As I sat in the cage watching the sun sink low, it occurred to me that I had forgotten a few things. First, I left the location of the keys to fortune. They were keys, so they’d be on a desk if not in a top drawer, or on the boss. That meant I had to kill these men. Not that I had any moral compunctions about their murder, after all, they shed no tears over killing me like a dog. No, I was quite looking forward to see them folks die horribly.

The problem was, if one of them got away with the keys I was screwed. If I let too many zomis out and the girl got hurt, I was screwed. If I didn’t leave enough zomis out and they killed us all off, a second time, I was even more screwed. The longer I waited, the greater the chance of something bad happening to what was left of me. The girl would be at greater risk too. If I left in the cover of darkness without the girl, she was screwed. In other words, no matter what I did, I had a good chance of somebody worth saving being screwed.

And that thing that would come in handy, what was that again. A flashlight! I really felt hung up over that flash light. None of the friendly neighborhood zomis had one. Then it hit me. This was the past, but it was still the late 1990’s. Lots of people carried cell phones and many of them had flash lights. I started going through clothes like an amateur pick-pocket. My marks had no inclination to care.

Empty. Every last pocket. These zomis had clothes on their backs and that was it. More like rags on their backs. Nothing else, not so much as a pack of matches or a tissue. It made sense, this base housed looters, so supplies were life. Considering how this big ole warehouse had rows upon rows of shelves and boxes, they were probably pretty keen on keeping their loot organized too. They were upstairs drinking, eating, and yapping, so what was stopping me from quietly checking the inventory while the sun still lit the building?

I opened the latch to the cage again and slipped outside for the second time. The side of the warehouse near the pick-up truck was filled with groaning zomis in dog crates. This played into my hands, because with all the cages rattling about and shoulders thumping into bars no one was going to hear little ole me shuffling about playing with crates.

The problem with the crates was that many of them were nailed shut. Perhaps it was a good idea to see if there was a downstairs work room. The area under the cat walk hadn’t much of anything besides being under the looting crew’s living area.

There were some sinks, cabinets, and metal shelves against the sheet metal walls. If I went there and someone decided to pay attention from that second-floor perch, they would spot me for sure. I crept like a ninja, stayed to the shadows.

One of the men walked behind the safety rails. He peered over the side as he held a big green bottle by the neck. With how red his face was, he looked lit up like a Christmas tree. There was no way he’d spot me if I stayed on all fours, so I crawled like a dog. I slowly opened the cabinets, even tested my luck by standing to rummage through the higher shelves. I found a pocket flash light and a crowbar, so I left my pipe behind. The crowbar felt heavier than it should have, but I could still wield it.

Seeing as I was having so much good luck, I decided to see if I couldn’t get myself a gun. Any gun would do, even their second-rate stuff. A zomi with a gun would have a huge element of surprise. It would surely be the icing on the cake. Plus, it was a great way to lead the horde. Kind of a nice advantage that I didn’t have to worry about them biting me.

The men on the platform yelled drunken slurs at each other while stumbling about threatening to fight each other over gravy packs. They weren’t even talking about the human they were keeping in a cage, not so much as a word! I didn’t feel quite the need to be as careful and started walking about in the open.

One of them saw me. A lanky guy with a huge Adam’s apple and short dark hairs shading his long chin squinted at me. I squinted at him as I held the crowbar lengthwise in front of my face. Then I jiggled it a bit. He took a big sip from his bottle and went right on back to yelling about his gravy pack. This might not be as difficult as I worried after all. But you know what they say about proper planning and how it relates to performance.

Being a master of survival games, I wasn’t about to slack on my planning. Since the guy with the green bottle stumbled into the interior to yuk it up with his buddies, I was free to quietly duck down and crawl around the inner perimeter of the warehouse. I could hear the hum of a generator outside, which meant this place most likely had some fine defenses, or at least in-depth defenses outside. Nobody was on lookout. They were all drunk at the moment.

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Then I found it amidst some gun parts lying around. An intact Smith and Wesson revolver that looked to be in working condition. Six shells in the cylinder too. There were a bunch of 9mm pistols and ammo magazines lying around on the middle shelf, but I’m a sucker for revolvers. When it comes to dealing with the living there is no better gun. No really good quality stuff or submachine gun rounds down here, which meant they probably kept all the good stuff on the second floor. Their lights were bright on the platform, but it was getting increasingly more difficult to see in the warehouse. I decided to stuff the revolver and a few extra bullets in my pocket and head back towards may cage. But I decided to make a mental note of the paths as I returned to my hiding spot between the metal wings of a steel beam. I needed to see where they went because I’d be navigating in the dark.

Once they turned everything out and tucked in, I crept my back to the cage in the dark while feeling the floor. I kept my crowbar tucked against my waist in fear that I might accidently drum on something. There was no moon, so I never realized how dark the place would be.

The main cage was only a left turn and a short walk from my hiding spot. Finding it was easy enough thanks to the groans. These looters were not true survivors. No true survivor would ever keep a zombie pit in their base. And this group didn’t even bother to lock it. All it would take was one angry member to plunge this place into chaos, and from what I had seen during the day, the social dynamic of this group wasn’t all that stable thanks to big Jimmy.

Finding the latch was more difficult than finding the cage. My fingers fumbled around bars as the other zomis became attracted to my attempts. They shuffled to the front of the cage. Now they decided to be interested. The more they pressed their weight against the door, the more difficult it became to slide my hands around the bars. I felt teeth on my skin!

False alarm. It was just the metal reinforcement weld. My sense of touch wasn’t all too good. I couldn’t register hot or cold very well. All hard things felt like teeth. My skin felt numb and fragile, but I could move my finger just as well as I always could baring a little stiffness. I could feel the latch. These idiots were leaning on it. I wanted to push at them. Hand went through the bars to feel at my flesh but soon lost interest. The only problem was they left their arms dangle out the bars, leaned into the cage door, and jammed up the latch in doing so.

I tried giving them a shove but there were too many of them. Perhaps I wasn’t thinking clearly. Because just a walk to the back of the cage and some gentle noise would get them moving. After fifteen minutes of fuming, I thought of this. They took their sweet time shuffling over to the back of the cage. One zomi remained, so I shoved them back with the crow bar. She growled but didn’t even snap her teeth at me. I tip-toed to the front, felt the latch, and opened the door. The creak as the door slowly made me stiffen up, but no lights went on. The die had been cast. I was now the horde whisperer.

As they shuffled out and started wandering, I became worried. A few taps of my crowbar, then another few taps. They weren’t listening.

“Don’t wander off!”

It was barely above a whisper, but that felt stupid. The zomis looked at me before they pressed around in a tight circle. I felt a hand tickle my side and another grab my left arm. For the first time since I died, I could feel my beating heart. If I had a heartbeat that meant alive, and alive meant food! But they didn’t drag me down. How long did I stand there like a deer in the headlights pressing flesh with the undead before I realized they didn’t include me on the menu anymore? That’s when I felt it. They breathed. They had heartbeats. They weren’t really dead. They were infected. They just had a disease that needed to be cured. Even myself, every now and then, I felt maybe the slightest of breath enter my lungs. But here we were, all huddled together in the aisle, and I barely felt any heat. What I wouldn’t do for some warmth, hot breath, warm blood, flowing wonderful life. My teeth clenched so hard. But I was just infected. There was hope of a cure.

“Are you hungry? Let’s go.”

I lifted the crow bar, but not to swing it. I could push them around, direct them to move. They followed me. We flowed like water. We moved like a slug. If they got out of line, I could tap my crow bar on the floor and they’d center on me. The feeling proved a bit of a rush. I worked this group to the step with little taps, shoves, pushes, sometimes I grabbed arm and pulled a straggler. I didn’t want any of my team wandering off. The steps approached. They were metal, so I gently tapped them with the crowbar before ascending the first step.

“Are you hungry? The meats upstairs. Good meat. Fresh meat. Full of blood. Full of veins. Veins.”

My stomach ached.

They sensed something. How fast they shuffled up the steps shocked even me. Can't say the drool wasn't pooling on my own tongue. I readied my crowbar and my gun. They might have been equipped to handle ten or so zomis, but we had the advantage of surprise. I felt something slimy and squeezed it between my fingers. The man that big Jimbo killed had been opened up pretty badly. It was probably him. I couldn’t tell in the dark. My hands pressed his back and encouraged him quickly upstairs. If any zomi had a first shot at big Jimmy, it was this one.

We were almost at the top. I heard snoring through the low gurgles of my infected friends. Drunk idiots hadn’t even woken up from all the clattering on the stairs. The crowbar went in my belt as I prepared my gun and my flash light. Now where were the keys to that pick-up truck? Where was the light switch?

The zomis, infected people like me, pushed me aside toward the source of the snoring.

I felt around for the light switch with the Smith And Wesson six shooter in my left hand.