Bowie V. Ibarra's Blog, page 9

ZOMBIES: 'We're Alive' Fan Fiction - Chapter 7E. “…far beneath the bitter snow/lies the seed…”

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“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast  
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
7E.  “…far beneath the bitter snow/lies the seed…”
            A day after she retired, Shirley told Burt like she promised herself she would a week before.  She made the promise to tell him the day she returned from work after the shooting.  Burt knew the reason she retired went deeper than just the incident at Washington and La Brea.  He had not seen the kind of pain that laced her face since the day her ex-boyfriend had insulted her publicly at the shooting competition.            Burt wanted to know, but he respected her word.            In the meantime, he showered her with love, alcohol, flowers, chocolates, alcohol, special baths, foot rubs, more alcohol.  Anything he could provide to her as a loving husband, he did.            And with every sweet gesture, a series of bitter tears fell from her eyes.
=  =  =  =  =  =
            Some people say bad news comes in threes.  Shirley and Burt could agree to that old saying if asked.            The second bit of bad news was that the boy’s family was suing the county for the boy’s death.  Though the county had their defenders, they advised Shirley to get one of her own.  Mike as well.            Burt and Shirley were not going to lose their business to finance the legal battle, so they sold their house and moved into an apartment in Montebello near the store.            Then the third bit of bad news arrived.            After prompting by Shirley, Burt went for a check up.            Burt found out he was pre-diabetic.  It wasn’t as serious as Shirley’s health issue, but it needed to be addressed.  They were thankful to discover it, but it was not what they wanted to hear at all.            The good news was if he ate well and worked out, he wouldn’t have to be put on meds.            Burt considered the facts.
            Shirley needed treatment.  She needed preparation, and did just that, both emotionally and spiritually.Then, chemotherapy.            Then, more chemotherapy.            Then, even more chemotherapy.            Before long, all Shirley could do was sit in a chair and watch TV.  Burt was having to help her with many of her most basic needs.  But it didn’t matter to him.  He loved her.  He would take care of her for as long as he needed to.            One night, after a particularly rough session of chemotherapy, Burt lay beside Shirley in bed.  Her face had sunken, looking almost skeletal.  Her beauty was gone.  Even the sparkle of her eyes had faded.  He knew he would soon have to say goodbye, even though he didn’t want to.  Shirley was living.  But at the same time, she was already dead.            “You don’t have to lay here with me tonight, Burt,” she said.  Every word was an effort.  “It’s only six.  I know you can still do things if you want to.”            “This is where I want to be,” he replied, sweetly.            Shirley smiled.  “Sweet ‘Satchmo’.”            “You’re not going to suffer alone, beautiful,” said Burt.  “I’m going to go get a bag of Ho-Ho’s, Twinkies, powdered doughnuts, just a bag of sugar and go into a diabetic coma with you.”            Shirley laughed.  It was a sad laugh, revealing the depth of destruction the chemo had taken on her body and soul.  Even the joyful effort of laughing was too much for her, the same laugh that now danced in Burt’s dreams.  Her mouth opened, her lips curled up, and a slight sound resembling a laugh emanated like a muffled cry.  Her stomach rose up and down as if trying to laugh, to push enough air to make it happen.  But it was nothing more than just a remnant of her faltering humanity, a clock whose gears were still turning, but whose hands were broken, losing complete track of time.            “Don’t be a dumbass, Burt,” she said.  “No.  You’re going to live.”            “I don’t want to… live without you.”            Shirley smiled.  Her heart leapt, rattling what was left of her soul with love.  She would have cried, but she was out of tears.              “But you’re going to anyway, Burt.  You are.” Her skeletal hand reached for his.  He took it in his healthy hand.  The once strong hand of Shirley’s felt dead in his.            “I’ll be dead without you anyway, Shirley.  I’ll have nothing.  I’ll be a dead man walking in the world of the living.”            “Burt, you’re being melodramatic.  Now stop… stop it.”            Burt was stressing her out.  He could tell.  He needed to calm her down, help her relax.            Her eye finally found a tear and let it fall down her cheek.  Burt wiped it away.            “Shirley, I promise I will live my life when you leave.  I’ll take care of our store.”            “My store,” she said, smiling.  “You better, old man.  You need to live today, now.  We’re alive, Burt.  We’re alive.  All we have is now.”            “We are,” said Burt.  “We’re alive.”            “You know what I want right now?” said Shirley.            “L’Amour Whiskey and Pepsi?”
            Shirley smiled.  “No, you old fool.  You remember the first time we met?”            “At the gun shop,” said Burt with a smile.  He never forgot that day.            “And I said you sounded like Louie Armstrong.”            “I sound like The Humungous,” he replied.  His eyes were watering as he recalled the day.            “I want you to sing ‘What a Wonderful World’ to me.”            “I don’t know all the words,” he said.              “I’ll sing it with you,” she said, smiling.            Burt sighed.  There was no way he could stop his tears from falling into his beard.  They raced down his cheek into his whiskers.            Before he could wipe them away, Shirley said, “ No!”            With effort, she lifted her skeletal hand to his cheeks.  With the slow grace of an angel, she wiped them both away.            Now,” said Shirley.  “Stop being a pussy and sing with me.”            Burt chuckled through his tears.  “Okay,” he said.            Clearing his voice, he held up a hand.  He looked into Shirley’s eyes.  Neither of them had to say a word in that sacred moment.  Their eyes said those three words humans long to hear, sending the sentiment straight to their souls.            And with a nod, Burt dropped his finger, starting the song together.  Both of them could hear the music in their heads.  Their hearts were playing the instruments.  Their souls began to sing.            I see trees of green….

That night, Shirley had a dream.  It was a bad dream.            She woke up crying.            “Shirley,” said Burt, drowsy, but awake.  “Shirley, what’s wrong?” he said with concern.            “Hold me, Burt,” she whimpered.  She slowly raised her skeletal arms into the air, waiting for Burt’s embrace.            Burt gently pulled Shirley into his arms.  He kissed her forehead.            “What’s wrong, Shirley Rae?” he whispered.            “I had a dream I was covered in dirt.  I couldn’t breathe or move.  But I climbed out into the street.  People were walking all around me.  They wouldn’t look at me.  They scared me.  And then I saw you.”            She stopped to wipe a tear away.            “You were holding a rose, and you were walking to me, but we didn’t get any closer.  I called to you, but I had no voice.  You were pulling… pulling away.  But I was, too.  The people crowded around me and I couldn’t see you anymore.”            Shirley began to weep.  “I just wanted to see you again.”            Burt held Shirley in his arms.  His warmth melted her cold.            “I don’t want to go to sleep, Burt,” she whimpered.  “Please.  I don’t want to go to sleep.”                        A week later, Shirley Rae Scott died.
            They played ‘What a Wonderful World’ at her burial.
=====
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.

ZOMBIES: 'We're Alive' Fan Fiction - Chapter 7D - Winter of Bitterness

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“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast  
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA

7D.  WINTER OF BITTERNESS
            Years pass.            Burt and Shirley grow in love together, working through lows and riding highs.            Burt and Shirley prosper with their gun store, ‘Locked and Loaded’.            Burt and Shirley hold each other tight on the couch every night.  All they want, all they know that will happen to them, is to grow old together.            That’s all they can see when they think of their future together.            Shirley lets her bottled black hair show hints of gray.            Burt’s beard completely transitions to white.            They drink together.  They drink a lottogether.  Together.            Their love is at its peak.  Their commitment will never die.            And as the years pass, adding to their perfect love and sweet financial prosperity, all they still know, all they still can see, is that they will grow old together.            It’s all they can see.            What they can’t see is the vile harbinger of doom growing rapidly inside Shirley’s body.  They can’t see it.  So they live.  They laugh.  They love.            It was supposed to be a yearly checkup like previous checkups.  Shirley was supposed to go in, get a clear bill of health like always, and go on.  It was not supposed to end like this.            The doctor found the malady.  After checking and double-checking, it was cancer.            The doctor told Shirley and watched her smile fade.            The doctor patted Shirley on the back as she shed cruel tears.            This was not how the day was supposed to go.

            “I don’t know if I can do this anymore, Mike.”            “What do you mean?”            “I guess I mean I really don’t have to do this anymore.”            Shirley was talking to Deputy Mike Guerra over her cell phone as they drove in their individual patrol cars to a call.            “You have to stay in one more year to get your full retirement benefits, Shirley.  You can’t get out now.”            I don’t have a year, she thought.            “The shop is doing really good.  Burt’s kept the city off our ass by giving to city charities in the name of the shop.  I just… I don’t have to put myself on the line anymore.”            “You’re good at what you do, Shirley.  Weneed you.  The county needs you.”            “But I don’t need them anymore, Mike.  I don’t.”            “What about me?  Won’t you miss me?  I’ll miss you.”            “Stop it, Mike.”            “You know I’ve always been sweet on you, Shirley.”            Shirley blushed.  “You need to stop it, Mike.  You’re my friend.”            “What about that night in Long Beach?”            “Mike, that was over ten years ago, when I was still with Greg.”            “What was that?”            “An escape with a friend, Mike.  Now stop it.  I’m with Burt now.  He’s my husband.”            There was a moment of awkward silence before Mike spoke again.            “I have to say I’m jealous.  But I admit, Burt’s the best guy I’ve known you to date.”            “And marry, Mike.  We’re married.”  She paused.  “And so are you.  You know, Mrs. Guerra back home?  Your family?”            Shirley could hear Mike huff in frustration on the other end of the line.            “You’re right, Shirley.”            “I’m your friend, Mike,” she said.  “Please, be mine.”            The conversation cooled off as they pulled into the scene at Washington and La Brea, just west of downtown Los Angeles north of Santa Monica freeway.  They parked their cars in the parking lot near a taco stand where the disturbance was reported.  As the law enforcement team pulled up, a small group of Mexican nationals scattered as inconspicuously as they could.  Shirley and Mike walked together as a team to the taco stand.            “I hate this shit,” said Mike.            “What?” asked Shirley.            “My Spanish is shit,” he said.            “I got it,” said Shirley.            The music from a Spanish radio station played loudly over an old soundsystem.  Accordions and percussion could be heard over lively lyrics.  A billboard featuring every item that could be ordered was placed over the front desk.  It was all clearly painted by hand.  A spot of graffiti lined the front of the taco stand.            “You better get this,” said Mike.            An old lady approached them as they arrived.  She was visibly upset.            “Gracias a Dios,” the old lady said, relieved.            “Buenos noches, senora,” said Shirley, greeting her.  “Usted es Octavia Jimenez?”            “Si.”            “Que paso, senora?”            Tears of relief were wiped from her eyes as she described what happened.            “Seis jovenes se peliaron con mi hijo.  Y se fuen aya,” she said, pointing to a nearby alley where the boys she claimed assaulted her son ran off to.            Shirley and Mike turned to where she indicated the perpetrators had run.            “What did she say?” asked Mike.            “Some kids beat up her son and ran to that alley.”            “What’s the next move?”            Shirley groaned, considering her choices.  It would be dangerous to follow the kids into the alley.  It was just the kind of thing she was complaining about earlier, the kind of thing she didn’t want to risk anymore.  But she wanted to help the old lady.            “Let’s check out the alley before we ask her son some questions,” said Shirley.  “They might still be there.”            Turning back to the old lady, Shirley said, “Vamos a ver, senora.  Regresamos in un momentito.”             “Gracias,” said the old lady gratefully as Mike followed Shirley to the alley.            “Little dangerous, don’t you think?” he joked.            “Yeah,” Shirley replied.  “But it’s our job to do right by the lady.”            The deputies placed their hands on their weapons, prepared to draw them, and turned the corner.  Nothing was in their sight line, but there were two large dumpsters blocking their view.  One was on each side of the alleyway.            “What do you think?” Mike asked, trying to get Shirley to change her mind.            “We’re committed now, Mike.  Let’s just walk to the end and back, see what we can see.”            “Okay,” groaned Mike.            The first dumpster was only a few yards away.  They would be able to see the other side of it in mere moments.            “This isn’t a good idea,” he said.  “They’re going to panic with us sneaking up on them.”            “Just relax, Mike,” she said.  “We need the element of surprise.”            “Okay, Shirley Tzu, Art of War,” joked Mike.            The two deputies slowed down, creeping slowly to the blind spot behind the large dumpster.  The funk from the massive trash bins hit their noses, the rotting smell of sun-roasted waste caking the interior and exterior walls of the bins for years.  The odor danced in their noses as their hearts beat in their chest.            They secured their hands on their individual sidearms.            Shirley turned the corner.            Old trash and an aluminum can sat against the wall near the corner of the dumpster.            No sign of the juvenile delinquents.            Shirley sighed with relief in spite of the malodorous garbage.            “Nothing here,” he said.  “Let’s go back.”            A side of her did want to leave.  In fact, for one moment, she was ready to turn around and leave.  Something inside of her was telling her she needed to.  Woman’s intuition, perhaps.  She suddenly became more fearful, but still felt like she had a job to do.            “Let’s check that other dumpster and get out of here,” she said.              “Okay,” said Mike, also relieved.  It seemed clear the kids had probably left the scene of the crime out of the other end of the alley.  But they would know for sure after looking behind the next dumpster.            “So, you’re really going to retire?” asked Mike, slowly walking behind Shirley.            “Yes, sir.”            “Why?”            “Dumb shit like this,” she said.  “I just don’t want to put myself in harm’s way anymore.”            “Lost its luster, huh?”            “What luster?” asked Shirley.  Deputy Mike was more relaxed than before.  But Shirley was even more tense than before.            “Just a weird change of heart,” said Mike as they crept closer to the second dumpster.            Shirley considered confiding in Mike in that moment.  Her friend should know about what she knew about her own health.  Her days were numbered.  But Burt should know first before anyone else.  Her Burt.              “We’re alive, Mike.  That’s all.  I just want to live,” she whispered.            “So live,” he said as they edged toward the blind spot behind the dumpster.  The familiar funk of fecal matter hit their nose.            Diaper genie, thought Shirley to herself as she turned the corner of the trash bin.            Mike and Shirley were greeted by a large rat that walked right in front of them.  It scooted by up against the wall with an arrogant indifference.             But there were no perps.            “Damn,” said Mike.  “Is that a puppy?”            Shirley chuckled in relief.  “No shit,” she said.  “Let’s get out of here.”            “What is that smell with the baby caca?” asked Mike.            “Potpourri?” chuckled Shirley.            “Potpourri-smelling caca,” said Mike.  “Better than caca-smelling caca I guess.”            They had a laugh as they began walking back to the taco stand when a group of teens ran into the alley.  The deputies heard them and turned around.            The teens stopped in their tracks.            A beat passed.  An OK Corral moment.  This was not meant to be a standoff.  But in a charged second, that’s exactly what it became.             “Hold it!” shouted Mike, putting up one hand and placing his other hand on his piece.            Shirley did exactly the same thing, shouting, “Don’t move, boys.”            Four of the boys stopped dead in their tracks.  One even threw his hands up in the air.            But one of the boys was too surprised to comply.  Too scared.  Too guilty.            The boy, no more than fifteen, reached for the front of his pants.  The instinctive move suddenly made the situation an old west shootout.  It was a bad move.            “No!” shouted Shirley and Mike at the same time.  They both drew their weapons, also at the same time as the boy.            It was fast, but the boy had a full few millionths of a second on the two deputies.  He pulled out his gun first and committed to aiming at one of them.            Shirley could feel the weight of her pistol as she drew it from its holster.  All she could do was focus on the boy.  She wanted her gun up so much faster.  It was as if a strong piece of elastic, like a thick rubber band, was pulling against her movement, adding tension where there shouldn’t be tension.  It all felt so slow.  There was nothing else in the world in this moment.  Her mind, realizing death was close, focused all her concentration on the boy.  Complete and total tunnel vision.            She could see the boy leveling his gun as she raised hers.  White smoke coughed violently out of the boy’s Glock, split by orange fire.  And for a moment, she could almost see the round flying out of the gun.            This is it, she thought to herself as she pulled her weapon’s trigger.  Her bullet was sent through the air at its target.  She would not miss.            But neither did the boy.            As she discharged her weapon, the boy’s round struck her square in the chest.  It hit right up against her flak jacket, and it made her stumble.            As she fell, she watched the boy fall as well.  The other boys had already jumped away from their foolish partner in crime as he was hit by another bullet.            Then three more shots were fired.  One came from the boy’s pistol.  The other two came from Mike.  Both his rounds punched their way through the boy.            “Don’t move!” shouted Mike at the other boys.  They remained stone-still where they were.  Shirley began to feel the pain in her chest.  She ran her hand across the bullet hole in her uniform.  She felt for blood, but there was none.  Only a severe divot in the body armor.            I can’t do this anymore, she thought to herself.            She thought of Burt.  His smile.  His sweet embrace.  His gruff voice.  His love.            Shirley never wanted to lose it.  She knew she would, though, sooner than she ever expected.  The clock was already ticking for her, and Burt didn’t even know.            For a moment, she felt bad for the dead boy.  What made him think he could win a shootout with cops?  It was a dumb move.  But Shirley knew it was a dumb choice to walk into the alley in the first place.            All Shirley wanted right now, lying on the ground, was to feel Burt’s embrace again.            First, she needed to pull herself together.  She had a job to do.            I can’t do this anymore, she thought to herself again as she rose to her feet.  The pain in her chest was going to have to wait.            She rejoined her partner.


            A week later, Shirley retired from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.
=====
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.

ZOMBIES: "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - 7C - Summer of Joy

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“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast  
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
7C.  SUMMER OF JOY
The proverbial sandsPass through theHourglass…
            It took four months to coordinate a simple marriage with the Justice of the Peace in the LA county courthouse.  Since Burt’s mom died in ’96, and he hadn’t heard hide or hair from his father for decades, it was just Shirley’s family on hand for the ceremony.            They bought a house in Monterey Park.  After the many years of military service, Burt was just fine with transitioning to domestic life.  In fact, old friends were so surprised to see him soften so much, they thought it was some kind of rib.            Flowers, sweet notes, even serenades.  And, naturally, he sang Louis Armstrong songs.            Then there was that sacred and special night, when he shared his beloved ‘Road Warrior’ movie.  With popcorn and drinks in hand, they watched as the title shot of the movie hit the television screen in iron gray letters before the narrator provided the prologue.            Immediately, she identified with Warrior Woman.  Burt smiled.  And though she knew Wez was a bad guy and enjoyed the company of men, she was still turned on by his sex appeal.            She turned to Burt.  “Would you cut your hair into a Mohawk if the world ended?” she teased.            “When you and I are taking on the raiders of the wasteland at the end of the world, I’ll do it,” he said.            They kissed.            And when Warrior Woman died, Shirley shed a tear.
            “Would you do me a favor?” asked Burt.            “Anything,” replied Shirley.            She meant it, too.  And the cryptic way Burt asked the question made her ready to do it.            “What do you want, Burt?”            “I want you to come with me to Culver City.”            “Culver City?  Why?”            “I want you to come visit my mom with me.”            “Oh,” said Shirley.  She knew the circumstances, but didn’t realize Burt had never visited her final resting place.             So the couple took the afternoon to drive to Culver City.  On the trip, Burt shared old stories he remembered about his mother.  And though he told her what happened the last time they ever spoke to each other, the conversation centered mostly on the good that she did in her life, the kind of mother she was to him, and the wife she was to his dad before he walked out on them.
            They pulled into the cemetery on a cool September afternoon.            “Do you even know where it is?”            “I have an idea,” said Burt.  “My Uncle Oscar told me about where she’s located.”            Burt drove to the back of the cemetery and parked the car.  They both got out of the car, and Shirley followed Burt’s lead.            They walked up and down several rows of stone markers.  The names and the years they lived where haunting reminders of their mortality.  Though Shirley knew how Marsha had died, she wondered how the others had passed on.            The both couldn’t help but do the math in their heads as they saw the span of years marked on the tombstones.            ‘31.            ‘55.            ‘67.            ‘80.            ‘18.            ‘22.            Some of the names were classic, names not used in this day and age.            Agnes.            Franklin.            Eustis.            Agatha.            Obidiah.            Zibeon.            Ignacio.            After a short walk, hand in hand, they found it.  Burt inhaled, a subtle gasp.  It was as if all these years he had denied her death.  But the proof was now standing in front of him.            The marker read:                        Marsha Leah Scott            March 2, 1926 – August 24, 1997            Rest in Peace
            “I think my Uncle Oscar did it for her,” said Burt.  “She didn’t have any other family.”            Shirley nodded respectfully.            Burt just stared at the stone.            The wind picked up and gently caressed them.  Goosebumps rose on both their arms.            “You know, sometimes I think she’s watching me,” said Burt.  “Like when I’m not feeling good, or something upsets me.  Sometimes I feel this embrace, like something hugging me I can’t see.  I think of her.”            Shirley took his hand again.   Burt accepted it, and they stood together over the gravesite.            “You know, I know it was a bad way to … the last time we spoke was … didn’t end well.  And I always regret that.  I was young.  I never thought she would die.  Not like she did.  I should have known better, though.  But I didn’t.”            Burt knelt by the grave.            “Mom, it’s your son, Burt.  I know you probably can’t hear me, but I want you to know I’m still sorry.  I still love you.  And I miss you.”            Then he stood up.  “Shit.  I don’t have any flowers or anything.”            “Wait just a minute,” said Shirley, who took off trotting to several rows of cemetery marks away.  She bent down and plucked a few plastic roses from a grave and returned to Burt.            Burt chuckled.  “Goddamn, Shirley,” he said, smiling.  “That’s why I married you.”            She handed the flowers to Burt, who bent down to plant them in the ground near her marker.  The metal wires slid into the ground with ease and he stood back up.            “This is Shirley, mom.  I found a girl after all.  She’s great,” said Burt.            “Hello, Ms. Scott,” said Shirley, playing along.  “You’re son has told me a lot about you.  You raised a good son.”            Burt smiled, bringing on a respectful silence.  He nodded his head, keeping himself together.  Too much time had passed to make a scene, and he found the closure he had waited so long for.            Shirley felt Burt’s tension, and leaned in and gave him a hug.  Burt held Shirley close.            He was thankful for his mother, and even more thankful to have Shirley in his life.
            “Don’t peek.”            “I’m not peeking.”            Burt playfully held his hands over Shirley’s eyes as he guided her into the kitchen.            “Don’t peek,” he said again.  It was more of a tease than an actual command.  His smile could be heard, as the words floating to Shirley’s ears were peppered with enthusiasm.            “I’m not peeking,” she repeated.  Her voice became light and joyful as her heart connected with Burt’s energy.  She knew she must be somewhere near the kitchen table.            Burt moved his hands from her eyes.  “Surprise,” he said.            Shirley looked at the table.            A single rose stood tall in a slender glass vase.  At the foot of the vase was a heavy sealed tube and a bottle of L’Amour Whiskey.            “Great,” said Shirley with sarcasm.  “I get a bottle of whiskey with a rose and industrial sized paper towel tube?”            Burt let out a hearty laugh.  Shirley was spunky.  “Open it, you knucklehead.”            Shirley reached for the tube.  A bit surprised at its weight, she opened it.  Inside was a long sheet of paper that was rolled up.  She pulled it from the tube.            “Shit, ‘Satchmo’,” she said with excitement, smiling.  “Is this what I think it is?”            “Well, see for yourself,” said Burt, beaming.            Shirley unrolled the paper, revealing it as a blueprint.            “Oh, my fucking God, Burt,” she whispered before gasping.  She put her hands to her smiling mouth.  “It’s the blueprint for ‘Locked and Loaded’.”            “Happy birthday, baby,” he said, reaching in to kiss her cheek.            “But, I thought we didn’t have the money?”            “We’ve always had the money.  A little white lie.  I wanted to surprise you.”            “You big jerk,” she said, punching Burt in the arm before taking him into an embrace.  “I love you so much.”            “I talked to the bank.  We’re completely financed.  My buddies have put together the materials.  ‘Locked and Loaded’ is scheduled to open in three months from today.  Ground breaking is today at five.”            Shirley smiled.  Tears of joy fell down her cheeks.  “You’re the greatest, Burt,” she said.            They kissed.

FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.

ZOMBIES: "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - CHAPTER 7B - The Springtime of Love

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“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast  
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
7B.  THE SPRINGTIME OF LOVE
THREE MONTHS LATER
            It was a long day at work, but productive.  When customers weren’t in the store, and after Burt had made sure all his daily duties were completed, he worked on his business plan.  The possibilities of running his own gun shop made him happy, and he knew he could pull off financing and running the new store.            Burt was taking a few minutes to wipe down the glass display cases as the clock tick-tocked to the 8 o’clock hour when the front door of the store ding-donged with digital dullness.            Burt looked up and was surprised to see who it was.            “Shirley,” he said, smiling.  His heart skipped a beat.  “Come in to rub your big victory in my face?”            Though she was clearly crestfallen, she had enough in her for one of her signature sexy comebacks.  “I’d rather rub something else on your face, ‘Satchmo’.”            In spite of the comeback, Burt could tell she was sad.  He put his cleaning implements down and walked to Shirley.  He offered a hand, but she took him in an embrace instead.            “Just hold me for a minute, you big lug,” she whispered.            It was a peculiar gesture, but much welcomed.  He felt her soft, feminine body against his.  It was quite a jolt, as he hadn’t held a woman like this in years.            “What’s going on here, Shirley?” he asked.            “I need a drink.  Need to talk,” she sighed.  “I want to have a drink and talk to you.”            Something big happened.  He didn’t want to ask any questions, at least right now.  But Burt was more than happy to oblige her request.            “Let me lock up.  I know a little dive just a few blocks from here.”            She nodded her head.  She smiled.            He smiled.                        Shirley wasn’t playing around we she said she needed a drink.            Burt and Shirley had not been in the bar more than ten minutes and Shirley had already taken two well tequila shots (the well tequila was called Julio Lentes), and was now working on a well whiskey-based Manhattan (the well whiskey was L’Amour).            “I was on the other side of town near Pomona when I got the news,” she said, taking a long swig.  “They said he was putting a perp in the back of a squad car when the perp’s girlfriend, this crazy bitch who had been shouting… talking shit to him the whole time, pulled a gun and shot him in the head.  Bitch knew he was wearing a vest.”            Shirley took yet another drink, almost finishing the cocktail she hadn’t had for more than ten minutes.  Burt took a swig with her from his drink.  He wasn’t nursing his Jim Beam on the rocks (easy rocks), but wasn’t drinking as fast as Shirley.            “They wouldn’t let me see him at the morgue.  It was a closed casket funeral.”  She was fighting back tears.  Burt held up two fingers to the bartender with one hand while pointing at the two empty shot glasses of tequila with the other.            “I have to admit…”  Then she paused.  Burt could sense the advent of an emotional purge about to begin.  He prepped himself, because he knew he was right.            “I have to admit,” she said again, trying again to say the words without crying to no avail.  She closed her eyes tight, and her face began to grimace with repressed sadness.  Tears began to fall from her eyes, squeezed out and rolling down her cheeks.  Eye shadow laced the tears in black, as if a dark tumor on her soul had been squashed like an orange.  Her body was cleansing itself of its negative power through her tears, the blood of the monkey on her back that had died when Greg had died.  She was Atlas unburdened.  The transition was painful, but liberating.            All of it, everything she was holding back, was finally going to come out.            “I have to… admit that I’m glad the bastard is dead,” she finally said, laughing through her tears.  “I’m so glad he’s dead,” she chuckled again.  It was a true, real release.  Pure joy.  Burt could feel it.  “Oh, my God, I’m glad he’s dead.”            She lifted the remains of her Manhattan and chugged the rest.            “Atta girl,” chuckled Burt as the bartender brought over two more shots of the cheap tequila, dressed just as before with salt and a lime.            “You don’t know how good it was to say that,” said Shirley, wiping away the tears.  “Shit.  My mascara’s running.”            “Don’t worry about it,” said Burt, handing her a cocktail napkin.            Shirley began to wipe the black streaks off her cheeks, the purged abscess of her soul.  She said, “My two kids hated him.  They stopped coming to the house when I started dating him.”            “Kids?” asked Burt.            “Two girls.  They’re all grown now and married.  One’s in Sacramento.  The other is in Fremont.  It meant so much when they would come visit.  Now,” she chuckled, “I guess they’ll start coming back.”  She began to chuckle, then whimper again.  She leaned in to Burt for an embrace.  He was more than happy to take her into his arms.  He could smell cigarette smoke in her hair.            Burt gently stroked her back, patting it every so often.  Her hands gently stroked his back with appreciative affection before gripping him tighter.  Then, they both released their embrace.            “You were not happy, were you?” said Burt.            “At first, yes.  But that shit stopped quick.”  She paused.  “He abused me, Burt.  Physically.  Sex.. sexually.  He was a total jerk.”            “I’m sorry,” said Burt, handing her the tequila shot and taking his.            “You know,” she mused, “I’m glad it was closed casket.  Because if it was open, I would have spit in that fucker’s face.”            She hoisted the glass.            “What are you toasting to?” asked Burt.            “A toast to new friends, and to the devil.  May he cook that sonovabitch and fuck him in the ass for all eternity.”            Burt smiled, raising the glass.  “Atta girl,” he whispered.            The glasses clinked as if casting the curse they placed on Greg’s dead soul.  They licked the salt off the rim, took the shot, and squeezed the lime in their mouth to complete the social hex.            “Another Manhattan, another Jim on the rocks, easy rocks, and two more shots,” said Burt.
            “Oh, my God.  Whose idea was this?” chuckled Shirley.            “This idea was yours, young lady,” said Burt, also running out of breath.  “All yours.”            “It wasn’t my idea,” she said, smiling.            “Don’t throw this misadventure on me, kitten.  No, no, no,” he replied.            They were only a few yards from the large, white, and iconic ‘Hollywood’ sign, having climbed up the hill for the past few minutes.            “Are we going to get in trouble?” asked Burt.            “Maybe,” said Shirley, taking a seat on a patch of ground.  Burt joined her.            “The last thing I ever thought I’d be doing after work on a Tuesday night is sitting under the Hollywoood sign, drunk, carrying a .45 Colt.”            “My.45 Colt,” said Shirley.  “And me, the same, with a bottle of Jim.”
            “Mybottle of Jim,” said Burt.  They chuckled, looking over the sprawling L.A. county.  The lights of the city burned with energy like a Pentium processor chip in a super computer, sizzling with life.            The L.A. night buzzed below them as they sat on the quiet hillside.  The sweet wind of the California night gently cooled them down.            “What is it about life that makes it such a roller coaster?” asked Shirley, taking out a pack of Marlboro Lights.  She removed a cigarette for herself.  She offered Burt one.  He waved her off.            “Who knows?” he said.  “God, maybe.”  Burt spun the cap off the bottle of Jim Beam and took a swig.  He passed it to Shirley, who took a swig herself.            “You know, if it wasn’t such a roller coaster, who’d want to live it?”            “Some people don’t make it,” she replied.  There was an awkward silence as they both reflected on Greg.            “The end of the world comes quick for some, huh?” said Shirley, breaking the silence.            Burt tried to change the subject.  “What is the end of the world?” he asked.  “Sure, individual death.  But what about the world?  The end times?  What is it?”            “Plague,” thought Shirley.  “War.  Anything.  I see the world ending by some kind of plague.”  She gazed off into the distance, as if hypnotized by the thought and the sparkling LA night.  “Everyone just dying.  The world leaders finally coming together, but its too late.  Everyone just dies.”            Burt took a moment, then blurted out, “Did I ever tell you I wanted to have a gun shop of my own?”            “Are you serious?” said Shirley.            “Absolutely dead serious.  Just like the place I’m working at now, but named ‘The Armory’.”            “That’s such a dumb name.”            “What?” asked Burt.  “The Armory is not a dumb name.”            “You need to call it something cool.  Something gun lovers will enjoy saying or telling their friends about.”            “Okay, Miss Business Smarty-Pants.  What should the name be?”            “Locked and Loaded,” she replied with confindence.            “Locked and Loaded?” whispered Burt.  “Locked and Loaded.”            “Locked and Loaded,” said Shirley, nodding.            “You know what?” said Burt.  “I like it.  Locked and Loaded it is.”            “See, I told you there were better names.”            Burt looked at her quizzically.  “How did you come up with that name?”            “Because I’ve always wanted a gun shop of my own, too,” she said.  “That’s the name I would call it if I had one.”            “Really?”            “Really.”            The two shared a smile, then looked back out across the sizzling city lightscape.            Silence.  All that danced between them was the gentle breeze of the night.            “You know,” said Shirley, breaking the silence yet again.  “You didn’t have to throw the competition.”            Burt blushed.  “I didn’t throw the … are you saying I took a fall?”            “You didn’t have to take a fall for me.”            Burt explained.  “I made a shot.  A good shot.”            “One you knew I could beat,” she said.  “You didn’t have to take the fall.”            Burt turned and looked Shirley in the eye.  “I didn’t have to fall for you, either.  But I did.”            Shirley blushed.  A moment shocked them with heat.  Part alcohol.  Part fire that had been burning in their hearts since that first day they met at the gun shop.            Breaking the tension and the gaze, Shirley looked over at a cactus in the distance.  “One shot.  That cactus flower.  Winner take all.”            Shirley pulled out her pistol.  She took aim.            She fired.            She missed.            Burt smiled.  He pulled out his piece.  He took aim.            He fired.            The flower was summarily removed.            Turning to Shirley, Burt said, “You didn’t have to take the fall.”            “I didn’t have to fall for you, either,” she said, leaning into Burt.  “But I did.”            And with that, Burt leaned in.  He might not have had the company of a woman for many years.  But he was man enough to know when a woman wanted knowledge of him.  And he was man enough to satisfy the request.
            Their lips met for the first time under the lascivious gaze of the white hot letters of Hollywood.
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.

ZOMBIES: 'We're Alive' Fan Fiction - Chapter 7A - SHIRLEY RAE

Here's the lowdown.
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“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast  
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA7A.  SHIRLEY RAE
            The hardy post-apocalyptic survivors made a break for it.  Led by Max in the 18-wheeler, the rolling juggernaut was decked with barbed wire defenses and offensive positions.  It was made complete with a reinforced cattle guard welded to the front with parts that had been jacked from a bulldozer left inside the now-abandoned oil refinery.  Max and the tanker were assisted by a blocking vehicle driven by the wounded Papagallo.  It always reminded Burt of the movie ‘Smokey and the Bandit’.            The Gyro-Captain took to the skies as well.  The aerial assault potential was the only advantage the survivors had over the numerous marauders led by The Humungous and his right hand man, the Mohawk-wearing, muscular, and leather-clad Wez.            As Max raced his vehicle out of the compound, The Humungous opened fire with the five remaining bullets of a .44 Magnum.            Just walk away, thought Burt.            As Humungous pulled the trigger and fired at the rig Max was driving, gunfire erupted yet again from the parking lot outside Burt’s apartment.  The multiple pops of the firearms reminded Burt of war.  That started to put him on edge even more.  Initially, the fire he heard was not uncommon for this part of town.  But the fact that he started to hear more became unsettling.  Because now the shots were very different.  Only minutes before, the shots signaled a mugging, murder in the mayhem and madness.  The sounds that were dancing around outside signaled a legitimate gunfight.            “Goddamn animals,” he grunted.  “Animals, all of them.”            There’s no way in hell I’m going out there, he thought.            Considering the escalating mayhem outside, he was not going to take the time to look out the window.  He already had an idea of what was going on.  Things were falling apart outside, a symptom of those damn riots.            “Just stay in here, Burt,” he whispered to himself.  “It’s the lawdogs’ fight now.  Not yours.”            His belly grumbled, but his heart pounded an old familiar song against his chest.  It was the same music that played when he was in combat.  Its lyrics pleaded for caution.  The chorus demanded preparation.            Burt walked to the kitchen and opened a can of dry-roasted peanuts.  He tossed a few into his mouth and walked to his own personal armory.  The food wasn’t enough, but it would shut up his tummy.            After unlocking the armory door, he reached immediately for a weapon.  It was a sawed-off shotgun, just like Max had.  He opened the weapon and popped two shells in.  He took another handful of shells and dropped them in the pocket of his shorts.  It would be enough.            It was the second choice, a consolation to what he really wanted.  He wanted his favorite weapon.            Her weapon.            That weapon wasn’t here, though.  It was locked up tight back at the store.            Her store.            Not a problem.  The Max weapon would suffice and stop any dumbass stupid enough to kick down his door.  These shells were not duds.  They would fire when needed.            Burt walked back to the living room, thinking, I should really get something to eat.  He was feeling lazy, lethargic, too pooped to pop.            Walking into the kitchen, he opened the pantry to find some Hamburger Helper.            “Beef Stroganoff,” he mumbled, tossing the box on the counter.  The box of pasta rattled across the artificial countertop, stopping and denting at the corner against the microwave.            As Burt opened the refrigerator looking for a key ingredient, he was sorely disappointed.            “Meat’s in the freezer,” he grumbled.            He opened the freezer and pulled out the ice-hard meat.  He pulled a large bowl from a cabinet and filled it with hot water.  He tossed the frozen meat in the hot water.            “Ah, to hell with it,” he said, filling a cup with water and drinking it all.  “Movie’s almost over anyway,” he grumbled, taking four more crackers to his chair.  He took the VCR off pause, using the remote held with a shaking hand.            On the television screen, the refinery exploded.            The marauders took it to the survivors.  The survivors started their attack hot, destroying one of their enemy’s pursuit vehicles.  But the unorthodox attack by the marauders put the survivors on the ropes quickly.  Vehicles and bodies were getting torn apart at a very rapid pace and with savage efficiency on the road of the Australian outback.            After a severe fuck-up on the top of the tanker trailer by the crippled (legless diabetic?) mechanic, who accidentally set himself on fire, the Warrior Woman moved to assist him.            “Warrior Woman,” whispered Burt.  “Why?”            In his mind, he thought of her.  Shirley.            Armed with two crossbows, she took out one crazy man trying to board through the barbed wire defenses on the side of the tanker trailer.  Warrior Woman put a bolt in his arm, crippling him.            He was your friend, thought Burt on why the Warrior Woman made the ill-fated move.  It wasn’t just being his battle buddy.  He was your friend.            She was my friend.            Burt knew that feeling, the bond people form when sharing such a powerful experience.  Cultural anthropologists call it a ‘Rite of Intensification’.  It’s a bond formed between people who all go through a life-changing experience at the same time.             Burt experienced the very thing with his fellow Marines.            Burt also experienced it with his wife.            His deceased wife.            It’s hard to still feel that bond when the one you shared it with, the one you happened to promise your eternal love to, is dead.  It’s the pain of a dinner alone.  Or of listening to a song and seeing their face.  An old dusty picture on a wall.  Watching a movie alone.            Burt looked to the couch.  He could almost see his wife looking back at him.  Here eyes.  Her smile.  Her love.  Her eternal friendship.            “He was your friend,” whispered Burt, making sense of Warrior Woman’s move.  “He was your friend,” he repeated.            Shirley had been his friend.            And then, as the movie would play out for all of eternity, Warrior Woman was killed.  Exposed and vulnerable on top of the tanker, the wild marauders in the Ford truck shot her with a massive dart gun.  Wounded, she lost her balance and tumbled into the barbed wire defenses along the sides of the tanker.  She was very close to the marauder she had just shot.            All to help your friend, thought Burt.  You died to help your friend.

            The handicapped man put out the fire that was burning his legs and tried to pull her back up.  But the wounded marauder yanked them both off and under the unforgiving back wheels of the 18-wheeler.            The Warrior Woman was dead.  Shot then crushed to death.             Burt’s Warrior Woman was also dead.
            “It’s a big investment.  And considering the way the pinkos running this state go back and forth on gun legislation, a bit of a risk.”            It was only a few years after Burt retired from the service.  He worked a few odd jobs before an application for Joe’s Gun’s went through.  Considering his noble past in the military, he was hired pretty quickly.            Today, he was talking with his boss about starting his own gun shop.  He had a lot of money to spare from his time in the military, and he didn’t want to spend it all on booze.  A lot of his money went to that in the evenings.            The boss continued.  “But you’ve got a real love for firearms.  Great knowledge.  And you can finance it.  I say why not?”            Burt nodded his head, smiling.  “Well, that’s good news.”            The battery-powered chime above the door sounded its ‘ding-dong’ tone like a new wave synthesizer.  Two customers walked through the door.            The boss and Burt looked up.  One was a Hispanic male with a  well-kept moustache, flat top, and mirror sunglasses.  He was in ‘civvies’, but Burt and the boss immediately tagged him for a cop.  Cops came into the shop a lot, mostly for purchasing guns and such.  But occasionally, they checked for proper licensing and other administrative necessities.  They were easy to identify.            His companion was a tall and busty brunette.  Her complexion was fair, dotted modestly with freckles Burt couldn’t see yet.  Her hair fell devilishly to the middle of her back, and it was cut straight just above her eyebrows.  Long strands also fell across her stylish L.A. vintage Dr. Pepper shirt that was wrapped around her waist, fitting snuggly against her breasts and revealing a soft stomach.  Her collar was cut down the middle to reveal a hint of cleavage.  Her hips were big, and Burt assumed she had a child or two.  There was a kind of strength in her natural maternal beauty that could probably be seen even if she wasn’t dolled up.  She was a walking Renoir painting, or Botticelli.  Pure, real beauty.            The moment Burt’s eyes met with hers was like a gun had been discharged.  The same rush he felt when he heard gunfire popped his heart with adrenaline.  Nothing had ever come close to the rush of combat until now.  Yin Yang.            They looked at each other for a moment longer than necessary.  The connection was made.            Burt’s boss beamed.  He saw the connection.            “I got you here, brother,” said his boss, approaching the couple by saying, “Can I help you, sir?”            The boss moved behind the counter to reach the visiting man’s vicinity.  Burt sensed the purpose of the move and held his ground, watching.  As the man gravitated toward the boss for some service, the female customer turned and looked at Burt.  He smiled.  She smiled.  She began to casually make her way to Burt, looking in the glass displays as she walked to him.            “So what’s the biggest gun you have?” she asked.            Burt teased back.  “You couldn’t handle a big gun, lady,” he said with a smile, winking.            “Really?” she replied, smiling back.  “I’ve handled a few guns in my lifetime.”            “At the same time?” came the reply from Burt.            “I do have two hands now, don’t I?” she said.            “Let me offer you one of mine,” said Burt.  “My name’s Burt Scott.”            “The man with two first names,” she chuckled, accepting the handshake.  An electric spark nipped at their hands when they touched.  “I’m Shirley Perez.  But you can call me Shirley Rae.”            “Where’s Rae come from?”            “It’s my middle name.  Duh,” she said.  “Dad wanted a boy.  Name him Rey.  R-E-Y.  Rey.  That’s king in Spanish.  It was his first name.”            “Well, I’m Burt.  B-U-R-T.  Mom and dad just named me Burt.”            Shirley was smiling, stifling laughter.            Burt smiled back.  “What are you laughing at?”            “You.”            “Me?”            “Yeah,” she said.  “You sound like ‘Satchmo’.”            “Satchmo?” said Burt quizzically.  “You mean Louie Armstrong?”            “Yeah,” she replied playfully.  “You play jazz?”            “C’mon, lady.  You’re killing me with the whole ‘Satchmo’ thing.”            “But you do,” she said, reaching forward and touching his hand on the counter.  “Sing that one song.”            “You mean this one,” he said, clearing his throat, “And I’m thinkin’ to myself what a beautiful world.”            “That’s not how it goes,” she said, smiling.  “It’s ‘wonderful world’.”            “Oh, wonderful world,” he said, going back to singing.  “And I’m thinkin’ to myself what a wonderful world.”            “No, not like that.”            Burt chuckled.  He knew he was getting the song wrong.  But he was having fun teasing the woman.  Her smile was like the kiss the sun gives the sky at sunset.            “I don’t sound like ‘Satchmo’, though,” he said, chucking.  The conversation was so juvenile, yet so alive.  Charged.  For a moment, Burt wasn’t a man rolling up on the age of 50.  Instead, he felt like a young boy again talking to a pretty girl at lunchtime back in school.  It felt wonderful, Burt’s own wonderful world.            “You know, I think I sound more like Lord Humungous,” said Burt.            Shirley started laughing.  She laughed so loud, the boss and the male customer turned to look.  Then, the man just smiled, huffing, before getting back to business.            “Lord Humungous?” said Shirley.            “Yeah.”            “Who the hell is Lord Humungous?”  Burt saw her eyes sparkle like a diamond against a ray of light.            “You’ve never seen ‘The Road Warrior’?” said Burt in disbelief.            “Oh, my God.  A movie?”            “Yeah.”            Her smile had not faded since she started talking to Burt.  “You boys and your movies.”            “Well, look.  Apart from needing to see ‘The Road Warrior’, what else can I help you with?”            “Well, my colleague is looking for a firearm.  But I’m looking for a place to promote this competition.”            Shirley passed a well-made flyer of a sharp-shooting competition to be held just outside of Monrovia near the hills of Bliss Mount.            “The seventh annual Monrovia Bull’s Eye competition,” said Burt.  “April 15th.  Well, that’s next week.”            “Yes, it is,” she replied.  “I’m going to be in the pistol competition.”
            “You’re a good pistol shot, huh?” said Burt with a smirk.  “That’s funny because I’m a good pistol shot, too.”            “Entry fee’s just twenty-five bucks if you want to be the best pistol shot in LA county this year.”            “Kitten, I’m the best pistol shot every year in L.A. county,” said Burt, leaning on the counter.            “Not until you beat me,” said Shirley, leaning on the counter just to the side of Burt.  “I’ve been the best four years running.”            “How many times have you competed?”            “Four years.”            Burt stood up and pulled out his wallet and peeked inside.            “I’ve got twenty-five dollars.”            “Well, you should enter.”            “Well, I think I will,” said Burt.  “But how do I know you’re not just some kind of hired gun out to get marks like me?”            Shirley pulled out her receipt book.  “How ‘bout it, cowboy?” she whispered.  “You gonna be there?”            Their eyes locked again.  The energy between them was real, resonating in their hearts.            Burt registered, paying the twenty-five dollar entry fee in cash.            Shirley wrote out his receipt in pretty cursive, then handed the receipt to him.  It was his ticket in the door.  As Burt took the piece of paper, their hands touched.            “Hey, Shirley,” came a voice.  It was the man.  “We gotta go.”            Shirley looked at the man and stood up straight.  Then she looked back at Burt.  “See you next week?” she asked, smiling.            “I’ll be there,” he said.            “Great,” she said.            “Will you be using two guns at the same time?”            “Shut up,” she said, blowing him a kiss before walking to her friend. “Bye, now.”            Shirley followed the man out of the shop.  She turned and gave one last look at Burt as she left.            The moment was something Burt had rarely felt.  Sure, there were moments in his school days that were similar.  The hookers and female officers he met while in the service were too cold or warped for him to hold any deep affection for.  And he was almost 60.  This was a moment, a real moment, that he had not felt in years.            The boss walked back to him.            Burt asked, “So we didn’t have what they were looking for?”            The boss chuckled and replied,  “Oh, we had what they were looking for.  He wasn’t interested in doing much business watching you make time with his lady friend.  You two were ga-ga over each other.”            Burt blushed.  “Was it that obvious?”            “Yeah,” replied the boss.  “It was that obvious.”            “Oh,” said Burt, grinning.            He looked down at the flyer.
            The event was held at a private vineyard just outside of Monrovia, set against beautiful Bliss Mount.  A security team documented all people entering into the venue.  It was a well-attended gathering with people of all cultural backgrounds from the California landscape.  It looked like it would be a great test of skills.  It was easy for Burt to identify the private security in the event by the hats they wore.            Certain sections of the Los Angeles County were thick with cultural identity.  There was Chinatown.  East Los Angeles housed a restaurant called Taqueria Jalisco #3 that served some of the best tacos Burt had ever tasted.  Even a Russian community was forming.  But Burt had never been to a gathering with such a true mix.  Though a majority spoke English, he could hear at least three other languages.  The real question on Burt’s mind was where Shirley was.            Burt registered and saw the way the tournament would be set up.  Entrants were allowed to use any pistol they wanted, and would be entered into a pool of ten.  The top four from each pool would be entered into a single elimination tournament bracket for the $5,000 prize.  $1000 for second.  $500 for third.              As Burt was reading the rules, a familiar set of hips bumped his.            “Hey, sexy.”            Burt was surprised at first. In fact, the bump gave his back a twinge of pain.            “Ow,” he groaned, turning to the woman.  The pain all went away as he realized it was Shirley.            “For a minute there I didn’t think you were coming,” said Shirley.            “I’ll let you know something, Shirley Rae,” said Burt, smiling.  “Any time I get a chance to school some rank amateur sharpshooters for dollars, I like my chances.”            “Well, you’ll have to beat me first,” said Shirley with confidence and pride.            “Don’t think of it as beating, sunshine.  Think of it as being let down easy,” said Burt, smiling.            “Okay, ‘Satchmo’,” she said, chuckling.  “When Ilet you down easy, I’ll go listen to you play your jazz at some dive bar in Lomita or something.”            “Lord Humungous doesn’t play jazz.”
            “Satchmo.”            “Humungous.”            The conversation and chuckling between the new friends was cut short by the man Shirley had shown up with at the shop.            “Hey, Shirley.  It’s time to got to your pool,” said the man.  Then he looked at Burt.  “Oh.  Hello,” he said, extending a hand.  “I’m Greg.”            “I’m Burt,” he said, accepting the hand.  “Good to meet you.”            “The guy from the shop, right?  The gun shop?”            “You got it.”            “He liked the flyer I left him,” said Shirley.            “It looked like a fun opportunity,” said Burt, lacing the words with subtext Shirley was more than happy to pick up on.            “Keep me in mind when you have any sales,” said Greg, handing Burt a business card.            “Will do,” said Burt, reading it.            “See you in the finals,” said Shirley as the couple walked away.            The card read:
                        Greg Crawford                        Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department
            A badge was set in the upper left-hand portion of the card.  An address to his office, fax number, and phone number with the extension lined the bottom right portion of the card.            Burt flapped the card up against a finger before putting it in his pocket.  He looked to find where the participants in his pool were gathering.
            The tournament was rigidly organized.  Burt discovered it was coordinated by a group of military vets, which worked fine by him.  The opening pools were completed in just under two hours.  Military efficiency.            The brackets went up.  Burt was surprised to see Shirley in his same bracket.  If they both won their opening and second round match-ups, they would meet in the semi-finals.            And, like a ghost, she had disappeared again.  He hadn’t seen her since she left before the competition started.  But she was somewhere.  She qualified for finals after all.            Burt made short work of his first round opponent, who was from Receda.  Then he had some good competition from a Ukranian in the second round.  But he put him away.            Shirley was somewhere, but Burt didn’t see her anywhere.            Soon after his second round victory, Burt was led to the location of his semi-final match.  Waiting at the table like some sort of sharp-shooting angel was Shirley.            “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said, smiling.  “How are you, ‘Satchmo’?”            Burt couldn’t help but take a few moments to admire her.  Her yellow-tinted safety glasses looked great tucked under her long black hair.  Her full Latin lips made him compare her to Angelina Jolie, but much older, much hotter, and full-figured.            “Well, they said I had to come to this location to eliminate some pretty lady from the competition,” he said with a wink, placing his weapon on the table.            “.45 Colt,” she said.  “Marines?”            “Yes, ma’am,” said Burt, beaming with pride.            “Me, too,” she said, putting down her own .45 Colt.            “Small world,” he said as they prepared their weapons.            “Eight years,” she said, commenting on her own military service.  “I missed out on the good stuff.  But working with the sheriff’s department here in LA county more than made up for that.”            “Sheriff’s department?” he said.  “What do you do?”            “Gang task force,” she said, immodestly.            “Wow,” said Burt.  This broad is one tough cookie, he thought to himself.  I am in love.            Burt asked, “You guys still have to work at Eastern Bay as a prerequisite to joining?”            “That’s right,” she said.  “The maximum security prison.  No cakewalk, I can tell you that.”            “I imagine.”            Eastern Bay maximum security prison was modeled after prisons on the east coast.  It was a hellish place designed to discourage the perps from ever wanting to come back.            Just then, Greg walked up.            “Good luck, sweetie,” he said.  His eyes were sharp.  He shot Burt a glance, then glared at Shirley.“Thanks, Greg,” she replied.  “Excuse me,” she said.  The couple went off to talk.  It was an abrupt interruption to her preparation that struck Burt as very odd.  He glanced off to see the two up against a wall a distance away.  Body language made clear they were not having an enjoyable conversation.  In fact, Greg yelled at her at one point, making Burt nervous.  And, in all honesty, it made him a little angry.  He couldn’t understand what was said, but he had shouted at her.            Neither of the initial comments the couple shared struck Burt as sincere to begin with.  There was a tension between them, made even more noticeable by Shirley’s behavior when they walked away.  Shirley had bowed her head like an ashamed child.  Her youthful enthusiasm had all but left her, sucked out of her as if by a demonic spirit.            Shirley returned to the table.  Her head was still bowed.            “Good luck,” she whispered to Burt.  She reached under her safety glasses and wiped tears away from her eyes.            Burt hated tears.  It was a sign of weakness to him.  He enjoyed giving a very hard time to recruits who cried.  They needed to harden their hearts or go home.  In his youth, Burt had been soft.  But pain had made him hard.            On the other hand, Shirley was a tough woman.  Burt could sense she loved this man, but the flame was dying.            She needed a little boost.  Burt had nothing to prove here.  He only came to see Shirley’s smile again.  He couldn’t do much, but there was one thing he could do for her.  He was a good enough shot to make it happen.
            And he did.
=====
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.

ZOMBIES - 'We're Alive' Fan Fiction - Chapter 6 - HIGHWAY 80

Here's the lowdown.
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“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast  
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
CHAPTER 6 - HIGHWAY 80
             It was clearly a gunshot.Actually, a more apt description would be gunshots.  Plural.When you fight in war and then spend time in civilian life, it’s easy to distinguish a gunshot from a car backfiring, or other city sound that might be confused with gunfire.  It crackles like a spark.  It rattles the air.  It pulses through the human heart, as if the powerful muscle could feel the gunshot’s deadly potential.The same deadly potential, however, has another side.  While a fired bullet can be used for assault, for crime, for gain, it can also be used for defense, for food, for preservation.  The only problem is the neutrality of the sound of the gunfire.  A firearm shouts the same cry of power every time it is fired.Burt could determine the firearm used.  He could not determine why it was used.  The reports surprised him enough to pause the movie and step to the nearby window.  Dangerous, sure, but Burt was curious.  He also needed to know if a threat was on the way.  If it was, he needed to be ready.Burt pushed the end of one of the blinds down, giving him just enough of a view to look out on the parking lot below.Two guys had just blasted another guy in the face.  They then ran to yet another person that was crouched over on the ground.  This man was struggling with another person who was lying on his back.  The two strangers who had just mugged the other guy and shot him in the face ran to the struggle.  One guy kicked the man that was on top off of the man on the ground like a kickoff at a Giants vs. Cowboys game.  The guy’s head flicked upwards, and he tumbled off the person he had been assaulting.  The two guys then opened fire, blasting the kicked man in the face and putting him down for good.“What the hell?” groaned Burt.The two guys then helped the other man on the ground.  They lifted him up and started running away.  The guy that was attacked held his shoulder.  Burt could see blood.Must have been stabbed or something, thought Burt, trying to make sense of the circumstance.  There’s no way in hell I’m going out there with those crazy bastards.The bleeding guy was having a hard time keeping up, but eventually disappeared around a corner, following the others.Burt let the small strip of the blind flick back into place.  He’d seen enough.What the hell is eating this city? he asked himself.  “Just another day in Montebello,” he said.  Moving back to his seat again, he took the movie off of pause.There was Max.  Mad Max.  The Road Warrior.  He’d done his job.  He delivered the big diesel rig for the survivors.  He fulfilled his contract.  He was an honorable man.  All he wanted now was to get his gas and leave.But now Papagallo wanted him to stay.  The wounded leader tried to coax the recluse of the wasteland to help.  The conversation would not end well.  Burt knew it.  The moment in the movie took on a new meaning since the day he reached a breaking point years ago during his time in Desert Storm, near the Kuwait-Iraq border.
“Did you hear?”“Hear what?”“They made Sgt. Slaughter a bad guy.”Gunnery Sergeant Burt Scott was sitting in a tent, awaiting orders from his superiors.  Burt was the leader of one division of artillery support.  He was sitting with one of his team members who was talking his ear off.“You mean wrestling?  Pro-wrestling?” asked Burt.“Yeah.  They made Sgt. Slaughter a bad guy.”“You said that.  Look, Pvt. Keith.  I don’t watch pro-wrestling.  It’s phony.”“No, it’s real, sir,” Keith insisted.  “I seen Jerry Lawler fight Harley Race back home in Little Rock.  They were bleedin’ from their heads.”“Keith, you’re an idiot, you know that, right?” said Burt.“No.  Listen,” said Keith, continuing his story as if Burt never said a word against the topic or him.  “Sgt. Slaughter is with the Iraqis now.  He came out with the Iran Shiek.”“You mean the Iron Shiek?” asked Burt.  He didn’t watch wrestling, but he was familiar with some of the characters.“No,” said Keith, clearly getting worked up with excitement.  “He’s the Iran Shiek.  But now, he’s Col. Mustafa.”Burt was wishing he had a beer.  “Oh, okay.”  It just wasn’t worth the energy to talk with Keith.“Anyway, Sgt. Slaughter, he’s a bad guy.”“Oh, really?” said Burt.  “I think you said that already.”“Yeah.  I don’t like him anymore,” said Keith.  “My daddy used to like him.  But he don’t like him now, neither.”“That’s great, Keith,” said Burt.And then, silence.It was clear Pvt. Keith had something to say that he thought was important.  He spoke his mind plainly.  And then that was it.  It was so peculiar to Burt that he turned and looked quizzically at Pvt. Keith.  It was like he was talking to himself, something totally different now occupying his mind.  And it was also obvious Pvt. Keith was totally unaware of Burt staring at him.Jesus Christ, thought Burt.  Good thing I’m retiring.  These soldiers are getting dumber and dumber as the years go by.“Gunney?” came a voice.  Burt turned to see a female soldier, the runner for the commanding officer of the base, at the mouth of the tent.  “They’re ready for you.”“Thank God,” muttered Burt as he followed the private out of the tent to the officer’s location.Entering the makeshift room made of a heavy canopy and tent curtains, Burt saluted the officers and took a seat along with the other team leaders and commanding officers.Burt wasn’t much for the formalities.  And, as usual, his bad attitude never sat well with the officers.  “Good to have you, Gunney Grouchy,” said Captain Peterson.“Don’t try to kiss me after the meeting again, Peterson,” said Burt with a contemptuous smile.  “I’ll tell Norman.”Peterson smiled.  He knew better than to continue in a cutdown contest with Sgt. Scott.The officers started the strategy session, passing on what they wanted each team to do.  Then it was Burt’s turn to be told his team’s strategy.  Things were about to go downhill fast.“Gunney,” said Peterson, “We’ve got you covering Highway 80.  The enemy is using the highway to escape out of Kuwait City.  At 0900 hours, I want you and your boys to send that highway to hell.”It was a simple command.  It would be no problem figuring the coordinates.  But then a cruel complication fell on Burt’s mind.Burt stood up to look at the map spread out before the group on the table.  His fear was confirmed.“Sir, this is Highway 80, correct?” he asked, indicating the road on the map.“That’s right, Scott,” said Peterson, looking to make sure the road Burt was indicating was the same one.  “Is there a problem?” asked Peterson with suspicion.“Sir, highway 80 is one of the major highways out of Kuwait.”“That’s right,” said Peterson, anticipating the direction of the conversation.  “We need you to hit it with your artillery team.  Was that not made clear?”“It’s clear, sir,” said Burt.  “But that’s also a civilian highway,” said Burt, looking back at Peterson with disappointment.  Burt already knew what the answer was going to be.“Is there a problem with the order, Gunney?” asked Peterson, standing up straight and putting his hands on his hips.  He suddenly reminded Burt of Mr. Baines back in high school.  Like Baines, Peterson expected everything he said to be obeyed.  Burt felt an immediate contempt.  This was cruelty at its height, but that was the true meaning of war.Burt knew he was not going to get his way. But just like he’d given his enemies over the years in combat, he was going to give his superiors hell for using the strategy.“The problem is that it’s a civilian highway,” Burt replied, repeating his stance.  “Is this whole plan your idea?”“This strategy comes straight from the general,” said Peterson with authority.Burt was surprised.  It was a ruthless strategy.  But it was war.“So ‘Stormin’ Norman’ wants to blast 80, huh?”“That’s right, Gunney.”Peterson grinned devilishly.  Burt saw it, and a surge of hate grew in his heart.With all that being clear, it still didn’t sit well with Burt.“I don’t like it,” said Burt, plainly.“We’re not paying you to like it,” said Peterson.“There’s got to be another way,” replied Burt, shaking his head.“And we’re not paying you to think, either.  We’re paying you to do what you’re told.”It’s Baines all over again, thought Burt.  Peterson sensed an escalation to the discussion.  So he dismissed everyone.“Gentlemen, you have your orders.  Everyone is dismissed except you, Gunney.”
Being singled out did not make Burt happy.  Whatever was happening was not going to be any fun.“What kind of Marine are you?” asked Peterson.  “You’ve served the corps proudly for over twenty years.  And now you don’t want to play war anymore?” “Don’t question my devotion to our corps, Peterson,” said Burt with a sharp edge.  The moment was intensifying.  Their powerful energy was charging the space.“If you don’t go out there and do as you’re commanded to do, then I will question your devotion, Gunney.  Never in my life have…”“No preaching, Peterson,” groaned Burt, waving Peterson off with a smug frown.“No, Scott.  You will listen to me,” said Peterson, moving closer to Burt.  “Never in my life have I met a Gunnery Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps who suddenly became so chicken-hearted in battle that he didn’t do what he was ordered to do.”Burt could feel the energy of their space change.  A psychic wave of anger washed over him, charging his body right down to his fingertips.  He knew exactly where this conversation was now heading.  So he made an effort to stop it.  “Don’t say it, Peterson,” said Burt, shaking his head.“You know what you are, Gunney?”“Don’t you say it, Peterson,” warned Burt yet again.  His anger was turning to rage.“I’m going to say it, Scott, because you need to hear it.”
            Their negative energy had grown wild like a grass fire in the summertime.“Don’t do it,” said Burt, plainly.Peterson smiled like a diabolical villain in a melodrama.  “You’re a goddamn disgrace, Gunney.”Arrogance is not the word for it.  Officers have expectations.  And 99.9% of the time, the expectations are met.  When they are not met, people are verbally reprimanded.  Dressed down.  Then the matter is resolved.Never does an officer expect to get punched by their charges.  That’s the expectation.  Today, when Burt punched Captain Peterson in the mouth, it was a very, very rare exception.Peterson was not a total pussy, even though many thought he was.  He fired back with a punch of his own, taking Burt by surprise.  Before long, they were rolling across the sandy floor.  Punching, gouging, and striking like pitbulls in a dog fight.  They rolled out of the tent to a surprised bunch of soldiers.Lt. Kent, who was in the briefing and anticipated this, held the others back.  “Let them sort this out, boys.”Private Keith was also present.  “Boston Crab,” he shouted.  “Put him in a Boston Crab.”Burt and Peterson punched and kicked their way back into the tent.“Gunney could have put him in a Boston Crab,” said Keith to Kent.  “It would have been over.”In the tent, Peterson judo-tossed Burt over his shoulder and through the table.  The throw sent pencils and paper into the air.  Peterson was surprised when Burt brought him to the sandy floor with a toe-hold.  It was such a surprise to Peterson that when Burt executed a sweet float-over into a side headlock, Peterson was stuck.Burt squeezed Peterson’s head, growling, “I’ll give the command, Peterson.  But when I get out of his sandy shithole, you sign my honorable discharge papers.”Peterson didn’t want to honor the request.  But in the end, Burt was going to follow orders after all.  That’s all that mattered.“Deal,” groaned Peterson.  “Now, let me go!”Burt released the hold.The two Marines picked themselves off and dusted their uniforms off.Peterson extended his hand.  “You’re a real sonovabitch, Gunney.  You know that, right?”“That I am,” said Burt, reluctantly taking Peterson’s hand.  Before he released his hand, he had one last thing to say.  “Honor your word.”“As long as you honor yours,” said Peterson.Burt walked out of the tent to give the command to his artillery force.Private Keith followed close behind.“Hey, Gunney,” said Keith.  “You should have put him in a Boston Crab.”======
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.

ZOMBIES: "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - Chapter 5 - THE AMBUSH

If you've been following this blog, you already know the story.  If you've stumbled on it now, welcome.  Here's the lowdown.
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“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast  
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
5.  THE AMBUSH
The door knock was unexpected and very loud.  It felt to Burt that the last three knocks were unnecessary.  A good door knock, in Burt’s mind, needed either five or seven knocks.  Five was a friendly visit.  Seven came across as business, or a good indicator of urgency.This one came across as incredibly urgent.  Burt didn’t see any sense to it.“Who the hell?” he grumbled under his breath as he rose from his comfy chair and walked to the door.  He picked up the remote and put the movie on pause.Looking through the peephole, he saw who it was.“Guerra,” he whispered.  As he unlocked the door, he grumbled to himself, “What the hell do you want?”He opened the door.“Burt,” said Guerra offering his hand.  “What’s going on?”Burt accepted Guerra’s hand and shook it.  “Trying to watch ‘Road Warrior’.  “You?” he asked, letting Guerra in.“I tried to call, but your line’s been busy.”“I took the phone off the hook,” Burt replied.“Can you believe what’s going on out there?” asked Guerra, following Burt in with urgency.There was something wrong with Guerra.  Burt detected it.  What a pussy, thought Burt.  He’s scared of the riots.“When enough idiots get together, stupid things like that happen,” said Burt.“But did you hear about…”Burt quickly interrupted Guerra, becoming agitated.  He had calmed down since first hearing the news.  Now, not only was Guerra annoying him as always, he was bringing up the troubles in the city again.  “I don’t want to hear about it.”“But can you believe people are actually…”“I don’t want to hear about it,” said Burt.  “Stupid people get involved with stupid things.  Now, what can I do for you, Mike?”Mike Guerra just shrugged.  “I need some firepower.”“You got some bones?” asked Burt.“I’ve got some bones,” said Mike, pulling out a roll of hundreds wrapped by a rubber band.“Then I’ve got firepower.  Right this way,” said Burt, leading Mike into the hallway.The door to Burt’s bedroom was wide open.  But the second bedroom was locked.  The previous wooden door that once filled the space of the doorway was leaning against the hallway wall, still in good condition.  It was very dusty, though.In its place was a heavy metal door.  In complete violation of his apartment contract, Burt had replaced the previous door with a heavy metal door.  Four bolt locks protected it, as well as a combination lock.  It was custom made.Apartment contract or no apartment contract, the contents of the room needed safeguards.As Burt began to unlock the locks, Guerra just had to ask again.“So, you’re really not freaked out about what’s going on in the city?” asked Guerra, shaking his head.“I could care less what’s going on outside my door.  If those idiots bring it to my doorstep, then there’s problems,” said Burt.“Well, I heard someone on the seventh floor went crazy already and…”“Stupidity makes my blood boil, Mike,” grunted Burt.  “So please, no more,” he said as the final security measure was unlocked.  It took more than a push to open the heavy door, but it opened.  Burt flipped on a light switch as he stepped into the room.  The fluorescent tubes of light buzzed in annoyance like a fly stuck behind a set of blinds.  Then they flickered, then fully illuminated the room.“So,” asked Burt.  “Whatcha’ looking for?”They both walked into the room.  It was organized plainly.  Pistols were set against a wall on one end.  Long range rifles on another.  Automatic weapons against yet another.  Custom weapons on yet another.  In the middle was a worktable where Burt could make ammunition, and also other storage lockers marked ‘explosives’.  “Not my usual,” said Guerra.  “Something for personal and home defense.”“Ah.  Not arming the Sandinistas today, eh?”“Naw.”Burt chuckled.  Guerra was part of an anti-gang task force in L.A., one that was completely off the books and paid for under the table.  With cash.  They ran it like a CIA operation, funding rival gangs who were operating against gangs the department was targeting.They also created strawman gangs made up of people from out of town bankrolled by the city.  These people had tactical knowledge, whether by military or police SWAT training.  And they ran their gang like any gang would, with strict and brutal initiations, codes, even gang signs and tagging.  Members who were picked up by the police were always released.  The city gangs were suspicious, but the system was run so well no one could figure it out.Mike Guerra had been a close friend of Shirley.  In fact, she’s the one that had coordinated the arming of the division through ‘Locked and Loaded’.  Shirley and Mike had worked together at the sheriff’s department.There had been a tension that was always in the air.  Guerra thought he had a secret, but Burt knew it already.  And Burt had always played dumb around Guerra.  Shirley had shared what Guerra did for the city. And though it was clandestine, it was noble.  So Burt had respected him.However, Burt was still trying to find it in his heart to forgive him for what he did on the side.  He didn’t appreciate the passes Guerra made on Shirley.At the end of the day, however, Burt got cold, hard city money put right in his hand.  So it was hard to complain.“So?  What did you have in mind?” asked Burt.Guerra had already found what he wanted.  “How ‘bout the SPAS?” he asked, pointing at the pump-action shotgun.“Know how to clean it?” asked Burt.“Yeah.”Guerra was lying.  Burt knew it.  Guerra knew Burt knew.“Got shells?” asked Burt, pulling down the shotgun.“No shells,” said Guerra.“How many?”“How many boxes of shells do you have?”“You got anything to carry them in, first?”“No.”Burt shook his head, walking to a corner of the room.  He opened a cabinet and pulled out an old satchel that looked like a mailbag.  He tossed it at Guerra.“Now, how many boxes do you need?”“All you got,” said Guerra.Burt winced in surprise.  Guerra had never asked for that much before.  But considering the payoff, he decided to let him have it.Burt reached under the table where his bullet maker stood, pulling out a small case of 12 gauge shells.“Great,” said Guerra.“Wait,” said Burt, reaching back under the table.  He pulled out another small case.“Great,” said Guerra again.“Wait,” said Burt yet again, reaching under the table and pulling out yet another box.  “Here you go.”Guerra smiled.  “I’ll take all I can fit in the bag.”“Deal,” Burt replied, opening the first case.“And another SPAS if that’s alright with you?”“I do have one more,” said Burt, packing the bag with boxes of shells.  “It’s all yours.”“You’ve saved my life today, Burt.  Mine and my family’s.”“You haven’t left yet,” said Burt.  “So let’s get you back to your family to make sure that’s the truth.”As Burt walked to get the other SPAS, Guerra said, “How have you been?”“What do you mean?” asked Burt, taking the shotgun off the wall.“Shirley,” said Guerra.“I think about her every day,” he said, walking back to his customer.  Burt averted his gaze when Mike felt his glare.Burt and Mike packed the bag with as much ammunition as possible.  Burt then handed Mike the other SPAS.“What’s the damage?” asked Guerra.Burt took inventory of what he had packed.  But he wasn’t sure he was ready for this next time honored tradition of wheeling and dealing.“Thirty,” said Burt.Mike groaned.  “C’mon, Burt.  You’re killing me.  Let’s try twelve.”The whole negotiation process was just too much for Burt to deal with.  He was tired, hungry, and irritated by Guerra.  So he made a choice.“You know what?  Just go, Mike.  Go.”“What?”“Just go.”“Are you serious?”“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Mike.  Just go, alright.”“Okay.  Okay,” said Mike.  “Thanks.”Burt groaned, saying, “Don’t mention it,” as they walked out the door.  Burt re-secured the room and walked Mike to the front door.“Well, good luck with all that,” said Burt with a smile.  He was happy Guerra was finally leaving.  “By the way,” he said, offering his hand to Mike, “That’s a lot of firepower for some dumbass rioters.”“It’s not the rioters I’m worried about,” said Guerra, shaking Burt’s hands and trotting away.  “It’s those cannibals,” he shouted back.“Ca…,” Burt whispered.  He couldn’t even finish the word.  It was the last thing he thought he’d hear.  He shook his head as if he needed to rattle his brain back into reality.  “Cannibals?” he finally whispered.  The thought brought a twinge of fear to his heart.  The rioters pissed him off to no end.  But cannibals?“Bullshit,” Burt finally muttered, closing the door.  “Guerra’s out of his goddamn mind,” he groaned.  He moved back to his chair.Before he sat, his stomach growled.  “I should make something to eat,” he thought.Then he looked at the movie on pause.  It was moments away from Max delivering one of his favorite lines.Burt walked to the kitchen and took up an old, unwashed glass.  He filled it halfway with water and chugged it.  He then took a few more crackers from the bag.  It was not even a handful.Returning to the chair, he popped a cracker into his mouth and took the VCR off pause.  As he crunched away on the cracker, he mouthed the next two lines.Two days ago I saw a vehicle that’d haul that tanker.  You want to get out of here?  You talk to me.Tanker, he thought.Tankers.He remembered…
“You cannon cockers got it easy.”“So what’s it to you?”A small group of infantrymen came up to Burt and his fellow artillery team.  Burt had been in Vietnam for three months now.  The teasing only happened every so often.  Though Burt’s battle buddies took it in stride, Burt, as usual, didn’t like the bullying.“Hey, take it easy there, Scott.  I’m just saying you got a pretty cush job, that’s all.  You don’t even get to see Victor Charlie in all his rice-eating glory.”“We all do our part, Lombardo.  So why don’t you go polish your gun some more,” said Burt, gesturing with a closed fist by his crotch.  “Pretend your polishing it for that herpes-ridden ‘Mama-San’ back in town.”“Oh, a wiseguy, eh?” said Lombardo.  Burt hated his heavy Jersey accent.  Even out in the heat of the jungle, the guy still greased back his hair.  A patch of hair jutted from his chest and out from under his shirt.  He was a big guy, nurtured on the streets of the Bronx.  “That’s kinda ironic coming from a cannon cocker like you and your buddies.”“Go fuck yourself, Lombardo,” said one of Burt’s teammates. “Tell him, Houston,” said Burt.  Houston wasn’t his real name, but that’s what Burt and everyone else decided to call him since he was from Texas.  He wasn’t from Houston, but he was a bit of a ‘space cadet’ as his friends called him. “You dumb bastards can kiss my ass,” said Houston.“You heard Houston, Lombardo.  Get out of here.  We didn’t do shit to you.  All we’re doing is our job.  And we back you up.  Don’t forget that,” said Burt, pointing directly at Lombardo’s face.“Guy’s backing down, Lombardo,” said one of his freckled friends next to him.
            “I think you’re right, Lewis,” said Lombardo.  “You backin’ down now, Scott?”“He’s not backing down,” said Houston.“No one’s talking to you, eggplant,” Lombardo replied.“Fuck you, you WOP bastard,” said Houston, lunging at Lombardo.  Burt stepped in front of his teammate.“I’m not backing down, Lombardo,” said Burt.“I think you’re backing down, Scott.  I thought me and my friends here were supposed to go jerk off somewhere?”“Not your friends,” said Burt.  “Just you.”Lombardo’s buddies ‘oooh’d’ and slapped their friend on the back, egging him on.“You can’t let a cannon cocker talk to you like that, Lombardo.”Burt was quick to assure the escalation, throwing down the gauntlet with audacious spirit.  These battle-hardened soldiers would test Burt.  He knew Lombardo would probably win the fight.  After all, Lombardo was older and meaner.In the end, it didn’t matter.  They weren’t going to hurl insults at him or his buddies who worked hard at their posts without paying for it.“Yeah, Lombardo,” said Burt.  “Why don’t you come over here and do something about it?”Burt stepped away from his team’s howitzer.  His teammates spread out, as did Lombardo’s buddies.  They created a space for fighting.“Why you spunky little bastard,” said Lombardo.  “Have it your way, you fuckin’ piece of shit.”Lombardo removed his top and stepped into the fighting space.  Burt removed his top as well.  The two bare-chested brawlers looked like two sweaty gladiators stepping onto the bloodied dirt of the arena.  Lombardo’s buddies moved to an outer edge of the improvised fight space opposite Scott’s friends.  Other soldiers saw the fracas forming and joined the audience.  Some even started making bets.  Nothing like a little impromptu diversion to take the edge off the hot southeast Asian afternoon.Lombardo took a puff off a guy’s cigarette before stepping back into the circle.  He blew the smoke in Burt’s face to the approval of the crowd.   Burt coughed once, his blood boiling.  Lombardo got back in Burt’s face.  “Let me tell you right now, Scott.  If you think…”The soldier didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence when Burt popped him in the mouth with an unschooled but harsh jab-cross combination.  The strikes sent Lombardo on his ass to the guffaws and incredulous cries of antagonized surprise.Lombardo could taste the sharp essence of blood in his mouth.  His lip was split, and it was starting to swell.“Is that it, Lombardo?” asked Burt.  “I thought you guys were hard as…”It was time for Burt’s sentence to be incomplete as Lombardo bull-rushed him, crying out, “You sonovabitch!” Lombardo tackled Burt to the ground to the joy of the men gathered around them.  The crowd cheered and chuckled as the two guys threw down.Scraps like this were old hat to Burt.  But Lombardo was cut from the same cloth.  As the two hit each other on the ground, Burt rolled over on top of Lombardo and began to pepper his face with punches.Lombardo was a true street fighter in spite of his training.  He picked up a patch of mud off the moist ground and smacked Burt right in the face with it.  Blinded by mud, Burt tumbled off of Lombardo.Wiping mud off his face, Burt tried to recover.  But Lombardo popped Burt in the face three times with sloppy but true punches.  Burt stumbled backwards only to take a swift kick to his cods.  It doubled him over.Lombardo tried to kick Burt in the face, but Burt moved to Lombardo’s inside and clinched.“Let go, cannon cocker,” groaned Lombardo, digging heavy hooks to Burt’s kidney area.“Go fuck yourself, asswipe,” grunted Burt.Both men delivered simultaneous knees to the crotch, doubling both of them over.  Both men were stopped in their tracks, temporarily paralyzed.  They both held themselves by their respective packages, groaning and taking a moment to recover.Every man watching the fisticuffs blurted out a collective groan of pain.  Each and every one of them knew what it felt like to get kicked in the biscuits.  So all of them empathized.“Jerk off,” groaned Burt.“Dickhead,” groaned Lombardo.Both glared at each other.  Then, simultaneously, they both threw a right cross at each other’s mouth.  Both fists hit at the same time, and both rivals fell on their asses, dazed.The crowd cheered and chuckled, totally enjoying the brawl.Then, the blaring annoyance of the base alarm sounded.  Everyone froze still for a moment, regaining their senses.  The sirens only sounded when something serious was starting.  The machine gun fire that tore through the air confirmed their fears.The base was under attack.“Charlie’s here!” someone shouted.“Drop your cocks and grab your socks!” someone else shouted.“Get to your posts,” shouted someone else as the soldiers scrambled to their stations.Burt ran with his team to the howitzers.  His leader, Sergeant Fowler, had just arrived.“Get your rifles and stand by,” he shouted.All the soldiers grabbed their sacred firearms and took a knee beside their artillery assignment.Crouched and ready, all they could do is wait.This is not what I bargained for, thought Burt, still recovering from the pain.  Though Lombardo and his infantry buddies were dicks, they were right.  Things were rosy away from the deep shit of combat.  He liked his role here.  It was clear now, in a war zone, nowhere was safe.  The battle was about to literally crash through his front door.  And Victor Charlie was doing the crashing.All eyes were on the front gates.  Heavy machinegun fire rained holy hell from lookout towers and a machine gun nest just below them.  An explosion rocked the air, and orange flames puffed up above the jungle canopy at exactly the location of the road leading into the base.“What the hell?” muttered Burt.Then a runaway fireball smashed through the front gate, knocking down the watchtower and completely opening the front door.  It was an 18-wheeler.  Its cargo was a tanker that had burst into flames.  A scoop from a bulldozer in the front of the truck blew the sandbagged machine gun position out of the way, sending a splash of liquid fire into the nest, setting remaining soldiers on fire.The driver bailed out of the vehicle, letting the rolling fireball leave a trail of flames in its wake as it crashed headlong into a set of barracks.“Hold your positions,” said Sgt. Fowler.Burt’s heart banged against his chest like an angry lover on the hotel door of a cheating intimate friend.  He gulped.  He was about to see action.  It was action he wished he’d never see.Gird up your loins, boy, he remembered his uncle saying.  If you want to be a Marine, you better be ready for combat.Burt took the words to heart.A second eighteen-wheeler plowed through the wide open front gate.  Hauling another gas tanker, a rolling bomb, it drove straight to HQ.“Hold your positions,” said Sgt. Fowler.“Fuckin’ Charlie’s going balls-out tonight,” said Houston.Gunfire whizzed through the air as the commanding officer shouted, “Hold your positions!”An armored personnel carrier made a move to stop the penetration, racing to plug the gaping hole that was now the front gate of the ambushed base.   It just missed the third trailer that barreled through the entrance.  The armored personnel carrier hit the brakes, plugging the hole like a large middle linebacker waiting for a running back to try and hit his hole.  A grumbling tank followed suite, pulling up as fast as it could behind the APC as the third 18-wheeler turned toward Burt’s howitzer position.  Everyone on the team knew they were the next target.“Listen up,” shouted Sgt. Fowler, pulling out two M-79 ‘Thumper’ single-shot grenade launchers.  “We rally at HQ!”At that moment, the second tanker truck that was targeting HQ hit its mark.  The massive fireball lit up the sky.“Rally at the HQ,” shouted Sgt. Fowler, racing headlong towards the approaching 18-wheeler.  He was holding a ‘Thumper’ in each hand.Burt and the boys wanted to watch how the sergeant vs. guerilla 18-wheeler matchup was going to play out.  But everyone knew whatever happened, it was going to end in fire and twisted metal on their howitzer position.  Just how much was about to be determined by their audacious sergeant.The team bolted like kids running out of class on the last day of school.Burt watched as his sergeant two-fisted the grenade launchers.  One grenade crashed through the glass windshield and blasted the cab all to hell.  The other fired at the left front wheel, blasting it away.Crippled, the cab began to shimmy away from the howitzer position.  But it was still going to strike it.So the sergeant yanked two grenades out of his utility belt, pulled out the pins with his teeth, and tossed them at the cab.  Then, the sergeant jumped out of the way as the cab exploded.  It was knocked out of the way by the gas tanker that tore through the remains and tumbled on its side when it hit the remnants of the engine block.  It burst into flames that washed over several howitzer positions.  Though the flames set fire to some howitzer positions and its ammunition, the entire set up was not destroyed thanks to the sergeant.Yet a fourth trailer tried to bum-rush the gate.  The APC held its ground and was now backed up by the tank that had rolled up behind it.  The tank fired on the trailer, blasting through it and sending flames and wreckage through the heavens and the jungle.  The rolling fireball crashed into the APC, stopped dead in its tracks by the tank. Both armored vehicles were engulfed in liquid fire as the remains of the trailer jack-knifed into the fence.  It tossed more flames into the base, pouring over men and equipment alike.As Burt ran to the flaming rally point, he realized his fellow teammates were shooting.  It shouldn’t be hard to do the same.  It’s what he trained with the rifle for after all.  But the thought of now having to actually use the weapon to kill someone made him gulp.  Considering the firefight, he imagined it wouldn’t be hard.  Someone out there was more than ready to kill him.  The flames and the wreckage all around him made him realize he was, for all intents and purposes, in hell.But he was a Devil Dog.  A Marine.  Hell was home.Lombardo and other soldiers had rallied near the now-blazing HQ.  Burt and his crew joined them.“Charlie’s flying in from outta the jungle now, guys,” shouted Lombardo.  His lip was swollen and still bleeding, but he really didn’t care.  “Get those guns firing, you cannon cockers!”Here it comes, thought Burt.  His eyes were opened wide.  These were no longer black sillohuettes on the range in California, or paper targets.  These were actual human beings.  His heart was powered by adrenaline.  His soul was charged with pride.If you want to be a Marine…Burt took cover and began to scan for targets.  The Viet Cong were jumping from out of the jungle just as Lombardo had said.  With patty hats, black shirts and pants, and something that looked like rope wrapped around their chests.  Their AK-47s blazed hellfire, waiting to kill Burt and his friends.…you better be ready for combat.Burt methodically began to pick off VC.  One, two, three.  The body count quickly grew.  Ammo was limited, but he was in good shape, shooting only an aimed shot at a time.Nine.  Ten.  Eleven.Charlie was a noble foe, people had told him.  He was seeing it firsthand.  These guys were relentless.  Even guys Burt knew he wounded returned to their feet before Burt put them down for good.The small makeshift squad stood their ground valiantly.  Positioned in 360 degrees, all their angles were covered.Seventeen.  Eighteen.  Nineteen.“Jesus, Scott,” said Lombardo, positioning right next to him.  “You’re giving the zipperheads what for!”Burt did not let the comment break his concentration.  He reloaded again and continued plugging the enemy.Twenty-six.  Twenty-seven.More soldiers joined them.Thirty.“Give ‘em hell, boys,” shouted Burt’s sergeant.“Holy shit,” cried Houston.  “It’s sarge!”“Goddamn right it’s me,” shouted the sergeant, clearing the makeshift nest with a leap.  “We’ve stopped their momentum.  Fix bayonets.  We’re taking the base back or we’re dying trying.”Fuck! thought Burt, gulping.  He wanted to say no.  His sergeant was a madman.  But he was in the zone as well.  He felt it in his fingertips, a cruel and pure energy, the same energy that was pulsing in his leader.  Today, he couldn’t lose.It took Burt only a moment for him to pony up.  He was, indeed, in the zone.  It was time to push back the enemy.“Four walls of the base,” shouted Sgt. Fowler.  “Whichever wall your facing, you’re defending!”“This is crazy!” said Houston.“Damn right it is,” Sgt. Fowler replied.  “Spread out and let’s get this done.  We’ll let God sort out the bullshit!”The sergeant was the living definition of ‘Gung-Ho’.Burt turned to his makeshift squad.  Lombardo looked back at him.“Ready to whip some ass?” asked Lombardo with a grin.“Let’s do it,” said Burt, chuckling.“Charge!” shouted Sgt. Fowler.Burt and Lombardo took to the battlefield.A team.True courage.
Everyone on base was still on edge even three days after the battle.  Engineers had taken to the base and erected a new HQ.  New barracks were being thrown up next to the tents that became the soldiers sleeping quarters.  Naturally, the battle had affected everyone differently.  For Burt, it was a newfound fascination for his weapon.  It was not easy to kill a man.  In fact, it was something he wanted to avoid.  Sure, his artillery fire took lives.  But he didn’t have to watch it, to see it, the harsh and cruel results of war.The base was littered with dead VC when the battle had ended.  Burt looked at the dead bodies.  It was then that he realized why they were so hard to kill.  Charlie had wrapped thick jungle vines around their bodies that acted as a vest that absorbed the bullets’ impact, lessening the damage done.  It was quite ingenious, as if the jungle itself had provided defense against the encroaching invaders.  The VC did not retreat and fought to the bitter end.Burt’s weapon, his rifle, an M-16, had been there for him.  It was responsible for many of the dead.  Burt realized the frightening power of the weapon, but was proud to command it.Suddenly the fanaticism behind the weapon, the passion for the rifle his DI’s and range instructors had, made sense.  The Marine Corps Rifelman’s Creed danced through his head.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…“Hey, Scott,” said Lombardo, slapping Burt on the back.  “Houston, me, and the rest of the boys are going to town for some suds and pussy.  C’mon.”Burt liked beer.  Burt enjoyed pussy, too.  But the battle had flicked a switch in Burt.  Understanding.  The Creed.…Without me, my rifle is useless.  Without my rifle, I am useless….“No, thanks,” said Burt.  “I’m going to stick around here tonight.”“After the ‘slope’ killing exhibition you put on the other day, you don’t want to take your R&R time to bang out a ‘mama-san’ or two?”As Lombardo stood, a bit stunned at the response, Burt pulled some Vietnamese cash from his pocket.“Charlie had us on the ropes the other day.  I just need some more time to think about what all went down.”  He handed the cash to Lombardo.  “Here, have some oat sodas on me.”Lombardo looked at the cash.  “Hell, for this, I’ll bang out an extra side of Vietnamese tail for you.”Burt chuckled.  Then, he said, “And hey, you think when you have some time, you can help me brush up on some fundamentals?  Hand to hand.  Stuff like that?”“As long as you teach me how to shoot like you,” said Lombardo with a  chuckle.Though their swelling lips were much better, they shook hands as brothers, baptized by fire.Burt waved as the guys took off, turning back to his weapon.  The creed danced through his mind, becoming part of the blood that pulsed from his heart, filling his veins.…My rifle and I are the defenders of my country.  We are 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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The next chapter coming soon....
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ZOMBIES - "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - Chapter 3 - The Shooting Range

If you've been following this blog, you already know the story.  If you've stumbled on it now, welcome.  Here's the lowdown.
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“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast  
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA

THE SHOOTING RANGE
“Bitch, you better get back here!”“You go to hell, Leo!  You go to hell!”The shouting from outside his apartment door dragged Burt from his reverie.  It wasn’t the first time neighbors from across the way had yelled it out, sharing their argument with the entire apartment building.  And their words always sounded the same.The argument was certainly nothing worth getting out of his chair for.  However, his grumbling stomach would be worth getting up for.He groaned, rising from his chair, listening to the verbal exchange outside as he walked to the kitchen.“Get back here, Edna.  You’re going to get yourself killed out there.”“Go to hell.”“Nice,” whispered Burt, reaching the kitchen.Get yourself killed? he thought.  Oh, yeah.  The rioters.Just looking at the kitchen made Burt exhausted.  He didn’t want to cook.  Small snacks had held him for the past two days.  Another few saltines would do the trick.  It wasn’t like he was exerting himself for anything.  He hadn’t done anything like that in a long while. The movie had just started, after all.A door slammed outside as he plopped down onto the seat again.The post-apocalyptic marauders of Road Warrior were attacking a small team of survivors who had made a break from their base at the refinery.Burt threw a cracker into his mouth and started chomping as Max drove from his hiding place to make a move on the people of the refinery.  The Gyro Captain looked on as the survivors were massacred and a female survivor was violated before being murdered.The scene never set well with Burt.  In fact, scenes like that still brought a tinge of sadness and shame to his heart.  Even a little anger because it reminded him of a trip to the shooting range with his father somehow…
Burt was only ten years old, but his father realized his son had quite a good talent when it came to firearms.“How many rounds did you shoot, son?”“Ten.”His father looked through a set of binoculars.  “All in the black,” he said, grunting with a smile.  “How many times is that now?”“Four, dad,” said Burt with a sense of pride.  They had started going to the shooting range after the Thanksgiving event two years earlier. His father took a long swig of Olympia before crushing it in his hand and throwing it on the ground.“Let’s go for double that,’ said his dad.  “I want to see if you can get four more in a row all in the black.”“Still at fifty yards?”“Fifty yards,” said his dad, handing him another target before popping open another can of Olympia.“Ten shots?”“Ten shots.”Burt was about to walk to the target when his dad stopped him.“Wait, son,” his dad said.  “What are you supposed to do before you step past the firing line?”“Oh,” grunted Burt, nodding his head and remembering gun safety.  The magazine was removed, but the bolt had not been put in the load position.“Good job, son,” said his dad as a car pulled into the range.  Burt noticed a smile cross his father’s face as he watched the car pull up.  “Son, go change out the targets.  I’ll be right back.”“Yes, dad,” said Burt, trotting out to replace the target.  It always felt great to get such rousing approval from his father.  That Thanksgiving conversation had changed things between them.  The talk of courage and skill with his uncles inspired Burt.  He really liked talking about firearms the best.  He wanted desperately to learn how to shoot, and his father was happy to provide, teaching his son with care and skill.Burt’s father had followed in his uncles footsteps.  The Scott men all served in the Marines between 1933 to 1949.  They were all great sharpshooters with the M-1.  Burt desperately wanted to shoot his dad’s M-1, and join the family tradition of the Scott men, of being a sharpshooter.  But he told Burt it would break his shoulder when it fired and that he was too young.  He had to wait until he got older.The way he was feeling, he would be able to master the weapon and make his dad proud.  And it all started with mastering the .22 rifle.Replacing the target, he walked back to the firing position.  Before he sat down, he looked for his dad.  The car that had pulled up was now behind a small storage unit several yards away from the firing position.  All Burt could see was the rear end of the vehicle.Burt didn’t think too much on it.  He just figured his dad was behind the building.  He didn’t need to tell him he was going to shoot again.  He loaded the rifle, cranked the bolt shut, and took aim.  Just like his father taught him, he controlled his breathing.  He took aim.  He found the target.  He squeezed the trigger.He took aim again.  Fired.Again.  Fired.Fired.After ten rounds, he was done.  Burt stepped away from the rifle.  Before he dashed out to the target, he remembered something.“Safety first,” he whispered, taking the magazine out of the rifle and pulling the bolt back in the neutral position.  He then trotted out to the target.“All in the black,” he said, taking it off of the setup.  Dad’s going to be so proud, he thought to himself.He needed more targets.  His dad had more.From the target position, Burt proudly jogged passed the rifle firing setup and skipped to the car.  As he turned the corner, he noticed the windows to the vehicle were open.“Hey, dad.  Look,” he said, peering into the vehicle.  It took him a moment to understand what was going on.The woman was someone Burt had never seen before.  Her hair was sandy blonde.  Her face, sweet and young.  And it most certainly was not his mother.  His father’s hands were up her blouse, and they were kissing.Burt stopped cold in his tracks.  The sight made his heart tremble with fear and confusion.  Small spiritual wounds were gouging his metaphorical heart.  For a second, he hesitated.  Exposed.  Frozen.Then, he saw they were still lip-locked.  They didn’t see him.  He had one chance to run.  So he did.Once he knew he was out of sight, he slowed to a walk.  His heart still trembled.  The spiritual wounds were bleeding.  Sadness washed over him.  The revelation was very heavy.  He walked, lost.In the daze, he reached for the one thing that could ground him, the one thing that could take him away.Burt returned to the shooting table, reloaded the rifle, and began to shoot the rifle out on the range.He aimed at a distant tree.  He shot.  A branch fell.He aimed at a distant stone.  He shot.  The rock shattered into pieces.Burt aimed at an old target that had not been replaced.  He shot.  He hit.With every round expelled with precision, the skill he was honing and the talent he was discovering, he felt a peaceful release.But one thing made him sad, and it wasn’t what he saw his father doing. 
He hoped he would still have a chance to fire the M-1.
======
The next chapter coming soon....
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.

ZOMBIES: 'We're Alive' Fan Fiction - Chapter 2 - Thanksgiving, 1956

If you've been following this blog, you already know the story.  If you've stumbled on it now, welcome.  Here's the lowdown.
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“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast  
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
THANKSGIVING, 1956
“You won’t go into old man Harrison’s yard because you’re a chicken.”“I’m not a chicken.”Little Burt Scott was pouting, his hands on his waist like a mini-father figure.  His older cousins, Seth and Sebastian, were teasing him like they always did.  They lived up in Sacramento and always made his grandmother’s Thanksgiving Day celebration with the rest of the family.The weather was cold.  Gray clouds floated across a dark blue sky.  The cold wind whipped across their faces, making their noses and cheeks red.The ladies of the house were inside in the kitchen preparing the holiday meal.  The men sat in chairs in the recreation room.  Cold cans of Olympia, Coors, and Schlitz kept them company.  The white smoke of the burnt tobacco of their unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarettes wafted out of the open screen windows of the rec room.  The Shangri-La’s sweet voices danced as a background to the men’s stories and laughter.  The bubble gum pop lyrics of the bad biker boy, the ‘Leader of the Pack’, were largely ignored, yet enjoyed by the men of the house.In spite of the late November cold, the kids still opted to play outside.  The elements were nothing a good heavy jacket could contend with.  There were many family traditions during Thanksgiving.  One of which was the boys of the family getting in some kind of trouble.  Burt and the boys were well on their way to maintaining the tradition.“Go do it, chicken,” said Seth, grinning like a devil.“I’m not chicken,” said Burt.Sebastian jumped in.  “So what, then?  You scared of niggers?”“Don’t call him that,” said Burt, trying to take a stand.“Why not?” asked Sebastian.“Just don’t call him that,” said Burt.“I’ll call him what I want, you little runt,” said Sebastian, punching Burt hard in the arm.  Burt cried out in pain.“Go in his yard, Burtie,” demanded Sebastian, “or I’ll punch you again.”“C’mon, Burt,” said Seth.  “At least old man Harrison isn’t a chink,” he chuckled, working with Sebastian to get under Burt’s skin.“Or a dirty Mexican,” said Sebastian.Burt tried to make a break for it, but Sebastian and Seth grabbed him with their superior eleven-year old strength and size.  The brothers punched him again in the arm.“C’mon, Burtie.  Do what we say and we’ll let you go.”“No,” shouted young Burt.The boys punched him again, saying, “Do it, Burtie.”“Alright!” he shouted, on the verge of tears.  “Just stop hitting me.  Stop it.”“Don’t cry, you little shitass.  Just go,” demanded Seth.The boys shoved Burt to the ground.  He looked up at them with anger.  He wanted to punch them in the face as hard as he could, but he knew it was futile.  They were too strong.Burt got to his feet and turned to look at the house.  A chain-linked fence cordoned off the house at its property line.  The front gate was held closed by a simple latch.“Go in and knock on the door,” said Seth.“You said I just had to go in the yard,” said Burt.“Now you have to go knock on the door because you’re a chickenshit,” said Sebastian.  “So go do it.”A cold breeze picked up as young Burt looked at the house.  A loud chorus of laughter erupted from the men of the house.  There words were imperceptible to Burt.  Muffled.  He shared none of the joy they were celebrating.  He could only taste fear.Looking both ways, he crossed the two lane street.  Seth and Sebastian followed close behind, chuckling.Burt walked up to the gate, then hesitated.  He looked at the house.  It was far from being any kind of haunted house.  It was a simple one-story house with an unkept yard.  The front door was open, but the screen door was closed, letting the cool air into the house.  The interior was dark apart from the illumination from a black and white TV in the living room.  Though it was just one in the afternoon, the overcast sky and the cold made Burt think he was in Transylvania like in the movies at the Bijou.  Bela Lugosi must be inside the house, not old man Harrison.  Rationally, it made no sense.  But that’s all Burt could think of.“Go,” shouted Seth.Burt could feel Seth creeping up on him to slug him again.  So Burt did it.  He lifted the latch and opened the gate.  He ran to the screen door.Halfway down the smooth concrete walkway, Burt heard a growl that was unmistakable.  This was no monster from a black and white creature feature.  This was Mr. Harrison’s dog.As Burt suddenly froze, he saw the brown pit bull appear out from under the house.Oh, no, little Burt thought to himself.Burt jumped into the air in fear as the dog raced to him.  He screamed, then yelled, “Seth!  Sebastian!”  Tears were already shooting out of his young eyes.Looking back at his cousins, a deep horror poured over his soul.  Seth and Sebastian had tied a rope around the gate, trapping Burt in the yard.  They pointed an laughed as Burt raced to the gate.Burt jumped up on the gate, trying to climb over.  But the pit bull grabbed him by the bottom of his heavy coat.  Burt screamed again as the dog tried to yank him from the gate.  Burt held on with all his strength.  The dog seemed even stronger than the boys were, tugging and wrenching its head with animalistic aggression.“Help me!” cried Burt.  His pre-pubescent voice sounded like a young girl was crying out in fear.
The boys just laughed at Burt as the dog snarled, wagging its head violently, tugging at young Burt.“Help!” cried out Burt.  His tears of fear cutting cold trails down his cheeks.“Hey!” came a loud voice from behind Burt.  “Down, Brick!  Down!”Seth and Sebastian’s face transformed immediately from cruel joy to guilty fear.  Burt watched how their big, hearty laughs turned to wide-eyed terror.  It would have been humorous if he wasn’t in such a predicament.  All Burt felt was sheer terror slicing his heart with razors.“Brick, heel!” came the voice again.  Authorative.  Angry.The dog immediately let go of its hold on Burt, who fell to the sidewalk.  He stumbled then leaned on the fence.  He held his face low, casting his eyes down from his savior.Trotting with a tranquil air back to his master, the dog had shifted emotions like Burt’s cousins, from naked aggression to an aloof arrogance reserved for royalty, or a spoiled canine from a dog show.  Its nasty hairy genitals bounced from side to side like an insult to Burt.“Heel, Brick,” said the old man.  Old Man Harrison.  The dog obeyed, sitting on its haunches by the feet of its master.  It looked at Burt, then at nothing in particular.  Its tongue dangled from its mouth as it caught its breath.  It was as if the last few moments, the vicious assault from the animal, never happened.“What are you doing here, boy?  You know I was ‘bout to shoot ‘cho ass?”Burt cast his eyes away from the man, indicating the bonded fence that prevented his escape.“Ah,” said Harrison.  “Those boys were fuckin’ wit’chu, huh?”Burt nodded his head, hyperventilating.“Boy, you gots to be careful with people sometimes.  They gonna tell you to do shit to get you in trouble.”Burt just nodded, keeping his gaze on the sidewalk.“Well boy, go on now, get.  Untie that rope there and get on out.”“I’m sorry,” said Burt, finally looking up at Old Man Harrison, who wore a white t-shirt and brown slacks.  A gray circle of hair sat beneath a bald dome.  His thick white handlebar moustache contrasted against his dark skin.  He held a shotgun in his hands that made Burt gulp.“You ain’t gots to apologize for shit, boy.  Just don’t let people fuck wit’chu like ‘dat.  Ya’ hear?”Burt just nodded solemnly, wiping away his tears.  “Thank you, sir.”“You’re welcome, boy.  Now get on out of here.”As Burt untied the rope, Harrison whispered to Brick, “Good boy, Brick.  Good boy.”  The words sent the dog peacefully back to his space under the house.Burt untied the rope and opened the gate.  He wanted revenge.  He still wanted to punch his cousins in the face again.  But he knew it would be no use.There was one thing he knew, though.  He was never going to listen to them again.Crossing the street and onto the property of his grandmother’s house, Burt walked into the smoky rec room where the men were drinking and talking.“Burt,” called out a familiar voice of his father, Ernest.  “Where you going?”His real answer was to go find his mom.  But he amended it.  “I’m just going inside.”Ernest could see the dried tears on his cold face.  “Your mom’s busy,” said his dad, reading his son’s mind.  “Come over here with your uncles, son,” he said, gesturing for him to join the conversation.  “I want you to hear this.  You need to hear this to understand.”Burt walked to his dad.  His father’s hair was slicked back in a ducktail.  A pack of Lucky Strikes cigarettes was rolled up in the sleeve of his white shirt.  Denim pants wrapped his legs and work boots held fast to his feet.Burt snuggled up to his father, taking a seat on his lap and putting his head on his father’s shoulder.  His father’s belly rose and fell against Burt.  It comforted the boy.“What’s wrong, Burtie?” asked his dad, taking another swig of Olympia.  He drained the can before placing it by his foot and stomping it flat.“Seth and Sebastian,” mumbled Burt.“Seth and Sebastian?” said his dad outloud.Burt’s uncle, Oscar, smiled.  “Seth and Sebastian?” he asked.  “What did they do?”“What’d they do, son?” asked his dad.  Burt could sense by their tone of voice neither of them were talking him seriously.His dad grabbed another beer from a Styrofoam ice chest beside him.  “Well?” he asked, pulling off the tab of the beer can and tossing it to a small trashcan in the corner.Burt didn’t answer, so his dad put words in his mouth.  “Did they hit you?”Burt just nodded, embarrassed and ashamed.“You should have hit them back, Burtie,” said Uncle Oscar.  “Right in the mouth,” he chuckled.  “My boys are good… your cousins.  But they can be turds sometimes.  So you need to punch them back so they’ll learn not to mess with you.”“Did you hear that?” asked his dad.  “Hit ‘em next time, son.”“Especially Seth, Burtie,” said Oscar, finishing his Coors.  “He can be a little shit sometimes.  I whip his ass with the belt more than Sebastian.  I don’t know if he’s dumber or just more stubborn than his brother.”“I haven’t had to give Burt licks in a while.  Right, Burt?”Burt just nodded.  He was embarrassed.“See, Burtie.  It’s the same thing.  Show those little shits you mean business and they won’t mess with you.”Burt just nodded again.“Boy spends too much time with his mom,” said Ernest.  “He’s a little titty baby and needs to hang out here with the Scott men more.”“How ‘bout some beer, Burtie?” offered his uncle Oscar, pulling the tab off another Coors.  “You can have the first sip.”“You can have some of mine if you want,” his dad said, offering the Olympia as if Burt knew the difference.  “C’mon, son.  Put some hair on your chest.”Burt meekly took the can from his father and took a swig.  He had no idea what the oat soda would taste like.  All he knew were sugary soft drinks, or juices on occasion.  This would be new.The taste was strong, stronger than any soft drink he’d ever tasted.  The sting of carbonation was familiar, but the flavor was new, like a cold medicine.  It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad, either.  So he took another swig.“Atta boy,” said Oscar, raising his can to Burt before taking a drink of his own.“That’s my boy,” said Burt’s father, giving his son a manly side-embrace, shaking him with masculine pride.“Now sit here with me, son.  You need to listen to these stories your uncles, my uncles, are saying about the war, their time in the war, okay?”“Okay, dad,” he whispered, snuggling with his father again.For the next twenty minutes, Burt listened to his uncles talk about their time in Germany, on ships in the Pacific, in France.  It was all very abstract to him.  But the pictures his uncles painted of cruel combat, foreign maidens, and battle-forged friendships created amazing images of bravery and valor in his head.  They talked of medals earned, of friends lost, and of guns.  Lots of guns.Burt was about to snooze when his aunt Jane called into the rec room.
“Dinner is ready.”

ZOMBIES: 'We're Alive' Fan Fiction - Chapter 1 - Play >

So check this out, friends and readers.
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“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast  
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
CHAPTER 1 - PLAY >
TWO HOURS EARLIER
“Perhaps there’s more to Newman than meets the eye?”“No.  There’s less.” Burt chuckled at the finale of yet another humorous episode of the American situation comedy, Seinfeld.  His laughter melded with the canned studio audience laughter as the credits rolled over a freeze-frame of Elaine making a funny face at Jerry in his living room.  George looked on, bemused, while Kramer was stuck making a wild gesture of surprise.  It made his freeze-framed face and hands blurry under the whimsical closing music.

“I love that show,” mumbled Burt.  His shaking hand reached for the remote control from the cushioned comfort of his recliner.As he was about to change channels, the afternoon news pre-show teaser appeared on the television screen.  The rapid playing of the final credits led directly to the teaser, doing its job of reeling Burt in with interest.Legislators are nearing a historic vote on yet another controversial piece of immigration legislation.  Reality TV star Brooke Nash speaks out about her drug rehab experience.  And breaking news from downtown Los Angeles.  You are seeing shocking images of rioting that is now taking place outside a Los Angeles hospital.The person doing the voice-over remained as professional as possible in spite of the images relayed on the screen from a news helicopter that was circling the unrest.  Burt groaned.Police officials are at a loss as to why the riots are…The noble voice could not finish its story.  Burt had pressed the channel change button.He was sorely disappointed at what he found.… lyn Richards ‘Tweets’ a complaint about her new fragrance line, Riches.  And rioting down…Burt groaned and clicked to the next channel.  His blood was beginning to boil with anger.… pass a controversial new immigration reform bill, and riots in the streets of Los Angeles…“Dammit all to hell,” groaned Burt, pressing the ‘on’ button on his universal remote control to turn on the VCR.  He didn’t want to get his blood pressure up, and watching the riots would do just that.  The TV screen immediately turned blue.  In white, across the top of left portion of the screen read ‘NO TAPE’.Burt took a deep breath.  He didn’t want to get out of his chair.  He was comfortable, but needed a moment to calm down.  There was nothing that frustrated him more than riots.  It was hard for him to understand how the people of Los Angeles, any city for that matter, could do such a thing to its city, to its people.  It frustrated him to no end.The last thing he wanted to do now was watch the news, watch the chaos.  In one moment, his afternoon ritual was disrupted and he hoped that would be the only disruption he’d have to face.  It was his day off from work.  The shop was closed.  All he wanted to do was rest and relax.  Fact is, the store hours had been erratic for a while.Slowly, his anger began to fizzle away.  He took deep breaths, trying to relax.  He hadn’t served over 20 years in the United States Marine Corps defending America overseas to have jackasses trash the streets his tax dollars helped pay for.“Idiots are just giving a cops a chance to rough you up.  Goddamn idiots,” he grumbled.  He wished he could punch the city in the face, make it stop.  When the city fell apart like it did, just like it had many times before, he wanted to crush it.  It became like an enemy, something he wanted to fight.  But it was a fight he could not win, and he knew that.  Too much danger.  Too many idiots.But at the end of the day, the truth was he was just too old for fighting, too old to run, too old.Burt took another deep breath before rising from his chair.  His joints creaked like the old gears of a rusty tractor.  His muscles strained as he rose from his chair that he had been sitting in the last two hours solid.  A stressed groan left his lips like a beast rising from a hiding spot behind a tree in a fairy tale. TBS, which Burt was to understand by the TV promotional commercial was ‘very funny’, held a four hour Seinfeld marathon.  Burt gladly accepted the programming as a perfect opportunity to do absolutely nothing for the morning.  Hell, it was a pretty good idea for the rest of the afternoon as well.Waking up, he had been too unmotivated for breakfast.  Instead, he filled a cup with cold coffee from the day before.  He took a few saltines from an open bag that might or might not have served as a snack for a charming rodent living in the apartment.  It just didn’t matter anymore.  Life.  Not to Burt, anyway.Burt walked to a plastic rack filled modestly with VHS tapes.  A movie would be the perfect way to pass the lunch hour.  It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim light of the room, using the illumination from the kitchen and the television to find his movie.“There you are,” he whispered, smiling.  “Hello, old friend.”Burt took the VHS tape from the rack.  He wiped off a small layer of dust that had fallen on the box since the last time he watched the movie, which was only a few months back.“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he said, letting the plastic video tape fall out of the box and into his trembling hand.Moving to the VHS player that was sitting precariously on top of the television, Burt took a moment to steady his hand to place the tape in the mouth of the player.  He gently pushed the tape into the opening before the player swallowed it down.  The slender door to the player slapped shut as it gulped the tape into place.  Gears clicked into motion, technology was spurred to life with a familiar ‘whirring’ sound.As the words on the TV screen changed to PLAY, blue switched to black as Burt turned back to look at his dingy apartment.  Blinds were shut, letting thin rays of light mark the flight path of floating dust.  It was evident the apartment was once well kept.  But that time had passed.Burt flopped back into his seat with a moan of relaxation.  It was as if the muscles in his body were thanking him for taking the strain off of them.Before he could reach for the remote to press play on the VCR, his phone rang.  The phone was positioned right beside his chair.  He leaned over and read the caller ID.“Uncle Oscar,” he muttered.  “Not right now,” he said, lifting the receiver and hanging the phone.  He’d let the ‘call notes’ record the message.  He’d get to it later.  He took the phone off the hook.  Nothing was going to interfere with his special movie morning.“Here we go,” he muttered, watching the large red Warner Brothers logo fill the screen.  As the lead-colored title screen swept into focus, the flash of special effects from the 1980s illuminated the words.“The Road Warrior,” whispered Burt reverently.He never talked to himself.  That was something that had only recently developed, a trait formed to fill the still air of the empty apartment.  His apartment was his house, but his house was no longer a home.  It began to feel more like a nursing home, or a hospice center where old folks went to die in comfort.  He still had a lot of time left to live, but he just needed to figure out what for.  He was having a hard time believing it was worth finding a reason anymore.‘The Road Warrior’ was one of his favorite movies for years.  More recently, it provided comfort.  It was an abstract connection to days gone by, happier days, days when he wasn’t alone.  There was a time when his future held only good fortune and companionship.  In ninety-one minutes, his consciousness could be there again, away from the shattered hope of his present, away from the madness that was beginning to rock the city.The narrator spoke.  It was another voice in the room, familiar, yet alien.  Burt mouthed the words, falling into the fantasy world of the post-apocalyptic Australian outback.My life fades, my vision dims.  All that remains are memories… Every time the disembodied Australian voice said those words, Burt sighed and looked to a framed picture on the wall.  Coated in a light blanket of dust was a picture of a woman.  It was clearly an old picture taken in the mid-sixties judging by the fashion statement made by the hairstyles, clothes, and quality of the picture.  It was a high school graduation picture.“Shirley,” whispered Burt with longing.… To understand who he was, you have to go back to another time…Burt always recalled his past with that line.  Faces.  Places.  Events.  The choices he made, both measured and foolish, that brought him here, to this moment; a tired, lonely widower, slowly allowing himself to fade away.…Men began to feed on men…The riots in the city returned to his mind as the ghostly images of unrest the movie used to illustrate the collapse of society flashed on the screen.  Their frightening glory was displayed in haunting black and white, fading into each other like a true nightmare.  Abstract.  Racing.  It always reminded him of the Frankenstein and Wolfman movies from his youth.…He became a shell of a man, a burnt out, desolate man.  A man haunted by the demons of his past…His youth.  His youth.
…And it was here in this blighted place, he learned to live again…
=================
The next chapter coming soon....
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.