It's About the Zombies
Excerpt from the short story I'm working on... It's about zombies. It's got language.
Consciousness came slowly. The complete blackness of an unaware mind lightening to the inky darkness of an unlit night, the complete lack of sound giving way to a dull ringing.
Jacob Hood blinked, once, twice, unaware of why the night was inky black, unaware of why he was unaware. And then the night flashed, the night boomed, and in the instant of the flash, Jacob saw and Jacob was aware.
A pair of shadows stand in the room, dark, foreboding. A body lies on the floor, but it isn’t only a body, it is Gaelan Katsarous, Jacob’s friend, but closer than a friend, a brother, his lanky body easily identifiable despite the Kevlar vest, web gear, baggy fatigues, and helmet that clothe him. And then Gaelan groans.
One shadow hisses a word to the other. A foreign word. A language Jacob doesn’t understand, but one he recognizes. Russian.
They see Jacob’s friend, Jacob’s brother, and as quick as death both pull their assault rifles to their shoulders, the stubby barrels aimed at his prone friend. There is no time to think, maybe there is no time to act, but act Jacob does.
He feels the M-16 under his body, he rolls, aiming his rifle as it comes free. The M-16’s exploding cartridges are deafening, their noisy energy magnified by the four walls, the flashing light brighter than the previous moment’s booming flash. The bullets throw the closest Russian soldier into the wall. Hard. Pictures fall, a previously unnoticed vase shatters. The soldier dies. His comrade spins to face Jacob, but Jacob is faster, the sights of his rifle settling on the dark shadow under the Russian’s helmet. Jacob squeezes the trigger and his rifle clicks, just clicks. No ammo. No time to reload, and no time left to live.
The flat crack of the 9mm pistol pierces Jacobs fear, causing him to flinch. The Russian tumbles, landing next to Jacob, clawing the hard wood floor of the West German house as if he could crawl away from the pain, leave the certainty of his imminent death, but he can’t. Another crack from the pistol explodes the Russian’s head.
“Shit, Worm! You got his fucking brains all over me.”
“Yeah,” is Gaelan’s laconic reply.
For a second neither moves. Worm pans the inky room with the barrel of the 9mm. Jacob breathes. Then the second passes. In the distance, something flashes, maybe lightning or maybe a salvo of Russian artillery shells, crumbling buildings, ripping bodies. Maybe the same battery that sent the salvo against this building. The salvo that knocked them silly, the salvo before the Russian shadows entered the room. Whatever the event, it doesn’t matter. It isn’t happening right here, it isn’t ripping their bodies.
“That’s it.” Worm whispers. “I think.”
“We hope,” nods Jacob, immediately realizing the gesture is wasted in this darkness.
Jacob stands, slips a magazine from his web gear, and snaps it into his M-16, his hand smearing Russian gore on the stock. It’s okay, Jacob thinks. Cleaning can wait. A loaded rifle can’t.
Blocks over, something explodes and a fire erupts, the glow dully illuminating the room. The light reflects off the lenses in Worm’s glasses. Something dark traces a line down his cheek. Jacob assumes it’s blood.
Worm smiles. “You look like shit, my brother.”
Jacob laughs, “You aren’t looking too good yourself.”
Worm shrugs, and holsters the pistol. A moment’s searching and he pulls his M-16 off the floor, checks the action, slaps in a new clip. He turns to the window. It’s a broad, bay-type window. Shattered now, and by the light from the burning building Jacob notices the paperback in Worm’s hip pocket. Always with the paperback, always reading. A bookworm. Worm for short.
Consciousness came slowly. The complete blackness of an unaware mind lightening to the inky darkness of an unlit night, the complete lack of sound giving way to a dull ringing.
Jacob Hood blinked, once, twice, unaware of why the night was inky black, unaware of why he was unaware. And then the night flashed, the night boomed, and in the instant of the flash, Jacob saw and Jacob was aware.
A pair of shadows stand in the room, dark, foreboding. A body lies on the floor, but it isn’t only a body, it is Gaelan Katsarous, Jacob’s friend, but closer than a friend, a brother, his lanky body easily identifiable despite the Kevlar vest, web gear, baggy fatigues, and helmet that clothe him. And then Gaelan groans.
One shadow hisses a word to the other. A foreign word. A language Jacob doesn’t understand, but one he recognizes. Russian.
They see Jacob’s friend, Jacob’s brother, and as quick as death both pull their assault rifles to their shoulders, the stubby barrels aimed at his prone friend. There is no time to think, maybe there is no time to act, but act Jacob does.
He feels the M-16 under his body, he rolls, aiming his rifle as it comes free. The M-16’s exploding cartridges are deafening, their noisy energy magnified by the four walls, the flashing light brighter than the previous moment’s booming flash. The bullets throw the closest Russian soldier into the wall. Hard. Pictures fall, a previously unnoticed vase shatters. The soldier dies. His comrade spins to face Jacob, but Jacob is faster, the sights of his rifle settling on the dark shadow under the Russian’s helmet. Jacob squeezes the trigger and his rifle clicks, just clicks. No ammo. No time to reload, and no time left to live.
The flat crack of the 9mm pistol pierces Jacobs fear, causing him to flinch. The Russian tumbles, landing next to Jacob, clawing the hard wood floor of the West German house as if he could crawl away from the pain, leave the certainty of his imminent death, but he can’t. Another crack from the pistol explodes the Russian’s head.
“Shit, Worm! You got his fucking brains all over me.”
“Yeah,” is Gaelan’s laconic reply.
For a second neither moves. Worm pans the inky room with the barrel of the 9mm. Jacob breathes. Then the second passes. In the distance, something flashes, maybe lightning or maybe a salvo of Russian artillery shells, crumbling buildings, ripping bodies. Maybe the same battery that sent the salvo against this building. The salvo that knocked them silly, the salvo before the Russian shadows entered the room. Whatever the event, it doesn’t matter. It isn’t happening right here, it isn’t ripping their bodies.
“That’s it.” Worm whispers. “I think.”
“We hope,” nods Jacob, immediately realizing the gesture is wasted in this darkness.
Jacob stands, slips a magazine from his web gear, and snaps it into his M-16, his hand smearing Russian gore on the stock. It’s okay, Jacob thinks. Cleaning can wait. A loaded rifle can’t.
Blocks over, something explodes and a fire erupts, the glow dully illuminating the room. The light reflects off the lenses in Worm’s glasses. Something dark traces a line down his cheek. Jacob assumes it’s blood.
Worm smiles. “You look like shit, my brother.”
Jacob laughs, “You aren’t looking too good yourself.”
Worm shrugs, and holsters the pistol. A moment’s searching and he pulls his M-16 off the floor, checks the action, slaps in a new clip. He turns to the window. It’s a broad, bay-type window. Shattered now, and by the light from the burning building Jacob notices the paperback in Worm’s hip pocket. Always with the paperback, always reading. A bookworm. Worm for short.
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