[ WP ] `` It 's surprising that the most important person in the world has so little security . '' Said the assassin to his target . `` I am here , there is no better security . '' Was the casual reply .

The Street 
 
 The street was empty and dark. Its denizens were dark and empty. 
 
 It was one thousand yards long and 15 yards wide, laid with ancient cobbled stones. Each side was lined with narrow buildings, squeezed together like the chickens at a food mill. These buildings stretched up toward the sky, begging God to be done with them. 
 
 But God was not done. 
 
 The windows of the buildings, those that were left, were tinged with bloody stains. The acidic downpours that cursed this street burned away the blood from the cobbles and the walls; else there would be nothing but blood. But it could not clean the inside. 
 
 Perhaps God did not care. 
 
 At one end of the street was a concrete wall: at least one hundred feet high, maybe a little more. It was ten feet thick, and on its backside was a foot of steel ( though those who lived on this street did not know ). It spanned the expanse between the buildings, blocking off the road from any coming in or any coming out. 
 
 Or, perhaps God was testing them. 
 
 At the other end of the street was another barrier of thick concrete, much like the first. This one, though, had a profound characteristic. At the bottom, more or less in the center, was a door. It was a steel door, one foot thick and locked with a heavy lock. 
 
 Most likely, though, God had forgotten. 
 
 It had not always been this way, the street. There was a time when it was bustling with life and laughter. A very long time ago, before the sun burned red and the sky gave out, and all the grass was burned up and the oceans turned to mist. It seemed, at that time, that God had finished with his people; with his world. 
 
 But he was not done with us. We built a canopy, 1000 yards long and 15 yards wide, and stretched it across the buildings over Hake Street. It was reflective and semi-opaque; a clever invention by a young scientist to save the human race. But it did not save us. It destroyed us. 
 
 The buildings were sealed off tight. No one could get in or out from anywhere, except the 1000 yards of Hake Street. The roofs were covered in layers of cinder blocks to keep out the heat. The radiation was held at bay. We were safe. For a time. 
 
 First came the rain. The canopy was set over the tops of the buildings, to reflect the sun and the radiation away from the street. But it was not waterproof. The rain leaked in through the sides and seeped along the top of the canopy, congealing until it became too much for the water tension to support and it spilled down on us, burning through our hair and our clothes and our skin. It melted faces off and left mothers and children screaming in the streets. The lucky ones made back into the buildings. 
 
 Or maybe we are not so lucky after all. 
 
 The buildings are run by gangs now. Their territory moves and shifts with the days. It ’ s hard to keep track of who we owe tribute to, most of the time. And most of the time, we don ’ t have to keep track. They just come and take it. 
 
 10 Years Later 
 
 I do not remember how I became one of the Undead. All I know is that is what I am now. 
 
 Our mark is a faded skull, upside down on our back. We never die, they say. We run the northernmost building, from top to bottom. We take tribute as necessary, and everything else as we want. 
 
 I no longer have a name. We do not have names. We only do what we are told. I am a killer. The best killer in the world. So I kill. 
 
 I walk down the ragged halls, a scrap of paper in my hand. 7854C. It has taken more than I thought possible to get this number. This number. Antikaan. The one they call The Ghost. He will not escape me this time. 
 
 The room appears on my right. A slash of reddish-brown covers his door. I do not knock. This is the man who, they say, is the most important man in the world. He will know what is coming. 
 
 The door shatters inward with a great crash. I take a single, purposeful step into the room, my weapon raised and searching. 
 
 There is nothing but the swirls of dust from the ancient door. No surprise. He must have heard I was coming for him. I crouch low, running a hand over the threadbare carpet. I let my fingers brush the top of it, gently. Finding. Knowing. 
 
 And then I feel it. It ’ s the tiniest of indentations, but once I ’ ve found it, it ’ s impossible to miss. The fading outline of a shoe, pressed into the carpet. I creep forward slowly, following the faint prints to the tile floor of the kitchenette. 
 
 There is a stain on the counter that looks like brain fluid. 
 
 The tracks change, but I can follow the specks of dirt on the floor, and see where the dust was shifted by the wind of brisk footsteps. They lead through the kitchen and down a narrow hallway, dank with mold. It ’ s dark, and I step down it slowly, carefully, weapon ready. The swirls of dirt lead me to another door, closed again. I press my ear to it carefully - he knows I ’ m here. He has to. 
 
 There is no sound on the other side of the door. I lash out with my foot, sending this door, too, falling away with a crack. 
 
 My stride takes me into the middle of the room and scan it quickly, eyes eating up the empty space as quickly as the optical nerves can send the images to my brain. But, still, there is nothing, except for the swirling dust that permeates all of Hake Street. My eyes narrow as they fall on a closet door. This is the only place he can be. I walk purposefully toward it and throw it open. 
 
 But he is not behind it. Nor are there clothes, or weapons. Instead there is a stairway. It is narrow and falls away into blackness. This is strange. I do not know of a stairway in this part of the building. 
 
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