Our group was pleased to see the new faces when we arrived at the compound late that night. It was a positive sign that all was not lost, and some small pockets of humanity still remained alive in addition to us.
The three newcomers were shown to the showers, disinfected and then inspected by Doc Sparrow. At fifty-four he was the senior member of our group. After dressing in new clothing, they received hot meals before being escorted to the detention holding cells. The cells consisted of bare rooms with three-inch thick rough-sawn oak lumber on the walls and ceiling above concrete floors. A single bed, one chair, a small table with a plastic washbowl, water pitcher, and chamber pot offered the bare essentials in the six-foot by eight-foot enclosures. Finally, everyone who had risen to greet us returned to their rooms for a few hours of sleep before sunrise.
Our regular routines continued without incident for a week and six days after the arrival of the newcomers. They were provided with all the books and outdated magazines they could stand to read. Three times a day they were fed the same food we ate.
That morning, I'd gone with a crew to mow along the road to the lake and didn't return until after ten. Marcie Tanka, our nurse, stopped me when I walked by Doc's office. She was serious and didn't wear her usual smile. I put my arm around her shoulders. "Ira and I have monitored the condition of our guests since they arrived. We've noticed Walter's appetite waning steadily for the last four or five days." She shook her head. "This morning he didn't touch his food. He definitely shows signs of turning." Marcie shook her head almost imperceptibly as a compassionate tear rolled down her cheek. I took in a deep breath, exhaled, and nodded. She summoned Ira Sparrow, and he joined us to walk toward the holding cells. Ira agreed that the sickness had slowly crept into Walter's brain. He was infected and had been lost to us.
Ten feet from the door, I heard low mumbling from Walter's cell. Through the half-inch thick wire embedded safety glass in the cell door, I observed him. He was docile as he stood facing a side wall until I knocked loudly on the door. His head turned and he stared at me as if drugged. His mouth opened, and he lumbered to the door and clawed at the rough sawn wood trying to reach out to me. He was oblivious to his fingernails peeling back and blood dripping from his finger tips. His eyes were red ringed, and the mumbling became the moaning cries we'd grown weary of hearing.
From the next cell, Kira's muted voice cried out, "What's happening? Are zombies in the building? Please, what's going on? Someone tell me. Are my daughter and father alright? Are they safe? Please, someone talk to me."
I walked to Kira's cell and switched on the speaker. "I hate to tell you this, but Walter is contaminated. He's in the final stage of turning." She stared at me, disbelief evident in her gaze. "No, that can't be. He was fine when we got here. I want to see him. Please, there's a mistake. I've got to see him."
"I'm sorry Kira, but once you go into isolation it's for a full three weeks. You and Paige still have another week to go. You don't leave and no one enters your room until the isolation period is complete. You were told that up front, and it's not negotiable. "
"Dammit! I want to see my father. He's all Paige and I have. I just need to see him one last time. Please." I switched the speaker off because further talk was futile. Kira pounded on the door as I forced myself to turn away. Her muted cries could still be heard by anyone close by. I motioned toward Paige's cell and said, "Marcie, will you please let Paige know what's happening? I imagine she's frightened by the loud ranting."
There was no sense arguing with Kira. The protection of the group was of the utmost importance, and personal needs for closure had to be dealt with by each individual. Sad and harsh, but that's the way it was. I walked to the end of the holding cells, climbed the ladder to access the cell's ceiling, and opened the hatch above Walter. He stood under me between the opening and the door. If released, he'd attack any human, even his daughter or granddaughter. I aimed and pulled the trigger. When the sound of the .45 caliber blast echoed through the building, Kira screamed. I saw people who'd stopped what they'd been doing to turn toward the cells. Everyone knew what a gunshot from that area meant. In the bitter silence that ensued, a single faint but clear female voice was heard by all. "I hate you, Tom Jacobs. I hate you!"
Some of our more sensitive people shy away from having to end the life of someone they'd known before that person transformed into an undead creature. As the group leader, that despicable task routinely falls to me or Shane in my absence. It sucks, but that's our role. We do the dirty work to keep everyone else safe. But it's not as painless as some may think.
At the end of Paige and Kira's incarceration, I advanced the weekly meeting by a day to introduce them and formally welcome them. They'd been given copies of the organizational chart showing everyone's name, position and a small picture of each member. I dreaded the day when we lost power and could no longer use our computers and printers. Two chairs were placed in front of the seated group facing them, and Kira and Page were asked to tell
