Trust Us, We're Here to Help You!
Written by By Pat Dixon (

"Thank God we found you!" the middle-aged woman said as she pulled up in her late-model sedan. She gripped her steering wheel, knuckles white with stress. Two small boys sat in the back seat, looking out at the smiling soldiers with wide, frightened eyes. A pair of fatigue-clad men came forward from the double-doors of the small-town city hall, now an ad-hoc rescue station.

"That's what we're here for, Ma'am," said a tall and handsome blonde soldier, carbine held relaxed on his shoulder. "If you just head on in, we've got hot soup and some beds with you and your little guys names written all over 'em!" The young man grinned easily, casual. His counterpart also smiled, although he held his rifle out, prepared to fire upon the small group of moaning undead that had followed the harried woman through the streets of the small town.

"We've been so scared," the woman said as she opened up her car door. "We haven't dared even get out to stretch our legs or go to the bathroom for what seems like days. But I guess you boys understand what's going on and don't need to here it from me!" She was smiling in relief.

The blond soldier held the car door open as the woman climbed out, stretching her tired legs. Another soldier stepped out of the limestone building, rifle tracking the small mob of zombies. The young boys, excited about finally getting out of the stuffy car, were clambering out of both back doors of the vehicle.

The two kind young soldiers escorted the tired and frightened little family into the open doors of the rescue center. "They must really be worried about their own loved ones," the woman was thinking, "but here they are, helping us strangers out!"

As they stepped inside the building, a silent alarm went off in the woman's head. They heard nothing other than the echo of their own feet on the cold tiled floor. No voices, no crying, no sounds coming from the large group of humanity that should be huddled here in safety from the terrible changes Outside.

"I . . ." she began, turning towards the blond soldier who was coming up behind her. She caught a brief glimpse of a syringe as it plunged into her upper arm. There was a tiny pain, a tiny gasp, a tiny feeling of profound fear and disappointment. Then it all went away.


She came to in stages. First the voices. They were talking about her.

"She should provide for a couple of days. Her boys, not so long. Can't be helped."

"Yes, Doctor."

The first voice was soft and pleasant. A male, tenor, voice.

Then the light slowly filtered into her drugged brain. Bright light behind her closed lids filtered a world of red. She opened her eyes.

She saw that she was lying on a table before she felt the straps or the alien pressure of the large plastic needle pushed into her left arm. She had donated enough blood in her life to recognize the bag, the tube, the needle.

Her vision focused on a balding, round-faced man in doctor's whites. He smiled pleasantly, light blue eyes magnified behind thick spectacles. Behind him stood a throng of men in fatigues. She recognized the handsome soldier from the gate. They looked upon her splayed body with a vacant hunger. She couldn't speak, only watch.

The doctor lifted her blood bag down from its tower. Eyes wide, lips slack, every soldier pushed an empty cup towards the little man as he released an ounce or two of her warm, living blood into every cup. Some of the cups shook with impatience.

"Easy, boys, easy," said the doctor. "We don't know how long this fine woman must last us. Savor the flavor, gentlemen."


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