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
10. INTO THE EYE
OF THE STORM
As Burt ran deeper into
the madness, things were getting much, much rowdier. He had never seen so many fistfights in his
life. It was as if the city itself was
the source of the problem. The fiery
cars and frightened people were the manifestation of the metaphorical spell
cast on the city, sending everyone and everything into complete and total
pandemonium.
Not since the boy
he had knocked out with his big fists and the thugs demanding his weapons had
anyone challenged him. In spite of his
sputtering energy, his knife, firearms, and size found people actually moving
away from him. It was pretty obvious to
the people around him that it would not be worth messing around with him for
anything. The juice would not be worth
the squeeze.
That kind of
social power, even in the midst of the chaos, put him in a different
position. Though he walked around as a
kind of brute capable of swift and brutal offense, he also had the capacity to
defend. But he was not about to grant
that power for any grown adults who were more than capable of defending
themselves.
The problem was
seeing children put in this chaotic situation.
Burt watched a
trio of older teens brutalizing a kid who couldn’t have been more than ten
years old. He already passed up a lot of
bad situations, but he couldn’t pass this up.
Burt dashed to
the group. He wound back his fist and
smashed the nearest one square in the mouth, knocking the boy against a nearby
wall and out cold. Burt slashed toward
the next closest adversary with his knife, cutting the boys arm. He could have easily killed the kid, but that
was not his goal. He had the power,
self-control, and was magnanimous enough to give the kids a choice. He had to set examples first.
“Fuck!” shouted
the third boy, turning and running. The
cut boy was too shocked to say anything.
He just cried out, clasping a hand over the wound and took off. The boy who was KO’d lay face first on the
pavement. A small patch of blood was
forming on the pavement near his nose.
“Get up, son,”
said Burt to the young boy, offering a hand that was gladly accepted. The boy was weeping. He was doing his best not to completely break
down.
Burt looked
around, anxious. He needed to get to the
store. But he’d committed to helping the
boy now, so he had to finish the job and hope there were no more
complications. He was running out of
energy and needed to rest. The added
stress wasn’t helping.
“What’s your
name, son?” groaned Burt.
Through whimpers,
the boy said, “Ronnie.”
“Where are your
parents, Ronnie?”
“In that
apartment complex,” he said, pointing to a building just down the street.
As he pointed, he
couldn’t help but notice blood pouring out of a wound on his arm. It was a bite.
“C’mere, son,”
said Burt, pulling him close to him and away from the madness. Burt reached down and ripped a piece of
t-shirt off of the poleaxed thug. He had
nothing to clean the wound with, so he just wrapped the wound with the shirt.
“Hold my hand,
Ronnie. And don’t let go,” said
Burt. The duo started running to the apartment
complex.
A pawn shop was
being looted. Burt couldn’t help but
imagine (know!?) his own store, Shirley’s store, was suffering the same
fate. He had to hurry and deliver this
kid and get back to his goal. They
weaved through the bevy of thieves running out with televisions, DVD players,
even movies.
A large crowd was
gathered on the sidewalk. They all
seemed to be looking at something on the sidewalk.
As the duo edged
closer to the group, they could hear general chatter.
“That’s
disgusting.”
“… killed that
mother fucker.”
“What the fuck?”
“Damn. That’s all messed up.”
“He ate him?”
“Yep.”
Burt could see
brief glimpses between the crowd of two bodies lying on the sidewalk. One was a bloody carcass torn open at the
stomach. Blood entrails had spilled out
around the body.
Beside the body
was yet another. This body was dressed
in slacks and a dress shirt. Its head
had been smashed to a pulp, unrecognizable as even a human head. Brain, bone, and blood sat in a puddle by its
remains.
“Don’t look, Ronnie,”
said Burt, gagging.
Ronnie only
needed a glimpse to comply as they passed the people. The sight charged Ronnie with fear that Burt
could feel when the boy grasped his hand even harder.
As they passed
the group, a man ran past them. He was
holding his arm. Blood was seeping from
under his hand and fingers. The man was
followed by a group of youths with bats and lead pipes. They knocked Ronnie out of Burt’s grip, but
ran past them.
Burt helped the
boy back up. They watched in horror as
the guy was cornered and savagely beaten.
“C’mon, Ronnie,”
said Burt. They were only a few yards
away from the apartment building. But
more to the point, Burt was only a few blocks away from ‘Locked and Loaded’.
They entered the
lobby to the complex and were greeted with more mayhem. People ran to and fro. A young Asian child stood frozen in fear and
crying amid the crowd. Another two
bodies lay with completely smashed skulls up against the wall.
“At the end of
the hall,” said Ronnie. Burt could tell
the boy’s spirits had been lifted. There
was now an air of hope in the little boy’s voice as they made their way through
the crowd. It gave Burt hope that this
run was not futile in spite of the boys growing pale complexion.
Before long, they
were at the door. Ronnie began to knock
furiously.
“Mom! Dad!
It’s me!”
The door was
unlocked and thrown open to the grateful faces of his mother and father.
“Ronnie!” shouted
his mother with tears of joy shooting out of her eyes like a leaky pipe.
Ronnie’s father
offered a hand to Burt. “Did you help
him?” he asked.
“Yes,” said
Burt. “You need to look at his arm,
though.”
The mother
immediately checked the boy. “Oh, God,”
she said, but regained her composure.
“It’s no problem. We can take
care of it,” she said, taking him to a kitchen just a few feet away from the
door.
“Thank you, sir,”
said the man. “You can come in with us
if you’d like,” he offered.
“No, thank
you. I’ve got to check on my store,”
said Burt.
The mom grimaced
in the kitchen, where she was already treating the boy’s wound. “News has nothing but bad news. So good luck,” she said.
“Thanks,” said
Burt, turning to leave.
“Thank you, sir,”
shouted the lady. Burt just waved and
nodded as the door closed.
Burt moved only a
few more paces down the hallway when he began to feel dizzy again. He eased himself against the wall to take a
moment to catch his breath. His vision
was blurring.
Reaching into his
pocket, he put the last of the crackers into his mouth. A water fountain nearby helped him wash it down.
Turning and
looking at the lobby, it was a maelstrom of panic. People dashed all about. People were yelling. There was yet another vicious fight in a
corner. The small Asian child still
stood alone, frozen in fear and crying.
That was before a blonde man picked up the boy and dashed to a nearby
door. The man threw it open and went in,
the child crying in terror.
It took a moment
for Burt to absorb what just happened.
All he wanted to do was leave. He
was running out of energy, and he still needed to get to the shop. Who knows what it was going to be like
there. But he couldn’t. The moment he witnessed was just too strange. Too creepy.
Too wrong.
Complications,
thought Burt. He needed to investigate.
He walked to a
nearby lobby water fountain and splashed his face with water. Then he walked to the door and knocked. “Hello in there,” he shouted.
“Get away from my
door,” he heard the man shout. The boy
was still crying.
Burt didn’t know
what to say, and contemplated walking away again. But he’d already commited to action, like
with Ronnie. His head ached. His eyes burned. You’ve got to finish this now, he
thought.
“I just need to
know… if the kid’s okay.”
What the hell
kind of question was that? he thought to himself.
The door
chain-lock rattled against the wooden barrier and the door opened.
“What do you
want?” shouted the man.
“I just…”
Burt couldn’t
finish the statement. Behind the man, he
saw the small boy tied by a belt to a small chair. He was weeping in fear. It was a very different fear than in the
hallway. This was a fear without hope.
There was no need
for words anymore. With a burst of
adrenaline, Burt rammed the door open with his shoulder. The movement knocked the man back. Burt was in the room.
The man swung at
Burt. Like an old machine being kicked
back to life, Burt caught the wild and desperate punch under his arm. Then, with a sweep of the blonde’s leg, Burt
Judo-tossed the man to the ground, just like Lombardo had taught him years ago.
Burt immediately
pulled his sidearms and pointed them at the man. He had the blonde dead to rights. The man froze in fear on the floor.
“What the hell’s
going on here?” asked Burt.
“Listen,” said
the man, weeping like a child caught in the act of wrongdoing. “Please, just… please.”
“Johnny,” came a
voice from the door. Burt and the man
turned to look.
At the door was
an Asian woman. She stood in horror at
the door, looking at the scene, stunned.
“Is that your
child?” asked Burt.
“Yes,” she
replied. “What’s going on?”
“Is this the boys
father?” asked Burt, glaring at the man.
He already knew the answer, but needed confirmation.
“No,” she
replied.
Burt waved for
her to untie her child. “This guy
grabbed your kid out of the hallway.”
“What?” she
cried, unbuckling the belt to the grateful embrace of her child.
“Please,” begged
the man. “Please.”
Burt
groaned. Crisis averted. He had to make his move. This was now out of his hands. He had somewhere to be. This had to be sorted out now between these
two people.
So Burt washed
his hands of the situation.
“I’m not the guy
you need to be talking to, dirtbag,” he said, offering one of his pistols to
the woman. “You two need to sort this
out.”
The woman took
the pistol. Her face had melted into the
perfect picture of murderous maternal rage.
Burt stepped out
of the room.
As Burt walked
away from the apartment, he could hear the man cry out before three gunshots
rang through the air. It was followed by
the terrified cry of the child. Some
people who did hear it were startled, but it was only a symptom of the sickness
that was enveloping the city in terror.
They all had heard gunshots throughout the day. It was now commonplace, nothing new.
They all had
places to be.
So did Burt.
===============
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