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                “It is clear that a worker who has not enough food cannot achieve a good work output. I already said yesterday that every head of a plant, and I too at the top, was naturally interested in having well-fed and satisfied workers, because badly fed, dissatisfied workers make more mistakes and produce poor results.”

                                Albert Speer

                They don’t look like any police officer’s I’ve ever seen.

                They’re dressed in clothes similar to our BDUs, but the colors are a striking combination of grays. At first, it seems kind of idiotic, but as I stare at the various men-at-arms, I can see how very distracting the colors are. Even if they stand out as you look squarely at them, your eye rolls off their shape like a marble rolling down a Teflon incline. You can’t help but not look at them.

                They’re all armed with pretty advanced-looking guns. They’re the really neat ones with the magazine clips that stick into the stock near your shoulder. I think they’re British, but I never was good with guns.

                The jeep we’re driving in looks pretty run-of-the-mill. Even as we drive through the mist, I can tell we’re moving along at a pretty brisk clip. I can feel every hole and pot in the ground as we zoom along. But the two men that are sitting opposite Slate and I in the back aren’t saying much. Neither is the driver or the passenger.

                We’re driving for only a couple of minutes when the headlamps of the jeep flare up upon a barbed-wire fence. We turn just a little too sharply and suddenly we’re on pavement. I look past the two guards and I watch as the barbed wire moves passed us, hints of tall buildings in the mist just beyond.

                We finally come to a gate where two guards who look like they drew the unlucky lots are waiting. They pull the gate back as we approach and wave us in, their guns held extra-ready. We barely slow down as we swerve in through the sturdy mesh gate.

                And immediately before us is another gate.

                I was mistaken, thinking it was actually a line of buildings, but the tall, brick and stone gate is almost three stories tall. Mounted with barbed wire and every defense the human mind has ever imagined, the giant gate keeps the world at bay.

                Before the jeep is a metal door that looks like it holds back King Kong. On either side of the door atop the gates are gun nests with men with even nastier looking rifles or machine guns or whatever they are then the guys sitting opposite me. They train their guns on us.

                From next to the driver, a small metal box lifts up on a pole from out of the ground. The driver slides a card through a slot, then puts his hand up against the machine. Then leans in close, whispering. Over the sound of the rattling jeep, I can’t really hear what he says, but it sounds long.

                The box beeps, the snipers turn their guns passed us, watching our backs, and the door rumbles as it begins to part. I glance over at Slate. “Paranoid people.” She whispers, giving the two soldiers a sarcastic look.

                As we drive through the gate, we’re greeted with still more unique sights. The mist is decidedly clearer inside the gate, but what opens up before us is a military compound. All the buildings are uniformly designed and painted. They’re all stone and brick, with metal roves and no windows on the first floor. All the doors and stairs are metal. The roads are laid out very methodically and everywhere we go, we see soldiers in the same uniforms as the four men escorting us.

                We drive for a good little bit, maneuvering around the camp. I finally look to the guy across from me as he stares at Slate’s breasts. “Where are you taking us?”

                He looks at me, annoyed that I made him look anywhere else. “To see the commander.”

                “What for?” Slate yells over the rushing air of the jeep.

                “See, honey.” He says with a lecherous smile to her. “You don’t have a bar code. Which means you ain’t from around here. And that ain’t possible.”

                The building we stop before looks like any other one, only more so. It’s four stories tall and it’s got an arrangement of roses in front. The guards hop out first and train their guns on us. We stand, both of us making evident our hand cuffs as we’re led off the jeep by the driver and his partner. They led us up through the single, metal door and into a plain white and tan hallway. A receptionist’s desk is waiting directly inside the door, with a hallway shooting off in either direction behind her. Past the two hallways are two flights of stairs, one that goes up and the other that goes down.

                As the driver talks with the receptionist, I glance up at the stairs and something catches my eye. A support latch rests just about a floor up, where the stairs meet the next level above us. I nudge Slate and motion up to it with my head. “What’s that?”

                She looks as well, both of us ignoring the two guards. “It looks like one of those things you see on draw bridges.”

                “It’s the release lever.” Says the more perverted of the two perverts behind us. We both turn back at him. “Every stairwell has to be made with a quick-release lever.”

                I look at Slate, then back to Gomer. “Why?” I ask.

                “In case the zombies get in.” The solider says matter-of-factly.

                It’s a lot nicer version of the same.

                The same white and tan décor, but at least this one has some decorations. There’s a picture behind the desk of the man that’s sitting at the desk shaking hands with George Bush. Around are a variety of patriotic emblems and signs of a military career that looks like it dates farther back than my birth.

                The man looks up at the two of us as the driver shuts the door, leaving us alone with him. He looks hard and all military like, but not without sympathy. He also looks in good shape, despite the very slight roundness to his midsection. He sits back, the mist-covered sunlight catching his thick, but graying hair. “Why don’t I let you begin?” He says with a gentle gesture of his hand.

                I’m already lost. I glance over at Slate, but then notice the military man taking notice of that. I am suddenly convinced that this man must be very, very smart.

                “Do you know the name Morcean?” Slate says with her usual hard tone.

                “I know Morcean.” The man says, giving away nothing.

                “Morcean is attempting to break into Bio-Dome 4, so that he can exterminate the zombies.” She explains.

                The man behind the desk sniffs. “Okay.” He allows. “Why should I have a problem with that?”

                “Because if Morcean manages to get into the bio-dome, then the zombies will get out and they will infect two populations.” She maintains.

                “Young lady,” He says, sitting back a bit. “The zombies are not an infection quite like you seem to think they are. It’s not like a zombie virus that you can catch.”

                “It’s blood-born.” I say, peaking the man’s interest. He turns to me. “It has to do with type B blood.”

                “That’s right.” The man says slowly. “And as such, those who are type B are at risk regardless of the presence of zombies. Just as type AB, which I imagine is no surprise to you two, is the vampires.”

                We both nod.

                The man turns. “This bio-dome was a secure environment.” He says, looking out one of the two narrow windows that looks three stories down on the military base. “Until you two showed up, that is.”

                “We came to warn you.” Slate says. “Morcean’s going to try and get into the bio-dome and that’s going to cause a whole new world of trouble.”

                “My dear, do you know why there are no zombies on Bio-Dome 03?” He asks, looking patiently at her.

                Slate sits back in her chair a bit, clearly getting angry. “No.” She admits.

                The man turns away and looks out the window. He turns back to me and considers me for a moment, with a slightly more favorable face. “And what about you? Do you know why there are no zombies on Bio-Dome 3?”

                I stare at the man for a moment. And then it suddenly starts to connect. “Because Morcean sends them here to you.” I say, almost as surprised by the accusation as Slate is.

                But not the man.

                He just smiles.

                “That’s right.” He nods. He turns to Slate and stares at her. “You see, my dear. There’s a lot more going on here than just zombies and vampires, oh my.” He adds with a flare of his eyes. “The Ever-After Project abandoned this cite three years ago.”

                Three years. I keep that fact close.

                “We’re not trying to exterminate the zombies. We’re just trying to localize them. That’s why anyone with type B blood is sent either to Bio-Dome 4 for containment. Or they’re sent here for testing.”

                He leans back in his chair, staring at both of us. “You see, we are all that remains of the Ever-After Security Force. And odds are, we are all that remains of the Ever-After Project.” He nods his head, as if admitting a grim thought to himself. “And there is a frightening likelihood that we are all that remains of humanity.”

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