The battle, not the war.
The battle, not the war.
I couldn't get to sleep again. Again. For my whole life, I struggled with bouts of insomnia, anxiety, and all other sorts of tiny problems that most people would smirk at. I'd get fidgety, fly off the handle easily, and I had no idea why. When I was a kid, the doctors couldn't figure out why I couldn't sleep. Once a month it happened. Every month. The kids at school called me Aunt Flo. Some stupid joke about getting my period.
The day before my fifteenth birthday, my father told me that he could tell me why I have these problems. He said we were going on a trip to the mountains. He said I was going to find myself, and return to town a new man. Sadly, he was attacked by a pack of wolves when we set up camp. He died that night, and I had to find my way back home on my own. To this day, I can't figure out what he wanted to show me that night.
And now. . . I still can't get to sleep. The pale rays of the full moon peek through my window shade, illuminating me with a soft light. Thoughts race through my head. I can't even start to organize where my mind is leading me.
Oh. I almost forgot to introduce myself, dear reader. How can one read a tale, if they can't even picture a single character?
My name is Daniel Strachan; I'm 23 years old, with brown eyes and brown hair. I've got a descent muscular build. It seems like I can eat everything in sight and still not gain a pound. Due to my boyish looks, I look a lot younger than I really am, which kind of sucks. So, anyways, back to my story.
As I lay, silent, hearing every little creak and ruffle of leaves outside my window, everything seems to fall silent. Too silent. For a few seconds, all I hear is my breathing.
Not even my roommates playing their never-ending drinking game in the kitchen. Then all of the sudden, a loud CRACK from the front door. Instinctively, I throw some clothes on in the dark. As I sprint out the bedroom door, I pick up my handgun, then sprint down the hallway.
"Jesus christ, what the fuck!" Screams my roommate Jim.
"Fuckin' zombies, dude. Get a weapon or something!" I hear from Zeb as I turn the corner to the living room.
Four decaying creatures are hobbling towards my roommates, riddled with bullet-holes and slash marks. They seem to be wearing hospital smocks with numbers stamped on the breast.
Jim starts toward the kitchen knives, "I'm about to shit my pants, dude. . . get a goddamn weapon! FUCK!"
"Blunt weapons work best against the living dead, Jim. Remember?" Says Zeb.
"How can you keep your cool right now?" says jim as Zeb picks up a chair.
"Guys, get down, I got this covered!" I say as I take aim for the first of the living dead.
POP. The first shot grazes the closest creature as my roommates hit the floor. He reels back as I keep firing. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. The second zombie takes two shots in the forehead and drops limp. The first takes another in the throat that explodes out of the back of his neck. I close one eye and take aim once more. BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM! The third gets three shots to the chest, and the fourth takes one to the eye socket, as the last round hits the door behind her. She stumbles, but falls onto Jim, as he starts to stab at her. The third seems unphazed by the bullets, as he hobbles closer. I take aim again. BLAM BLAM BLAM click click. The zombie leaves a groan out as the floor rushes up to meet his liquefied brain fragments.
"Get this fuckin' thing off of me! Oh god damnit!" Jim screams as the zombie gnaws on his arm. He tries in vain to shield his face.
"I got you, buddy." Zeb yells as he smashes the chair on her back. The zombie shrugs off the hit, as if in a bloodlust trance. He tries pulling her off, but ends up getting bitten in the neck as both fall backwards.
I stride foreward to help, reaching for a piece of the broken chair, "Shit. Jim, get outta here!"
"Augh. Zeb. Fuck." Jim gasps through bloody breaths as he stabs the beast one more time, in the back of the neck.
The Zombie finally falls limp, a decayed mass of flesh, as I hear the distant sound of a helicopter. CRASH. The windows suddenly crash inward, as dark figures jump in from all angles. The figures look like commandos.
Zeb finally gets back on his feet and starts to speak, but before he can get a single sound out, he's shot. Then again. Darts! I think to myself 'what the hell?' as I feel a stinging in my back. I've been shot, too!
As my vision begins to blur, I see Jim start biting one of the dark characters in the throat. He reels backwards as he's shot multiple times by the commandos. Zeb starts groaning. The sound is familiar. . . like the groans of the other zombies. Are my friends zombies now? Were those real zombies? What is going on?
A million questions slowly dwindle to emptiness, as my vision gives way to blackness. . .
. . . Nothing.