The day that Cameron, Steven and Jaira arrived at Pioneer Place Mall was the end of “modern” society, and those that survived it called it by many names but Armageddon seemed to be the most appropriate. Some of the more sardonic had referred to the end of humanity as the “Dawn of the Dead.” It took perhaps a week before the major cities of the world – New York, Los Angeles, Beijing, Moscow, Paris, Tokyo and London to name but a few – fell to the ravaging zombie hordes. Across the planet those who survived the initial days did not last much longer as the lack of firearms doomed most of the world’s population. Firearms and the right to own one was laid down in the Constitution of the United States and the near explosive growth of gun stores, smiths and works meant that there were ample numbers available if one cared to reach for one. After the end, a firearm became a necessity as they allowed for the extermination of the undead from a safe distance.

The outlying checkpoints and roadblocks that had been abandoned and the survivors had barricaded the ground floor storefronts and windows, under the guidance of the National Guard Engineers with supplies pillaged from the Home Depot and other hardware stores. The windows had been bricked up where possible and quick drying cement poured in. While it darkened the mall interior, there was still electrical power, and Pioneer Place Mall was rechristened “Sparta.” Nobody was actually sure of who had started using the nickname “Sparta” but like all randomly appointed nicknames it stuck. Not to mention that “Sparta” sounded a lot better than the mall’s original name – “Pioneer Place.”

Leadership of the mall community fell upon the National Guard, lead by Lieutenant Brenan Sinclair, and with the men of the 307th Engineer Corps, and the remnants of three other units nominally under his control. The survivors were contracted in to the three city blocks that composed Sparta, and whatever vehicles they had were parked in a multi-story car park to the south-east. Each building formed the corner of a rough square, like an old styled Chinese house with a courtyard in the center.

Two hundred and fifty survivors and guards worked with a manic intensity and walls made of brick, concrete with scavenged steel and wooden bracing rose in an incredibly short span of time. The volume of fire power that the Spartans could bring to bear proved its worth twice during this time. The final walls were three feet thick and ten feet high. Beyond them the bullet ridden corpses of over hundreds of diseased men, women and children littered the streets in all directions butchered by a quartet of vehicle mounted .50 Caliber Browning Machine Guns.

Before the end of the week, gates had been built at the East and South roads, both of them with a recessed “checkpoint” that would allow any incoming vehicles occupants to be swept and the vehicles themselves cleared of any unwanted guests. The National Guard Engineers had designed a series of two gates, powered by salvaged vehicle engines to raise and lower the gates that were wide enough to allow the largest vehicle they had - a Western Star 6900 XD and attendant twin twenty foot trailers - in and out of the compound. The monster of a vehicle was parked on the ground floor of the parking garage, having been a tight fit in to the garage that had taken skillful driving of a police officer.

The radio and communications equipment that they had, proved only that there was nothing and nobody outside broadcasting or listening, but where there is life, there is hope and the radio room was always manned, with someone to scan the airwaves. Finally, Sparta was secure and for the first time in over a week, those not walking the walls were able to gain a comfortable night’s rest, no longer as worried about going to bed human and waking up something else.

The survivors, guardsmen and civilians, started calling themselves “Spartans,” out of respect for their new home, and to help foster a true sense of community and belonging to a place that would be the future of mankind – at least for the state of Oregon. Lieutenant Brenan Sinclair was smart enough not to try and maintain total control over everything single handed. Brenan had pulled together a core group of nine other men and women, to form a council that would see to the day to day needs of survival. To ensure that democracy, stability and peace remained at the forefront of the decisions made, it was almost an election when the survivors were brought together within the Food Court and the announcement was made. The council wanted the approval of the people they ruled as Brennan argued that he wanted, if somewhat idealistically to keep things democratic and constitutional if they were going to rebuilt not just one city but probably the rest of the country too, given enough time. The unofficial council was elected unanimously.

With the matter of democracy resolved, inside the Security Control Center of Pioneer Place plans were created regarding the future of the community, its growth and expansion were touched upon briefly but for the time being, the focus would be upon the necessities and perhaps even the luxuries necessary for human civilization to survive. An inventory check had revealed a comforting stockpile of many of the basic necessities for at least the next two months, “I agree that everything on the list has to take priority,” Brennan scratched himself behind the right ear, a nervous habit he’d had for years for even as a military lieutenant, he had neither the experience or the training necessary to suddenly find himself in charge of so many people, and had created the council to help... but none of the council members actually possessed relevant experience as Brenan recapped the list, “Food, medical supplies, firearms, and ammunition are the most important things on the list. Secondary item include power generators and fuel, body armor, texts on agriculture, animal husbandry, and medicine - for now. Are we in agreement?” There was not a voice of dissent.

The word had gotten around that people would have to venture outside to recover any items that fell in to the various categories on a long detailed list, and the “who” and “how” of it were simple. With seven military humvees, four would be sent out to located sources of the necessary items and supplies and recover whatever they could carry. The remaining three humvees would remains as a mobile reaction force. It was military planning that dictated the need for capable leaders for the teams, Salvage One through Salvage Four, the membership of each team a mix of guard and civilian in an attempt to foster closer ties among their disparate ranks.

With the roads to the North and West sealed and armed sentries drawn from across the social strata of the survivors on duty to pick off whatever dead approached the walls. Those who lacked skill with a firearm rapidly developed the skill now a necessity for survival. When things got a little too close for comfort however, they had opted to make use of spears capable of piercing the skull to destroy the demonic brain. These were placed along their walls to dispatch the solitary zombie as opposed to the noise that firearms generated.

The four humvees were gathered by the East Gate, a Guard at the wheel and another manning the turreted fifty caliber machine gun. Cameron and Jaira had stayed close after their arrival at the mall and had stayed close to one another, growing closer but Cameron had drawn the line at any romantic involvement. Morale were high as the heavier inner gate opened followed seconds later by the lighter external chain link gate, the four humvees veering in different directions. Jaira had been less than thrilled when Cameron had told her he was signing up with one of the salvage teams. Jaira had put her name down with Cameron’s just to keep an eye on him. The two national guards in charge of the mission were a familiar face and a stranger. The Corporal turned to address the trio in the rear seats of the humvee, “Names Natalie Coltrane. I will be your pilot and our in-flight security officer is Private Michael Denniken. Who would you three be?”

“My name is Jaira Coltquist,” she paused, brushing her shoulder length auburn hair out of her eyes, gesturing to Cameron with her free hand, the other resting comfortable upon the grip of the suppressed MP5 submachine gun she had elected to take as her weapon of choice, “The lunatic to my left is Cameron,” He smiled and cocked his head, almost coyly to one side as he raised his right eyebrow in greeting. She gestured to the other man in their salvage crew, “and I have no idea who he is.”

The last man in their crew grunted, “Simon.” He turned away and stared out the window with a pair of Desert Eagles in his lap. It was clear that he was not one to talk. Natalie filled the silence smoothly, even as she maneuvered through the wreckage clogging the road, “I expect that Simon here will not be overly social like Denniken.” Denniken grunted an acknowledgment. She put her foot down and was rewarded when the speedometer crept up to seventy kilometers before using the humvee to grind several of the undead in to the pavement. Just south of Burnside Bridge, a sign practically leapt out at them: “Andy’s Gun Works.”

The vehicle screeched as they drove on to the pavement and rear ended a mini cooper out of its parking lot. The rear of the vehicle was a narrow two feet from the door as they slid from the vehicle, their weapons at the ready, straining eyesight and hearing for anything out of the ordinary. Turning, the Corporal took charge of the situation, “Denniken, keep that gun warmed up. Simon, you’re with me. We kick in the door and then sweep the store. Simon and I will sweep left while you two,” meaning Jaira and Cameron, “sweep right. Nobody plays the hero, and everybody goes home. We clear?”

Silence greeted her orders but it was a well understood that she was watching out for everyone’s well being. The door to any gun store is always heavy reinforced and difficult to breakdown to discourage exactly what they were attempting to do. And they were surprised to find that the door was actually unlocked. Swinging the heavy outer door open, shone a narrow beam of sunlight in to the dark interior. Somebody snapped a collection of light sticks and threw them in. Standing behind the counter was definitely the pathetic figure of man who could have been anywhere from thirty to six due to the unnatural tightness and the hue of his skin. A long groan left his lips as the body staggered forward with stilted movements.

Simon appeared to be transfixed, his attention captured by a mixture of morbid curiosity and uneasy fear as the corpse shambled closer to him. In the dim orange light, the eyes were open, the pupils fixed and dilated. Open sores decorated its skin, particularly around its nose and mouth. Its hair was greasy and knotted. They found themselves staring for a moment, in particular at its rib cage, and then its chest, for a sign of respiration, of breathing, the classic sign of life. There was no movement. A single cough echoed and it stopped in mid step, a hole having appeared in the center of its head, seconds before another pair of holes ruined its face. Natalie lowered her smoking weapon and nodded to Simon. They swept left and the other pair swept right, clearing every isle and the counter only to find an empty store. Satisfied Natalie radioed Sparta and checked in, and also gave them the good news.

Rather than spending their time in the store sorting through the merchandise, they swept the shelves clean. Everything ranging from inexpensive .32 and .380 hand guns to semi-automatic Glocks were lifted from gun racks and placed in to the duffel bags they had brought along. Jaira began stacking boxes of ammunition in to a bag of her own as Cameron and Natalie hauled armfuls of rifles and shotguns in to the cargo bay of the humvee. Out front, Denniken remained silent but swept back and forth with the massive mounted gun searching for a target.

They had been in the store for nearly an hour taking even parts, spare magazines and holsters when the sudden harsh roar from the .50 caliber split the silence, “Contact!” shouted Denniken.

“Report!” barked Natalie as she made her way to the door, and stepped in to the street, her rifle already up and firing, sending a half dozen shots towards four different targets in the space of several seconds, dropping three of her four intended targets with precise headshots. The fourth staggered back a step but then resumed its slow forward march, as zombies poured in from both directions, and several alleys between buildings, “Shit!”

They clambered abroad the humvee while covering Simon as he threw the last bag in to the hold and slammed the hatch. Leaning out of the vehicle’s window, Cameron took a moment to steady his nerves and started picking off the few undead that had made it through both Denniken and Natalie’s fire. Jaira’s MP-5 jammed on her and she cursed colorfully for a moment, almost throwing the weapon away. She looked round and reached for the closest guns: The Glocks in Cameron’s double jack-ass shoulder rig. With a flick of her thumb, she had the safeties off and the corpses began to pile up around the vehicle as Simon drew his matching Desert Eagles, their heavy booms joining the orchestra of doom.

Both Simon’s guns clicked empty and he fumbled to reload his hand cannons. Natalie suddenly shoved her M14A in to his hands with a barked instruction, “Shoot!” Their firepower was effectively thinning down the ranks of the zombies, most falling to the awesome destructive power of the belt fed war machine being employed by Denniken to make profound arguments for human survival. Simon had circled the vehicle to the passenger side and the deafening roar of the weapon was his undoing.