Z-Risen: Outbreak

Beer Run

The fuckening has become more bearable even though we almost joined the crawlers today.

Supplies:

I want to go on record as saying that this whole stupid day was Joel’s fault.

18:25 hours approximate.

Location: Undead Central, San Diego, CA

“Look at all of those crawlers. Everyone wants a piece of us,” Joel whispered. “Must be my good looks.”

I snorted.

Joel was dressed in tactical gear with a New York Fire Department ball cap pulled down low to keep the sun off his face. Beneath the hat, he wore a pair of Tom Cruise-style Ray-Bans we’d found in an overturned car.

Joel was prone and staring down the barrel of his Rock River Arms AR-15. He switched on the EOTech holographic sight and shifted his aim left and right.

We’d found the assault rifle the day after we founded Fortress, not far from our area of operations. Some civilian had purchased the piece and stored it for a rainy day, or the end of the world. Yeah, I see the irony. It was so new that it still had the manual and price tag. Even the magazines hadn’t been unpacked. The second bonus had been a green canister filled with 400 rounds of 5.56.

Joel was probably sweating his ass off in all that gear. The one thing he managed to escape the ship with was most of an IMTV — Improved Modular Tactical Vest.

“Let’s make sure they don’t get a piece. I like all my limbs,” I whispered. “How many are there?”

“Six, and there’s one of those weird shufflers.”

I popped up and did a quick scan. Five of them were moving around the freaky creeper. The shuffler was down on all fours like a retarded crab missing a few legs. The other Z’s were your garden-variety dead. They moaned and cast milky white gazes on nothing in particular while they shambled.

We were perched behind an abandoned house about a mile from the naval base. Our area of operations had spread out over the last weeks as we ranged farther and farther away from the fortress. It had to be done; our search for food and supplies was getting harder every day.

This had been a residential neighborhood with an elementary school and apartments along a large main road that led to Interstate 5. There were a number of houses, but most had already been ransacked. Some sported graffiti and broken windows. Most had furniture and belongings dragged out onto front yards and dumped next to corpses that, thank God, did not move.

We’d learned the hard way not to bother with the houses. Walk in an open door and it could become a deathtrap. Open a bedroom and it could be filled with the fucking Z’s. When panic hits and you’re in an unfamiliar location, suddenly you don’t know which way to exit.

“Your call. I’m good and didn’t need a beer run in the first place,” I lied.

I needed a beer run bad. I’d kill for a cold one but would settle for a six-pack of warm. But this mission was more than about getting a few brews. If his friend was still alive we might find food and a more secure location to call home.

My gut rumbled, thanks to our light breakfast of dried tofu and some leftover beans and rice. God, what if he had potato chips and Little Debbie Cakes? What if Kelly’s friend had boxes of crackers and Cheez Whiz? My mouth flooded with saliva and I feared the creepers would hear my stomach rumble. This wasn’t just about beer. We needed anything we could scavenge.

It was getting close to dusk. A bead of sweat formed on my shaved head and ran down my forehead. I wiped it with the ridiculous orange sweatband around my wrist. Joel had been sick of me bitching and dug it out of an overturned bin in a Walmart we’d raided a few days ago. The rest of the store had been a bust. By the time we arrived, it’d been picked over ten times. We also found out the hard way that it was filled with about a hundred snarling Z’s. When we got out, I wore the sweatband to remind myself to never enter a big department store again.

“Go distract them. See that dumpster at three o’clock? Just poke your head around it and say hi. I’ll pop a couple in the head. When they come toward the sound of my shots, you finish off the rest with your club.” He nodded toward my wrench.

I shaded my eyes and studied the battlefield. A green dumpster sat next to a low wall. There was a break right next to it that would provide me with an easy way to get on the party’s “six.” I bet Joel thought it was funny as hell, sending me out with my ass exposed while he shot from a distance.

“I don’t like it.”

“Roger that. Let’s pack up and go home.”

“Well, hold up there a second, Professor,” I said. We might not have a chance to explore this area again. “If we leave now, your friend’s place will be picked over. Might already be empty.”

“I told you. He’s a security nut. His front door is solid metal, plus he’d have left it bolted.”

“I still don’t know how we’re going to get in.”

“If he’s not there, I have a plan.” Joel didn’t turn but he had that cocksure sound in his voice that I no longer questioned.

“What if he is there and tells us to fuck off?”

“He won’t. He owes me.” I didn’t ask about Joel’s time in Iraq because it pissed him off.

After a few seconds of cursing, I hefted my wrench. At twenty-four inches and eight pounds, this was a devastating weapon when applied to Z’s heads. Joel chambered a round but didn’t look back to make sure I’d left. After a week of this shit, we were like goddamn mind readers.

“Stupid fucking idea,” I said under my breath, and moved around a dying hedge.

I dropped low and hoped there weren’t another dozen hiding behind us. You could lose them if you moved fast or stuck to shoot-and-scoot tactics, but try to make a stand and it was a quick trip to Undeadville.

I rounded the block and cut back toward Joel’s position, sticking to a sidewalk that was already overgrown with grass. I constantly scanned my surroundings, looking for the slightest hint of additional Z’s.

The red wrench wasn’t my only weapon. I also wore one of the newer Colt M45A1 pistols on my hip that I’d taken from a corpse back on the base. I had one extra mag and a pocketful of rounds in case things got real hairy. What concerned me was the noise a booming gun could draw. I might as well attract a horde with all six-feet, three-inches of me bouncing up and down while singing the national anthem.

The thirty or so rounds did make me feel better. As long as I kept an extra one in the little coin pocket at my right hip, I felt like I was safe. I’d take as many of them as I could, but that last bullet had my name on it.

Literally.

Sun glistened on my arm to reveal that I was still losing muscle mass. I needed protein, not beer, but I’d settle for a buzz after the last shitty weeks I thought back to the day when our ship, filled with undead sailors, plowed into the pier. Joel and I had been tearing through the passageways, firing into the mass that had previously lived on the USS McClusky.

I ducked again as one of the creepers looked my way. Milky eyes brushed over my position as I hit the ground. Even at a mere twenty feet away, I still marveled at their ability to actually see or hear a damn thing. As the days rolled by and they rotted a little more, they had to slow down and lose some of their senses. At least, that was my logic. It’s one of those things you tell yourself over and over. It’s not that bad, it’s not so crazy out there. Things will get better in a few days, just wait it out. But that didn’t happen.

One thing that did grow was their hunger and, as that got stronger, so did their need to eat. Us.

I used to read zombie books and think Z’s would be about as scary as drunken senior citizens. These weren’t. They had started mad and gotten madder. The shufflers were the worst. When they changed, so did their disposition. Not content to wander around mindlessly, they were driven by a need to rise and attack, and they’d go psychotic whenever they spotted the living.

The slow ones weren’t so bad, but get twenty or thirty of those relentless fucking monsters on your case, and they’d run you right into the ground.

I scanned my entry point and crouched again, then brushed past another dying hedge. I rounded the corner near the dumpster and the pack came into view.

I slid next to the giant green monstrosity and plugged my nose with my fingertips. Foul, very foul. I stood and waved a hand in the air, hoping to hell Joel wasn’t currently getting swarmed. Then I stopped. What use was it? He wasn’t about to announce his hiding place.

“You ugly godless fucks come here often?” I lowered the wrench, letting all 8.4 pounds of the weapon become an extension of my arm.

The creeper that had fixed his milky gaze on me earlier turned his head on his creaking neck and drew back desiccated lips over rotted teeth. The others swiveled to take me in. A chill raced over my body at the thought of one of those assholes sinking their teeth into me.

One shot and the creeper’s head popped to the side, followed by his body. Brain matter splattered and blood sprayed. Two Z’s moved toward the noise, leaving three for me. Terrific.

“Hey assholes,” called Joel.

I risked a glance at my watch. The action had already occupied five seconds of the thirty we allotted any battle. If we couldn’t wrap things up in that time frame, we’d bug out.

I swung the wrench up and took the nearest right under the chin. I hit him so hard I thought his head was going to come off. Poor kid. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen when he turned. Dressed in shorts and a gaudy t-shirt, he wore only one knee pad. He did have pads on both elbows, though. Probably some skate punk that was now a dead punk.

The second Z closed in. I gave ground, lifted my size fourteen US Navy-issued boot, and kicked him in the groin. That didn’t put him down but it bought me a moment. As far as I knew, they didn’t have functioning nads, but a swift kick could still put them in their place.

Another pair of shots, but I had things to worry about other than Joel’s body-count.

I didn’t have time to beat these things to death, so I drew the M45 with my left hand, aimed just as I’d practiced a hundred times over the last couple of weeks, and shot one through the neck. It sounds cool but I was actually aiming for its forehead. I’d lowered the gun just a fraction at the last second.

The Z fell away, gurgling blood from its neck. I aimed and fired at the shuffler but it was already on the move. It’d been caressing the ground on all fours, doing that shuffle step that freaks me the fuck out. The man had long wisps of hair hanging from his scalp and, somehow, a pair of glasses perched on the remains of his face. His mouth was full of blood, drool, and something that looked a lot like human flesh.

I fired again. The bullet punched through his gut just before he smashed into me.

I hit the dumpster hard enough to knock my breath out and staggered to the side. He fell away but was on his feet in a flash. His eyes had the same milky white look but they somehow fixed on me. He howled a wordless scream of fury and launched himself. I swung the pipe but there wasn’t a lot of strength behind it. The glancing blow barely kept him from biting my arm.

I staggered back again and bullets whizzed through the air, taking the creepers out with extreme prejudice.

I fired again, but the shot went wide because I’d panicked. The shuffler didn’t cower, it didn’t hide, and it didn’t turn and run. It was completely unreasonable—and its only desire was to rip into my flesh.

I gave ground, fighting for breath, and when he attacked again, I punched him. I didn’t get a lot behind the strike but it was enough to knock the Z down. I lifted the gun, took a half breath, and blew his fucking brains all over the pavement.

Joel moved in on my position, Ray-Bans looking everywhere as he ran. He had the assault rifle across his chest, finger on the trigger guard. We didn’t stop to admire our handiwork. Instead, we moved out at a fast clip because we were well over our thirty seconds and that was bad news. Another half minute and we’d be overrun.

18:45 hours approximate

Location: Undead Central, San Diego, CA

We exited the block and ran into the parking lot of an apartment complex. Joel and I had dodged behind cars and concrete dividers at every opportunity. Our sprint had carried us nearly a hundred and fifty yards away from the dumpster and I, for one, had begun to feel it.

I panted, hunched next to a car; Joel did the same. He swept his ball cap off his black head and wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. San Diego might be a comfortable seventy degrees but running for your life has a tendency to make you sweat like a pig.

I pointed at my orange wristband and he gave me the finger. While we took a breather, I ejected the magazine from the M45 and filled the five rounds I’d emptied into Z’s. Joel took a moment to do the same with his AR. We waited and looked toward the area we’d just left, only to find that luck was on our side and we’d avoided a larger confrontation.

I eyed car interiors while Joel stayed on point. I actually found an old beat-up Ford that hadn’t been broken into and pressed the end of the wrench against the closed window. I looked around quickly, then pulled back and hit it just hard enough to break glass. It imploded with a soft pop and tinkle. I opened the door and felt around under the seat and came up with a small paper bag. The glove box had some mints and papers. I slid the items over my shoulder and into my Swiss Army backpack as I moved out.

“What’s in the bag?” Joel whispered.

“Not sure. It’s not very heavy; check it when we’re clear?”

“Sounds good.” He moved out in a semi-crouch, rifle stock pressed to his cheek.

We advanced on the apartment complex and came to a cross-street that had been a battlefield. Police cars overturned next to military vehicles. Blood splatters everywhere. Broken bodies, both civilian and military, lay on the pavement or over car hoods. Some hung out of broken windows, faces torn away or necks gnawed to the bone.

“Fuck me,” Joel said, and moved to a body. We did a quick check but only came up with a few stray rounds. Someone had stripped this place clean.

Joel eyed a map and then we were on the move again. A few minutes later, we had the condo in sight.

No Z’s in the immediate vicinity. Luck was on our side, for a change.

We dashed across what was once a very expensive plot of grass but was now a dry and yellowed bed of tinder. If a stray spark caught, this whole block would go up in flames.

We reached the stairway without challenge. At the top of the second flight, Joel advanced down a hallway on the outside of the building while I followed. Doors had already been ripped open and goods tossed on the balcony. Joel didn’t bother with the residences and kept moving with me right behind.

“This is it,” Joel said.

We’d reached something different, a solid door with no marks around the door jamb. Someone had tossed a car jack to the ground in frustration.

Joel knocked gently.

“Ty. You there, Ty? It’s Joel Kelly from the base. Come on buddy, at least let me know you’re on the other side of that door.”

He knocked a few more times then shook his head in frustration.

“What’s the plan?”

“Watch my back.”

Joel glanced left and right, dropped the backpack, and went to one knee. He rummaged around in the bag until he came up with a MacGyver-looking complement of tools and wires. He’d split a large coffee can in half and lined the concave surface with grey packs of something that looked dangerous. He yanked out a double wrapped freezer bag of water and added it to the package.

“The fuck?” I whispered.

Joel shook his head and held the can up against the door. He broke out duct tape and applied a few strips until the device was held in place. He stood back and tugged a wire out of the side of the can, then looked around again.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Be right back.”

He dashed to the condo next to us and came out twenty seconds later dragging a mattress. I moved to help but he pointed at his eyes then forked his fingers, indicating that I needed to stay sharp.

Joel tugged the mattress over and draped it against the door. He pulled the wire out of the can while shielding himself with the mattress, then ran it down the hallway, gesturing for me to follow. We crouched around the corner while he plugged the wire into a detonator.

“Holy fuck balls,” I whispered. “Don’t. It’ll wake up the whole city.”

“In and out, buddy. In and out.” Joel smiled, then held the device up.

“Dude. How many will that bring?” But it was too late. He already had his finger on the trigger.

I covered my ears; he tried to do the same by using one hand and an elbow. Even with the mattress in place, the explosion was immense. The building shook and dust and debris showered the floor. Joel was level-headed and didn’t rattle easily, but when it came to fuck ups, this was a big one.

I looked at my watch and marked the time. Thirty seconds were going to come to an end very quickly. In fact, I doubted we even had fifteen seconds. Shaking my head, I followed him into his friend’s condo.

I waved smoke out of my face as we entered. Joel had his assault rifle at the ready, so I followed suit and pulled out my M45.

The door had been blown off its hinges. Joel walked over it in a half-crouch. He had the AR level with his shoulder and aimed into the smoky interior. I followed closely but kept my eyes on the entrance. Just as I cleared the entryway I got a look over the railing.

I gasped and reached for Joel to get his attention but he wasn’t there.

Out on the brown grass, the dead were gathering. Not a few, not even a dozen. It seemed like they were coming out of their undead comas from every corner of the city.

I swore and walked into the haze left by the explosion.

The entryway was a mess. The door had been blown into the small space and smashed whatever furniture had been there. The smell of smoke and explosives burned my nose. There was a mirror on one wall but it had been shattered, and when I looked into it, I saw my face splintered into five pieces.

“Ty, don’t shoot us, man!” Joel called. “It’s me, Joel. I told you I’d come.”

Hey Ty, we just broke into your house but it’s cool because you and Joel go way back, so don’t, you know, blow us away. If someone broke into my castle I’d be pissed whether I knew them or not, and would probably shoot them out of pure spite.

“Joel!” I whispered as loud as I dared. “A shitload of dead are on the way. We don’t have thirty seconds.”

Joel came back into the hallway and gestured. I followed him into the living room and found it filled with tech gadgets. A huge flat-screen TV sat dead on the wall, surrounded by speakers and stereo equipment. There were cables and wires everywhere, some attached to a huge car battery. Whatever the occupant had been trying to do had gone to the grave with him.

In front of a gorgeous tan leather couch lay an unmoving figure. He was a black guy in his twenties, as far as I could tell. He couldn’t have been dead all that long because his face wasn’t a rotted mess. He had a series of bite marks on his arm, the same arm that held a handgun which had been applied to his forehead before a bullet had torn his brains out of the other side of his head.

“Goddamn,” I said.

Joel dropped to one knee and said a prayer. He took the handgun from his dead friend’s grip, hit the safety, and slipped it into the band of one of his tactical vest’s many straps. He touched his friend’s eyes below the bullet hole and tried to close them, but they were frozen open.

“I wish you would have held out, buddy.”

I pointed out the bite marks. Joel stood up and moved away.

Joel and I advanced on the kitchen like the starving heroes we were. I raided the fridge and found Nirvana. A couple of six-packs of cheap PBR. An unopened package of store-bought pepperoni. No power, but that was okay. The fridge wasn’t that hot and pepperoni could sit for days. Joel and I devoured a half-pound of the thin slices like it was fucking filet mignon.

“We. Need. To. Go!” I said as I swallowed.

He tore open cabinets while I inspected the pantry. Ty had left a lot of goods. There were boxes and bags of pasta, jars of sauces, and canned fruits and vegetables. I practically fainted at the bounty. The problem was that we couldn’t carry all of it. I had my backpack and Joel had his, but if we weighed ourselves down, we’d be moving targets.

I grabbed the pasta and a few cans of fruit and jammed them into my backpack. I added one precious jar of spaghetti sauce and then tested the weight. I added a few cans of veggies, saw spinach and avoided it like the plague.

Joel moved beside me and packed his backpack as well. We’d been inside for a few minutes, and with every beat of my palpitating heart, I knew the dead fucks were getting closer.

“You pack the heavy stuff,” he said, and handed me his backpack. “We’re going out there and you’re not letting go of my shoulder. We move as one until we’re free of the mess.”

“Why do I have to be the fucking pack mule?”

“Because you’re built like one and I need to shoot shit.”

He made all kinds of sense but I didn’t have to be happy about it. Before we headed out, I grabbed a six-pack, jammed it into my backpack and tried to close the bag, but the beer stuck out of the top.

“Drop your wrench and use your Colt. It’s going to get hairy.”

“The fuck you say. I ain’t leaving my weapon.”

Joel wanted to argue — he gets like that — but we didn’t have time. I jammed the tool into my belt and fought to keep my overalls straight as it tugged them down toward my knees. I shrugged and pointed at the door.

19:05 hours approximate

Location: Undead Central, San Diego, CA

We hit the landing and tore to the right. I gripped Joel’s shoulder while he moved (once again) in a crouch. I drew my M45 and switched it to my dominant right hand. On the grass, an army of the dead had congregated. Joel leaned over the railing, aimed… and fired at a car of all things. What the hell? He’d picked a high-end BMW; when the bullets punched into the hood, they set off an alarm.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” I cried.

The dead turned toward the sound and I realized Joel was smarter than he looked. Give a Marine a gun and they suddenly turn into a fucking brain surgeon.

“Let’s go.”

We rounded the corner we’d hidden behind when Joel had blown the door off. I wished we could have stayed, but this place was going to be swarmed. Once the dead moved on, scavengers would surely pick the place over before we could make another trip. Dammit! The condo had been a treasure trove of goods.

We moved to the other side of the building and took the stairs. I’d been sweating before, but now the last few minutes of activity hit me. I was carrying about forty pounds on my back and we were rushing down hallways and stairs.

Luck was still on our side when we hit the ground level — it wasn’t swarming with Z’s. The car alarm continued to howl behind us, but that just drew away any that were on the other side of the building.

A small pack wandered away at nine o’clock. Joel motioned to stop and stay still. The pack didn’t see us, so we moved toward the street. Making our way north, we skirted the block that hosted the swarm and kept on jogging. The pack beat at my back with each step and I had no doubt the wrench would leave bruises.

We came to a house and stopped for a breath. As I stood there gasping, Joel, with no respect for my lack of stamina, moved on. We rounded a corner, found a trampoline, a pool, and four Z’s. I broke right and fired as soon as I had a bead. Joel followed suit and pumped two rounds into the lead crawler’s head. The old man fell down but another, even older guy in a tropical-print shirt stumbled over him. Joel put that one down, as well, while I took out their wives. It must have been the world’s worst pool party even before the shit had hit the fan. One of the women had to be in her sixties and was dressed in a one-piece swimsuit. I shot her out of pity.

We had to skirt a tall chain-link fence before the area started to look familiar.

Joel and I moved at a fast pace, again taking out stragglers as quickly as we could. A few more minutes of hiding behind houses, ducking behind cars, and then Fortress came into view.

The house we occupied was set behind a few tall trees. We’d boarded up everything on the first floor and had left no easy way to the second. We had a ladder, but it was buried under a pile of old leaves and branches, and when we were inside, we just pulled the ladder up. Even if Z’s surrounded us, we’d be able to wait them out.

I still worried about determined human scavengers.

Joel moved out on point and I was left behind a hedge to catch my breath. I wiped sweat off my head again and studied the area. No zombies stumbling around made me smile. It had been a bitch of a mission but at least we’d made it with food and a six-pack of beer intact.

Then my day went downhill.

The first crawler broke free from a cluster of dying hedges and was followed by six or seven other equally ugly, rotting souls. White eyes swiveled to find me, and like an army, they advanced.

“Oh fuck-knuckle!” I swore, falling back and drawing my M45A1 as I went. I drew a bead, fired, and missed the head zombie—a guy dressed in a sanitation outfit. It was on me before I could scream for help and, just like that, I was fighting for my life.

I slammed it to the side, my forearm working like a hammer, but it just kept on coming. A shot rang out and I swore again. One thing we tried to avoid at all cost was the sound of gunfire near our home base. We’d already broken that rule twice in the last fifteen seconds.

Another shot and one of the Z’s dropped. I punched my attacker again. His head cocked to the side, but then he snarled and I got a look at broken teeth. There wasn’t time to make a smart-ass quip. I tried to avoid a bite but screamed in horror as his mouth closed on my arm.

Thank god for my jumpsuit. It was hot as hell but the zombie’s mouth closed on fabric, and when he tore, he got a piece of that instead of my skin. I pushed him away, raised my Colt .45 and blew off the back of his head.

A shuffler took notice and was in the air before I could take aim. I emptied the magazine but didn’t have a chance to reach for a fresh one because the shuffler came in with flailing arms and a screaming mouth. I kicked his legs out from under him and shrugged out of my backpacks so I could maneuver. When the shuffler hit the ground, I ducked away from his wild grasping, got behind him, and kicked him in the ass.

He went down but was back on his feet in a heartbeat.

I reached down and grabbed my wrench. When he leapt at me again, his mouth a snarling howl of hate, I swung the wrench around and caught his jaw, ripping it loose.

But that was the problem with shufflers. They were so psychotic that even a massive amount of damage couldn’t put them down. Headshot or enough damage to squish the brain had to be applied.

Joel’s AR jammed. He dropped it and drew the pistol his friend had used to kill himself, then moved on the last couple of Z’s. He put one down and fired a few more times until the gun was dry.

The shuffler, minus a jaw and part of his face, was on me again. I stepped on the body of the sanitation worker I’d shot and went down on my ass. The shuffler, arms still flailing, hit me hard enough to knock the breath out of my body for the second time.

I got a foot up and caught him in the chest as he bent down for me. Joel barreled into the shuffler, allowing me to roll to the side. I came up slowly because my body was all beat to hell. Another Z was on Joel, so he drew his Ontario 498 combat knife and slashed the creature across the gut, spilling intestines in a wet pile of gore. He reversed his grip and drove the blade into the dead woman’s head.

He faded back as the shuffler looked between us.

He must have made up his mind because he went for Joel, the remnants of his mouth producing gurgles in place of a howl of fury.

I grabbed the wrench and closed in on the shuffler. Joel saw me coming and pushed the psychotic Z back. I hefted my weapon and let him have it, crushing his skull like it was a soft egg. The corpse dropped to the ground; Joel nodded at me and then the wrench with a half grin.

We dragged the corpses away from Fortress, retrieved the ladder, and scurried up as soon as we were sure no one was watching. Inside, we unpacked our treasure. I was not a happy camper to learn that a couple of our beer cans had exploded in one of my falls. At least we survived another expedition and came back with food and a new weapon.

“Sorry about your friend,” I said.

Joel nodded. “Thanks, man. We saw some action in Iraq. He always had my back and I had his. Like you and me.”

“Are you going to look that sad when it’s my turn to bite it?”

“Depends on if I have to put you down myself, motherfucker.” He grinned.

I grinned back and we toasted the day with warm PBRs.

“Oh yeah, what was in the paper bag?”

I dug out the bag I’d pulled from under the front seat of the old Ford pickup and looked inside.

“Shit yeah,” I said, and pulled out an ounce of weed with a California medical dispensary logo on the bag.

“Stay sharp and don’t smoke that shit. You white boys get all sad-eyed when you’re high.”

“Only on special occasions. Besides, I bet we can trade it if we run into other survivors.”

“Good call. I’m gonna go use a few baby wipes to take a bath.” Joel rose to his feet and headed toward his room. “Good work out there, Creed. And thanks for saving my ass.”

Joel nodded again and left.

I sat back and drained my beer, then eyed the weed. Special occasion, eh? How about still being alive.

This is Machinist Mate First Class Jackson Creed and I am still alive.