The zombie game

chapter 7

Tom awoke, this time lying on a futon. He had been dreaming when he was asleep; dreaming of times of freedom, dreaming of if or when he would escape. He knew he would though. He had to; he couldn't just stay here, in this place, rotting, waiting for the soldiers to kill him. He slowly sat up from the makeshift bed that was lying on the dirt floor, formulating a plan of how he would get out of this mess. People would die. He knew that. He walked to the outside, seeing a couple of guards standing right outside of his tent.

“Where the heck are you going?” asked a soldier, gruffly.

“I am just come out for some fresh air,” said Tom, looking annoyed.

“No. Go back into the tent,” said the soldier gruffly. He raised his machine gun and placed the barrel against Tom's back. “Or else.”

“Or else what? You're gonna kill me? Go ahead. I don't care—it's better than living in this new type of world which is ruled by fear,” said Tom, defiantly. He turned his back and was about to move across the courtyard, when the soldier hit Tom in the back of the head. Tom whipped around, before falling to the ground. He slowly staggered up from the ground and looked at the smiling soldier. The soldier's face was blurred. The soldier kicked him in the face this time, blood exploding from his nose, causing it to become ajar on his face. The second soldier placed his .45 to the head of Tom.

“Go ahead. Do it,” said Tom.

“No. Don't,” said the soldier. “Bring him back here. He deserves to suffer.” The first soldier dragged Tom toward the tent. He was bleeding and limp. Tom was sat down in a wooden chair that was in the tent, and he was tied down to the chair, his head lulling forward, his eyes nearly swollen shut. The first soldier slammed his fist into Tom's face, causing his head to spin backward, a spiral of blood flying from his mouth. Tom was kicked in the stomach. He was sent reeling, and he nearly vomited. The soldier then raised his machine gun.

I need to get out of here, he thought. He was sitting there, helplessly taking a beating. The first soldier slammed the butt of the gun against Tom's face, causing his face to go numb. Warm crimson poured down the side of his head. Tom knew he had to get out of there. And soon.

He kicked out his foot, taking the soldiers off guard. Tom slowly stood up, the chair still connected with him, and he whipped around, smashing the chair against a soldier's back. The soldier fell to the ground. The chair shattered. Tom was free.

He was weak though—his arms and legs were like jello, his face numb and bleeding. He grabbed a leg of the chair, and holding it like a club, swung it. It came into contact with the second soldier's head and he fell to the ground like a sack of bricks. Tom grabbed a machine gun from a dead soldier and limped out of the tent. A couple of guards were patrolling the area. Tom went the other way, trying avoid the soldiers. He would only kill someone if he absolutely needed to. He checked the clip of the gun and found that it was completely full; good, now he didn't have to worry about running out. He crept to a building that was opposite the tent and he pinned himself to the wall, the machine gun cradled in his arms. He peered around and saw the spotlight shining down on the ground. He saw shadows of armed guards that were standing in the guardhouses, armed with machine guns and dressed all in black.

He looked through a fence and saw a creature lumbering forward, arms outstretched, moaning, moaning, and he knew exactly what it was; a zombie. It reminded him of something he had see in Night of the living dead or 28 Days Later, or any sort of zombie show or movie. Except this was real. A loud, resounding crack echoed through the air as one of the guards fired his gun and shot the zombie in the head. Tom cringed as he saw the head exploding. He moved to the other end of the fence and crouched down, narrowly avoiding the spotlight that was going around and around the camp, making sure no one would escape. As soon as the spotlight was off of him, he sprinted forward, keeping low, and upon reaching a group of wooden crates he fell to the ground, flat on his face. He peered up, seeing a couple of armed guards. Tom was beginning to get paranoid. He slowly stood up for a brief moment, before going back down, crouching, his legs feeling as if they were on fire. He had to get out of here; he would get out of here.

He heard brief snatches of conversation. A couple of guards were conversing seemingly in front of him, dressed in black clothing that apparently blended into the darkness, and they carried machine guns against their chests. Tom peered around. He saw a brief gap in the fencing.

He knew he had to get to that gap and he would be free. He waited for the two guards to turn their heads, and for the spotlight to be on the opposite end of the camp, when he sprang from the wooden crates, running across the camp toward the opening in the fence. But a moment later he heard a loud crack of a rifle, and he looked above him, seeing the guard in the tower firing at him. The bullet struck the dirt right beside him. The crack got the attention of a few more guards. Tom aimed the machine gun upward and pulled the trigger, a small burst of gunfire spitting from the gun, but it was enough, and the guard was sent toppling to the ground, bullets torn through him. He whipped around and fired another burst, taking down two of the guards that nearly began firing at him. An alarm rang out from the cement building and Tom knew he had to get the hell out of there. He pivoted around on the balls of his feet, and sprinted toward the opening in the fence, small bursts of gunfire slowly following him, bullets stitching a path in the dirt. He risked a glance from the corner of his eye and he saw a man holding a machine gun at his shoulder and the man opened fire. Tom jumped out of the way, narrowly missing the bullets. He charged through the opening in the fence. But as he got out into the open, he looked around and saw that the surrounding area was surrounded by zombies. Tom needed to find a way out of this hell—needed to find a way to get home, to find his family, his friends, and to not have to deal with this world anymore.

Tom whipped around and began running around the fence, searching for the street, or some sign of humanity that wasn't a soldier and weren't zombies. Loud moans were drifting through the air, followed by the staccato rounds of gunfire. He ran out in the open, seeing a street. He dashed from the camp and ran into freedom, running along the seemingly endless street, hoping that the military wouldn't follow him, but he knew that they would; there was no question about that. Tom found a car and slowly stepped into it. With luck, the keys were in the ignition. It had presumably been someone who had been stripped from there car when they were driving by the military, and the keys had still been left in the cars ignition.

Tom had learned how to drive when he was a bit younger; at the age of fourteen or something. His dad had taken him out on the weekends to a dirt road that was right behind his house, and he had taught Tom the basics of how to drive, so he pretty much knew. He turned the key but nothing happened. Shit, he thought. How am I gonna get away now? He stepped out of the car and looked around. So far they hadn't caught up with him. But soon they would. He sprang from the car and ducked down, crouching on his already hurt legs, hoping to escape into someones house, where he could hunker down and be safe for awhile. But there could have either been a couple of dead bodies inside the house, or maybe a couple of soldiers living there, guarding it, making sure no one could go into it, or there was something much, much worse inside. Tom was just hoping that there was nobody inside, and that he would get away from this alive. He crept to the back of the house, and put his hand on the doorknob. But it was locked. He grabbed a chair that was sitting on the back patio and swung it, smashing with window in with all his might. Tom grabbed the machine gun that he was carrying and raised it, swiftly walking into the house. He moved through each and every room. They were all clear.

He sat down on the couch and just wept. What has the world come to? He thought. I mean, the military controlling the streets, zombies patrolling the cities. It's like something out of a horror movie or TV show. He looked out the window and saw a man being shot. A couple of military trucks were sitting in the street, soldiers out and about, looking for more people they could either kill, or kidnap. Tom had assumed that all of the people around this city had already been taken, but now he knew that there were even more—and that, even if he was safe in this house for the moment, within the next hour or two he could either be dead, or he could be transferred back to the FEMA camp, which, in his opinion, was even worse than death. He went into the bedroom he had found upstairs and just decided to take a small nap. If the soldiers were too search this house and find him so be it. Right now, he no longer cared, because how he saw it, he was dead either way. He fell asleep to nightmares of the creatures he had seen upon escaping the camp, as well of the horrors that went on at the FEMA camps.