John Holmes - Even Zombie Killers Get the Blues

We found another skeleton lying on a couch in an upstairs office. This one was clad in expensive Gortex hunting camouflage. The latest generation night vision goggles hung around his neck and he had a full set of top-of-the-line body armor. Across his chest lay a fancy tricked-out AR-15, the civilian version of the M-16, with rails, scope, flashlight, handgrips, all the toys. The top of his skull was missing and blood stained the wall behind the couch. There were a couple of hundred brass casings and magazines on the floor of the window next to the couch, piled around the top of the broken staircase. The bolt of the weapon was locked to the rear on an empty magazine.

Saved one for himself. Better that than dying from thirst while the Zombies waited for you outside. “All that fancy-shmancy gear and you died from being stupid, Buddy. That’s what you get for working alone,” said Doc as pulled the boots off the skeleton and tried them on, after pouring alcohol all over them. “Nice fit! Just broken-in Bellevilles!” Yeah, the Army supply system sucked that bad. Our uniforms were patched, boots worn-out, gear jury rigged. The one thing that they could give us in quantity was ammo and weapons, which was good enough, I guess.

The rest of the guys came upstairs. We pulled the ladder up after us and settled down to get some rest. I logged into Facebook on my iPhone after Ahmed got the radio set up and went to our secret Scouts group. I posted a long rant about what an asswipe LTC Jackass was; then I showed the guys the picture Brit had posted. She was sitting up in a hospital bed, making a stupid duck face and flashing fake gang signs.

She was definitely going to be OK.

1200 hours. I flipped on the speaker of the SINCGARS and turned the volume up to be barely audible.

“Time for the news, boys.” Each day at 1200 hours, the commo guys at Fort Orange rebroadcast the news. We ate it up like candy.

“…istening to the BBC World Broadcast. The Royal Navy today intercepted a refugee fleet from Northern Russia when the fleet tried to run the guard and avoid quarantine. HMS Sheffield was damaged by a missile fired from a Russian destroyer. Casualties are unknown at this time. The fleet was destroyed by a low-yield nuclear weapon. A statement issued by the King’s spokesman affirmed England’s commitment to safeguarding the United Kingdom from all threats.

”The Grand Committee of the House of Lords convened at Oxford again today to hear the case against the King's prerogative powers and sidelining of Parliament. In their thirteenth straight vote since the Emergency started, the Lords overwhelming supported the continued exercise of His Majesty's war powers as defined in the Constitution.

“In North America, elements of the US 82 ndAirborne seized control of the Bermudez oil field in southern Mexico in an airborne assault. Heavy fighting was reported by our embedded correspondent in a three-way battle between US forces, Mexican cartels and undead.”

“YEAH, GIT SOME, AIRBORNE!” yelled Doc, a former 82 ndparatrooper.

“Shut it, I’m trying to listen,” I told him.

“Shut it yourself, you dirty nasty leg.”

“…Japanese Defense Forces lost contact with their last garrison on the main island of Honshu but have declared the island of Shikoku to be cleared. Japan and Singapore remain the only parts of Asia with a functioning government.”

“This is the BBC World News.”

I clicked off the radio and thought about how many billions were dead, yet we still fought on. Stubborn humanity, I guess. I never thought of quitting, even at the worst of times. I guess the quitters were all dead by now.

We rested an entire day, cleaning weapons, taking care of minor wounds, getting as cleaned up as we could. My head was still a bit woozy after taking that round. And we were all starting to smell like ass after a week in the field. Captain David had dropped off several cases of ammo, both for the sniper rifle and our .22s. We had burned through more than I had wanted. Loading magazines was a pain in the ass, but it had to be done. Click, click, click.

Jacob sat down next to me later that evening. He had his pistol in his hand and I assumed he had just finished cleaning it. I could tell by the look on his face that he wanted to talk.

“Nick, that shit yesterday. In the prison cell block.”

“Yeah, what about it, Jake?” I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but if the guy needed to talk, he needed to talk.

“I can’t get it out of my head. This is one hell of a nightmare I’m in. I wish I could wake up.”

“Well, if you want to talk about it, how about you put the pistol away first.”

He looked at it like he was seeing it for the first time. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

Talking with Jacob was tough, because, even though he performed well in the field, he really believed that he was in a dream. I asked him once what he did before the plague and he had laughed. He told me he was an accountant. Wife, two daughters, white picket fence around his house on Long Island. I couldn’t square it with the dirty, unshaven gunslinger who sat next to me. Then again, I don’t think he could square it with himself, either.

“I keep seeing all those women and kids, the ones we didn’t get to in time. I close my eyes and there they are, right there. I can smell the gun smoke from that guards’ rifle.”

“We all have a tough time dealing with it, Jacob. It’s what makes us human.”

“What I can’t get over, Nick, is how real it seemed. I know I’m in a dream. I have to be in a dream. Otherwise, Jean and the girls are dead. Or even worse, undead.”

We were treading on dangerous ground. I’ve seen guys lose it in the field before, both in Afghanistan and here. One minute they’re fine, and then snap , they break. The toughest guys out there. Everyone has a breaking point. I think Jacob was approaching his.

He sat silently for a moment while I thought of how to answer him, but before I could, he stood up.

“One way or another, Nick, it’s not a place I want to be. Either I come out of this nightmare or the nightmare is real.”

“Maybe you need to talk to Doc, see if he can give you something to help you sleep.” I started to get up, meaning to get Doc, but he shook his head no and walked over to the ruined stairway. Before I could stop him, Jacob had jumped down and run out the front door of the building. I called for the others. We grabbed out gear and climbed down after him, but by the time we got out the door, he was long gone. I stopped at the door and told everyone to go back to bed. We would find him in the morning, or not. Most likely not.

As we watched the sun rise at stand-to, we heard a single shot echo through the woods.

We found him just down the road. Leaning with his back against a tree, a picture of his wife and kids on his lap, his pistol still in his hand. He had waited ’til dawn so he could see them one more time. The four of us dug him a deep grave, shouldered our packs and started walking.

“Hey Nick, you think Jacob is in a better place now?” Jonesy dropped back as Doc replaced him on point and walked beside me. He could tell I was in a foul mood. Three men killed, Brit wounded. This was a tough mission and it was getting to me.

“I don’t know, J. Maybe this is a nightmare, and he managed to get out of it. Lord knows I wish the old world would come back.”

“I don’t. Old world, I got shit on by the man. Five years in a state pen like that joint we just cracked, all because I beat the crap outta some dude that raped my sister. I like this world, Nick. I am the right hand of justice, and I can serve it out like jelly on a cracker. Just not on you crackers. YEAH, I MEANT YOU, DOC, YOU CRACKER-ASS BIKER!”