"Private Arlen"
Raccoon City Survivor
Many of the men had fought, and died. But some remained, some still
willing to fight. The world was all but lost for now; it wasn't totally taken by
this new plague that had swept across this nation with a hammering blow.
The plague that had been little more than a new sickness. But it was
certain even now, as Private Jon Arlen ran across Highway 127 at the
Highway 40 junction, that the world had shit the bed.
Of course it was only his observation, there were other men in his
platoon that thought otherwise. The maniacal rank of this army now was
to its full extent. And if it could get any worse, then he was certain he'd
die.
He glanced up from his feet and saw salvation, in the form of a brigade of
heavily armed men walking towards him with quickened pace. They stood
in front of a La Quinta Inn, the area that the National Guard had taken
refuge. It was only a temporary base for this garrison.
But how long was temporary to the eyes of the United States National
Guard? They'd been here for two weeks, and he hadn't seen any sign of
anyone coming to rescue.
More than half of his platoons were dead; the cause of looters and
likewise factions that now roamed Crossville, Tennessee. Molotov's and
hand-made dynamite sticks were no match for anything his platoon had
in possession. Except for the fifty-caliber he'd manned, he wished the fifty
had had more ammunition than it had. He took out possibly ten of them
before the fifty went quite.
He wasn't a coward; just unfortunate.
Looters weren't the only things he had to worry about. There were
other...things...abroad. Things that should not be. And they were fast as
fuck.
Carriers, that's what some of his buddies called them. But he called them
just plain zombies; he'd seen them in horror movies, including one that
had come out in the past year. Those were as fast as these, but that
didn't mean they weren't something to fear. They were fear, busting down
your door and breaking in your windows. Fear was running through your
streets and biting your neighbor, then it went on to find more of your
neighbors, and finally fear would find you.
He looked over his right shoulder and saw them swarming through the
convoy he'd left two hundred yards behind him. Many of the score
started a mad run for him, the survivors of his platoon.
The men in front of the hotel opened fire, rendering the carriers
defenseless in the flat lawn with the grass. That green grass soon turned
crimson as the bodies were obliterated by the mix of 7.62 and 5.56
rounds filtering through the barrels of United States steel.
Jon almost fell at the horrifying sound of large caliber rounds whizzing
past him, but remained on his feet. He glanced down at his mud-covered
M-9 pistol. He had no idea how many rounds were left, but he knew it
wasn't empty. Many a foe on his trip had thought themselves worthy to
stare down his barrel. He had stupidly left his M-16 in the Humvee with
the fifty-caliber mount.
So far he was grateful for having a gun at all.
The shots in front of him had died down considerably, but many were still
firing. He walked up to a Captain, who was eyeing him intently. Captain
Donald Matheson was a fit fellow, weighing in at an easy two hundred
pounds with the biceps to show. He fiddled with his trigger safety any time
he was nervous.
"Report, Private!" he barked, revealing teeth that had seen better days.
Jon snapped off a quick salute. "Sir, ten were lost to roaming gangs in
downtown Crossville. We no longer control downtown. Sir!" Jon barked
back, Downtown Crossville was being used as a safe zone as well as a
supply dump. He thought back to the slaughter, and mentally shuddered.
"Fuck!" Captain Matheson screamed, letting go a puff of smoke as he lit
his cigarette. He fiddled with his trigger safety.
"Grenade!" someone to the far right bellowed, it was followed by a sharp
explosion and dirt showering the men.
"Listen up, pansies," the captain bellowed. "We've got a job to do, and
that's to clear out this sector. I'll be damned if we aren't gonna fucking
complete our mission! Hooah!"
"Hooah!" came the response, thick with readiness.
Jon's response lacked a lot; he didn't think the world would sort this kind
of shit out. And he was sure that he wasn't crazy. Yet.
Jon walked to the entrance of the hotel, walking up to an area full of
downed men, he stopped in front of the area. Some were bitten and had
worsened in health over the few days they had been there. He didn't
exactly like that; he'd seen zombie movies and hoped that this wasn't the
case.
One started moving erratically, belying his weakened state unable to lift a
finger. Jon took a step back. It stopped, dead. He watched the last breath
exit the lungs of the sergeant.
"Fuck." He gasped, gripping the M-9 with white knuckles. Any minute he
would get up, any fucking minute that sergeant would be biting others.
But he was going to stop that, here and now.
But just as he vowed to end it were it started, ten more stopped breathing.
Jon glanced to the right, and then to the left. Insuring no one was
watching. This was the moment of courage--his moment of courage. And
he ran.
He pushed through to the left, running further into the bowels of the
hotel. Bounding past men and women that had no idea what was
happening. He got to the elevators and pushed the glowing button as the
screams first started. The screams were relentless, ongoing until the
person died. He dropped his pistol involuntarily and started running to
the emergency stairs.
More screams were thrown into the chaos, as well as a volley of
gunshots. But all faded as he leaped and bounded up the stairs taking
three at a time.
Soon level two came into view. He glanced down, looking if anyone had
followed him.
The door on the lowest floor was thrown open. And to his ears came the
sound of boots pounding against the concrete steps.
"I saw that fucker run!" screamed a familiar voice, and that familiar voice
had a name; Corporal Brad Jenkins. A man that had despised Jon since
the day they'd met in boot camp.
He glanced at his empty left hand. No pistol. No life. He continued up the
stairs, but with a quieter pace. Why the hell had he dropped his gun? He
stood no chance up against Brad and Josh. PFC. Joshua Lynwood was a
fighter by heart, the only problem in his case, though, was that he was a
fighter that didn't need a brain. He let his fists do the thinking.
"I'm gonna cut that dipshit's prick off." Brad vowed.
"Yeah!" Josh chimed in.
Jon crested the third level and shot into a room. His breathing was the
only thing that kept him sane--the only thing that separated himself from
the fucks running around outside. He cocked his head and walked to the
window, it was a full view of the outside.
Many of his platoon were caught in between two waves of carriers, one
coming from the town, and another coming from the lobby of the hotel.
He heard their pounding footsteps seconds before they actually stalked
past the door.
"End of the line, dipshit!" Brad bellowed, making sure the whole level
could hear him. "Search the rooms." He ordered.
Ray heard the footsteps of Brad and heard him attempt to open his door.
After what seemed like hours but was only five seconds elapsed, he went
to the next room. Private Arlen let loose a breath long forgotten in his
lungs, and silently took in deep breathes.
He heard more attempts down the corridor, followed by cursing. Jon
elected to make his move; he stealthily walked to the door. The sounds
of gunfire still rang outside. He grasped his hand around the knob and
twisted the silent ball slowly, he was awarded with a clicking sound as the
lock disengaged. And with a flash of energy and swift arms that belied his
strength the door was open.
"Shoot the mother!" Josh screamed, catching first glimpse of the private.
Jon ran towards the stairs, bracing for an inevitable volley of 5.56 rounds
in the back. And then that would be the end of Private Jon A. Arlen.
Bound by bound, leap by leap, he came closer and closer to achieving
his goal. And then Josh opened up.
The crudely taken shot hit him high on the right shoulder, flinging him
over the banister and sending him falling to the stairs that awaited his
arrival. He landed mid-way on the flight of stairs. His air had escaped
from his lungs and rendered him unable to accurately breathe. But that
soon recovered.
"Don't shoot him, you dumbfuck." Brad said.
Jon rose to his knees and felt the back of his head. There was a large
lump, but no bleeding. He stood erect and scanned the area; he saw
nothing but heard Brad and Josh above. This caused an all-out run down
the stairs.
"Come back here, dipshit!" Brad pursued him.
Jon giving up was unlikely. He would rather betray himself to Captain
Matheson and get shot, than let his pursuers lay one finger on him.
"You can't run forever!" Josh said.
Jon kept at the mad run even with his bruised head and blurred vision.
He came abreast of the emergency door and pushed it opened. After
hearing the metallic clang of the door closing, his eyes scoured the
ground in search for something to reinforce the door with. Nothing was
forthcoming.
He walked towards the lobby, his foot kicking a metallic object. His pistol.
He picked it up and checked the magazine; half full. He smiled and
started into the lobby.
He had no fear now. There wasn't an ounce of fear behind his thick
military issue glasses. He stalked into the lobby and caught a carrier
feasting upon a soldier. He shot them both in rapid secession.
A carrier outside came to investigate the loud noises; he was shot.
Another shot, and then another. And his magazine went empty. No
matter, he dropped it and grasped the cold grips of an M-16 A2 and
opened up, felling four more swiftly.
He turned around and gave the two men in pursuit of him what they
deserved. He turned and ran out the front door, he inhaled a deep
breath of air and realized this was a new start for him.
He started for the Humvee which he had manned the fifty. During his run
he checked the clip for his rifle. Empty. He dropped it and ran faster for
his abandoned rifle in the Humvee.
Two soldier carriers came running after him from the left.
He ran faster, his lungs balls of fire. Being awake for long periods of time
and sleeping so little was wearing him down. He yawned, despite the
adrenaline rushing through him. He glanced down at a body that littered
the lawn; it was Captain Matheson. Minus a neck.
Two hundred feet to the Humvee, and his weapon.
He could make it, just a few hundred feet. He took bounds and leaps,
running the same speed as the carriers behind him. His heart pumping
his lifeblood through vessels.
One hundred feet now separated himself from the rifle.
His speed was decreasing and he knew it. His legs ached from exertion
since the rise of the first carrier. He, along with his platoon, had been
sent to this town to patrol and protect it.
What a bang-up job they'd done.
He came to within twenty-feet and glanced back. The carriers were still
gaining speed, but not as rapidly as he'd thought. The private came
abreast of the Humvee and tried the doors, locked.
"Fuck!" he screamed. How the hell had the occupants gotten the time to
lock it up? He swung around to the opposite side and tried the front
passenger door. To his surprise it swung open. He grabbed a pistol that
lie forgotten in the seat and put three rounds into the first carrier, then
readjusted his aim and felled the other with one shot.
After checking his immediate vicinity, he clambered into the driver's seat
of the Humvee and twisted the key. It roared to life and he put it into the
appropriate gear and gunned it. He turned left and began down Highway
40.
It was until he was forty miles away from Crossville when his white
knuckles abated and he realized he had a new life ahead of him.
A life he wouldn't fuck up.
willing to fight. The world was all but lost for now; it wasn't totally taken by
this new plague that had swept across this nation with a hammering blow.
The plague that had been little more than a new sickness. But it was
certain even now, as Private Jon Arlen ran across Highway 127 at the
Highway 40 junction, that the world had shit the bed.
Of course it was only his observation, there were other men in his
platoon that thought otherwise. The maniacal rank of this army now was
to its full extent. And if it could get any worse, then he was certain he'd
die.
He glanced up from his feet and saw salvation, in the form of a brigade of
heavily armed men walking towards him with quickened pace. They stood
in front of a La Quinta Inn, the area that the National Guard had taken
refuge. It was only a temporary base for this garrison.
But how long was temporary to the eyes of the United States National
Guard? They'd been here for two weeks, and he hadn't seen any sign of
anyone coming to rescue.
More than half of his platoons were dead; the cause of looters and
likewise factions that now roamed Crossville, Tennessee. Molotov's and
hand-made dynamite sticks were no match for anything his platoon had
in possession. Except for the fifty-caliber he'd manned, he wished the fifty
had had more ammunition than it had. He took out possibly ten of them
before the fifty went quite.
He wasn't a coward; just unfortunate.
Looters weren't the only things he had to worry about. There were
other...things...abroad. Things that should not be. And they were fast as
fuck.
Carriers, that's what some of his buddies called them. But he called them
just plain zombies; he'd seen them in horror movies, including one that
had come out in the past year. Those were as fast as these, but that
didn't mean they weren't something to fear. They were fear, busting down
your door and breaking in your windows. Fear was running through your
streets and biting your neighbor, then it went on to find more of your
neighbors, and finally fear would find you.
He looked over his right shoulder and saw them swarming through the
convoy he'd left two hundred yards behind him. Many of the score
started a mad run for him, the survivors of his platoon.
The men in front of the hotel opened fire, rendering the carriers
defenseless in the flat lawn with the grass. That green grass soon turned
crimson as the bodies were obliterated by the mix of 7.62 and 5.56
rounds filtering through the barrels of United States steel.
Jon almost fell at the horrifying sound of large caliber rounds whizzing
past him, but remained on his feet. He glanced down at his mud-covered
M-9 pistol. He had no idea how many rounds were left, but he knew it
wasn't empty. Many a foe on his trip had thought themselves worthy to
stare down his barrel. He had stupidly left his M-16 in the Humvee with
the fifty-caliber mount.
So far he was grateful for having a gun at all.
The shots in front of him had died down considerably, but many were still
firing. He walked up to a Captain, who was eyeing him intently. Captain
Donald Matheson was a fit fellow, weighing in at an easy two hundred
pounds with the biceps to show. He fiddled with his trigger safety any time
he was nervous.
"Report, Private!" he barked, revealing teeth that had seen better days.
Jon snapped off a quick salute. "Sir, ten were lost to roaming gangs in
downtown Crossville. We no longer control downtown. Sir!" Jon barked
back, Downtown Crossville was being used as a safe zone as well as a
supply dump. He thought back to the slaughter, and mentally shuddered.
"Fuck!" Captain Matheson screamed, letting go a puff of smoke as he lit
his cigarette. He fiddled with his trigger safety.
"Grenade!" someone to the far right bellowed, it was followed by a sharp
explosion and dirt showering the men.
"Listen up, pansies," the captain bellowed. "We've got a job to do, and
that's to clear out this sector. I'll be damned if we aren't gonna fucking
complete our mission! Hooah!"
"Hooah!" came the response, thick with readiness.
Jon's response lacked a lot; he didn't think the world would sort this kind
of shit out. And he was sure that he wasn't crazy. Yet.
Jon walked to the entrance of the hotel, walking up to an area full of
downed men, he stopped in front of the area. Some were bitten and had
worsened in health over the few days they had been there. He didn't
exactly like that; he'd seen zombie movies and hoped that this wasn't the
case.
One started moving erratically, belying his weakened state unable to lift a
finger. Jon took a step back. It stopped, dead. He watched the last breath
exit the lungs of the sergeant.
"Fuck." He gasped, gripping the M-9 with white knuckles. Any minute he
would get up, any fucking minute that sergeant would be biting others.
But he was going to stop that, here and now.
But just as he vowed to end it were it started, ten more stopped breathing.
Jon glanced to the right, and then to the left. Insuring no one was
watching. This was the moment of courage--his moment of courage. And
he ran.
He pushed through to the left, running further into the bowels of the
hotel. Bounding past men and women that had no idea what was
happening. He got to the elevators and pushed the glowing button as the
screams first started. The screams were relentless, ongoing until the
person died. He dropped his pistol involuntarily and started running to
the emergency stairs.
More screams were thrown into the chaos, as well as a volley of
gunshots. But all faded as he leaped and bounded up the stairs taking
three at a time.
Soon level two came into view. He glanced down, looking if anyone had
followed him.
The door on the lowest floor was thrown open. And to his ears came the
sound of boots pounding against the concrete steps.
"I saw that fucker run!" screamed a familiar voice, and that familiar voice
had a name; Corporal Brad Jenkins. A man that had despised Jon since
the day they'd met in boot camp.
He glanced at his empty left hand. No pistol. No life. He continued up the
stairs, but with a quieter pace. Why the hell had he dropped his gun? He
stood no chance up against Brad and Josh. PFC. Joshua Lynwood was a
fighter by heart, the only problem in his case, though, was that he was a
fighter that didn't need a brain. He let his fists do the thinking.
"I'm gonna cut that dipshit's prick off." Brad vowed.
"Yeah!" Josh chimed in.
Jon crested the third level and shot into a room. His breathing was the
only thing that kept him sane--the only thing that separated himself from
the fucks running around outside. He cocked his head and walked to the
window, it was a full view of the outside.
Many of his platoon were caught in between two waves of carriers, one
coming from the town, and another coming from the lobby of the hotel.
He heard their pounding footsteps seconds before they actually stalked
past the door.
"End of the line, dipshit!" Brad bellowed, making sure the whole level
could hear him. "Search the rooms." He ordered.
Ray heard the footsteps of Brad and heard him attempt to open his door.
After what seemed like hours but was only five seconds elapsed, he went
to the next room. Private Arlen let loose a breath long forgotten in his
lungs, and silently took in deep breathes.
He heard more attempts down the corridor, followed by cursing. Jon
elected to make his move; he stealthily walked to the door. The sounds
of gunfire still rang outside. He grasped his hand around the knob and
twisted the silent ball slowly, he was awarded with a clicking sound as the
lock disengaged. And with a flash of energy and swift arms that belied his
strength the door was open.
"Shoot the mother!" Josh screamed, catching first glimpse of the private.
Jon ran towards the stairs, bracing for an inevitable volley of 5.56 rounds
in the back. And then that would be the end of Private Jon A. Arlen.
Bound by bound, leap by leap, he came closer and closer to achieving
his goal. And then Josh opened up.
The crudely taken shot hit him high on the right shoulder, flinging him
over the banister and sending him falling to the stairs that awaited his
arrival. He landed mid-way on the flight of stairs. His air had escaped
from his lungs and rendered him unable to accurately breathe. But that
soon recovered.
"Don't shoot him, you dumbfuck." Brad said.
Jon rose to his knees and felt the back of his head. There was a large
lump, but no bleeding. He stood erect and scanned the area; he saw
nothing but heard Brad and Josh above. This caused an all-out run down
the stairs.
"Come back here, dipshit!" Brad pursued him.
Jon giving up was unlikely. He would rather betray himself to Captain
Matheson and get shot, than let his pursuers lay one finger on him.
"You can't run forever!" Josh said.
Jon kept at the mad run even with his bruised head and blurred vision.
He came abreast of the emergency door and pushed it opened. After
hearing the metallic clang of the door closing, his eyes scoured the
ground in search for something to reinforce the door with. Nothing was
forthcoming.
He walked towards the lobby, his foot kicking a metallic object. His pistol.
He picked it up and checked the magazine; half full. He smiled and
started into the lobby.
He had no fear now. There wasn't an ounce of fear behind his thick
military issue glasses. He stalked into the lobby and caught a carrier
feasting upon a soldier. He shot them both in rapid secession.
A carrier outside came to investigate the loud noises; he was shot.
Another shot, and then another. And his magazine went empty. No
matter, he dropped it and grasped the cold grips of an M-16 A2 and
opened up, felling four more swiftly.
He turned around and gave the two men in pursuit of him what they
deserved. He turned and ran out the front door, he inhaled a deep
breath of air and realized this was a new start for him.
He started for the Humvee which he had manned the fifty. During his run
he checked the clip for his rifle. Empty. He dropped it and ran faster for
his abandoned rifle in the Humvee.
Two soldier carriers came running after him from the left.
He ran faster, his lungs balls of fire. Being awake for long periods of time
and sleeping so little was wearing him down. He yawned, despite the
adrenaline rushing through him. He glanced down at a body that littered
the lawn; it was Captain Matheson. Minus a neck.
Two hundred feet to the Humvee, and his weapon.
He could make it, just a few hundred feet. He took bounds and leaps,
running the same speed as the carriers behind him. His heart pumping
his lifeblood through vessels.
One hundred feet now separated himself from the rifle.
His speed was decreasing and he knew it. His legs ached from exertion
since the rise of the first carrier. He, along with his platoon, had been
sent to this town to patrol and protect it.
What a bang-up job they'd done.
He came to within twenty-feet and glanced back. The carriers were still
gaining speed, but not as rapidly as he'd thought. The private came
abreast of the Humvee and tried the doors, locked.
"Fuck!" he screamed. How the hell had the occupants gotten the time to
lock it up? He swung around to the opposite side and tried the front
passenger door. To his surprise it swung open. He grabbed a pistol that
lie forgotten in the seat and put three rounds into the first carrier, then
readjusted his aim and felled the other with one shot.
After checking his immediate vicinity, he clambered into the driver's seat
of the Humvee and twisted the key. It roared to life and he put it into the
appropriate gear and gunned it. He turned left and began down Highway
40.
It was until he was forty miles away from Crossville when his white
knuckles abated and he realized he had a new life ahead of him.
A life he wouldn't fuck up.