by Scott Free
Chapter 1:Shopping Day
“Jesus H. Christ,” Cat Chow whispered. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and dislodged a drop of sweat from the tip of his nose. “What the hell are they doing? Shopping?”
“Eyes on your zone, Cat Chow. I swear I will slit your gullet with your own knife if you let a bunch of them climb up our asses,” replied Smiley. Whenever our team leader makes a threat like that, it always gives me a chill. It isn’t that I’m scared of the guy or anything; the little Filipino-American was only about five and a half feet tall—if that—compared to my 6’1”. It was just that whenever he said something like that, he would say it with a smile, his pearly whites gleaming. It was as if he would enjoy nothing more than carrying out whatever he has threatened to do. For all I know, he might. Sometimes his threats could be downright creative. He must’ve been preoccupied with planning our next move, because for Smiley to make such an unimaginative threat was uncharacteristic of him. The guy never gets flustered. Never gets upset. Always with that damn smile plastered across his mug.
Cat Chow returned to providing our rear security, settling down with his M249. I returned my eyes to the front, keeping as low as I could as I lay on my belly next to a tipped-over 55-gallon drum. The thing reeked. I don’t know what was in the thing, but the odor made my nose-hairs curl. I swear. Flies buzzed around my head threatening to drive me crazy as they dive-bombed my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. God I hate this place. Fort Myers, Florida. Even in November the temp was in the 90s. The entire city was filled with the aroma of smoke, rotting meat, garbage, and shit. No. Thank. You.
“How many you got, Java?” Corporal Clemente asked.
“Five Stage Twos. The two guys and the three women,” I replied.
Smiley grunted. “I count six. “You count the one under the car?”
I was embarrassed. “Shit, I didn’t count it. I was just looking at the walkers.”
He smiled. “Got to count ‘em all. Never know when one of these things are gonna climb up and take a bite outa your ass.”
“Sorry, Smiley.” I still couldn’t get the hang of this crap.
“You gotta cut Private Belfountain some slack, Smiley,” whispered Cat Chow as he scanned the streets to our rear. “He’s distracted by that knockout stew struttin’ her stuff out there. He wants a piece of her.”
“Shut up,” I replied. Cat Chow is my best bud and all, but right now I was a little too nervous to screw around with his crap. I peered through the ACOG mounted on my M16A4. I spotted five people in the parking lot of the Walgreen’s across the street. They were obviously infected. Stage 2—otherwise known as stews. Two grunted, moaned, and whimpered as they staggered around a small red car. Occasionally, one would smack a window, and I could see the smear of blood she would leave every time she did so. The 4 times magnification of my ACOG scope brought the scene up close enough that I could see the unnatural position of her fingers. She had probably broken every finger on her hand as she tried to get into the vehicle. The sight made me wince.
Smiley raised his voice slightly. “Okay listen up. It doesn’t look like anyone’s in the store. We’re gonna do this fast and easy. Don’t waste ammo. I repeat, don’t waste ammo. Java, you take down the three on the right.” He pointed. “Hit the two at the car first, then the one on the ground. I’ll take the three on the left.” He wiped the sweat from his brow as he looked at the other two members of our team. “Cat Chow, Throb. You guys provide security from here. Cat Chow, you got rear and 3 o’clock. Throb, 9 o’clock. We’re probably gonna attract some attention. You let us know when something shows up, got it?”
“Oorah.”
“Here, Cat Chow. Move back a little,” I whispered. I pushed myself up and got in a kneeling position behind the trash barrel. Resting my rifle on the trash container was much steadier than if I just tried to shoot from a standing universal or offhand position. I needed all the help I could get. I’m a pretty good shot, but with stews, every shot has to count; the things are really hard to put down. Correction. They go down okay, but they don’t stay down. The best way to keep one of the things from getting back up to make a meal out of you is to make goulash out of their brains, otherwise you’ll use a good part of an entire mag to make sure they are chewed up enough that they won’t get up. I settled in and grunted, “Ready.”
The Corporal smiled as he looked through his own weapon’s scope. He was bracing his M4A1 on the dumpster next to him. “When you’re ready, fire. I’ll wait on you.”
I took a breath to calm myself. I tracked on of the stews with my scope. It was difficult keeping the lightly glowing dot centered on the thing’s head. The unsteady gait of the woman made for a very difficult target. I’ve seen the movies and watched the shows. I’ve read the books. What I don’t understand is how the hell the heroes always get headshots on the zombies with such ease. It’s like they have smart bullets or something. All I know is, it is damn difficult to hit a target as small as someone’s head from any sort of distance, unless that target is sitting still. If it is moving you don’t just whip up your rifle and Bam! That’s the way it is for me, at least.
“Any time,” whispered Cat Chow.
I pulled the trigger. Three shot rang out almost simultaneously. The first hit the woman in the throat, and the next two stitched upward, one ruining her already messed up face and the other putting a hole in her temple. The far side of her skull erupted outward, spraying brains, blood, and fragments of bone over the car that she was walking in front of. I heard Smiley’s rifle fire twice as I twitched the barrel of my rifle to the right, aiming at the other zombie. The stew had jerked to a halt at the crack of our rifles. He looked at us, and you could almost hear the gears grinding in his skull as his dim little brain processed what was going on. Before he had a chance to figure it out, I hit him with a three-round burst. The 5.56mm projectiles hit him in the chest and knocked him backward. He stumbled for several steps before he fell to the pavement. Smiley was right—the body under the car was alive. It started howling as it tried to get out from under the car. He was slamming his head against the bottom of the car repeatedly in his haste to get at us. Stews are not very bright, but they sure know what they want. Us. All they care about is eating, and they see uninfected humans as nothing more than a pork dinner that wears shoes—with blood as gravy. The damage this one was doing to itself in its desperation to get at us was sickening. I aimed a three-round burst at his face. One found its mark; the other two shattering his left shoulder. His howls turned to gurgles as he flopped and kicked in his death throes.
I was on the move, right behind Smiley, as we hustled across the street. We both moved with our weapons in low ready. Behind me, I knew that Cat Chow and Throb were shifting their positions to better cover our butts from any threats that might be attracted by all the noise.
The man whom I had hit in the chest rolled over and climbed to his feet, facing away from me. I could see the exit wounds my three rounds had made. Gaping holes, showing stark white ribs against red, mangles flesh. The man should not be breathing, let alone standing. He gave a ‘whuff’ sound when he spotted me coming, and started to scream. I stopped and popped three more rounds into his chest, high up. I was trying for the head, but aimed a little low. The last bullet tore into his throat and knocked him down again. I ran to the man before he could regain his feet. Despite his wounds—wounds that would have killed a man three times over—the stew rolled over onto his belly, trying to regain his feet. From only a couple yards away, I popped three more rounds into the back of his head. There wasn’t much of the guy’s skull after that. Nine rounds to drop that—thing. Unbelievable.
“Over here,” called Smiley.
The corporal was standing with his back to the brick wall that was to the side of the glass entry doors, his held at high ready. I hustled over to the other side of the door, careful to keep out of the ‘fatal funnel’ in front of the doors, just in case there was someone inside with an itchy trigger finger.
I didn’t like it at all. We should never have crossed the street right across from the store, and we didn’t have enough men to clear this building properly. But ever since we got separated from the rest of our platoon, we had been running on short rations: an occasional bite from an energy bar and a sip of water from our camelbacks to wash it down. It wasn’t enough to keep us going. We had debated entering a private residence, but in the end we decided to raid a store rather than someone’s home. It seemed less like we were stealing, that way. Some how. I was having second thoughts. The entire city was a war zone, and I’m not even sure there were any uninfected people left besides us four. Well, too late, Private. The Walgreens was our target and I needed to keep my head in the game.
I leaned my rifle against the wall and hefted my Halligan bar (or as Cat Chow calls it, my Hooligan bar). It was a combination pry bar, pickaxe, and adze all wrapped up in one 36” steel tool with one purpose: to break into houses that didn’t want to be broken into. I had gotten the piece of equipment when we took up residence in our present quarters: a fire station that had been occupied by no one but two stews and the bones and gristle of their dead comrades. We cleared them out and had been hanging there ever since—until hunger forced us out.
Smiley waited, constantly scanning our surroundings as I made my preparations. When I was ready, he nodded, and I swung my Halligan at the glass door. The steel spike hit the glass and the door practically exploded as the safety glass disintegrated into thousands of tiny pieces of glass, none much larger than a pea. I hurriedly slung my Halligan bar back on my back and picked up my weapon as Smiley tossed a flash-bang into the doorway. The grenade went off and he charged into the store. I charged right behind him crossing his path. I covered the corner of the store that Smiley had his back to, and he took care of any belligerents that might have been hiding in the other corner as well as directly in front of the door. It was a sloppy entrance. I slipped on the glass covering the smooth floor and almost ended up on my ass. Luckily, there were no bad guys with guns waiting to take advantage of my klutziness.
We rapidly checked the front of the store for enemies. I started to go farther into the unlit store, but Smiley said, “Don’t bother. We gotta get going, fast. The noise is bound to draw some attention. Grab as many of that snack crap as you can.”
I scooped up chips and jerky, throwing arms full of the stuff into a duffle as fast as I could. Smiley pulled security; his eyes constantly scanned the aisles for movement. I worked my way around the rack and saw the most beautiful sight in the world: Hills Bros. White Chocolate Cappuccino. I had to have it. I had gone without any coffee, cappuccino, or anything with caffeine for three days. I was ready to sell my soul and that of the next three generations of Belfountains for a cup of steaming hot Cappuccino. I made a beeline down the aisle, barely paying attention to what I was sliding into my bag; I tossed cans of fruit, meat, or cat food for all I knew. All I knew was that I had to get some caffeine. Before I knew it, I was at the end of the aisle, in front of my goal.
“Java!” Smiley called. “Get back up here. Where’d you go?”
“Sorry!” I replied. “Be right there.” I looked back toward the front of the store. It was a lot farther than I had thought.
I scooped up several cans of the stuff, cramming them on top of the other food. I could hear the chips crunch at the bottom. Ah hell, at least it’s calories.
Something screamed. I almost crapped my pants. To be honest, I did squirt a little.
“Get your ass up here!” Smiley ordered.
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I had my booty sack in my left hand as I clawed at my rifle that I had slung over my shoulder with my right. Another scream, followed by a crash as something knocked over a display of glass items. I thought I was going as fast as I could before, but I suddenly found an extra burst of speed. I did not want to meet whatever was behind me. Murphy had other ideas. You don’t know Murphy? He’s that son-of-a-bitch that just waits until that perfect moment to make sure things go completely FUBAR. A bony, filthy arm shot out from under the shelving unit. How the hell did someone get under there? It grabbed at my boot, getting its fingers around my bootlace. It knocked my foot just enough that I ended up tripping over my own damn foot! I fell like a ton of bricks. I was carrying over a hundred pounds of gear, and when I hit the ground it knocked the wind out of me. I slid on the smooth floor for several feet and everything on my back slid even farther; it was bunched up on top of my neck and head, mashing my nose flat. I saw stars, and I was certain my nose was broken. It took me a second that lasted a lifetime to get my scrambled brains back in order and my breathing started again. I started to climb back up to my feet.
I had made it all the way to getting my elbows under me before I was slammed to the floor again and my nose was reintroduced to the tiles. I don’t know who or what had jumped on top of me, but he was screaming like a dozen banshees as he tried to tear me apart. Anyone who knows me is well aware of how much I hate carrying my ruck, but at that moment I praised the wisdom of the man who made me carry the forty-pound thing into the field a few days ago. My poor ruck took the brunt of the thing’s assault, and my attacker couldn’t get past the bulk of my pack to tear at my neck or strike my head. I rolled, and pinned the maniac against the shelving unit and my body. I pushed, my boots scuffing the floor as I tried to get traction on the shiny floor. It went ballistic, screaming, clawing, wriggling, and bucking. It wriggled out from its confinement and jumped away from me. I twisted my head to see what the hell the thing was. It took me a moment to figure it out, but I was attacked by a skinny little piss-ant of a teenage kid that couldn’t have weighed more than 125 pounds dripping wet. The kid was filthy—covered in dirt, blood, and God knows what else. His shoulder-length hair was matted and greasy, with a patch on the side where it looked as if it had been yanked out by the roots. The whites of his eyes showed around the iris, and I could see the black streaks of the fungus that were growing throughout the kid’s body, invading every cell. He screamed and pounced.
I rolled and blocked his attack with my rifle held in both hands across my body. I pushed hard, and the rifle crunched into his throat. His screaming cut off abruptly, and was replaced with hacking and wheezing as he tried to get air past his damaged windpipe. I pushed again to knock him back far enough that I could get a little momentum up and smacked him in the face with the stock of my rifle. He lost his balance and fell into the shelves on the other side of the aisle, causing a small avalanche of pancake mix to tumble onto him. I scooted backward on my butt, put several feet between him and myself, and popped three rounds into his chest. If he thought he was having trouble breathing before, now he was choking and wheezing all while spitting up blood and hunks of lung. I was feeling pretty smug about the whole thing until I looked into the darkness behind him and saw that the stew that had tripped me up in the first place had managed to crawl out from under the shelves and was coming for me. She was just ahead of two others that were sprinting from the rear of the store. Shit on a biscuit. This just wasn’t my day.
God they were fast! There was no way I could definitely drop one, most likely drop two, but there was no way in hell I was going to be able to stop all three of those crazy S.O.B.s before one started munching on my face. Anyone with half a brain would realize that my days were up. Luckily, my brain was on strike and my training kicked into over-drive. I wouldn’t be a grunt if I couldn’t stand the thought of fighting against overwhelming odds.
Still sitting on my butt, I put three rounds into the woman’s chest. She staggered to the side, tripping her buddy as he tried to jump over her. He sprawled on the floor, sending up a cloud of pancake flour. His pal, however, was not slowed in the least, and as I started to swing my rifle toward him, I realized I was not going to make it in time. I screamed in defiance at the man as he dove toward me. I was so hopped up on adrenaline that it seemed like the man came at me in slow motion, his mouth wide open, showing jagged, broken teeth smeared with bl
ood and filth. Then his face just disappeared. Well, it didn’t disappear so much as exploded into a red mess when three high-powered rounds from Smiley’s M4 smashed into it traveling at 880 meters per second. The body hit me knocked me on my back while I heard Smiley’s M4 fire again.
“Get your ass up! We got serious trouble!” Smiley shouted, as he yanked me away from the still-flopping corpse that had fallen on me. Outside I could hear gunfire—the single shots from Throb’s M16 as well as the quick four and five round bursts from Cat Chow’s SAW. Oh, crap. This day was getting better and better. Is it time to go home yet?
I grabbed my bag o’goodies and followed my team leader to the door. Down the street both from the north and south several dozen stews were making their way toward the noise that we had made. It was a varied pack of infected: those where the infection was not as far advanced in the lead, followed by the more advanced cases. Pulling up the rear were those that stumbled along doing their ‘zombie shuffle’. The slow ones were easy to outrun but unbelievably difficult to put down. From what the eggheads told us, as the fungus invaded the body, it de-centralized the nerve functions, shunting signals away from the brain and into a more localized system. This meant once the disease progressed far enough, you pretty much had to grind the thing into hamburger in order to stop it completely. The good news—or bad news, depending on which side of the teeth you are on—is that by shunting the neural activity away from the brain, the disease turns its victims into a bunch of drooling idiots. Much like watching too much ‘Dancing with the Stars’ does to its fans.
Throb and Cat Chow were knocking down the front-runners, trying to buy us some time. Whenever an ambitious stew would charge to the front of the pack, the Marines would knock them down. Some of the shot stews were staying down, but most would struggle back on there feet to continue on their way. Smiley swore. I swore louder. We both ran back across the street—if you can call it running. You don’t exactly sprint when you’re carrying over a hundred pounds of gear on you. We paused a moment once we made it back to our teammates. Smiley aimed his weapon to south and I heard the hollow ‘toonk’ sound of his M203 firing. Half a moment later the foremost zombie in the bunch—a muscular dude wearing muddy and bloody cargo pants and a polo shirt—was knocked head over heels when the HE grenade smacked into his chest. The shredded remains of his body plopped onto the hood of a car and slowly slid down, leaving a red smear of blood and gobbets of flesh. Smiley, his teeth showing in a grin, chambered another 40mm round and fired to the north. This time it hit the ground in front of an obese woman wearing purple hospital scrubs. She looked like a giant grape with stubby little legs and arms. She was lifted off her feet by the explosion and fell in a ragged heap. Several of the zombies around her fell and we took the opportunity to vamoose. Smiley verified that our escape route was clear, took the goody bag from me, and directed us down the alley through which we first entered the area. I was in the lead, followed by Smiley, Cat Chow, and finally Throb.
We ran as fast as we could—or I should say, as fast as Cat Chow could. He was the slowest of us, due to the extra weight of his weapon and ammo. It wasn’t fast, and the stews came howling into the alley just as we exited the other end and cut left. They must have caught a glimpse of Cat Chow’s lagging rear end, because the air was filled with the excited howls of hungry stews on the hunt. I felt like a rabbit that was being chase by a pack of hounds.
We passed between a couple two-story apartment buildings with a wooden, gated fence between them. When Cat Chow cleared the gate, he slammed it shut and knocked a big green trash container in front of it. We waited for him before we all exited the alley and shut the other gate. Luck was with us; there were no zombies on the street to witness our passage from the alley, across the front lawns of two homes, and into the fenced backyard of a small one-story house. Smiley shut the gate behind Cat Chow as he came puffing his way in. We all stood still, panting and sweating, as we listened to the screams and howls of our confused pursuit. I crossed my fingers, hoping by all that is holy—or unholy; I’m not picky—that our evasive maneuvers were enough to throw the stews off our trail. Smiley signaled, and the four of us moved farther into the yard, skirting the pool and hunkering down next to a small storage shed. Once there, Smiley told me to turn around, and he proceeded to stuff cans and boxes into my ruck. He repeated the process with Throb and Cat Chow, and when he was done, he had Throb stuff our now-empty booty bag into the team leader’s ruck. While he was doing this, the rest of us switched out and topped off mags. I also readjusted my tactical vest and body armor that had shifted during my wrestling match at the Walgreens.
It seemed like forever, but actually, the stews lost interest in us fairly quickly; it must be hard to keep your mind on something for very long when your brain is pretty much mushroom stew. Smiley made us wait for another eternity before he pried up the loose boards in the fence and let me lead the way out of our temporary haven. Before ducking through the fence, I took one last look at the swimming pool, wishing I had thought of dunking my head in the water to cool off. Ah crap, too late now. Ducking my head, I squeezed through the gap and into the yard next door.
The next half-mile was nerve-wracking but uneventful, as we scurried around like rats in a cat show. The closest we came to real trouble was when we almost stumbled into a large mob of zombies that were gathered around three human-sized red lumps of meat and bone next to a green minivan. I stopped and retreated back into cover just before one of the gibbering stews ripped off a foot with a good portion of calf. She turned, trying to keep her fellow feasters from stealing her prize. If I had been a second or two later, we would have had thirty or forty raving stews inviting us to dinner. We snuck around the other side of the house, always careful to keep our noise to a minimum. We must have been quiet enough, because I didn’t become dessert.
Smiley signaled when we were within the ‘no noise’ zone. This is the area around our home base where we have agreed to not fire our weapons unless absolutely necessary. Throb and I slung our rifles on our backs and took out our Halligan bars. Throb carried the heavier 48-inch version of the tool, but it looked lighter than a majorette’s baton in his meaty fists. Cat Chow still watch our six, while the team leader’s head looked like it was going to twist right of his shoulders as he tried to look in three directions simultaneously. I peered through a hedge at our prize: home.
Ah, shit.
Two stews were squatting next to the fence, yards away from where we had made an entrance for ourselves by cutting the chain link enough for us to scramble through. The zombies had found something interesting on the ground and were staring at it, looking much like a couple of kids watching an anthill. One of the zombies was a short, fat man with filthy blue jeans and no shirt. There was a John Deere baseball cap perched on his head! How the hell did that thing stay on his head all this time? I highly doubt the brain-dead guy had dressed himself this morning and thought a cap would be just the thing to wear. His companion was a woman who was shorter than he was, with a tattoo of a snake running down her back. At least, that is what I think it was. It was hard to tell because a good portion of the skin on her back had been scraped off, as though she had been dragged down the street behind a car for a mile or so. With them just squatting there, there was little to indicate whether they were fast or slow, fresh or fungus.
We were only about twenty feet from the pair of zombies. I pretended I was a statue when one of them—the man—looked up from whatever fascinating thing was on the ground and let his gaze wander around. He had a confused look on his bloated face, and his head cocked to the side. When his eyes swept over the hedge where we were hidden, he grunted and pushed himself to his feet. Drool dripped from his open mouth, and even from our distance I could see the clotted blood stuck to his teeth. The stew took three steps toward me, when Throb grunted, “Go,” and crashed through the thin branches of the hedge. I growled and charged, behind and to his left.
Throb closed on the man and swung his
Halligan bar. He put all his weight behind it and I heard the zombie’s skull crack as the sharp spike penetrated the cranium and skewered the stew’s brain. The man went down like a rag doll, legs and arms flopping crazily. I sped past, heading for the woman. Her reaction time was incredible! The moment that we burst out of the hedge, she turned and came at me. She didn’t even take the time to get to her feet; she half-ran, half-crawled toward me at a surprisingly fast rate. I didn’t even get a chance to swing my weapon before she was on me. I barely got Halligan up in time to knock her teeth—believe me, is all I could see was a big mouth fully of bloody, cruddy, lethal teeth—away from the fatal bite that she was aiming at my face. As it was, she still managed to chomp down on my right bicep. That hurt. I squealed and beat at her face with my left fist. I couldn’t get a good enough swing to do any damage, however.
Her teeth ground down, but were unable to get through the fabric of my uniform. Bloody saliva froth around her mouth as she screamed. I got a hold of myself and fumbled around for my bayonet. It took an eternity, but I got my OKC out of its sheath and jammed that sucker into the crazy bitch’s neck. Blood frothed out of the wound when I pulled the knife back for another stab. All in all I must have stabbed her at least a dozen times before Throb dropped his Halligan bar over her head. He held the bar on either side of her head and pulled. I thought my entire upper arm was being pulled off, and I swore like a…well, like a U.S. Marine. Throb spun and threw the woman away from me; she rolled twice before coming to a stop on her back. Before she could get up, Throb stabbed her in the chest with the crowbar end of his tool. She tried to scream, but the damage to her throat allowed just a frothy gurgle to escape out the side of her throat. I moved up next to her and swung my tool like I was chopping wood. She jerked her head to the side and the adze blade of the tool struck her head a glancing blow.
“Hurry up, dammit!” Throb growled. “I can’t hold her here forever.”
I swung again and this time the adze blade caught her in the face, crushing her nose and pulping her brain.
She was still kicking a little and shuddering as we scanned the area. Had we been noticed? I didn’t think so. Neither of the stews had been a screamer, or at least hadn’t managed to scream before we dispatched them.
“Get inside, quick,” the team leader ordered. He didn’t have to tell me twice. I ducked into the fire station’s back lot. We ran in a half-crouch through the vehicles until we made it to the rear entrance to the building. I checked the little piece of metal Smiley had wedged into the door when we left. It was still there. Good. If it were missing it would indicate that someone had opened the door while we were away on our shopping trip. Smiley nodded, and Cat Chow opened the door. I charged in, covering the front and right, followed by Throb, who covered the left corner. Happy news, there was no bad guys waiting to eat our brains—or kidneys, or livers, or anything else. Cat Chow and Smiley followed us in, and Smiley locked and barred the door.
“Honey, I’m home!” Cat Chow called. “Is dinner ready yet?”
I chuckled. “What if someone answered you?”
Smiley grinned. “He’d crap his pants and squeal like a little girl.” He paused, and looked at me. “Sort of how you did.”
Cat Chow laughed, and even Throb grunted in amusement. I turned red. “Hell, man,” you try being a zombie chew-toy and see what you do. You’d probably cry for your mommy…”
“Hell, I’d cry for his mommy,” Cat Chow said. “She’s fuckin’ hot.”
I turned on Cat Chow. “And you’d probably try to get in the damn stew’s pants. In fact, you better keep an eye on Chow, Smiley. He’s liable to sneak back outside and hump her tonight during his watch.”
Cat Chow looked thoughtful. “Hmmm. She was still wriggling at little.” He grinned.
It felt good to let the stress of the last several hours loose. The joking had a therapeutic effect. It helps to laugh at death—to spit in the old hooded creep’s face and tell a joke. If we didn’t do this, we would all be nuts before a week was out.
I shook my head. “You’re disgusting.”
“Look who’s talking,” Cat Chow replied.
“At least I—Ow! God dammit! That bitch bit the shit outa my arm.”
The mood immediately became tense, all joking around forgotten.
“How’s your arm, Java?” Smiley asked. His smile had no warmth behind it.
I was scared. If my skin was torn, if I was bleeding…
I gingerly dropped my gear, trying to keep from smearing the bloody saliva on any of my stuff. I stripped off my FLC followed by my MTV, dropping it on the floor. The SAPI plates hit the floor with a heavy clunk. God, it felt good to get that stuff off! I felt like I could fly after shedding the extra weight. Body armor is heavy. But I’ll be damned if I’m going out there without it.
Everyone crowded around when I got my blouse off. I twisted my arm around as I tried to see every side. Nothing.
Smiley grabbed my arm and peered at it closely. “Hold it, Java. There’s something seriously wrong with your arm.” His grin had disappeared.
Shit.
He squeezed my arm. “These aren’t the arms of a grunt, man. These are the arms of a 12-year-old girl.” His face split in a huge grin. “How the hell did you make it through basic with these skinny little things?”
I smacked him in the head. Asshole.
I was all right. Smiley told me to wash up my stuff with a little bleach water we found under the sink, and by the time I was done, those guys were almost done eating. Cat Chow belched and farted, declared it a successful mission, and left to go to sleep. I was looking forward to hitting my rack, but I had to cram some chow in my mouth before I hit the head and took first watch.
The other guys hit their racks and I went to my post next to an upstairs window overlooking the street. The moonlight lit up the street pretty well, and I once during my watch I saw a longhaired person wearing a tank top and shorts running down the street pursued by three other figures. I hope he or she got away. Later, in the distance I could see orange light where a building must have been on fire. At the end of my watch Smiley relieved me and I stripped down to my skivvies and dropped into my rack like a ninety-year-old man.
I hoped I wouldn’t dream.
Thank you for reading this one chapter preview of the upcoming full-length novel:
Fireteam Zed: First to Fight.
Another book that you may enjoy is:
Z-Day: First Blood
A 90,000 word novel set in the same world as Fireteam Zed, and reveals some of the details of the outbreak of the zombie affliction. Available at Amazon.com
