8/6 p2

3:30 pm

It was chaos. No one knew what to do. Marcus had just let my brother and the other man in through the chainlink fence. One moment, we were standing on the east catwalk of the main building, arguing about what to do for the one stranded outside, and the next, a horrible caterwauling starts up. It’s louder than the moans of those hundreds of dead bodies down there. James, hands to his ears, shouts “What the bleeding hell is that infernal noise?”

No one knows, but we needn’t wonder for long. The wail doubles, and this time we see the lights and blinking of an exotic convertible to go along with it.

The undead crowd surges to the side of the building, crowding around the cars, and a figure takes it’s chance to jump down. It lands badly, and I imagine I can hear a scream of pain. The figure clutches it’s left knee, but stands regardless. It pulls something from a bag and hurls it at a Porsche Boxter, then hobbles out the door. The crowd of dead bodies are going crazy by now. They’ve completely forgotten the man.

By now he’s running, pain mangling every other step. He pulls a third item from his pack and tosses it at a Lamborghini, which joins the yowling chorus.

Within twenty feet of the the razor wire and chainlink fence, he starts waving crazily, trying to tell us something. The army veteran takes charge. He hollers at the figure, who calls back. Finally, they come to an understanding. Through the noise, I realize what they’re talking about.

“...Only way! No other damn way to light them!” the man below bellows.

The veteran shakes his head violently. “Can’t do that. We’ll find another way to get them off our ba--”

The man cuts him off, screaming in desperation. “I”m all used up, Dave! Running on empty here. Blurry vision, numbness, all of it. I’ll be one of them soon enough. Just give them to me! Let me doing something useful before I go.”

The veteran opens his mouth to respond, but my brother puts his hand on the old man’s arm. He speaks in the veteran’s ear. Slowly, Dave nods. He pulls from his pack several red tubes and tosses them down. In exchange, the man throws a bundle up to the veteran.

The man below nods at us, then hobbles back toward the mass of bodies. The crowd of dead, which must include every single damn rotter in the area around us, hardly take notice of him as he approaches. He hobbles toward each car he broke the molotov cocktails on, pausing to light each one on fire. I realize they must be flares.

As each car lights, along with the rotters around it, the leading edge of the crowd turns to him. He raises the final flare, lit, in his hand. The first rotter shambles into reach, and the man smashes the last molotov cocktail at his feet.

The entire area burned for hours. And every single moaning body with it.

---

James tells me that he’d want someone to record the story. His name was Mike Dewitt, and he died to save us.

My name is Elizabeth Matteson. I will carry his story. And I will survive.