…We re-enter the action, after all hell has broken loose…

“Goddammit, what is it?” The deputy yelled at one of his officers. Beside him, in handcuffs with a long chain between them, El Wray sat impatiently.

“That asshole BIT me!”

“So! Sit down and simmer down!”

“But sir, he BIT my FINGER clear off!” Sure enough, the officer’s ring finger was bit clear off.

“Well I’ll be goddammed. Now would you simmer down!”

“We have to go get Cherry.” El Wray was heard mumbling. “Something’s not right. We have to get outta dodge.”

Meanwhile, Dr. Bette Porter, the best anesthesiologist in dodge, had arrived at the front door of her own home.  Her wrists were still limp from where her husband had stabbed her needles—for the purposes, usually, of numbing patients before localized surgeries—and her hair was wet from the rain. Something in the air smelled strange, almost metallic. She rang her own doorbell.  Two screaming young women greeted her.

“Excuse me…”

“You said you’d be back at 10, we have…”

“Shit to do, bitch…” The twin babysitters were yelling at her and just called her a bitch.

“So go DO IT!” Bette shoved them out the door, kicked them each in the ass, and closed the door behind her. “AMY! Get packed, we gotta go!”

As they tried to drive away, the psychotic twin babysitters started hitting her car with shovels. In a night of absurdities, this made a great deal of sense.  Bette gunned the engine and knocked them both onto the concrete.

Meanwhile, El Wray and the deputy had made their way to the hospital after a brutal shootout with twenty of the infected.

“What the FUCK was that?” The deputy screamed. All around them, people lurched and dragged about. Only, they weren’t real ‘people’ like.  Their faces were rotting, and they stank.

“We’ve gotta get Cherry.” Was all El Wray said. “I need a gun.”

“Over my dead body, now you look here…”

“Fine.” El Wray ignored him. He reached into his glove compartment and grabbed two long switchblades—more like exact-o knives, they would slice through anything.