A mushroom cloud erupted in mid-Manhattan when those fingertips flipped the switch. The zombie that was reborn a few minutes later wore a savage grin across his weathered face.
Six men roared down I95 on stolen Harleys bristling with guns and half-empty bottles of rum. Drunken shots from sawed-off shotguns sent blood and gore spraying from anyone, living or dead, that crossed their path.
They caught a teenage girl sneaking around the strip club that served as their base of operations one night. She never fought them. Never did more than spread her legs and let the rape happen over and over again. Never asked for mercy or cried out loud when they beat her afterwards. Never spoke at all.
Until a few weeks passed.
“I have AIDS.” She told them, laughing softly in between sobs that left her body shaking violently.
David was a big boy. That’s what his mother had always told him. At six years old he knew how to make Mac-N-Cheese and swing a baseball bat. Those two important skills let him last three days before Daddy wandered into the house to give him a hug and fatal peck on the cheek.
Los Angeles burned. Boston flooded. Raw sewage turned Knoxville into a cesspool filled with the undead.
Washington DC became a fortified warzone. The United State’s last hope for large-scale survival. Tanks rolled in the streets, cracking bloodstained asphalt beneath treads filled with shredded flesh. Block by block the military went, leaving countless bodies in its wake. The tide of hungry dead seemed never-ending. Alternative plans were made.
The battlegroup steamed on nuclear power out of Norfolk, Virginia. Presidential quarters established aboard the aircraft carrier that served as their floating capital. A few ports were secured up and down the coast. One by one they failed to answer calls from the Final Fleet. Pushpins cleared off a map. Territory lost in an unwinnable war.