He nodded, and they turned, stomping up the stairs, back the way they came. Through the narrow half inch gap at the bottom of the door, they could see the moving shadows as people scattered in different directions. She fell silent as he growled, throwing back the bolt and pulling the door open. The interior of the mall was relatively silent as she lead the way out, almost marching left while he turned right going back towards his poker game, depleted canteen in hand. Sitting back down at the table he noted he was the “Small Blind” for the current hand and tossed in the cigarette that had been resting behind his ear, “Deal!” he popped open the canteen and drained it, “And where’s the coffee pot?”

Natalie stormed off in the opposite direction, but slowed to a steady walk as she disappeared from the sight of the poker players. She knew that Cameron would proceed to either slaughter his poker-playing crew members or to lose spectacularly – more likely the later. Turning, she headed up the stairs to the Security Control Center, where there was a military radio setup to broadcast and receive on an open frequency with two people manning it constantly, whether to check the progress of salvage mission in progress or just in case there would be contact from another group of survivors. After weeks of silence they had made contact with another community somewhere in the Westmoreland Neighborhood. Their contact with them had been relatively friendly over the past few months but the concentrations of undead were still too high for them to risk actually physically meeting each other – at least that’s what the other group said.

Natalie shook her head, unable to believe that there were people out there who failed to understand the necessity of the new world that they were in, where survival meant cooperation and working together. She had been manning the radio that night and as it was, she glanced at her watch, a couple of minute early for her shift at the radio. Her shift was shorter than its regular eight hours as she’d won a bet and lumped half of her shift on to Steven Rehnquist. Steven was one of the few who had yet to adjust to the new world order and remained convinced that those were sick and could be cured.

She was just grateful that she would be on duty until two in the morning when Steven would relieve her instead of six which would make it almost impossible to get any sleep. She’d managed to track down the third book in a series she had been following avidly and found herself wondering if she’d ever find the fourth book in the series…. All things considered, she had her doubts. She declined to comment on Robert Cross’s choice in reading material, the half Swiss half Finnish blond that graced the cover was the only clue she needed: July edition from last year – his favorite edition.

The night ticked by and the sounds of life through the complex diminished, people turning down lights as they turned in for the night, sleeping in shops that had been refitted in to individual “houses” for families and couples, with larger, more dormitory like sleeping quarters for those still single.

Steven had wandered in to the radio room, meaning it was just past two in the morning and in that moment of distraction, Robert rapped her on the elbow as a voice suddenly erupted from the radio’s speakers, hysterical with terror, “… neighborhood. The undead have broken our barricades and have taken the ground floor! We are seventeen survivors trapped with no escape! We need help! Please! We can’t hold them off for long! Sparta! Sparta, can you hear me?” her voice was choked with terror at what she knew was coming.

“There are other people alive? That’s great!” Steven practically gushed with happiness as he leaned in towards Natalie, who placed one hand upon the microphone attached headset and shot Steven a warning glance.

“Cross! Get Brenan in here,” she snapped as she shoved a pad and pen in to Steven’s hands, “Pay attention,” Steven nodded and flopped in to Cross’s chair knocking the magazine out of sight. He adjusted the headset as Natalie tried to contact whoever was talking to them via the radio, “This is Sparta receiving broadcast on open frequency 29.32. Survivor, state your location!”

“Thank god! We’re trapped in the Community Center! Oh god, I can hear them moaning! They’re beating on the door! It’s not going to hold! Help us!

Natalie tried to keep her voice under control, calm and soothing, to get the information necessary, “We need to know your location so that we can send a rescue party to you. Now where are you and how many of you are there?”

“We’re in the Westmoreland Neighborhood. Our… our...there are seventeen of us, six men, seven women and three children, five of us are injured, two of them badly. We need help now!”

Brennan joined them with his shirt still unbuttoned rubbing his eyes, “What’ve we got?”

Steven who had been taking copious notes provided the quick summary, “Brennan, we’ve got a group of seventeen survivors trapped in the Westmoreland Community Center. Under siege, their barricades are down and they’re holed up on the second floor with no where left to run. They… they have more women and children with them than anything else.”

Brenan nodded, “We’ve mustered the sentries. Cameron will be leading the rescue via humvees. Natalie, go with him,” ordered Brenan, “And take Denniken with you – its time he got back in to the field.”Brenan turned to face Steven, clearly debating with himself as to the whether it was a wise choice. But he made the choice hoping it would finally force Steven to face the harshness of reality, “It’s a rescue operation. What are you waiting for? Get going! Cross will man the radio when he gets back.”

Steven turned with a look of incredulity on his face, “You want me to go out there?” there was uncertainty, even nervousness in his voice, “You sure about that?” Ever since he had arrived, he had never ventured outside Sparta and when possible, avoided venturing out of the building if he could.

“I’m giving you the opportunity to save people,” he paused, “Uninfected people who can be saved who don’t need a cure. If you don’t want to go, that’s your choice, nobody won’t think less of you for it,” said Brennan, “Even though I will,” he thought to himself. Steven was eager to prove his worth and to him, this was something worth being credited with doing. He was exited, leaving the room at a run almost bowling over a returning Sergeant Cross, “I just hope this is not a mistake,” mumbled Brennan.

Cross wisely said nothing and tuned the radio, setting it up so that he could tune in to both the survivors and also the rescue convoy, staying quiet about what he thought of Steven and also Brennan's choice and also wondering exactly where his magazine was.

In the parking garage that made up the southwest corner building of Sparta, Cameron was already in the driver’s seat turning the key in the ignition. As the powerful engine roared to life, around him another three engines roared in tune with his, the last a massive roar as the truck came to life. He nodded to Jaira riding shotgun, and she pulled the radio’s mike from the dashboard, “Rescue Lead to Rescue Elements: Status report,”

“Rescue Two- Locked, cocked, and ready op!”

“Rescue Three – Ready op!”

“Rescue Four - Ready op!”

The train of four vehicles rolled towards the eastern gate, “Rescue Lead to East Gate and Sparta Command: Unlock.”

“East Gate-Rescue Lead: Gate is open,” the voice hesitated at the other end, “Where we are needed…” the convoy continued towards the now opened gates, as flood lights snapped on, lighting up the road immediately outside the gate, chasing away shadow and darkness. The convoy roared through as Jaira looked confusedly at the radio, unsure if she’d missed part of the transmission.

A hand reached over her shoulder and grasped the radio, as Denniken cleared his throat, and for the first time, they heard him speak, a heavy accent, reminiscent of Ireland, “Where we are needed, we are there, Rescue Lead clear.”

“Spartans or not, you Guards are all still Guards aren’t you?” asked Cameron his eyes never leaving the road.

“It’s the motto and the basic principal that the Oregon National Guard was founded on two hundred years ago,” Natalie explained.

“Where we are needed, we are there,” repeated Cameron, “Anything else I should know about Oregon’s finest?” The question would have sounded sarcastic to the casual observer, but those who knew Cameron knew what he meant.

“Military funeral.”

“What?”

“If we fall in the line of duty, in service to our country, and our remains can be recovered, we are entitled to a military funeral.”

He risked a glance at her, “I’m not sure how to respond to that.”