ZOMBIES: 'We're Alive' Fan Fiction - Chapter 11 - Locked, Loaded, and Locked In
A few years back, I was commissioned to write a story for the 'We're Alive' podcast.
Long story short, it didn't pan out.
But I spent a very long time writing it for it to languish in my computer. I spent that time not only writing it for the 'We're Alive' folks, but mostly for my readers.
So what I've decided to do is publish my initial story here, via my blog, as a work of FAN FICTION, a completely unofficial piece about a character from the series. This is completely unofficial and unauthorized, but I think my work and time spent on this project deserve to see the light of day.
I would like to encourage everyone who might enjoy this fan fiction to check out the officials 'We're Alive' website HERE. It is a fantastic and well-developed world created by a group of professional writers and expert voice actors.
In the meantime, here's the completlely unofficial, unauthorized 'We're Alive' fan fiction, originally entitled (WORKING TITLE: BURT)
From an idea from the creators of the
"WE'RE ALIVE" podcast
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF "WE'RE ALIVE" PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
11. LOCKED, LOADED, AND LOCKED IN
When Burt finally arrived at the sidewalk just across the street from the store, he sighed in frustrated disappointment.
It was worse than he thought.
Black puffs of smoke were billowing out of one of the windows of 'Locked and Loaded'.
Fire, he thought. "Dammit," he groaned.
Though Burt wanted to run to the building, he knew he had to take a moment to recover. He had dashed down the sidewalk amid the chaos of the city for five city blocks. He had avoided conflicts, mostly adults asking for help. He never changed that thought that they were completely capable of defending themselves.
It was a cruel call to deny people help. But this wasn't about being courteous anymore. Not like many people in the US were courteous anymore. Courtesy goes hand in hand with civilization. Watching the fistfights, desperation, and bloody violence on his run was proof enough to Burt that civility in the City of Montebello was temporarily out of service. The episode at the apartment with the children was proof enough for Burt.
This world had not time for civility. It was about survival.
Burt had a splitting headache. He was very tired, and was feeling like his eyes were trying to close. His vision was blurring. Leaning against a building, Burt caught his breath.
"C'mon, man," he said to himself. "Get moving!"
Burt took off across the street. As dangerous as it was, he moved through the slow and go traffic with precision. He was surprised the streets weren't completely choked with cars, but imagined this section of the city was still maneuverable while other parts weren't.
Jumping over the last vehicle, he tumbled off the hood and fell to the sidewalk. He groaned in pain, looking up at his store and all the people in it as the driver of the car he just tumbled over yelled, "Hey, fuck you, man!"
Anger flooded Burt's heart. But the anger was not against the driver who just insulted him. It was for the people looting the store. He was no killer. But he was going to make a statement that he would do just that if needed.
"Get away from my store!" he shouted.
The people standing around his store turned to him and laughed.
Burt stood up and unslung his M-16. He held it in front of him. A side of him still wanted to unload on the people. Plug every single one of them. Put them away like a Chicago gangster with a Tommy Gun. These were the same idiots he despised, the same ones that started this madness. These crazy people who were going so far as to eat each other. What kind of human does that?
These people needed to be stopped, exterminated like vermin to never infest the city with doom like they did today.
But who was he to decide who lived and died? He was no god. He was just a man with a goal.
There was another method of achieving his goal that was only moments away from being in his hands. He aimed the machine gun just over the heads of the looters and opened fire. The looters scattered like roaches spooked by the sudden illumination of lights in a room. Burt fired short bursts, advancing to the store. Hot shells raced from the rifle onto the pavement, singing the song of a hellborne wind chime. Some people had pistols of their own. Maybe even stolen from the store. They shot at Burt, but were completely missing their target because they were running and shooting wild. As he finished every round in the magazine, he moved to the front door. The people had scattered to Burt's superior firepower.
Laying by the door were two corpses. Both had parts of their bodies dismembered. Their stomachs had been torn open. Their entrails lay in pieces all around the body. Burt didn't realize the bodies were there until he reached the door and he stepped in the pool of blood their bodies had spit out onto the pavement. He coughed in disgust.
Burt ducked his head just under the plume of smoke and walked into the store. Broken glass from the front door crunched under his feet. He didn't know what to expect, but he knew it was not going to be good.
The smoke shrouded the store in mystery. Burt could feel the fire nearby, and immediately moved to where the fire extinguisher had been installed.
As he cleared the smoke, he was shocked at what he saw. The pillaging was exactly as disastrous as he'd imagined.
Grabbing the fire extinguisher off the wall, he turned it on the flames. It wasn't long before the chemical cold of the extinguisher put out the small fires, reducing them to smoky piles of rubble.
Near the front door, Burt could hear yet another gathering of troublemakers. He could see their shadows through the smoke, and hear their chatting.
"Get the hell out of my shop, you bastards!" he shouted.
The stout old man opened fire with precision just over the heads of the looters, quickly making them scatter like pigeons startled at a downtown park. Two of them opened fire with pistols as they ran, making Burt dive behind a wooden case that was now lined with broken glass where pistols used to lie in quiet solitude.
"You just fucked up, old man," shouted a voice.
"Just walk away," said Burt with an exhausted smile.
Lord Humungous.
"I'll spare your life. Just walk away."
"Fuck you, old man," shouted the thug. The crunching of glass below the adversary's feet signaled to Burt that the enemy was making a move.
Burt listened closely to the direction he estimated the sound was coming from. But he could not get a bead on it. He was too tired to concentrate.
I'll be goddamned, thought the old man to himself. Just overwhelm him, thought Burt to himself. Overwhelm him with firepower.
Reloading the M-16, Burt stood up and immediately opened fire.
The boy ducked and jumped out of the way, crying out like a little girl. Burt did not let up. He emptied the M-16 on his own store, making the kid scramble in fear back to the front door.
When the M-16 ran out of ammo, he immediately pulled out his pistol and opened fire. The time between weapons gave the kid a chance to scurry out the door like a scalded dog, running in fear and respect.
"Goddamn right," muttered Burt.
But the smoke, exertion, and hunger was taking its toll. The room was pillaged. He didn't want to look at it anymore. But he had one more thing to check.
Shuffling in an exhausted daze to one of his first safes, he realized it wasn't as safe as he thought.
"All gone," he said, looking inside and sighing. "All gone."
The safe had been forced open. It wasn't a job for amateurs. Few knew about the safe. The only ones who did, who were also capable of opening it, were some of his regular customers. From that list, a modest few had the tools and the talent to pull it off. He was disappointed, if his theory was correct. He couldn't believe they would do that to him. To the store. To Shirley.
There was one safe, though, that only he knew about. Shirley knew about it, too. It was her safe, after all.
Stumbling, Burt hoped against hope that it was unharmed, unopened.
Burt breathed a sigh of relief when he finally arrived and saw it was completely untouched.
"Shirley," he whispered. "You're safe."
Inside the safe was 'Shirley', her favorite gun: a Desert Eagle.
Dropping the fire extinguisher to the floor, Burt leaned against the wall in complete exhaustion. He had reached the store. And though he would have to take out an insurance claim on the entire business, his prized possession in the safe, the one thing that could never be replaced by insurance money, was safe.
There was no sense staying in the store now. It was completely ransacked, vulnerable to anyone and everyone who dared enter. The store could be fixed, repaired. And her gun was still safe.
Burt was exhausted. Totally spent. Cashed. He needed food. Water. There might still be both in his office in the back. He could go get it.
But all he wanted to do for the moment was rest.
He won. He got what he wanted. Now it was his body's turn to reward itself. First, with rest. He leaned against a wall and let it support his body as he slid down and sat on the floor.
His eyelids fell across his eyes. No part of his body wanted to move. Every part of his body wanted to rest.
Eyes closed, he could still hear the chaos outside.
Sirens.
Gunshots.
Cries for help.
Cries of terror.
Cries of anguish.
A dog barking.
Car wreck.
More sirens.
Muffled shouts.
Gunfire. Scattered gunfire.
Then, the crunching of glass. Shuffling feet from the smoky front room with the muttering of yet another set of opportunists.
"Get out of my store," shouted Burt, firing three rounds from his pistol into the air.
The feet shuffled back out of the store. Shouts of fearful obscenities faded away as the thieves took off.
Burt hardly opened his eyes. He couldn't. It was as if they were weighed down. He was completely exhausted. His head throbbed with pain. He needed the nap, and let the sounds of pandemonium sing its lullaby to him yet again.
And again, sirens.
Then, the crunching of glass again, a slow crunching of glass from the smoky front room. There was no muttering of opportunists, only the silence of mystery.
"Get out of my store!" shouted Burt. The feet stopped moving.
There was no running like before. So Burt fired the last three rounds into the air again.
Again, silence. Only the sounds of the nightmare city outside could be heard. Burt's lullaby.
"I said get out!" shouted Burt again, trying to force his eyes open. He needed to stand, but his body had shut down.
Silence again. The crunching stopped, but the sound of a person fleeing through the glass was, once again, not heard.
There was something different about the silence. It reminded him of what a big cat walking through a wilderness, preparing to pounce must be like. Silent to find the direction of its prey.
Then, the crunching of glass started again.
Burt wanted to shout again. But he stopped himself. Something about the moment reminded him of playing 'Marco Polo' back at the public pool in Sacramento with his cousins. With eyes closed, he would shout, 'Marco', to which his cousins and friends would reply, 'Polo'. He would try to swim to their voices.
Today, the pool was 'Locked and Loaded'. The water was the smoke. His cousins were strangers in his store.
This was suddenly no game. He was being hunted.
Burt no longer had ammo. He assumed he wouldn't need so much for the run. He also took for granted he could get some here at the store. But it was not to be.
"Dammit," he whispered. He had no energy to fight. He needed to hide.
Then, from the front room, a pair of legs came into view. It's upper body was shrouded in smoke, walking in the haze as if unaffected.
"What the hell?" whispered Burt.
Then, the figure emerged from the smoke. Its face was pale. Its skin, clammy. Its mouth and hands were stained in blood. It wore a white lab coat, and must have been from the nearby scientific facility.
"The cannibals," whispered Burt. "Shit."
Burt had to move. He was in no shape to fight.
A bathroom was just a few feet away to his right. Burt stood up slowly, leaning against the wall for support as he moved to the room. He did not look back as he heard the person vocalize a peculiar but frightening groan.
"Shit," Burt muttered, stumbling towards the door. He moved against it, hoping it was open. It was not.
It gave the ghoul enough time to reach him.
"No!" shouted Burt, shoving the bloody figure away from him. The shove gave Burt just enough time to open the door and fall in the restroom.
Dazed, Burt looked up. The cannibal was picking itself off the ground, ready to pounce.
Burt lunged with all his might to the door, slamming it shut in the face of the creature like a door knock from an insurance salesman. The beast beat at the door as Burt twisted the lock in the gilded knob. He slid down the door, falling to his ass.
This was as far as he was going to go. With the thing outside his door, he was under siege with nothing to fight back with.
"I can wait, you bastard," whispered Burt defiantly.
Within several minutes, the pounding stopped.
Several minutes after that, Burt fell asleep again. The monster didn't get him.
But his diabetes did.
Burt didn't know how long he had rested, but he knew it had to be long enough for that thing to leave.
Rubbing his eyes, he had to figure out his next move. He needed food.
Leaning over, Burt looked under the bathroom door. The tiles were warm where he had been seated.
Burt could see nothing. The monster was gone.
"Dumb bastards," he muttered, chuckling. "Dumb bastards."
Burt got to his feet and walked to the sink. Turning on the faucet, he scooped several handfuls of water into his mouth. He tried to recover. He was still hungry, still low energy.
But he had to get to the office for some food.
He unlocked the door.
He opened it.
Burt felt he could just walk out without fear. But he took his time anyway.
It was a good thing he took his time, too, because as he stepped out, two of the cannibals were standing beside the door, waiting for him to emerge.
"Shit!" he shouted, slamming the door shut again. He twisted the lock in the knob again before the two started banging against the door again.
They're smart, he thought to himself. "Good God," he whispered. "Good God almighty. The sonsabitches were waiting for me."
Burt fell to his ass again.
Unless someone came by soon, he was trapped.
What a wonderful world, he thought to himself, chuckling.
After six minutes or so, the pounding at the door stopped.
After six minutes or so after that, Burt passed out.
After six minutes or so after that, Burt had visions of Max, left alone on the highway.
Somewhere in the layers of his visions, Louie Armstrong was singing.
= = = = = =
"See? I told you someone was inside."
"But he's already dead. What are you doing? Get away from him."
"Maybe… maybe he's not…
"Shit! He's alive…"
SATX
In the republic of Texas
"Pigs on the Wing, pt. 2"
ZombieBloodFights.com
FOR THE REST OF THE STORY, CLICK ON THE WE'RE ALIVE WEBSITE, GO TO 'LISTEN', AND CLICK ON 'CHAPTER 3 - THE NEW ARRIVALS' PART 2 OF 3, 4 min., 20 second mark.
BOWIE VALERIANO IBARRA is an artist living in Texas. He enjoys zombie movies, combat sports, and action/adventure movies. His first book, the zombie horror classic "Down the Road" was picked up by Simon and Schuester in conjunction with Permuted Press.
Bowie earned an Associate in Art from Bee County College, a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Acting and a Masters of Theatre History from Texas State University.
You can learn more about Bowie, his body of written works, watch exclusive videos, and network with him at his official website, ZombieBloodFights.com.
http://www.zombiebloodfights.com
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CHAPTER 7A
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Posted by Bowie Ibarra at 9:13 PM 3 comments:
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ZOMBIES: "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - Ch. 10 - Into the Eye of the Storm
10. INTO THE EYE OF THE STORM
As Burt ran deeper into the madness, things were getting much, much rowdier. He had never seen so many fistfights in his life. It was as if the city itself was the source of the problem. The fiery cars and frightened people were the manifestation of the metaphorical spell cast on the city, sending everyone and everything into complete and total pandemonium.
Not since the boy he had knocked out with his big fists and the thugs demanding his weapons had anyone challenged him. In spite of his sputtering energy, his knife, firearms, and size found people actually moving away from him. It was pretty obvious to the people around him that it would not be worth messing around with him for anything. The juice would not be worth the squeeze.
That kind of social power, even in the midst of the chaos, put him in a different position. Though he walked around as a kind of brute capable of swift and brutal offense, he also had the capacity to defend. But he was not about to grant that power for any grown adults who were more than capable of defending themselves.
The problem was seeing children put in this chaotic situation.
Burt watched a trio of older teens brutalizing a kid who couldn't have been more than ten years old. He already passed up a lot of bad situations, but he couldn't pass this up.
Burt dashed to the group. He wound back his fist and smashed the nearest one square in the mouth, knocking the boy against a nearby wall and out cold. Burt slashed toward the next closest adversary with his knife, cutting the boys arm. He could have easily killed the kid, but that was not his goal. He had the power, self-control, and was magnanimous enough to give the kids a choice. He had to set examples first.
"Fuck!" shouted the third boy, turning and running. The cut boy was too shocked to say anything. He just cried out, clasping a hand over the wound and took off. The boy who was KO'd lay face first on the pavement. A small patch of blood was forming on the pavement near his nose.
"Get up, son," said Burt to the young boy, offering a hand that was gladly accepted. The boy was weeping. He was doing his best not to completely break down.
Burt looked around, anxious. He needed to get to the store. But he'd committed to helping the boy now, so he had to finish the job and hope there were no more complications. He was running out of energy and needed to rest. The added stress wasn't helping.
"What's your name, son?" groaned Burt.
Through whimpers, the boy said, "Ronnie."
"Where are your parents, Ronnie?"
"In that apartment complex," he said, pointing to a building just down the street.
As he pointed, he couldn't help but notice blood pouring out of a wound on his arm. It was a bite.
"C'mere, son," said Burt, pulling him close to him and away from the madness. Burt reached down and ripped a piece of t-shirt off of the poleaxed thug. He had nothing to clean the wound with, so he just wrapped the wound with the shirt.
"Hold my hand, Ronnie. And don't let go," said Burt. The duo started running to the apartment complex.
A pawn shop was being looted. Burt couldn't help but imagine (know!?) his own store, Shirley's store, was suffering the same fate. He had to hurry and deliver this kid and get back to his goal. They weaved through the bevy of thieves running out with televisions, DVD players, even movies.
A large crowd was gathered on the sidewalk. They all seemed to be looking at something on the sidewalk.
As the duo edged closer to the group, they could hear general chatter.
"That's disgusting."
"… killed that mother fucker."
"Damn. That's all messed up."
"He ate him?"
Burt could see brief glimpses between the crowd of two bodies lying on the sidewalk. One was a bloody carcass torn open at the stomach. Blood entrails had spilled out around the body.
Beside the body was yet another. This body was dressed in slacks and a dress shirt. Its head had been smashed to a pulp, unrecognizable as even a human head. Brain, bone, and blood sat in a puddle by its remains.
"Don't look, Ronnie," said Burt, gagging.
Ronnie only needed a glimpse to comply as they passed the people. The sight charged Ronnie with fear that Burt could feel when the boy grasped his hand even harder.
As they passed the group, a man ran past them. He was holding his arm. Blood was seeping from under his hand and fingers. The man was followed by a group of youths with bats and lead pipes. They knocked Ronnie out of Burt's grip, but ran past them.
Burt helped the boy back up. They watched in horror as the guy was cornered and savagely beaten.
"C'mon, Ronnie," said Burt. They were only a few yards away from the apartment building. But more to the point, Burt was only a few blocks away from 'Locked and Loaded'.
They entered the lobby to the complex and were greeted with more mayhem. People ran to and fro. A young Asian child stood frozen in fear and crying amid the crowd. Another two bodies lay with completely smashed skulls up against the wall.
"At the end of the hall," said Ronnie. Burt could tell the boy's spirits had been lifted. There was now an air of hope in the little boy's voice as they made their way through the crowd. It gave Burt hope that this run was not futile in spite of the boys growing pale complexion.
Before long, they were at the door. Ronnie began to knock furiously.
"Mom! Dad! It's me!"
The door was unlocked and thrown open to the grateful faces of his mother and father.
"Ronnie!" shouted his mother with tears of joy shooting out of her eyes like a leaky pipe.
Ronnie's father offered a hand to Burt. "Did you help him?" he asked.
"Yes," said Burt. "You need to look at his arm, though."
The mother immediately checked the boy. "Oh, God," she said, but regained her composure. "It's no problem. We can take care of it," she said, taking him to a kitchen just a few feet away from the door.
"Thank you, sir," said the man. "You can come in with us if you'd like," he offered.
"No, thank you. I've got to check on my store," said Burt.
The mom grimaced in the kitchen, where she was already treating the boy's wound. "News has nothing but bad news. So good luck," she said.
"Thanks," said Burt, turning to leave.
"Thank you, sir," shouted the lady. Burt just waved and nodded as the door closed.
Burt moved only a few more paces down the hallway when he began to feel dizzy again. He eased himself against the wall to take a moment to catch his breath. His vision was blurring.
Reaching into his pocket, he put the last of the crackers into his mouth. A water fountain nearby helped him wash it down.
Turning and looking at the lobby, it was a maelstrom of panic. People dashed all about. People were yelling. There was yet another vicious fight in a corner. The small Asian child still stood alone, frozen in fear and crying. That was before a blonde man picked up the boy and dashed to a nearby door. The man threw it open and went in, the child crying in terror.
It took a moment for Burt to absorb what just happened. All he wanted to do was leave. He was running out of energy, and he still needed to get to the shop. Who knows what it was going to be like there. But he couldn't. The moment he witnessed was just too strange. Too creepy. Too wrong.
Complications, thought Burt. He needed to investigate.
He walked to a nearby lobby water fountain and splashed his face with water. Then he walked to the door and knocked. "Hello in there," he shouted.
"Get away from my door," he heard the man shout. The boy was still crying.
Burt didn't know what to say, and contemplated walking away again. But he'd already commited to action, like with Ronnie. His head ached. His eyes burned. You've got to finish this now, he thought.
"I just need to know… if the kid's okay."
What the hell kind of question was that? he thought to himself.
The door chain-lock rattled against the wooden barrier and the door opened.
"What do you want?" shouted the man.
Burt couldn't finish the statement. Behind the man, he saw the small boy tied by a belt to a small chair. He was weeping in fear. It was a very different fear than in the hallway. This was a fear without hope.
There was no need for words anymore. With a burst of adrenaline, Burt rammed the door open with his shoulder. The movement knocked the man back. Burt was in the room.
The man swung at Burt. Like an old machine being kicked back to life, Burt caught the wild and desperate punch under his arm. Then, with a sweep of the blonde's leg, Burt Judo-tossed the man to the ground, just like Lombardo had taught him years ago.
Burt immediately pulled his sidearms and pointed them at the man. He had the blonde dead to rights. The man froze in fear on the floor.
"What the hell's going on here?" asked Burt.
"Listen," said the man, weeping like a child caught in the act of wrongdoing. "Please, just… please."
"Johnny," came a voice from the door. Burt and the man turned to look.
At the door was an Asian woman. She stood in horror at the door, looking at the scene, stunned.
"Is that your child?" asked Burt.
"Yes," she replied. "What's going on?"
"Is this the boys father?" asked Burt, glaring at the man. He already knew the answer, but needed confirmation.
"No," she replied.
Burt waved for her to untie her child. "This guy grabbed your kid out of the hallway."
"What?" she cried, unbuckling the belt to the grateful embrace of her child.
"Please," begged the man. "Please."
Burt groaned. Crisis averted. He had to make his move. This was now out of his hands. He had somewhere to be. This had to be sorted out now between these two people.
So Burt washed his hands of the situation.
"I'm not the guy you need to be talking to, dirtbag," he said, offering one of his pistols to the woman. "You two need to sort this out."
The woman took the pistol. Her face had melted into the perfect picture of murderous maternal rage.
Burt stepped out of the room.
As Burt walked away from the apartment, he could hear the man cry out before three gunshots rang through the air. It was followed by the terrified cry of the child. Some people who did hear it were startled, but it was only a symptom of the sickness that was enveloping the city in terror. They all had heard gunshots throughout the day. It was now commonplace, nothing new.
They all had places to be.
So did Burt.
Posted by Bowie Ibarra at 3:17 PM No comments:
ZOMBIES: "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - Ch. 9 - Burt Makes His Run
9. BURT MAKES HIS RUN
With his soul on fire, his M-16 slung over a shoulder, pistols on his hip, and his KA-BAR concealed against his hand and arm, Burt left his apartment.
Locking up his home, he could feel the tension of the city wash over him. He could hear television sets behind closed doors rattling off the news he was just watching. Even muffled, he could still hear the urgency in the voices.
Cracks of gunfire danced in the air. Burt could identify pistols and sub-machine guns. Shouts, cries, and screams sang a song of terror accompanied by the music of the firearms.
There was no doubt about it. Los Angeles county had fallen into the depths of chaos. Burt sighed. It was a sad and familiar sound that danced over the cityscape, one he hadn't heard in years.
It was the sound of a battlefield.
Before Burt could make his way down the stairs to his vehicle, a hand grabbed his jacket sleeve. It took Burt by surprise. His training took over as he twisted his hand away. He shoved the attacker away and positioned his knife to jab once he identified his attacker.
"Please, don't hurt me," shouted the lady with fear. She held up her hands. Sweat laced her brow, making some of her middle-aged blonde hair stick to her forehead. "I need your help."
Good God almighty, thought Burt to himself. Jerkoffs and idiots of the riots he could deal with. These so-called cannibals or risen dead? He'll have to wait and see for himself.
But desperate people, people outside of the chaos looking for help? This would be tough.
"Please. My boyfriend…one of those people bit him. He's sick. I need your help."
She needs my gun, Burt thought to himself, watching her eyes fall to his sidearms. Stay focused, Burt, he said to himself.
"I can't help you, lady. I'm sorry," he said, moving down the stairs to his car.
The lady made a desperate move, grabbing his coat.
"Please! Help me!"
Burt snatched her hand away quickly again and shoved her away. Burt couldn't believe how desperate she was, having already threatened her with the knife. He had enough sense not to stab her, even though his conditioned impulse was there. This didn't need to escalate. The lady needed to get the message.
"I said no, lady!" shouted Burt. "Now get the hell away from me!"
Suddenly, three flights above them, something snarled with primal anger. They both looked up to see what appeared to be a drunken man. Saliva dripped from his mouth, and he looked at Burt with bizarre anger.
"Jimmy," shouted the lady. "No!"
The woman immediately rose to her feet, running up the stairs.
Burt wanted no part of the domestic dispute and ran down the stairs to the parking lot.
Clearing the apartment building, he was able to look out on the city. Plumes of smoke drifted into the sky like toxic smoke from the mouth of a dying dragon. The same symphony of mayhem Burt heard as he left his apartment beat its steady rhythm. The gunshots and shouts of terror were the classical music of human-made pandemonium. A variation on a theme of conflict played throughout the course of human existence, as conducted by Toscanini, Solti, Williams, or even James Levine or Leonard Bernstein. The sound and the fury.
Dashing to his car, he could feel the adrenaline pushing him forward. It was providing energy he was going to need.
As he got to his car, he looked out toward the street. It was packed with cars honking in a cacophony of fearful frustration.
"I'll never get out of here," Burt groaned. Standing still in a line of cars would also leave him vulnerable to attack or carjacking.
"Goddammit," he groaned.
A set of hands grabbed him by the shoulder.
Burt growled, knocking the hands away and shouting, "Lady! I already told you…"
But when he turned around, it wasn't the lady. It was a man. But it wasn't any ordinary man. This man had thick red slime around his mouth that Burt could only deduce was congealing blood.
"Shit!" he shouted as it grabbed him again, opening its mouth wide for a bite. It's one of them.
The monster shoved Burt into his own car, pushing him down on the hood. It snarled as it tried to bite him.
Burt was strong enough to hold the monster off with one hand while stabbing it several times with its knife. Blood dripped from its wounds and it backed off against an adjacent car.
Burt drew his M-16 when he heard a blast. The monster's head burst, splashing all over Burt and the cars.
"Jesus Christ!" shouted Burt. He watched the executed attacker fall to the ground.
"I tried to tell you," said a voice. Burt turned around to see Guerra, brandishing the shotgun he had sold him.
"Jesus, Mike," said Burt. "You just killed the guy."
"He attacked you."
"Was that one of those…"
"Cannibals? I'm pretty sure it was."
Burt looked back at the body. It's arm was quivering as blood poured out of its wounded head.
Burt couldn't take it. He ran to a bush by the apartment complex and threw up. It was more of a dry heave as he had hardly eaten.
"You're going to have fun today," said Mike.
"Fuck you, Guerra," said Burt, pulling himself together. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
"Corner store," he said, holding up bag filled with sodas. "We needed something to drink."
"No water?"
"There was water. But I figured I should grab the RC while it was still on the shelves."
Idiot, thought Burt. "Good one," said Burt.
"Where are you going?" asked Guerra.
"Locked and Loaded."
"Good luck with that. They've been looting that area for the past hour."
Burt groaned. "Thanks for the intel."
"I'm going back up to the apartment. Come by if you make it back," said Guerra running off.
Burt turned around and looked at the street again. It was as if the street found a way to get more congested between the time he was looking at it up to now.
"Here goes nothing," he said, trotting toward the street. It was only several city blocks away, but considering the danger in the streets, it might as well have been in Temecula or Fresno.
But his drive was still unaffected. Nothing was going to stop him from getting to 'Locked and Loaded'.
From behind a car, a teenager jumped out at Burt, pointing a gun at him.
"Drop the knife, old man!" he shouted, "and give me your shit!"
Not again, he thought to himself. "You need to take a minute, kid," he said, raising his hands. "Do you see what's going on out there?" The boy was about to get a surprise. He was just a boy. Burt had put himself in a game of life and death on the streets. But unlike Guerra, he didn't want blood on his hands. Especially with an idiot kid he could handle.
"I'll shot you in the face, motherfu…"
All Burt heard was Lombardo's voice saying one of the most basic fundamentals of hand to hand combat: Commit.
And he did.
Burt grabbed the barrel of the pistol and moved it away from his face, out of the line of fire with only a move of a few inches. Simultaneously, he popped the boy in the face multiple times. Burt's massive fists turned the boy's nose and mouth to mush.
The second punch had already knocked him out. And when the back of the boy's head hit the pavement, his arms and legs froze in an awkward and stiff position. He looked like a red-headed Ken doll that had been discarded by a child.
Burt picked himself off the ground, checking the requisitioned weapon for ammunition.
It was empty.
"Stupid child," he muttered, discarding the weapon.
The boy was puffing with an awkward breath, still stuck in the awkward pose as Burt dashed off, leaving the kid behind.
As Burt turned a corner, the boy was attacked by one of the ghastly cannibals as he lay on the ground, helpless. Though he was completely healthy and alive, he was still paralyzed by the concussion. The infected monster grabbed his still-stiff arm and bit. The pain made the boy respond, but only with a grunt. He began to pant, perhaps in a seizure.
The ghoul simply chewed on the chunk as the boy bled from the now-shaking arm.
The road to 'Locked and Loaded' was littered with catastrophe. Cars stood idle. Cars wrecked. Cars burning. The drivers burned beyond recognition, black silhouettes of humans who had been alive, perhaps only minutes before.
People were running and shouting at each other. People were fighting each other. It was every man for himself on the streets of Montebello. The same fearful desperation that hid behind apartment doors was now unleashed on the city streets.
Burt made it to a street corner when he heard a shout.
"Hey! Gimmie that gun, mother fucker!"
Burt turned to see a gang of four street thugs race at him with knives drawn.
"Goddammit," thought Burt. His knife was drawn, but he needed something more. His M-16 would mow them down, but there were so many others who could be hit by his fire. He didn't want to do it, but it was his only choice.
Before he could unsling his M-16, gunshots were fired. They were flying from behind him. Burt fell to the ground, unhurt, and scrambled for cover behind a city trash can.
Burt watched as two of the gang thugs were hit, falling to the ground, wounded. The other gang members ran, or just dove for cover as Burt heard another voice.
"Hey, old man! Let's get out of here!"
Burt looked up to see a man in a Navy blue F-350 waving him in.
"C'mon, guy," said the man, firing more rounds at the gang.
Burt knew he could not trust the man at this point, but the guy had wheels. He could still get him out of the tight spot, and maybe drive him to the shop.
Slowly getting up, Burt ran to the truck after unholstering one of his pistols. If this guy was going to blast him, he would be ready with an answer of his own.
Burt noticed his equilibrium was off as he stood up. He was light-headed.
The crackers, he thought, keeping his pistol at ready as he kept an eye on the guy that was still firing out his driver-side window.
As Burt passed by the front of the vehicle, he couldn't help but notice blood lining the hood. There were several dents in the hood, too. A patch of hair was visible on the grill guard.
Goddammit, thought Burt, hoping he made a good call.
Burt jumped in the vehicle.
"How the hell did you get this far?" asked Burt. "The street is bottlenecked with traffic."
"Sidewalks make great roads," said the guy.
Jesus Christ, thought Burt. This guy is a certified maniac.
Burt reached into his jacket. While he had the moment, he might as well pop some crackers into his mouth. Most of the crackers had crumbled into small pieces, so he scooped what he could into his mouth.
"It's a field day for dumbasses," shouted the man. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. He was wearing a stylish button-down shirt that was opened wide. A medallion hung around his sweaty chest. His scruffy blonde hair had not been washed in days. Burt observed several tiny plastic ziplock bags scattered on the seats and floorboards. He imagined the remnants of white powder in the bags were not flour.
Bastard's coked up, he thought to himself.
"It's like Baby Jesus come out of the sky and unleashed the dumb fucks," shouted the man. "You can shoot 'em now. You know that, right?"
"No," said Burt. "No, I didn't know that."
"Destroy the brain, they said," shouted the man, indicating his gold-plated custom .44, waggling it in his hand. "Destroy the brain!" he shouted, firing at people out his window.
Christ, thought Burt. Who the fuck is more dangerous? The people or those cannibals?
Burt tumbled against the door as the man swerved to hit two people with his vehicle.
"Fuck yeah!" shouted the man as Burt was bumped up in his seat as the truck rolled over the two pedestrians.
"Christ, man," shouted Burt. "Were they even those cannibals?"
"Probably," said the man. "Better safe than sorry, right?"
"Right," said Burt with a grim nod.
The guy started to reload, using his knees to steer the truck. It rocked violently, hitting the side of vehicles on the street as it moved forward relentlessly. He put his hands back on the wheel just enough to regain control of the vehicle.
"I brought you on so you could use those guns of yours. Why don't you have at it?" he said, looking menacingly at Burt.
Bastard's going to shoot me, thought Burt. "Good idea," he said.
The man flicked back the .44, loading the first round as they neared an intersection. "Let 'em have it!" shouted the man, pointing his gun out the window.
Burt's eyes widened as he saw an out of control big rig speed into the intersection as the Ford did, too. The big diesel beast was knocking cars out of the way like a shark fin through water. It clobbered the F-150 right at the driver side door he had just pointed his gun out of.
The truck forced the guy's wrist to turn inward. It was moving so fast that his arm could not stand the force. Though his body shifted to absorb the collision, his arm snapped just below the elbow, splintering bone and jamming it up and out of his flesh. Bone tore through his skin like two hands tearing fabric.
The rig smashed into the truck, sending the guy face-first into the rig. His nose and cheek were smacked by the steel workhorse, sending blood splashing out of deep wounds in his face. He was flung towards Burt as his driver side airbag blew open, smacking him on his rebounding face as the truck spun near 180 degrees, shucked aside by the rig as it proceeded on its out-of-control demolition derby.
Rattled and surprisingly not injured, Burt knew this was his chance to make a break for it.
As Burt opened the door, the man groaned, reaching out to Burt with his good hand, coated red with his own blood.
"Hey, dude," the guy groaned. "Help me."
Without a word, Burt just slammed the door and ran off.
Burt was now only a few short blocks away. But more chaos was just ahead as well, waiting for him.
Posted by Bowie Ibarra at 3:35 PM 1 comment:
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