ZOMBIES - "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - Chapter 3 - The Shooting Range

If you've been following this blog, you already know the story.  If you've stumbled on it now, welcome.  Here's the lowdown.

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)

BY

BOWIE V. IBARRA

From an idea from the creators of the

“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast

  

Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA

2. THE SHOOTING RANGE

“Bitch, you better get back here!”

“You go to hell, Leo!  You go to hell!”

The shouting from outside his apartment door dragged Burt from his reverie.  It wasn’t the first time neighbors from across the way had yelled it out, sharing their argument with the entire apartment building.  And their words always sounded the same.

The argument was certainly nothing worth getting out of his chair for.  However, his grumbling stomach would be worth getting up for.

He groaned, rising from his chair, listening to the verbal exchange outside as he walked to the kitchen.

“Get back here, Edna.  You’re going to get yourself killed out there.”

“Go to hell.”

“Nice,” whispered Burt, reaching the kitchen.

Get yourself killed? he thought.  Oh, yeah.  The rioters.

Just looking at the kitchen made Burt exhausted.  He didn’t want to cook.  Small snacks had held him for the past two days.  Another few saltines would do the trick.  It wasn’t like he was exerting himself for anything.  He hadn’t done anything like that in a long while. The movie had just started, after all.

A door slammed outside as he plopped down onto the seat again.

The post-apocalyptic marauders of Road Warrior were attacking a small team of survivors who had made a break from their base at the refinery.

Burt threw a cracker into his mouth and started chomping as Max drove from his hiding place to make a move on the people of the refinery.  The Gyro Captain looked on as the survivors were massacred and a female survivor was violated before being murdered.

The scene never set well with Burt.  In fact, scenes like that still brought a tinge of sadness and shame to his heart.  Even a little anger because it reminded him of a trip to the shooting range with his father somehow…

Burt was only ten years old, but his father realized his son had quite a good talent when it came to firearms.

“How many rounds did you shoot, son?”

“Ten.”

His father looked through a set of binoculars.  “All in the black,” he said, grunting with a smile.  “How many times is that now?”

“Four, dad,” said Burt with a sense of pride.  They had started going to the shooting range after the Thanksgiving event two years earlier.

His father took a long swig of Olympia before crushing it in his hand and throwing it on the ground.

“Let’s go for double that,’ said his dad.  “I want to see if you can get four more in a row all in the black.”

“Still at fifty yards?”

“Fifty yards,” said his dad, handing him another target before popping open another can of Olympia.

“Ten shots?”

“Ten shots.”

Burt was about to walk to the target when his dad stopped him.

“Wait, son,” his dad said.  “What are you supposed to do before you step past the firing line?”

“Oh,” grunted Burt, nodding his head and remembering gun safety.  The magazine was removed, but the bolt had not been put in the load position.

“Good job, son,” said his dad as a car pulled into the range.  Burt noticed a smile cross his father’s face as he watched the car pull up.  “Son, go change out the targets.  I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, dad,” said Burt, trotting out to replace the target.  It always felt great to get such rousing approval from his father.  That Thanksgiving conversation had changed things between them.  The talk of courage and skill with his uncles inspired Burt.  He really liked talking about firearms the best.  He wanted desperately to learn how to shoot, and his father was happy to provide, teaching his son with care and skill.

Burt’s father had followed in his uncles footsteps.  The Scott men all served in the Marines between 1933 to 1949.  They were all great sharpshooters with the M-1.  Burt desperately wanted to shoot his dad’s M-1, and join the family tradition of the Scott men, of being a sharpshooter.  But he told Burt it would break his shoulder when it fired and that he was too young.  He had to wait until he got older.

The way he was feeling, he would be able to master the weapon and make his dad proud.  And it all started with mastering the .22 rifle.

Replacing the target, he walked back to the firing position.  Before he sat down, he looked for his dad.  The car that had pulled up was now behind a small storage unit several yards away from the firing position.  All Burt could see was the rear end of the vehicle.

Burt didn’t think too much on it.  He just figured his dad was behind the building.  He didn’t need to tell him he was going to shoot again.  He loaded the rifle, cranked the bolt shut, and took aim. 

Just like his father taught him, he controlled his breathing.  He took aim.  He found the target.  He squeezed the trigger.

He took aim again.  Fired.

Again.  Fired.

Fired.

After ten rounds, he was done. 

Burt stepped away from the rifle.  Before he dashed out to the target, he remembered something.

“Safety first,” he whispered, taking the magazine out of the rifle and pulling the bolt back in the neutral position.  He then trotted out to the target.

“All in the black,” he said, taking it off of the setup.  Dad’s going to be so proud, he thought to himself.

He needed more targets.  His dad had more.

From the target position, Burt proudly jogged passed the rifle firing setup and skipped to the car.  As he turned the corner, he noticed the windows to the vehicle were open.

“Hey, dad.  Look,” he said, peering into the vehicle.  It took him a moment to understand what was going on.

The woman was someone Burt had never seen before.  Her hair was sandy blonde.  Her face, sweet and young.  And it most certainly was not his mother.  His father’s hands were up her blouse, and they were kissing.

Burt stopped cold in his tracks.  The sight made his heart tremble with fear and confusion.  Small spiritual wounds were gouging his metaphorical heart.  For a second, he hesitated.  Exposed.  Frozen.

Then, he saw they were still lip-locked.  They didn’t see him.  He had one chance to run.  So he did.

Once he knew he was out of sight, he slowed to a walk.  His heart still trembled.  The spiritual wounds were bleeding.  Sadness washed over him.  The revelation was very heavy.  He walked, lost.

In the daze, he reached for the one thing that could ground him, the one thing that could take him away.

Burt returned to the shooting table, reloaded the rifle, and began to shoot the rifle out on the range.

He aimed at a distant tree.  He shot.  A branch fell.

He aimed at a distant stone.  He shot.  The rock shattered into pieces.

Burt aimed at an old target that had not been replaced.  He shot.  He hit.

With every round expelled with precision, the skill he was honing and the talent he was discovering, he felt a peaceful release.

But one thing made him sad, and it wasn’t what he saw his father doing. 

He hoped he would still have a chance to fire the M-1.

======

FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!

CHAPTER 0

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7A

The next chapter coming soon....

Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...

Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.

ZOMBIES: 'We're Alive' Fan Fiction - Chapter 2 - Thanksgiving, 1956

If you've been following this blog, you already know the story.  If you've stumbled on it now, welcome.  Here's the lowdown.

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)

BY

BOWIE V. IBARRA

From an idea from the creators of the

“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast

  

Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA

2. THANKSGIVING, 1956

“You won’t go into old man Harrison’s yard because you’re a chicken.”

“I’m not a chicken.”

Little Burt Scott was pouting, his hands on his waist like a mini-father figure.  His older cousins, Seth and Sebastian, were teasing him like they always did.  They lived up in Sacramento and always made his grandmother’s Thanksgiving Day celebration with the rest of the family.

The weather was cold.  Gray clouds floated across a dark blue sky.  The cold wind whipped across their faces, making their noses and cheeks red.

The ladies of the house were inside in the kitchen preparing the holiday meal.  The men sat in chairs in the recreation room.  Cold cans of Olympia, Coors, and Schlitz kept them company.  The white smoke of the burnt tobacco of their unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarettes wafted out of the open screen windows of the rec room.  The Shangri-La’s sweet voices danced as a background to the men’s stories and laughter.  The bubble gum pop lyrics of the bad biker boy, the ‘Leader of the Pack’, were largely ignored, yet enjoyed by the men of the house.

In spite of the late November cold, the kids still opted to play outside.  The elements were nothing a good heavy jacket could contend with.  There were many family traditions during Thanksgiving.  One of which was the boys of the family getting in some kind of trouble.  Burt and the boys were well on their way to maintaining the tradition.

“Go do it, chicken,” said Seth, grinning like a devil.

“I’m not chicken,” said Burt.

Sebastian jumped in.  “So what, then?  You scared of niggers?”

“Don’t call him that,” said Burt, trying to take a stand.

“Why not?” asked Sebastian.

“Just don’t call him that,” said Burt.

“I’ll call him what I want, you little runt,” said Sebastian, punching Burt hard in the arm.  Burt cried out in pain.

“Go in his yard, Burtie,” demanded Sebastian, “or I’ll punch you again.”

“C’mon, Burt,” said Seth.  “At least old man Harrison isn’t a chink,” he chuckled, working with Sebastian to get under Burt’s skin.

“Or a dirty Mexican,” said Sebastian.

Burt tried to make a break for it, but Sebastian and Seth grabbed him with their superior eleven-year old strength and size.  The brothers punched him again in the arm.

“C’mon, Burtie.  Do what we say and we’ll let you go.”

“No,” shouted young Burt.

The boys punched him again, saying, “Do it, Burtie.”

“Alright!” he shouted, on the verge of tears.  “Just stop hitting me.  Stop it.”

“Don’t cry, you little shitass.  Just go,” demanded Seth.

The boys shoved Burt to the ground.  He looked up at them with anger.  He wanted to punch them in the face as hard as he could, but he knew it was futile.  They were too strong.

Burt got to his feet and turned to look at the house.  A chain-linked fence cordoned off the house at its property line.  The front gate was held closed by a simple latch.

“Go in and knock on the door,” said Seth.

“You said I just had to go in the yard,” said Burt.

“Now you have to go knock on the door because you’re a chickenshit,” said Sebastian.  “So go do it.”

A cold breeze picked up as young Burt looked at the house.  A loud chorus of laughter erupted from the men of the house.  There words were imperceptible to Burt.  Muffled.  He shared none of the joy they were celebrating.  He could only taste fear.

Looking both ways, he crossed the two lane street.  Seth and Sebastian followed close behind, chuckling.

Burt walked up to the gate, then hesitated.  He looked at the house.  It was far from being any kind of haunted house.  It was a simple one-story house with an unkept yard.  The front door was open, but the screen door was closed, letting the cool air into the house.  The interior was dark apart from the illumination from a black and white TV in the living room.  Though it was just one in the afternoon, the overcast sky and the cold made Burt think he was in Transylvania like in the movies at the Bijou.  Bela Lugosi must be inside the house, not old man Harrison.  Rationally, it made no sense.  But that’s all Burt could think of.

“Go,” shouted Seth.

Burt could feel Seth creeping up on him to slug him again.  So Burt did it.  He lifted the latch and opened the gate.  He ran to the screen door.

Halfway down the smooth concrete walkway, Burt heard a growl that was unmistakable.  This was no monster from a black and white creature feature.  This was Mr. Harrison’s dog.

As Burt suddenly froze, he saw the brown pit bull appear out from under the house.

Oh, no, little Burt thought to himself.

Burt jumped into the air in fear as the dog raced to him.  He screamed, then yelled, “Seth!  Sebastian!”  Tears were already shooting out of his young eyes.

Looking back at his cousins, a deep horror poured over his soul.  Seth and Sebastian had tied a rope around the gate, trapping Burt in the yard.  They pointed an laughed as Burt raced to the gate.

Burt jumped up on the gate, trying to climb over.  But the pit bull grabbed him by the bottom of his heavy coat.  Burt screamed again as the dog tried to yank him from the gate.  Burt held on with all his strength.  The dog seemed even stronger than the boys were, tugging and wrenching its head with animalistic aggression.

“Help me!” cried

Burt.  His pre-pubescent voice sounded like a young girl was crying out in fear.

The boys just laughed at Burt as the dog snarled, wagging its head violently, tugging at young Burt.

“Help!” cried out Burt.  His tears of fear cutting cold trails down his cheeks.

“Hey!” came a loud voice from behind Burt.  “Down, Brick!  Down!”

Seth and Sebastian’s face transformed immediately from cruel joy to guilty fear.  Burt watched how their big, hearty laughs turned to wide-eyed terror.  It would have been humorous if he wasn’t in such a predicament.  All Burt felt was sheer terror slicing his heart with razors.

“Brick, heel!” came the voice again.  Authorative.  Angry.

The dog immediately let go of its hold on Burt, who fell to the sidewalk.  He stumbled then leaned on the fence.  He held his face low, casting his eyes down from his savior.

Trotting with a tranquil air back to his master, the dog had shifted emotions like Burt’s cousins, from naked aggression to an aloof arrogance reserved for royalty, or a spoiled canine from a dog show.  Its nasty hairy genitals bounced from side to side like an insult to Burt.

“Heel, Brick,” said the old man.  Old Man Harrison.  The dog obeyed, sitting on its haunches by the feet of its master.  It looked at Burt, then at nothing in particular.  Its tongue dangled from its mouth as it caught its breath.  It was as if the last few moments, the vicious assault from the animal, never happened.

“What are you doing here, boy?  You know I was ‘bout to shoot ‘cho ass?”

Burt cast his eyes away from the man, indicating the bonded fence that prevented his escape.

“Ah,” said Harrison.  “Those boys were fuckin’ wit’chu, huh?”

Burt nodded his head, hyperventilating.

“Boy, you gots to be careful with people sometimes.  They gonna tell you to do shit to get you in trouble.”

Burt just nodded, keeping his gaze on the sidewalk.

“Well boy, go on now, get.  Untie that rope there and get on out.”

“I’m sorry,” said Burt, finally looking up at Old Man Harrison, who wore a white t-shirt and brown slacks.  A gray circle of hair sat beneath a bald dome.  His thick white handlebar moustache contrasted against his dark skin.  He held a shotgun in his hands that made Burt gulp.

“You ain’t gots to apologize for shit, boy.  Just don’t let people fuck wit’chu like ‘dat.  Ya’ hear?”

Burt just nodded solemnly, wiping away his tears.  “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, boy.  Now get on out of here.”

As Burt untied the rope, Harrison whispered to Brick, “Good boy, Brick.  Good boy.”  The words sent the dog peacefully back to his space under the house.

Burt untied the rope and opened the gate.  He wanted revenge.  He still wanted to punch his cousins in the face again.  But he knew it would be no use.

There was one thing he knew, though.  He was never going to listen to them again.

Crossing the street and onto the property of his grandmother’s house, Burt walked into the smoky rec room where the men were drinking and talking.

“Burt,” called out a familiar voice of his father, Ernest.  “Where you going?”

His real answer was to go find his mom.  But he amended it.  “I’m just going inside.”

Ernest could see the dried tears on his cold face.  “Your mom’s busy,” said his dad, reading his son’s mind.  “Come over here with your uncles, son,” he said, gesturing for him to join the conversation.  “I want you to hear this.  You need to hear this to understand.”

Burt walked to his dad.  His father’s hair was slicked back in a ducktail.  A pack of Lucky Strikes cigarettes was rolled up in the sleeve of his white shirt.  Denim pants wrapped his legs and work boots held fast to his feet.

Burt snuggled up to his father, taking a seat on his lap and putting his head on his father’s shoulder.  His father’s belly rose and fell against Burt.  It comforted the boy.

“What’s wrong, Burtie?” asked his dad, taking another swig of Olympia.  He drained the can before placing it by his foot and stomping it flat.

“Seth and Sebastian,” mumbled Burt.

“Seth and Sebastian?” said his dad outloud.

Burt’s uncle, Oscar, smiled.  “Seth and Sebastian?” he asked.  “What did they do?”

“What’d they do, son?” asked his dad.  Burt could sense by their tone of voice neither of them were talking him seriously.

His dad grabbed another beer from a Styrofoam ice chest beside him.  “Well?” he asked, pulling off the tab of the beer can and tossing it to a small trashcan in the corner.

Burt didn’t answer, so his dad put words in his mouth.  “Did they hit you?”

Burt just nodded, embarrassed and ashamed.

“You should have hit them back, Burtie,” said Uncle Oscar.  “Right in the mouth,” he chuckled.  “My boys are good… your cousins.  But they can be turds sometimes.  So you need to punch them back so they’ll learn not to mess with you.”

“Did you hear that?” asked his dad.  “Hit ‘em next time, son.”

“Especially Seth, Burtie,” said Oscar, finishing his Coors.  “He can be a little shit sometimes.  I whip his ass with the belt more than Sebastian.  I don’t know if he’s dumber or just more stubborn than his brother.”

“I haven’t had to give Burt licks in a while.  Right, Burt?”

Burt just nodded.  He was embarrassed.

“See, Burtie.  It’s the same thing.  Show those little shits you mean business and they won’t mess with you.”

Burt just nodded again.

“Boy spends too much time with his mom,” said Ernest.  “He’s a little titty baby and needs to hang out here with the Scott men more.”

“How ‘bout some beer, Burtie?” offered his uncle Oscar, pulling the tab off another Coors.  “You can have the first sip.”

“You can have some of mine if you want,” his dad said, offering the Olympia as if Burt knew the difference.  “C’mon, son.  Put some hair on your chest.”

Burt meekly took the can from his father and took a swig.  He had no idea what the oat soda would taste like.  All he knew were sugary soft drinks, or juices on occasion.  This would be new.

The taste was strong, stronger than any soft drink he’d ever tasted.  The sting of carbonation was familiar, but the flavor was new, like a cold medicine.  It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad, either.  So he took another swig.

“Atta boy,” said Oscar, raising his can to Burt before taking a drink of his own.

“That’s my boy,” said Burt’s father, giving his son a manly side-embrace, shaking him with masculine pride.

“Now sit here with me, son.  You need to listen to these stories your uncles, my uncles, are saying about the war, their time in the war, okay?”

“Okay, dad,” he whispered, snuggling with his father again.

For the next twenty minutes, Burt listened to his uncles talk about their time in Germany, on ships in the Pacific, in France.  It was all very abstract to him.  But the pictures his uncles painted of cruel combat, foreign maidens, and battle-forged friendships created amazing images of bravery and valor in his head.  They talked of medals earned, of friends lost, and of guns.  Lots of guns.

Burt was about to snooze when his aunt Jane called into the rec room.

“Dinner is ready.”

====

FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!

CHAPTER 0

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7A

The next chapter coming soon....

Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...

Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.

ZOMBIES: 'We're Alive' Fan Fiction - Chapter 1 - Play >

So check this out, friends and readers.

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)

BY

BOWIE V. IBARRA

From an idea from the creators of the

“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast

  

Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA

CHAPTER 1 - PLAY >

TWO HOURS EARLIER

“Perhaps there’s more to Newman than meets the eye?”

“No.  There’s less.”

Burt chuckled at the finale of yet another humorous episode of the American situation comedy, Seinfeld.  His laughter melded with the canned studio audience laughter as the credits rolled over a freeze-frame of Elaine making a funny face at Jerry in his living room.  George looked on, bemused, while Kramer was stuck making a wild gesture of surprise.  It made his freeze-framed face and hands blurry under the whimsical closing music.

“I love that show,” mumbled Burt.  His shaking hand reached for the remote control from the cushioned comfort of his recliner.

As he was about to change channels, the afternoon news pre-show teaser appeared on the television screen.  The rapid playing of the final credits led directly to the teaser, doing its job of reeling Burt in with interest.

Legislators are nearing a historic vote on yet another controversial piece of immigration legislation.  Reality TV star Brooke Nash speaks out about her drug rehab experience.  And breaking news from downtown Los Angeles.  You are seeing shocking images of rioting that is now taking place outside a Los Angeles hospital.

The person doing the voice-over remained as professional as possible in spite of the images relayed on the screen from a news helicopter that was circling the unrest. 

Burt groaned.

Police officials are at a loss as to why the riots are…

The noble voice could not finish its story.  Burt had pressed the channel change button.

He was sorely disappointed at what he found.

… lyn Richards ‘Tweets’ a complaint about her new fragrance line, Riches.  And rioting down…

Burt groaned and clicked to the next channel.  His blood was beginning to boil with anger.

… pass a controversial new immigration reform bill, and riots in the streets of Los Angeles…

“Dammit all to hell,” groaned Burt, pressing the ‘on’ button on his universal remote control to turn on the VCR.  He didn’t want to get his blood pressure up, and watching the riots would do just that.  The TV screen immediately turned blue.  In white, across the top of left portion of the screen read ‘NO TAPE’.

Burt took a deep breath.  He didn’t want to get out of his chair.  He was comfortable, but needed a moment to calm down.  There was nothing that frustrated him more than riots.  It was hard for him to understand how the people of Los Angeles, any city for that matter, could do such a thing to its city, to its people.  It frustrated him to no end.

The last thing he wanted to do now was watch the news, watch the chaos.  In one moment, his afternoon ritual was disrupted and he hoped that would be the only disruption he’d have to face.  It was his day off from work.  The shop was closed.  All he wanted to do was rest and relax.  Fact is, the store hours had been erratic for a while.

Slowly, his anger began to fizzle away.  He took deep breaths, trying to relax.  He hadn’t served over 20 years in the United States Marine Corps defending America overseas to have jackasses trash the streets his tax dollars helped pay for.

“Idiots are just giving a cops a chance to rough you up.  Goddamn idiots,” he grumbled. 

He wished he could punch the city in the face, make it stop.  When the city fell apart like it did, just like it had many times before, he wanted to crush it.  It became like an enemy, something he wanted to fight.  But it was a fight he could not win, and he knew that.  Too much danger.  Too many idiots.

But at the end of the day, the truth was he was just too old for fighting, too old to run, too old.

Burt took another deep breath before rising from his chair.  His joints creaked like the old gears of a rusty tractor.  His muscles strained as he rose from his chair that he had been sitting in the last two hours solid.  A stressed groan left his lips like a beast rising from a hiding spot behind a tree in a fairy tale.

TBS, which Burt was to understand by the TV promotional commercial was ‘very funny’, held a four hour Seinfeld marathon.  Burt gladly accepted the programming as a perfect opportunity to do absolutely nothing for the morning.  Hell, it was a pretty good idea for the rest of the afternoon as well.

Waking up, he had been too unmotivated for breakfast.  Instead, he filled a cup with cold coffee from the day before.  He took a few saltines from an open bag that might or might not have served as a snack for a charming rodent living in the apartment.  It just didn’t matter anymore.  Life.  Not to Burt, anyway.

Burt walked to a plastic rack filled modestly with VHS tapes.  A movie would be the perfect way to pass the lunch hour.  It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim light of the room, using the illumination from the kitchen and the television to find his movie.

“There you are,” he whispered, smiling.  “Hello, old friend.”

Burt took the VHS tape from the rack.  He wiped off a small layer of dust that had fallen on the box since the last time he watched the movie, which was only a few months back.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he said, letting the plastic video tape fall out of the box and into his trembling hand.

Moving to the VHS player that was sitting precariously on top of the television, Burt took a moment to steady his hand to place the tape in the mouth of the player.  He gently pushed the tape into the opening before the player swallowed it down.  The slender door to the player slapped shut as it gulped the tape into place.  Gears clicked into motion, technology was spurred to life with a familiar ‘whirring’ sound.

As the words on the TV screen changed to PLAY, blue switched to black as Burt turned back to look at his dingy apartment.  Blinds were shut, letting thin rays of light mark the flight path of floating dust.  It was evident the apartment was once well kept.  But that time had passed.

Burt flopped back into his seat with a moan of relaxation.  It was as if the muscles in his body were thanking him for taking the strain off of them.

Before he could reach for the remote to press play on the VCR, his phone rang.  The phone was positioned right beside his chair.  He leaned over and read the caller ID.

“Uncle Oscar,” he muttered.  “Not right now,” he said, lifting the receiver and hanging the phone.  He’d let the ‘call notes’ record the message.  He’d get to it later.  He took the phone off the hook.  Nothing was going to interfere with his special movie morning.

“Here we go,” he muttered, watching the large red Warner Brothers logo fill the screen.  As the lead-colored title screen swept into focus, the flash of special effects from the 1980s illuminated the words.

“The Road Warrior,” whispered Burt reverently.

He never talked to himself.  That was something that had only recently developed, a trait formed to fill the still air of the empty apartment.  His apartment was his house, but his house was no longer a home.  It began to feel more like a nursing home, or a hospice center where old folks went to die in comfort.  He still had a lot of time left to live, but he just needed to figure out what for.  He was having a hard time believing it was worth finding a reason anymore.

‘The Road Warrior’ was one of his favorite movies for years.  More recently, it provided comfort.  It was an abstract connection to days gone by, happier days, days when he wasn’t alone.  There was a time when his future held only good fortune and companionship.  In ninety-one minutes, his consciousness could be there again, away from the shattered hope of his present, away from the madness that was beginning to rock the city.

The narrator spoke.  It was another voice in the room, familiar, yet alien.  Burt mouthed the words, falling into the fantasy world of the post-apocalyptic Australian outback.

My life fades, my vision dims.  All that remains are memories…

Every time the disembodied Australian voice said those words, Burt sighed and looked to a framed picture on the wall.  Coated in a light blanket of dust was a picture of a woman.  It was clearly an old picture taken in the mid-sixties judging by the fashion statement made by the hairstyles, clothes, and quality of the picture.  It was a high school graduation picture.

“Shirley,” whispered Burt with longing.

… To understand who he was, you have to go back to another time…

Burt always recalled his past with that line.  Faces.  Places.  Events.  The choices he made, both measured and foolish, that brought him here, to this moment; a tired, lonely widower, slowly allowing himself to fade away.

…Men began to feed on men…

The riots in the city returned to his mind as the ghostly images of unrest the movie used to illustrate the collapse of society flashed on the screen.  Their frightening glory was displayed in haunting black and white, fading into each other like a true nightmare.  Abstract.  Racing.  It always reminded him of the Frankenstein and Wolfman movies from his youth.

…He became a shell of a man, a burnt out, desolate man.  A man haunted by the demons of his past…

His youth.  His youth.

…And it was here in this blighted place, he learned to live again…

=================

FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!

CHAPTER 0

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7A

The next chapter coming soon....

Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...

Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.

ZOMBIES: "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - Chapter 0 - Taking It Back

So check this out, friends and readers.

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)

BY

BOWIE V. IBARRA

From an idea from the creators of the

“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast

  

Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA

 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For Vanessa, for hooking it up with coffee at Whataburger

For my late father, who was a proud United States Marine.  And to every military member of my family, past and present.

For all my friends in the military, especially SFC Edgar Martin Arnall, Army.  Thanks for keeping me in the game.

For Mr. Bailey who shared his experiences in Vietnam when I was in 8^th grade history class.

To my fellow writers who were in the military: Craig DiLouie, JL Bourne.  Thank you for your authentic military voices in your zpoc writings.

For every soldier who puts it all on the line for the US of A.

And for every member of the United States Marine Corps. 

And for Bo Woodman.  Thanks for showing me the story of Max.

CHAPTER 0 - TAKING IT BACK

“Get the hell out of my gunshop, you bastards!”

            The stout old man opened fire with precision just over the heads of the looters, quickly making them scatter like pigeons startled in a downtown park, or in front of the LA courthouse.  Two of them opened fire with pistols as they ran, making the stout old man dive behind a wooden case that was now lined with broken glass where pistols used to lie in quiet solitude.  Tools waiting to be used.

            One man was using his tool.  He knew how to use the tool well.  But this was all too much for him.  It was a massive mistake to arrive at his gunshop in the middle of some kind of bizarre riot fueled by a colossal case of mass hysteria and cannibalism.  The gun shop was a natural target for the scared, the criminal, the desperate.  What did he expect?  After being forced to use his M-16 to scatter the looters from what was left of his gun shop, he felt like all three:  scared, criminal, desperate.

            It was something he had to do.  It was his shop.  It was also her shop.  It was their shop.  And since it was part hers, he had to defend it.

            “You just fucked up, old man,” shouted a voice from within the smokey confines of his shop.

            The old man was amazed at how fast his world in Montebello, California, just outside of downtown Los Angles, fell apart.  The city was always tense, always on the verge of chaos.  It was a powder keg of racial tension, economic desperation, and illiteracy waiting for a spark.  Today, the spark arrived, lit like a fuse on a Black Cat firecracker on the Fourth of July, exploding just as fast.

            “Just walk away,” said the old man with an exhausted smile.

            He was quoting his favorite movie.  He never thought he’d see the day he would actually use the line.

            “I’ll spare your life.  Just walk away.”

            “Fuck you, old man,” shouted the thug. 

            The old man could hear the crunching of glass under his adversary’s feet, signaling to him that his enemy was making a move.

            He listened closely to the direction he estimated the sound was coming from.  With all the racket of the falling city buzzing in his ear, he could not get a bead on his enemy.  It didn’t help that he was too tired to concentrate.  He had a condition.  He was prepared for this run emotionally.  But he wasn’t prepared for this run physically.  He knew better.  But he did anyway.

            I’ll be goddamned, the old man thought to himself.  He only had a few moves.  A few moments.  He would have to act first, be proactive in this game of death he put himself in.  He felt like a pawn in a massive chessboard with a deathly queen bearing down on him.  It was a game he had to play.  A game he had to finish.  No one was going to take ‘Locked and Loaded’ without a fight.  He would not be punked out in his own gun store, his territory.  The bastard knew that.  His enemy was street smart enough to understand the significance of territory, of unwritten boundaries crossed at street signs.  Of territorial sidewalks run by gangs changing hands with a mere step.

            And this little kid, this young punk thought he could get away with it?  The old man might have made a bad choice stepping out into a new world transformed by frightened and confused pandemonium.  But the young punk made an even worse move by stepping up to a man that had combat skill.  Maybe not the greatest combat skills, but the skills of a man who was no stranger to gunfire, no stranger to death.  And that old man had been forced to take a life before.  And though he spent the past few moments running through the neighborhood using a Herculean amount of restraint among the madness of the city, he would do it again if he had to.

            And damned if his name wasn’t Burt Scott would he let some young punk used to bullying people with a firearm take what was rightfully his.

            What was rightfully hers.

=========

FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!

CHAPTER 0

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7A

Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...

Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.