In stories about heroes the good guy is often hamstrung by a moral dilemma. He knows he should kill the bad guys when he has a chance, but he has this code. Like Batman and the Joker. Batman’s supposed to be a champion of moral behavior, his being a violent vigilante notwithstanding. He won’t kill the Joker even when that psychopath tells him he should. Instead, he locks him up in Gotham’s prison or in Arkham Asylum, both of which are notorious for the frequency of super villains escaping. And the result? Batman feels smug about making the good moral choice, and then gets to wallow in self-absorbed angst when the Joker breaks out and slaughters a shit-ton of people. I bet some comic book scholar actually took the time to tally up how many people died because Batman didn’t use the razor edge of a batarang to end the reign of terror. Numbers are likely in the five digits. And don’t get me started on Superman.

Me . . . ?

I’m not Batman or Superman.

Once I had all the information the Rovers were likely to give me, I killed them. I did it quick and efficiently. No torture. Just a flip of life’s fragile little switch. They begged, of course, but aside from not being a superhero, I’m not a judge or jury. They were making a plea to the hangman.

Any twinges of regret? Sure. I’m not inhuman. But I did the math and decided that, thin as the human population was right now, we didn’t need them in the gene pool. Call it preventative surgery. Call it whatever. I had regrets because I’m still moral; but there was no hesitation because I’m practical and this was a war where the good guys were badly outnumbered.

I used the cut branches to hide them, and completed the extra step necessary to make sure they wouldn’t reanimate. The bikes were potentially useful, so I hid two on the other side of the road behind some dense bushes. The third one had to be sacrificed, though, because I figured I might need a grappling hook if I was going to sneak into the town. I busted it apart and used part of the frame to make a sturdy hook, tying it securely with rope from my pack. Be Prepared, that’s my motto.

Then I headed to Happy Valley.

The intel I’d gathered was interesting. And disturbing.

Happy Valley had been built as an upscale incorporated town with an exclusive population. Lawyers and money had to be involved in setting it up. Only invited persons could move there. There were just under three hundred residents, and an unknown number of “workers.”