Endings: Dystopian Post Apocalyptic Zombie Thriller (Parables From The Apocalypse Book 1) by Norman Christof
Authors: Norman Christof
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Swamp Suckage
Colonel Chaz Sheperd walked the rows of deserted soldiers' tents, while recent battles weighed heavy on his mind. At least some of his platoon had survived, which was more than could be said for other commanders. These zombie freaks were becoming more resistant. The human casualties continued to soar, while the freaks kept coming. Originally, the infestation hadn't been a military problem. Local law keepers were the solution. May as well have used dog catchers. There were simply too many of the freaks. Then the general public had compounded the problem. People can be a pain at the best of times, but when confronted with zombies, they become complete idiots. Cops can deal with idiots, but mass-murdering freaks and idiots together were too much. By the time politicians got around to bringing in the military, it was too late. Renegade vigilante groups took responsibility for hunting and killing freaks. The original untrained vigilantes didn't fare well. Most died. Those good ole days were a scant fifteen years ago, and few of the original survivors remembered anything before that.
Chaz was a survivor. He could still remember the smell of his first battle. The smell never changed, and this camp smelled of fresh death. The bodies had been buried days ago, but the reek still hung in the air.
Now, the military was in charge of the freaks. The dog catchers had a better track record. At one point, Chaz had commanded an entire battalion. With their forces dwindling, competent commanding officers were few and far between. Prior to the zombie wars, soldiers had been trained primarily in urban warfare. Modern-day skirmishes were fought in crumbling cityscapes, chasing terrorists or rebel factions that threatened US interests worldwide. Nobody knew how to fight in the woods or mountains. At least, not the US military. Yet here they were, in southern Louisiana, fighting through swamps that were breeding grounds for freaks. It was hard to believe freaks could survive here. You'd think they'd be slow-moving chow for gators, but even the gators had no taste for them. Once, Chaz had watched a family of zombies walk right through a congregation of dozing gators. The gators had barely moved. Chaz blew the heads of the zombies, left them lying dead in their tracks, and still the gators wouldn't touch them.
No one knew why the swamps were so infested. There were crazy stories about freaks rising up from sinkholes in the inner swamps. The nutcases liked those stories. So did the religious fanatics. The experts however, had no rationale for why zombies kept coming from the swamplands. Not that it would have made a difference. It was the military's job to deal with them now, no matter where they came from.
Chaz walked past soldiers sitting on supply crates, cleaning their weapons. No one made eye contact. No one acknowledged each others presence. No one saluted. Normally that would constitute a severe verbal reprimand in the colonel's book. Today, he just kept walking. Things were changing. Chaz could sense it. It had been a solid week since their last skirmish in the Honey Island Swamps. Chaz had filed a report with Southern Command in Atlanta, but heard nothing back. Given their losses, that didn't make sense. Only twelve soldiers left in the lone surviving platoon patrolling Louisiana should elicit some response from Command. They were going to need reinforcements, or they'd risk losing the entire state. Chaz had managed to contact battalions in Mississippi and Alabama, but neither of them knew anything. The Montgomery battalion had sent a team to investigate yesterday, but still no word.
The Fall
Chaz entered the unguarded command tent. The only person inside was communications tech Private Ben Jones.
"Private! Who's supposed to be on guard outside this tent, and where the hell are
Colonel Chaz Sheperd walked the rows of deserted soldiers' tents, while recent battles weighed heavy on his mind. At least some of his platoon had survived, which was more than could be said for other commanders. These zombie freaks were becoming more resistant. The human casualties continued to soar, while the freaks kept coming. Originally, the infestation hadn't been a military problem. Local law keepers were the solution. May as well have used dog catchers. There were simply too many of the freaks. Then the general public had compounded the problem. People can be a pain at the best of times, but when confronted with zombies, they become complete idiots. Cops can deal with idiots, but mass-murdering freaks and idiots together were too much. By the time politicians got around to bringing in the military, it was too late. Renegade vigilante groups took responsibility for hunting and killing freaks. The original untrained vigilantes didn't fare well. Most died. Those good ole days were a scant fifteen years ago, and few of the original survivors remembered anything before that.
Chaz was a survivor. He could still remember the smell of his first battle. The smell never changed, and this camp smelled of fresh death. The bodies had been buried days ago, but the reek still hung in the air.
Now, the military was in charge of the freaks. The dog catchers had a better track record. At one point, Chaz had commanded an entire battalion. With their forces dwindling, competent commanding officers were few and far between. Prior to the zombie wars, soldiers had been trained primarily in urban warfare. Modern-day skirmishes were fought in crumbling cityscapes, chasing terrorists or rebel factions that threatened US interests worldwide. Nobody knew how to fight in the woods or mountains. At least, not the US military. Yet here they were, in southern Louisiana, fighting through swamps that were breeding grounds for freaks. It was hard to believe freaks could survive here. You'd think they'd be slow-moving chow for gators, but even the gators had no taste for them. Once, Chaz had watched a family of zombies walk right through a congregation of dozing gators. The gators had barely moved. Chaz blew the heads of the zombies, left them lying dead in their tracks, and still the gators wouldn't touch them.
No one knew why the swamps were so infested. There were crazy stories about freaks rising up from sinkholes in the inner swamps. The nutcases liked those stories. So did the religious fanatics. The experts however, had no rationale for why zombies kept coming from the swamplands. Not that it would have made a difference. It was the military's job to deal with them now, no matter where they came from.
Chaz walked past soldiers sitting on supply crates, cleaning their weapons. No one made eye contact. No one acknowledged each others presence. No one saluted. Normally that would constitute a severe verbal reprimand in the colonel's book. Today, he just kept walking. Things were changing. Chaz could sense it. It had been a solid week since their last skirmish in the Honey Island Swamps. Chaz had filed a report with Southern Command in Atlanta, but heard nothing back. Given their losses, that didn't make sense. Only twelve soldiers left in the lone surviving platoon patrolling Louisiana should elicit some response from Command. They were going to need reinforcements, or they'd risk losing the entire state. Chaz had managed to contact battalions in Mississippi and Alabama, but neither of them knew anything. The Montgomery battalion had sent a team to investigate yesterday, but still no word.
The Fall
Chaz entered the unguarded command tent. The only person inside was communications tech Private Ben Jones.
"Private! Who's supposed to be on guard outside this tent, and where the hell are
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