clad man had worked in a psychiatric clinic before, and knowing from experience that even the most seemingly harmless of patients might try nasty tricks given a chance, was sufficiently alert to manage to jump back quickly and skillfully avoid the desperate teeth.

"A l’aide!", shouted the nurse as the patient fell back to his bed and started shaking violently, overwhelmed by another violent seizure . The noise woke the second patient, too, who opened his eyes just in time to see how Scosti stopped shaking and forcefully pushed away the nurse. He then stood, sniffing the air in a predatory manner and turned menacingly towards him, until he tripped awkwardly over the infusion holder and fell flat on his face. There was no comedy moment; this grotesque display gave the young nurse a chance to escape, but provided little other relief. Two more nurses stepped in, one of them armed with a narcotic injection; not the best, admittedly, and its wielder was more than aware that he shouldn’t even be holding it without a signed prescription, let alone introducing its contents into a patient’s bloodstream. Future lawsuits ran through his head as Doctor Scosti utterly forgot himself and lunged for the door

The third aide pulled a blanket from his bed and, in a stroke of genius, perhaps, ran at Scosti and enveloped him, his effort quickly joined by a further two arrivals, one of whom sat firmly on the legs, while both others struggled to keep his torso still enough to administer the medication. News spread, as it does, and before long two more physicians joined the party, and with five people holding him, they needed as many as three shots of the narcotic to put him down.

As the police were called, and special care—a special, secure kind of care—was ordered, blood screenings, vital signs and examinations were taken, logged and mused over. Severe sepsis, an infection of unknown origin; his heartbeat anomalous, and so many problems with blood pressure that it was eventually abandoned. And it was only as Scosti was removed, in a sealed, somewhat unusual coffin by men in large, over-sized spacesuits, that everyone present began to ask questions about the sealing of the windows, and why the man at the door had made very, very sure they’d seen his gun.

***

Karolin sat in the train to Turin, her head pressed against the window, dozing off as she lazily gazed outside at the scenery passing by the rails. Once again, and despite promising herself repeatedly, she had failed to sleep properly; the last few days had been so hectic she couldn’t help recall the mixed feeling of tiredness and satisfaction that had embodied her time as a student, when she would party non-stop for what seemed like three days after a successful examination, barely giving herself time to recover for the next one, but always, always, making it work. Where had she found the energy? And where had it gone?

Around lunchtime she was already sitting in a rental car, a takeaway cup of tolerable Italian espresso in her left hand and a large, pleasantly-smelling focaccia with olive oil occupying the passenger seat, though not for much longer if her stomach kept bothering her the way it did. Driving to the village Carsten had told her about took a couple of hours. She parked in the main square, near the church, searching her luggage for useful items; perhaps her telephone, a separate portable camera, water, a torch, a brush and Carsten’s map.

Carsten’s memories and description of the place turned out very useful and accurate, even after so many years. She followed a rural pathway along a small creek, and headed straight into the woods, facing north. She took the time to checkpoint her location on her phone, aware that perhaps she was foolish to trust technology so but idly tweeting her location all the same—she’d read plenty of news stories where people ploughed over cliffs after blindly following their sat-nav, and more than one tale of mountaineers that took plenty of tech but not quite enough in the way of good shoes and sleeping bags. But she’d done what she could; if she were to be a statistic, best to be about it with determination: she was looking for an old stone wall, which she would follow westwards to a large chestnut tree, surely still there, half-covering the tomb. Aside from the wall, there were no obvious signs of further man-made constructs, but her expert eyes immediately recognized a few boulders which didn’t belong to the wall, and yet must have been placed there by human hands, acting for their own purpose in times that no longer had a voice to relate their intrigues. That same question—why?—was always on her lips, and she smiled wryly.

The entrance tunnel discovered by Carsten’s supervisor, the one that run for several metres beneath the tree into an underground burial chamber was initially hard to locate, and turned out to be completely filled with dirt. It must have collapsed several years before; the sand and stone had already settled in and were packed down firm. She checked her location once more, and might have emailed friends or family if the signal had lasted for more than seconds at a time. The next hour was spent in surveying, looking for cracks or entrance points, not necessarily for penetration but merely to make up a picture; whilst many cracks may have formed from rain infiltration or geographical movements, few would lead to success. Best, in her experience, to take an overall view and move from there. It was a complete surprise, therefore, to find what she initially thought to be sharpening marks, just faint lines on a likely-looking boulder, horizontal and even and... there: the faint carving of what she assumed must be the same man and wolf she had seen in one of the pictures from the museum’s archives. Carefully, she made an impromptu investigation, moving rocks, loose dirt and sand away from the carving, searching for the inevitable, which took the form VE... IPE... IS ANKO IM.

She and it continued, her excavating slowly but steadily, the message appearing likewise, and with each character the sentence began to make sense in her mind. Eventually, it was readable.

Skin-turner, worshipper of death
Life becomes death creates life.

She looked at the scratchings, noting for the first time how the stone she was revealing had squared off edges, that the black space at its base was not soil—could not be soil. The boulder before her tilted down, and the black gap widened, gravel scurrying piecemeal for the depths. Her torch fell away, and the ground followed, terrain crumbling into the depths as life, serendipitous to the last, showed the Celtic expert Karolin Scherrer exactly what she wanted to see.

She was brought to her knees in an underground chamber, the violent pain blinding her with fireworks, even as she moved to look behind her at her entry-point. To her dismay, the hole was all but sealed by the falling rock she had examined, which must have fallen forward to cover the hole. She pushed up, knowing already how futile such a task was. There—her fingers traced the ancient, carved script she had translated, the world of the skin-turner, the one who worshipped death

Adrenaline fading and her heartbeat throbbing in her ears, Karolin closed her eyes as tears squeezed to their corners, but held fast from calling for help. An interesting situation, no doubt, but she was more than safe. Her phone was here, and its battery was over 90%; she’d checked earlier, tweeting her co-ordinates to all concerned. All she needed, of course, was a signal.

That, it turned out, was no problem. She had, even through this depth of earth, a weak signal. Serendipity, again. She took a deep breath and looked up her coordinates once again, preparing to tweet an absolute firestorm of emergency aid, when the muffled noises behind her grew suddenly loud, and she turned, her blood suddenly cold.

***

Despite the general alerts issued by the Council for Health and Hygiene, an expected proportion of people had been bitten, some even complaining of aggressive behaviour from the expected animal population, including rats, and had nevertheless been brought to the hospitals in Grenoble and its surrounding area. Both citizens and the hospital were aware of what had, internally, been termed ‘rat-fluenza’, and affected citizens were sent home, each one requiring only a single, local antibiotic injection.

Doctor Scosti died at very close to noon, his body suffused with an administration of antibiotics and tranquilizers, his chest almost burst with the repeated pounding of a man who was convinced, despite all available evidence, that the good doctor was not dead. And the irony, in the face of massive organ failure and the inevitable in-house conspiring to go way over the odds in resuscitation, was the medical house had to let one of their own go. Would they be comforted to know that he would not, for all that, be fondly remembered?

And in the meantime, beneath their feet, a thousand emergency workers called in on favourable overtime were scooping rat corpses in their thousands, their supervisors entirely unaware of an outbreak of rat bites in the front lines, preparing with impunity to declare the infection, once and for all, under control.

***

Karolin turned from the scratched rock, abandoning her final tweet and holding her phone as a supplement to her torch—needs must. Two figures scrambled towards her, a faint light bringing them into being. Each one staggered toward her on spindle-thin legs, with monstrously scrawny bodies, no more than bone, with filthy leathery skin snug-wrapped around.

Karolin yelled despite herself, the phone mercilessly dropping from her shaking hand with no thoughts of a final, apposite tweet. She knew that man… Carsten had showed her too many pictures of his associates not to recognize them... the figure standing in front of her belonged to his mentor, professor Peter Planchad.

She laughed, then, and versipellis danced in her mind. She said it aloud, testing the words, but nothing happened. They reached for her, their hand so strong that she felt she might tear apart, and then she did, he joints cracking audibly as she tore with an animal-like ferociousness, just for a little while, against the tearing that dug deeper into her flesh than she’d ever thought possible.

***

Doctor Scosti opened his eyes. Or rather, his eyes opened themselves, given that his body was still endowed of its own free will whilst somewhere inside him a certain irrelevant consciousness cried its horrific disavowal of this ongoing atrocity. His hands moved around in the dark at the behest of nothing but hunger, engrossed in nothing but their singular search. A tie had been knotted tightly around his neck, and there—he was fully clothed now, lying in his best suit somewhere tight, and yet enveloped in soft satin sheets, while a sturdy wooden panel hung just a few centimetres from his nose.

But the good Doctor was not yet himself, was still unable to move; his perfectly aware mind locked away in a stiff body, something of a bad dream. If this wasn’t just a dream, he would die soon, he pondered panicking. And all he could do was lie in the darkness, waiting and hoping that it would happen quickly and with relatively little pain. All he could do. Again, as always, he fell asleep, drifted close to complete unconsciousness, dreamt of his past life.

But death never came, and death, with all its final enticing releases, never would.

***

Hanno had not been able to close his eyes in a long time, but was still conscious. His body had been moved from place to place, poked, treated, and then finally placed in a refrigerated bed, beneath a crystal case which hung over his entire length. That, to his recollection, had been the last time anybody had touched him, before a new, softer cold embrace had welcomed him into its arms.

From time to time, he saw people, a great many of them, all observing him from the other side. Some of them talked louder, occasionally speaking the honored name of Khenu-Baal; they made him wonder what must have been of their mission, his friends, and his family. Other times, the distorted faces of children pressed around the frozen glass making faces. Some of them even dared knock against the box, calling and laughing, as if daring him to answer if he could.

But he couldn’t. He could neither answer or close his eyes, so he lay and waited, wishing to die, or at least to fall into the same kind of deeper sleep he had experienced during his time in the crevasse…

And so, he prayed constantly, calling on all the gods and goddesses he knew, begging them to bring a quick death upon him.

Sweet Tanit, I beg you: grant me the rest
alas, Baal Hammon, close thee eyes,

wise Reshepf, guide me through the valley of the dreamers…

As a mantra, his voice echoed in his own skull. For ever... and ever.

MUSCAT ZOMBIE CITY

By Andreas Stetter

Within six months of the initial outbreak, the borderlands between Pakistan and Iran were only inhabited by zombies, as was northern Afghanistan. To stop the disease from spreading any further, a pact was made between the states of Iran, Iraq, Syria and Oman. Only hours after an agreement was made, Iraqi and Syrian troops were deployed, heading for Iran. Their orders were to support the Iranian army and to confront the zombie hordes near the eastern Iranian border. These joint forces succeeded in destroying large numbers of undead, evacuating survivors and they had established defensive positions in the borderlands. These posts effectively put an end to any zombie advancement towards Iraq.

In Oman, refugee ships arrived from Afghanistan and Pakistan. The survivors were kept in quarantine for a week, before moving to refugee camps that were erected around the city of Muscat. The situation in Oman was under control. Until the day they came from the sea.

There were thousands of them, all of them hungry. None of the security had taken into consideration that the undead could move underwater, as they didn't need to breathe. Experts were wondering if they aimlessly moved around the ocean floor or were directed by the currents of the gulf stream. Maybe they just followed the refugee boats. For Oman, the answer was irrelevant though. In a matter of hours, all of Muscat was overrun by stinking bloated zombies. Many of them were covered in algae, jellyfish or mussels. Some were half-eaten by fish, but that didn't stop their appetite for human flesh. Before the officials fully realised what was going on, thousands of people were bitten and infected. Those who were not fully eaten turned quickly. The local police were unable to cope with these unexpected numbers and they failed to set up secure perimeters.

With more and more corpses rising from the coastal waters, the refugee camps quickly turned into slaughterhouses causing the virus to spread inland. The cities of Matrah and Ruwi fell before the remaining armed forces could regroup. Approximately 15,000 infantrymen remained, the army strategists had to react quickly in order to contain the outbreak. Hastily, a decision was made to set up positions north of Ruwi and south of Al Bustan, in order to stop or at least slow down the zombie hordes, until reinforcements arrived back from Iran. This plan seemed the best at the time because of the local geography as the mountain ranges in this region of coastal area were easier to defend.

When the first infantry units arrived, the sun was just about to rise. The streets were packed with cars, refugees from Muscat and Matrah. Many of the refugees were still in their nightgowns and hardly carried any luggage. The orders of the first platoon were to discreetly check for infections. Using PA systems, the motorists were ordered to leave their vehicles and approach the checkpoint on foot. Those announcements weren't met with much enthusiasm, but after an hour without any movement, people reluctantly got out of their cars. At the checkpoints, soldiers and policemen with K-9 units examined the civilians and showed them into waiting trucks and buses. Since the operation was under military jurisdiction, the police were merely tasked with the security checks.

Progress was slow and the refugees were becoming nervous. This got much worse when faint screams could be heard from the far back of the line. Against the blinding light from the low hanging sun, the soldiers were unable to make out what was going on in the distance. When more and more refugees came running towards the checkpoint, only one conclusion for this unrest was left. "They are coming!"

Suddenly all hell broke loose. People rushed forward ignoring the warnings of officials. Even warning shots trailed off without effect and the commanding officer faced a grim decision. Would he shed the blood of the innocent in order to keep thousands of other safe? The commander hesitated, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight. Or was it a last salute, aimed at the backlit masses rushing towards him – many in blood-smeared clothing or even displaying gaping flesh wounds. The CO ordered his men to fire. Nothing happened. He looked at his soldiers, who seemed to be petrified. So he drew his service pistol and began firing into the crowd. This broke the spell, and his men followed suit. It was a bloodbath. Bodies fell in a hail of bullets. It was impossible to tell who was infected and who wasn't, but that was about to change.

The ground was covered with the dying and the wounded. From the back came those who had returned from the dead, looking to turn the living into their kind. The soldiers kept firing, but their bullets lacked the stopping power. The CO screamed to focus and aim for the heads, and the ranks of the zombies navigating through the maze of abandoned cars grew thinner.

While the soldiers kept firing, the police behind the checkpoint tried to isolate the wounded and calm down the unscathed in order to get them to board the trucks and buses. Those who failed the rushed examinations mostly reacted with disbelief and aggression. Some tried to force themselves into the evacuation vehicles and lashed out at policemen and civilians alike. Through this escalation, the police had no choice but to aim their weapons at civilians. When the first shot struck down one of the troublemakers, everybody froze. The rioters backed off from the truck. The last seats were quickly occupied and the truck left, safe for one army transport.

The remaining survivors were shocked when they got the instructions to head for the next checkpoint on foot and wait for returning vehicles there.

In the meantime, the zombies were less than 50 meters away from the checkpoint. This tidal wave of the undead moved in closer and closer and swept away the remaining wounded in or around the deserted cars. The CO knew it would be impossible to stop them with the available means. The best he could do was to hold the checkpoint as long as possible, to buy time for the refugees.

Once the undead crossed the 30 meter mark, the commander ordered his troops to retreat. Unnecessary equipment was left behind. Policemen and medium infantry boarded their evac truck first, covered by fire from the heavy gunners. After those had jumped into the vehicle too, the driver punched it, just as the zombies were breaking down the chain-link gate. The truck soon drove past the survivors that were on foot. Some of them had already passed out or just given up. They lay at the roadside, waiting to be torn apart by the zombies. Some had left the road and tried to make their way south, away from the army's influence. It wasn't hard to see why they had lost their faith in the authorities.

The truck soon arrived at the next checkpoint, which was bustling with activity. Using freight containers, a huge wall had been erected, which was sure to hold the undead back for some time. After the truck had passed the gate, the gap was closed by a British Challenger 2 tank. The containers then were manned with soldiers. The handful of survivors that followed the road on foot were lifted onto the containers by the soldiers. On the other sides, most of them were quarantined for their superficial wounds. That meant they were strapped to a stretcher until the incubation period was over. Anyone who hadn't turned in a matter of two days was cleared.

In less than an hour after the last survivors had arrived, they came. Sharpshooters took out the first stragglers at ranges of over 500 meters. Shortly after that, the tank joined in and fired rounds at the undead attackers. Once they reached the 150 meter mark, the rest of the soldiers opened fire as well. Two heavy MGs thinned out the front line and shot off arms, legs and heads. The fortunate zombies that were not hit in the head kept crawling on whatever limbs they had left. Once the MGs had to have their heated barrels exchanged, the undead gained a lot of ground. Ground that wasn't easy to recapture, as for every killed enemy, five new ones seemed to emerge.

While the first wave had mainly kept to the road, the front now widened. Obviously, a lot of the zombies had left the road in places without railings and were now spread over a much wider area. Still, the containers would offer enough protection for the soldiers and the neighbouring houses had already been evacuated. One of them had been fortified and was now serving as a base, resupply point and fallback position. The soldiers could hold out for days here, and also fight back for days. However, it wouldn't be a very pleasant thought to be surrounded by stinking, moaning and diseased Undead so the soldiers kept firing. The heavy MGs were taking turns by now, in order to slow down further loss of ground.

It didn't take long until the soldier's ability to concentrate dwindled. The aiming became worse, more and more shots missed. Above the noise of battle, another sound rose. Eventually, the soldiers realized that helicopters were approaching. Five choppers came in to offer supplies, men and material, which were unloaded behind the container wall. The reinforcements were hurried up the container wall, while ammo and rations were stored brought into the base.

In all, there were a hundred more men, which meant a doubling of the force level. Two additional heavy MGs helped to limit the loss of ground as they relentlessly kept hammering the enemy. To prevent the gunners from exhaustion, shifts system was implemented which had one team rest up at the base, while the others kept firing. After one hour of non-stop shooting, there still was no end in sight. In the probable case that all inhabitants of the refugee camps had turned, the enemy force amounted to around 10000 zombies. An army unlike Oman had ever seen.

When the undead finally arrived at the tank, they pushed themselves onto it. While their degenerated coordination skills wouldn't allow them to actually climb the tank, their sheer numbers literally pushed them on top. Those who had already lost their legs crawled right under the tank. The soldiers concentrated their fires on those zombies that were about to cross the barrier.

Once they were all over the tank, the undead kept climbing on top of each other and came closer to the top of the containers. As they finally reached the edge, no choice was left but to move the troops back. To avoid dangerous crossfire, the front line of containers had to be abandoned, and the soldiers stationed south of the tank moved to the adjacent containers that were arranged in an L-shape. The soldiers north of the tank were now cut off, but there still was hope to push back the attackers.

During the partial retreat, a small number of zombies were able to get on top of the container and stagger towards the soldiers. As they fired, one attacker quickly went down after the other. Two of them crawled onwards, heavily mutilated, but still a serious threat to the soldiers. Precisely placed head shots ended their undead lives.

All the while, they kept on coming. The stream of undead even gained momentum through the reduction of ground fire. More and more zombies were pushed on top of the containers. Most of them were put down instantly, but by now the situation was highly precarious. The commanding officer ordered the tank to move back, in order to stop the zombies from reaching the top of the containers. Heavy diesel engines roared to life, and the tank slowly began to move. All body parts that had any contact with the tank tracks were brutally dragged along, while everything that got under the tracks was simply maimed. After a hundred meters the tank stopped and used it's machine gun to fire into the gap between the containers. The disorientated zombies that were stacked up there were shot to a pulp.

When the tank ceased fire, the soldiers on the containers quickly reassumed their original positions, clearing the lifeless bodies of their attackers in the progress. Using the butts of their rifles, they literally brushed them off. One careless soldier failed to notice not all of them were as lifeless as they should be. While he was struggling to push an overweight male over the edge, another zombie sank his teeth into the soldier's ankle. In shock, the soldier emptied his magazine into the attacker's head, saving the last round for himself. As he ably saved himself from an undead life with a clean shot through his lower jaw, his comrades looked on in disbelief. The bullet exited cleanly through the top of his empty helmet. There hardly was any blood. Reminiscent of a slow-motion shot, the brave soldier's body slumped down and fell off the container, right into the arms of the undead horde.

His brothers in arms were petrified, until another gunshot called them back to action. An officer had fired a warning shot to get their attention. After he had bellowed his orders, they sprung back to life and finished their clean-up duty.

When they were done after about two minutes, thousands of zombies were pushing to get inside the container walls. There was no stopping their numbers, and the pressure they applied kept rising. Finally, one of the containers was lifted off the ground in a sudden motion. It was pushed back a couple of centimeters, shaking violently. Everyone who wasn't kneeling or lying down at that point had trouble remaining upright. A second, even harder yank rattled the container. Two soldiers standing near the edge were completely taken by surprise and fell off. Others just hit the metal surface of the container and didn't dare to get up again.

Those who had fallen off were greeted by hundreds of hands that safely caught them. But in the blink of an eye, those helpful hands started tearing, pulled them down and ripped them apart. Greedily, the zombies threw themselves onto the fresh meat of the fallen soldiers, ripping off pieces and chewing away in delight. One of them was dead on the spot. The other one stayed conscious long enough to watch his stomach being ripped open, and the intestines being pulled out and eaten. He was finally delivered from the pain when the hungry horde tore so hard that his spine snapped.

The remaining soldiers averted their eyes in horror. No-one had the idea to put the victim out of his misery with a well-placed shot. No-one had the courage to even bear this horrendous sight for one second. Only when the terrible screams had finally ceased, the soldiers looked down. Again, shockwaves ran through the container. They rose up into a continuous vibration and the container moved inch by inch. Unless they jumped across the gap onto the other container, the soldiers would be cut off. On all fours, they crawled towards the edge. At last, the movement stopped, as the container was pushed against the curb. The soldiers gasped in relief, the gap could still be jumped. The danger had passed. Slowly, they got up and carefully approached the edge. Just when the first of them had reached the gap, the container started to tilt. The horde of undead pressed the container against the curb so hard that it was about to tip over. The soldiers at the front quickly jumped onto the next container, while the others started running. But it was too late. At about thirty degrees, it was no longer possible to hold a footing on the container's metal surface. The men with the heaviest equipment fell first. The two heavy gunners were the first to go over the edge and to fall into the end of their former targets. Those who were able to hold on to the ledge tried not to look down when the container finally tipped over. The weight of almost five tons squashed the zombies below, but the soldiers hanging on the ledge still landed in the arms of the undead army. Even those who still had enough strength left to try and pull themselves up were grabbed by dozens of bony hands.

None of the 16 soldiers that had remained on the container made it. They were torn apart screaming, only one or two were blessed with a quick and painful death when a grenade went off.

After the first container had fallen and the soldiers had been turned into zombie food, the horde focussed on the next steely snack box. This time, the soldiers retreated much faster and fell back into the fortified house. They were quickly surrounded in a sea of zombies. They pushed their cold limbs against the building, but the walls easily withstood the pressure. One of the doors didn't. Even though it had hastily been barricaded, it snapped open with a bang. The undead pretty much flooded into the room. The soldiers called out in terror and aimed their weapons at the door, which now was wide open. Those who had been standing close to the door didn't have a chance and were buried in living dead. The others desperately fired upon the attackers but there was no stopping their numbers. Killed enemies were just pushed forward by their successors. A tidal wave of bodies was created and acted like a bullet sponge, which made it impossible to hit the incoming zombies.

The soldiers retreated upstairs and threw everything they could find onto the stairs in order to create a barricade. Tables, chairs and shelves made it hard for the clumsy zombies to advance. For a while, they could easily be picked off as they climbed over the obstacles. The commanding officer tried to figure out an evac plan and shouted into his radio, calling for aerial extraction.  His voice suddenly broke away as the zombies smashed through the last barricade. Their bodies had formed a ramp in the staircase and now there was no stopping them. From this point on, everything happened in the blink of an eye. Some soldiers tried to jump out of the windows while most of them put up a last stand. It was hopeless. Within moments, the house had fallen, with everyone inside killed or dying. Those who made it outside and onto the containers tried to defend their position, but their efforts were all in vain when the container started to tilt.

When the last screams faded away, the undead hordes began to move on. Onwards, looking for food. To quench their infinite hunger.

Maze of Mars

By Fabienne Gschwind

Blog Entry Day 5, Mars mission 4B

Hey guys, you're probably wondering right now why I wrote "day 5" right? Sure, in the meantime, it should be Day 213 or something like that… But I've spent the last 210 days in sleep mode! That's why I left those days out. Or should I have programmed an autowriter that blogs "I'm sleeping" every day? Exactly :P

Anyway, I woke up some six standard hours ago. It wasn't half as bad as I had anticipated. Somewhat like waking up after a long, relaxing sleep on your day off. I'm really glad that Mission Control decided to have the ship equipped with sleep mode chambers on such short notice. Those keep your body in some kind of continuous slumber, while the muscles are stimulated with electronic impulses. Nutrition is provided via stomach tube. That way, all bodily functions remain active for the whole duration of the flight. Much better than the Body-Freez method, where you get shock-frozen more or less.

Thinking back to my only BF-experience some three years ago, I still shudder. G'damn, I had to throw up about once every hour for seven days after waking up! And that pain… joints, muscles, everything. I felt half passed out and stumbled about like a zombie!

SleepMode on the other hand was super. I woke up completely relaxed and the ServBot brought my breakfast, which I had decided on shortly after mission start. There was sugar rice, cubeEgg and even some slices of traditional Bacon. What a surprise! Real bacon! I'd never have thought that MarsMission would be so generous! Of course, I had expected K-con, and it was only when I had it in my mouth that I realized the difference. Well, it's not that K-con is bad or anything, it's really okay, too. But it just doesn't compare to real meat. (Thanks, Ivy ;)

Okay, enough with the writing… we're gonna have to prep the landing module now. The window of opportunity is extremely small, we're scheduled to leave the support ship at 3.2 of 7,56,43.

Blog Entry Day 9, Mars mission 4B

Sorry for the long break. As you can imagine (or, more likely, as you've probably read on MarsMission's R-Site) the whole crew exchange business was pretty hectic. The support ship went back to Earth with the old Mars crew right away, and was only in orbit for the duration of the swing-by maneuver. After all, it had to build up some speed for the trip back to Earth.

Still you probably wonder why I talk about the return of the former Mars crew, when WE were actually supposed to join them, instead of relieving them, after only six month of Mars duty. Well, that was the plan in any case.

Unfortunately, the sun's activity in the last couple of months must have been a lot more intense than anticipated. The members of crew 4A are already suffering from radiation damage. Or at least, their skin scans show first signs of some form of mutation. They have to be brought back to Earth for treatment ASAP. We don't want anyone to die from that ancient cancer disease!

Only BigO, Mattheus and the AIQ-girl Cloey will remain of the 4A-crew. BigO, real name Olaf Shenyi, is a super guy - strong as a Gravi-Dozer. Since the beginning of Mission 4A, he's been participating in a side study. Except for bunk time, he's wearing a full-metal body armor all the time. Makes him look a bit like a Knight of the Round Table. If you have no idea what that might be, look up #PreGreatWar #MiddleAges. I can also recommend a visit to the RealMuseum in Lonris, they have some very well preserved knight's armour there. Actual ancient stuff that somehow survived the GreatWar and the following DarkTime!

Mattheus, the terralogistics expert, is a real workaholic, so he has spent most of the time in the lab. There, he has been mostly shielded from any radiation. Of course, he caught some of it during outdoor missions. The fact that he's staying on anyways must mean his project is immensely important!

Cloey is almost rad-free of course, as she's been inside the shielded AIQ room all the time.

Okay, but back to me now, after all I'm the reason you're reading this blog, right? *joke*

Right now, I'm sitting in my cabin inside Habitat 2, where all the living quarters are located.

(Link: Map of Mars Habitat)

My cabin is small and comfy. Unfortunately, there is now window. No surprise here, as we're six feet underground! That way, we're being shielded from radiation in our off time.

Either way, I've been outside two times already. It's simply BREATHTAKING!!!

You cannot imagine the intensity of emotions when standing on a foreign planet! Most people would have to switch on their EmoControl right away ;-)

All these intense red and brown hues and this crazy panorama… I've dreamt of this my entire life. Even when I was little, I knew that I was going to become an astronaut. And now, my dreams have come true, I'm standing on MARS! I'm soooo happy! Even if I shouldn't make it back and die here, I would have no regrets.

It's simply wonderful up here and none of the RealShows can compare. Each of us has a virtual window in their cabin, where we can display our favourite view. All of the crew chose some beautiful location from Earth, but I just linked mine to the outside camera :-D

Blog Entry Day 10, Mars mission 4B, morning

I'm just sitting in the MarsMobile. I'm sitting next to Mattheus who is driving, it's my first official mission on Mars!

Mattheus is a little annoyed that he was sent on an outside mission. He'd rather continue his analysis of some interesting material they found in the border region of one of the old stations. It's some sort of rock that is encrusted with fossilized organic material! Possibly remainders of a previous attempt to do terraforming on Mars. But duty will always remain duty, and since Mattheus knows this area best, he has to do the tour at least once with me so I'll be able to take over in the future. The mission is as follows:

Because of the unexpected radiation problems, the old Mars crew has been looking for locations to relocate the MarsHabitat to. Places that offer a natural protection for the solar winds. For example ridges and canyons. Survey modules have been placed in some possible locations. Most of them are shielded so well, that we can't access their data remotely. We have to physically go there to make readouts.

Our first stop is a natural cave, way down in Valles Chryse Canyon. Oh wow, I'm just seeing the entrance to the canyon, it's gigantic! I've never seen such incredible rock walls!

Okay, I gotta go now. Zumpa, who has MissionOp-Duty today, is telling us that a sand storm is closing in on our location. Of course, the MarsMobile has been built to endure level 3 sand storms. But we're always trying to save our equipment from sand abrasion as well as possible.

I'll be back later on!

Blog Entry Day 10, Mars mission 4B, midday

Yep, I'm back. The sand storm arrived sooner than we thought, so we had to flee into the cave. The MarsMobile had to stay outside after all - we need to use it as a relay station to keep comms running. This cave is really super, I though. It's really huge, and first readings indicate that most of the radiation is blocked by the rock layer above. We'd merely have to expand the opening, then we'd definitely be able to fit the habitat in here. You can read up on this in my official report on MarsMission's R-Site.

Too bad we can't reach the MarsMobile at the moment, otherwise we could relax inside the pressure cabin and enjoy some warm Taffee. On the other hand, the liquid food that I can drink in my pressure suit isn't too bad either. Today, I chose lemon flavour… For tomorrow, I think I'll go for chocolate!

Oh yes… the reason why we can't simply walk to the MarsMobile is that loose rocks are constantly crashing down from the cliff above the cave entrance. In this sand storm, we might easily get hit! If we relocate the habitat into this cave, we'd definitely have to clean up the area first. Or maybe we could install a destruct laser which could detect falling rocks and just atomize them. That should be fun!

For now, things are a lot more boring though. I didn't mind being stuck here at first, 'cause it gave me a chance to ask Mattheus about his discoveries. He said, he was already able to extract genetic material from the fossilized samples! It definitely has to be man-made, but he hasn't been able to match the data to ANY kind of genetic code we're planning to use for our terraforming processes.

It seems, the thought of his work resting idly has made Mattheus even more impatient. He said that the storm is tailing off and that he would go outside to check. I've kept busy tidying up our gear and storing the data cubes, but now I've been sitting here for a while. Wonder what's taking him so long?

Blog Entry Day 10, Mars mission 4B, late evening

oh my… I guess you've all read it on MarsMission's R-Site by now… Poor Mattheus was killed by a falling rock! When I found him, he was lying just a couple of meters outside the cave… I could see that his helmet was completely smashed. Poor, poor Mattheus!

I wanted to reach him, but more rocks came crashing down and I had to seek refuge in the cave. Hours later, BigO, Zumpa and Ducky arrived with the second MarsMobile so we could recover Mattheus' body.

Of course we all knew, something like this could happen, and we have been trained to deal with a situation like this. Either one of us could die, and it's no secret that MarsMission has already prepared obituaries for everyone who leaves for Mars. Also, the course of action in case of fatalities is detailed in the ProcLog: The body may not be brought into the habitat to avoid contamination. The deceased is to be buried in the clothes he or she is wearing - in this case, a pressure suit - in a grave of 2 by 3 standard meters. If this is not possible - in this case, due to the ongoing sand storm - the body is to be stored in outdoor utility lot #3. The body is to be covered with the banner of the United Religions  and a mourning candle is to be lit nearby. After following this procedure, we went inside to prepare the rites. You can follow the funeral service on MarsMission's R-Site.

Now it is late. I'm tired and very sad.

Dear Mattheus: Unfortunately, I didn't have time to get to know you better. You were a valued colleague and I had great respect for your skill and knowledge. I hope your next life will play out according to your hopes and dreams.

Blog Entry Day 11, Mars mission 4B

It's horrible - Mattheus' body has disappeared!

Blog Entry Day 12, Mars mission 4B

This is impossible… we just cannot find Mattheus' body! The only possible explanation is that a mini-tornado must have pulled it into the open, where it was swept away by the sandstorm. Now he is probably buried under a thin layer of sand somewhere. Strangely enough, the flag and mourning candle were still in place!

Either way, we've spent the last two days searching. Neither sensors nor satellites nor our eyes have detected any trace of him. But even if we have to turn every stone in a 300 skm radius, we will find him and grant him a proper burial!

Blog Entry Day 13, Mars mission 4B

Still no sign of the body. Unbelievable!

Today, we even drove out to the old Mars station with Ducky to see if the cadaver has caught in one of the steel beams.

Yes, the old Mars stations… We're assuming that mankind had six or seven stations up and running before the GreatWar. So this is at least 300 years in the past. Difficult to place an exact number on it, since track of time was lost in the DarkTimes. Anyway, three stations have been found intact so far. They have been declared as "Protected Heritage Of The Highest Order". That's why it is forbidden to get closer than 1 skm.

But one of the highlights of Mars mission 4B was supposed to be the inspection of one of these stations. It was planned for day 120, but we moved it up the schedule. The images captured by our helmetCams should be available on MarsMissions R-Site soon.

Ducky, myself and of course some of the others received months of training by certified archaeologists. This way, we should be able to conduct the inspection correctly without damaging anything. We even have learned some words of the ancient's languages in order to be able to identify warning signs and such.

Of course, I was very excited on the way to the station… but it's sad that such a lifetime event is overshadowed by the search for Mattheus' body.

Now, I want to describe in my own words how I experienced this day. Of course, you can also have a look at my image and voice recordings on the R-site, but those are of course more objective and reserved, due to their professional nature.

Yeah yeah I know, most of you would prefer if I just recorded CamBlogs or R-Shows like everyone else. After all, I DO read your feedback! Sure, a lot of you have difficulties reading and writing, but this is all the more reason to get some practice! Let's not forget about the old arts!

Okay, now back to topic: When I arrived at the old station, I was very still and almost felt some kind of religious calmness. I thought of the ancient astronauts. Back then, it was a one-way mission. Everyone who left for Mars stayed here to the end of their days. That means, their bodies are still on this planet. In all, it must be over 80 individuals. Some archaeologists even claim there were 200 or more.

This station here is the one with the best overall condition. From the outside, it looks perfectly intact - pretty dusty though. It was called ESA, at least that's what it says on some metallic signs. Esa is a woman's name from the old mythology. If I remember correctly, she fought and beheaded a gigantic serpent, that threatened to destroy mankind. Well. One thing we know for sure, is that the company who built this station, called itself "Europa".

First, we performed a defined search pattern outside of the station. No sign of the body though. In the proximity of the station, we didn't find any graves of the old astronauts either. Maybe, their graveyard is even further out. Ducky even climbed around the big tubes of the station and looked behind all of the steel beams. But no sign of Mattheus' body.

Then, we went in.

The boarding procedure took over three hours, as we had to take every step according to the ProcLog. Double- and triple-checking everything. Of course, no-one has entered the station for centuries, so even the powerful fluorite batteries that once operated the doors were spent. Following protocol precisely, Ducky was able to connect the ancient circuitry to the FluxCell we brought though.

It was a strange feeling to walk through the old station. All the time, I had the surreal thought that someone was alive in there, and that they would come crawling out at any moment. Finally, I shared these thoughts with Ducky, but he just laughed and said I had too big of an imagination.

There were so many things there we didn't know, and that we just couldn't figure out. It's really said that so much information was lost during the GreatWar. It's really true that we now know more about the ancient Greek than the Silicone Era. During that period, people stored all their knowledge in computers (similar to our R-Machines, but based on semiconductors). Also, they had their Wide-World-Web, a kind of global network storage. But all this data was destroyed right at the beginning of the GreatWar. Some large Atomic-EMPs, and poof… all gone. Written material was mostly printed onto cheap paper that was completely decomposed after 300 years. Well, the ancient Egyptians and Romans made it easier for us, chiseling everything into stone…

We found so many strange things in the station. Some kind of metal plate with black glass on top, and a singular, round button. Or this weird little machine with a metal base and a glass cylinder on top, along with some writing: P-O-P-C-O-R-N… No idea, what that is supposed to mean.

The thing that astonished me the most was that the whole station looked brand new. As if the astronauts had only lived here for a couple of months. Or, they were just super-tidy people.

During our training, we were explicitly told how to handle the bodies we would find. Simulations have come to the conclusion, that the station called ESA must have housed around twenty astronauts. We are assuming, that they eventually died off one after the other. The survivors must have buried the bodies of the deceased, or maybe even burnt them. Which would have been a terrible waste of oxygen.  But this means, the last survivor must have remained somewhere in the station. What a scary thought… to live through the death of all your colleagues and friends, just to be the last one left alive… Phew, that's spooky. Quickly, to think of something else!

Anyway, we didn't find a single cadaver… Maybe the last survivor was recovered by the crew of another station. Or maybe our historians have been wrong after all, and the astronauts returned to Earth?

Unfortunately, Ducky didn't succeed in connecting his R-App to one of the computer modules. Real pity. Instead, he was able to R-Hack an especially secured door. Inside, there was plain chaos. Compared to the rest of the station at least. Banged up and scratched wall panels, emptied containers of chemical or medicinal components, and lots of devices scrounged up from everywhere around the station - at least from the look of things. And to top it off, everything was covered in some dusty goo. The equipment seemed to be hardwired together in the strangest of ways… impossible to make out the intention, as we didn't even know what the original application of any of these devices was. Every bit of surface was covered in the remains of cellulose-based paper, which was in an advanced state of decay and had dissolved in the goo. Zumpa had an ingenious idea though: The numerous displays in the large room functioned using a matrix of light emitting diodes, according to typical PreGreatWar technology. Using a MacroScan, we could get a readout of the surface structures and indeed, there was a clear-cut fluctuation. This means , the same pattern (text?) must have been displayed for prolonged time frames. We made scans of each one of the 12 screens in the room. Maybe our translation algorithms would be able to make sense of these cryptic characters. Then, we headed back to base.

Blog Entry Day 14, Mars mission 4B

Still no sign of Mattheus' body.

Today, I was responsible for MissionOp and supervised the EVA activities of my friends. Zumpa and Tusch (the nickname of Axend Fryd) went off to visit one of the other Mars stations. I watched the whole thing live on R-Connect. Actually, that station looked pretty much like ESA. Only that everything was labeled in a different language. At least, the writing was definitely not using the Latin alphabet.

Unfortunately, no Mattheus there and no other dead astronauts either.

Blog Entry Day 15, Mars mission 4B

Oh dear… Actually, I shouldn't be writing this. But I have to, in order to set my head straight. Okay. So, Zumba, Tusch and Ducky went out to the last of the three main Mars stations. And I went back to the cave in the canyon, because we left the samples and sensor data there after Mattheus' tragic demise.

I went alone, because BigO and Doc had to finish the routine maintenance that we neglected during the last couple days.

When I arrived, everything was alright. But when I saw the spot, where Mattheus had gone down, I suffered a nervous breakdown. I had to cry violently because I felt so sorry. I should have held him back, or maybe I should have gone outside myself instead of him. Well. And then, I switched on my EmoControl.

Actually, this is strictly forbidden on this mission and would grant a reproval. You've all seen how much negative feedback I got on the grounds that I described Mattheus' death so distanced and without any empathy. Now I will admit: in this situation, my EmoControl was turned to maximum. Doc had assured me, that according to ProcLog, this was an extreme situation where the use of EmoControl is legal.

I bet you're all like "wuuuut?!?" right now. Sure, everyone is using their EmoControl every day all day. This is you folks at home. But you have to realize that in order to partake in MarsMission, we have to be extremely stable emotionally. It's a criterion for exclusion. You probably find this hard to believe, but during my ten years of training, I have NEVER used my EmoControl! Because it's a fact: continued suppression or transformation of feelings leads to delayed or even wrong decisions!

That's why I'm feeling so confused right now. On the one hand, I'm perfectly alright, but on the other, I feel guilty - because I just wasn't able to keep myself together. And on top of that, I feel bad for Mattheus, because I didn't even allow myself to feel the sadness caused by his death in its pure, unfiltered form. Horrible.

Blog Entry Day 16, Mars mission 4B

Tusch and the others discovered a male body in the third Mars station. He's in a terrible condition, it's had has almost fully been severed from the body. The crew will spend the night in the MarsMobile, to have a closer look early tomorrow.

In 15 minutes, you can watch the official Statement from Tusch on MarsMission's R-Site. He will report in more detail on the state of the body and on the entire station, which also looks pretty banged up. Apparently, some kind of battle took place there hundreds of years ago.

Blog Entry Day 16, Mars mission 4B, morning

BigO just woke me up, he lost contact to the outside team a couple hours ago. Any kind of technical problem on our side can be ruled out. The last team we heard from the team was that there were going to rest up in the MarsMobile late that night. Sleeping in a pressure suit is pretty damn uncomfortable by the way.

But all the more reason to get up real early, so we're guessing they have a power failure on their comms equipment. Since the skies are clear today, BigO and myself will bring out the FlightCopter now and head over there. We should be able to reach them in less than an hour to find out what the problem is.

Blog Entry Day 16, Mars mission 4B, evening

We're back - not a trace of Zumpa, Tusch and Ducky. The MarsMobile is empty. There were no footprints either, probably those were swept away by light winds. We have no idea where they went. So we checked all the 12300 pages of the ProcLog, but there was no procedure for the case that half a crew goes missing.

Blog Entry Day 17, Mars mission 4B

I have no idea what to tell you. We spoke to MarsMission all day and had the satellite data examined by experts. But there is NO TRACE of our friends. They simply have disappeared. Now we're waiting for simulation results.

Blog Entry Day 19, Mars mission 4B

This whole thing is totally absurd. All this searching drives me crazy. To take my mind off this madness, I had a look into the data we collected from the screens of the station ESA. It seems to be about genetic programming, probably those same organisms that Mattheus had been researching. But the scans seem to be incomplete or faulty, as the translation doesn't really make sense. The programming doesn't seem to revolve around transformation processes like turning the atmosphere's carbon dioxide into oxygen. Instead, it seems to be targeted at cell regeneration. But on Mars there is no life, not even biomass, so what were they trying to regenerate?

Honestly, those questions got pretty irrelevant as I turned to another data set. It's a kind of diary, just like the blog I'm writing here. The translation isn't very detailed, but what I can make of it is terrible: That Mars crew was still up here when the GreatWar began! They followed the beginning of the AtomicBlast crossfire… and the resulting radio silence. Knowing that billions were dead, probably all the people they knew and loved… they were thinking that NO ONE survived. How awful. They thought they were the last of mankind! Alone on Mars! I think I'm getting sick. I'll treat myself to a dose of EmoControl and go to sleep.

Blog Entry Day 20, Mars mission 4B

Still no sign of our colleagues. The experts have sent us one last search pattern we have to execute via MarsMobile.

I will lead MissionOp together with Cloey. She's our AIQ girl and doesn't really belong to the basic crew, as she's permanently linked to the computer systems. Poor Cloey is totally devitalized, as she spent months strapped to that AIQ chair. Now all of a sudden, she has to lead a normal life. But there is no choice, there are only four of us now, and we need every hand.

Doc and BigO have left earlier for the search mission. But I'm afraid I have to say, the energy packs that create oxygen and heat are only designed for a couple days load. They are already low on power, so a couple of hours is all there is left… until the outside team will run out of air!

Blog Entry Day 20, Mars mission 4B

BigO found some tracks that go along the shadow zone of a canyon. He got out and follows them on foot. In the meantime, Doc is flying a search sweep and looks for human body heat using the InfraScan.

Blog Entry Day 21, Mars mission 4B, noon

We just received was an emergency call! When Doc got back from his search flight to pick up BigO, there was an incident. Doc told us, BigO hat gone mad and had tried to attack him?!?

(you can listen to the distress call on the official R-Site)

We have no idea what's going on there.

Blog Entry Day 21, Mars mission 4B, evening

We have lost both the signals of Doc and BigO. Fortunately, Cloey had a premonition and has attached an external amplifier onto BigOs pressure suit. She has spent most of her adult life in simulation, so she has a pretty good idea of future events.

Either we could triangulate the additional signal. BigO moved on pretty far into the canyon before he went dark. He must have climbed deep into a cave.

Blog Entry Day 23, Mars mission 4B

You've probably heard it: We're evacuating the station. Something is going terribly wrong here. And that in spite of - -

Blog Entry Day X, Mars mission 4B

Awful, terrible… an attack… highest holiness… The Mars Men exist! Cloey made it to the escape module, I covered her. For me, there was not enough time to escape. They have destroyed the remaining escape modules and smashed a hole into Habitat 2. Now, they're gone.

I can't write any more, I don't have time to sit down and write. There is no way out… I'm going to die here. But who are they. And what do they want? I switched on my EmoControl in order to keep it together. I'm going to activate the emergency distress channel. I hope, the transmitters still work!

Link to the last transmission from Lewos Flueger, member of MarsMission 4B

"MarsMission, do you copy? Do you hear me? I can't hear anything, I'm using the emergency broadcast channel. We were attacked by the Martians again! The did some heavy damage, among other things they destroyed the fluorite batteries and the SolarPanels, that control the power supply. That means, I'm left without oxygen and heating. I had to flee in my pressure suit.

I fired a couple shots with the DiffractLaser. But I had no visual contact. Repeat; no visual contact. I still don't know what they look like.

I have supplies for 42 hours. I have decided to embark on my final mission. I will track down the Martians. I want to give you as much information on them as possible - before they kill me. This will help you to understand them better, to avoid incidents like this in the future. I have my EmoControl on maximum now, I have no fear or any other feelings, I am fully efficient.

I'm outside now, there is a heavy sandstorm going down. Fortunately, one of the MarsMobiles is still operable. I'll head to the cave where we lost BigO's signal.

I've arrived there. No one in sight. I have an AutoPack with nano transponder with me, they will relay my transmission, even when I'm deep inside the Earth. I mean MARS, deep inside Mars.

I'm running through the maze, it's confusing. The head light creates a sparkling effect, some kind of goo is covering the walls… What is this stuff? …have to go on…

So dark here… must keep my head straight, or I else I don't see where I'm going.. so dark here… Is the EmoControl still on? Yeah, maxed out, okay… what's that?

There are footprints here, lots of footprints… what am I gonna… okay…I follow, follow the tracks, I run… OH!!!

I think I saw someone! Yes, I could see him pretty clearly in the light of my lamp… He wore a space suit, similar to those from the old Mars missions. He ran away, but maybe he's just getting help… He'll be right back with his friends to kill me. Attention now, I'm gonna describe exactly what I saw: Martians are humanoid, of similar stature, two legs and two arms. As far as I can tell, the joints seem to be in the same places. The head is sitting on top of the shoulders. They need pressure suits, just like us. Something's moving there!

Aaah… Highest holiness… It's one of OUR pressure suits! Why? I don't… ah okay, I get it, it's one of us! BigO must have survived after all! No wait… No body armor… then it has to be Doc! HEY!!! Hey Doc, wait… are you alright? It's me, Lewos…. how are you? Hey, now stop it….

Holy, High - - - It's not Doc--- It's…. it's Mattheus!!!"

Those were the last comprehensible words from Lewos Flueger. What followed were merely sounds and screams.

Dear visitors of our R-Site, we apologize for any emotional stress that this unabridged report might have caused. Even ourselves, the civil operatives of MarsMission, have been running our EmoConrols on maximum since these reports have come in. But do not worry. You can rest assured that we will do our best to rescue AIQ operator Cloey from her emergency pod and return her safely to Earth. And also for the rest of our crew, especially our hero Lewos Flueger, we will do everything that is within our power. Recover and properly bury the bodies of the fallen is the least we can do.

In deepest sympathy,

MarsMission, civil board of operatives,

Prof. Dr. Apace

Happy Birthday, Zombie!

By Will Hofmann

How often had Ingeborg Fricke, maiden name Walter, replanted her father's grave lately? How often did she come here to fertilize and water the lot? It was bewitched. It felt like that grave would just swallow up all these energies. In the beginning, everything had gone well. After about 15 months though, the plants had started to wither. She was miserable that she obviously failed at gardening, while the neighboring graves bloomed and flourished. Speaking of which, in the last couple of weeks she had come to notice that also there, things were going south.

Had she known what was going on less than two meters below heather and boxwood, she would have been thrown into a moral dilemma. Should she rejoice, or try and destroy what was being concocted down there?

***

There are so many ways to die.

Margot Hensel was bobbin lace-maker. She excelled at it. Had you asked her what she had done with her life, she wouldn't have answered "butcher". That was only her job. Lace-making was her life. The greatest time in her life was when she was teaching lace-making at the evening school.

Then came the stroke. It left her left hand paralyzed. She didn't care too much that she also couldn't walk anymore. WIth the speech disorder, she also could have done. Aphasia, the doctors called it. And speech therapy brought some improvement. But the prescription was eventually stopped, when no further progress could be made. The doctor said he had limited insurance funding and had to see to the patients with more potential for improvement. She could see his point. Remedial gymnastics and physiotherapy didn't yield any results, either. Those were discontinued, too. "You really had a lot of bad luck with that stroke", the doctor tried to comfort her.

No-more lace-making, ever. That was the bitter truth Miss Hensel slowly realized. She couldn't cope with it and fell into depression. The doctor wanted to prescribe Mirtazepin, but she declined. Said she wasn't sick, at least not in the head. She couldn't enjoy eating and drinking anymore. Once someone tried to carry her into her wheelchair, she started nagging like there was no tomorrow. The help eventually quit. Margot didn't care. She liked best to lie on her right side, dozing off all day. It was already a nuisance to her when her sister came to change her bedding, so she wouldn't get pressure sore.

Margot Hensel lost weight. She didn't want a stomach tube and was able to make her children understand. They assisted her against the doctor's and nurse's pleas to change her mind. She knew well that the domestic home care staff only meant well. But she still was her own master and was glad that she still was master in her own home.

Margot Hensel dried up. She allowed infusions under the skin. If more for the people around her than herself. She wasn't even convinced that those were easing her pain. Some lemon sticks for her lips, that would have been enough for her. Still her strategy worked, the nagging from the nurses fell short. Now they had something they could do, and didn't need to talk so much anymore. Ten bottles was what the doctor had prescribed, one per day. After the seventh bottle however, Margot Hensel bid this world farewell. Her kids were with her - Margot II, Dieter and Petra. It was nice. It was really beautiful. They took turns in holding her mother's hand. And Margot let her fingers play in theirs. It felt like she had her bobbins in her hands for one last time. The bobbins of her life.

***

The Old Professor, Mister Walter, slowly came to his senses. Slowly, oh so slowly. Where was he? He couldn't see or hear a thing, not even really feel anything. The only thing he knew was: he felt good. Not too warm, not too cold. Like he was floating in a bath of his exact body temperature. No hunger and no thirst, no pain.

Pleasant, really pleasant. How much had back and hip pain tormented him. Too old for surgery, they had said. The doctors, the nurses. And his own daughter had agreed with them. His little Friggle, that was what he had called her after her wedding day.

This was all in the past now. Relaxed as he lay there, he started thinking back. What had happened? Images from the geriatric psychiatry appeared in his mind. Yes, he had suffered from dementia. Relatives and former students had shaken their head in disbelief during their visits. How could such a brilliant mind deteriorate so much? All of them hoped in silence that they wouldn't share a similar fate.

When the dementia began, he could still remember pranks he played as a student. Yet he could not answer the question what he had just eaten for lunch. Not much later, he asked his little Friggle who she was and what she wanted of him. Soon, he didn't even remember his own name.

All the more surprising that it had all come back. Suddenly, he remembered the thousands of questions he had been asked. What day is today, which month, what season, what is his profession, does he have children, what's his name? He remembered how embarrassing it had been, when he hadn't been able to come up with answers to questions as simple as these. The feeling of shame had passed eventually, he didn't care about the questions anymore. Sometimes, the tone of a voice was telling him that someone was asking something. Then he just said "yes" or "no", depending on his mood. Now he remembered every single situation, he knew when which question was asked by whom, if he had been in the wheelchair or in bed, what he was wearing, even what time of day it was. Even the questions about the food would be easy to answer now. He could even tell how it had tasted.

It felt like his brain had recorded everything around him like a video camera, all these years. Only that the tapes hadn't been accessible. Now they were, and he could see it all.

Crazy and curious. Walter reconstructed his past piece by piece. He had time. His funeral video was just playing in his head. Relatives, friends and nurses told each other how good it was that he had finally sunken into the endless slumber. Well, actually it wasn't really a funeral video. More like an audio book, as he was unable to see anything from inside his coffin.

The service was touching. Only the fact that Professor Wolter had made the funeral speech annoyed him. Years ago, that young man had been a student of his. He hated his guts. And to make matters worse, they had a similar sounding name and were sometimes confused! Horrible. That Wolter was arrogant, lazy and had a bag full of tricks. Also, he was stubborn, and Walter just couldn't get rid of him. In spite of this weak character, or maybe just because of it, he made it quite far in chemistry.

In his memory, Walter heard the wheels of the hearse grind through the gravel. The last rites and blessings from the priest. The reached the inside of the coffin only faintly, but still, Walter remembered every word. The condolences of the about two hundred guests were just a murmur though. Ingeborg, his little Friggle, and her husband Mister Frigge had to stand there for quite a long time until all the mourners had finally left.

Ashes to Ashes, dust to dust. Walter heard the sand splashing onto the coffin. He could make out one or the other flower stalk dropping near his head. A little later, the rumbling of the brickearth that the gravediggers shoveled down on him.

Then he had his peace. Finally.

He was in his grave, that was clear. But why could he think? Why could he remember everything, even memories that his dementia had taken from him? Why hadn't he suffocated here in these depths?

***

Yes, there are many ways to die.

Helmut Wachtendonk cruised along the winding roads of saxony's sandstone mountains. Wonderful, this swaying motion from the left to the right and back again. There was hardly any traffic, so he had the whole road for himself for most of the time. The Harley roared below him, such a delightful, heavy sound. He had made the right decision by finally fulfilling the dream of his youth. To hell with his pension. A couple grand more in his old age insurance, they would have earned him just a couple of bucks each month. And if things should really go sour, he could still sell his barge. That was what he called his acquisition, because the sounds of the machine reminded him of ships in the harbor. He had always loved that.

Even the drive down from Hamburg to Bad Schwartau had been a pleasure. He'd stuck to the country lanes, no highway or Autobahn. He wanted to take his time, no rush. He wasn't at work anymore, no more field trips.

Helmut was daydreaming. Still, he did see the leaves in that turn very clearly. But what was there to fear, when everything was perfectly dry in this wonderful sunlight? Everything went so fast. The barge slipped away from under him and smashed into the guardrail. Helmut hadn't experienced that layers of leaves don't dry out so fast on the insides. They lie on top of each other and can be as slippery as ice. His knee was shattered. He couldn't grab on to anything and tilted over the railing. It was a nearly vertical drop on the other side. The Harley screeched onwards to the end of the guardrail, where it crashed down onto a slope.

Helmut worked his arms and tried to hold on to anything - a trunk of a small tree, some bushes or leaves. The edge of a rock was his last chance, and he managed to grab it. But he was too fast and grabbed so hard that several sinews snapped.

Then came the drop. Fifty meters of free fall. Instinctively, Helmut tried to brace, he held out his hands like a cat. The last thing he heard was a dull thud. Then the lights went out.

***

It had been Gleubert, Gleubert had made it. The medical director in charge of his own ward. He was only about thirty years younger that Walter himself, not that long to his retirement. And Schütz, his personal assistant, had helped. What had they done to him?

The memory of this also returned. They had given him Marcumar to prevent blood clotting. Gleubert and Schütz had been all over him in the last couple days of his life. They couldn't miss the moment of his passing. Finally, the time had come. Walter took his last breath, his heart beat for one final time. Gleubert and Schütz were by his side, they already had a hollow needle in his vein. Now Schütz was administering some substance, while Gleubert was performing a heart massage. After a couple of minutes, they took turns. No, they didn't want to bring him back to life. And without mouth-to-mouth, that wouldn't happen. The reason for the heart massage was to circulate the substance through the body. Mainly, it was sodium silicate that was being pumped everywhere, right down into Walter's toes. It was a chemical stabilizer, some scientists called it Waterglass.

Gleubert had created an absurd theory. He had discussed it with Schütz openly in Walter's room. The doctor didn't get it anyway, they had thought. In other words, they had no idea how truthful Gleubert's theories actually were.

***

Many ways to die? Yes, and some close calls.

Anton Binger was in the kitchen, it was hectic as usually. Fizzling and steaming everywhere. Diligently, five of his cooks jumped about. He was the chef. And then, there was Claude - the apprentice. He was stirring his sauce. You could never know, so Binger took the few steps over to that pot and pulled his tasting spoon out of his breast pocket. He dipped the tip into the blubbering liquid, smeared some of the sauce onto his lips and threw the spoon into a plastic basket below the table. It was a fluid motion that he had perfected over decades. Binger always had ten to twelve spoons on him, and once those were spent, he resupplied at the cutlery drawer.

The chef used his tongue to move those couple drops between palate and throat. He didn't like what Claude had cooked up there. Good god, he was already in his third year! Hadn't he learned anything? Stuff like that could never reach their guests. Binger grabbed the pot by its handle and hurried over to the sink. He took a deep breath and was just about to start a huge tirade when a huge rock slammed against his chest. At least, that was what it felt like. As if a comet had hit him out of thin air. Binger stumbled and grabbed his chest. The pot flew through the air and crashed down noisily. That really sounded like an asteroid impact now.

Binger was writhing on the floor. He had never known such pain. He wanted to scream, but wouldn't let himself. A load moan would have to do. Dieter, the sommelier, had heard the noise and came running into the kitchen. He saw the chef on the floor and while most of the others stood frozen in shock, he didn't hesitate to call an ambulance. When the paramedics arrived, Binger had already lost conscience.

He had been incredibly lucky, the doctors told him later. A stroke with major complications. Ventricular fibrillation, only few survived it. Two weeks of intensive care. Several circulatory collapses, imminent threat of heart failure. They had to use three stents. Those are little pipes that prevent the coronary blood vessels from closing. He'd let them do it, he didn't care what they did to him. It was only much later before he realized why they were poking around his groin for.

"Annihilation pain" was what the surgeon called what he Binger had been feeling. A very fitting expression.

Slowly, Binger got better. He had to take a good handful of meds every morning, and about half that dose in the evenings. Names that he had to get used to, difficult like the names of exotic recipes at the beginning of his career. Enalapril, Bisoprolol, Verapamil, Digoxin, Molsidomin, ISMN, Metformin and Simvastatin. Against high blood pressure, the rhythm disorders, to strengthen the heart muscles, to expand the coronary arteries, something against sugar and cholesterol. All his blood values were in the red, as he learned, it ran in the family. Now he knew why so many of his relatives had died young.

The surgeon wanted to know who his general practitioner was and why he hadn't done anything to prevent this. Binger never saw a doctor. Why should he, when he felt healthy?

Slowly, he began to see the writing on the wall. At first, he hadn't wanted to go to rehab. But when he went for his first stroll in the clinic garden, he began to see the necessity. How painful those few steps had been! From this moment on, he was a model patient. He stopped smoking and followed a strict diet. Who else but a regular chef should be able to make great meals without fat and sugar? Maybe he could even put some of these dishes on the menu, after all, many guests should have similar problems. He would suggest this to the owner.

In rehab, Binger also set a great example. He even started to enjoy the exercise and fitness drills. He lost weight and was proud of himself. And another new thing he learned for himself: pottery was a lot of fun! It felt like making meatballs or dumplings. Soon, he really created little works of art. And he thought about using this skill professionally as well. For example, what about rabbit-shaped hamburgers for the kids?

All of a sudden, he was even able to relax. During his walks in the park, he realized how stressed out he had always been. Getting up early, late to bed, never without his red wine. It was supposed to be healthy, but probably less so if you drank a whole bottle every night. Quitting his smoking habit was surprisingly easy. During those weeks in intensive care, it was impossible anyway. But even after that, he didn't really feel the need anymore. Even though he had been smoking to packs a day! Well, in the beginning, all of them had smoked in the kitchen. Then, it was forbidden, and they had to step outside. Many of his colleagues just quit, there was just no time and besides, it got more and more expensive. Only binger stayed true to his glowsticks. After all, he was the chef, so he took the liberty of not having to rush outside. He just went over to the kitchen hood and put it on maximum.

Binger's marriage had long been destroyed by his rhythm, but his work was everything to him. Everything had to be perfect. Oftentimes, he just didn't trust his cooks to live up to his standards.

For the owner, Binger was godsend. The restaurant owed its reputation to him, and they both knew it. That's why Binger got paid really well. But what use is money once you are dead? Things had to change, Binger decided. His therapist was right: it was vitally important for him to share some of his work load. After all, the place had kept running without him. He wanted to take a break, go on vacation, he deserved it. There is a lot of fun to be had in life at the age of fifty.

Still… his final day of rehab turned out to be the last day before he returned to work. He just couldn't wait, even though his rehab instructor urged him to take at least another four weeks off. At least, he agreed to work half-time. The instructor made him promise to really stick to those four-hour shifts. Binger wasn't so sure. To him, half a work day was more like six hours to begin with.

***

The nurses were in on the plan. Gleubert called two of them to help. The four of them carried Walters body on a stretcher and brought him into pathology. But the doctors had no intention of cutting him open. Instead, the strapped him into a chair, similar to the one of a dentist's. Schütz kept Walter's mouth open with a metal hook, while Gleubert ordered the lights to be switched off. Then, he stared down into Walter's wide-open throat. After a couple of minutes, a greenish glow began to emanate from the gullet. That was exactly what Gleubert wanted to see. He switched positions with Schütz, so he could confirm the presence of that light.

Back at his observation post, Gleubert commented. "It's getting weaker now. It's still there though, still there."

A tense silence followed. Then his concluding sentence: "Now! Now it's gone. Nurse Magdalena?"

Gleubert didn't have to finish the question. "Seventeen minutes and thirty-five seconds", she answered.

Now the two men were almost ecstatic. "That means, at least 15 months of phosphate circulation!", Gleubert exclaimed. Feeling triumphantly, they carried the body back onto the stretcher and wheeled it back into his room. The nurses brushed Walter up so his relatives could say their goodbyes. But was it really a dead person lying there?

Phosphate circulation, so, so, so. Walter now was sure that his ability to still think was owed to this. Fifteen months, Gleubert had said. Fifteen months he had given him. And after that? Would it be the end of his "wellness burial"? And how much time had already passed?

Either way, Walter was not even afraid when thinking about his absolute end. Five seasons Gleubert had given him, and he had returned all his memories. No, not returned, he had freshened them up. Had given him a real super-memory, total recall. Walter felt he could remember every single second of his long life. Heck, he could even remember the noises in his mother's womb when he was floating inside her. He remembered how he fought with his little arms and feet against the narrowness of her womb. And how scraps of conversations had reached his tiny ears.

His current state, here, below the ground, was not unlike the one in that womb. But would there also be another birth?

Phosphate chains were the key. Every living cell has its own blueprint of the nucleic acids, the DNA. This acid is an incredibly long chain of single nucleotides. There are four different types - comparable to different letters of the alphabet. A kind of construction manual written using four different symbols.

The single characters are combined using phosphate acids, also known as phosphate for short.

It is not just the blueprint for each cell which is stored in the DNA, even the contents of our mind, our memories, are stored in that format.

Gleubert had had the ingenious idea to take a closer look at these phosphates. At the core of the phosphoric acid, there is a phosphate atom. It exists in eight variants, eight isotopes. Gleubert found out that every character was bound to a certain isotope.

The acids inside the cells can only perform their task of controlling the production of proteins with help from the nucleotides. However, their information is already stored in the phosphate chains. And the phosphor isotope has only about a tenth of the weight of a nucleotide. The message in the phosphate chains could thus be called a backup of the DNA, that was Gleubert's main discovery. If one would succeed to stabilize them, all the information would be preserved. And the man had managed to do just that.

One source of inspiration for him was acupuncture. The Chinese saw its effect based on an energy flow inside the body. Western physicians liked to think of it moor as a reflexive effect. Still, even the ancient Chinese had the better understanding. Even if they didn't know the significance of the intercellular space. This is the fluid in between our body cells. And in there, aside from blood and lymph circulation, it has its own circulative processes. The liquid passes through all meridians and acupuncture points once in 24 hours. Then, the cycle begins anew.

Gleubert hadn't only managed to connect the phosphate into solid chains and stop them from falling apart. No, he also found a way to keep the meridian flow in effect. Walter was really impressed. Gleubert deserved a nobel prize for this! And the committee would have to decide if they'd award it in medicine or chemistry.

Now Walter laid in his quiet resting place and developed his own thoughts, that were no less worthy of a nobel prize.

The professor was unable to move, but thanks to Gleubert and Schütz, something was still moving inside his body. It was the tiny membranes and microvilli, little cell appendices that reached into the intercellular space. Their fine movements kept the circulation going. Walter's decaying body delivered the energy for this process, but at one point, there would be nothing left. Dry bones alone would hardly be able to keep up a flow of any kind.

Walter would have to find some energy if he wanted to prolong his life. But it wasn't like he could walk into the next supermarket and get some glucose. Or was it?

***

Anton Binger returned to work in high spirits. How he looked forward to his chef clothing, his hat, his pocket of spoons. How he had missed all this. The welcome was cool though. Hardly a surprise, as his temper hadn't made him many friends. Mister Tann, who introduced himself as Binger's substitute, seemed almost cold. He smiled fakely when he shook Binger's hand and the first thing he said to him was that the should go see the manager.

Binger went into the office. The owner told him things had changed. The menu had been re-written, Tann had done an excellent job so far. How things would be going with two chefs at the same time, he didn't know yet. But Binger was supposed to start by working half-time, so they would just see how things would turn out.

There was not a single question about the well-being of his former star chef, no word of sympathy. Well. Binger had imagined his first day back at work a little different. Tann wasn't his type of guy, that became clear pretty quickly. He really behaved like a chef, no doubt about it. He gave Binger orders, even criticized his culinary skill. He even dared to taste his soup, incredible. There were lots of new seasonings around, and Tann used those a lot.

Binger was glad when those four hours came to an end. Whatever he had learned about composure in his rehab had failed in real life. Before he left the restaurant, he stopped by the cigarette machine and got himself a pack of Gauloises. He thought he really deserved one. Smoked it on the way home. Damn, what was he supposed to do? Go back on sick leave? The owner wouldn't like that. After their short conversation, he was sure he had gotten to really like Tann. Binger got himself a bottle of dry Bordeaux. In the evening it was empty, just like the pack of cigarettes.

The next day he woke up in a bad mood and slightly hungover. He went to work, not without getting more cigarettes. He tried to stay out of Tann's way, but he was on to him. Gave him a lot of orders. Binger felt the heat rising, and not just that coming from ovens and cookers. There were a lot of short and snappy discussions.

Two tasting spoons dove into the gravy simultaneously - Tann's and Binger's. It was the last one in Binger's breast pocket. "More marjoram!" Tann exclaimed. "Idiot", Binger thought, without batting an eye. The spoon still in hand, he went over to the kitchen hood and put it on maximum. Then, he lit a Gauloises.

Tann came running over and snapped the cigarette out of his hand and gasped "not in here!". He extinguishing it with tap water and threw it into a waste basket. After that, he returned to Binger and gave him a hard look:

"How on earth can a chef smoke? Bad for smell and taste!" When he turned on his heel, Binger would've loved to give him a kick in the butt. Instead, the comet struck again. The words ANNIHILATION PAIN rang through Binger's head. His spoon jingled on the ground, only moments before his body landed there as well. In his fall, he toppled over the waste bin. "Now I really kicked the bucket", Binger thought. It was his last thought, and it was correct.

***

Gleubert hadn't only given Walter a great memory but also an improved perception. One day, the professor felt a congestion in his stomach meridian. Was this be the beginning of the end? If the phosphate chains would get stuck there, it wouldn't be long until they'd fall apart. The other meridians would follow, and then he'll be dead for good. Long before those fifteen months were spent. Or were they? Walter had no sense of time at all.

At any rate, the professor didn't start to panic and was glad about it. Calmly, he aimed his attention at the failing meridian and imagined how the micro membranes down there would pick up movement. And indeed, they did. Too bad Walter couldn't tell how long it took, but eventually, that uneasy feeling was completely gone. Yes, it really felt comparable to digestion problems.

This event made it clear to Walter that he was able to influence his microcirculation. His imagination was the key. He thought of the consequences, thought in all directions. But suddenly, that feeling of sickness was back. Not nearly as strong as before though. But now Walter knew that 24 hours had passed. Again, he repaired the damage, but again, not fully. That way, he would notice the next time when the circulation would pass the stomach meridian - telling him that another day had passed. He had found his internal clock. And that wasn't the end of it.

Walter began experimenting. He worked some little disturbances into all his meridians. He was able to feel them all once a day and thus could feel, which section was active at a certain moment. That way, he could improve the accuracy of his body clock to two-hour intervals. That was almost as good as the church bell, which he unfortunately couldn't hear those six feet under.

Now the professor could precisely tell how long the next step took. Namely four weeks and three days. In that time, he had refined the sensibility for his circulation. He could tell exactly where the flow was going at any moment. His only regret was that he had never occupied himself with acupuncture. That would've made it all so much easier. All that he know, he had gathered from the conversations between Gleubert and Schütz. Still, he had an internal clock now that was almost accurate to the minute. Another thing the undead professor liked even better was the fact that even new phosphate chains were created. Proof of this was the simple fact that he could remember anything he had thought since his unexpected awakening.

It took almost four months until Walter had developed a new skill. He got sensitive towards his environment. He could feel the substances around him. There was cellulose in the paper clothing which he had been dressed in for the funeral. There was the wool of his socks, the leather of his shoes and the wood of the coffin. He could even distinguish between different colorants in his vicinity.

Could this skill be of any use to him?

It would, and greatly so. Walter trained his micro-membranes and microvilli, the little outgrowths of his decaying cells. It took him almost half a year, but then he was able to build tiny channels into his surroundings. He dug into the cellulose, the wool and the leather. He was able to dissolve these materials and transport the energetic compounds through his microvilli. It worked, yes it worked!

***

Fungi are wondrous beings. Next to animals and plants, they make up their own little kingdom in the domain of biology. There are tiny, one-celled species like yeast, which only grow about a hundredth of a millimeter. And then there is the honey fungus which can weigh up to 600 tons. Incredible, but true. This gigantic mushroom lives in Oregon in the United States and spreads over the area of 1200 football fields. It is said to be at least 2400 years old. It's devouring trees and has even led to a full-blown forest decline in Malheur National Forest in the year 2000. That was how it first got discovered.

With all fungi, the part that sticks out of the earth is only the smallest end, the fruiting body. The real mass consists of millions of thread that wriggle through the earth, wood and other organic material. They can come together in strains and this is also the way the fruiting body is made up. It just looks like a solid mass to the plain eye. On closer inspection, it is just adhered and felted hyphens.

The entirety of all the hyphens is called mycelium. The mycelia multiply through growing and splitting off into their surroundings. Also, they make up the fruiting bodies that they use to produce their spores.

Hyphens are much smaller than plant roots, the can get through much narrower gaps. Most plants live in a symbiotic relationship with fungi. Their hyphens grow around the plant's roots and supply it with additional nutrition, reaching areas where the plant's roots could never go. The plants do their part by providing the fungus with carbohydrates which they generate through photosynthesis.

***

Those fifteen months were long gone, but Walter could still think and feel. Eventually, he congratulated himself on his new life. Happy birthday!

Or was he celebrating too soon? All the soft components had been dissolved, the last bits of paper, cloth and leather had gone. Maybe that was the reason why ancient cultures had these plentiful grave goods? Did they long know what he just had discovered for himself?

It took the professor all his strength to digest the wood of the coffin. But he managed, and he really got good at it. One day, the lid came crashing down on him. Walter almost felt he heard it. Now, he was able to digest the lid too, that would give him energy for at least half a year. But even six months would eventually come to pass.

What followed was another energy supply shortfall, posing a new challenge. Fortunately, Walter had become world-champion at building canals in the meantime. Like a mold fungus he was creating extensions of himself, long threads that were basically human hyphens. He built upwards, toward the surface. Soon, he encountered a rat's nest just below his tombstone. That really was a lucky strike. The rats brought in lots of food, it was an entire family. They nourished the professor without even knowing. On top of that, Walter found lots of dead insects and microorganisms. Anything of an organic nature could be dissolved and digested.

But not even in his resting place they let him rest. Somebody eventually found the rats and exterminated them. This somebody was no other than his own daughter Ingeborg. She was disgusted by the rodents and called pest-control. Too bad. One reliable energy source was off the list. And Walters demand for nutrition was on the rise, as he expanded into the vicinity. He weaved a regular net of hyphens, thousands of them, just like the mycelia of a mushroom. And eventually, he reached his neighboring grave.

***

Yes, there are many ways to die.

Her grandmother had died from breast cancer. Her mother had looked after her until the end. Then, her mother got breast cancer herself. It went on for years. All countermeasures were in vain. Her mother died in her arms.

Cornelia Mertens educated herself. Her health insurance provided classes. She felt herself, the way she had been taught. She went to medical screenings every two years, mammography.

And still, a clot. Malicious. Amputation, chemotherapy. Her hair went, the hopes stayed. It was okay for a couple of years, then, a relapse. The whole story all over. Hoping, suffering, bargaining with fate. Pain and more pain. The morphine helped but made her dizzy. Cornelia didn't want that. She lost her appetite, was sick all the time. All over the place. Losing weight, losing faith. When they told her she had metastases in her lungs, she didn't even care. This wasn't living anyway. Cornelia didn't make it out of bed anymore. Her daughter Betty was there. She had taken time off. She fed her mother that little bit of food she could still eat. She washed her and handled the bedpan.

"Watch yourself well, my dear!", Cornelia said to Betty. "I will", her daughter promised. "Mama, I'd had myself tested. I don't have that gene!"

Cornelia closed her eyes, smiling. At last, the family curse was broken. She didn't have to open her eyes anymore.

***

A fresh coffin. Hard wood. Walter chewed it off. He advanced to the clothing of the stranger's body. He devoured the cloth. The body itself would make a healthy meal in itself. The professor thought long and hard if he should really do it or try something entirely different.

After all, he knew all the substances that Gleubert had used on him. He could extract nitrate silicates from his surroundings or compose it himself, using the necessary base substances. His hyphens could do that by now.

For the first time, Walter didn't use his hyphens to absorb material, but to supply his new neighbor. He wrapped the entire body into his threads and provided all the nutrition that was needed. And indeed, the chemist could feel that the other body stopped decomposing.

Walter had to look out for two now. His energy demand doubled. No, it tripled. He did not only have to supply the stranger with food, he also had to repair the damage that had been caused by decomposition.

That was the time when Mrs Frigge could hardly keep up the cultivation of the grave. She couldn't know how much all that fertilizer made things easier for her father. The extermination of the rats was now well compensated for.

In the depths, one thing led to another. Walter could feel how his neighbor slowly came back to life. He could sense the new thoughts that were created on the other side through his hyphens - as if the stranger would take to himself in his sleep. Soon, Walter knew that this stranger was a woman, Margot Hensel, deceased at age 88. A stroke was responsible for her death. She had spent three months in a wheelchair and didn't get along with her disability, gave up on herself. Ultimately, she died of pneumonia. To finally pass away felt like a blessing to her. She could let go, leave behind the suffering of her mortal body.

For over forty years she had worked at a butcher's, she was married twice. Her first husband had fallen in the last couple days of the war. He left her with a girl, who was christened in accordance with family tradition, to the name Margot as well. In the 1950s she married her Claus and had another two children, a little boy and a sister for him.

Walter was thrilled when he first began to follow these thought processes beginning for Mrs Hensel. It reminded him of his own reawakening, which hadn't been that long ago. And what pleased him the most, was how disbelievingly this woman first noticed that she wasn't dead anymore - and how this disbelief turned into exuberant happiness.

The professor waited until Mrs Hensel had entirely come to her senses, then he introduced himself. She was surprised that there was someone there beside her. Soon, she took great pleasure in talking to her new acquaintance. To Walter, it was a very welcome break, too. At last someone he could share his thoughts with. Only a butcher's wife, but still. The time to think alone for himself was over. He could approach her with all his ideas. Sometimes the need to articulate himself in simpler terms even led him to entirely new ideas.

And Margot was far from being simple-minded. Yes, they had soon agreed on calling each other by their first names. Walter took his time to explain to Margot how things were working down here. He was able to teach her to control her one micro membranes and microvilli. And once she knew how to do that, she learned how to create hyphens of her own. Margot's hobby had been bobbin lace. She had been a true master at it, and this skill came in more than handy in her new life. It wasn't long before she surpassed Walter when it came to webbing speed. But since they were connected, this was good news for both of them. For Walter, this meant he could leave the procuration of nutrition to his new partner and make himself free for other tasks.

For example, he started building up a better communications network. Through the hyphens, everything took forever. You sent off a sentence and had to wait for about five minutes for a reply. So Walter experimented with the power of his imagination again. He managed to create a different type of channel. It didn't have the ability to absorb substances, instead it could pass on information. In those channels, atoms tipped against ions in a coded rhythm which Margot was able to decode. What had taken minutes before now happened within seconds. It still wasn't as fast as living people could talk, but the delay was hardly noticeable. Living people don't think about the fact that sound waves need time to travel through the air, neither. It feels like talking and listening is entirely lag-free. Only during a thunderstorm we are reminded that sound travels to our ears much slower than light travels to our eyes.

Thanks to Margot's bobbing skills, the Mycelia grew faster and stronger than ever. Soon, her and Wolfgang reached the next grave. This time, there were two of the undead who could work on the process of re-animation. The coffin was digested much sooner, the new body was soon entangled in a web. There wasn't nearly as much decomposition, so the reactivation of the phosphate chains worked quickly. Margot and Wolfgang watched the stranger come to his senses. They rejoiced once they could sense his new-found consciousness. Proudly, they explained to him how they were able to wrestle a little bit of life out of the hands of death.

He was a comparatively young man, only 45 years of age. He had treated himself to a Harley-Davidson and just wanted to cruise around for a while. A trip through saxony's sand stone mountains. Great slopes, great curves. Some wet leaves broke his neck though, literally. He dropped for 50 meters, dead on the spot. He could still feel that thrill echo through his head, however, he had absolutely no recollection of pain.

His description was exciting to Margot. She insisted on hearing every detail on his fall. How did it feel? He bumped into several things, how come he didn't feel any pain? He just didn't, the former biker said. He hadn't even felt any real fear - everything was just over way too fast. The only thing on his mind had been the thought of grabbing on to something.

Margot on the other hand retold the tale of her suffering. How hard it had been on her when she had lost the left side of her body. Especially, since this meant the end of her hobby, making bobbin lace. And the embarrassment not to be able to express herself properly anymore.

"At least it was your left hand", the newcomer tried to comfort her, "then you could at least use your right hand".

"Unfortunately, I am left-handed", she objected.

Wolfgang didn't really listen to any of this. Another one of these snuff stories. Gone and forgotten. He preferred to look into the future instead of the past. Still, he let them continue without saying anything. It was probably natural that not everyone was as hard-nosed as himself.

"Helmut Wachtendonk", the Harley rider finally introduced himself. Again, they agreed to use their first names. And again, Helmut was a quick learner. He managed to support himself with energy and nutrition in the nick of time. Even if this type of diet was nothing like what he was used to in his days over ground. He didn't know anything about phosphate or adenosine triphosphate. He had pretty much flunked chemistry at school. Now that he could feel all these substances, it was an entirely different game.

Now they had a force of three to work on their mycelia network. The wove through the ground, reaching many other graves. However, they concentrated their efforts on open spaces, especially the lot next to Helmut. The next burial was expected there, and really, it wasn't long until a fresh body was lowered into the depths. In the process, the grave diggers cut through some of the hyphens, but the damage was quickly fixed. As soon as the coffin hit the ground, the three of them went to work. Even before the grave was completely filled with earth, the wood of the coffin was penetrated by thousands of threads.

It only took two days until that new body became a new man. Three excited saviors, one overjoyed revenant. Anton Binger was his name, chef his profession. Tediously, he told of his demise. After the first heart failure, everything went well. He had found new hope. But the second one got him. And it was all the fault of his substitute, that asshole Tann. Played boss from day one.

All this terribly bored Walter, he just switched off his connection.

Still, there was much more to do on that same day. And Anton was able to digest the new coffin right away. It contained a woman, Cornelia Martens. Walter got annoyed as soon as he heard the word breast cancer. Not another one of these sad little stories! Margot on the other hand listened with a lot of empathy. What a terrible way to go! She almost started to feel thankful about her own fate.

Eberhard Mayer, highly demented. He was much more interesting to the professor. Finally, he had found something to share his experience with. Eberhard was only 72 years old, but Alzheimer's got him pretty early. He had been a precision engineer but had to  go on early retirement. He just couldn't understand anymore what his supervisor asked of him. Now, it had all come back, every single detail of his life. For Margot, Helmut and Anton, it was the same. Everyone could almost remember back to their conception. Being born, learning to talk. The silly talk of "bu-bu-bu" and "yaddy-yaddy-ya" the grown ups threw at them. Embarrassing - for the adults.

Thus, the mycelia network grew larger and larger. Nothing would grow anymore on that graveyard in Hamburg-Eissendorf. Chief officer Hunger had ground samples taken. Deficits of everything that belongs into a good soil. But the hyphens remained undetected. Their structures were microscopically small, and their composure didn't change the soil chemistry enough to register. Hunger ordered the gardener to fertilize as much as possible. Which was a success, if not entirely in the intended way. Sure, the plants grew like crazy once again - but the mycelia did, too.

Soon, their hyphens ran for hundreds of meters. They reached into the surrounding meadows and front gardens. They pushed through tiny cracks in sewage pipes and sucked them dry. Feces and urine contained incredible rich energy reserves, a regular feast for the undead. Eventually, they reached Lake Lohmuehlen in the north-west. The suspended sediments in the water were another jackpot. But rather sooner than later, as more and more bodies were revived, even that wouldn't be enough. And the first casualty was once again the graveyard's greenery.

Ingeborg Frigge was disappointed that the grave of her father had only recovered on short term. She hadn't held back on the fertilizer and had reported to the garden & parks department several times. She had inquired on the results and measures. Mister Hunger confirmed the strange deficits of the soil. Those problems couldn't be ignored any longer, and so he started to make preparations in order to follow official procedure. Step one had been fertilization, to no avail. Step two had been the taking of ground samples and their analysis. Now it was time to begin step three, and that meant diving deeper into the matter. Some graves would have to be opened.

And that was exactly what Walter and his new friends were waiting on.

BERLIN ZOMBIE CITY

By Kalle Max Hofmann

Shit, here we go again. The creature is standing right in front of me, giving me a dumbfounded look. I wondered if I’d ever get used to that sight. After all, this wasn’t the first time. Not to mention the fact that I am not easily impressed. The others mostly wet themselves when it was their turn to go outside. I didn’t mind. I had my wits. Didn’t even care that shopping malls and supermarkets were mostly dark inside, even during daytime. But let’s not forget that the sick can’t see much better than us. Only their senses of smell and hearing were much better. I have to add, the former of the two was even to my advantage. If you follow some simple rules, you won’t be bitten, let me tell you. Did I say rules? Make that “common sense”. But after all these years, I guess I am what you could call street smart. The city had long been my turf, and honestly, things even got better for my kind when the sick started showing up. I really know how to handle them. But this creature right there, looking at me with these crazy eyes? Totally different bag of tea, a plain old shock. Over and over again.

The hair all scrubby and tangled up, ditto the unkempt beard. The clothes torn and dirty. Just by looking at it, you can tell how awful this must smell. Skin like tanned leather. Pockmarked and neglected. An expression that can be called bewildered at the very least. I don’t know, are those two eyes even looking in the same direction? Well, it was him alright. Heinz Karatscha. Me.

Slowly, I walk up that mirror, staring at this penniless pauper. Yes, I am a hobo, homeless, a bum. Never gave a damn about spelling it out for anyone. I am what I am. Still, seeing myself this way gives me a little chill each and every time. And now those thoughts start coming. As if I had to explain myself, some kind of audience appears in front of my mind’s eye. Imaginary “normos” that want to hear my story.

If only it had ever come to this in real life. If only one of them had ever asked me why do I resort to beggary. Why do I look this way. Never happened though, not once in all these years. People just rush on by, as if I was invisible. Pure ignorance. Even the ones who threw something into my hat managed not to look at me. Some forced a guilty smile while looking elsewhere. Above me. To the side. Or even right through me. Beats me why they gave at all if it’s so horrible. Probably because of a heavy conscience. But why? Because they’re better off? Because they’re afraid of me? Because their life is also on the knife’s edge? Yeah, probably, the ones who gave might have been the ones who had the least. Who knew damn well that they could get laid off any day, or get a rent increase. And then it’s over for them. Then they are in my place. Hoping that someone will give to them, too. Karma and all that. Not too many people believed in it back then, though.

For myself, I’m absolutely sure that was has happened here has a lot to do with karmic laws. Pride and prejudice, my dear friends. I will hardly be the first to call this disease a biblical plague. After all, it was just a matter of days until the sick had completely torn apart our so-called society.

Speaking of tearing things apart, wasn’t there a noise just now? Yes, there it is again… that well-known squealing. A rat. Well, I don’t mind‘em. Guess they won‘t find anything to eat for themselves in here though. All the food has long been taken. I’m looking for different things though. Only have to find the right department in this shitty shopping paradise. Actually, it really was somewhat of a paradise in those days where you could just take anything for free. But as I said, that didn’t last very long.

Or maybe it only felt to me like a mere matter of days? In our station, you don’t get everything. Oh yes, our station, that’s what we call our little house on the train tracks of commuter line 2, between the stops Yorck Street and South Cross. There always were a lot of run-down service buildings that no one cared for. Our station is far off to the sides of the trench, almost at the slope which is covered in trees and thick foliage. Almost impossible to get a look inside from above.

I myself hadn’t ever guessed someone was living there. But one fine, chilly evening in fall, I noticed Wollie disappearing behind those bushes. Sure, at first I thought: here is a man who has to answer nature’s call. When he didn’t return, I got curious and had a look. I discovered the hole in the fence and went through. I didn’t expect the steep drop and slipped on that damp slope. When I came crashing down, the cans and whatnot in my backpack made such a ruckus, that a whole welcome committee waited for me down below. Wollie, Horst and Trudie. The latter went all crazy on my like an old witch: “what do you want here, you filthy bum, get your ass up and get out of here… or else!”

I had to collect myself for a minute there and stared her up and down. Then, I reached into my coat and proudly produced last night’s big find: An almost untouched bottle of Golden Crown. “…or, we could share a drink!” I exclaimed cheerfully.

Trudie’s eyes almost popped. I can’t even tell you if it was because of my charming personality or that fine beverage in my right hand.

“Well, we could share our cosy campfire!”, Wollie stammered, licking his lips. “Don’t you wanna join us?”

Horst took a step towards me and extended his hand. “I know you, you’re Heinz, right? Wanna lie in the dirt all day?”

He grabbed my right arm and pulled me up, while I tried to keep my balance using the bottle as a counterweight.

“Heinz? Pleased to meet you, I’m Trudie.”

And there we had one of the few and scarce lady bums curtsy before me, as if I were the Count of Berlin. I raised my Golden Crown into the air and exclaimed “let’s get to it, then!”

A little later we were sitting by an old blackened sink that served as a fireplace. It was located directly in the middle of a small service building, not much larger than a shack. There was a gaping hole in the roof, a poor man’s chimney.

“A fine setup you got here”, I said impressed. “Sometimes, it’s a little drafty”, Wollie said and pointed upwards. “But at least, we won’t suffocate from the smoke!”

I must have given him a puzzled look. “Like those Yorck boys from line one”, Trudie blurted. “they also had a nice place like this one. But in the first winter, three of them died.”

“Carbon dioxide, smoke poisoning.” Horst added. “So, in here, you could get rained on. But each of us have their own comfort corner”, he concluded and everyone nodded.

And really, in all four corners there was a resting place. Some old mattresses, sleeping bags, the real deal. One corner even had some vases with flowers. That must’ve been Trudie’s area. One of the guys had nailed some posters to his wall. No porn stuff, but I guess you could say, pin-ups. The others seemed to notice when my look around ended in the last corner which only had a couple of empty cardboard boxes.

Horst took a scrutinizing look at the bottle of Golden Crown. We had almost finished it. He glanced at the other two, and they slightly nodded. Just barely noticeable. That was the point I realised that Horst was the chieftain of this tribe. It was probably him who cut that hole into the fence as well. He made another encouraging gesture towards Trudie and she cleared her throat.

“That over there used to be the professor’s corner. We had to have them take him in eventually. It’s been a while…”

Both of the men had lowered their heads and were now looking at the floor. I knew I wouldn’t get to hear any more of this story anytime soon. But if you’re homeless, you will eventually get so sick you’ll have to be taken to a hospital. And I never heard of any hobo who got out of a hospital.

Now they had a vacant spot here and I knew that I’d just been invited. I nodded at them appreciatively. “Where do you do your business?” I still wanted to know. Now it was Wollie who produced a broad smile. “You’re not gonna believe this. Right behind the house, Horst smashed a pipe in. The water is running all day. Like an automatic flush! All you have left to do is clean up yourself.”

“It’s like a dream”, Trudie enthused, “only for real!”

“All right then”, I nodded, “you’re a fine party”.

“Everyone has to do their part though”, Horst explained, “and if there is a vote, mine counts double. So there is never a draw. And also – well. Because that’s how things are around here. And anyone who calls me Hottie is out.”

“Agreed, Horst!” I said with a serious tone. “ anyone of you who likes to can call me Heinie though”.

Everyone laughed at this. “Welcome, Heinie!” Trudie said.

“Let’s start calling you Heinie tomorrow. Tonight, you’ll be ‘Your Heiness’ – and here is your Golden Crown!”, Horst said and passed me the bottle.

So that’s how the station became my home. And everything went really great for a while. There were four of us and we worked together. Not even resorting to beggary. That is only for beginners or those who have completely given up on themselves. Having said that, of course there are a lot of hobos of the latter sort. That’s why they are in this situation in the first place. In my experience, there are two basic reasons why you are homeless. The most important one is: You are alone. No family, no friends. From my own experience I can tell you: only when you hit a really rough spot, you know for sure if you have any friends. Well. And the other reason is: you’re not right in the head. I mean really, like schizophrenia and that kind of stuff. Some start out with depression and anxiety and somehow take pleasure from watching their life go down the drain. Those kind of people mostly enjoy their begging in a twisted way, ‘cause everyone who goes by can tell what a failure they are. But not us from the station. I mean, I don’t really know the stories of the others. It’s kind of an unspoken law not to ask. Sure, there are those who like to sulk and will tell you their life’s story in more detail than you’d ever wanna know. For some, that may even be the only reason left to stay alive. But not us. We were pros, after all. And pros stick to supermarkets.

If you’re lucky enough to receive a monthly salary, you probably won’t take a second look at the goods in the “price slash” area of the dairy section. You know, that “overdue” stuff. Hardly anyone buys food that is close to its due date. But “best before” doesn’t mean it’s bad afterwards. The printed date is way before anything is really spoilt, just to be on the safe side. Not too many people think about this. All the better for us. Because every market has a certain day each week where they throw the “unsellable” stuff out.

So if you’ve done your homework, you can be in the right place at the right time and clean out the dumpsters. The spoils are enough for an easy living. For us, it was enough to concentrate on the two biggest markets in the vicinity. They had extremely reliable schedules, Tuesdays and Thursdays their apprentices and trainees cleaned house at exactly half past eight. This meant, each one of us was on collect duty twice a week. Of course we “shopped” in style and brought our old, retired shopping cart. The thing was at least half full on every return. Sometimes, we could hardly fit all of it inside. Yeah, and after that, you had your three weeks off. The rest of the time was free for relaxing, philosophy and the hunt for goodies like that odd bottle of Golden Crown. No no, we weren’t alkies. But especially in the cold season, some spirits by the fire were good company. Other duties were collecting wood and fetching water. Wood was plentiful near the tracks, and for the water we had three huge plastic tanks. Every Sunday, the Reverend from our church filled’em up for us. That was his good deed for the holy day.

Looks like I’m straying off topic though. The mirror in the clothing department was long behind me. But once that film starts playing in my mind, it keeps running. I now saw Heinie the Hobo in every smooth surface. In cleaned-out metal shelves, in polished cooking pots, and of course the screens of the most expensive flat TVs. Especially since those screens weren’t matted like in the old days, when I still used to watch. Now they had glass panels that almost were as reflective as a mirror. I guess this is owed to the fact that the owners of these devices like to look at themselves more than anything else. In this regard, and also a more general one, television is kind of an embodiment for my dropping out. Right, I am neither mentally challenged nor depressive nor did I have to live through some kind of tragedy. I just had enough of all that bullshit. The so-called society. Next super model, big brother and bigots got talent. How people let down their pants just to lead a life like some poster person. Or work their asses off so others can get rich and fat off them. And then those poor workers pile up debts and mortgages to make their life look just a little fraction as posh as that of the people they made wealthy.

Even the radio permanently screams at you with crazy frogs, DJ Bullshit and whatnot. TV and radio, that was what I got rid of first. Next, I got allergic to politicians… those corrupt bastards. Why should I put my life into their service? Work, pay the rent, medical insurance and some imaginary pension fund? If I do that, I’ll drop dead at 70 from all that stress anyway. No, thanks. That’s not for Heinie the Hobo.

Woah, what’s that stench all of a sudden? Way too bad for a rat’s nest. To be honest, I don’t even want to know. Seems to come from the toy department. There’s nothing for me there anyway. It’s all just propaganda for the little ones… they’re supposed to spend their childhood playing to be grown-ups. That’s just wrong.

Anyway, that’s all in the past now. The infected managed to do more damage than both of the world wars. They kicked mankind back into pre-civilisation, and in record time, too. On my last tour before Day X I had started to notice something was in the air. Literally. People were running around with breathing masks. There were less people on the streets than usual, and those who were out seemed totally stressed out. The most awkward thing was, I had the feeling I was being looked at all of a sudden. But not in the way I had hoped for. Suspicious stares of the offensive kind all around. And soon I knew, why. They thought I was one of them.

First, I had my three weeks off though, so I didn’t really follow what happened next. How things started to escalate. Funnily enough, that was also the time when I discovered gardening as my new hobby. So we’d have something fresh to eat for a change, not all that chemically and genetically treated plastic stuff from the containers. So I shelled out my savings for some seeds at the local home store. Worked pretty well, too, especially considering that it was already quite cold. With a lot of dedication, I managed to see the first sprouts grow after a while. The others already told me that something was going on in the city, that somehow there is a mood of anxiousness. The other day I was gonna head out to get some covers for the plants, to get them ready for the frost. And then, all hell broke loose. People with luggage running about, crying people, holding on to their phones in sheer panic. The streets blocked, sirens, squealing tyres, screams and car crashes.

Of course I turned back right away. None of my business. Especially not when the police are involved. Well. They won’t be involved in anything for a long time now. But honestly, I don’t miss them.

That evening, it even got worse. Sirens all the time, smoke in the skies. From our station, we only see a tiny window of Berlin. But then I noticed: there weren’t any trains anymore! Normally, there is the rattling of the city lines every two to five minutes. And when a high speed ICE goes by once or twice an hour, you feel the vibrations in your whole body. Now, there was nothing. I listened into the silence, and once I jumped up and headed for the tracks, the others joined me. I stopped right in the middle of the tracks and looked north. And I could hardly believe my eyes: in the distance, the whole Potsdamer Platz, one of Berlin’s commercial centres, was in flames. A huge pile of smoke rose up, and it almost looked like a mushroom cloud. In addition, there were helicopters and of course the ever-present sirens. Suddenly, I realised that I stood there with an open mouth, and I looked away. The others were as touched as myself. Don’t get me wrong, I never was very fond of that yuppie’s wet dream of steel and glass. It went as well with Berlin as a splinter in an eye. But this was too much, it was just horrible. A sickening sight. Well, and Hottie didn’t come home that day. Sure, we did call him Hottie among ourselves. I never saw him again.

It’s pretty obvious that he just had bad luck, he must’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because as strange as it may sound: Us homeless people were off best. No matter how crazy the infected were, no matter what that virus did to their brains, no matter how many memories and abilities are erased – they still ignore us pretty much the same. I can’t really say if it’s just the smell. My theory is, looking away when a hobo comes into view is so deeply embedded in their subconscious that it’s almost genetical. Even the hardest bacillus or parasite isn’t able to get it out. And this is what kind of turned the world upside down for us. Those who had lost everything now had won the most precious prize of them all: life.

The infected are berzerkers. They come after everyone who isn’t up on a tree on by a count of three, they bite their own women and children. Whoever survives such an attack, turns into one of them in a matter of hours. No surprise they had been multiplying like rabbits. Especially in places where most people are. In the beginning, many went to hospitals or police stations, thinking they’d be safe there. Big mistake. Within the day, all those places were packed, and crowds like these are a feast to the infected. I don’t even want to think about it. The rule “many people equals many infected” was true everywhere, as we had guessed from seeing that inferno at Potsdamer Platz.

Another death trap: Cars. Fortunately, over here there isn’t a gun store on every corner like in the USA. But cars can be lethal just the same. People just went nuts and thought once they’d escaped the city, they’d be safe. Everyone had that idea though, so there were accidents everywhere and people just got run over. At some intersections, there are regular car pyramids now, with bodies rotting away inside, below and all around them. Just bad.

For us at the station, the situation is almost the exact opposite. There are no people on train tracks, everything is practically sealed off. For just that reason; to block access to the tracks so no-one gets run over. Sure, you could jump off the platform at a station to get here, but the stations were locked down pretty early. And the diligent railroad employees really know how to lock up their stations… in order to keep the homeless out. Oh the irony!

For us, that meant we just had to board up the hole in our fence and we were left in peace. Well, not literally of course, it was more like we were in a war zone. Sirens, screams and even gunshots 24/7, until things calmed down after about a week. Until then, we really didn’t have any information on what exactly is going on. But if you hear what we heard, believe me, you don’t wanna know. We were glad that this was none of our business.

On the day after it all began, now known as Day X, Trudie and Wollie had even tried to look for Hottie. They had to turn back after a couple of meters though, it was just too dangerous. I think Trudie felt guilty for weeks after we realised that we’d never see Hottie again. Sometimes, we got visits from friends who also lived on the streets. You see, our station was pretty well known among “our kind”, at least in local terms. That way, we got to hear some news and details of what was going on. There even were rumours that the city was supposed to be bombed! From then on, we got a little nervous when we saw jets or helicopters in the sky. Honestly though, I’m not really afraid of the Grim Reaper. I haven’t got much to lose, and more importantly, no people I care about or ones that would terribly miss me. It must be horrible when you have kids and you know, you won’t be able to look after them any longer. Even if they’ve already grown up and everything else is fine… I imagine it still is pretty hard, thinking that you won’t see them get older and develop, won’t know how their lives will play out. But for myself? Well. Once I’m dead, I won’t be there anymore, and that’s it then. No more pain, no more sorrow. Someone smart once said, being dead is just like before you were born. And I can’t say that was a bad time for me. Okay, it’s a bit of a crazy mind game to try and imagine how you “felt” before you were born or even conceived. Still it’s comforting to realise that it didn’t hurt, and thus, I’m not really afraid of being dead.

This is way I was the first to volunteer when our provisions were coming to an end. Crazy times, seeing all those bodies and all that misery. At the same time, I felt some kind of twisted feeling of empowerment, as we had survived all this shit. Hard to describe. Somehow, we turned from rags to riches in a way. From dropout losers to the kings of Berlin. But mainly, the whole thing was scary and dangerous. When some infected man came running at me screaming for the first time, my heart missed more than a beat. A couple meters before he had reached me, he slowed down all of a sudden, eventually slowed down and then turned away. As if he had suddenly realised I’m not edible. Maybe it really was because our smell wasn’t entirely unlike rotting flesh, like Trudie once pointed out. After we had observed this behaviour a couple of times, we toughened up enough to have some fun with the infected. When a horde of them came down the street, we sat down cross-leggedly, put our hats in front of us and pretended to be begging. Those zombies went by us without looking, just like old times. Like their minds were completely focussed on their zombie plans, zombie jobs and zombie shopping lists. Same old zombies. Only that now, they even looked like zombies – torn up, covered in blood and drooling. Oh well. Maybe it’s not as funny if you haven’t tried it yourself. Before and after, I mean.

Still, in the beginning, we had to be really careful. Food and all that stuff was free for the taking now, as most doors and windows had already been smashed in by looters. Trudie and Wollie chickened out though, they didn’t dare to go inside those dark shops. They preferred to clean out cars. Most of them were also packed with lots of goods, cause their owners tried to flee without getting very far. I didn’t like taking stuff from cars, because there always were lots of personal items – and also bodies. Even kids, sometimes. That’s why I preferred to rely on my instincts and loot those dysfunct temples of commerce. Well, actually, I have to rephrase that. You have to ignore your instincts in order to survive. Cause when you’re alone in the dark, the most natural thing would be to hide in the shadows, stay close to walls and cover. The lesson here is: that is exactly where hurt or starving infected are! When they’re low on batteries, they can sit or lie around for days without even moving. And when they’re close to starvation and you run directly into their arms, they will probably take a bite, no matter how bad you smell.

Being silent isn’t too clever either. They won’t know you’re there, but you won’t know where they are, either. That’s why I throw around some stuff first thing, and if nothing happens, I know that I am alone.

If this is not the case, things can still get messy. As I said, most of them come running and turn away on the last couple of meters. There is no telling how desperate they are, so I now have my trusted machete at the ready. Once, I split a guy’s skull at one arm length away. It wasn’t pretty. But according to my statistic, that means 99 of a hundred infected don’t even come that close. Some of them even let themselves fall to the floor once they’ve taken in my smell, and then lie there completely motionlessly. After all, those freaks are also made of flesh and blood. They don’t have to drink as much as regular people, but I’ve seen some of them even eat grass. That doesn’t do them too much good though, from our observations of trapped specimens, they are dead after four to six weeks without any fresh meat. Yes, we once locked one up in a phone booth and checked upon him every other day. That may sound gruesome, but we had to know. And he didn’t seem to get out by himself, anyway. Besides, it’s pretty hard to feel any kind of empathy towards them. They’d eat their own kids after all. Even if I have to say, some of those yuppies from the old days weren’t that much better. Those banker types are cannibals anyway, with our without deadly viruses.

Now all of this is coming to an end. I haven’t seen any freak for weeks. At night, you hear the odd one howling. On the other hand, the city itself is coming apart. Everything is starting to crumble, nature is taking back its place. Most of the resources are gone, which brings us to the reason for today’s shopping trip. I have arrived at the gardening department. And it’s a jackpot, there still are loads of seeds on the shelves. Let’s see… most of it is after it’s “use by” date, but that doesn’t really matter. I don’t have to take everything, after all, it doesn’t cost me more than a smile. So I grin contently at my own face, which is reflected on a polished flower pot. How long have I been in here now? Let’s say, fifteen minutes since I looked into that mirror. And the whole time, that film in my head has been playing. As if I had to explain myself to someone, as if I had to confess anything. That feeling of guilt is embedded deep within my soul. It has been forced upon me even in my childhood days. And through my lifestyle, if you want to call it that, it has gotten worse. Still, I hope it will change rather sooner than later. Maybe a couple of weeks, and there will be no one left, except for Trudie, Wolli and me. Once I planted all those seeds from this store here, the whole track bed will be a huge garden. Now, there are much simpler rules and values than before. And eventually, this will really sink into this stubborn head of mine. Then, I will finally be able to look into a mirror and see nothing but a human being. Someone who is at peace with himself.

DAWN OF THE DISCONNECT

By Kilian Manning

When I looked up at State Security Tower, I heard the sirens wailing. Of course, none of the other passengers on the Magtrain heard them. That sound was part of an intro piece on my internal playlist. I blinked my lids to bring up the music controls. Yeah, it was a track by Nanji The Conqueror. I kinda liked his hard-edged retro sound, but this intro was a problem. In between the sirens there was way too much silence – a silence that was cut by the eternal clattering of my neuro implants and skull mods. While others hardly minded what they called "background noise", it had a tendency to drive me insane. And this has been going on for almost ninety years now. The surgentists said my thick, hard skull was to blame. I guess that's fair, seeing the amount of nose it's broken and the pieces of shrapnel it deflected every now and then. So, yeah. Being a bit more sensitive when it comes to cranial repercussions was worth being alive any day. Still, that arrhythmical cluttering really got on my nerves.

At last, I was saved from that nuisance by some aggressively hissing hi-hats. What a relief. My neuroscanners registered my appreciation and immediately, my Hud was flooded with ads for Nanjis new album and some venues he was going to play soon. My god, that guy was a dinosaur. He must be pushing hundred now, and still living the life of the club. With those nasty drug habits, I think he was one of the first VIPs to have every internal organ modded or replaced. What a bitney. I took a lot of pride in the fact that I still had my original heart.

A message from Taggart brought my attention back to the problem at hand.

"How much longer?" - "Almost there", I replied instantly. A split-second later, I noticed something weird. The emo-tag of that message felt alarmed, even worried. I didn't think I'd ever see a job that had Taggart worried. Now I wondered if that pile of junk couldn't go faster.

GET YOUR OWN PERSONAL SPINNER! Refurbished VolksAudi XOX2600 to 9000 series, fresh from the shop! Average energy consumption only...

I blipped that friggin' ad away. Even came with audio, how annoying. The thing that struck me as the most weird was that someone still had a budget to advertise personal spinners. People mostly stayed at home these days. I looked around the Magtrain, hardly any business here either. Just a handful of pale faces were sitting around me, their eyelids closed, while their eyeballs played tennis. The gearhead sitting closest to me, which was two rows away, even drooled. I wondered if he ran a sex app. COME GET YOUR PIPE CLEANED AT - - - grud dammit, I hated these neuro blipverts. That did it, I flicked over to the marketplace to finally get the update for Vertblock. UNSUPPORTED OS DETECTED. AUTOMATIC UPDATE INITIATED FOR SECURITY R - - -

I cancelled the transfer immediately. Damn. That was the same thing that had happened the last time my mind somehow drifted to thoughts of naked ladies. Must've been some ten years ago. On top of that, my only experience with an erostim server was a huge disappointment. They promised to fulfil your wildest dreams without a need to reveal them – just by running a low-security neuroscan. I must admit, being chased by bouncing ten-foot gazongas which hosed me down with breast milk was kind of interesting, but still they were wrong about me. Probably ‘cause I'm pretty old school when it comes to personal security. I used to manually clean up all my prints until I eventually set the cache to read-only. Really, there was no need to have any AI read every wish from my memory banks. I could still speak.

Looking at the people in the cab again, I wasn't sure if they could. That one overpainted cozzie-girl certainly could not, since her mouth was stitched shut. A sloppy job if you ask me, but to her, that was probably a statement. At least using actual thread and needle, it would be much cheaper to reverse the effect, should she ever choose to do so. The two lazers on the last bench certainly had it easier. But their hardware cost more – a personal full-body projection system didn't come cheap. I must admit, it was kind of interesting to watch the ever changing rorschach-like patterns in their faces. Zooming in a couple of notches, I could see that one of them had some bruises on his temple. The crusted blood looked quite fresh. Lucky his hardware didn't break. He probably got in a fight with some Opies. Man, I could've told them. When the government passed that bill to genetically remove all signs of race and origin, I just new that people would start beating each other up over different kind of shit. Now they all had these greyish, featureless faces that needed to be jazzed up with all kinds of mods and paint to give them some identity. Okay, at least they could choose which fad they wanted to follow now, but hate and violence never ended.

If it had, I wouldn't be sitting here right now.

Finally, I had reached my stop. Leaping out of the half-stopped train, I realised the rain was much stronger than I had anticipated. It seemed like Climate Control had to ramp up the battle against air pollution once again. It was pretty much pouring.

I ran down the pedway and up the stairs to the security tower. The doors slid open, but the lobby was deserted as usual. Only one processing queue was open, and I recognized a new face. Or rather, didn't recognise. It was a rather young bloke in uniform, all those palefaces looked alike. FACEMATCH – YOUR OWN PERSONAL - - - No thanks. I wonder if that even was the point. Uniformed faces, to take away your individuality. At least from the analogue side of things. Everything else could be controlled.

"Sir! I'm gonna have to ask you to stop right there! This is a high-security area! Unpredictable movement can be met with lethal force.”

"Yeah son... I’ve known the rules for quite some time now."

I projected my badge into my open palm. My social UI immediately registered a slight dilation of his pupils when he saw the four-digit registration number.

"I'm sorry, sir. Please allow me to store your biometric data for future reference."

"Sure". I further extended my hand as I reached the checkpoint, and he grabbed it. As soon as the statports on our fingertips had connected, I saw his data. Robert Snyder, he was an actual street cop from the 13th precinct.

"Filling in?" I asked. No wonder that guy hadn't seen my portrait in the justice floor gallery.

"Yes, Sir... transferred this morning. Apparently, there have been a couple of unsuspected leaves". His eyes twitched in the exact instant I got another message from Taggart. "Mr. Taggart is awaiting you in his office, Sir. It appears to be urgent."

RICKERS! WHAT IN GRUD'S NAME IS KEEPING YOU?!?

"So it would seem", I nodded as politely as I could. I walked through the scanner quickly, causing a cascade of red lights and annoying sounds. I guess in ten years’ time Nanji could put those into a new song of his. Now, they weren't retro enough yet.

"...Sir?!?" the warden stammered. I just waved without looking back:

"We'd better not keep the old man waiting any longer!"

After waving my Bioprint in front of the VIP lift to no avail, I took the normal elevator to the top floor. Ms. Raychild, Taggart's head secretary, was already standing in the office doorway. "In here, quick!" she practically shoved me into the executive lobby where Taggart and a younger colleague were looking at some screens. The setup looked like some improvised situation room.

Ms Raychild cleared her throat, and Taggart spun around on his heel. "Gruddamn hell, Rick, it's about time! The heat is on!"

"You could've flown me in if it's that important", I grumbled.

"This whole situation totally blew over in the last hour, and how am I supposed to know a friggin Magtrain takes so long!"

Without saying a word, I zapped the current Magtrain schedule onto one of his screens. All of a sudden, the younger colleague who had completely ignored me up to this point, almost jumped at me.

"HOW DID YOU DO THAT?!?"

He was completely unnerved. "One of the benefits of being on the force for a couple of decades", I grinned. The guy's jaw dropped and he turned to Taggart. "As I said, he's the man we need", the chief said drily.

"Now wait a minute, Sir. You can't be serious! There are people running around who still have protocols for direct tunneling? That… I mean… I can't even… That's almost worse than those friggin' ZOMBIES!"

"Shut up, Justin! This is neither the place, nor the time. We have to contain this situation ASAP. There is no one else who can do this."

The boy immediately fell silent, but I knew he would get back to this. I was a little worried that I'd have to part with my trusty Operating System 104 in the near future. Still, there was another bit of information that seemed more pressing.

"Did you really say ZOMBIES just now?", I exclaimed. Taggart cleared his throat. "Erm, yeah, well… Guys, maybe it's best if we just start over. Let me do the introductions: Marian Treadway Rickers, the last Skullscout on the force."

"Marian?" the boy stammered with a faked smile. But his current rush of excitement had already been detected by my sensors. "Call me Rick", I said firmly while I casually flipped back my collar, so the skull emblem with the number 104 on the forehead was revealed. Now, his eyes were getting so big that I didn't even need any sensors to notice. He just eyeballed me in sheer terror, and I stared him down out of pure habit. Then, I extended my hand to finally let him off the hook.

"Right, and here we have Justin Snyder, one of our brightest in Counterterrorism". Taggart had come to the rescue. I raised an eyebrow at that last name. "Snyder, huh?"

The data that had been sent in the handshake made it clear that there was no relation to that other greyface down in the hall. They looked friggin' similar to me though.

Taggart raised his voice. “Well, this whole operation is about…” – “Cyber-terrorism”, I interrupted. “Obviously”, he said slightly irritated, “but to be more precise...”

This time, it was an alarm sound that cut him off. He took a quick glance at the screens, then he ran around his desk all of a sudden. “We probably have to make this short.”

He took a wooden box out of a drawer and pushed it in my direction. “What is THAT supposed to mean, Sir?” Snyder protested. “We don’t have time for discussions. Rick, you have to head out there right now, I will explain everything else on the - - -”

Another alarm sound, this time it seemed to be coming from sirens in the hallway. Another really annoying eardrum-blaster.

“What the hell”, exclaimed Taggart, “does this mean they’re already inside the building?”

“No, Sir”, Snyder said with a twinge of panic, “they’re already on this floor.”

Now Taggart pulled the wooden box towards his chest because a high-pitched scream was heard from the lobby – followed by a continuous and very strange sounding screeching sound. The three of us simultaneously headed towards the reception. Two men in torn business suits had grabbed Ms Raychild and were ripping her clothes off. One of them had grabbed the back of her head and pushed her down, to the level of his waist, while the other one lay on the floor and sucked on her fingertips. Chopped, synchronised movements rippled through their bodies like waves. Looked like they were having an orgy. But it wasn’t rape, as everyone still had their relevant body parts covered. The fact that I had already pulled out my fazer and was about to shoot only came to my conscious mind when Taggart pushed me aside. In situations like this, my body was faster than my mind, but now I realised what was going on: Snyder had started to sprint and was now tackling the man who had been standing. Who had thought he had it in him?

I also started towards the group, holstering my weapon. I saw how the man was now wrestling with Snyder covered his opponent’s face with widely spread fingers, as if he was attempting to cover his eyes, ears and mouth with just one hand. Snyder yelped. With a strangely distorted voice he wailed “Protocol… overwrite… hackers!!!” and all of a sudden, the four of them limply dropped to the floor. Snyder twitched a little and stared at me. He was drooling. I slowed down and made eye contact with Taggart, hoping for some kind of explanation. Suddenly, I detected a sudden jump of stress indicators with him. But before I realised what was going on, Snyder had grabbed me by the throat. He had jumped up from his lying position without warning. Now he was screaming, trying to cover my face with his hand. The force of the impact made me tip over, but during the fall I was able to block his grabbing attacks with my lower arms. Then my back hit the floor without any kind of damping. My fazer slid out of its holster and across the polished floor. Meanwhile I had grabbed Snyder by his ankles, but he was surprisingly strong. I wondered if he used muscle stims or even implants? Damn, he would gain the upper hand in a matter of seconds. And in my peripheral vision I registered that the other men were also about to get up. Where the hell was Taggart?

A deafening bang answered my question. Snyder’s face turned into red mist. His lifeless body fell limply onto mine. With a reflexive motion triggered by sheer repulsion, I pushed him away and turned onto my stomach at the same time in order to get a look at Taggart. He stood there with open legs, the wooden box at his feed. The lid had broken off and lay next to the box, along with a red silk handkerchief. In his extended arms Taggart held a long, silver pipe. Gruddammit. That was a Smith & Wesson Model 629 with a 8⅜ inch barrel. Calibre 44 Magnum. I crawled forwards as Snyder’s lower body still lay heavy on my legs. Looked like the Anti-Cyber-Terrorism Unit had lost it’s brightest head. Literally. That meant I didn’t have to worry about losing my Operating System 104 anymore.

“Thanks, boss!” I gasped, but Taggarts smile disappeared from his face quite suddenly. Because now, it was Ms. Raychild’s turn to come after him, screaming. He spun around and one-handedly fired a magnum at the same time, but the hard blowback made him miss by a mile. He lost his balance and staggered backwards, so Ms. Raychild was able to press him against the wall. I had the feeling bolts of lighting were shooting from her eyes – I was probably still dizzy from the attack as well as that second shot, which had seemed even louder than the first and still rang in my ears. AUTOMATIC VOLUME MATCH my music-UI blurted and cranked the dubstep loop that was currently running to an uncomfortable level. WUB WUB WUB it echoed through my skull, while I was frenetically kicking at Snyder’s body so I could break free and reach my fazer.

In the meantime Taggart had slid down on his butt while wrestling his secretary. Helplessly, he waved the huge gun around. Analysis of his wrist motion showed he must have had suffered a muscle injury from firing it without support. All of a sudden this monster’s barrel pointed uncomfortably in my direction, and another shot rang out. Blood was splattered on the floor right in front of me, but as far as I could tell, it was none of my own. Now I could see in my peripheral vision that one of the office workers had hit the ground. That moment of surprise must have triggered my bionics, ‘cause with my next kick Snyder’s remains were sent flying a couple of meters and I was finally free.

Once again, my body had taken control. As I caught a glance of the twitching mass of bodies belonging to Taggart and Raychild, my idle conscience wondered if they had ever secretly hit it off. At the same time I must have done a forward roll, picking up my fazer mid-air. Upon landing I shot the second office guy, frying all his circuits, then I slid around 180 degrees on my ass and placed another precision shot in the back of Ms Raychild’s head. The impact of the electromagnetic wave threw her against the wall. Unfortunately, she kept a tight grip on Taggart so he was also shaken by the pretty hard impact. He groaned loudly while Ms Taggart collapsed.

After a short moment of disorientation, I jumped to my feet and reached Taggart in three long strides. His eyes were closed and he stank of fried nose hairs. “Taggart! Can you hear me?!?”, I shouted and shook him by the shoulders. Slowly, he opened his eyes. “Grud damned Rick, never do that again. Ever!”

I shrugged apologetically while Taggart rolled his eyeballs. “Friggin‘ hell”, he mumbled, “my UI is totally shot and I can’t even contact the mainframe!”

“You want me to call IT for you”, I said, but Taggart just gave me a puzzled look. Then he pointed his head towards the hallway. I could hear screams, breaking glass and sirens from there. I could see his point.

“Listen, you gotta leave right away. As you can see, the terrorists wrote a very effective virus. We have a rough idea of their whereabouts, the shor algorithm is still running. You still got me on your comms?”

I had switched over before he even had finished his sentence, now I heard him twice. “Yup, works. So there’s still a change you won’t even have to go under the knife!”

“Let’s think about that later. For now, I’ll just hardwire into the mainframe.”

He picked up the .44 and slammed the handle onto the tip of his left index finger, which snapped off with a cracking sound. “The damn thing is always stuck”, he explained and pulled a nano-cable out of his finger. “You’ll have to go to the slums. I’ll update you on the way.”

I was just about to turn away, when Taggart waved his elephant gun in front of my face. “You’ll need this.”

A little nervous I looked over at Snyder, whose former head was spread across the black marble floor in the shape of a red pickled triangle. “The terrorists are probably bios. You won’t get very far with that fazer of yours!”

Somehow this whole thing got stranger by the minute, but Taggart had another ace up his sleeve: “Take my spinner.”

“What?!?”, I gasped, “I gave up my licence over 25 years ago!”

“Yeah, and traffic accidents have declined ever since. But we have no choice now. Go ahead, the computer will handle it. I’ll send you the start code right away. Get going!”

I shook my head, which also stopped the annoying ads for flying lessons that were currently popping up on my HUD, then I jumped up and started running. The elevators were blocked because the building was in lockdown, and the sirens were still screaming at full volume. I ran to the end of the hallway, noticing that papertablets, pieces of torn clothing and broken coffee mugs were scattered everywhere. I kicked down the door to the staircase. What a mess. I practically threw myself down the 28 floors to the middle parking deck, then Taggart called. “Are you under attack?”

“No, why?”

“Because you’re breathing so heavily!”

“I’m not seventy any longer”, I gasped and jumped through the door of the parking deck. The supposedly bullet-proof glass panels covered the floor with a million little shards. There must have been an explosion, a couple spinners were on fire. In the pouring rain. “You got the codes alright?”, Taggart screamed into my ear. START CODES VERIFIED, my UI blurted and I followed the markings on my HUD in order to find Taggart’s ride. I remotely opened the door and jumped in. “South city slums!”, I barked, but the spinner’s AI knew better. INVALID LOCATION, RESTRICTED AREA. “Okay, south city then. Take off!”, I yelled.

The engines wailed and we gained altitude, doors still open. What kind of a shitty ride was this? I pulled at the door handle as I was being sprayed with rain. GET YOUR OWN SPINNER! Refurbished - - - Jack and shit, won’t this ever stop?

“Taggart, I have no clearance for the slums! What the hell is this crap?”

“New anti-terror protocols, Justin’s work.” – “And those also apply to Heads of State Security? May he rest in pieces.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll have the whole thing looked over. Alright, permission granted!”

“Slums!” I said once again, and the spinner adjusted its course. When the curtain of skyscrapers moved to the side to make way for the majestic vista of the city, I was impressed for a moment. A pretty short moment, cause I knew: It was a shithole.

We were just passing Harrod’s Skyway. Down there, all hell had broken loose. People were running, stumbling, falling on top of each other, tearing each other’s clothes off and seemingly fucking their brains out. Well. They definitely fucked up their brains. Which made me wonder, what happened to their souls when they had all their memory banks wiped? LOOKING FOR A MEANING? ASK GURU BRAHMI - - - Grud and thunderstorm! When you were downtown, you really couldn’t think about anything without being swamped by commercials.

Well, okay, I’ll admit it. I changed my ad-block settings because of that porn thing back when. Then they rolled out the huge SocialTec-Update, which I couldn’t install due to my Operating System 104. Since then, the ad-blocking just won’t reactivate. Of course, I couldn’t bear going to the IT guys to have that shit fixed. Was way too embarrassing. All in all, a stupid situation. Still maybe that experience with the towering and showering boobies was worth it.

While I was still busy blinking away the ads of the nearest lactate professionals, the spinner abruptly brought me back to reality. It made such a brutal dodge move that I almost puked up my nutrigel. We had just evaded a crashing hoverbike by a matter of inches. As the spinner was still tilted to the side, I could perfectly follow the smoke trail of the burning bake and saw it crash into a housing complex. It went out in some kind of smoky blue blaze. Those piezo batteries really burned like hell. The spinner was back on its course now, but the view through the front window gave me the next shock: The DeutschGeld-Tower stood in flames! Those terrorists had really scored big.

“Are you sure they are bios? From the slums?”, I asked into the comms.

“Yeah, we should have their exact location in a matter of minutes.”

“No, I mean, they have to be absolute code wizards… without any implants? Also, they’d need state of the art hardware for a hack like this. How did they get hold of quantum processors?”

“The black market, where do you think? And who cares anyway, you can see what’s going on here. Set your landing coordinates to Nevsky Prospect. An E-Swat team should be there to welcome you.”

I logged the address into the spinner and after the course was adjusted, I wondered how close these things were allowed to fly next to buildings these days. Or maybe it just seemed as if I was close because the owners had put so many AR-overlays over the facades. Of course, there were lots of ads, but the general appearance of the buildings was also improved by virtual projections. Obviously, this was much cheaper than 10.000 buckets of fresh paint. This thought gave me an idea.

“What if it is just a cover-up, a distraction?”, I asked Taggart.

“Leave that to our strategists. The only thing that matters right now is that you secure the terrorists data and upload it as quickly as possible. Then we can finally put an end to this madness, every second counts!”

Now this game of word associations got out of hand. At the exact moment Taggart said “put an end to this”, I noticed we were heading straight for a massive obstruction. The spinner was aiming at a gap between a bridge and a skywalk, it was just that said bridge was blocked by a massive jumbo-truck. Bolts of blue lighting were cracking all over the vehicle, he had probably hit a cable tree. The electromagnetic discharge was obviously making the truck invisible to the spinner’s sensors.

“MANUAL CONTROL” I screamed while I grabbed the control stick. That was exactly the kind of shit I had not been in the mood for. I pulled up as hard as I could and managed to just barely scrape over the truck. Unfortunately, the angle was so steep so that I then hit the skywalk. Embers rained down onto the panoramic window as a big portion of the roof was being ripped off. I tried to stabilise the spinner but this is quite difficult when rain is hitting your face at about 60 miles an hour, not to mention the ice-cold air. I ducked behind the dashboard and set a barely tolerable drop rate, not noticing that my planned course was leading right through a dense stream of delivery drones. I scooped up two or three of those things and had almost received a new haircut from a pair of orange rotors. The fountain of sparks coming out of the left frontal engine were probably an indication that some debris must have hit the turbine. Another cascade of warning sounds screamed in my ears. I was just barely able to shout “emergency landing!”, breaking out the air cushion at the very last moment. It was definitely less than a second since the force of the impact made the cushion explode when it was only about half deployed. Finally I puked up my breakfast jelly.

I’m absolutely positive I never threw up as easily like this before. BAM. The spinner hit the ground and at exactly that moment an extremely compact fountain of liquid shot out of my mouth, almost like a bubble. Still in shock I automatically wiped my mouth – but it was completely dry. The goo had formed a triangular shape on the spinner’s hood and I had to think of Snyder for a moment there. It was only when I took the first few shaky steps out of the spinner that I noticed the evil ring in my skull. A tinnitus from hell. But as soon as Nanji’s beat adjusted to its pitch, it sounded kind of interesting.

“Tagg, I trashed your ride”, I croaked while I tried to get my bearings on the HUD. “Fuck it” was the plain answer I got, “at least you’ve got solid ground under your feet. You’re in South City already. Just continue straight ahead. See that intersection?”

I started running when something hit the pavement next to me. Probably another part of the spinner or a delivery drone. No, it was twitching and it was… a person! I looked up: there was a person on a balcony screaming for help. Now others stormed through the door, the balcony was packed in a matter of seconds and some kind of brawl ensued. Soon after the railing broke away and the crowd came crashing down, screaming. I really had no time for shit like this and tried to get MedEvac. All channels were full, though. I really had to run. But after all, I still had my original heart, so I took a couple of steps towards the groaning pile of bodies. Suddenly, someone jumped out and landed right on their feet – just like Snyder had done. I drew my fazer on instinct but now the creature did something unexpected. It held its hand towards the sky with its fingers spread apart and screamed from the top of its lungs. It was a strangely metallic sounding scream with overtones that reminded me of an ancient A/D-converter. This tone hit some kind of resonance with me, my UI flickered for a second. I didn’t even want to know what would happen next, so I just pulled the trigger. The freak made an involuntary backflip and didn’t get back up again.

Now I had really lost all remaining motivation to give any kind of medical assistance. Turned out I was in deep shit myself. That scream must have been some kind of roll call, as doors and windows flew open everywhere and people came running, screaming. I holstered the fazer and started a bionic run of my own. Through my mechanical augmentations, I soon had some comfortable distance between myself and those weirdos. Their frenetic screams attracted more and more of their fellow assholes though. Plus it gave me a headache. I turned the volume of the music up. TWANGwangwangwangwang, a nice reso-synth-arpeggio, matching my running speed.

While I rushed down the street Taggart had indicated, I saw destruction everywhere – and wildly twitching and humping people. From time to time squealing, obviously uninfected individuals crossed my path. As sorry as I felt for them, I was also relieved to see them distract my pursuers for a couple seconds. Now I got another geo-marker from Taggart and turned a sharp right. I jumped over some hydrochannels which should hopefully give me some space. I thought. But when I came by a supermarket, all the glass doors burst into pieces and a horde of freaks came pouring out. Friggin’ hell!

Fortunately I had an idea. I turned into a small alley and scanned for electromagnetic impulses. And there it was, a power node. I ran past the humming switch box, then I turned around and fired. A huge bolt of blue lightning shot out and branched onto any conductive surface. Including the unfortunate front line of streaker freaks, of course. When I looked back I saw that an actual road block of bodies had piled up. Everything twitched and flashed, there was no getting through. But what was this now? All the street lights faded (died away) in a rain of embers. Next the housing blocks went dark. I must’ve hit a main branch there!

After I had almost crashed into a rat’s nest, I switched to infrared and rushed on. Something was wrong with the sensor though ‘cause I had a lot of dropouts and felt disorientated. I ran through a labyrinth of narrow alleys, always following the geo-marker. The rain had faded away by now and a fog was rising. It seemed to be getting thicker with every step I took.

“Got my boys on the screen yet?” I heard Taggart ask. “negative”, I panted, “everything is pitch black!”

“What about the Cop-IDs?”, Taggart pondered. There was nothing though. Nil, nada, niente.

“The MCC should be on your right!” and that was true. The truck containing the mobile command centre was sitting on a small market square. And there was movement. I added thermal vision and indeed – the distinct, bulky silhouette of an eSWAT uniform was clearly recognisable. So why would those cops not appear marked on my hud? The answer was clear as day but I only got it when the first power-glove was almost wrapped around my throat. The whole squad was coming at me, as they were all infected.

I barely managed to draw my fazer before the sergeant’s chest plate bumped into me. I pressed the barrel against his chin and realised at the last moment that I’d stun myself for a couple of seconds if I pulled the trigger now. And with the other brutes behind their leader, that would be the end of me. Now the sergeant let off that deafening scream and his men chimed in.

My escape reflex was just the right thing. As I let myself fall onto my back, I had the idea to solve this in a very classical manner. From the ground I gave the sergeant a hard kick behind his jockstrap. The sudden modulation of his scream indicated that I had hit the sweet spot. I fired a double overload through his legs and hit the guy behind him. Some bolts of lightning arced onto the sergeant as well as the following squad members. I performed a nice, clean backwards roll and roasted the last remaining eSWATter. Today they really honoured the “e” in their name. Drokkheads.

The geo-marker flashed and I knew I had to run. First, I pilfered a couple of fazer batteries off the smoldering bodies. I’d really need those very soon. By now I was running through the suburbs which still had power. Still the street lights were dim and couldn’t compete with the screamingly ugly AR-styles of the shabby family homes. It seems that “individualisation” was an all important topic in this neighbourhood, and - - - TRAILER TIFFIE’S ECLECTIC EMPORIUM OFFERS DISCOUNTS ON - - - yeah, yeah, I’m sure most of the residents here are regulars at Tiffie’s, as shitty as everything looked around here. Holiday-Huts, Comic-Condos and Pixel Palaces… and I was just about to meet the inhabitants of these creatively designed homes sooner than I would have liked to. After the first twitching freaks had seen me, there was another concerto screamo followed by a mass marathon.

At full speed, I shot a couple of triples into the tightest groups, disabling four to five of the suckers a hit. Drops in a bucket, as more and more of them kept coming. My legs had been reporting cooling problems for a while now, so I had to fumble in my pants to attach one of the fazer batteries as an additional power source. Once I had passed the next intersection, there were hardly any AR-overlays anymore and I realised where I was going. Another block later the lighting got even more sporadic. A quick look over my shoulder confirmed that most of my followers were slowing down as well. The reason was obvious: I had reached the outer limits of network coverage.

“Taggart, I’m gonna go dark soon!”, I panted. But the comms only returned some kind of high-pitched granular synthesis. Another entry in the long list of nerve-shattering acoustic signals I had the pleasure of sampling for the first time in my life on this very day.

I approached the end of the road at an easy pace. Using thermal vision, I examined the shabby houses. Damn obvious no-one was living here. Way too close to the slums. All those lots probably belonged to speculators who were waiting for the day the Bios would be pushed back another couple of miles.

Now I had almost reached the border and zoomed in on the fence. There was a clean-cut hole. Looks like those terrorists had no intention to cover their tracks. I slowed down and activated foot fall suppression. Silently, I closed in on the last house in the street. And there it was: slowly, a shade of dark red began to flicker on thermal. As I got closer it moved from crimson to orange to yellow, giving away a human silhouette. The person was sitting down, working a keyboard or tablet. The contours of two walls were visible faintly, the only thing between him and me. I was almost at the front door now, the hacker probably sat in the living room. The strength of his heat signature meant that there were no solid obstacles in the way.

I pulled out the .44. Taggart’s orders had been clear. I only had to make sure that the terrorist wouldn’t have time to erase his data. I considered aiming for the head. But what if the bullet would be diverted? The target was too small to guarantee a hit through the building fabric. Also, I had to admit I got a bit fuzzy thinking about the fact I had a being in front of me that had been created solely through biological means. Without insemination, without genetic selection, without in-vitro mods. In other words just like me. This train of thought was cut short when I aimed for the torso and fired. BAM. What a recoil. I staggered backwards for at least a meter. Had I really been distracted enough to forget engaging the bionic stabiliser? Well, how often is it you fire an elephant gun.

I kicked down the door and crossed the messy house in long strides. The terrorist lay on his side, about one and a half meters away from his terminal. From the looks of it, the unit had been hardwired to the house’s cable strain. The sawed off fibre channel trunk protruded out of a hole in the wall and its flickering lights covered the room in a bizarre play of colors. I grabbed the hacker by the neck and prepared to hit him with the gun handle. “Game over, you - - - “, I choked when a ray of light hit my opponent’s face. It was a young woman who protected her face with a blood-covered hand. Flippin’ heck, she looked a lot like my daughter. Or more precisely the memory of her death mask which I hadn’t been able to get out of my head for over fifty years. I threw her against the wall in bewilderment, she slumped down with an expression of incredible pain on her face and held her wound. Seems like I had hit her intestines. Very painful. If it hadn’t been for those two walls, I wouldn’t have been able to interrogate her at all.

“Friggin’ hell! What’you do this shit for?!?”, I yelled at her. “…F- f – freedom…” she stammered. “Freedom?!?” I cried out and shook my head laughing. “What’s that supposed to be.”

I smashed the front panel of her deck with the .44 and pulled the storage out. Then I connected it to the data port in my left hand.

“You don’t need to copy it”, the girl said. I turned towards her and tried to give her a hard look.

“That decision is up to State Security”.

“Sure”, she croaked, “but they don’t need the data. After all, they wrote that shit!”

Somewhere in my head a synapse burst. “Excuse me?!?” I exclaimed. Why was I so polite to that person? That terrorist? And what was this bullshit supposed to accomplish?

“That is what I mean by ‘freedom‘ – people are being lied to, they are suppressed by - - -”

“Your people only get what they’re asking for!” I grunted, but she got me with another sharp return.

“I’m talking about YOUR people. We’re doing this for you.”

Now she spat out a mouthful of blood, it reminded me of my breakfast puke cone. The girl tilted forwards, eyes twisted, lids fluttering. I pulled her up by the neck and gave her a suppression shock. Her upper body cramped up immediately, while everything below the waist loosened up. As always this included the sphincter. But I know from personal experience that you don’t feel any kind of embarrassment when you’re that close to death.

“What… was that?” she whispered.

“An electric shock”, I explained, “I paralysed your lower body so you don’t feel any more pain”. My emo-scanner claimed to detect a touch of thankfulness in the batting of her eyes. “So, you were saying…?”

She straightened her chin and her expression filled with pride.

“The lies. The propaganda. You’re all being brainwashed, don’t you get it? Everyone looks the same with you now. Doesn’t that make you wonder why? It’s not about equality. It’s about reducing individuality, reducing empathy, reducing the value of a life. You’re bred like animals, and with all these implants, you’re being controlled.”

“So what”, I said, “the planet is almost done for. We all have to compromise in order to lead good lives.”

She gave me a disgusted look. “Well, on our side of the fence at least.”

“And where do you draw the line”, she asked, “when the government re-programs people to attack each other like zombies?”

She had a point there. That definitely wasn’t good. I extended the barrel of my gun towards her.

“That was YOUR doing! Do you even know how many were killed in your attack? Their blood is on YOUR hands!”

I must’ve not come across as particularly scary, as she frantically started laughing. Slowly, she raised her bloody hands.

“This my MY blood. I knew this was a one way ticket. And as I said: I did this for YOUR people. They had to know.”

“Well, congratulations then.” In the meantime all the data had been copied and I threw her drive against the wall in anger. “You look like a nice girl though. Could’ve made something out of your life.”

“Sure, I could’ve married and cooked and cleaned and played house. Should’ve known a dinosaur like you is a fucking macho asshole. Ever noticed that you think about porn all day?”

And I said it again: “Excuse me?!?”

“Man, it’s all thought control, all these ads, the cranial implants… the bullshit about the noise, that it’s just because of your thick skull, and that you have to listen to the music to fight the headaches…”

I flinched. I must’ve pinched a nerve in my back.

“The music, it’s pure emo-control… don’t you notice how distracted you get? Acoustic triggers for your subconscious, nothing else. Never wondered why you ‘like’ the loops by one artist the most? Because they resonate best with your brain waves! And those guys are controlling you, man. And I mean literally controlling you - -”

Suddenly she threw up, blood splattered all over her jacket. For a second there, I thought she had finally shut up, but no.

“Not to mention those fucking zombie stories!” – “What?!?”

“Yeah, don’t you ever wonder what happened to vampires? Werewolves? Aliens? Monsters? For decades, there have only been zombies. Zombies, zombies, zombies. Humanoid, faceless ‘enemies’ which are fun to slaughter. The army started doing ‘zombie drills’ almost a hundred years ago! And now look at all those grey faces over there. You are the zombies, YOU ARE THE ZOMBIES. They take away your individuality and pretend it’s replaced with psychical self-determination – it’s just that they can turn it off at the press of a button. You’ve seen it yourself. All unwanted individuals or any group can be turned into rioters which can be mowed down with full public consent! This has to STOP!”

I felt an impulse to swallow, but my mouth was bone dry. The noise in my skull rose to an almost unbearable level. And all of a sudden, my index finger contracted. BAM. The girl screamed, I had hit her below the left shoulder. Her arm had almost been severed and was dangling by some tendons and a bit of remaining flesh. A sickening sight. I was shocked. She let herself fall to the side and her and disappeared in a pile of rotten cardboard boxes. I heard a chiming sound and realised that she had a second deck hidden in there. “I DIDN’T WANT THAT”, I screamed, “IT WAS MY BODY – that - - - that normally only happens, if - - -”

She straightened herself back up in a lot of pain and looked at me. Our eyes locked. She knew that she only had a couple seconds left. There was a moment of absolute silence, I perceived nothing but her incredibly open gaze. Then, another one of these inhuman, electronic screams was heard outside. It sounded far away, but rose to a regular surround-cacophony.

“You remind me of my dad…” she stammered while trying to maintain a smile.

“You only have one chance: O - - Ova… luh. Uh.”

Her muscles softened up and she collapsed, once again she fell to the side, burying her head in the pile of junk. I started towards her and slid onto my knees. “At least tell me your name!”, I exclaimed. What a load of crap. Why should I care? And according to the bio scan, she was as dead as a brick. I dug the second deck out of the trash. She had obviously altered the zombie behavior patterns. “Offline mode” it said there, and “homing”. The screen showed some kind of aerial view, a lot of glowing white points were converging on a central point. And I had a pretty good idea what that central point was: My location.

Without giving it much thought, I ran out on the street. Maybe I should have barricaded myself in the house? Too late. I detected movement everywhere, hundreds of freaks came running from the suburbs. And some of them already were too damn close. Since I already had the Magnum in my hand, I shot down the first two. Then the gun only clicked. Six shots. The grud damned thing was empty! I spun around and started for the hole in the fence. I hoped that their limited motor skills would prevent them from getting through there. On all fours I crawled through and found myself on a barren field. Dirt without any kind of vegetation. I ran.

Remains of civilisation protruded out of the earth everywhere. I tripped over some wire and almost fell, which honestly frightened me. Of course, I ran on even faster now, but not without frantically scanning the ground right in front of me. Suddenly, infra-red was gone. Just like that. It was pitch dark. Right away I hit something and crashed down into a puddle of mud. EMERGENCY POWER. IR-CAM: INACTIVE. TS-CAM: INACTIVE. BIONICS: INACTIVE.

Drokk-friggin’ frag, gruddamned bloody crap! Why now? I stared at the ground intensely. Slowly, my vision adapted to the darkness which was only limited by a very faint moon. Still on my knees, I looked over my shoulder. The dim lanterns on the other side seemed pretty bright from where I was sitting now. Of course, I was much more interested in the zombies. Fortunately, they really were too stupid to get through the hole. Instead, they tried to climb on top of each other, forming a actual pile of bodies. In a couple of minutes the first ones would probably be able to drop down on the other side of the fence. Hopefully they’d break all their bones.

I straightened myself up and a pain from hell whipped through my body. Something had happened to my left lower leg. Would I be able to move at all? Almost automatically I reached for my fazer. It wasn’t there. Must’ve lost it in the fall. In panic I dug through the muddy water. “Please, please, please…” who was I talking to? Was I getting religious in my old age? Or in my last minutes? Whatever the reason my hands came upon a well-known shape. I pulled the fazer out of that brown sauce, the power light was still shining happily. Thank grud the thing was waterproof! Seems like I had already forgotten my injury amongst all this excitement because when I tried to get up, it felt like a burning blade was cutting through my calf. At least, the pain answered my most pressing question. Since I just saw the fence topple over under the weight of hundreds of bodies, I asked myself whether I should use my last battery to power bionics or the fazer. The former was out of the question with that kind of pain. I wouldn’t last five minutes if I tried to run. Unless I used pain suppression which would suck way too much power.

For the moment I turned my attention away from the zombies and onto the path in front of me. I dragged myself on for a couple of meters, slowly developing a technique that was less painful. Behind me, the cybernetic squealing rose once again. I had almost begun to miss it. In front of me on the other hand was – nothing. There was a drop of at least ten meters, I could hardly make out the ground below. Just the water in the puddles glistened in the moonlight. They had probably planned another garbage dump here. In that case it was only fitting that I was about to produce some more electronic waste. Including Yours Truly. I put my finger on the trigger and the fazer begin to wind up.

And here they came: The screaming, drooling idiots, their torn clothing now covered in mud. There were hundreds of them. I started to fire. Five, ten, fifteen of them fell into the dirt, twitching. Sixteen, seventeen and that was it. The battery gave up on me. I packed the fazer by the barrel and hit them with the handle. Eighteen, nineteen and the friggin’ plastic broke apart. I thought of the .44 that must be lying in some puddle back there. At least, model 628 was made from stainless steel. What a silly thought. It probably had something to do with the fact that the topic of transience weighed heavy on my mind right now.

When I got knocked over, I thought of Sarah, my daughter. I became aware that I wasn’t envisioning her death mask anymore. Instead she smiled at me forgivingly, with the black eyes of that hacker. While IO-Ports attached to all kinds of bodily extensions and openings slapped across my face, I thought about the girl’s final words. Didn’t she say I had a chance?

“Ova…”, my lips recreated what she had said. What did she mean? A power surge whipped through my body, one of the freaks had jammed his power outlet into my auxiliary jack. OVERLOAD! That was what she had been trying to say! I tried to shift the weight of the bodies on top of me, in order to get inside my pants. I fumbled with my jockstrap and pulled out the empty battery, ripped it out right along with the cable. I kept pulling on the cord which gave me a hell of a pain down below. Using all my remaining strength, I freed my other arm. The freaks kept slapping, poking and fumbling me. With tears in my eyes, I ripped the auxiliary jack out of its socket. I felt warm blood running over my thighs and pulled the cord as far out as it went. Then I activated the tunnelling protocols. All security measures were now deactivated. With a desperate sigh, I connected the two cables. SHORT CIRCUIT – CRITICAL OVERLOAD IMMINENT. As these words appeared on my HUD, I realised they would be the last that I’d ever read there. A first shock cramped my body up like a wooden board. Sparks came flying from the aux jack, and the force of my muscle spasms sent the zombies around me flying. I jumped up, raised my head up high, spread my fingers and opened my mouth as wide as I could.

BUZZZZZZZZZZ… pins and needles shot through my body, into my fingers and through all the other ports and electrified limbs. Electricity and data poured out and leapt from body to body. The holoprojectors emitted cascades of colors, the data modulators created quantum dynamic streams. A guttural sound came out of my mouth, within seconds it phase-shifted to a deafening, high-frequency scream. Digital feedback from hell. And then: WHAMMO…. An electromagnetic shock wave swept all the freaks off their feet, I was sure that bolt of lightning could be seen all the way to the top of State Security Tower. My body felt weightless, but in reality, I hit the ground hard. Everything went dark. Game Over.

* * *

Something tickled me. It was the first rays of sun making their way through the smog. An unreal, yellow light. Unfiltered. I looked around, the landfill was littered with bodies. Most of them were still KO, some even snored blissfully. Others were mumbling to themselves or were even crawling away on all fours. Shakily, I got up and looked towards the sun, into the valley in front of me. Some clouds were shimmering in a pink tone in front of the yellow haze. It was an elevating sight. Was I that happy to still be alive? No, it was something different. And then I realised it: The silence. In my head, it was completely quiet. An incredible feeling. No surprise once you think about it though. After all, I had fried all my electronics. Millions of taxpayers money up in smoke. I looked into the distance and thought I could make out some kind of dwellings. At least there were little columns of smoke rising up, as if the Bios were making morning coffee. REAL coffee.

I made a first step towards them, towards my new home.

About Our Authors

Gioal Canestrelli

Gioal Canestrelli was born in Rome in 1980. He has a bacherlor degree in Ancient Literature, his successful book about Celtic Warfare entitled "I Celti e l'Arte della Guerra dal V al I secolo a.C." was published in Italy in 2010.

Wal Friman

Wal was born in Finland in 1966. He began writing in 1985, starting off with the idea of a red Porsche being stolen which eventually turned into a full-blown feature film script by 2013. For the first time, he is looking forward to seeing his words unfold into a story on the big screen.

Fabienne Gschwind

Fabienne Gschwind is a university lecturer from Switzerland. It is her passion to write fantasy novels; her two-part epic "Scadenweld" was released in Austria, Germany and Switzerland in 2010.

Kalle Max Hofmann

Aside from writing for publications like Gamereactor, [ple:] and Deutsch Magazine, Kalle Max even penned the script for the documentary "Our Universe 3D", released world-wide by Universal Pictures. He also works as a translator for sci-fi, horror and fantasy greats like Francis Paul Wilson or Greg F. Gifune.

Will Hofmann

Will Hofmann, born 1949 in the Taunus area of Germany.

He is a general practitioner and psychotherapist with his own practice.

Will has been writing since his youth. Most of his published works in the Kindle library are only available in German language at this point.

He is inspired by Edgar Alan Poe, Guy de Maupassant, Stanislaw Lem and many other writers from the horror, fantasy and science-fiction genres.

Kilian Manning

The reclusive film maker and creative commons activist supposedly resides on a small island. He distributes his thoughts on digital society via the internet. Even when making movies, he pulls the strings from a distance - by using video streams, chats and telecastings.

Xander Morus

Xander Morus was born in Berlin in 1975. He completed German and English language and literature studies as well as educational philosophy. He started releasing his zombie series "Zeit der Zombies" in Germany in 2011. Since then, he successfully published a number of horror novels.

Angela Ruggero

Italian-born Angela Ruggero graduated in Nordic languages and literature and is an avid blogger.  Zombie City Stories is her first publication, but there is more to come…

Andreas Stetter

Andreas has been a longtime contributor for one of Germany’s biggest heavy metal magazines before releasing his first successful horror novel, "Undead". Recently, he released the acclaimed WWII spin-off "Undead: 1943" with new episodes scheduled for 2015.

Shane Wilson

Shane Wilson is a reclusive writer with a passion for grammar and the horrors contained therein. Initially influenced by Lovecraft, Barker and Campbell, he has been grotesquely swamped by Barron, and is currently paddling in warm, Ligottian waters; finding that they feel somehow distant, somehow familiar, but something like a wretched memory of home.

Bonus Story

JOSHUA

By Shane Wilson

"We're so sorry to have had to call you in," Mrs. Westerman said, ushering Joshua's mother to a chair with practised gestures. "We feel it was necessary."

Joshua’s mother lowered herself tentatively—was there a slight pause before Mrs. Westerman’s last word?—and perched, edge-wise. She met the head teacher’s gaze with an expectant but—to Mrs. Westerman’s mind—something of too familiar nature; there had been problems with Joshua before, and though it had been nothing quite like this—really, nothing quite like this—Mrs. Westerman was still worried that the woman might by now be feeling overly comfortable in that deliberately uncomfortable chair. ‘Boisterous’ and ‘difficult’ shared very different locales in Mrs. Westerman’s own personal taxonomy, and she smiled at Carol even as she considered ways to mitigate, before continuing smoothly, taking control. The earlier pause, highlighting just how necessary, had been entirely deliberate.

"Having received our message," she began, "I'm sure you'll understand why Joshua must be sent home. Really, there's simply nothing else to—"

"But I can talk to him," Carol interrupted, spreading her hands flat against Mrs. Westerman's desk. "You don't need to send him home. I mean, I'm not for one minute suggesting it's okay to bite, but do I really need to take him home? I think we should deal with this here."

Mrs. Westerman frowned slightly and paused to select her words, steepling her fingers over her ample bosom, her usual response to this variety of affront. "I'm absolutely certain you're going to tackle the issue, Miss Ruth, there really is no doubt of that. What concerns me is the other children. I don't mean to say that your son isn't important to us, but you must see that I have to think of all our pupils. And staff, of course. This was no everyday squabble—you must realize that."

"No, I get it," Carol said, inching forward even further, perching on the extremity of the chair, striving somehow to balance both her position and the impatience in her voice. "My kid bit someone and I have to come down to sort it out. I can do that, but I work, you see, and I work hard, too. So I'm here in my lunch hour right now, after a hell of a drive through lunchtime traffic and I'm sorry but I really, really need to get back—"

Somewhere in the middle of her speech a finger had been raised, eliciting only a slightly flicked eyebrow from its intended target. Mrs. Westerman was a veteran; such things were to her as water to a duck.

"— I sympathise, Miss Ruth, I really do, but it’s simply part of —"

Raised hands, flat and pink, towards Carol. ‘Calm palms’, they called it, and Carol knew that, too.

"Look, stop with that! Stop it! I can't take time off work just because Joshy bit someone because he's five, for god's sake and because surely they bite each other all the time don’t they? Well, don’t they? "

Despite herself, despite the situation, Mrs. Westerman bristled. "That's hardly the point, is it?"

Carol calmed herself, or tried to, sitting back into her seat. The material was unbearably sticky, the edge nudged against her knees, some sort of piped plastic that clung to her and grazed her flesh, palpably begging her to lose control.

"Look, I don't mean to make out this isn't serious, but I can't miss a whole afternoon over an incident that, if I'm frank, should surely be sorted out by you — by the school, I mean. Biting! It’s ridiculous. I told you this morning he was a little under the weather after the weekend. It's in his home-school book — go and check! Do you have any idea what I need to get done before the end of today?"

Carol looked down at her hands, and bared all. "I don’t get to work this afternoon, that’s in —‘ she checked — ‘fifteen minutes, with traffic, I don’t get paid. That means no rent, no childcare, no —" her voice trailed off. ‘For biting,’ she ended pathetically.

Mrs. Westerman's frown deepened, her head determinedly shaking from side to side. She caught herself, and stopped to take a breath. "Miss Ruth," she said eventually, "I understand and I'm sorry, truly sorry, ut it's not just for this afternoon. We need to be clear—Joshua will not be returning to this pre-school setting. I've consulted with the chair of governors and we both agree that it's impossible to see a way forward from here where Joshua remains with us."

"Oh, god. What? For biting? I can't believe this! He's five, that's all, just five. How bad can it be?"

Mrs. Westerman reached out a hand, her fingers lightly touching Carol's sleeve. Her other hand dusted at her brow, troubling the edges of her expertly-coiffured hair. Something about the gesture worried Carol: "What aren't you telling me?" she demanded, clutching at Mrs. Westerman's hand and gripping tightly enough for the woman to wince.

"Miss Ruth!" she exclaimed, dragging her hand free. The two exchanged glances, a billet-doux of silent nothings before Mrs. Westerman cleared her throat. "The truth, as you put it, is that the other child is visiting A&E as we speak. I understand stitches are needed. The attack was somewhat prolonged—and quite..."—the breath seemed to catch in her throat—"brutal."

"Brutal? Joshy? My Josh?"

The legs of Carol’s chair seemed to shift sideways, jostling her drunkenly against the edge of the desk. For one teeming second she felt she might fall, and gripped the edge of the desk with a strained intensity as Mrs. Westerman continued, relentlessly pursuing the bitter end despite herself. "So you see we can't possibly entertain the possibility of Joshua's return. We did try," she continued, her voice cracking slightly, as Carol listened in mounting horror. "Or our nursery nurse did—in fact he bit her fingers as she tried to get it back. Annie, our nursery nurse, this was—you know Annie, Joshy's favourite?—he snapped at her, even at Annie, and—well, we did try."

"Get it back?" breathed Carol, pale fingers covering her lips. "What are you saying? That he bit something... off? That's ridiculous... it's just... just ridiculous. Isn't it?" She looked around her, eyes bulging, her fingers now actively tugging at the rosy flesh of her lips, grotesquely digging down to her gums as though the answer lay somewhere in the roots of her teeth. "Ridiculous... it has to be!"

"It was... well, it was a piece of flesh. A piece of her—that is, the other child's—neck. Her throat. Here, on the shoulder." She stabbed at her throat too hard, a red mark lingering where she pointed. Carol watched for a second, not really comprehending the meaning of the rosy glow that faded slowly back to pale pink flesh, just left of Mrs. Westerman’s dress strap. Not a bad outfit for a head teacher, Carol found herself thinking, just for a moment, and god, what does that say about me as a mother? and—

"But we did try," Mrs. Westerman was saying.

"Try? Try what, exactly?"

The two women locked eyes once more. "He swallowed it down," Mrs. Westerman fairly shrieked, a note of hysteria tinging her voice as Carol finally stood, tearing her thighs from the clinging plastic chair, her hands crossing her mouth as if to hold back something feral with cage-like fingers. She fled the office, barely heeding the bang of door against plaster as she headed for the medical room, taking no notice of Mrs. Westerman, now almost a distant memory as she ran to retrieve her Joshy. Hurtful, surely untrue words trailed after her, rising in pitch slightly, just parts reaching her. "—a mouthful all skin and meat… —he swallowed it down…—we need to call…—your little boy…—"

Mrs. Westerman stopped, her throat raw again, a blithe familiarity dancing in its cracked chords, and fell back into her chair, mindful but ignoring of a chorus of leathery creaks from beneath. Good riddance to the little bastard, she tried to think, but somehow it didn't sit right. Josh was no little bastard, his mother, for all her whining and missed deadlines, was a half-decent parent. Ms.—she flicked the papers again, checking—that was her, Ms. Ruth, she was one of the good ones. All the harder to let go…

Anne Westerman decided on two courses of action, determining that they should be executed as near simultaneously as possible. First, she rolled open the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and flicked through to W. There was a scarce two centimetres of dark brown fluid left in the hardly-hidden bottle—barely enough for a decent snifter—but it would have to do. Creature comforts addressed, however parsimoniously, she depressed the middle button of her office phone and asked Joyce to place a call to the police.

"Swallowed it down," she whispered aloud as the whiskey's trail stung in her throat. "And came back for more. "

She shuddered and examined the bottle: an example that could not, alas, be followed.