Zombies Ate My Neighbors, Family & Friends (Book 1)

by J. D. Chambliss

  As with everyone else, he was dressed in green ACU's, or Army Combat Uniforms. There were hundreds of new soldiers here, and the only way to distinguish between them was the nametag they wore across the left side of their uniform. That however, was subject to debate at the moment as they were running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

  Jack did his best to stack his bag properly, ensuring that his civilian bag was stacked atop the assortment of military bags he'd managed to acquire between the reception battalion and the short drive here. As he set his bag at the top of the pile, he noticed a civilian shirt sitting alone, stop the bags.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” Jack muttered as he looked at the myriad of civilian bags, ranging from book bags, to duffel bags, and even a grocery bag flapping in the wind. He quickly selected a bag and started to open it. A second soldier immediately grabbed the shirt and stuffed it into the random duffel bag.

  “We will figure out whose shit goes where later!” he yelled.

  The area was beginning to quiet down, the drill sergeants were demanding that the soldiers form up. One by one, the lines of bags were inspected, each soldier staring straight ahead. Occasionally, a drill would stop, single out a soldier and scream: “Why are you moving around?!” This however, did not last long. Once the drill sergeants were out of sight, Jack looked around, moving only his eyes, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

  “Drill sergeants!” A voice boomed.

  “Yes, First Sergeant!” About 16 voices responded.

  “First Platoon, did your soldiers meet the Army standard?”

  “First Platoon did not meet the Army standard!”

  “Second Platoon did not meet the Army standard!”

  “Third Platoon did not meet the Army standard!”

  “Fourth Platoon did not meet the Army standard!”

  “Privates!” The booming voice returned as Jack struggled to see it. “I am First Sergeant Keller. Here I am a God among men, and when you displease God, there will be discipline! Drill sergeant step forward!”

  “Is he going to punish the drill sergeant?” Someone near Jack asked.

  “Drill Sergeant, demonstrate the Army pushup!” The First Sergeant ordered. “Your back will be straight, keep your ass out of the air. Then lower your body until you touch the ground! Do not rest your body on my drill pad! Push your body upward, and then repeat!”

  The next hour was filled with soldiers pushing the pavement, some keeping their backs straight, and others failing in this rather basic aspect. As Jack pushed he could occasionally see the mirror shined boots of the drill sergeants making their rounds.

  “You'd better go all the way down,” One of them said directly to Jack.

  “Okay,” Jack said, continuing to push.

  “Okay what?” The drill sergeant demand. “Okay buddy? Asshole? Shithead? Drill sergeant maybe?”

  “Okay, drill sergeant!” Jack said.

  “Okay? Don't say okay to me, I'm not your buddy!” The drill sergeant wandered off to find another victim in the crowd.

  Eventually everyone was told to stand up and find their belongings. As soon as they did, they were divided into their platoon areas and directed to a stairwell at the rear of the building. Soldiers from the platoon piled upward, stopping at a specific door in the stairwell labeled: “4”. The fourth platoon door was pulled open and they piled into the bay. On each side there were wall lockers and bunks, as well as down the middle of the bay.

  “Move your asses!” A voice shouted. “All the way to the last bunk! Go, go, go! Move your sorry asses!”

  Rubber slammed against tile, and Jack had to suppress laughter when he saw a soldier on the other side of the bay fall flat on his face screaming for his mother.

  “You want your mommy!” A drill sergeant screamed. “I had her, and she wasn't THAT good! Get your ass up and to your bunk! Everyone in this bay get your ass into the front leaning rest position! That's the pushup position for all you failed abortion, pathetic excuses for human beings! Move, move, move!”

  An hour later the soldiers were ordered, inexplicably to disassemble all of the bunks in the bay and move them to the ground floor of the building. Then, after a brief inspection, were ordered to re-assemble them in the fourth platoon bay.

  “It is now eight o'clock privates!” The Senior Drill Sergeant said. “You will change into your shower shoes, you will retrieve your military issue brown towel, your bar of soap or whatever lube you sissies use in the shower, and you will line up single file to use my showers! Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant!” The entire bay acknowledged in unison.

  Four Weeks Later

  Jack awoke from a deep sleep, staring once again at the tile ceiling in the squad bay. Someone had touched him that much he was certain of.

  “What the hell?” He said quietly, not wanting his voice to echo throughout the entire squad bay.

  “Frost!” A voice said. “It's your turn for firewatch!”

  “$50 if you do it,” Jack muttered.

  “No way man, I took $50 for the last shift.”

  Firewatch was the rather unceremonious ritual that took place at night in the military. A two man team would sit at the front of the squad bay and make a report of the happenings from 9 pm to 4 am, otherwise known as 2100 to 0400. Jack saw almost no point in performing this ritual in an environment where it would never actually prove useful. In spite of that, the entire bay had been forced to undergo rigorous physical training each time they were caught sleeping without adequate fire guard.

  He dragged himself out of the bunk and begrudgingly walked toward the fireguard station. He sat at the desk and checked the log. As usual, no activity other than a few soldiers visiting the latrine at midnight. He scanned the page and found something of particular interest at the 2125 slot:

  2125: Private Hanes jumped from bunk and screamed that he wanted his mother. I told him to get back in his damn bunk so he proceeded to pull his PT shorts down and urinate on everyone in the immediate vicinity while singing the star spangled banner. We corrected the situation.

  Jack shrugged and continued reading the page.

  21:47: Private Hanes became violently ill and vomited on Private Lane. His eyes appear to be dilated and body is turning cold. Suggest that the next fire guard alert CQ.

  “Anything good?” The new fireguard asked as he sat in the opposite chair.

  “Nothing,” Jack said, pushing the notebook aside. He looked at the desk for a moment and then looked up. “I'm going to go count.”

  He stood up, rifle in hand, and stepped out of the florescent light of the fireguard area. He quickly made his way around the bay, counting soldiers in bunks as he went. As he went, he noticed that one of the bunks was empty. He grumbled and took a closer look, only to find that he wasn't wrong, the bunk was actually empty. He walked back to the fireguard desk and addressed the other soldier, whose name escaped him at the moment.

  “What bunk are you in?” Jack inquired.

  “I'm at a desk, not in a bunk,” He replied, obviously still tired.

  “When you're not at a desk, what bunk are you in?”

  “First one.”

  “Okay,” Jack nodded, walking back into the bay.

  He walked toward the back of the bay, toward the red latrine door. He pushed it open and walked into the bathroom, which was much darker than it should have been.

  “Anyone in here?” He asked as he flipped on the lights. There was a slight buzz as they illuminated one by one, flickering to life as if they'd been dormant for weeks.

  “Yeah,” A weak voice replied from the last stall.

  “You alright?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah,” The voice said in the same tone.

  Jack left the light on and returned to the fireguard desk. “One in the latrine,” He muttered, recording it in the fire guard log. At this point, he noticed that the other guard was missing.

  “Hey,” He said, looking around “Where the he
ll did you go?”

  Jack pushed the chair back, hearing it skid across the tile floor, another noise that would echo through the bay. On the desk there was a courtesy flashlight, military issue, angled, and equipped with a red lens. He grabbed it and pushed the power button on the side, shining it into the bay. The light flooded the darkened bay in a red hue, laying neatly across the other fireguard who appeared to be staggering between bunks.

  “Hey,” Jack hissed. “Hey asshole, I already counted!”

  The soldier did not seem to be listening. Instead, he continued to stagger through the bay, even going so far as to bounce off a wall locker.

  “What the shit,” he muttered as he walked after the stumbling solider. “Hey!”

  He saw the soldier wander to the other side of the bay, so he quickly cut between bunks, prepared to head the soldier off. At this point he was simply in no mood. He ran in front of his fire guard partner and shined the light directly into his face. He immediately recoiled, something was terribly wrong. The soldier's eyes were black, onyx, and his mouth was steadily excreting a white foam. Jack cocked his head slightly, and then it happened. The soldier lunged at him, though not very efficiently. Jack was able to dodge the attack, and watched the soldier move right past him.

  “What the hell?” Jack demanded. All around him he heard blankets being shuffled, and feet hitting the floor. He shined the light around the bay, and his heart skipped a beat. They all had the exact same eyes, every single one of them. “Are you shitting me?”

  Jack immediately turned toward the front of the bay, vaulting over the soldier he'd just knocked down.

  “Okay,” Jack said. “I'm not looking for any trouble, I just...yeah no.”

  He bolted to the left, opening the fire escape door and darted toward the stairs. A quick inspection of the drill pad below showed that there were no soldiers or drill sergeants present, so he darted down the stairs and to the left, toward the armory. Though the Army had issued all soldiers an M-4, rifle, they had not been considerate enough to issue live ammunition. Unfortunately, the door to the armory was locked, and quite securely.

  He pounded his fist against the painted red door and ran toward the parking lot, a mere hundred yards from the armory, and within his direct line of sight. As he ran, he could make out the sound of growling from the upper floors. He stopped mid-run and turned back toward the CQ, which was inset to the rear wall, and equipped with a plate glass door. With any luck, a drill sergeant would be stationed there, and with any more luck, he would be a normal human being.

  Jack ran to the glass door and pulled it open, rushing into the brightly lit CQ office. He turned to the right, ran down a narrow hallway, entering the commander's office, which stood directly opposite the first sergeant's office. Inside he found the second lieutenant that had been assigned to the battery. Rather than sitting at the CQ desk, he seemed to be fumbling with a pistol.

  “Sir,” Jack said. “Private Frost reporting!”

  “Save it kid,” The lieutenant muttered. “I have a family, and you probably do too. I'm not sticking around to deal with this.”

  “You're leaving us here?!”

  “From what I hear on the net, there aren't many people left to leave. Welcome to the zombie apocalypse, dumb ass.”

  The lieutenant looked up at him, sighed and reached into the top desk drawer and pulled out a rifle magazine, which he slid across the table.

  “60 rounds private, try not to use them all up. Get off this base and get home. If you get trapped, be sure and shoot yourself in the head. Good luck.”

  “Wait! How do you know I should shoot myself in the head?” The lieutenant was stuffing things in his government issue, tan knapsack. He almost laughed at the question, “Haven’t you ever watched The Walking Dead?”

  “No,” Frost hesitated. “I haven’t had time to watch much television.”

  The lieutenant eyed him with a mixture of exasperation and pity. “Just trust me, if they trap you, shoot yourself in the head. You’ll be completely dead and won’t turn if your brains are fried.”

  With that, the lieutenant was gone, leaving Jack to stand in the CQ office with nothing but an M4, a magazine, and a lot of questions.

  “Wouldn't it have been better to stick together?” Jack shouted to an empty office. Zombie apocalypse? Shit, now what?

  ***

  Ross approached the doors of the school, staring straight ahead as students poured in past him. He had five bullets in a .38 revolver with no stopping power whatsoever. He could not expect to kill everyone in this abysmal building, but he could at the very least hope to take out the ones on his list. But then what? He shook his head, trying not to think too far beyond this point. He may find himself in a prison cell, and he had no delusions about this scenario ending happily.

  He made his way into the school pushing through the crowds of students, many of which were simply going about their day. His plan was flawless. He would simply hide in the bathroom until the bell rang, and then visit each individual classroom. He knew where his targets were, the first being Kyle Hanson, the self-described school bully. Ross's stomach churned at the very thought of Kyle.

  The school jock had bullied him on more than one occasion, first poking fun at his religious background, and then accusing him of being homosexual simply because he didn't have a girlfriend. Both of these were tough accusations to fight against. He might have been able to set the religious harassment straight, but if he had dared to indicate his religious upbringing was against his will, or coerced, there was a one hundred percent chance it would reach the ears of his parents, and that he could not have.

  The hustle and bustle in the hallway was not unlike any other day, and no one paid any particular attention to him as he made his way to the bathroom. He entered, passing a few people who completely ignored his presence, and walked into a stall. It was this stall, he remembered, in which an incident had occurred last years. While he was changing into a pair of shorts, a pair of boys had kicked the stall door in and taken some rather unflattering photos of him.

  As best he could tell, they did these things simply because they could. There was no rhyme or reason, and reporting it to the principal or school counselor had always been in vain. “Its' all in your head” They would say to him, or “You feel insecure, so you're inventing enemies. You think everyone is out to get you”. Maybe he was paranoid to some extent, but it was not as if he had no cause. He thought over these things as the bell rang, screeching through the halls, causing students to pile through their respective classroom doors. The once busy hallways were silenced all at once, and classroom doors were slammed shut. It was time.

  Ross opened his backpack and drew the .38 revolver from within, taking one last look at it.

  “You sure you want to do this?” He asked himself. He was one to frequently have these conversations with himself. He had the presence of mind to recognize that no one was actually speaking to him, but it was a comforting voice nonetheless.

  “Is there anything else I can do?” He inquired as he checked the chamber once again, ensuring that all five rounds were loaded.

  “You could put the gun away, go home, turn 18 and move out.”

  “I really can't wait that long. I have five bullets. Four for them, one for me.”

  “Suicide is a sin, you'll go to hell.”

  “I'm already in hell.”

  Ross exited the bathroom, the gun held firmly in his right hand. The hallway was dead quiet, he couldn't even hear voices beyond the closed classroom doors. The gunshots would be loud, but if the staff followed protocol, they would simply take cover in their own classrooms. The targets he wanted would be sitting ducks. He started to walk in the direction of the gymnasium where he knew Kyle would be during first period, and all at once, he became painfully aware of footsteps behind him. He immediately spun around and cursed. It was one of the teachers. Mr. Davis, the music teacher. He hesitated. Mr. Davis had never been particularly cruel, at best he'd been indiff
erent. Something was different today though. The gun was in plain sight, Davis should have said something by now. Why hadn't he? What the hell was going on?

  “Mr. Davis?” He said. “Are you okay?”

  Mr. Davis continued toward him, emitting a throaty growl, and stretching his hands outward. He walked as if he'd never used his legs before, and his eyes were black, almost as if they'd been glossed over. This looked just like his old teacher, but it certainly wasn't him. Ross stepped back, raising the gun.

  “Look, Mr. Davis, I've heard all about this zombie apocalypse crap, and if you're playing with me, I need you to let me know. I'm going to kill you. Mr. Davis?”

  Mr. Davis, or the shell that once was Mr. Davis suddenly lunged at Ross. Ross squeezed the trigger, a shot roared out, the muzzle flashed. The bullet soared through the air with purpose until it struck the teacher in the chest, but only caused him to flinch, and slightly at that. Ross pulled the trigger again, this time hitting the teacher in the arm. At this point, he noticed two very important things. The first thing, of course, was that no one had bothered to exit their classrooms to see what the commotion was about. As he understood it, it was common procedure to investigate the source of gunfire in a school building. At the very least, the otherwise lethargic security guard should have appeared. The second thing he noticed was the blood emerging from the former teacher's body as he stumbled forward, arms out and groaning rather loudly. He noticed that the blood emerging from the wounds was more of a metallic, silver color, rather than the red of blood. Ross searched his memory quickly, trying to determine whether or not he'd taken up using acid between loading the gun and coming to school, and then turned to run.

  He knew for certain that there was an exit inside the gymnasium if he could just make it across the floor and through the airlock. He had never actually used the door, but he'd seen it open plenty of times. Luckily the school was fairly small, and the gymnasium was straight ahead. As he approached, a hoard of students poured out from a side hallway. Each and every one of them were afflicted with the same problem as Mr. Davis. All of them stared at Ross with the black, glossy eyes, and each of them stumbled in the same way. Unfortunately, just because they stumbled, did not mean they couldn't move. In fact, they could move quite well, and quite quickly. Ross backtracked and ducked into a hallway filled with windows. Of course, he could simply break out a window. As he turned toward the glass, he noticed that the area outside was actually filled with students and teachers. All of them were acting in the same manner as Mr. Davis. Ross looked at his gun, then looked outside again.