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General Kirby just relayed information from correspondents in Mexico to the White House that the dead had devoured every resource palpable for a comfortable lifestyle there. Civilians were fleeing their homes. But at least up here in the states we were forewarned about the biohazard hurricane that was about to invade our premises. Homeland Security could not keep them out from crossing the borders, so they had to take affirmative action. Secretary of Defense, Gerald Bayard, had executed his plan too late.

Platoon 57 stationed themselves behind the gridlines of Mexico's arid climate and windy sandstorms. They could not see what was coming, so they had to shoot anything that moved including the living or the undead. Some escaped of course since their vision had been obscured by the sandstorms.

 My memory had failed me. I did not know where I was. My last memory smelled of putrid sulfur, barely gleaming behinds the seams of my puzzled past. It was like the shifting of one dream into another. The loud speaker beckoned with a rude awakening that it was time to pack our things and leave frivolous materials behind. "Where was I?" I wondered. The armed forces paraded the dirt roads, barricading the rest of us onto the shoulders of the desolate road. It was a sideline nightmare. It was the army version of Mardi Gras, except we were not catching trivial trinkets and doubloons. They were handing out first aid kits and accessories. Where had our Suburban homes gone? We were out in the middle of nowhere, although, I felt as though I were the only one dreaming this dream. The facial expressions of the sidelined crowd were an amorphous blur, their peripheral vision scanning a world with no horizon.