Endings: Dystopian Post Apocalyptic Zombie Thriller (Parables From The Apocalypse Book 1) by Norman Christof Page B
Authors: Norman Christof
Ads: Link
Several men watched him go by, but said nothing. Seeing Private Jones exiting his bunk tent, Chaz stopped.
"Jones!"
"Yes, sir."
"Your marching pack provisioned and ready to go?"
"Yes, sir, it's always ready."
"Good man. Go get it."
Jones ducked back inside the tent, and returned a few minutes later with his pack on and in full combat gear.
"That was quick, Jones. You're a good soldier."
"Thank you, sir. Jones reporting for duty." Jones snapped a quick salute.
Chaz returned the salute. "At ease, son."
Jones relaxed, but was obviously keen to go.
"Give me your pack. And your automatic weapon."
"Sir?"
"Just do it."
Jones handed over his pack, and his weapon. This time, Chaz saluted the private. Jones reluctantly returned the salute, but looked confused.
"Sir, what's going on?"
"It's over, kid. We lost."
"I see ... so, what happens? What do we do now?"
"Go home, boy. If you have one. Say your goodbyes. That's all any of us can do."
Deserter
Chaz made one more stop before hitting the motor pool. He threw the flap open on the officers' tent and went inside. There were four bunks, but his was the only one used in weeks. He dialed the lock on his foot locker, and pitched the lock. Rummaging through, he tossed his commander's log, a shave kit, and some good boots before finding the half-full bottle of whiskey. "Damn, I thought there was more." Moving to the next bunk, he used the butt of his automatic weapon to try breaking the lock. When that didn't work he just shot the lock off. Rummaging around, he found the usual clothes, boots, and letters from home. At least some of us get letters , he thought. But no booze. "Wilkins, you always were a pussy. What kind of officer goes to war without at least one bottle stashed somewhere?" He shot the other two locks off, and was rewarded for his effort. One full Jack Daniels and one bottle of dark rum. As Chaz exited the tent, he found Jones and a few others milling around. They looked like they were going to draw straws for who would check his tent for bodies.
"Nothing to see here, boys. Just one soon-to-be-drunk soldier about to desert his platoon and start searching for ghosts."
One of the enlisted had the nerve to speak. "Sir, you can't do that. Who's gonna be in charge?"
"Don't really care, kids. I'm done. Arm wrestle for it if you want to, but it's a waste of time. You're all free men. For as long as you can be. Or at least for as long as you can survive. Whichever comes first."
The men just stared, dumbfounded; even Jones had nothing to say.
Chaz continued his walk to the motor pool. He did a quick inspection of the first Humvee in line, and jumped into the driver's seat. Sure, this thing was designed for a group of two to four, but what the hell? So, he couldn't fire the turret and drive at the same time. Shooting freaks wasn't his main concern. "Gas? Check! Guns? Check! Bullets? Check! Whiskey? Check! Time to motor!"
With that, Chaz started the engine and headed east. He figured that before he got to Atlanta, odds were one of two things would happen. Either he'd be eaten by zombies, or court-martialed by the army. He didn't care which. The less likely third option was getting there alive, and finding his family. The first two options he understood, the third one scared the hell out of him. But that's the one he hoped for the most.
Family Memories
No one chased after him. Who knows what they'll do once they start believing their commanding officer just went AWOL , Sheperd thought. There would not be much chance of court-martialing him these days. That would take a higher authority, and the higher authorities seem to have their hands full. There were a few in the platoon that weren't happy with Colonel Chaz Sheperd. What those disgruntled few would do now was anyone's guess. Chaz wasn't the guessing-game
"Jones!"
"Yes, sir."
"Your marching pack provisioned and ready to go?"
"Yes, sir, it's always ready."
"Good man. Go get it."
Jones ducked back inside the tent, and returned a few minutes later with his pack on and in full combat gear.
"That was quick, Jones. You're a good soldier."
"Thank you, sir. Jones reporting for duty." Jones snapped a quick salute.
Chaz returned the salute. "At ease, son."
Jones relaxed, but was obviously keen to go.
"Give me your pack. And your automatic weapon."
"Sir?"
"Just do it."
Jones handed over his pack, and his weapon. This time, Chaz saluted the private. Jones reluctantly returned the salute, but looked confused.
"Sir, what's going on?"
"It's over, kid. We lost."
"I see ... so, what happens? What do we do now?"
"Go home, boy. If you have one. Say your goodbyes. That's all any of us can do."
Deserter
Chaz made one more stop before hitting the motor pool. He threw the flap open on the officers' tent and went inside. There were four bunks, but his was the only one used in weeks. He dialed the lock on his foot locker, and pitched the lock. Rummaging through, he tossed his commander's log, a shave kit, and some good boots before finding the half-full bottle of whiskey. "Damn, I thought there was more." Moving to the next bunk, he used the butt of his automatic weapon to try breaking the lock. When that didn't work he just shot the lock off. Rummaging around, he found the usual clothes, boots, and letters from home. At least some of us get letters , he thought. But no booze. "Wilkins, you always were a pussy. What kind of officer goes to war without at least one bottle stashed somewhere?" He shot the other two locks off, and was rewarded for his effort. One full Jack Daniels and one bottle of dark rum. As Chaz exited the tent, he found Jones and a few others milling around. They looked like they were going to draw straws for who would check his tent for bodies.
"Nothing to see here, boys. Just one soon-to-be-drunk soldier about to desert his platoon and start searching for ghosts."
One of the enlisted had the nerve to speak. "Sir, you can't do that. Who's gonna be in charge?"
"Don't really care, kids. I'm done. Arm wrestle for it if you want to, but it's a waste of time. You're all free men. For as long as you can be. Or at least for as long as you can survive. Whichever comes first."
The men just stared, dumbfounded; even Jones had nothing to say.
Chaz continued his walk to the motor pool. He did a quick inspection of the first Humvee in line, and jumped into the driver's seat. Sure, this thing was designed for a group of two to four, but what the hell? So, he couldn't fire the turret and drive at the same time. Shooting freaks wasn't his main concern. "Gas? Check! Guns? Check! Bullets? Check! Whiskey? Check! Time to motor!"
With that, Chaz started the engine and headed east. He figured that before he got to Atlanta, odds were one of two things would happen. Either he'd be eaten by zombies, or court-martialed by the army. He didn't care which. The less likely third option was getting there alive, and finding his family. The first two options he understood, the third one scared the hell out of him. But that's the one he hoped for the most.
Family Memories
No one chased after him. Who knows what they'll do once they start believing their commanding officer just went AWOL , Sheperd thought. There would not be much chance of court-martialing him these days. That would take a higher authority, and the higher authorities seem to have their hands full. There were a few in the platoon that weren't happy with Colonel Chaz Sheperd. What those disgruntled few would do now was anyone's guess. Chaz wasn't the guessing-game
Similar Books
