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
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.”
“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.
=====
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