The inside of the Kinderman Center was clean and sharp. Precise, hard angles and glass everywhere. That was what had looked strange as they'd driven up. The windows were still intact.

Frank immediately liked the place. The stark lobby with high ceilings and exposed iron beams, the arresting presence of the reception desk, which was huge and salient, topped with smoked glass. The white tile floor though marred with dirty shoe-prints looked as though at one time it shone like a calm lake at sunset. The space was immaculate apart from the areas the kids had soiled. The contrast was striking. One aspect of the building so crisp, ordered and unthreatening, while the kid's dorms looked like a thrift store explosion. As Frank walked into the space, he was confronted by video game posters hung crookedly on the walls, clothes and empty soda cans strewn everywhere, random sports gear in leaning heaps, all the beds unmade. Little piles of hair and dust congregating in the corners conspiring to claim more space.

Frank felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He made a step back toward the lobby. The dorm was worse than the ransacked stores. People actually lived in this squalor. Thankfully, one wall was entirely windows and let the sun stream in, helping to keep everything cheery in the midst of such an awful mess.

Frank walked up to where Tristen was explaining things to Emily.

"...and we have to keep the masks on all the time now. When there was still power... electricity, you know, we didn't have to wear them inside because of the air filters. But now... well, we figured we should be extra careful."

"And it sure does look cool," Emily smirked.

"Yeah..." Tristen nodded, missing the sarcasm. "We mostly stay down here... in this area. And out on the campus with our RZRs... you know, the ATVs. There are labs upstairs and offices but the cafeteria and everything is... uh... like our dorms and stuff are... um..."

"Here?" Frank offered.

"Right. They're here. We're in it... them. The dorms." Tristen shuffled his feet. "So... we call this the family room now. Since we're like a big... uh... you know..."

"Fucking family," Emily completed his thought, exasperated. "Gotta brush up on those people skills."

"Labs?" Jane's ears had perked up. "What kind of labs?"

Tristen pulled the insides of his pockets out for no reason and shoved them back in. "In the labs? I... don't really know. Blood samples, I guess. A centrifuge?"

"Curious," Jane said, casting Frank a sideways look. "Is it cool if we go look around up there?" Frank nodded. They hadn't yet mentioned the whole Jane being a zombie thing and figured, for safety sake, to keep it under wraps until it became unavoidable.

"Uh... yeah. I don't see why not. Mi casa es su... uh..."

"Jesus, now you mumble in different languages. Color me impressed," Emily said. She took a few short steps, examining everything. "Pretty sweet digs, Rainman but what's through there?" she asked pointing at a set of double doors that had been painted with a cartoonish depiction of a zombie getting his head blown off by a tank. "You paint that?"

"No, Sam did. You met him earlier. The really light blond hair. He paints all the time. But that's the game room... or... well, that's what it was. When families would visit, we could, you know... play ping-pong and stuff. My dad said—hey wait, don't..."

Emily bounded over to the door, ignoring Tristen's stuttered requests for her to stop. "Hey, it's locked," she said, grabbing the handles.

"Yeah. I was trying... we've got... well... you can't just walk in."

"Why not? What's in there?"

Tristen called to one of the other kids—a girl—and asked for a key. She ran off and returned a few seconds later. "It's where we keep my... the doctors."

Frank had an idea of what they were going to see. Jane tensed next to him.

"I don't think this is going to make me happy," she whispered.

Tristen opened the double doors to reveal crusted brown streaks crisscrossing the dusty tile floor. All the furniture, including the ping-pong table, had been pushed to one side and stacked haphazardly. It was substantially darker than the living quarters as all the windows had been covered with heavy blankets—the corners crudely nailed into the drywall. However, one blanket had lost its seams at the top and was folded down halfway, allowing a dusty shaft of diffuse orange illumination to spotlight the horror sitting against the far wall.

"We used to keep them tied up... but we... well, we don't have to anymore."

The group stood staring at seven zombies in various protracted states of decay.

The room smelled aggressively bad. The aroma assaulted Emily and Frank, sending them recoiling back to the dorm area.

"We figured it was smarter to keep them here than let them out just in case they... I don't know... found some people and spread the infection. Or... you know, met up with some of their buddies and came back for us. Now we don't know what to do with them. It's kinda funny... in a sad way... I mean... we all thought... you know, we were the sick ones and now... they are."

"Jesus," Emily exclaimed. "That's fucking terrible. God. You need to put those shitbags out of their misery."

"Definitely," Jane said, a determined look cinching up her face. She walked past Frank, Emily and the kids ogling the pathetic dying creatures and swung the AR-15 off her shoulder. There was a stiffness to the way she walked as she readied the weapon, a keen sense of urgency.

She marched up to the first of the seven and touched the barrel to the thing's forehead. It was—or used to be, a man. His eyes rolled up to Jane and his mouth creaked open. He's probably saying thanks, Jane thought. She pulled the trigger, splattering what was left of his gooey brains in a greasy fan on the wall.

She side-stepped over to number two. She could hear people shifting around at the doorway, Tristen protesting in the far background—his muffled words falling to the floor as they battled the sound of the gun discharging.

Still, nobody stopped her.

Number three was a woman—her head popped open as though pressurized, covering Jane's new outfit in chunky brain matter and thin slivers of skull. Jane didn't flinch and moved to number four—and on, down the line until they were all dead... gone.

Her face was speckled with gore—her clothes were soaked, stained beyond repair—her white shoes looked black and shiny.

The lineup didn't look much different than it had when she'd originally walked in. Only now, there were seven, fresh, dripping starbursts on the wall behind each one. A fitting companion piece to Frank's X marks the pit art installation.

Jane forced a weak smile, feeling saddened but satisfied that she'd done what was necessary. Of course, she knew her slaughter-fest had been spurned on by the fury of her own vanity—trying futilely to erase the sickening prospects of potentiality. She saw her future in those anemic, lusterless eyes.

She walked back toward the doorway where the group stood aghast. Tristen was at the front, his hands out in front of him, palms up. His mask undulated on his cheeks as he took deep labored breaths, his eyes welling.

"Are there anymore?" Jane asked him.

"Wh... why did you...that was my..."

"Are there anymore?" she said again, more forcefully.

"No."

She handed him the gun and squeezed her way through the crowd.

She wasn't sure if she was able to cry anymore but just in case, she didn't want to be around anyone if it happened.