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Friday, November 27, 2015

ZOMBIES: 'We're Alive' Fan Fiction - Chapter 7A - SHIRLEY RAE

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

7A.  SHIRLEY RAE


            The hardy post-apocalyptic survivors made a break for it.  Led by Max in the 18-wheeler, the rolling juggernaut was decked with barbed wire defenses and offensive positions.  It was made complete with a reinforced cattle guard welded to the front with parts that had been jacked from a bulldozer left inside the now-abandoned oil refinery.  Max and the tanker were assisted by a blocking vehicle driven by the wounded Papagallo.  It always reminded Burt of the movie ‘Smokey and the Bandit’.
            The Gyro-Captain took to the skies as well.  The aerial assault potential was the only advantage the survivors had over the numerous marauders led by The Humungous and his right hand man, the Mohawk-wearing, muscular, and leather-clad Wez.
            As Max raced his vehicle out of the compound, The Humungous opened fire with the five remaining bullets of a .44 Magnum.
            Just walk away, thought Burt.
            As Humungous pulled the trigger and fired at the rig Max was driving, gunfire erupted yet again from the parking lot outside Burt’s apartment.  The multiple pops of the firearms reminded Burt of war.  That started to put him on edge even more.  Initially, the fire he heard was not uncommon for this part of town.  But the fact that he started to hear more became unsettling.  Because now the shots were very different.  Only minutes before, the shots signaled a mugging, murder in the mayhem and madness.  The sounds that were dancing around outside signaled a legitimate gunfight.
            “Goddamn animals,” he grunted.  “Animals, all of them.”
            There’s no way in hell I’m going out there, he thought.
            Considering the escalating mayhem outside, he was not going to take the time to look out the window.  He already had an idea of what was going on.  Things were falling apart outside, a symptom of those damn riots.
            “Just stay in here, Burt,” he whispered to himself.  “It’s the lawdogs’ fight now.  Not yours.”
            His belly grumbled, but his heart pounded an old familiar song against his chest.  It was the same music that played when he was in combat.  Its lyrics pleaded for caution.  The chorus demanded preparation.
            Burt walked to the kitchen and opened a can of dry-roasted peanuts.  He tossed a few into his mouth and walked to his own personal armory.  The food wasn’t enough, but it would shut up his tummy.
            After unlocking the armory door, he reached immediately for a weapon.  It was a sawed-off shotgun, just like Max had.  He opened the weapon and popped two shells in.  He took another handful of shells and dropped them in the pocket of his shorts.  It would be enough.
            It was the second choice, a consolation to what he really wanted.  He wanted his favorite weapon.
            Her weapon.
            That weapon wasn’t here, though.  It was locked up tight back at the store.
            Her store.
            Not a problem.  The Max weapon would suffice and stop any dumbass stupid enough to kick down his door.  These shells were not duds.  They would fire when needed.
            Burt walked back to the living room, thinking, I should really get something to eat.  He was feeling lazy, lethargic, too pooped to pop.
            Walking into the kitchen, he opened the pantry to find some Hamburger Helper.
            “Beef Stroganoff,” he mumbled, tossing the box on the counter.  The box of pasta rattled across the artificial countertop, stopping and denting at the corner against the microwave.
            As Burt opened the refrigerator looking for a key ingredient, he was sorely disappointed.
            “Meat’s in the freezer,” he grumbled.
            He opened the freezer and pulled out the ice-hard meat.  He pulled a large bowl from a cabinet and filled it with hot water.  He tossed the frozen meat in the hot water.
            “Ah, to hell with it,” he said, filling a cup with water and drinking it all.  “Movie’s almost over anyway,” he grumbled, taking four more crackers to his chair.  He took the VCR off pause, using the remote held with a shaking hand.
            On the television screen, the refinery exploded.
            The marauders took it to the survivors.  The survivors started their attack hot, destroying one of their enemy’s pursuit vehicles.  But the unorthodox attack by the marauders put the survivors on the ropes quickly.  Vehicles and bodies were getting torn apart at a very rapid pace and with savage efficiency on the road of the Australian outback.
            After a severe fuck-up on the top of the tanker trailer by the crippled (legless diabetic?) mechanic, who accidentally set himself on fire, the Warrior Woman moved to assist him.
            “Warrior Woman,” whispered Burt.  “Why?”
            In his mind, he thought of her.  Shirley.
            Armed with two crossbows, she took out one crazy man trying to board through the barbed wire defenses on the side of the tanker trailer.  Warrior Woman put a bolt in his arm, crippling him.
            He was your friend, thought Burt on why the Warrior Woman made the ill-fated move.  It wasn’t just being his battle buddy.  He was your friend.
            She was my friend.
            Burt knew that feeling, the bond people form when sharing such a powerful experience.  Cultural anthropologists call it a ‘Rite of Intensification’.  It’s a bond formed between people who all go through a life-changing experience at the same time.
            Burt experienced the very thing with his fellow Marines.
            Burt also experienced it with his wife.
            His deceased wife.
            It’s hard to still feel that bond when the one you shared it with, the one you happened to promise your eternal love to, is dead.  It’s the pain of a dinner alone.  Or of listening to a song and seeing their face.  An old dusty picture on a wall.  Watching a movie alone.
            Burt looked to the couch.  He could almost see his wife looking back at him.  Here eyes.  Her smile.  Her love.  Her eternal friendship.
            “He was your friend,” whispered Burt, making sense of Warrior Woman’s move.  “He was your friend,” he repeated.
            Shirley had been his friend.
            And then, as the movie would play out for all of eternity, Warrior Woman was killed.  Exposed and vulnerable on top of the tanker, the wild marauders in the Ford truck shot her with a massive dart gun.  Wounded, she lost her balance and tumbled into the barbed wire defenses along the sides of the tanker.  She was very close to the marauder she had just shot.
            All to help your friend, thought Burt.  You died to help your friend.


            The handicapped man put out the fire that was burning his legs and tried to pull her back up.  But the wounded marauder yanked them both off and under the unforgiving back wheels of the 18-wheeler.
            The Warrior Woman was dead.  Shot then crushed to death.
            Burt’s Warrior Woman was also dead.

            “It’s a big investment.  And considering the way the pinkos running this state go back and forth on gun legislation, a bit of a risk.”
            It was only a few years after Burt retired from the service.  He worked a few odd jobs before an application for Joe’s Gun’s went through.  Considering his noble past in the military, he was hired pretty quickly.
            Today, he was talking with his boss about starting his own gun shop.  He had a lot of money to spare from his time in the military, and he didn’t want to spend it all on booze.  A lot of his money went to that in the evenings.
            The boss continued.  “But you’ve got a real love for firearms.  Great knowledge.  And you can finance it.  I say why not?”
            Burt nodded his head, smiling.  “Well, that’s good news.”
            The battery-powered chime above the door sounded its ‘ding-dong’ tone like a new wave synthesizer.  Two customers walked through the door.
            The boss and Burt looked up.  One was a Hispanic male with a  well-kept moustache, flat top, and mirror sunglasses.  He was in ‘civvies’, but Burt and the boss immediately tagged him for a cop.  Cops came into the shop a lot, mostly for purchasing guns and such.  But occasionally, they checked for proper licensing and other administrative necessities.  They were easy to identify.
            His companion was a tall and busty brunette.  Her complexion was fair, dotted modestly with freckles Burt couldn’t see yet.  Her hair fell devilishly to the middle of her back, and it was cut straight just above her eyebrows.  Long strands also fell across her stylish L.A. vintage Dr. Pepper shirt that was wrapped around her waist, fitting snuggly against her breasts and revealing a soft stomach.  Her collar was cut down the middle to reveal a hint of cleavage.  Her hips were big, and Burt assumed she had a child or two.  There was a kind of strength in her natural maternal beauty that could probably be seen even if she wasn’t dolled up.  She was a walking Renoir painting, or Botticelli.  Pure, real beauty.
            The moment Burt’s eyes met with hers was like a gun had been discharged.  The same rush he felt when he heard gunfire popped his heart with adrenaline.  Nothing had ever come close to the rush of combat until now.  Yin Yang.
            They looked at each other for a moment longer than necessary.  The connection was made.
            Burt’s boss beamed.  He saw the connection.
            “I got you here, brother,” said his boss, approaching the couple by saying, “Can I help you, sir?”
            The boss moved behind the counter to reach the visiting man’s vicinity.  Burt sensed the purpose of the move and held his ground, watching.  As the man gravitated toward the boss for some service, the female customer turned and looked at Burt.  He smiled.  She smiled.  She began to casually make her way to Burt, looking in the glass displays as she walked to him.
            “So what’s the biggest gun you have?” she asked.
            Burt teased back.  “You couldn’t handle a big gun, lady,” he said with a smile, winking.
            “Really?” she replied, smiling back.  “I’ve handled a few guns in my lifetime.”
            “At the same time?” came the reply from Burt.
            “I do have two hands now, don’t I?” she said.
            “Let me offer you one of mine,” said Burt.  “My name’s Burt Scott.”
            “The man with two first names,” she chuckled, accepting the handshake.  An electric spark nipped at their hands when they touched.  “I’m Shirley Perez.  But you can call me Shirley Rae.”
            “Where’s Rae come from?”
            “It’s my middle name.  Duh,” she said.  “Dad wanted a boy.  Name him Rey.  R-E-Y.  Rey.  That’s king in Spanish.  It was his first name.”
            “Well, I’m Burt.  B-U-R-T.  Mom and dad just named me Burt.”
            Shirley was smiling, stifling laughter.
            Burt smiled back.  “What are you laughing at?”
            “You.”
            “Me?”
            “Yeah,” she said.  “You sound like ‘Satchmo’.”
            “Satchmo?” said Burt quizzically.  “You mean Louie Armstrong?”
            “Yeah,” she replied playfully.  “You play jazz?”
            “C’mon, lady.  You’re killing me with the whole ‘Satchmo’ thing.”
            “But you do,” she said, reaching forward and touching his hand on the counter.  “Sing that one song.”
            “You mean this one,” he said, clearing his throat, “And I’m thinkin’ to myself what a beautiful world.”
            “That’s not how it goes,” she said, smiling.  “It’s ‘wonderful world’.”
            “Oh, wonderful world,” he said, going back to singing.  “And I’m thinkin’ to myself what a wonderful world.”
            “No, not like that.”
            Burt chuckled.  He knew he was getting the song wrong.  But he was having fun teasing the woman.  Her smile was like the kiss the sun gives the sky at sunset.
            “I don’t sound like ‘Satchmo’, though,” he said, chucking.  The conversation was so juvenile, yet so alive.  Charged.  For a moment, Burt wasn’t a man rolling up on the age of 50.  Instead, he felt like a young boy again talking to a pretty girl at lunchtime back in school.  It felt wonderful, Burt’s own wonderful world.
            “You know, I think I sound more like Lord Humungous,” said Burt.
            Shirley started laughing.  She laughed so loud, the boss and the male customer turned to look.  Then, the man just smiled, huffing, before getting back to business.
            “Lord Humungous?” said Shirley.
            “Yeah.”
            “Who the hell is Lord Humungous?”  Burt saw her eyes sparkle like a diamond against a ray of light.
            “You’ve never seen ‘The Road Warrior’?” said Burt in disbelief.
            “Oh, my God.  A movie?”
            “Yeah.”
            Her smile had not faded since she started talking to Burt.  “You boys and your movies.”
            “Well, look.  Apart from needing to see ‘The Road Warrior’, what else can I help you with?”
            “Well, my colleague is looking for a firearm.  But I’m looking for a place to promote this competition.”
            Shirley passed a well-made flyer of a sharp-shooting competition to be held just outside of Monrovia near the hills of Bliss Mount.
            “The seventh annual Monrovia Bull’s Eye competition,” said Burt.  “April 15th.  Well, that’s next week.”
            “Yes, it is,” she replied.  “I’m going to be in the pistol competition.”

            “You’re a good pistol shot, huh?” said Burt with a smirk.  “That’s funny because I’m a good pistol shot, too.”
            “Entry fee’s just twenty-five bucks if you want to be the best pistol shot in LA county this year.”
            “Kitten, I’m the best pistol shot every year in L.A. county,” said Burt, leaning on the counter.
            “Not until you beat me,” said Shirley, leaning on the counter just to the side of Burt.  “I’ve been the best four years running.”
            “How many times have you competed?”
            “Four years.”
            Burt stood up and pulled out his wallet and peeked inside.
            “I’ve got twenty-five dollars.”
            “Well, you should enter.”
            “Well, I think I will,” said Burt.  “But how do I know you’re not just some kind of hired gun out to get marks like me?”
            Shirley pulled out her receipt book.  “How ‘bout it, cowboy?” she whispered.  “You gonna be there?”
            Their eyes locked again.  The energy between them was real, resonating in their hearts.
            Burt registered, paying the twenty-five dollar entry fee in cash.
            Shirley wrote out his receipt in pretty cursive, then handed the receipt to him.  It was his ticket in the door.  As Burt took the piece of paper, their hands touched.
            “Hey, Shirley,” came a voice.  It was the man.  “We gotta go.”
            Shirley looked at the man and stood up straight.  Then she looked back at Burt.  “See you next week?” she asked, smiling.
            “I’ll be there,” he said.
            “Great,” she said.
            “Will you be using two guns at the same time?”
            “Shut up,” she said, blowing him a kiss before walking to her friend. “Bye, now.”
            Shirley followed the man out of the shop.  She turned and gave one last look at Burt as she left.
            The moment was something Burt had rarely felt.  Sure, there were moments in his school days that were similar.  The hookers and female officers he met while in the service were too cold or warped for him to hold any deep affection for.  And he was almost 60.  This was a moment, a real moment, that he had not felt in years.
            The boss walked back to him.
            Burt asked, “So we didn’t have what they were looking for?”
            The boss chuckled and replied,  “Oh, we had what they were looking for.  He wasn’t interested in doing much business watching you make time with his lady friend.  You two were ga-ga over each other.”
            Burt blushed.  “Was it that obvious?”
            “Yeah,” replied the boss.  “It was that obvious.”
            “Oh,” said Burt, grinning.
            He looked down at the flyer.

            The event was held at a private vineyard just outside of Monrovia, set against beautiful Bliss Mount.  A security team documented all people entering into the venue.  It was a well-attended gathering with people of all cultural backgrounds from the California landscape.  It looked like it would be a great test of skills.  It was easy for Burt to identify the private security in the event by the hats they wore.
            Certain sections of the Los Angeles County were thick with cultural identity.  There was Chinatown.  East Los Angeles housed a restaurant called Taqueria Jalisco #3 that served some of the best tacos Burt had ever tasted.  Even a Russian community was forming.  But Burt had never been to a gathering with such a true mix.  Though a majority spoke English, he could hear at least three other languages. 
The real question on Burt’s mind was where Shirley was.
            Burt registered and saw the way the tournament would be set up.  Entrants were allowed to use any pistol they wanted, and would be entered into a pool of ten.  The top four from each pool would be entered into a single elimination tournament bracket for the $5,000 prize.  $1000 for second.  $500 for third. 
            As Burt was reading the rules, a familiar set of hips bumped his.
            “Hey, sexy.”
            Burt was surprised at first. In fact, the bump gave his back a twinge of pain.
            “Ow,” he groaned, turning to the woman.  The pain all went away as he realized it was Shirley.
            “For a minute there I didn’t think you were coming,” said Shirley.
            “I’ll let you know something, Shirley Rae,” said Burt, smiling.  “Any time I get a chance to school some rank amateur sharpshooters for dollars, I like my chances.”
            “Well, you’ll have to beat me first,” said Shirley with confidence and pride.
            “Don’t think of it as beating, sunshine.  Think of it as being let down easy,” said Burt, smiling.
            “Okay, ‘Satchmo’,” she said, chuckling.  “When I let you down easy, I’ll go listen to you play your jazz at some dive bar in Lomita or something.”
            “Lord Humungous doesn’t play jazz.”
            “Satchmo.”
            “Humungous.”
            The conversation and chuckling between the new friends was cut short by the man Shirley had shown up with at the shop.
            “Hey, Shirley.  It’s time to got to your pool,” said the man.  Then he looked at Burt.  “Oh.  Hello,” he said, extending a hand.  “I’m Greg.”
            “I’m Burt,” he said, accepting the hand.  “Good to meet you.”
            “The guy from the shop, right?  The gun shop?”
            “You got it.”
            “He liked the flyer I left him,” said Shirley.
            “It looked like a fun opportunity,” said Burt, lacing the words with subtext Shirley was more than happy to pick up on.
            “Keep me in mind when you have any sales,” said Greg, handing Burt a business card.
            “Will do,” said Burt, reading it.
            “See you in the finals,” said Shirley as the couple walked away.
            The card read:

                        Greg Crawford
                        Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department

            A badge was set in the upper left-hand portion of the card.  An address to his office, fax number, and phone number with the extension lined the bottom right portion of the card.
            Burt flapped the card up against a finger before putting it in his pocket.  He looked to find where the participants in his pool were gathering.

            The tournament was rigidly organized.  Burt discovered it was coordinated by a group of military vets, which worked fine by him.  The opening pools were completed in just under two hours.  Military efficiency.
            The brackets went up.  Burt was surprised to see Shirley in his same bracket.  If they both won their opening and second round match-ups, they would meet in the semi-finals.
            And, like a ghost, she had disappeared again.  He hadn’t seen her since she left before the competition started.  But she was somewhere.  She qualified for finals after all.
            Burt made short work of his first round opponent, who was from Receda.  Then he had some good competition from a Ukranian in the second round.  But he put him away.
            Shirley was somewhere, but Burt didn’t see her anywhere.
            Soon after his second round victory, Burt was led to the location of his semi-final match.  Waiting at the table like some sort of sharp-shooting angel was Shirley.
            “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said, smiling.  “How are you, ‘Satchmo’?”
            Burt couldn’t help but take a few moments to admire her.  Her yellow-tinted safety glasses looked great tucked under her long black hair.  Her full Latin lips made him compare her to Angelina Jolie, but much older, much hotter, and full-figured.
            “Well, they said I had to come to this location to eliminate some pretty lady from the competition,” he said with a wink, placing his weapon on the table.
            “.45 Colt,” she said.  “Marines?”
            “Yes, ma’am,” said Burt, beaming with pride.
            “Me, too,” she said, putting down her own .45 Colt.
            “Small world,” he said as they prepared their weapons.
            “Eight years,” she said, commenting on her own military service.  “I missed out on the good stuff.  But working with the sheriff’s department here in LA county more than made up for that.”
            “Sheriff’s department?” he said.  “What do you do?”
            “Gang task force,” she said, immodestly.
            “Wow,” said Burt.  This broad is one tough cookie, he thought to himself.  I am in love.
            Burt asked, “You guys still have to work at Eastern Bay as a prerequisite to joining?”
            “That’s right,” she said.  “The maximum security prison.  No cakewalk, I can tell you that.”
            “I imagine.”
            Eastern Bay maximum security prison was modeled after prisons on the east coast.  It was a hellish place designed to discourage the perps from ever wanting to come back.
            Just then, Greg walked up.
            “Good luck, sweetie,” he said.  His eyes were sharp.  He shot Burt a glance, then glared at Shirley.
“Thanks, Greg,” she replied.  “Excuse me,” she said.  The couple went off to talk. 
It was an abrupt interruption to her preparation that struck Burt as very odd.  He glanced off to see the two up against a wall a distance away.  Body language made clear they were not having an enjoyable conversation.  In fact, Greg yelled at her at one point, making Burt nervous.  And, in all honesty, it made him a little angry.  He couldn’t understand what was said, but he had shouted at her.
            Neither of the initial comments the couple shared struck Burt as sincere to begin with.  There was a tension between them, made even more noticeable by Shirley’s behavior when they walked away.  Shirley had bowed her head like an ashamed child.  Her youthful enthusiasm had all but left her, sucked out of her as if by a demonic spirit.
            Shirley returned to the table.  Her head was still bowed.
            “Good luck,” she whispered to Burt.  She reached under her safety glasses and wiped tears away from her eyes.
            Burt hated tears.  It was a sign of weakness to him.  He enjoyed giving a very hard time to recruits who cried.  They needed to harden their hearts or go home.  In his youth, Burt had been soft.  But pain had made him hard.
            On the other hand, Shirley was a tough woman.  Burt could sense she loved this man, but the flame was dying.
            She needed a little boost.  Burt had nothing to prove here.  He only came to see Shirley’s smile again.  He couldn’t do much, but there was one thing he could do for her.  He was a good enough shot to make it happen.

            And he did.

=====


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 6 - HIGHWAY 80

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

CHAPTER 6 - HIGHWAY 80

             It was clearly a gunshot.
Actually, a more apt description would be gunshots.  Plural.
When you fight in war and then spend time in civilian life, it’s easy to distinguish a gunshot from a car backfiring, or other city sound that might be confused with gunfire.  It crackles like a spark.  It rattles the air.  It pulses through the human heart, as if the powerful muscle could feel the gunshot’s deadly potential.
The same deadly potential, however, has another side.  While a fired bullet can be used for assault, for crime, for gain, it can also be used for defense, for food, for preservation.  The only problem is the neutrality of the sound of the gunfire.  A firearm shouts the same cry of power every time it is fired.
Burt could determine the firearm used.  He could not determine why it was used.  The reports surprised him enough to pause the movie and step to the nearby window.  Dangerous, sure, but Burt was curious.  He also needed to know if a threat was on the way.  If it was, he needed to be ready.
Burt pushed the end of one of the blinds down, giving him just enough of a view to look out on the parking lot below.
Two guys had just blasted another guy in the face.  They then ran to yet another person that was crouched over on the ground.  This man was struggling with another person who was lying on his back.  The two strangers who had just mugged the other guy and shot him in the face ran to the struggle.  One guy kicked the man that was on top off of the man on the ground like a kickoff at a Giants vs. Cowboys game.  The guy’s head flicked upwards, and he tumbled off the person he had been assaulting.  The two guys then opened fire, blasting the kicked man in the face and putting him down for good.
“What the hell?” groaned Burt.
The two guys then helped the other man on the ground.  They lifted him up and started running away.  The guy that was attacked held his shoulder.  Burt could see blood.
Must have been stabbed or something, thought Burt, trying to make sense of the circumstance.  There’s no way in hell I’m going out there with those crazy bastards.
The bleeding guy was having a hard time keeping up, but eventually disappeared around a corner, following the others.
Burt let the small strip of the blind flick back into place.  He’d seen enough.
What the hell is eating this city? he asked himself.  “Just another day in Montebello,” he said. 
Moving back to his seat again, he took the movie off of pause.
There was Max.  Mad Max.  The Road Warrior.  He’d done his job.  He delivered the big diesel rig for the survivors.  He fulfilled his contract.  He was an honorable man.  All he wanted now was to get his gas and leave.
But now Papagallo wanted him to stay.  The wounded leader tried to coax the recluse of the wasteland to help.  The conversation would not end well.  Burt knew it.  The moment in the movie took on a new meaning since the day he reached a breaking point years ago during his time in Desert Storm, near the Kuwait-Iraq border.

“Did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“They made Sgt. Slaughter a bad guy.”
Gunnery Sergeant Burt Scott was sitting in a tent, awaiting orders from his superiors.  Burt was the leader of one division of artillery support.  He was sitting with one of his team members who was talking his ear off.
“You mean wrestling?  Pro-wrestling?” asked Burt.
“Yeah.  They made Sgt. Slaughter a bad guy.”
“You said that.  Look, Pvt. Keith.  I don’t watch pro-wrestling.  It’s phony.”
“No, it’s real, sir,” Keith insisted.  “I seen Jerry Lawler fight Harley Race back home in Little Rock.  They were bleedin’ from their heads.”
“Keith, you’re an idiot, you know that, right?” said Burt.
“No.  Listen,” said Keith, continuing his story as if Burt never said a word against the topic or him.  “Sgt. Slaughter is with the Iraqis now.  He came out with the Iran Shiek.”
“You mean the Iron Shiek?” asked Burt.  He didn’t watch wrestling, but he was familiar with some of the characters.
“No,” said Keith, clearly getting worked up with excitement.  “He’s the Iran Shiek.  But now, he’s Col. Mustafa.”
Burt was wishing he had a beer.  “Oh, okay.”  It just wasn’t worth the energy to talk with Keith.
“Anyway, Sgt. Slaughter, he’s a bad guy.”
“Oh, really?” said Burt.  “I think you said that already.”
“Yeah.  I don’t like him anymore,” said Keith.  “My daddy used to like him.  But he don’t like him now, neither.”
“That’s great, Keith,” said Burt.
And then, silence.
It was clear Pvt. Keith had something to say that he thought was important.  He spoke his mind plainly.  And then that was it.  It was so peculiar to Burt that he turned and looked quizzically at Pvt. Keith.  It was like he was talking to himself, something totally different now occupying his mind.  And it was also obvious Pvt. Keith was totally unaware of Burt staring at him.
Jesus Christ, thought Burt.  Good thing I’m retiring.  These soldiers are getting dumber and dumber as the years go by.
“Gunney?” came a voice.  Burt turned to see a female soldier, the runner for the commanding officer of the base, at the mouth of the tent.  “They’re ready for you.”
“Thank God,” muttered Burt as he followed the private out of the tent to the officer’s location.
Entering the makeshift room made of a heavy canopy and tent curtains, Burt saluted the officers and took a seat along with the other team leaders and commanding officers.
Burt wasn’t much for the formalities.  And, as usual, his bad attitude never sat well with the officers. 
“Good to have you, Gunney Grouchy,” said Captain Peterson.
“Don’t try to kiss me after the meeting again, Peterson,” said Burt with a contemptuous smile.  “I’ll tell Norman.”
Peterson smiled.  He knew better than to continue in a cutdown contest with Sgt. Scott.
The officers started the strategy session, passing on what they wanted each team to do.  Then it was Burt’s turn to be told his team’s strategy.  Things were about to go downhill fast.
“Gunney,” said Peterson, “We’ve got you covering Highway 80.  The enemy is using the highway to escape out of Kuwait City.  At 0900 hours, I want you and your boys to send that highway to hell.”
It was a simple command.  It would be no problem figuring the coordinates.  But then a cruel complication fell on Burt’s mind.
Burt stood up to look at the map spread out before the group on the table.  His fear was confirmed.
“Sir, this is Highway 80, correct?” he asked, indicating the road on the map.
“That’s right, Scott,” said Peterson, looking to make sure the road Burt was indicating was the same one.  “Is there a problem?” asked Peterson with suspicion.
“Sir, highway 80 is one of the major highways out of Kuwait.”
“That’s right,” said Peterson, anticipating the direction of the conversation.  “We need you to hit it with your artillery team.  Was that not made clear?”
“It’s clear, sir,” said Burt.  “But that’s also a civilian highway,” said Burt, looking back at Peterson with disappointment.  Burt already knew what the answer was going to be.
“Is there a problem with the order, Gunney?” asked Peterson, standing up straight and putting his hands on his hips.  He suddenly reminded Burt of Mr. Baines back in high school.  Like Baines, Peterson expected everything he said to be obeyed.  Burt felt an immediate contempt.  This was cruelty at its height, but that was the true meaning of war.
Burt knew he was not going to get his way. But just like he’d given his enemies over the years in combat, he was going to give his superiors hell for using the strategy.
“The problem is that it’s a civilian highway,” Burt replied, repeating his stance.  “Is this whole plan your idea?”
“This strategy comes straight from the general,” said Peterson with authority.
Burt was surprised.  It was a ruthless strategy.  But it was war.
“So ‘Stormin’ Norman’ wants to blast 80, huh?”
“That’s right, Gunney.”
Peterson grinned devilishly.  Burt saw it, and a surge of hate grew in his heart.
With all that being clear, it still didn’t sit well with Burt.
“I don’t like it,” said Burt, plainly.
“We’re not paying you to like it,” said Peterson.
“There’s got to be another way,” replied Burt, shaking his head.
“And we’re not paying you to think, either.  We’re paying you to do what you’re told.”
It’s Baines all over again, thought Burt. 
Peterson sensed an escalation to the discussion.  So he dismissed everyone.
“Gentlemen, you have your orders.  Everyone is dismissed
except you, Gunney.”
Being singled out did not make Burt happy.  Whatever was happening was not going to be any fun.
“What kind of Marine are you?” asked Peterson.  “You’ve served the corps proudly for over twenty years.  And now you don’t want to play war anymore?”
“Don’t question my devotion to our corps, Peterson,” said Burt with a sharp edge.  The moment was intensifying.  Their powerful energy was charging the space.
“If you don’t go out there and do as you’re commanded to do, then I will question your devotion, Gunney.  Never in my life have…”
“No preaching, Peterson,” groaned Burt, waving Peterson off with a smug frown.
“No, Scott.  You will listen to me,” said Peterson, moving closer to Burt.  “Never in my life have I met a Gunnery Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps who suddenly became so chicken-hearted in battle that he didn’t do what he was ordered to do.”
Burt could feel the energy of their space change.  A psychic wave of anger washed over him, charging his body right down to his fingertips.  He knew exactly where this conversation was now heading.  So he made an effort to stop it. 
“Don’t say it, Peterson,” said Burt, shaking his head.
“You know what you are, Gunney?”
“Don’t you say it, Peterson,” warned Burt yet again.  His anger was turning to rage.
“I’m going to say it, Scott, because you need to hear it.”
            Their negative energy had grown wild like a grass fire in the summertime.
“Don’t do it,” said Burt, plainly.
Peterson smiled like a diabolical villain in a melodrama.  “You’re a goddamn disgrace, Gunney.”
Arrogance is not the word for it.  Officers have expectations.  And 99.9% of the time, the expectations are met.  When they are not met, people are verbally reprimanded.  Dressed down.  Then the matter is resolved.
Never does an officer expect to get punched by their charges.  That’s the expectation. 
Today, when Burt punched Captain Peterson in the mouth, it was a very, very rare exception.
Peterson was not a total pussy, even though many thought he was.  He fired back with a punch of his own, taking Burt by surprise.  Before long, they were rolling across the sandy floor.  Punching, gouging, and striking like pitbulls in a dog fight.  They rolled out of the tent to a surprised bunch of soldiers.
Lt. Kent, who was in the briefing and anticipated this, held the others back.  “Let them sort this out, boys.”
Private Keith was also present.  “Boston Crab,” he shouted.  “Put him in a Boston Crab.”
Burt and Peterson punched and kicked their way back into the tent.
“Gunney could have put him in a Boston Crab,” said Keith to Kent.  “It would have been over.”
In the tent, Peterson judo-tossed Burt over his shoulder and through the table.  The throw sent pencils and paper into the air.  Peterson was surprised when Burt brought him to the sandy floor with a toe-hold.  It was such a surprise to Peterson that when Burt executed a sweet float-over into a side headlock, Peterson was stuck.
Burt squeezed Peterson’s head, growling, “I’ll give the command, Peterson.  But when I get out of his sandy shithole, you sign my honorable discharge papers.”
Peterson didn’t want to honor the request.  But in the end, Burt was going to follow orders after all.  That’s all that mattered.
“Deal,” groaned Peterson.  “Now, let me go!”
Burt released the hold.
The two Marines picked themselves off and dusted their uniforms off.
Peterson extended his hand.  “You’re a real sonovabitch, Gunney.  You know that, right?”
“That I am,” said Burt, reluctantly taking Peterson’s hand.  Before he released his hand, he had one last thing to say.  “Honor your word.”
“As long as you honor yours,” said Peterson.
Burt walked out of the tent to give the command to his artillery force.
Private Keith followed close behind.
“Hey, Gunney,” said Keith.  “You should have put him in a Boston Crab.”
======


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.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

ZOMBIES: "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - Chapter 5 - THE AMBUSH

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

5.  THE AMBUSH

The door knock was unexpected and very loud.  It felt to Burt that the last three knocks were unnecessary.  A good door knock, in Burt’s mind, needed either five or seven knocks.  Five was a friendly visit.  Seven came across as business, or a good indicator of urgency.
This one came across as incredibly urgent.  Burt didn’t see any sense to it.
“Who the hell?” he grumbled under his breath as he rose from his comfy chair and walked to the door.  He picked up the remote and put the movie on pause.
Looking through the peephole, he saw who it was.
“Guerra,” he whispered.  As he unlocked the door, he grumbled to himself, “What the hell do you want?”
He opened the door.
“Burt,” said Guerra offering his hand.  “What’s going on?”
Burt accepted Guerra’s hand and shook it.  “Trying to watch ‘Road Warrior’.  “You?” he asked, letting Guerra in.
“I tried to call, but your line’s been busy.”
“I took the phone off the hook,” Burt replied.
“Can you believe what’s going on out there?” asked Guerra, following Burt in with urgency.
There was something wrong with Guerra.  Burt detected it.  What a pussy, thought Burt.  He’s scared of the riots.
“When enough idiots get together, stupid things like that happen,” said Burt.
“But did you hear about…”
Burt quickly interrupted Guerra, becoming agitated.  He had calmed down since first hearing the news.  Now, not only was Guerra annoying him as always, he was bringing up the troubles in the city again.  “I don’t want to hear about it.”
“But can you believe people are actually…”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” said Burt.  “Stupid people get involved with stupid things.  Now, what can I do for you, Mike?”
Mike Guerra just shrugged.  “I need some firepower.”
“You got some bones?” asked Burt.
“I’ve got some bones,” said Mike, pulling out a roll of hundreds wrapped by a rubber band.
“Then I’ve got firepower.  Right this way,” said Burt, leading Mike into the hallway.
The door to Burt’s bedroom was wide open.  But the second bedroom was locked.  The previous wooden door that once filled the space of the doorway was leaning against the hallway wall, still in good condition.  It was very dusty, though.
In its place was a heavy metal door.  In complete violation of his apartment contract, Burt had replaced the previous door with a heavy metal door.  Four bolt locks protected it, as well as a combination lock.  It was custom made.
Apartment contract or no apartment contract, the contents of the room needed safeguards.
As Burt began to unlock the locks, Guerra just had to ask again.
“So, you’re really not freaked out about what’s going on in the city?” asked Guerra, shaking his head.
“I could care less what’s going on outside my door.  If those idiots bring it to my doorstep, then there’s problems,” said Burt.
“Well, I heard someone on the seventh floor went crazy already and…”
“Stupidity makes my blood boil, Mike,” grunted Burt.  “So please, no more,” he said as the final security measure was unlocked.  It took more than a push to open the heavy door, but it opened. 
Burt flipped on a light switch as he stepped into the room.  The fluorescent tubes of light buzzed in annoyance like a fly stuck behind a set of blinds.  Then they flickered, then fully illuminated the room.
“So,” asked Burt.  “Whatcha’ looking for?”
They both walked into the room.  It was organized plainly.  Pistols were set against a wall on one end.  Long range rifles on another.  Automatic weapons against yet another.  Custom weapons on yet another.  In the middle was a worktable where Burt could make ammunition, and also other storage lockers marked ‘explosives’.  
“Not my usual,” said Guerra.  “Something for personal and home defense.”
“Ah.  Not arming the Sandinistas today, eh?”
“Naw.”
Burt chuckled.  Guerra was part of an anti-gang task force in L.A., one that was completely off the books and paid for under the table.  With cash.  They ran it like a CIA operation, funding rival gangs who were operating against gangs the department was targeting.
They also created strawman gangs made up of people from out of town bankrolled by the city.  These people had tactical knowledge, whether by military or police SWAT training.  And they ran their gang like any gang would, with strict and brutal initiations, codes, even gang signs and tagging.  Members who were picked up by the police were always released.  The city gangs were suspicious, but the system was run so well no one could figure it out.
Mike Guerra had been a close friend of Shirley.  In fact, she’s the one that had coordinated the arming of the division through ‘Locked and Loaded’.  Shirley and Mike had worked together at the sheriff’s department.
There had been a tension that was always in the air.  Guerra thought he had a secret, but Burt knew it already.  And Burt had always played dumb around Guerra.  Shirley had shared what Guerra did for the city. And though it was clandestine, it was noble.  So Burt had respected him.
However, Burt was still trying to find it in his heart to forgive him for what he did on the side.  He didn’t appreciate the passes Guerra made on Shirley.
At the end of the day, however, Burt got cold, hard city money put right in his hand.  So it was hard to complain.
“So?  What did you have in mind?” asked Burt.
Guerra had already found what he wanted.  “How ‘bout the SPAS?” he asked, pointing at the pump-action shotgun.
“Know how to clean it?” asked Burt.
“Yeah.”
Guerra was lying.  Burt knew it.  Guerra knew Burt knew.
“Got shells?” asked Burt, pulling down the shotgun.
“No shells,” said Guerra.
“How many?”
“How many boxes of shells do you have?”
“You got anything to carry them in, first?”
“No.”
Burt shook his head, walking to a corner of the room.  He opened a cabinet and pulled out an old satchel that looked like a mailbag.  He tossed it at Guerra.
“Now, how many boxes do you need?”
“All you got,” said Guerra.
Burt winced in surprise.  Guerra had never asked for that much before.  But considering the payoff, he decided to let him have it.
Burt reached under the table where his bullet maker stood, pulling out a small case of 12 gauge shells.
“Great,” said Guerra.
“Wait,” said Burt, reaching back under the table.  He pulled out another small case.
“Great,” said Guerra again.
“Wait,” said Burt yet again, reaching under the table and pulling out yet another box.  “Here you go.”
Guerra smiled.  “I’ll take all I can fit in the bag.”
“Deal,” Burt replied, opening the first case.
“And another SPAS if that’s alright with you?”
“I do have one more,” said Burt, packing the bag with boxes of shells.  “It’s all yours.”
“You’ve saved my life today, Burt.  Mine and my family’s.”
“You haven’t left yet,” said Burt.  “So let’s get you back to your family to make sure that’s the truth.”
As Burt walked to get the other SPAS, Guerra said, “How have you been?”
“What do you mean?” asked Burt, taking the shotgun off the wall.
“Shirley,” said Guerra.
“I think about her every day,” he said, walking back to his customer.  Burt averted his gaze when Mike felt his glare.
Burt and Mike packed the bag with as much ammunition as possible.  Burt then handed Mike the other SPAS.
“What’s the damage?” asked Guerra.
Burt took inventory of what he had packed.  But he wasn’t sure he was ready for this next time honored tradition of wheeling and dealing.
“Thirty,” said Burt.
Mike groaned.  “C’mon, Burt.  You’re killing me.  Let’s try twelve.”
The whole negotiation process was just too much for Burt to deal with.  He was tired, hungry, and irritated by Guerra.  So he made a choice.
“You know what?  Just go, Mike.  Go.”
“What?”
“Just go.”
“Are you serious?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Mike.  Just go, alright.”
“Okay.  Okay,” said Mike.  “Thanks.”
Burt groaned, saying, “Don’t mention it,” as they walked out the door.  Burt re-secured the room and walked Mike to the front door.
“Well, good luck with all that,” said Burt with a smile.  He was happy Guerra was finally leaving.  “By the way,” he said, offering his hand to Mike, “That’s a lot of firepower for some dumbass rioters.”
“It’s not the rioters I’m worried about,” said Guerra, shaking Burt’s hands and trotting away.  “It’s those cannibals,” he shouted back.
“Ca…,” Burt whispered.  He couldn’t even finish the word.  It was the last thing he thought he’d hear.  He shook his head as if he needed to rattle his brain back into reality.  “Cannibals?” he finally whispered.  The thought brought a twinge of fear to his heart.  The rioters pissed him off to no end.  But cannibals?
“Bullshit,” Burt finally muttered, closing the door.  “Guerra’s out of his goddamn mind,” he groaned.  He moved back to his chair.
Before he sat, his stomach growled.  “I should make something to eat,” he thought.
Then he looked at the movie on pause.  It was moments away from Max delivering one of his favorite lines.
Burt walked to the kitchen and took up an old, unwashed glass.  He filled it halfway with water and chugged it.  He then took a few more crackers from the bag.  It was not even a handful.
Returning to the chair, he popped a cracker into his mouth and took the VCR off pause.  As he crunched away on the cracker, he mouthed the next two lines.
Two days ago I saw a vehicle that’d haul that tanker.  You want to get out of here?  You talk to me.
Tanker, he thought.
Tankers.
He remembered…

“You cannon cockers got it easy.”
“So what’s it to you?”
A small group of infantrymen came up to Burt and his fellow artillery team.  Burt had been in Vietnam for three months now.  The teasing only happened every so often.  Though Burt’s battle buddies took it in stride, Burt, as usual, didn’t like the bullying.
“Hey, take it easy there, Scott.  I’m just saying you got a pretty cush job, that’s all.  You don’t even get to see Victor Charlie in all his rice-eating glory.”
“We all do our part, Lombardo.  So why don’t you go polish your gun some more,” said Burt, gesturing with a closed fist by his crotch.  “Pretend your polishing it for that herpes-ridden ‘Mama-San’ back in town.”
“Oh, a wiseguy, eh?” said Lombardo.  Burt hated his heavy Jersey accent.  Even out in the heat of the jungle, the guy still greased back his hair.  A patch of hair jutted from his chest and out from under his shirt.  He was a big guy, nurtured on the streets of the Bronx.  “That’s kinda ironic coming from a cannon cocker like you and your buddies.”
“Go fuck yourself, Lombardo,” said one of Burt’s teammates.
“Tell him, Houston,” said Burt. 
Houston wasn’t his real name, but that’s what Burt and everyone else decided to call him since he was from Texas.  He wasn’t from Houston, but he was a bit of a ‘space cadet’ as his friends called him.
“You dumb bastards can kiss my ass,” said Houston.
“You heard Houston, Lombardo.  Get out of here.  We didn’t do shit to you.  All we’re doing is our job.  And we back you up.  Don’t forget that,” said Burt, pointing directly at Lombardo’s face.
“Guy’s backing down, Lombardo,” said one of his freckled friends next to him.
            “I think you’re right, Lewis,” said Lombardo.  “You backin’ down now, Scott?”
“He’s not backing down,” said Houston.
“No one’s talking to you, eggplant,” Lombardo replied.
“Fuck you, you WOP bastard,” said Houston, lunging at Lombardo.  Burt stepped in front of his teammate.
“I’m not backing down, Lombardo,” said Burt.
“I think you’re backing down, Scott.  I thought me and my friends here were supposed to go jerk off somewhere?”
“Not your friends,” said Burt.  “Just you.”
Lombardo’s buddies ‘oooh’d’ and slapped their friend on the back, egging him on.
“You can’t let a cannon cocker talk to you like that, Lombardo.”
Burt was quick to assure the escalation, throwing down the gauntlet with audacious spirit.  These battle-hardened soldiers would test Burt.  He knew Lombardo would probably win the fight.  After all, Lombardo was older and meaner.
In the end, it didn’t matter.  They weren’t going to hurl insults at him or his buddies who worked hard at their posts without paying for it.
“Yeah, Lombardo,” said Burt.  “Why don’t you come over here and do something about it?”
Burt stepped away from his team’s howitzer.  His teammates spread out, as did Lombardo’s buddies.  They created a space for fighting.
“Why you spunky little bastard,” said Lombardo.  “Have it your way, you fuckin’ piece of shit.”
Lombardo removed his top and stepped into the fighting space.  Burt removed his top as well.  The two bare-chested brawlers looked like two sweaty gladiators stepping onto the bloodied dirt of the arena.  Lombardo’s buddies moved to an outer edge of the improvised fight space opposite Scott’s friends.  Other soldiers saw the fracas forming and joined the audience.  Some even started making bets.  Nothing like a little impromptu diversion to take the edge off the hot southeast Asian afternoon.
Lombardo took a puff off a guy’s cigarette before stepping back into the circle.  He blew the smoke in Burt’s face to the approval of the crowd.   Burt coughed once, his blood boiling. 
Lombardo got back in Burt’s face.  “Let me tell you right now, Scott.  If you think…”
The soldier didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence when Burt popped him in the mouth with an unschooled but harsh jab-cross combination.  The strikes sent Lombardo on his ass to the guffaws and incredulous cries of antagonized surprise.
Lombardo could taste the sharp essence of blood in his mouth.  His lip was split, and it was starting to swell.
“Is that it, Lombardo?” asked Burt.  “I thought you guys were hard as…”
It was time for Burt’s sentence to be incomplete as Lombardo bull-rushed him, crying out, “You sonovabitch!”
Lombardo tackled Burt to the ground to the joy of the men gathered around them.  The crowd cheered and chuckled as the two guys threw down.
Scraps like this were old hat to Burt.  But Lombardo was cut from the same cloth.  As the two hit each other on the ground, Burt rolled over on top of Lombardo and began to pepper his face with punches.
Lombardo was a true street fighter in spite of his training.  He picked up a patch of mud off the moist ground and smacked Burt right in the face with it.  Blinded by mud, Burt tumbled off of Lombardo.
Wiping mud off his face, Burt tried to recover.  But Lombardo popped Burt in the face three times with sloppy but true punches.  Burt stumbled backwards only to take a swift kick to his cods.  It doubled him over.
Lombardo tried to kick Burt in the face, but Burt moved to Lombardo’s inside and clinched.
“Let go, cannon cocker,” groaned Lombardo, digging heavy hooks to Burt’s kidney area.
“Go fuck yourself, asswipe,” grunted Burt.
Both men delivered simultaneous knees to the crotch, doubling both of them over.  Both men were stopped in their tracks, temporarily paralyzed.  They both held themselves by their respective packages, groaning and taking a moment to recover.
Every man watching the fisticuffs blurted out a collective groan of pain.  Each and every one of them knew what it felt like to get kicked in the biscuits.  So all of them empathized.
“Jerk off,” groaned Burt.
“Dickhead,” groaned Lombardo.
Both glared at each other.  Then, simultaneously, they both threw a right cross at each other’s mouth.  Both fists hit at the same time, and both rivals fell on their asses, dazed.
The crowd cheered and chuckled, totally enjoying the brawl.
Then, the blaring annoyance of the base alarm sounded.  Everyone froze still for a moment, regaining their senses.  The sirens only sounded when something serious was starting.  The machine gun fire that tore through the air confirmed their fears.
The base was under attack.
“Charlie’s here!” someone shouted.
“Drop your cocks and grab your socks!” someone else shouted.
“Get to your posts,” shouted someone else as the soldiers scrambled to their stations.
Burt ran with his team to the howitzers.  His leader, Sergeant Fowler, had just arrived.
“Get your rifles and stand by,” he shouted.
All the soldiers grabbed their sacred firearms and took a knee beside their artillery assignment.
Crouched and ready, all they could do is wait.
This is not what I bargained for, thought Burt, still recovering from the pain.  Though Lombardo and his infantry buddies were dicks, they were right.  Things were rosy away from the deep shit of combat.  He liked his role here.  It was clear now, in a war zone, nowhere was safe.  The battle was about to literally crash through his front door.  And Victor Charlie was doing the crashing.
All eyes were on the front gates.  Heavy machinegun fire rained holy hell from lookout towers and a machine gun nest just below them.  An explosion rocked the air, and orange flames puffed up above the jungle canopy at exactly the location of the road leading into the base.
“What the hell?” muttered Burt.
Then a runaway fireball smashed through the front gate, knocking down the watchtower and completely opening the front door.  It was an 18-wheeler.  Its cargo was a tanker that had burst into flames.  A scoop from a bulldozer in the front of the truck blew the sandbagged machine gun position out of the way, sending a splash of liquid fire into the nest, setting remaining soldiers on fire.
The driver bailed out of the vehicle, letting the rolling fireball leave a trail of flames in its wake as it crashed headlong into a set of barracks.
“Hold your positions,” said Sgt. Fowler.
Burt’s heart banged against his chest like an angry lover on the hotel door of a cheating intimate friend.  He gulped.  He was about to see action.  It was action he wished he’d never see.
Gird up your loins, boy, he remembered his uncle saying.  If you want to be a Marine, you better be ready for combat.
Burt took the words to heart.
A second eighteen-wheeler plowed through the wide open front gate.  Hauling another gas tanker, a rolling bomb, it drove straight to HQ.
“Hold your positions,” said Sgt. Fowler.
“Fuckin’ Charlie’s going balls-out tonight,” said Houston.
Gunfire whizzed through the air as the commanding officer shouted, “Hold your positions!”
An armored personnel carrier made a move to stop the penetration, racing to plug the gaping hole that was now the front gate of the ambushed base.   It just missed the third trailer that barreled through the entrance.  The armored personnel carrier hit the brakes, plugging the hole like a large middle linebacker waiting for a running back to try and hit his hole.  A grumbling tank followed suite, pulling up as fast as it could behind the APC as the third 18-wheeler turned toward Burt’s howitzer position.  Everyone on the team knew they were the next target.
“Listen up,” shouted Sgt. Fowler, pulling out two M-79 ‘Thumper’ single-shot grenade launchers.  “We rally at HQ!”
At that moment, the second tanker truck that was targeting HQ hit its mark.  The massive fireball lit up the sky.
“Rally at the HQ,” shouted Sgt. Fowler, racing headlong towards the approaching 18-wheeler.  He was holding a ‘Thumper’ in each hand.
Burt and the boys wanted to watch how the sergeant vs. guerilla 18-wheeler matchup was going to play out.  But everyone knew whatever happened, it was going to end in fire and twisted metal on their howitzer position.  Just how much was about to be determined by their audacious sergeant.
The team bolted like kids running out of class on the last day of school.
Burt watched as his sergeant two-fisted the grenade launchers.  One grenade crashed through the glass windshield and blasted the cab all to hell.  The other fired at the left front wheel, blasting it away.
Crippled, the cab began to shimmy away from the howitzer position.  But it was still going to strike it.
So the sergeant yanked two grenades out of his utility belt, pulled out the pins with his teeth, and tossed them at the cab.  Then, the sergeant jumped out of the way as the cab exploded.  It was knocked out of the way by the gas tanker that tore through the remains and tumbled on its side when it hit the remnants of the engine block.  It burst into flames that washed over several howitzer positions.  Though the flames set fire to some howitzer positions and its ammunition, the entire set up was not destroyed thanks to the sergeant.
Yet a fourth trailer tried to bum-rush the gate.  The APC held its ground and was now backed up by the tank that had rolled up behind it.  The tank fired on the trailer, blasting through it and sending flames and wreckage through the heavens and the jungle.  The rolling fireball crashed into the APC, stopped dead in its tracks by the tank. Both armored vehicles were engulfed in liquid fire as the remains of the trailer jack-knifed into the fence.  It tossed more flames into the base, pouring over men and equipment alike.
As Burt ran to the flaming rally point, he realized his fellow teammates were shooting.  It shouldn’t be hard to do the same.  It’s what he trained with the rifle for after all.  But the thought of now having to actually use the weapon to kill someone made him gulp.  Considering the firefight, he imagined it wouldn’t be hard.  Someone out there was more than ready to kill him.  The flames and the wreckage all around him made him realize he was, for all intents and purposes, in hell.
But he was a Devil Dog.  A Marine.  Hell was home.
Lombardo and other soldiers had rallied near the now-blazing HQ.  Burt and his crew joined them.
“Charlie’s flying in from outta the jungle now, guys,” shouted Lombardo.  His lip was swollen and still bleeding, but he really didn’t care.  “Get those guns firing, you cannon cockers!”
Here it comes, thought Burt.  His eyes were opened wide.  These were no longer black sillohuettes on the range in California, or paper targets.  These were actual human beings.  His heart was powered by adrenaline.  His soul was charged with pride.

If you want to be a Marine…

Burt took cover and began to scan for targets.  The Viet Cong were jumping from out of the jungle just as Lombardo had said.  With patty hats, black shirts and pants, and something that looked like rope wrapped around their chests.  Their AK-47s blazed hellfire, waiting to kill Burt and his friends.
…you better be ready for combat.
Burt methodically began to pick off VC.  One, two, three.  The body count quickly grew.  Ammo was limited, but he was in good shape, shooting only an aimed shot at a time.
Nine.  Ten.  Eleven.
Charlie was a noble foe, people had told him.  He was seeing it firsthand.  These guys were relentless.  Even guys Burt knew he wounded returned to their feet before Burt put them down for good.
The small makeshift squad stood their ground valiantly.  Positioned in 360 degrees, all their angles were covered.
Seventeen.  Eighteen.  Nineteen.
“Jesus, Scott,” said Lombardo, positioning right next to him.  “You’re giving the zipperheads what for!”
Burt did not let the comment break his concentration.  He reloaded again and continued plugging the enemy.
Twenty-six.  Twenty-seven.
More soldiers joined them.
Thirty.
“Give ‘em hell, boys,” shouted Burt’s sergeant.
“Holy shit,” cried Houston.  “It’s sarge!”
“Goddamn right it’s me,” shouted the sergeant, clearing the makeshift nest with a leap.  “We’ve stopped their momentum.  Fix bayonets.  We’re taking the base back or we’re dying trying.”
Fuck! thought Burt, gulping.  He wanted to say no.  His sergeant was a madman.  But he was in the zone as well.  He felt it in his fingertips, a cruel and pure energy, the same energy that was pulsing in his leader.  Today, he couldn’t lose.
It took Burt only a moment for him to pony up.  He was, indeed, in the zone.  It was time to push back the enemy.
“Four walls of the base,” shouted Sgt. Fowler.  “Whichever wall your facing, you’re defending!”
“This is crazy!” said Houston.
“Damn right it is,” Sgt. Fowler replied.  “Spread out and let’s get this done.  We’ll let God sort out the bullshit!”
The sergeant was the living definition of ‘Gung-Ho’.
Burt turned to his makeshift squad.  Lombardo looked back at him.
“Ready to whip some ass?” asked Lombardo with a grin.
“Let’s do it,” said Burt, chuckling.
“Charge!” shouted Sgt. Fowler.
Burt and Lombardo took to the battlefield.
A team.
True courage.

Everyone on base was still on edge even three days after the battle.  Engineers had taken to the base and erected a new HQ.  New barracks were being thrown up next to the tents that became the soldiers sleeping quarters. 
Naturally, the battle had affected everyone differently.  For Burt, it was a newfound fascination for his weapon.  It was not easy to kill a man.  In fact, it was something he wanted to avoid.  Sure, his artillery fire took lives.  But he didn’t have to watch it, to see it, the harsh and cruel results of war.
The base was littered with dead VC when the battle had ended.  Burt looked at the dead bodies.  It was then that he realized why they were so hard to kill.  Charlie had wrapped thick jungle vines around their bodies that acted as a vest that absorbed the bullets’ impact, lessening the damage done.  It was quite ingenious, as if the jungle itself had provided defense against the encroaching invaders.  The VC did not retreat and fought to the bitter end.
Burt’s weapon, his rifle, an M-16, had been there for him.  It was responsible for many of the dead.  Burt realized the frightening power of the weapon, but was proud to command it.
Suddenly the fanaticism behind the weapon, the passion for the rifle his DI’s and range instructors had, made sense.  The Marine Corps Rifelman’s Creed danced through his head.
This is my rifle.  There are many like it, but this one is mine.  It is my life.  I must master it as I must master my life…
“Hey, Scott,” said Lombardo, slapping Burt on the back.  “Houston, me, and the rest of the boys are going to town for some suds and pussy.  C’mon.”
Burt liked beer.  Burt enjoyed pussy, too.  But the battle had flicked a switch in Burt.  Understanding.  The Creed.
…Without me, my rifle is useless.  Without my rifle, I am useless….
“No, thanks,” said Burt.  “I’m going to stick around here tonight.”
“After the ‘slope’ killing exhibition you put on the other day, you don’t want to take your R&R time to bang out a ‘mama-san’ or two?”
As Lombardo stood, a bit stunned at the response, Burt pulled some Vietnamese cash from his pocket.
“Charlie had us on the ropes the other day.  I just need some more time to think about what all went down.”  He handed the cash to Lombardo.  “Here, have some oat sodas on me.”
Lombardo looked at the cash.  “Hell, for this, I’ll bang out an extra side of Vietnamese tail for you.”
Burt chuckled.  Then, he said, “And hey, you think when you have some time, you can help me brush up on some fundamentals?  Hand to hand.  Stuff like that?”
“As long as you teach me how to shoot like you,” said Lombardo with a  chuckle.
Though their swelling lips were much better, they shook hands as brothers, baptized by fire.
Burt waved as the guys took off, turning back to his weapon.  The creed danced through his mind, becoming part of the blood that pulsed from his heart, filling his veins.
…My rifle and I are the defenders of my country.  We are masters of our enemy.  We are the saviors of my life. 

So be it, until victory is America’s and there is no enemy.

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