Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Roger’s pencil struck rhythmically against the desk, only stopping when he

muddled out one of the answers in his crossword puzzle, and scratched it in.

“Man, enough with the tapping. It’s getting annoying.” This would be Larry, at the

other side of the booth. Clad in the same navy-blue security guard’s outfit as Roger, he

frowned and went back to his Deer & Deer Hunter magazine. Roger went back to

puzzling over his crossword. Puzzle. An interesting word. Could someone puzzle at

something? And would it have to be them doing the puzzling? Could someone say that

they’d have to puzzle at something before they got an answer? Roger smiled at the

thought. He began to tap his pencil again.

“A word for beige, four letters long…” he intoned, not really seeking an answer.

“Try ‘If you don’t stop tapping that pencil, I’m gonna ram it where the sun don’t

shine,’” Larry said, giving one.

“Nah, Larry, y’see, it’s gotta be four letters…”

“Hmph. Smartass.” Larry went back to his magazine.

The air-conditioned interior of the security booth was a welcome shelter from the

hot, damp jungle outside. Though the entire facility was nestled in a wide clearing, with

small palm fronds and low grass as the only vegetation, that didn’t make the elements any

less fickle. The door of the small, brushed-metal gray structure opened up, and out

stepped a small, wiry man with a bristling of a goatee. Roger stretched his back, working

out the kinks that came from hours of chair-locked boredom, and decided to cavort about
the jungle for a bit.

“Hey, Larry, I’m gonna take a little walk. Cover for me, will ya?”

“Yeah, sure man,” Larry responded, still immersed in his hunting publication.

The air outside was sweet in Roger’s lungs, and the grass cool through his leather

sandals. He really was lucky to have a job like this. Decent pay, great location, and think

of all the other poor stiffs stuck working in an office nine-to-five, twenny-four-seven.

Okay, granted, Roger was working in an office too, but at least he could look outside and

see an organic jungle, rather than an urban one.

And he was already well versed in that kind of work. He’d been grinding some

dead-end job at the steelworks, when one of his buddies had shown him the newspaper

ad. Looking for security guards, it had said. Pay, benefits, must be willing to travel. It had

piqued Roger’s interest to follow it further, and he’d found that the job was stationed, of

all places, in the Pacific Ocean. Well, not technically the Pacific, he’d be on an island.

But, hell, these guys were pretty much offering a paid vacation! An easy security gig, just

some research facility that needed to keep away any kind of corporate espionage, and the

like. Roger had stopped himself, unsuccessfully trying to find some reason that this

wasn’t right. He wanted the job, sure, but…taking a job on some remote island? Wasn’t

that something that most people thought about, planned about, discussed with others,

before they just went ahead and skipped across the equator?

Discuss with what others? He had asked himself. Roger didn’t have any family left.

Friends? Roger wondered if he’d ever had any. It seems he had always had

acquaintances, pals, drinking buddies…but never friends. Never anyone who’d give it a

second thought if he never showed up to the bar again.

 He had been on a southbound plane within a month.

The company he worked for was called GeneTech. Not that Roger had any idea

what it was that they did. The company-initiation videos, welcoming him into the family

as a valued employee, had all been seen through glazed eyes. As long as they gave him

money for food, clothes and drink, he didn’t care if his official position was Company

Dipstick. Besides, there was something about leaving his home country, it just felt like an

escape for Roger. And how could you escape when you were constantly surrounded by

your adoptive family? From what he was trying to escape, Roger didn’t know. But he

knew that in this green foliage and damp air, nobody gave a damn about him, and he

liked it that way.

The shadows were getting longer. Roger walked along the dirt trail until he came

in sight of the facility’s main building. It really was an impressive thing, all steel and

ceramics and blue GeneTech logos. He met the road just in time to see Larry waving a

large, covered truck down the paved pathway. The wire-mesh gates slid open, and the

vehicle sped along on its merry way.

Things had really been heating up at the GeneTech facility. More and more trucks had

been rolling by, more and more scientists hunched together, speaking their technical

jargon. Roger wondered what all of the hoopla was about sometimes. Obviously not

enough to check it out, but he idled away the hours of the day in dreamy contemplation.

They’d probably get some sort of insight into whatever it was at the site meeting

tomorrow. If you could call it a “meeting”. From what he’d heard from Larry, it was more

of a social event than a business one. Well, people on an island for month-long shifts at a

time had to keep entertained, didn’t they? Roger was awaiting the event happily; sure, he
probably wouldn’t understand two words anyone said, but it was something to do, and

they might have beer.

“Yo, Roj-o” Larry greeted him as he walked into the booth. “You’re just in time

for our shift to end.”

“Whoops, sorry, Larry. Didn’t expect I’d spent so much time out there.”

“Ah, it’s no biggie,” Larry replied, waving his hand dismissively. “Just a couple

trucks. No axe-wielding terrorists yet.” Roger gave a derisive snort. The guards out here

didn’t even carry nightsticks, and the most he’d seen were pistols on some of the guards

deeper in the main building. “Well, anyways, I’m heading in. You coming along?”

“Actually…” Roger stroked his stub of beard thoughtfully. “Y’know what, I think

I’ll spend the night out here.”

Larry made a face.

“Alright, man, but don’t come crying to me when something with lots of legs and

more teeth decides to take up residence inside your eyeballs.”

“Oh, thanks for that resounding show of encouragement,” Roger said

sarcastically. “Hey, I’ve got my sleeping bag and everything, I’ll be fine.”

“Alright. Suit yourself.” With that, Larry stepped out of the booth and took the

road back to the main building.

Roger wrestled the bundle of his sleeping bag out from under his desk and opened

the door into the warm evening air. Other than the downy bundle, he held a portable

radio, a few bottles of water, and the plastic gallon baggie of trail mix he had made up

while rummaging through the various food supplies in the island facility. He stepped

through the narrow bushes, munching on the commandeered mixture of chocolate,

peanuts and various other snackfoods. Paying less attention than he definitely should

have been, Roger felt a sharp, burning tug at his arm.

“Sonofabitch” he cursed, eyeing the long scratch on his sleeve. It didn’t look

deep, but boy, he knew it was going to be irritating. It was one of those scrapes where

you could just tell it would end up being a shallow, tender scab, which took every

opportunity to tear itself off in the most painful manner possible. Roger grumbled,

decided that this small clearing was as good as any, and laid down his sleeping bag. He

fell asleep to the chirping and rustling of…well, who knows.

Roger’s first thought was that the light was, in itself, too damn bright. He rolled

over, grumbling. His second thought was that his arm, in itself, hurt way too much. He

rolled the other way, grumbled a bit more, and sat up. Blinking against the sun, He

reached for his water bottle and immediately recoiled. Youch. Looking at his arm, he

immediately located the source of the hot pain. The cut he had thought trifling the night

before seemed to have gained quite a vengeance. It was red and inflamed, and Roger

could swear he saw a touch of green somewhere. He decided to gather his gear and head

back to the main building, looking to scrounge himself some antibiotic cream, or

something of the sort. He exited the jungle and started down the road, warm morning

sunlight on his back and sharp pain in his arm.

The thought occurred to him that he probably looked like some kind of ragged

yahoo, and a good showering was in order. He stopped in his security booth, found his

bag in the small space, and found himself a green-polo shirt. He rethought this. The cut

on his arm was looking mighty conspicuous, and with all of the scientists around the
place it’d be a hundred times worse. “Yikes, nasty cut there. How’s about I check it out

for ya?” “Wow, you should get that looked at-mind if I?” “Here, lemme stick this

imposing medical apparatus deep into your forearm. Won’t hurt a bit, I promise.”

No, thank you, Roger could mind his own health issues. He grabbed a long-

sleeved, cornflower blue shirt from the bag. Carrying a respectable pair of khakis to go

along with it, he again began his trek down the road.

Arrival at the large, modern looking building brought a request for identification.

Satisfying this request, he continued into the spacious halls. His shoes tapped softly on

the meticulously cleaned tile, and the veiled fluorescent lights reflected their glow off of

the white walls. He stepped into the personnel wing, and made his way down to the

shower area.

Roger had scored a pretty nice place, in truth. It was clean, warm, the people were

nice…hell, who could be ornery in a place like this? Roger’s feelings continued in this

same vein as he entered the shower stall. Kneading out the kinks in his back under the

warm water, he heaved a relaxed sigh. Today looked easy. He expected he’d just go into a

daze in front of a television screen, attempt to eliminate as many motor functions as he

possibly could, and waltz into the soiree at a fashionably late hour. Little did Roger know

how very correct he was.

By the time 8:00 PM hit, he had a mishmash of cooking-show programs

thoroughly ingrained in his head. There was something about lamb, and teriyaki. Or

perhaps he was thinking of souvlaki. Well, whatever it was, his appetite was thoroughly

aroused, and he deemed it time to carry himself to the party.

The banquet hall was spacious, to say the least. Large chandeliers hung on the
red-gold walls, providing a shocking contrast to the stark-white, clean motif of the rest of

the building. He saw many standing around, chatting, attired in casual, comfortable

clothing. Roger was not a bit relieved. He had had a last-minute panic over whether this

was a tux-and-jacket occasion, but quickly stymied his anxiety by reminding himself that

even if he came attired in a leotard and body paint, these people were too polite to do

anything besides strategically ignore him. So, to pass the time Roger ate, and Roger

drank. Roger drank more than he probably should’ve. Oh, not enough to do something

potentially mortifying, but by the time a-well, nerdy, to put it bluntly-man stepped up to

the podium, Roger’s head was delightfully swimming, and the women were looking more

attractive by the moment. The part of his brain still with any semblance of self-control

was telling him to shut up and listen to the man on the stand, and the rest of Roger

grudgingly obliged. Looking more carefully this time, Roger took in the man. He had an

average sized frame on his bones, a bit on the skinny side. Short, straight brown hair

hung above rounded glasses and a gleaming smile.

The man began to speak. “My friends and colleagues, I first wish to thank you all

for showing up at our little event. And I would also like to thank those of you who

suppressed groans as I came to the podium. I promise, I’ll try to be less mind-numbingly

boring than usual today.” A polite smattering of laughter came, and the man smiled and

continued.

“This party is to congratulate you, the real backbone of the GeneTech facility

here. Sure, it’s easy for me to say ‘You, do this! Hey you, do that!’ but you’re the ones

who really make things happen.” More polite applause, but more enthusiastic this time.

“We have finally reached the culmination of our work here-“

 Roger turned to Larry, standing next to him. “Hey, who is that guy up there?” he

asked.

“That’s Dr. Pross. He’s pretty much our boss, I’d suppose. Of course, he leaves

tedious duties such as managing the company to others. He acts as the head egghead

around here.”

“Ah, so that’s Pross.” Roger remembered noticing his name in the initiation video.

He had sort of pictured the man as an enigmatic figure, the kind that you see in movies as

the silhouetted businessman who orders the death of whoever Bruce Willis is playing.

The real man was a bit disappointing compared to this. Roger’s attention returned to Dr.

Pross, as he began to speak more animatedly. “-further ado, I present to you the pinnacle

of our achievement here at Genetech Laboratories.” An aide whipped off the grey tarp

covering a large object next to Pross. “I give you: The Long-Range Matter

Communicator. A beauty, ain’t it?”

The device was quite daunting. A large casing of brushed steel continued through

tubes, lines, and valves until it reached an identical casing. Each case was tall,

cylindrical, and about five feet in height, although they appeared to be on stands. A large

panel rested on one of the containers, winking with displays. Pross continued. “For those

of you not yet acquainted with the Communicator, here’s what it’s all about: The

Communicator’s first function is to shatter and separate particles. Now, normally, this

would be impossible without a massive particle accelerator. However, the advancements

in today’s world are such that we are able to harness the power of black holes, the

strongest gravitational force known to us. By accelerating protons towards each other, we

can literally bend and fold the dimensions of space to form a microscopic black hole. The
black hole, along with the miniature accelerator here, work together to ram our particles

together with enough force to shatter it completely. Finally, the two canisters here

separate the debris. All but one of the particle’s fragments are collected into this

container,” he patted the cylinder opposite the one carrying the display. “And the last

fragment, here,” he indicated the opposite tank.

“Now, what use is this, you may ask. What is the good of separating particles? We

can already do that. But lo, my friends, hear this: we have been working with theories

that could revolutionize communication as we know it. You see, whenever a particle is

broken, and one of its fragments spun, all of the other pieces of it, no matter what their

location, mimic its spin. Needless to say, this could render fiber optics totally obsolete.”

The silence in the room was deafening. It wasn’t an awkward silence, not in the least.

People were just staring in stunned amazement at the front. One could almost feel the

general conscience of the room going, Woah. Woah. That’s, like…woah. Pross, again,

resumed his speech. “Now, I don’t wish to disappoint, but that use of the technology is

still a few years away. So none of you have to worry about your local phone company

leaving a horse’s head in your bed.” Laughter. “But as you can see, we are on the verge of

massive technological leaps and bounds, and you can all be assured that GeneTech will

be ahead of the rest. And with that, ladies and gentlemen, I leave my podium. Please,

enjoy the night.” Applause erupted, and soon the entire hall was cheering.

As the festivities died down, Roger munched on his makeshift pepperoni-cheese-

and cracker sandwich. He believed he had understood most of Dr. Pross’s speech. Instant

communication, changes on the horizon, all that jazz. He couldn’t really get himself as

excited as most of the crowd here, but hey, more power to ‘em. We all need something to
look forward to, Roger thought with a smile.

The night passed forward.

Roger found himself making small conversation than more people than he could

count, and none of which he knew. He simply had to nod and smile to their overexcited

banter of scientific this-and-that, until they ran off to discuss their thoughts with someone

else. Roger ate, and Roger drank.

Roger’s first thought was that the room was altogether too dark. His second

thought was that his head hurt too damn much. He rolled into the fetal positions, cursing

whatever had woken him up from merciful sleep. He then located the culprit. Something

was making a high-pitched ringing, and it was getting louder. Or was that just his ears?

Through his grogginess, he couldn’t tell. And the hangover didn’t help much, either. The

ringing was getting louder. Roger rolled over, burying his head under the pillow. It didn’t

help. This was going to drive him insane if it didn’t shut up, whatever it was. He was

about to stand up, when-

Wham.

Roger felt like he had been hit with a sledgehammer. No, that wasn’t right. Roger

felt like he had been hit with twenty sledgehammers. No, still not it. Roger felt like he

had been hit with twenty sledgehammers, composed entirely of ice and wielded by a

group of people with a great enthusiasm for sledgehammering things. He was cold. Very,

very cold. He clutched at his chest, trying to find if he was still, technically, alive. Was

this what a heart attack felt like? If so, it was all it was cracked up to be. Roger convulsed

on the bed. He felt like he was being drained, sucked dry and left aside, like one of the
wax bottles you bought at a candy store. Continuing the analogy, he felt like he was

simultaneously being chewed up and spit out. Red flashed before his eyes. Roger was

dimly aware of himself being thrown off of the bed.

Then, it passed.

Roger laid very still, sweat seeping from his pores. Something bad had happened.

He quickly checked himself all over. Regular pulse, no missing limbs, no bleeding…just

a frightened man in a T-shirt and shorts. Roger decided it was time to embark on that

most noble of human adventures, The Quest To Find Out What In The Hell Was Going

On And What I Can Do To Make It Stop Going On. He stepped out of his room, still

panting. He was met with an odd sight.

He saw a human shaped something in the darkness. His eyes had still not adjusted.

He called a greeting out to whoever was lumbering through the hall.

“Hey! Hey, Mac! Did you feel that just now? What was it? I think I might need to

see a doctor, was it just me, or…”

He stopped at the disconcerting lack of a response. He tried again. “Hey, buddy,

you have any idea what’s going on? Buddy?” Roger stopped, The figure was closer now,

and still advancing. Whoever it was, they were moving with an odd, shambling gait.

And they had a foot-and-a-half long lamp stuck neatly through their chest.

The glass had shattered, and Roger could still see the places in which it was

embedded in this man’s (He could now see it was, in fact, a man. Or something with a

man’s body) torso. Blood trickled, staining the shambling man’s shirt.

“Oh. Oh. Shit! What happened to you, man? My God, are you okay? We need-“

The man interrupted Roger with a low, guttural moan. He heard the moan being answered
with several others throughout the building. Roger was more than a bit uneasy. This

feeling of uneasiness deepened when the man took a swipe of the arm at him, and a

gnashing bite. Roger jumped out of the way, and he ran. He ran until he hit the old

security booth, and stopped to gather himself. So, he thought, So. It seems at least person

in this facility, and most of the people, judging by those moans, are undead abominations

that want to devour me. Roger had never been a superstitious man. But here, confronted

with a man that should be dead attacking and attempting to bite him, Roger had to believe

that something a bit odd was going on. Something a bit odd that started with T, and ended

with –hose people are zombies oh God what am I going to do. Roger was ready to

succumb to hopelessness. He didn’t really have much of a choice, all things considered.

You couldn’t fight a zombie with just your fists. They’re the living dead, for God sakes,

and it isn’t as easy to punch an unfeeling menace to death as Hollywood would have you

think. Roger leaned against the desk on Larry’s side of the booth. It promptly crumbled

and fell apart. Great, thought Roger, as the dust settled around him. God knows I’m

screwed, now he’s just playing around. Seriously, how many nuns did I kill in a past life

to earn this? Roger then saw something that caught his attention quite sharply. In the

wreckage of Larry’s desk, something was poking up. Something metal, on top of

something wooden. Something…

Shotgunlike?

Roger rubbed his eyes. No, this was just too perfect. He cleared away more of the

rubble. And there it was, in all its glory, a pump action shotgun, sitting there. Calling to

Roger “Please! Use me! Think of every horror movie you have seen! Do you not require

me!?” Roger responded by picking up the weapon, and hefting it. The weight was
comforting, especially to a man running from the undead in his boxers. He was ready to

fight. He was ready-

No, wait. There were no shells in the chamber. He was ready to pick through a

broken desk for ammunition.

And ammunition he found.

It seems that Larry had been able to smuggle a shotgun onto the island, along with

enough shells to feed a Third-World country (Well, assuming it was a Third-World

country that ate only buckshot) to satisfy his hunting desires. Roger wondered what kinds

of trophies he had squirreled away. Not that he thought lowly of the man. No, while

clutching his assumed-departed friend’s shotgun, he felt quite ready to raise Larry as

King Of All He Surveys, and convert to the noble religion of Larryism. Except for the

fact that Larry was probably shambling somewhere around that facility, feeling more than

a little puckish for Roger’s gray matter. Roger sat down. He needed a plan.

Fifteen minutes later, he had one. Everything he needed was here, it was just up to

him to use it. The island had a small port about half a mile northwards of the facility.

There was another port to the south, but that was reserved for the massive cargo-bearing

tankers, none of which were docked. However, he was getting ahead of himself. Before

any boating would be done, Roger’s situation would have to be remedied. Namely, the

part about there being zombies in it. Roger was a realist. He knew he couldn’t hope to

destroy who knows how many undead monsters with only his trusty shotgun. If he had a

chainsaw, maybe, but that’s neither here nor there. He did, however, know that there was

a device deep in the facility, and furthermore, it was one that functioned entirely by
smashing things against each other and making black holes. If that was not a machine that

could destroy an island, or at least whatever was inhabiting it, then physics should

seriously rethink what the hell it was doing. So, Roger would:

•Fight way into zombie-infested facility

•Locate dimension-folding

*Set said device on doomsday course

•Escape zombie-infested facility

•Escape island containing said zombie-infested facility

•Commandeer boat, make way to safe distance

•Make witty and masculine pun/other comment as island detonated

Hah. No problem. Roger began to make his way down the road.

Reaching the door, Roger slowed. He had to be on his toes from here on in, if he

didn’t want his head to become a very stylish tureen for some zombie. He approached,

and the door slid open soundlessly. The inside of the place was utterly pitch-dark.

Luckily, Roger was expecting this. Through the magic of duct-tape, Roger now had a

Shotgun-flashlight. Basking in his raging intellect, Roger turned on the light. He looked

up to see a zombie standing much closer than anyone’s comfort zones would allow. He

jumped in surprise at the creature shambling closer and closer too him. He also pulled the

trigger, mainly in surprise as well. A roar escaped the large barrel. Roger clutched his

chest against the massive, unexpected recoil, and suddenly remembering where he was,

looked up and raised the weapon.

Luckily, Roger’s impromptu attempt at defense paid off. The ghoul was now
missing a leg due to an unhealthy amount of buckshot ramming into it, and was now

writhing on the spot, trying to reach Roger without losing its balance. And the undead are

generally not known for their motor skills. So, Roger thought. I’ve got to shoot it in the

head, right? That’s how you always kill a zombie. With much more bravado then he felt,

Roger hefted the weapon, aimed, and fired. “Eugh,” he said, at the result “Euuugh.” He

continued through the door, stepping over the ex-zombie. Through recent experience, he

no longer held the weapon against his hip (Damn you, Bruce Campbell. He thought. You

lied to me). He now braced the shotgun on his shoulder, looking down the barrel and

feeling completely terrified.

The flashlight’s beam was much too narrow. The hallways were much too large.

Continuing in this vein, the building was much too full of zombies. Roger plowed

onwards. Suddenly, his beam caught something. A leg. Dress. Something. Roger moved

the beam up. A grotesque face leered back at him, emitting a low moan. He heard

innumerable of the same moan returning from various parts of the building. Damn. It’s

like I’m the last chardonnay at a wine-tasting party. Roger was not at all pleased with the

analogy, but it was made on short notice. He raised the barrel to point at the creature’s

head, and fired. The figure collapsed, motionless. Hearing footsteps, Roger whipped

around. Flashlight. What is that? Arm? Ah, the head. Roger fired again. Another wet thud

as the two-time corpse hit the ground.

And Roger plowed onwards. The road to the Banquet Hall seemed to go on

forever. Countless figures appeared moaning, and countless more fell away. Fear gave

way to exhilaration, and Roger began to fall into some sort of macabre rhythm. Tread.

Search. Step. Search. See. Aim. Shoot. Load. Step.

 He now recognized his location. He was nearing his goal, and he began to walk

faster. Out of nowhere a hand whipped out of the darkness, grabbing him by the hair. He

felt himself being yanked back, and panic overtook Roger. He struck back blindly with

the butt of the shotgun desperation giving his muscles new fire. He connected with

something hard. It sounded promising, so he connected with it again. A third, a fourth, a

fifth time. Roger tore himself away, to see a very much destroyed zombie toppling onto

the floor. He continued. A scraping sound behind him. He whirled around, casting his

flashlight beam along the corridor. Nothing. The scraping continued, growing very near.

What the hell is doing this?! He thought frantically. In his wild movements, he shone the

light down, and there lay the culprit; a zombie he had previously thought destroyed,

crawling after him. It’s body had been severed at the mid-torso, and the spinal cord

scraped along the floor. A grotesque sight, to be sure. Roger finished off the creature, and

plodded down the hall. This is odd. I haven’t seen anything ahead of me for ages. No

zombies, nothing. He walked along uneasily. After perhaps five minutes, he peered up

ahead. Was that a glimmer up ahead? If it was, it was the faintest of the faint, but it was

enough to spur Roger along with new hope. He had lost track of how long he’d been

making his way through the building so far. All he knew that was when he made it out of

this place, he had earned himself a nap.

The glimmer of light grew brighter as Roger made his way onwards. It was only a

reflection of a reflection of a reflection, carried along by the bright white gleam of the

walls. But he was getting closer. His anticipation made him careless, however, and he

failed to realize an obstacle on the floor until he stumbled over it. Cursing, he crouched

down. He was surprised to see that he had fallen over a body. Roger had thought that
everyone in this facility had been-zombified? Was that the word? Anyways, to see a plain

old body, that was, as morbid as it may sound, a relief. That is, until Roger turned the

body over, to find Larry’s sightless eyes staring up at him, and six bullets holes in Larry’s

chest.

Guns? But-who? Zombies can’t shoot guns! They can barely grab and bite! Roger

was thoroughly confused now. And not just a bit angry. He realized he had grown fond of

Larry and his tough-guy manner. He wouldn’t have been mad if Larry had been just a

zombie, lying in the hall. But this was different. Another human being- a living man in

this place full of the undead, ad stolen Larry’s life from him. Roger clenched his fists in

anger. Larry, I promise I’ll get the bastards who did this. It was a foolish sentiment. Why

was he getting so riled up over a coworker? Because it was a cause. It was another thing

to keep him trudging through this hellhole, going by some half-assed plan that wouldn’t

even work-

No. You couldn’t think like that. You might as well just lay down and die here,

just like Larry is right now. Or, you could stand up, grab your gun, and blow this island

and everything on it away. Roger leaned down, and closed Larry’s eyes. He saw a little

patch on the man’s vest. A deer. Larry loved to hunt. “Sorry, buddy. I hope you don’t

mind if I take this along with me.” Roger grabbed the patch, pried it off reverently, and

put it securely in a pocket.

He was in sight of the banquet hall. Approaching, he heard a low hum emanating

from the room. Good. The machine is still up and running. But, getting closer to the

room, there was a low, uneven murmur accompanying the hum. Voices? Roger crouched

down, and crept closer. He was now looking straight into the banquet hall. And there he
saw it. Four men, armed with some kind of diminutive machine guns and bulletproof

vests, were encircled around a fifth. The last man was different from all the others. He

seemed unarmed, for one. He was also crouched at the panel on the Communicator,

hissing irritably at the men. He seemed familiar…

“Make sure none of those things get near me. Make sure you’re keeping a

lookout!” Roger now identified the speaker. It was Dr. Pross. Pross? What the hell’s

going on? Roger inched closer and hit behind a large potted plant.

“Trust us, boss,” one of the armed men said in a deep voice, “We’ve got this place

covered well. I still dunno how that security guard survived the blast.”

“Hmph,” Pross said, concentrating on the panel “Perhaps a genetic irregularity,

some sort of exposure to a chemical, who knows. Well, he’s out of the way now.” So, you

bastard, you’re the one who had Larry offed. His crime was surviving, was it? Then,

Roger thought of something that had never occurred to him. Why was he not one of those

zombies? What could have-

That plant! The cut!

Roger quickly looked down at his arm, where the cut should be. Only, it wasn’t.

There was no trace of the cut, no trace of…anything. No hair, either. No freckles. Just

pure, pink-white skin. The plant must be what protected me. Roger was dumbfounded by

his luck. What if he hadn’t gone out that one night…would he be another one of those

mindless, flesh-hungering drones? What if-

What if you stepped on a land mine when you got off the plane to this island? The

fact was that he was here, right now, and he had some crooked scientists to take down.

But how to take care of those guards of his? Roger sat and thought, but could think of no
great inspiration. Well, if there isn’t gonna be any divine intervention, looks like I’ll do

this the old-fashioned way. He chuckled. Yeah, the old fashioned way of taking down a

zombie-creating scientist and his four armed guards, with nothing but a pair of boxers, a

T-shirt and a shotgun with you.

Roger hefted a shotgun shell. It seemed a little light, so he grabbed another from

the makeshift duct-tape bandolier he had set up on his arm. Taking careful aim, he tossed

them across the room. They landed with a splash in the decorative pool, and Roger

cheered his aim. The guards immediately looked towards the sound. One of them moved

towards it with a hiss of “Check it out!” from Pross. The guard edged cautiously towards

the pool. Closer…closer…yes! Roger leapt out, grabbed the guard by the neck, and

addressed the rest of the room.

“Now, listen up! If you all don’t put your guns down and step away from that

machine, you’re gonna earn your friend here a-a buckshot shampoo! The guards didn’t

say anything for a bit. Neither did Roger. Neither did Pross. Finally, almost thoughtfully,

the guards hefted their guns and sprayed bullets towards Roger. He felt the man he was

holding jerk as the slugs hit him, and only managed to crouch in time to escape the same

fate.

“Ah, you’re that security guard!” He heard Pross call. “The fellow who was drunk

at the party! I remember you!” Then in a somewhat more inquisitive tone-“What the hell

do you think you’re doing?”

Skipping formalities, Roger responded. “You killed everyone in this building, you

bastard! You killed Larry!”

“Well, I could hardly leave him alive, could I?” For God’s sake, the man sounded
like a movie villain. Well, two could play at that game.

“What is this, Pross? What are you doing?”

“My dear, dear boy” Pross said. His voice dripped with condescendence. “I

couldn’t have this device-the Communicator-part of a public corporation! Can you

imagine the profits it will reap? Untold billions!”

“So, this was all about money. You killed everyone here for money. On second

thought, the lucky ones are dead. The others are…I don’t even want to think about it,

yes.”

“Sometimes, my friend, the quickest path is through the mud. Now, if you please.

Guards, cease our young friend here’s existence.” The guards moved forwards to oblige.

Roger had been expecting this eventuality. What else could it come to, really? So he had

inched himself, bit by bit, towards the fallen guardsman. As Pross talked, Roger crept

nearer and nearer towards the object of his desire-the guard’s gun.

Now, Roger wrapped his hand around the weapon’s grip, and leapt up. The guards

were surprised, to say the least. They thought this one would just be a timid little rabbit,

all talk and no action. At least one of them was proven wrong, when he met forcibly with

several of Roger’s bullets. Both the guard and Roger sunk to the ground. However, Roger

had the advantage of not being recently perforated.

“I see you’re going to make this difficult.” Pross gritted out. “You won’t survive,

regardless. So why must you keep trying?” Roger responded to this by bushing his

shotgun over the plant formation and firing blindly in the direction he assumed the guards

were. He heard a yelp. He fired in that direction again, now with the submachine gun.

There wasn’t any other sound. Roger thought this an opportune time to talk.
 “So, Pross, do I hear incorrectly, or is it just me against one of your goons? I told

you that you’d pay.” There was no response. All the same, it was time to finish this.

Roger peeked above the plant structure. There was the last guard. Roger must’ve caught

him with a bit of buckshot, as he was nursing a bleeding leg. He did, however, have a gun

pointed in Roger’s direction, a discouraging obstacle. He was sure that the man would

fire the instant he saw anything that was conceivably Rogerlike, and the guard was

probably a good shot. Well, might as well make the last one special. Roger quickly

crossed himself, and heaved the machine gun over his shoulder. He heard a surprised

“Oof!” this was his cue to leap up and fire as many shotgun rounds as was humanly

possible. Perhaps even a few more.

Now, assured that all the men were dead, it was time for Pross. Except-Where in

the hell is Pross? A metallic click behind him answered that question.

“You could look behind you. Oh, and please, drop your weapon”

Damn.

Roger let the shotgun fall with a dull clank. He turned to see Pross standing, a

machine pistol aimed squarely at Roger.

“I told you you could not succeed! But still, you try, and you continue to

aggravate me! You are a liability that I am afraid cannot allow to remain alive.” Pross was

inching closer to the hallway as he said this, trying to get an escape route. “Goodbye-

Roger, was it?”

“Yep. Roger.” Roger said amiably.

“Well, I’m sorry for it to end like this, Roger. We may have been friends under

other circumstances. But alas, it was not so. Goodbye, Roger.”

 Three things then happened simultaneously. A fourth, fifth and sixth thing shortly

after.

Roger dove down and to his left, to avoid the storm of bullets he knew to be

coming.

Dr. Pross pulled the trigger on his weapon triumphantly.

Dr. Pross was grabbed from behind by a lifeless, gray hand.

Three bullets found their mark, slamming into Roger’s leg. He gasped with the

sudden pain of the impact. Dr. Pross disappeared into the hall, yelping. Suddenly, his

cries were cut off. I think we can all infer why. And, finally, a stray bullet whacked into

the control panel of the Matter Communicator.

And, if you count all hell breaking loose as a thing, then a seventh thing

happened. A massive pulse of gravitational energy escaped the machine, achieving the

same effect on Roger as a kick to the stomach. Gasping, he struggled to his feet. Another

pulse. A kick in the shins.

May a footnote in history forever show Roger Perry, Aged 27, as the fastest man

in the world during the Island-Escape Bullet In Leg Zombie Shooting Dash. Roger ran as

he had never run before. Blood pumping from his leg left a messy trail as he ran, gunning

down anything he saw moving near him. He saw the door. Another zombie. Pow. Another

corpse. He was getting closer. Closer…closer…

He burst into the open air. The pulses were still coming out of the facility, and

they were getting faster and more intense. He knew he couldn’t make it to the harbor in

time, not in the state he was in. He needed something, anything to take him…

His eyes alighted on a row of dirtbikes, lined up neatly next to the underground
truck parking. There is a God, and he loves me. He limped over to the vehicles,

adrenaline fading quickly and being replaced by pain. Keys…keys…don’t any of them

have keys? Aha! Jackpot! He leapt on the bike. Well, “leapt” is a bit enthusiastic. Maybe

“hobbled upwards” would be a better term. But, barring the means in which it happened,

Roger was on the bike. He gunned the engine, and there was a satisfying Roar. He was

starting to be able to feel the gravity pulses again. They were getting much stronger.

He sped along the dirt road. Plants, trees, grass, everything blurred behind him.

He looked back at the facility. It didn’t look right. It seemed as if one was looking at it

through a heat haze, on a foggy day, during a bad trip. It blurred and twisted almost

comically with each one of the increasingly frequent pulses. He was getting nearer to the

dock. He could see the sparkling blue of the water…it was beautiful. He launched onto

the dock, and leapt, this time really leapt, off the bike. The ground was shaking

underfoot. He needed a boat. Sailboat there…I don’t know how to sail. Yacht…I’m just

one guy. Raft…yeah, that’ll last a long time in the Pacific. And…what do we have here?

His eyes alighted upon a slender motorboat. It had an enclosed cabin, but it

looked small enough to be run by one man. Well, that was as good as it was gonna get,

with Roger increasingly feeling that he was tied to a subwoofer in a hip-hop show. He

scrambled onto the boat, and searched for a way to get the rope off. In retrospect, he

could’ve simply untied it, but hacking it off with the fire axe was much more dramatic.

His boat now freed, he started the engine fast as he could. Gunning the motor, he scraped,

quite literally, past the yacht and the sailboat. Whoops. The water around him seemed to

be boiling. He fired the motor again, and sped out like the devil was chasing him.

Looking back at the island was a peculiar experience, to say the least. The island
shook more and more until the center of it…disappeared. Gone. Poof. Out of existence.

More and more of the island was seemingly scooped out of being, as if by some

diabolical hand with a penchant for island-flavored ice cream. Then…it was gone. The

island was no more.

“Well,” Roger said, looking back. “That was a bit anticlimactic.”

Just then, the ocean was torn in two by the most massive explosion Roger ever

saw. Although, considering most people didn’t see very many explosions, it could be

described better as ‘The ocean was torn in two by the most massive explosion’. Fish,

sharks, whales, and who knows what else got the greatest thrill of their wet little lives

(And for some, it was the thrill that ended their wet little lives) as they were borne into

the air by a gargantuan detonation of gravitational, explosive and nuclear force.

Roger had long before checked the wounds on his leg. They didn’t seem too bad,

just flesh wounds. Maybe one bullet, two in the muscle. He had bound them up, and they

seem to have stopped bleeding. Besides, he wasn’t worried about no one showing up to

help. Not after that show.

He saw a dark shape on the horizon. A ship. That was quick. He contemplated on

whether he really needed to fire his flare gun or not.

Ah, the hell with it.

The bright flare lit up the ocean all around him, shining against the black sky like

a star.