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
8. THEN THE REST
OF THE WORLD ENDS
He
remains only in my memory.
The final
shot of ‘The Road Warrior’ played out on the screen. The camera panned away from Max, leaving him
alone on the cruel post-apocalyptic Australian highway. Then, it transitioned to the closing credits
and the Brian May end credit theme.
“She
remains only in my memory,” whispered Burt.
As the
credits rolled, Burt rose from his seat.
He walked to a nearby wall that was lined with several dusty and old
picture frames.
One was the
picture frame with their engagement pictures.
The central picture was of his loving and dearly departed wife. She was dressed in her white wedding
dress. She looked stunning. Her deep brown eyes sparkled above her
immaculate smile. Burt always told her
she was prettier than the bouquet she held.
Around her
picture were pictures of them together.
Walking. Holding hands. Looking into each other’s eyes. Kissing.
For a
moment, Burt could feel her kiss on his lips again. It made him smile, but he sighed with sadness.
The tape
ended. The VCR clicked to a stop and
churned. The blue field appeared on the
television again. The word ‘STOP’
appeared at the top in bold digital white.
As the VHS clicked again, the word was replaced with the letters
‘REW’. Burt could hear the old machine
whirling away as it rewound the VHS tape.
Burt moved
to another picture. It was a print of
the ribbon cutting from the Montebello newspaper. Everyone was all smiles, at least in the
picture.
What the
picture didn’t show was the small mob of about thirty protesters who came out
of the woodwork to demonstrate against the gun shop.
Burt was
thankful for the interview by local news KABC.
But he was even more thankful for the even-handed reporting that simply
provided both perspectives fairly.
Thinking
back on his interview, he thought he made a good point. Most of his argument revolved around local
police being stretched thin and that it was every citizen’s God-given right to
defend themselves, their families, and their property within the parameters of
the law.
“Someday,
these people will be faced with a circumstance where they’ll wish they had a
gun.”
It was a
perfect sound bite that the TV station used to close the piece. Burt was happy that was the last impression
the viewer was left with.
Then Burt
chuckled as he remembered Shirley’s passionate and obscenity-laced response.
They didn’t
have any footage they could use from her interview segment that was appropriate
for the air.
The thought
made him think of one of their last conversations.
“You take
care of the store when I’m gone, Burt,” she would say.
“Absolutely,”
said Burt with resolve. “It’s our
store.”
“It’s my
store,” she responded as powerfully as she could. “Don’t you fuckin’ sell it, or anything. You take care of my store.”
“I swear on
my mother’s grave,” he said. “I will
defend your store.”
“Even if
the world ends,” she joked. “And
mauraders are fighting for fuel or some shit.”
Burt
chuckled. “Even when the world ends.”
It was a
funny joke to them.
The end of
the world. That concept was always good
for a laugh.
Then the
VCR clicked to a hard stop. The white
‘STOP’ letters appeared on the blue screen again.
Having had
to rewind the VHS tape automatically, the player had a particular program. The machine assumed the viewer had fallen
asleep or just was done watching movies.
So the word
‘EJECT’ appeared on the screen. The
machine spit up tape, placing it out of its rectangular mouth just enough for
the viewer to grab and put away when they were ready.
Then,
finished with its job, it turned itself off.
Thus, the
blue screen transitioned to television.
Then, the TV was displaying what
was now showing on the channel.
The world of post-apocalyptic
Australia was now turned off.
Replaced on the screen was the
world of the current apocalypse taking place in California. In Los Angeles and all the surrounding
suburbs.
That meant Montebello.
…bodies
of the dead are rising and engaging in cannibalism. Religious leaders are calling it the end of
the world. The bodies of the dead are
rising and attacking the living…
The
words at first didn’t register in Burt’s head.
“Bodies of
the dead rising to attack the living”
“Acts of
cannibalism”
“Wholesale
murder sweeping Los Angeles, from Hollywood Blvd. to William Wright St.”
“William
Wright St.?” whispered Burt, turning to the television. “The gun shop.”
385 William Wright St. was the
location of the gun shop. The closed gun
shop.
The intimate familiarity of the
street name caught his attention. He
walked to the television, listening and watching.
“…incredible
as they seem, are not the result of mass hysteria…”
Over a
helicopter shooting live footage of absolute and pure mayhem in downtown Los
Angeles, a stern and stoic voice spoke with grim urgency.
“…report
from FEMA in Washington, D.C., quote, ‘It has been established that persons who
have recently died have been returning to life and committing acts of murder…”
“What?”
whispered Burt, changing the channel to make sure this wasn’t some kind of
movie.
A sheriff
stood by a stack of flaming dead.
“… bad
part is? I know some of these people…”
Changed
again.
“… body
that is not exterminated becomes one of them.
It gets up and kills. The…”
Changed
again.
“… Vamanos. Everybody let’s go. C’mon, let’s get to it. I know…”
“Dora the
Explorer on PBS,” groaned Burt.
He changed
it back to the original station. There
was no sense denying it now. The news
chopper was showing footage of the city.
Burt picked
up his phone. He dialed the passcode to
listen to his messages.
“You
have four unheard messages,” said the voice.
The first
was from his Uncle Oscar. The very same
one he let the call notes pick up.
“Burt, its
your Uncle. Call me. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Burt
deleted the message and listened to the next message.
“Burt, it’s
Mike. Can you believe that shit going on
out there? I don’t know whaaaat the fuck
is going on with those cannibals. I need
some weapons, though. Give me a
call. Bye.”
Burt
deleted it, then listened to the next message.
“Burt, its
your Uncle Oscar. I just want to know if
you are okay. We’re doing alright over
here in Sacramento. Crazy shit has
started here, too. We just need to know
that you’re okay. Call us.”
Burt
deleted the message, then heard the last one.
“Burt, you
need to call us now. We’re securing our
house now and want to know if you are doing alright. We’re going to be fine here, but please,
we’re trying to check up on all our family and you’re the only one we haven’t
heard from. Call us. Bye.”
“Damn,”
muttered Burt, dialing his uncle’s cell phone number frantically. He wondered again how things could have got
so crazy in the course of ninety minutes, the length of the movie.
After a
number of rings, the call-notes picked up.
“Hi. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if…”
Burt hung
up the phone. He looked under the end
table for the greater Los Angeles phone book.
He picked it up and looked for his uncle’s home phone number. When he found it, he dialed it and waited for
someone to pick up.
To his
initial relief, someone on the other end picked up.
“Burt? Is this you?”
“It’s me,
Uncle Oscar. Are you okay?”
“We’re fine. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But what the hell is going on?”
“I can’t
talk for very long, Burt. I just wanted
to know that you’re okay.”
“I already
told you. I’m fine. What the hell is going on?”
“It’s the
end of the world, Burt. The dead are
fucking rising and fucking attacking people.”
“What?”
“I shit you
not, Burt. We’re surrounded right now. There’s a bunch just outside our house.”
Burt began
to panic. It was all so overwhelming and
unbelievable. But it was true. It wasn’t a TV show. The news was real, and what was happening at
his uncle’s house was real, too.
“What have you guys been doing? Are you guys okay?”
“We’re
fine, we’re fine. We’ve boarded up all
the windows. Sebastian and Seth are
here. As things got crazy, they made a
run to the convenience store for water.
They said people were already looting it. They brought us back some water and
Gatorade.”
“And
‘Chunky Asses’,” called out a voice in the background.
“Yeah,”
said Uncle Oscar. “Seth brought a copy
of ‘Chunky Asses’ and gave it to your aunt.”
Burt
couldn’t help but chuckle. “Seth was
always the dumbass right?”
“Right. But they said it was crazy out there. Lots of people are hiding. But lots of people are looting, too. The boys said there were lots of people with
weapons killing people they thought were sick.
People kicking people’s asses with pipes and shit. It’s just a total madhouse out there. Don’t go out.”
Burt was
suddenly filled with helplessness. His
arsenal was filled with weapons that were no good to his family in Sacramento.
“Dammit,”
said Burt. “Ya’ll got weapons.”
“Yes, but
not a lot of bullets,” he replied.
“Look,
just…”
“Don’t
worry about us, Burt. You take care of
yourself. We’ll…” Then his uncle shouted, “Over there! Stop it!”
Burt could
hear gunfire and more shouting on the other end of the line.
“Uncle
Oscar,” he said. “Uncle Oscar.”
“Burt,”
shouted his uncle. “Take care. Thanks for calling. I gotta go.
Call us later.”
Then the
line went dead.
“What the
hell?” asked Burt out loud.
The
television announcer then caught his attention.
“…sidents
of Los Angeles county are encouraged to stay in their place of residence at
this point and defend themselves. If you
encounter any of the attackers, FEMA has advised the only way to stop them is
by removing the head or destroying the brain…”
Though
Burt caught the last statement, it was a video image that got his attention.
“Locked and
Loaded,” he whispered, recognizing the buildings in the video image. “My store.”
Her
store, he thought.
The anger
he had repressed by ignoring the news, the rage he felt for the city and the
people causing the unrest suddenly returned to the forefront of his mind. He was getting an idea why things got so
rowdy, but that was no excuse for looting.
In fact, considering the bizarre phenomena occurring across the city, it
was now even more dangerous than your average LA riot.
It was the last thing he wanted to
do. His plan was to stay in the house,
ride out the storm. He did not want to
go out into the stupidity of the city.
But now, Burt knew one thing for sure, apocalypse or no apocalypse, he
now had a mission.
“There’s no
way in hell you stupid bastards are taking Shirley’s store,” he growled.
Burt was
not taking this shit lying down. He
hoped what waited for him on the burning streets of Los Angeles county did not
feature what ‘Road Warrior’ had illustrated.
Rapes. Fights. Death.
But considering what his uncle had just told him, he didn’t hold out
hope for any kind of decency in the middle of a riot.
With
meaning, he rose from his chair. He
passed by the kitchen. The meat thawing
in the sink would have to be ignored.
No time,
he thought to himself. He grabbed a
handful of crackers and dashed to the weapon room.
Burt put on
a military jacket immediately, putting the remaining bag of crackers into his
jacket. The jacket was a heavy-duty coat
that was hanging by the door for just such an occasion. He knew exactly what else to grab in his
armory.
M-16 with a
sling, fully loaded.
Two more
fully-loaded magazines for the M-16 were placed in the jacket pocket, with two
additional magazines prepared for his other loaded and lethal weapons: two .45
Colts. One was set on either side in a
holster on his hips.
Burt knew
he didn’t want to have to expend the ammo until he absolutely needed to. So he reached for his KA-BAR, a knife from
his Marine Corps days. Etched into the
cold steel were the initials, ‘USMC’.
“Uncle
Sam’s Misguided Children,” he whispered.
Burt’s
heart was ready. His soul was burning, a
ball of spiritual fire ready to fight for the memory of his wife and the
store.
Her store.
Only a few minutes before, he was going to avoid the
chaos outside his door like the plague it seemed to be. Now, he couldn’t wait to get out into it and
jump into the fray.
As Burt
looked at his trembling hand holding the KA-BAR, he took a moment to consider
the danger. Could his body commit to
combat in the world of the bizarre cannibalistic rising dead? He was hungry, but would the crackers he ate
throughout the day provide enough energy to make a run for the store?
Burt took a
deep breath. Then, he took a knee by the
table where bullets were refilled. He
placed his arm against the edge of the table.
Still holding the KA-BAR firmly in hand, he closed his eyes and placed
his head against his arm. He slung his
M-16 across his shoulder.
Burt then
began to whisper the only prayer he ever knew.
“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.”
Burt
thought about his past. His
cousins. School.
“Without
me, my rifle is useless. Without my
rifle, I am useless.”
Why do
you even show up to school, Scott.
You’re useless¸ he could hear Principal Baines say.
“I must
fire my rifle true. I must shoot
straighter than the enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will.”
I will.
“My rifle
and I know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our
bursts, or the smoke we make. We know it
is the hits that count. We will hit.”
Memories of
the Viet Cong attack flew through his head.
“My rifle
is human, even as I am human, because it is my life…”
Burt could
feel his adrenaline rise. In spite of
his hunger and shaking hands, he was going to make a hard and true push to
secure ‘Locked and Loaded’ if it was the last thing he ever did.
“Before God
I swear this creed. My rifle and I are
the defenders of my country. We are the
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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