“I hate night like that,” said a Soldier as he took off his helmet and tossed it his locker.
“When have you not had a night like that, new-bee?” asked the Soldier from the locker across from his. The first Soldier kept his mouth shut, knowing his battle buddy was right.
“You should both shut up until you’ve had a night like Corporal Simms,” said their Platoon Sergeant. Just then Jeff Simms came out of the shower near his two battle buddies and his Platoon Sergeant.
“Why don’t you tell us about it Simms?” asked the first Soldier. Corporal Simms stopped right next to the soldier. He turned slowly to look the soldier right in the face; he was within an inch when he said.
“It’s Corporal Simms, Private,” He said in a soft yet harsh voice. “And that night was like a bad war drama, everyone with something to live for died,” he said as he walked to his locker to get dressed.
“Damn Serg,” said the Private, “why did you set me up like that?”
“Don’t blame me Private Roads,” he said. “You know Corporal Simms rank and how the Army works. Now get clean and get out of my locker room.” The platoon Sergeant turned and went to use his personal shower, leaving the two Soldiers to wonder about that night when Corporal Simms had lost his platoon.
That night was five months ago. It was almost two AM as they patrolled the city and the night had been like every other night, boring, uneventful and just the way this platoon liked it.
“I tell you what,” said one of the soldiers, “if we ever run it to them I hope to God that they eat me up”
“Yeah,” said another, “I’d hate to turn and go after y’all or my kids.”
“I don’t know,” said PFC Simms, “I’d like to know what it’s like on the other side.”
“Can the bull jive!” said their Platoon Sergeant.
“You’re a sick hugger Simms,” said one his battler buddies.
“I said shut the hell up!” barked the platoon Sergeant. He turned to say more to his troops but something came from his left flank and grabbed him.
“It’s them!” shouted one of the soldiers and two more came out of a dark alley and started to eat him. The rest of the platoon opened fire as more of them came from the other back alleys and side streets near the major intersection they were in. It was not long before they were surrounded. Soldiers screamed as four or five slow-walkers forced their weight on them. PFC Simms fired on a fresh-Preserve as it darted around biting soldiers in the neck and face so it could feed later.
“Kill me,” chocked the Soldier that had called Simms a “sick hugger” a few moments ago. He was bleeding from the neck and his right ear had been bitten off. “Kill me before I turn,” he pleaded. PFC Simms put his rifle to the head of his battle buddy and pulled the trigger. Simms and the few remaining Soldiers continued to fight as the two different kinds of zombies fed on their fallen buddies and tried to get them.
PFC Simms awoke the next morning with a true-dead, fresh-preserve lying across him, pinning him down. All he could recall from last night was killing five of his battle buddies and zombies everywhere. He tried to push off the zombie but his right arm had been cut somehow. He closed his eyes and he could see the faces of the battle buddies that he had shot. He lifted his good arm up a moved it in small circles until help arrived about half an hour later. PFC Simms had a wound that would never heal a promotion to Corporal and a transfer to a new city and a new platoon.
Corporal Simms walked back to his first floor room. Only soldiers lived on the first floor of any building. It was safer that way; they slept all day and patrolled all night, for a month then spent a month working out all day and resting at night. That was the life they lived as Soldiers, patrol all night for a month, work out all day for a month, repeat until dead. Simms took an unmarked bottle from his night stand and took a swig.
“Why is the rum almost gone?” he asked the bottle, then he gulped down what was left in the bottle. “Damn now I have to go see that pirate bitch.” He said as he fell on to his bed.