The Quiet Game
George’s spit latched to his bottom lip as he and his little friend through the
slaughterhouse that had become Highway 280. The sticky Alabama summer
mugginess mixed so well with the rotting flesh, Baghdad all-over again, George
thought, as he wiped his lip clean.
Hell. This had to be Hell.
Bodies, arm, legs, strewn across the ground - their blood spider-webbing and
pooling around the remains as far as the falling sun would show. George looked back
to see the Birmingham cityscape, the skyscrapers shrinking in the distance, tiny
gravestones for the sea of mutilation surrounding them. He turned back to see
Danny taking in the scene, studying it like an officer on his first homicide case.
Desensitized my ass, George thought, kicking a severed arm out of his way. This kid
is too young for this; he should be telling scary stories, not living them.
The crack of a .44 screamed from the distance, Danny gasped.
“Ah! I win!” George exclaimed.
“Dang it! You cheated!” Danny said, punching George in his leg.
“Hey now, you can’t cheat in the Quiet Game.” George smiled at Danny,
stepping over what appeared to be the Brawny Man.
“I hate that game.” Danny frowned, adjusting the straps on his Spiderman
backpack. “Let’s do something else.”
George flicked up the sterling Zippo recently rescued from the Tom Thumb and
dragged heavily from his menthol. Poor kid, George thought. It had only been a
month since George found him holed-up, crying in a CR-V. George made sure the boy
closed his eyes before George had dropped Danny’s parents with the 9mm. The
Marines had never really trained him to babysit. Then again, Pendleton Base didn’t
give him a plan for the dead re-animating either.
“Have you ever heard the story of The Great Ronald?” George asked. Danny thought
for a moment, pressing his pointer finger to his mouth, staring up at the sky.
Danny stopped. “McDonald?!” he exclaimed, giddy with the joy of chicken nuggets.
“No, what? No, not the clown. Reagan. The Great Ronald Reagan.” Said George,
peering into a sedan for food, water, anything, but coming up only with his
reflection, his tired blue eyes staring back.
Danny’s face fell blank.
“You’ve never heard-“
“No! Who is Ronald Ray-Gun?” Danny asked, staring up at George.
“Ronald Ray-Gun… is a superhero with a laser pistol.” George began, taking another
deep pull from the cigarette, watching Danny’s gaze shift from the bloodbath up to
him. “Who flies around the world shooting bad guys with an awesome ray gun.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, little man. He wears a gold cape, and… He knows karate. He helps
kittens out of trees, stops bank robbers: the whole nine yards.” George continued
walking, narrowly avoiding a pool of blood. “Some say he was the Son of God, others:
a myth.”
“Do you think he’s real? Can he help us?” Danny asked,
“Me?” George chuckled. “Oh yeah, he’s real. They say if you listen really
closely, some nights you can hear the zapping of his laser blasting down the Berlin
Wall.“
Danny cocked his head in confusion, but stopped again and closed his eyes. George
took the moment to scout the road: three Zach at a quarter-click. He snapped his M4
to his chest, quickly peered down his sight, took the shots. Headshot, he thought, as
each zombie one-by-one fell limp onto the pavement.
“Ow!” Cried Danny, opening his eyes flailing his hands to his ears, “You tryin' to
make me deaf?”
“Oh, my bad, Danny” said George, pulling his rifle back to his side. He flicked
the cigarette on to the remainders of a balding John Doe. He is far too young for this.