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Heat radiated from him like a brick fresh out of the oven. The boy knew he had turned a dark shade of scarlet. He hadn’t moved from his spot in Mrs. Delray’s pantry for about a day or so and since pantry’s were rarely a place that a person would keep a mirror, he hadn’t had a chance to inspect his appearance. He could feel the crimson flush in his cheeks though. He knew it would be almost hot to the touch, like poking a stovetop burner. Not like he bothered to try it, it was easier just to lay still now on the lineloem. Even the slightest movements led to a whirling, dizziness that turned his solid, quiet resting place into a tempest of waves. He wouldn’t even reach up to move the matted locks of his tousled, brown mop of hair out of his sea green eyes, not that it bothered him much anyway. He’d play a game with himself, during his moments of clarity, where he would test just how long he could remain perfectly still. Though time seemed to have become a nonexistent eternity, the boy was sure it passed it. Plus it was better than being rocked like a ship on a screaming sea.

The chills, though, they were the worst part. As he slipped in and out of sleep his dreams were filled with sticky summer days and fire. More often than not dreams of being burned alive would jolt him awake...dreams of his father, as a towering figure of dancing flame, embracing him and setting the boy ablaze. Despite the heat though, he’d wake up with the shakes, chilled to the bone. It was hot in the Delray household, the days had been thick with summer humidity and the nights provided no relief. Not scorching like his skin, but nothing that could be called cold. Never had the boy experienced such a thing and it made his game of stillness a true challenge. It was better than the pain though. Anything was a relief from that. His arm had numbed for the most part now.

He’d been camped in Mrs. Delray’s pantry for three days now, no maybe four. Time really had escaped him. Everything seemed to be slipping away from him as of late. His mind felt like a bowl of mush...at least it was hot mush, a bowl of porridge fit for a papa bear. Silence was his only companion and considering recent events, it was quite a welcome one. Not that they were strangers, silence and he. The Delray’s had been gone some weeks now. Mrs. Delray was the kindly, grandmotherly type. She’d always bake the best pies and cookies, generously handing them out to the neighborhood kids who were lucky enough to catch her at work. The boy always made sure to stop by her kitchen window and she always teased that he could win her over with just a smile. He could remember how sweet her cookies smelled and how delicious they had tasted. He’d always thought of the small Delray home as a sort of gingerbread house, with it’s brown brick, white windows, and a chimney that seemed to pipe the scent of baked goods into the world. The Delray’s were never afraid to decorate either and seemed to adorn their home with holiday garb and lawn ornaments at every opportunity. The gnomes that haunted the colorful flower bushes had always been his favorite. They were small, quiet creatures, very relatable.

The Delray’s had just packed up and left one day, like so many others. They left behind so much, almost as if they had planned to return. It left the cookie like house with an eerie vibe to it. There was food and water though, provisions that had helped out at first. Now though he didn’t feel much like eating or drinking anything. The shelves lined with dry and canned goods stood watch around him. Sometimes he thought he could hear them laughing, mocking him, especially the twinkies, relentless little bastards. His mother had always warned him to keep hydrated, especially when he was out in the heat of a summer day. The last time he tried to take a drink, he couldn’t help but retch it up. And everything about that was unpleasant, it left him with little desire to sip anymore from the half empty bottle of water at his side. All he wanted to do was lie in the corner against his knapsack and close his eyes. He could do that here. The greatest thing about the Delray home right now was that there were no monsters in it, outside of those that lurked within his feverish dreams. For whatever reason they couldn’t figure out how to get in.

Of all the ways for the world to end, a zombie apocalypse had seemed the most outlandish. It had been ludacris, really. Men on the television who preached about the return of ancient aliens or an invasion from another world had held more weight, at least until recently. The world turned upside down when the undead seemed to flood the city. Many people began to leave, like the Delrays, and a lot of the kids at school had stopped showing up for class. The boy didn’t really mind that, they had all been kind of jerks anyway. When you couldn’t cry out for help you became an easy target and when you couldn’t verbalize a conversation people tended to talk to someone else. The boy found that most of his peers didn’t have much to say anyway. Not that he didn’t have any friends. In this day in age texting and web chats were all the rage and he tended to connect more with the gamer and techy type kids. Even though their families had left early on, he could still connect with them online. There were moments now where he wondered if he’d ever get a chance to chat with them again. There was no computer in the Delray house and he didn’t chance crossing the road to his own home. Not after what had happened, not that he could stand without toppling over now anyway.

It had been a day just like any other. He’d rolled out of bed, gotten dressed for the day, grabbed a quick breakfast from Mom, was ignored by his teenage sister, and headed out to his walk to school with his father, Doctor Anderson. His father’s profession was the reason why they hadn’t left. Dad felt that he could do more good by staying than leaving. In retrospect it was ********. There was no saving the city from a zombie apocalypse. Mom had been begging him though and it seemed he was finally starting to come around to the idea of hitting the road. If only he’d given into her whims sooner. The boy had tried not to stew on that when his mind happened to wander to it, but his mind kept returning to his father enveloping his family in flames. He’d burned them all, including himself, with his shortsightedness.

The boy had just run ahead, across the street from his father, when the screaming began. It had been a cool summer morning and the boy was basking in the breeze that danced around him as he dashed across the pavement. He imagined himself a wizard controlling the elements, commanding the wind to carry him into the great blue abyss above. It was the panicked yell of his name that shocked him out of his fantasy. He was sure he’d never heard his father’s voice in such a tone. It was a mixture of terror and anger, surprise and helplessness. The next thing the boy knew was that he was staring up at a tall woman in torn, mud caked clothing. She was ghastly looking with dark circles under her eyes, a rats nest of knotted hair and impossibly pale skin, skin that seemed to be melting into her skeleton. The noise she made as she grabbed hold of him was horrifying and when her yellow teeth ripped into his arm as he tried to flee her, he knew he’d never experienced such pain. A boom like the sound of thunder crashed around him and they fell together into the unkempt grass of the Delray’s lawn. A chorus of screams began then. His father, loaded pistol in hand, dropped at least five more shots in the downed woman’s skull before she stopped moving, He scooped up his son and broke down the frosty white door that led into the Delray’s living room.

That wound in his arm, though bandaged, had never quite healed. It bled for so long and when it finally stopped, it began to smell. It was an odious stench that reminded the boy of a dead cat he’d come across once. His father told him that the crows would be along to rid the streets of the foul smelling corpse. The boy now wondered if crows would pick at his body. Would the stench somehow draw them into the Delray house? Would they peck down the pantry door? It didn’t much matter he supposed. His father had promised his silent, crying son that he would return. Return with the boy’s mother and his sister. Told him to sit tight there on the Delray’s burgundy sofa as he wiped away tears and applied the makeshift bandage to the gushing wound. The boy could hear the screaming, he could hear the horrible, gurgling moans from outside the window. He begged his father to stay, begged the only way he could, pleading in a series of panicked hand gestures and desperate expressions. Dad wouldn’t stay and he never did return. It felt like a terrible betrayal, but at least his arm didn’t hurt anymore.

The boy had no idea that scrawled on the sidewalk in colorful chalk were the words ‘Survivor Inside’ with an arrow pointing towards the otherwise abandoned Delray house. Next to that message was the half devoured body of Dr. Arthur Anderson, his skull cracked open, dried blood and brain matter staining the pavement. His left arm was missing, his right still gripped a pistol. Flesh and muscle and been torn away and bone was exposed under the rags of what had once been a black suit. All that remained of his ears were gnaw marks, rows of jagged toothy wounds and his eyes were empty black sockets that oozed a dark goo. The crows had been at him, as well as some rats.

The neighborhood the boy had grown up in had always been a bit off the beaten path. Sometimes the guests his parents entertained from time to time had a hard time finding their way into it, even if they had visited before. It wasn’t one of the most well to do boroughs, with a mansion on every corner and a swimming pool in every yard, but it was certainly no Stag Heath. Just a nice little middle class burb that could have been pulled from the pages of a Home and Garden magazine. A place where folks strolled with their pooches or baby strollers up the sidewalk and greeted neighbors mowing away at their lawns. A place where parents could let their children roam free without worrying that they’d be snatched away by some demented loon. There was always a tree to climb or a hill to sleigh down. It had been a rather fun place to live. That was before the monsters of course, before everything began to change.

The Delray’s didn’t start the migration that left their slice of suburban heaven a wasteland, but they were far from the last folks to leave. The morning the monsters came there were probably only three families left within three blocks. That was a conservative estimate. Art had ridden his bicycle on the same path he usually did the evening before (despite his mother’s avid protests) most of the homes once bright and inviting stood dark and menacing, the once tidy lawns, unkempt, and the neighborly streets, barren, save for a plastic bag or fast food cup. People loved to think that the world was their trash can. Sneaking out to see it had left the eleven year old with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d never raced home quicker. Heck he hadn’t even been gone long enough for mom to notice his absence. Not that she would of.

Art had been honing and perfecting the art of ninjutsu for as long as he had known what a ninja was. He was fascinated by their silent nimbleness. It made them the deadliest of assassins and the most fantastic spies. The later was were his main interest was housed, though, if he were honest, there were days where he wished he could eliminate some of the boys at school and then vanish from the scene, without a trace. Murder wasn’t something he’d ever act on, of course. He wasn’t insane. It was his footfalls that Art dedicated the most time to and it paid off. He was able to move so swiftly and softly that he could enter the study when his father was reading, sneak up behind the man, tape a sketch to the back of his armchair, and leave the room again, completely undetected. He’d even, on a dare, walked from his seat in the back of homeroom to his teacher’s desk. Here he proceeded to grab a bite of the cliche apple set upon it, before slipping back to his own seat without the notice of most of the class or Mrs. Miller, to whom the forbidden fruit belonged. She wasn’t even angry, but she did baptize him with the nickname ‘Silent, but Deadly.’ Pretty rad, until it morphed into ‘Art the Fart.’ Too bad he hadn’t been born in feudal Japan.

Instead here he was, on the floor of a pantry, in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, wondering if there were also corpses coming to life in Japan, wondering if any of them might be undead ninjas. If only he had been lighter on his feet the other morning, if only he had been paying attention. Now he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be back on his feet again. Oh well, it felt good just to lay here, just to dream of ninjas mowing lawns and zombies pushing baby carriages. It brought a pained smile to his lips. It seemed foolish now, how frightened he’d been when this whole affair started. Then he wasn’t sure if the tears would ever stop falling. Jake, from second period math, would have dubbed him a baby and issued a proclamation to the class that he had wet his diapers. Jake was a pretentious creep though. He may have been 5th grade king, but there was no honor in his GPA. He was gone now though, like so many others. His chance to become a local bureaucrat robbed from him by the zombies. The monsters weren’t all bad, the boy supposed.

Did zombie bites make you a zombie? The question kept returning to his fevered mind. Was he slowly becoming another member of the undead hordes that stalked the streets in search of fresh flesh? Was that why we has so hot? Did skin melt into rot? It certainly looked like it did, but he didn’t want to unwrap his arm to examine it. Too much work. Why didn’t the Delray’s have a computer, he could have googled all this crap. Should have googled it early on. Truthfully, when the reports of zombies and vampires and bears (oh my!) began popping up on the TV and on the internet, he didn’t pay much attention to them. He was positive he’d never encounter anything supernatural. It seemed such a rare thing and he had a ‘that can’t happen to me,’ type attitude. Kind of like seeing a ghost or being abducted by aliens. He was like his father in that regard he supposed. The man who’d been out on the frontlines, treating the wounded and maimed. The guy who’d left his son in a pantry. Art supposed that wasn’t fair though, he’d sort of found his way in here himself. His stomach guiding his path. These days it just kind of flopped around inside of him. Perhaps preparing itself to digest his fellow citizens.

Halfway through a thought about an undead version of Jake running for parliament, Art was quite sure that he heard a voice. It didn’t sound like Jake giving a speech about the merits of indian burns building character. It really only sounded a bit like that ********’s voice at first, then it seemed to morph into something deeper, more refined, more British? He could hear the words from outside of the pantry, but they seemed so muffled, so distant, all that was apparent was the accent. He began to wonder if the Tardis were about to materialize in the pantry. Doc Who here to save Harper Rock from the zombie onslaught. Far out.

Art managed to force his eyes open to about half mast. The pantry door was creaking, moving, perhaps it too had been reanimated. He hoped it wouldn’t try to eat him. The boy didn’t want his sanctuary to be tainted by a new monster, made of panelling and paint. The mess in his head that had once been a mind was having trouble comprehending that he wasn’t the last soul in the Delray house, perhaps even the world. So when he realized that it wasn’t the door that had life, but rather the individual behind it, he was rather amazed.

It was like seeing a ghost or being abducted by an alien. Far more exciting than his run in with the zombie had been. The gentleman was clad in black, but seemed to have a haze of white and silver swirling about him. His voice was upbeat, but to Art it sounded as though he were speaking in slow motion now. Each and every word seemed to be enunciated as if it belonged to its own sentence. It was a bit funny and he smiled weakly, his feeble attempt to keep his lids open failing him as he did so. The irony of encountering such a spectacular visitor was that he hadn’t even the strength to respond. If he could, well, he doubted that the guy would get all of his hand signs. There were so many questions swimming through his mind. Were they the only ones left? Was he turning green? Did Jake win a parliament seat? Had a horde of ninja zombies been sent to assassinate his former classmate before he could be nominated for Prime Minister? Where was his Tardis?

Instead of asking all the things that needed to be asked, he simply raised his hand greeting. It sent him spinning to do so and his good arm fell limp at the effort. A flash of pain dashed across his face that vanished too quickly into a sort of resigned stillness.

Strangers usually found Art to be a bit of an oddity. The boy, not paintings, sculptures or various other forms of human expression. Though his mother had often referred to him as her little work of Art, to which he would often just shrug her off. She was the last thing he wanted to think about right now. When folks encountered the rather diminutive child, they were always so taken by how very animated he was for someone so quiet. They failed to grasp that his silence wasn’t a choice. Nonetheless, Art secretly loved it. He could entertain by simply being himself. Or vanish without the expectation of carrying on an extended conversation. The later was his preference. Watching the interactions of others, picking up on their reactions, listening to the tenors of their voices, it was all much more interesting than actually engaging with them. Some folks were just so ignorant of how much their body language revealed about themselves...how much how they approached a conversation could disclose the multifaceted nature of their souls.

He was in no condition to properly analyze this guy. The fever classified the stranger as a heavenly being. An angel sent by the almighty above to whisk the boy away from the world of the living. Art was positive he could even see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. It was bursting forth from behind his visitor like beams of starlight. It was hard to keep his eyes open and upon the man. Not that it would have been easy to keep his peepers from shutting anyway. It had almost become their default state.

The stranger spoke again. His voice seemed to fade in and out of existence, but it was still very British. Despite the fact that the sound of it seemed to transcend the layers of reality, Art never doubted that it originated from the same source. The man’s words only confirmed his assumption that he was a visitor from Nirvana, come to bring Art home. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! He had been saved! This visitor was going to drag him into the light! All the years of quiet contemplation had paid off it seemed. As the stranger crouched down to collect him, the boy put up no resistance. He was prepared to give himself over completely to this man. Far be it from Art to deny a messenger from the big man in the clouds. Maybe in a proper state of mind he would have considered the situation more closely. Injured boy alone in the dark with a grown man definitely should have raised a question or two, after all, under normal circumstances, the boy was no fool.

He’d always had a sort of fascination with the spiritual, though and, along with it, life after death. Whether it was the Christianity of his upbringing, the teachings of Buddha, or the ghosts of Shinto, Art was able to pull some truth from it, derive some form of meaning. The boy even took great joy in delving deep into the religions or belief systems derived by fantasy authors he happened across. The likes of Shai-Hulud, Melkor, and, his personal favorite, The Many-Faced God all factored into his search for answers. He wasn’t bitter that he was born without a voice. At this point he wouldn’t know what to do with it if he had one. The boy was simply determined to understand why such a path had been chosen for him. He refused to believe it was just some genetic fallacy. It was that very fascination with the afterlife (and the effects of the infection, of course) which really allowed Art to completely let go. Perhaps now he’d finally be given the solution to the equation of his own life, or,
at the very least, the formula with which he could solve it.

The world was spinning again as he floated gently through the air. It was like he was on an endless roller coaster with infinite loops. It wasn’t bad at first, but at this point all he wanted to do was puke. He couldn’t though. Not only was he too ridiculously tired, but also there was nothing in him to yack up. A dry heave did force itself out of him, but it was weak and it didn’t seem like the visitor noticed or cared very much. Where they were going there would be now more involuntary amusement park rides. Maybe it would be like floating on a cloud, soft and peaceful. Or perhaps he was doomed to become some wandering spirit, lost and lonely. Art would pretty much take anything to get the spinning to stop. Being submerged in some kind of cool, watery haven would be most refreshing of all. He just couldn’t beat this heat. So yeah, maybe reincarnation as a fish, something low to the ocean floor.

They were out of the pantry. He hadn’t realized it at first, but the room seemed to expand around him and the air was fresher, a bit cooler even. It was still stifling though. The stale ozone was as thick as butter. When was the last time he’d left that pantry? A day ago? Perhaps longer. It didn’t matter. Art hardly felt himself being placed down and he didn’t even wince when the visitor began to fuss with his bad arm. The smell though, when the dressing was torn away, had the potential to bring on another round of dry heaves. Art was somehow able to avoid that uncomfortable act, however. It was probably due to the fact that was falling asleep again. What was the stranger checking out his bite for anyway? Were zombies in the making barred from entering paradise?

Art didn’t even notice the stranger bite into his own wrist. It might have startled the boy a little if he had. Self-mutilation was generally a symptom of a deeper sickness. But he’d fallen out of consciousness completely again. He swayed a bit as his head fell forward. It had been feeling quite a bit like anchor, albeit one in a sea of sweaty flame. It was that accent that had become the only voice left in the world that tore Art back into awareness. Did he say not like Dracula? An image of a black and white Bela Lugosi donning a black cape, white bow tie, and mysterious medallion, flashed through his mind. This was Harper Rock... the ensemble was all wrong, the accent very off, and the eyebrows a bit too thin, but he did say he wasn’t like the famous impaler. Could this be another fever dream? Was he really in the presence of a vampire? Rad!

Art would have perked up at the thought of encountering such an elusive creature. Maybe creature wasn’t the right word. Otherworldly as he appeared, the vampire visitor seemed very much like a man. Considering this now was too much though. The tempest in his mind had taken on a new degree of ferocity. If the stranger had a way to calm that storm, the boy was more than willing to take it. He still hadn’t picked up on the vampire’s bleeding wrist, his eyes were fluttering and his focus was essentially in the grave. Perhaps the vampire would just eat him. It wasn’t as horrifying of a thought as it should have been. There were worse ways to go, such as having your mind boiled alive by fever.

Kira bobbed her head as her slender fingers moved across the mixing board. "You try to break me, thinking I'm a little girl but this girl can kick your ***. You wouldn't see it coming. Kick to your face, you be looking for your teeth because I'm such a badass."

She blinked, "Why the hell am I rapping?" she said, not sure what just happened. Maybe watching some of those music shows like rap battle was a mistake, she was pretty sure she had dreamed about being a rapper. She shook her head. There were so many things wrong with that image. "Wasn't even good either. Stick to what you know, normal lyrics.

She leaned back into her chair and pushed herself over to the laptop that she used to put lyrics in or compose music. Before she could load up a program, she got a message.

Does our blood heal human wounds? If applied topically?

Kira thought for a moment, she had never heard of anyone trying before. She kind of doubted it would do anything.

I don't know of anyone who has tried it. I doubt it would work. If it was that easy to save a human, there would be less people turned into vampires I would think. Why? Did you find an injured human?

She wasn't sure if he had found a human or it was just a curious thought he had.

OOC: I swear I had much better rap lyrics when I was driving home, it just popped into my head but having no way to write them down while driving I forgot. I blame the iZombie episode I watched last night where she ate a rapper brain.

Fleeting consciousness filled with strange figures. No one solid, they appeared like waves of black and purple heat hovering around him. They performed a dance around him, almost as if they were swinging around a campfire. The ritualistic nature of it wasn’t the oddest part, though Art had the vauge notion that he was hung up and roasting on a spit. The weirdest thing was how quiet it was. There was no music, yet the shadows moved in a definitive rhythm. There were no footfalls, yet the figures were definitely striking ground. There was no breathing, yet the spectors seemed to open their throats and bellow. It wasn’t the silence, in and of itself, that was eerie. Art was an old friend of the quiet. Rather it was the soundless motion and action, that couldn’t but create noise, that was frightening. It defied logic, physiciality.

Red hot shivers shot down his spine and he was absolutely positive that an earthquake had hit Harper Rock. The boy’s head shot upward and the dancing figures seemed to dissipate. His skull lolled backward though and the strength to pull it back into place seemed to be gone. The painted designs in the ceiling seemed to take on a life of their own as well. Soundless, swirling, swiggles, like large worms or tentacles reaching down from above to take hold of him. Art thought they might pull him into the depths of the plaster. He wondered if he would drown in it or if it would merely cut him to pieces like so many shards of glass. Would his blood add the right hue to accentuate the intricacies of the designs?

Speak of blood, he was in the presence of a vampire! Visited by an immortal nightstalker. Did they live forever? That was what both myth and rumor told. Though it was said that they could be killed and there were most definitely men who made a living off of disposing of them. Art was sure he’d met one once at a gathering his parents held. He was a tall, grim man, with a head full of golden hair. The boy remember the hair well, it was almost as if it were composed of sunlight, almost as if it were the greatest weapon in the hunter’s arsenal. If it was true what they said anyway about the sun turning the creatures to dust. There was a segment of his fairer sex among his classmates who would swear that vampires sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. It seemed unlikely, Art was sure that sort of spectacle would have made the evening news.

The hunter was a well spoken gentleman, despite his grisly demeanor. He had never outright said that that was his profession, of course. He was a local entrepreneur, a well to do patient, turn investor, in his father’s practice. Art knew he couldn’t have been anything else though. He’d kept an ear on the fascinating conversation the man and his father had shared. It delved into the finer details of vampire anatomy, what was fact and what was fiction regarding the nature of their being, and how to murder them, of course. If only he could remember the specifics! The only thing Art could recall in the haze of death was how vehemently his father had argued that killing a vampire was like killing a normal man. That they were a rational species, that they had souls. It had been a heated debate, but one where both parties agreed to disagree and have another drink. There was talk of other solutions as well, cures for the virus and manipulations to its makeup that would capture and isolate things such as advanced healing or prolonged lifespan foremost among them. They hadn’t noticed Art standing behind them until the convo had about reached its end. Ninja strikes again!

Tonight though was the first time the boy had ever encountered a vampire in the flesh. He didn’t seem like an unholy monster. Hell, the guy was trying to help him out. It seemed his father had been correct. Perhaps his visitor was some sort of magical creature, rather than devious demon. He did seem more Dr. Who than Nosferatu after all. Art supposed it didn’t matter. He couldn’t be bothered thinking about it anymore. He laid back a bit, leveling his body with his head until he was nearly flat on his back. It felt good to rest even though getting to that point was like being throw in a washing machine on high spin.

Then the stranger shook him and all the boy felt was nausea. That was definitely not a cool thing to do. The green of his eyes slipped through the heavy lids in a sort of glare. The man wasn’t looking like kindly British timelord now. Really in those moments when Art just wanted to conk out, the visitor’s face seemed to flash with the fierce vampiric features found in a Buffy rerun. Art wanted to snarl right back at the stranger, but even with all of his energy intact, he’d never be able to replicate something as menacing. Perception was a funny thing, especially when it’s driven by a furious fever.

Then the stranger spoke and Art felt as though he really could have parked his Tardis out front again. Also he wasn’t a stranger anymore. Oscar, he sounded like an Oscar. Oscar Who? Dr. Oscar? Oscar the Vampire? He let his eyes close completely. Would he like to be a vampire? Must be preferable to becoming a zombie, at least he wouldn’t rot...well anymore than he already had. Maybe he’d get some kind of neato power, like heat vision? No, that was a Superman thing, but it was really hot. His eyes felt like they were burning already. Vampires were cold right? The dead were always cold, but were vampires dead? It would be an awfully big adventure, to die. Didn’t some boy say that once? He wondered why Oscar was apologizing. Didn’t vampires procreate on the norm? They’d have to be driven to it right, in order to keep their species thriving? Maybe it hurt. Nothing hurts when everything is on fire.

Being a vampire, it definitely would give him a leg up on Jake. He’d be able to run circles around the zombie when he became a bureaucrat. In the pit of his soul, he knew that the Jerk of Spades had to have joined the ranks of the mindless undead. It was a karma thing. That and he wasn’t too far from mindless to start with. And if he was a vampire, he could make other vampires. He could turn his sister into a vampire, his mother, and even his father. He’d forgive the man for leaving him alone. Especially now when fate was throwing this curveball, this vampire,l his way. It would be the first thing he did, as soon as he figured out how to do it. Or wait, was everyone already gone? Was the world already filled with zombies? Was he, Art Anderson, the last living mortal on earth?! Was this vampire tying up the last loose end of some immortal final solution? Wasn’t there blood drinking that needed to be done?

A flurry of thoughts, ideas, theories, and questions swirled through the boy. He could make sense of none of it. There was no coherency. The train of thought had been derailed before it even left the station. In truth reality had slipped away from Art almost a day ago.

Kira tried to go back to work but the next message made her forget all about what she was doing.

Mm. A boy. Maybe eleven, twelve years. Alone, injured. Infection, by the smell. Parents are dead, pretty sure. Dead guy out on the footpath eaten by creatures, crawling with maggots. If I leave him here I think he’ll be dead in hours. Not sure medicine will help.

A child? Someone eaten by creatures? She assumed zombies, they were a problem now that they were outside the QZ. Which was why she joined the group that was helping to kill off the zombies that were outside that area but it just never ends.

"If he was attacked by the undead, there isn't a medicine that would help. I have no idea how long it takes for people to turn either." she replied to him. She wasn't sure if anyone had tested how long it takes for a human to turn zombie. Might be something to test on a criminal that one would be killing anyway. She was pulled from those thoughts by his next words.

I’m going to do it. Should I? Yes. I’m going to do it. It’s not going to taste very good. Can I get sick if I drink sick blood…?

Kira stared at the computer screen, she wasn't sure if the taboo was still there about siring children. There was no masquerade to break now. That was the main reason right? She saw nothing wrong with it. Why let a child die if you could save them, just like she had done many times for adults.

"You can't get sick, not that I know of." she said, at least she didn't think he would go feral vampire. Hmm...well **** she really didn't know. This could be bad. "I'm coming to you. Do you know where you are or do I need to track you." she added as she got up and headed out the door. It would be easier to find someone that was blood-related to you then someone who wasn't but it would be faster still if he knew where he was.