Endings: Dystopian Post Apocalyptic Zombie Thriller (Parables From The Apocalypse Book 1) Read online

  Endings

  Parables From The Apocalypse, Book One

  Written by Norman Christof

  Published by Digital Storm Solutions Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. If you find any similarities to real people, places, events or planets you're sadly mistaken.

  © 2014 Norman Christof / Digital Storm Solutions Inc.

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  Author Info at http://NormanChristof.com

  Also by Norman Christof

  Parables From The Apocalypse

  Endings

  Revealed

  Mutation

  Awakening

  Rising

  Dad, hopefully some of the writer in you rubbed off on the writer in me.

  Cover Photo Credits

  flickr.com/photos/jepoirrier/

  flickr.com/photos/grmisiti

  Table of Contents

  Swamp Suckage

  The Fall

  We Lost

  Deserter

  Family Memories

  World View

  Freak Huggers

  Lobby Standoff

  Just The Facts Ma'am

  Calhoun

  Street Brawl

  Family Feud

  Into The Future

  Same Old Shit

  Heat Of The Battle

  Road To Chattanooga

  Old Wounds

  Schools Out

  Then There Were Three

  Swamp Suckage

  Colonel Chaz Sheperd walked the rows of deserted soldiers' tents, while recent battles weighed heavy on his mind. At least some of his platoon had survived, which was more than could be said for other commanders. These zombie freaks were becoming more resistant. The human casualties continued to soar, while the freaks kept coming. Originally, the infestation hadn't been a military problem. Local law keepers were the solution. May as well have used dog catchers. There were simply too many of the freaks. Then the general public had compounded the problem. People can be a pain at the best of times, but when confronted with zombies, they become complete idiots. Cops can deal with idiots, but mass-murdering freaks and idiots together were too much. By the time politicians got around to bringing in the military, it was too late. Renegade vigilante groups took responsibility for hunting and killing freaks. The original untrained vigilantes didn't fare well. Most died. Those good ole days were a scant fifteen years ago, and few of the original survivors remembered anything before that.

  Chaz was a survivor. He could still remember the smell of his first battle. The smell never changed, and this camp smelled of fresh death. The bodies had been buried days ago, but the reek still hung in the air.

  Now, the military was in charge of the freaks. The dog catchers had a better track record. At one point, Chaz had commanded an entire battalion. With their forces dwindling, competent commanding officers were few and far between. Prior to the zombie wars, soldiers had been trained primarily in urban warfare. Modern-day skirmishes were fought in crumbling cityscapes, chasing terrorists or rebel factions that threatened US interests worldwide. Nobody knew how to fight in the woods or mountains. At least, not the US military. Yet here they were, in southern Louisiana, fighting through swamps that were breeding grounds for freaks. It was hard to believe freaks could survive here. You'd think they'd be slow-moving chow for gators, but even the gators had no taste for them. Once, Chaz had watched a family of zombies walk right through a congregation of dozing gators. The gators had barely moved. Chaz blew the heads of the zombies, left them lying dead in their tracks, and still the gators wouldn't touch them.

  No one knew why the swamps were so infested. There were crazy stories about freaks rising up from sinkholes in the inner swamps. The nutcases liked those stories. So did the religious fanatics. The experts however, had no rationale for why zombies kept coming from the swamplands. Not that it would have made a difference. It was the military's job to deal with them now, no matter where they came from.

  Chaz walked past soldiers sitting on supply crates, cleaning their weapons. No one made eye contact. No one acknowledged each others presence. No one saluted. Normally that would constitute a severe verbal reprimand in the colonel's book. Today, he just kept walking. Things were changing. Chaz could sense it. It had been a solid week since their last skirmish in the Honey Island Swamps. Chaz had filed a report with Southern Command in Atlanta, but heard nothing back. Given their losses, that didn't make sense. Only twelve soldiers left in the lone surviving platoon patrolling Louisiana should elicit some response from Command. They were going to need reinforcements, or they'd risk losing the entire state. Chaz had managed to contact battalions in Mississippi and Alabama, but neither of them knew anything. The Montgomery battalion had sent a team to investigate yesterday, but still no word.

  The Fall

  Chaz entered the unguarded command tent. The only person inside was communications tech Private Ben Jones.

  "Private! Who's supposed to be on guard outside this tent, and where the hell are they?"

  Standing quickly from his communication station and saluting, Jones replied, "Sorry sir, I don't know. They weren't there when I entered an hour ago."

  Chaz returned the salute. "Jesus, anyone could walk in here. We need to maintain some semblance of order. Go find out who the hell is supposed to be here, and get their ass in here."

  "Yes, sir. But there's one thing, sir; you should hear this first. A communication we just received."

  "From Atlanta? Have they finally decided to send us reinforcements?"

  "No, sir, Command in Atlanta haven't responded. And I don't think they will."

  Chaz eased into a seat. "Go ahead, Private, spit it out. No need to add to the camp drama."

  "The message was from Central Command in Washington, sir. They've fallen. The Pentagon is destroyed. There were multiple explosions and the whole place lies in ruin. The White House is burning, and fire crews are struggling to get it under control. There were no survivors reported from either location. The message was transmitted from an undisclosed location in Washington. It wasn't one of our verified transmitter locations, but it followed all communication protocols. The transmitted security codes are valid. I believe the message is authentic."

  Chaz stared at his hands. "Any other news about Atlanta or the other command posts?"

  "No, sir, it was short. Just about the Pentagon and the White House."

  "OK, fine. That's all."

  "Yes, sir. I'll go find out who's supposed to be on guard duty."

  "Don't bother. It doesn't matter."

  "Sir?"

  Chaz raised his head and stared silently for a moment at the private. "I said it doesn't matter. Go on, get outta here."

  "Yes, sir."

  Chaz got out of his chair.

  "Actually, one more thing, Private."

  "Sir?"

  "Pass the word. Let everyone know what you just told me."

  "Just that message? Nothing else?"

  "That's it, Private. There's nothing else to say."

  We Lost

  It didn't take long. Chaz could hear the chatter of the enlisted outside the command tent, but no one entered. Why would they? Chaz was left alone with his thoughts. He drifted back to the first zombie war. He'd enlisted near the end of the first war. He'd had few other options. Job opportunities weren't that great; no one adver
tised for college dropouts in the local papers. College life wasn't tough, Chaz was just bored. He was looking for adventure, and where better to look than the army? He found adventure alright. It didn't take long for the second zombie war to kick off, and Chaz was back in the fray. Killing freaks, and eventually commanding those that killed freaks, was a perfect fit for an angry, bored young man.

  Abby had changed all that. She was enlisted too, but for different reasons. The army was a means to an end for her. A better life through education, which her family couldn't afford. When the second war ended, they both decided they were done with the army. Abby's dream of a better life was just around the corner. The time between wars didn't last long enough for Abby. Her dreams started to slip away. Chaz began to realize her dreams weren't his dreams. Only one of them was suited for family life, and it wasn't the one who signed up for the third zombie war. She refused to go, and he refused to stay. It was the beginning of their end. The real war and fighting became a harsh reflection of the war and fighting in their family life.

  The third war was coming to an end. Chaz could see that. And this time, for the first time, he wouldn't be on the winning side. Where else to go? What else to do? Probably too late to say he was sorry, but he could at least say a real goodbye. Never had the chance to do that before, so at least that would be something.

  Chaz checked his sidearm. The clip was full. He exited the tent on his way to the motor pool. He knew there'd be at least one Jeep gassed up and ready to go. Several men watched him go by, but said nothing. Seeing Private Jones exiting his bunk tent, Chaz stopped.

  "Jones!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Your marching pack provisioned and ready to go?"

  "Yes, sir, it's always ready."

  "Good man. Go get it."

  Jones ducked back inside the tent, and returned a few minutes later with his pack on and in full combat gear.

  "That was quick, Jones. You're a good soldier."

  "Thank you, sir. Jones reporting for duty." Jones snapped a quick salute.

  Chaz returned the salute. "At ease, son."

  Jones relaxed, but was obviously keen to go.

  "Give me your pack. And your automatic weapon."

  "Sir?"

  "Just do it."

  Jones handed over his pack, and his weapon. This time, Chaz saluted the private. Jones reluctantly returned the salute, but looked confused.

  "Sir, what's going on?"

  "It's over, kid. We lost."

  "I see ... so, what happens? What do we do now?"

  "Go home, boy. If you have one. Say your goodbyes. That's all any of us can do."

  Deserter

  Chaz made one more stop before hitting the motor pool. He threw the flap open on the officers' tent and went inside. There were four bunks, but his was the only one used in weeks. He dialed the lock on his foot locker, and pitched the lock. Rummaging through, he tossed his commander's log, a shave kit, and some good boots before finding the half-full bottle of whiskey. "Damn, I thought there was more." Moving to the next bunk, he used the butt of his automatic weapon to try breaking the lock. When that didn't work he just shot the lock off. Rummaging around, he found the usual clothes, boots, and letters from home. At least some of us get letters, he thought. But no booze. "Wilkins, you always were a pussy. What kind of officer goes to war without at least one bottle stashed somewhere?" He shot the other two locks off, and was rewarded for his effort. One full Jack Daniels and one bottle of dark rum. As Chaz exited the tent, he found Jones and a few others milling around. They looked like they were going to draw straws for who would check his tent for bodies.

  "Nothing to see here, boys. Just one soon-to-be-drunk soldier about to desert his platoon and start searching for ghosts."

  One of the enlisted had the nerve to speak. "Sir, you can't do that. Who's gonna be in charge?"

  "Don't really care, kids. I'm done. Arm wrestle for it if you want to, but it's a waste of time. You're all free men. For as long as you can be. Or at least for as long as you can survive. Whichever comes first."

  The men just stared, dumbfounded; even Jones had nothing to say.

  Chaz continued his walk to the motor pool. He did a quick inspection of the first Humvee in line, and jumped into the driver's seat. Sure, this thing was designed for a group of two to four, but what the hell? So, he couldn't fire the turret and drive at the same time. Shooting freaks wasn't his main concern. "Gas? Check! Guns? Check! Bullets? Check! Whiskey? Check! Time to motor!"

  With that, Chaz started the engine and headed east. He figured that before he got to Atlanta, odds were one of two things would happen. Either he'd be eaten by zombies, or court-martialed by the army. He didn't care which. The less likely third option was getting there alive, and finding his family. The first two options he understood, the third one scared the hell out of him. But that's the one he hoped for the most.

  Family Memories

  No one chased after him. Who knows what they'll do once they start believing their commanding officer just went AWOL, Sheperd thought. There would not be much chance of court-martialing him these days. That would take a higher authority, and the higher authorities seem to have their hands full. There were a few in the platoon that weren't happy with Colonel Chaz Sheperd. What those disgruntled few would do now was anyone's guess. Chaz wasn't the guessing-game sort.

  He drove towards the main road, heading north. The navigational gear in the Humvee directed him east, along the gulf coast, but after six months in the swamps fighting freaks, Chaz had seen enough green water, gators, and swamp grass for a lifetime. He was tired of damp uniforms, and the smell of brackish water. North it was. He'd follow I-50 then pick up some smaller roads east through to Montgomery, and then north again up to Atlanta. Might be worth checking the condition of Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery. An update on the current state of the military would be helpful. Some news was better than no news. Either way, Atlanta was his destination. Chaz hated big cities, but he needed information. Hightailing it through a few big cities was the best way to do that. There was always plenty of unrest everywhere. Big cities especially, even at the best of times. They'd been at war for so damn long, some group was always either protesting or blowing things up. Usually, most of the larger cities had enough muscle behind them to maintain civility. Smaller towns were more likely to fall to anarchy, and many did. Civil-minded folks gravitated to the big cities, while smaller areas attracted a more rebellious population. It worked out well. The small-town folks were fighters. They knew how to deal with freaks. The big-city folks had regular police and military forces to rely on. The further he drove, the less thought Chaz gave to the state of the country, and those in it.

  A fully loaded Humvee with a crew of four and all their mission gear could top out at fifty-five mph. Chaz roared up I-50 at seventy mph. He had plenty of gas, and at this rate, he'd make Atlanta in six hours. Six hours to think about all the things he'd screwed up in his life. He'd told himself he'd gone back to the army for a higher good. That's what he told everyone, everyone nosy enough to ask. He went to protect his country, his family, his home, and his freedom. Not necessarily in that order. That helped him sleep at night. Someone had to do it. We can't all sit at home babysitting kids or hiding behind a desk. Someone had to be responsible. These bastard freaks were chewing up his country, killing families and friends. Everyone lost someone, or knew someone that had. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't running from his family, even though that's what Abby believed. Abby's beliefs made it easier for her to divorce him. What kind of person served divorce papers to someone fighting for their country? She thought he wanted out, so it just made things easier for her. She couldn't have been more wrong. He loved his kids. He loved his wife. Was it his fault they never saw that?

  The hate and the anger he felt for those freaks had torn apart his family. Those freaks that would not die, and came back war after war. Every time it seemed like they were beaten, they'd find a way to survive. The first time
, it took almost a year, but the second time, it only took three months. They always came back, and oh how he hated them. He hated that they wouldn't just stay dead. How they mindlessly destroyed everything. And most of all, he hated how they had changed him. They showed him a darker side of himself. They taught him how to kill. They forced him to kill. Taking a life changes people. It doesn't matter if it's a squirrel, a friend, or a rapist. Nobody's born a killer. We're not just animals. Even serial killers don't start off as killers. Something, or someone made them that way. Something dark and sinister and twisted turned them down that path. It put the gun in their hand and gave them a reason to pull the trigger. That reason comes in a variety of forms. Religion, or hatred, or stupidity, or country, or even self-defense have all had their day turning innocents into killers. It doesn't really matter what the reason is. Once you've turned down that path, some part of your heart turns forever black. You'll always have a pit of hatred inside. Inside is a horrible place to store hatred. It's not natural. Love can keep it at bay, and the love of his family, his wife and his kids did that for Chaz. But when the third war started, that black pit inside got bigger. It bubbled so close to the surface, he could barely contain it. Keeping that hatred in check took all he had, and he thanked God for the loves in his life. But how long would he win that fight? How long before it found a way out? He was afraid that one day his hate would find some little unguarded path to wander down. Some path that would lead it to burst into the world. Chaz didn't know when or how, he just knew it would. So, fuck it! He joined the army again. That's where he put his hate. As long as the freaks were back, and bringing despair to the lives of good people, the hate inside of him could never sleep. Abby never understood that. She always thought it was someone else's turn to fight. "You've done your time," she would say. "Let someone else take their turn. Stay with your family." Chaz knew though, that it would always be his turn. Always his turn to fight. At least, it was, until now.