Episode 1 - The 7th Beginning

This was certainly something Todd had never seen before, though it did invoke strange feelings of déjà vu, as if he had done all of this, in some permutation, about 6 times before. There he was, pinned behind the hot dog stand in the baseball stadium (are they called stadiums? he wondered, not aloud; though his sports terminology may have been lacking, he wasn't an idiot), holding a bat caked in a red, rust-scented substance. He refused to look at that substance, and only thought about how strange this all was.

He had, just that morning, been riding across the highways of Denver-Metro area with Waldo and Eliot. They had been on their way to work the concession stands at this baseball game. They were saving up to take a trip to Europe right after graduation (high school), and everything had seemed perfectly fine. And Todd idly thought (back in the present) that he would probably never see his high school again. He probably wouldn't get to graduate, even though it was only a year away. He probably also wouldn't get paid for working the concession stands today.

He took a deep breath and wondered if he'd see Waldo or Eliot again. There was a good chance he wouldn’t, but they were a smart pair. He figured he probably would see them again, if they were going to see him again. He wondered if they would see him again, and his breathing seized up again.

The dark stuff on his baseball bat dripped down onto the ground with a soundless "squish" sound that he refused to acknowledge. Soft moans emerged from the other side of the hotdog stand and he recalled that he would have to get up again very soon. Todd began breathing once more, pushing all the other stuff aside, and trying to remember the layout of the baseball stadium.

Is it a stadium anyway? he wondered again. He pushed that thought aside, and pushed aside the half-formed thought about the way the mind gets caught on the strangest things during a crisis. He took another deep breath and gripped his bat, dripping with blood, in both of his hands. He took another deep breath, remembered that he was on the top floor, that the nearest staircase was 50 meters away (and he usually thought in feet. In fact this whole place was physically marked in feet. Metrics, he thought during his next deep breath, are probably just simpler for a terrified mind to process. Only dividing by ten, not twelve, or three, or five-thousand-two-hundred-something. It must just be easier to work with, with all those zeroes out there), that he only had to descend three flights, and then he would find the exit from the stadium, probably barred but he'd smash that lock when he came to it, another 80 meters away. Not so hard, he tried to hope.

Except that it was July 4th, and this had been a sold out game. Except that the lights were all out, it was only a half-full moon, and he didn't have very good night vision. Except for the fact that he also had to go to the bathroom very badly, and that would not help very much in getting down there quickly. Except for the fact that he could hear screams from somewhere in the city proper. Except that he did not have the keys to Waldo's car, did not know how to hotwire a car, and did not know how to drive. Except that he was very sure he wasn't hearing any gunshots, which, all things considered, was actually a bad thing. Except that he didn't know where to go after he got out of the stadium. (Is it a stadium?!) Except that he thought the bat could only survive two or three more collisions with skulls.

Okay, he said to himself - quietly, quietly -- there's one thing. There's one goal I can cling to. I can find something else to hit them with. Can I pay attention to everything? What is there? It’s a baseball stadi... place of playing. There have to be more bats. Maybe I can throw a baseball. Where can I get a damn baseball?! Down on the field?!

He breathed deeply again, and it suddenly occurred to him that maybe his breathing was too loud. He kept his eyes open, looking either way to the sides of the hot dog cart. Okay, maybe it wasn't too loud. He looked up, expecting that old horror movie cliché -- the monster is RIGHT ABOVE HIM! -- but it’s not, there's clear space, and some rising heat from the hot dog cart.

Oh, oh. It occurred to him then. He had a weapon. He shifted himself just enough to get a good look underneath the cart. Yes! Its wheels were intact and not evidently locked. He had a giant, scalding, rolling shield to use as a weapon.

Todd let himself wonder if they noticed heat at all. He hoped they did. He looked out the bars between him and the baseball diamond.

A horde of the mobile dead milled about out there. They moved with something that resembled, at this distance, an actual purpose. There was someone down there, and they were moving towards him! Or her. Whoever was down there was in trouble. Todd supposed it was his duty to help them, if he could. As if, he thought. But hey, new goal. Better goal. They might have a car. Or be Waldo and Eliot.

Oh, right. The weapon he had, the hot dog cart. It wouldn't do much against the stairs that he had to descend. All three flights. It would get him to the top of the stairs, and he might be able to use it to clear that set, but then he'd be back to the bat.

He cursed, and immediately cursed again. The moans had changed after the first curse. They began to move towards him.

Todd took one last deep breath and stood with a battle cry. He immediately regretted that, too. Not because it had attracted more zombies; they had already known he was there. They acted like they had a hive mind, he thought, though he hadn't observed them enough to know whether that made any sense. No, he regretted that because it had just been your basic "Raaaargh!" What a chance to shout "Spoon!" Another reason to get out of here -- another chance to use a battle cry. He raised his bat behind him in his right hand, settled his other hand on the hot dog cart, and roared again, shoving the hotdog cart forward with a surprising smoothness.

It rammed into the two zombies nearest him, and he immediately saw the flaw in his plan. Mowing them down knocked them over. And when they fell over they didn't die. They might roll under the cart. Well, the cart would roll under them, rather. Todd's roar whimpered out to a squeak, and he jumped backwards. He was pressed against the railing now. The two nearest zombies were on the ground, pinned, evidently confused by being unable to move, if their slow thrashings were any indication of that. One of them was wearing jeans and loafers. The other looked like it had a broken ankle on one leg, and a high heel on the other. Great, Todd thought, I take on out, and it wouldn't have been much good at chasing me anyway.

He surveyed the area around him. There were only ten zombies on the left, and about fifteen on the right. Between him and the stairs -- a straight shot, and a little closer than he had thought -- was a horde whose number he couldn’t guess, if only because he could tell there were more behind.

"Damnit!" he shouted, and he did not notice the zombies on the field turn to investigate the sound. Whoever was trapped used that opportunity to surge forward, and had Todd been watching, he would have seen quite an impressive feat. At least ten people came charging out of a locked room on the edge of the field, bats swinging, all of them silent. The vanguard of the field zombies fell to this onslaught, and the ones left over turned away from the sound that they could do nothing about.

Todd knew nothing of this, of course, and knew nothing of what happened to them afterwards. He only stared at the problem in front of him. He grinned, having what he was sure was finally a good idea, and turned around to peer over the railing.

Not a far drop. No zombies in sight in the stands. He turned around, waved his bat at the zombies, and climbed up onto the railing.

"Wish me luck," he shouted again, as he jumped backwards into the next seating tier down.