Roy was slapping Billy.

So much for the element of surprise.

Upon their arrival at the Kinderman Center, Roy and his band of slack-jawed zombies had tucked themselves away into the trees on the other side of the expansive lawn, 100 yards or so from the shining front doors. Roy had been instructing the group, detailing his elaborate plans, assigning duties and calculating timing.

After Roy had berated Billy for interrupting him a third time, the downtrodden zombie had thought he saw something moving in the back of the Suburban and decided to fire a warning shot.

Now, as one might rightfully assume, warning shots are not intended to hit things. They are designed, as their name would suggest, to offer a warning to an adversary. But Billy, not only wasn't sending a warning to anyone, as the truck had been empty, but also succeeded in ruining Roy's entire plan.

Billy's aim was way off. The shot, which he'd meant to send into the empty air 20 feet above the Suburban had ended up going through the truck's back window and into a gas can. Every thirty seconds or so another explosion would knock leaves off the trees while Roy continued to slap Billy back and forth across the sunken cheeks.

The rest of the group, road weary and a bit peeved at the circuitous route taken to arrive at the Kinderman Center (there were some disagreements on whether to trust the tracking device) had decided they were no longer interested in a prolonged conflict. They dutifully listened to Roy pretend to be a tactical mastermind, but they couldn't help throwing sideways glances at the gas mask kids they'd apprehended at the Target parking lot who looked incredibly upset... and delicious.

Impatience and hunger were taking over. They decided to initiate their own plan.

As much as Roy didn't want to, he stopped slapping Billy when he caught a glimpse of commotion out of the corner of his eye. He ran to the others just as they were tearing into one of the kid's brains. The respirator mask had been tossed aside to reveal a very pale and scared face. Within seconds, fingers had dug into eye sockets and mouth, tearing apart the skull like a crisp head of lettuce. Hot blood flowed heavily over dirty, trembling hands.

"Don't do that!" Roy shouted. "They're our leverage." The zombies looked up at Roy with naked disdain and went back to their meal. Roy exhaled heavily and put his hands on his hips, realizing he couldn't stop them now. "Okay, but just the one. Leave the others." He turned back to where he had left Billy rubbing his reddened face.

The other kids, including a teary-eyed Tristen, sat splayed out around a tree, their arms and feet bound with electrical tape and bungee cords. When they'd approached the cars in the Target parking lot, they just figured it was another situation like Frank and the girls. They were actually excited to be getting another round of visitors. So, it was quite a shock when Tristen walked up to the driver's side of a vintage Oldsmobile and was met by the business end of a shotgun and the gap-toothed grin of a man whose throat had been torn out.

A few minutes later they were piled on top of one another in the back of a rusty pick-up truck, bouncing painfully down the trail leading to the Center's private drive.

Now, Sam, the artist of the group, was getting his head ripped open right in front of them. Blood spurted and the noisy mastication continued. Sam's body had gone limp.

Tristen and the other kids started crying with renewed vigor.

"Goddamnit, shut up!" Roy bleated but the crying didn't stop. He put the binoculars back to his eyes and scanned the front of the broken building. "They're probably getting their guns together right now. Damnit Billy! I'd give you another beating if I knew you could feel it."

Billy was sitting dejected a few feet away hugging his knees. He might not have been able to experience physical pain, but his feelings were definitely hurt. He looked as though he might join the kids in their sobbing.

Roy eyed him disapprovingly but felt a little pity and told him to go and get his share of the gas-mask kid's brains. The hang-dog zombie scuttled off as Roy shook his head and went back to the binoculars.

No movement. That meant they were getting organized out of sight.

This is going to get complicated, he thought.