Time was supposed to heal all wounds. Even wounds of the soul.

Bullshit.

It had been six months since Tom left Afghanistan. Supposedly long enough to get over it all, to move on and let go, but his knuckles still turned white around the handlebars as he approached the blockade. Ahead, four cop sedans and a handful of officers obstructed the road.

His throat clenched, sweat damp on his brow. Heart racing, he slowed his motorcycle and approached the police squad.

A memory arose. God, no. Not now. I just want to get to town.

A cop waved, beckoning him closer.

It had happened like this six months ago. Reversed, but just like this.

Nate...fucking shit.

He'd glimpsed Hell on a sweltering afternoon, not far outside of Kabul. His unit had been stationed at a routine checkpoint. A truck with a cracked windshield had rolled up, carrying several nondescript Afghan citizens.

His best buddy, PFC Nate Turnbull, had shaken hands with some children in the back of the truck. Lowered his guard for a moment. Always friendly with the locals.

One simple handshake marked the end. A scrawny teenage boy had reached into his jacket, shouted praise to Allah, and pulled a switch. 

The world had burned in an instant. Nate was obliterated, along with the truck, the boy, and all the passengers. Tom had leaped behind a transport and somehow survived. Ears ringing, skin charred, soul crushed.

Those scars remained, the pain still fresh. 

The Gila Crossing police officers before him were like that checkpoint in Afghanistan, demanding identification from Afghan locals as Tom himself had once done.

Fuck this.

Tom slammed his brakes, swerved his bike around, and gunned the engine. He fled down the road in the opposite direction.

The police hurried to their vehicles and pursued. Sirens wailed in the glare of flashing lights. Tom accelerated. His cycle was built for speed. He'd souped it up himself. The Arizona desert blurred around him. Dry, dusty land, blue sky with no clouds. The sirens sounded hollow and distant.

Where am I going? What the hell am I doing? His thoughts clashed with instinct. Only a mile to Serenity Ranch, his home away from home. Supposed to be a place for healing. He was leading the cops right to the doorstep, but he had nowhere else to go.

He cut a hard right off the road and tore through the ranch's steel entry gate. The law still trailed him. He braked in the driveway. The bike's tires scattered a long cloud of dust.

The cops pulled in, skidding over gravel. All six officers poured out of their cars with firearms drawn.

"On the ground. Now!"

Tom got off the motorcycle. He put his hands behind his head and sprawled as ordered, face down.

The front door of the house swung open, and a gray-haired woman in a brightly patterned sun dress sprinted down the steps.

"What's going on?" Wynnona Yates ran to Tom. Her eyes were glued to the cops and their guns.

"Sorry," Tom said, his cheek pressed to the dirt. "I fucked up again."

Wynn mumbled something to herself, then shouted to the cops, "You can put those guns away, Deputy Maxson. Tom isn't a criminal." 

"That so? I respect your opinion 'round this town, Ms. Yates, but we can never be too certain." Deputy Maxson waved a hand, and his comrades lowered their weapons. "Resisting a checkpoint is a violation, son. Why'd you run?"

Tom sighed hard, stirring up dust. "Call it the jitters."

"Tom's just out of Afghanistan," Wynn said. "On rehab here with me at the ranch. Doctor's orders."

"Another patient? I see." Maxson's tone warmed a little. "PTSD, then?"

Tom flinched at the clinical term for his weakness. "So they say. But I'm not sick, or crazy, or—"

"You don't have to explain. Get on up." Maxson holstered his gun.

As Tom pushed himself upright, heart still pounding, he swept a glance from Wynn to Maxson. "I'm sorry, Officer. It won't happen again."

The corner of Maxson's lip twitched. "I believe you." He studied Tom a moment, then spoke to Wynn. "We're on high alert after an accident out at the Rochford facility. Big chemical leak. The Feds have rolled out there to inspect it."

"Really? Another one?" Wynn crossed her arms. "Any orders for an evacuation?"

"No word yet." Maxson shook his head, "You ask me, nothing good's ever come out of that toxic dump. I don't like the Feds trotting around our parts. My hunch is they're hiding something."

Wynn gave a slow nod. "I'll keep watch on my end."

"Much obliged. We appreciate all you do out here, Ms. Yates. As for you, kid, if you ever need help, call us. We take care of our own in Gila Crossing."

The cops said goodbye and drove away. Tom and Wynn stood side by side, rigid as two desolate cacti in the afternoon dust.

Wynn's eyes lit with concern. "Are you okay? I can prepare the meditation room if you'd like to try it. Might help calm your nerves."

Tom looked away. "I'm good. For now. Just need a little time alone. My way."

"Suit yourself." Wynn sighed. "I'll be in the workshop until sundown. Make yourself at home. You don't have to stay out in the camper all the time. I still have that spare room reserved for you."

"Thanks, but I'll be fine." As fine as he could admit, anyway.

Wynn headed for the nearby workshop where she created all her strange metal sculptures. She was a tough lady beneath all her new-age trappings and hippie flair. A retired welder, now the proprietor of Serenity Ranch. Her property was a retreat for the healing of mind and spirit. A place to 'get in touch and find oneself'. Tom didn't believe in spiritual bullshit, but he'd come to like Wynn during the few weeks he'd lived here. She respected his privacy and his wishes. And something about this isolated desert haven did comfort him. Just rocks, sky, dust, snakes, crows, coyotes, and Wynn.

Tom rode his motorcycle to the northwestern corner of the property. He parked it beside the vintage VW camper he'd claimed as a guest house of sorts. The camper belonged to Wynn, a relic from the Seventies. Tom had taken it on as a fixer-upper project. The old clunker ran now, but it still needed work.

Silence and solitude usually eased his mind. Been awhile since he'd had such a severe panic attack. He slouched onto the camper's Naugahyde diner seat and rested his head on the small table. He stopped trembling, though his pulse still thumped like a drum. He needed a shower. A jaunt up to the house would be required after all. At least he was the only guest at the ranch right now.

He hadn't made it to the grocery store like he'd planned earlier. Damn. No snacks, and he was starving. He scoured through the mini-fridge and cupboards. All he found was a dented can of sliced peaches. Lovely. Could have been worse. Maybe.

He popped the tab on the can and reached inside. His fingers sank into sticky juice and fished out a blob. At one time it had been a ripe piece of fruit. Kind of like how he'd once been a soldier. A United States Marine. Like the peaches, he'd soaked far too long in misery and had become a spineless dud. No matter what people said to convince him otherwise, he knew he should have been stronger. He should still be out with his unit, doing his job, defending freedom, but he'd failed.

He wanted to return to a normal life, to control himself, to reclaim his mind and feelings. Was it really so much to hope for? The Corps had sent him home to recuperate from the horrors of war. But the struggle went on, and it seemed a losing battle after his defeat at the checkpoint today.

The peaches tasted as bland as their faded orange color. He tossed the empty can into the trash. Outside, the sun dipped low toward the horizon, toward the west, where the Rochford facility and its alleged chemical leak lurked beyond the rolling brown foothills.

The old Gila Crossing cemetery sprawled between Serenity Ranch and those ominous hills. Bordering Wynn's twenty-five acre plot along its entire western flank, the tombstones and crypts lay scattered among withered sagebrush and tangles of rusty barbed wire. Some of the graves were fresh, as many locals held family plots. Most, however, were from a century ago. The cemetery dated back to the Mexican-American War, Wynn had once explained. Fallen soldiers were buried there en masse, casualties of a massacre long forgotten by history books.

Maybe I'll end up in a neglected graveyard, too. Nothing I've done matters.

As he sat wrestling with the worst parts of himself, a fierce wind rose. Dust swirled in eddies around the camper. In minutes, a storm blew in. Not uncommon in these parts.

This time was different. The winds buffeted the camper, jostling it on its shocks, and all visibility fell to zero. Forget going out in such a mess. Most dust storms ended quickly, but this one only blew wilder by the minute. He paced from the bed to the kitchenette, then settled into the driver's seat. Once the storm died, he'd go to the house. Might be a while. He couldn't see his motorcycle, though it was parked less than five feet away.

His phone was charged. Calling Wynn seemed a good idea. As he picked up the phone, a distorted figure lurched against the camper. Skeletal hands clawed against the windshield. A decomposed face with empty sockets gaped in. Broken teeth chomped against the glass.

Tom shouted and dropped the phone. What the actual fuck? His mind was playing tricks again, another superimposing of his memories over reality.

A second figure shambled out of the haze. Strips of flesh clung to its still pink bones, a fresher specimen. Zombies? They couldn't be real. More like cheap Halloween costumes or a cheesy horror flick come to life.

Yet another zombie—if that's truly what they were—stumbled toward the camper and shoved the others aside. Blackish liquid seeped from this one's milky eyeballs, a tattered hat and veil pinned askew on its patchy blonde curls. Had it once been a woman, someone's mother or grandmother, or was this all just a sick hallucination?

Tom dialed Wynn's number. His fingers fumbled over the keypad. The call connected. He brushed a sweaty lock of hair from his eyes and yelled into the phone. "Wynn! Are you there? Weird shit's going down out here."

"You're telling me. This dust storm's a bad omen. Are you still out in the camper?"

"Yeah." Tom gulped. "I think I'm losing it again. There's...things out here. Dead things. People in zombie costumes or something."

"What? Did you just say zombies?"

"That's all I can call them. More are coming...shit. What should I do?"

Wynn swore. "Get to the workshop."

The female zombie's jaw hung loose on ropy sinew. She scraped yellowed nails along the camper and reached for the door handle.

Tom dove to lock it. Fight-or-flee reflexes tensed every joint and muscle. "I can't get out. They're everywhere."

"Drive the camper here. Now." Wynn hung up.

A wheezing, guttural shriek echoed outside. The dust storm quieted somewhat, and Tom glimpsed another scene from Hell. Scores of living dead shuffled out of the nearby cemetery, their ragged clothing fluttering in the wind. They crowded around the camper. Some pounded on the windows, others scratched at the doors.

This can't be real.

He rummaged through the glove box for the keys. Had to get out of here. He started the engine and shifted to reverse. Zombies on all sides. The camper lurched, and heavy thuds struck the rear. Bodies in his way.

Hit three more zombies. The female zombie crashed into the windshield and cracked it before she tumbled aside. Greenish smears splattered on impact. Bits of flesh dripped down.

The engine wailed, gears grinding.

He spun a frantic 180 and peeled out. Could barely see the driveway. Only Wynn's large metal sculptures were visible. They lined the sides of the driveway like sentinels on guard. A wrought iron angel with bladed, rusty wings. A unicorn with a mane of serrated steel. A makeshift Buddha, its iron face serene in meditation. He'd always found them interesting, though bizarre. They were his guides now.

He spotteed the workshop ahead. Checked the rearview mirror. Scores of zombies scuffled after him. Not a hallucination. A sick joke, maybe? He didn't want to find out.

Wynn stood beside the sectional steel door of the workshop. She waved with one hand while covering her mouth and nose with the other.

He drove into the cool, dim interior and slammed the brakes. Wynn lowered the door behind him, then locked it. Coughing in the strange green dust, she rushed to the camper. When she reached for the driver's side door handle, her grip slid over the gooey mess.

She scowled and wiped her fingers off. "How many are out there?"

"Don't know. They're coming from the cemetery."

Wynn pushed her welding goggles back. She handed Tom a rag as he stepped out of the camper, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Sit down and take it easy." She pulled up a stool for him. "This is all aftermath from Rochford's leak. They claimed they'd gotten it under control the last time, but I've always had my doubts."

Tom straightened, studying her. His voice shuddered like his body. "The last time...you mean, this has happened before?"

Her expression held all seriousness. "Fifteen years ago, there was a chemical outbreak from one of Rochford's experiments. They do classified research out there. Military stuff, I guess. Anyway, their last little 'leak' blew over here and revived a few corpses from the cemetery. Not too bad that time. I took those out with a shotgun. A few days after it happened, some officials from the facility showed up and asked me to keep mum about it. Paid me a good sum in exchange for my cooperation. Damn those bastards. Whatever they're messing with out at that Hell-hole, it isn't natural."

"It's real, then...." Tom stood and peered out one of the narrow slat windows in the workshop door. Green dust. Zombies—genuine undead motherfucking zombies—clustered nearby. So many. Their fists pummeled against the steel. The sound resonated with his heartbeat, thudding through his skull.

He slouched onto the stool and buried his face in his hands. His eyes stung, tears at the brink. He resisted, but they spilled anyway. "Shit. Look at me. I'm no hero. Never had what it takes. I'm weak. Useless."

"Don't blame yourself, kiddo." Wynn stepped closer. Her tone was gentle. Understanding. "The strongest warriors have the most scars. Many of those scars stay hidden. That's not a weakness. It takes more than courage to fight the greatest enemy we all face sooner or later—ourselves. It takes patience and a loving heart."

The groans and thumps of undead rage grew louder against the door.

Tom blew his nose into the rag Wynn had given him. He tried to smile. "This is like a bad movie. You're spouting guru wisdom while 'The Night Of The Living Dead' is happening outside. I really am going crazy."

Wynn chuckled. "You're not crazy. It's just another challenge to overcome. Though I admit, it's a strange one, and I had a hard time accepting it after my first encounter with the creepers."

"Creepers?"

"Just a silly name I gave them. Makes them seem a lot less scary. Believing they're real is the first step. You can't fight illusions. Have to accept the hard truth, then you deal with it."

His fists tightened. "What...I mean, how, are we going to deal with this?"

She winked. "I'm the thing that monsters have nightmares about. And right now, you and me are gonna show 'em why."

"Hey, that's a quote from..." He flinched as a zombie hand smashed through one of the windows in the sectional door.

"Yep, I'm a huge Buffy fan." She grinned. "Ignore the creepers. The door's reinforced, and I've got plenty of supplies in here. I've been prepared for years, in case it happened again. We just need a plan." Wynn grinned and pulled her goggles over her eyes. She'd changed out of her sundress and into her coveralls. Her tanned arms were wired with muscle from years of labor. She could pass as a harmless hippie grandma, but she always took care of business.

Tom checked his phone. The connection was dead. "Guess calling Maxson for help isn't an option."

Wynn shook her head. "Already tried. The signal went down right after you called me."

"Well, shit." He glanced around the workshop. Cluttered with Wynn's art projects in progress and the various metal parts she used, the room was as wide as a three-car garage. Utility lights threw a stark glow over the stacks of rusted auto bodies and vintage farm equipment. The camper was the only functional vehicle in here.

As Tom surveyed the collection of mismatched parts, an idea struck him. "We obviously can't walk or drive out. But what if we cut a path through? Literally. The camper has half a tank. We can make it to town if we clear the driveway. Maybe...something like that cutter bar there. If we could make it work." He pointed to an old tractor attachment lying in the corner.

Wynn laughed. "That's an antique combine header. Industrial-strength lawnmower from my grandpa's day. You have an active imagination."

"Unfortunately, that imagination gets the best of me." Tom smirked. "I watched a lot of zombie flicks growing up. Always ends in a bloodbath."

More glass shattered onto the concrete floor. The stench of rotting flesh wafted in. Undead arms and faces flailed through the windows. Fortunately, the openings were too small for anything to crawl in. As long as the door held, he and Wynn were safe--though trapped inside.

Wynn assessed the camper for a few minutes. "I can attach the cutter here along the front, and I've got a nifty old train pilot to plow 'em over. I'll bolt that on, too. It'll finish off any creepers that block our way. The problem will be counterweight and power for the blades. I'm no mechanic."

"You're in luck," Tom said. "I am. Built my motorcycle myself. I worked on cars with my uncle as a kid. I can get things running with the right tools."

"We're a team, then." Wynn handed Tom a wrench and a pair of protective goggles. "Show me what you've got. There's an old engine over there on that workbench. It runs but needs some fine-tuning. If you can tighten it up, we stand a chance."

Desperation fueled the job. Time pressed on Tom's mind as relentlessly as the herd of creepers outside.

Fix it like your life depends on it, because it does, he told himself.

All the while, fear screamed in his head, told him to give up, to run and hide. But as he watched Wynn work, her welding torch sparking, he found it easier to concentrate.

The creepers still scraped at the door. Dents appeared in the metal. All the windows were smashed out. Tom wondered what they'd actually do if they got in. Were they cannibalistic, like in the movies, or would they just rend him apart? He tightened a valve on the engine and pushed the thought away. He and Wynn would get out, whole and alive, no matter what. He'd make it happen.

Hours passed. The storm finally died down. It was well into night when Wynn finished welding the cutter to the camper. Tom helped her lift the steel frame into place, and they reinforced the attachment with bolts across the roof, sides, and front fender. Fatigue and thirst finally forced them to take a breather. Wynn kept some cheap beer in a mini-fridge in the corner, a welcome refreshment and diversion.

Tom peeked out the window. Creepers everywhere, packed nuts to elbows. If they had any nuts left. He tossed back his beer and joined Wynn beside their jimmy-hitched rig of doom. It resembled a steam train's cowcatcher crossed with a combine harvester and a wrought iron battering ram. The primered hippie-mobile VW camper was armed for the fray.

He crushed the beer can and threw it aside. "I hope this works."

"It better. Otherwise we're trapped here until either Maxson or the Feds come to rescue us. And I hope to God it won't be the latter."

A few minutes later, as if by divine intervention, Wynn's phone rang. She set her welding goggles aside and answered it. Her smile brightened. "Maxson! Oh, praise Goddess. I couldn't get through earlier. Wireless was down. Interference or something. Yep, the creepers are back. Droves of them. No, we're still stranded. Just Tom and I out here. We're getting out, mark my word. I know the danger, but we can't wait for...yes, I know. What? The entire town? Shit. Well, we'll do our best. Thank you, sir. You're a life-saver. We'll get there. See you soon." She slipped her phone into her pocket and locked eyes with Tom. "It's worse than I thought. All of Gila Crossing is swarmed with the undead. Maxson says people are bunkered up in the cellars at Town Hall and the Y. We have to get to either location as soon as possible. Are you with me, kiddo?"

Though his demons still taunted him, Tom straightened his posture and saluted. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am. PFC Tom Harper reporting. We'll reach our destination or die trying."

Wynn squeezed his arm, her grin wide as the desert horizon. "That's the spirit. Know why I like you, Tom? You remind me of my best friend. Kevin Sterling. He was a fighter, like you, but he had a deep soul and a kind heart under it all. If only things had ended differently. I would have married him. Never did, after what happened."

"What happened to him?"

Her eyes shimmered. "His platoon was sabotaged in Vietnam. All killed. He...was only twenty. Not much older than you, I suppose."

"Yeah." Tom swallowed, studying Wynn. "That's how old I am."

She wiped her eyes with a knuckle. "Let's get out of here."

Adrenaline streaked through his veins as he joined her in the camper. Wynn took the driver's seat, and he claimed the passenger side. Operator and navigator, just like when he was on active duty. Familiar territory. He could do this.

"I've loaded up supplies in the back," she said. "Cleaned out my cache. Water, rations, firearms, fuel, and the like. There's enough to get us both through a day or so on the road if we need it, but we'll have to reach the others soon."

Tom nodded once.

She reached into the back and handed him a 12 gauge and a box of shells. "Pop the sunroof and take position. As soon as I open the door, clear the way."

"Roger." He unlatched the sunroof, loaded the gun, and leaned out, ready for the onslaught.

Wynn hit the remote, and the workshop door slowly lifted.

The fetid smell nearly floored him. Fucking disgusting.

The camper's main engine roared as Wynn put the pedal to the metal. She turned on the blades. Their makeshift zombie-mower whirred to life. Wynn had sharpened and edged all of the cutters to precision.

The creepers stood silhouetted, a shifting mass of putrefied guts and clacking bones. They hobbled forward in a thick mob, mindless, dripping with rot.

Wynn shifted gears. "That's right, you walking mishaps. Outta my way." She shouted to Tom. "Brace yourself, kiddo. This is going to be messy."

Tom pulled his goggles and hat brim low, took aim, and fired. Chunks of brain, muscle, and bone burst into a dark mist.

The camper bolted forward, blades and rammers at the helm. The first wave of creepers hit the pilot guard and toppled away. Those unfortunate enough to meet the blades screeched as they were chopped into slimy paste.

A coil of rancid intestine flew up and smacked Tom across the mouth. Drops of pungent death stained his lips, his tongue. Musty, semi-sweet, tasted like the bottom of a stagnant latrine mixed with a moldy bottle of steak sauce, His stomach flopped over, but he wiped the mess away and steadied himself.

Focus, Harper. The mission depends on you.

He fired again to disperse the tightest packs. The creepers possessed some instinct for self-preservation and shrank away as the camper advanced. When the camper made it to the top of the drive, the blade mechanism finally gummed up with gore and stopped whirling.

"Here we go!" Wynn floored the gas once more, and they hurtled away from the ranch, the creepers, and certain death.

Into an uncertain future.

A thin veil of grayish-green light tinted the eastern sky, where the promise of sunrise barely showed through the lingering haze of the chemical-tainted dust storm.

Wynn cheered. "Excellent work, soldier. That took a lot of guts...oops, sorry. Couldn't resist."

Tom laughed in spite of himself. Laughter was better medicine than time. With the dead walking and the world turned upside-down, he had to be braver than ever. His war was far from over. He clutched the shotgun to his chest and prayed for the first time.