This will hopefully serve as the basis for our own NSG-style World War Z compilation. So feel free to mix the first person accounts with News Broadcasts, After-Action Reports, and Governmental Changes. After the menace has ended, I will compile the best stories into a giant, awe-inspiring story of survival and death, heroism and cowardice, self-sacrifice and self-serving, which I will post in one of the various forums. Right now I'm thinking International Incidents.
Good luck, aim for the head.
There is static, followed by heavy breathing. A man's voice is heard. Deep, masculine, but with a definite edge to it. The kind of edge that only a man who is seeing his death written before his eyes can have. The recording plays.
"I-if anyone finds this, my name is Silva. Benjamin Silva. First Lieutenant, Third Marine Division, First Recon Battalion. If you're listening to this, I'm probably dead, although if I have my way nobody will hear this. Ever. But if you do, tell my wife, Gabi, I love her. Tell her my last thoughts were about her."
More heavy breathing.
"If you are listening to this, and I am dead, chances are that the Deadheads have been beaten back. Otherwise who the hell would waste their time listening to this? If they have, then I pray that Len Hyet survived. As a nation, not ruled over by despots and warlords. If we didn't make it though, I can only give some advice. Aim for the head. If you can't kill the brain, they just keep coming. Fire works well too."
The moan of a Zombie is heard, followed quickly with the cough of a silenced Pistol. The moaning stops.
"Above all, stay quiet. They don't have good eyesight, but they have hearing like a bat and a nose like a dog. If you can, cover yourself in blood. Not your own, theirs. It reeks, but if you make a noise and all they smell is one of them, it might save your life. If that saves yours, thank Corporal James K. Nielson, smart bastard. 'Course he's dead now. All of them are. All my boys."
A strangled sound, suspiciously like a repressed sob.
"The rest of this is just me doing my boys justice, so if there are Deadheads around, leave. Now. Turn this off and make your way towards The Citadel. The Second Marine Division and the First and Third National Guards made a safe zone. If there aren't any around, and you have the time, please. Listen. I owe my boys that much. I owe them their story."
A deep breath, followed by the sound of a liquid sloshing in a container, perhaps a flask or canteen.
"It started like everybody else's does. We were sitting, talking, joking around. Then our CO, the Lieutenant Colonel, came in. He says there's been an outbreak. We look at eachother, like, so what? He says it's Zombies. That got our attention. We thought he was screwing with us, until he ordered full mobilization, and put us on a MG-Three Twenty APC, to get over New Hyetia. He said we were to establish a perimeter around the Park. We were shocked as hell. That was a damn small perimeter, and that scared the shit out of us. We told him so, he said our orders were to hold the damn perimeter. We didn't like it, too few of us. And against Zombies, well. We figured it was a suicide mission. Turns out we were right."
The sound of snapping wood, followed by curses, and two coughs of a suppressed pistol.
"They're closing in, I don't have much time. Where was I, yeah. We get to the place, and there's about half a million civilians crammed into the park. We set up sandbags, and turns out we got the Fifth Regiment to help us hold. They set up machine guns, mortars, you name it. Half the First Tank was there too, spread out along the lines. We had a pretty decent view along the streets, nobody was out, but cars blocked off a lot of places. I ordered Too Tall, real name Private Maconahay, PFC Jenkins, and Corporal Keening to move the cars so that the Zombies had a narrow, but clear, line of approach. Funnel them so they don't come at random. They went off. I sent them to their deaths. The Horde was closer than AI, Army Intel, had told us. Bastards got my men killed. Too Tall, Jenkins, and Keening were caught by surprise as the bastards rounded the corner, between them and us. They tried to shoot their way back to our lines, and got torn to pieces. I can still hear them begging me to save them."
Another deep breath, and the voice continues.
"The Horde comes at us, and for a little we manage to hold. The Mortars do some damage. That's when we realized why Recon had been ordered in. We were marksmen, and these bastards need one to the head to put 'em down. The Machineguns did shit. Too inaccurate, waste of ammo. All they did was make nice noisy targets for the Deadheads to come at. We held for, god we held for four hours. Then we ran out of ammo. We were promised a resupply, but it never showed. All we could do was run. Only me, Corporal Nielson, Sergeant Westin, and the Twins, PFCs Norbert and Andrew Kiess, made it. Us five against millions of them. Millions. We holed up in a Hotel. We were ordered to go to the roof and await extraction. We think, thank god, we're gonna make it."
A dry laugh.
"We were idiots. We make it to the roof, no Deadheads so far. We can see them walking the streets, thankfully there were no other survivors around. I still don't want to think about what happened in the park. Half a million helpless civvies. God rest their souls. Anyway, we're on the roof, and a Chopper, Sixth Cavalry, is coming in low and fast along the rooftops. Another little tip if they're not all gone and you're listening. If you fly, stay well above the rooftops. Turns out they have at least a concept of gravity. About a hundred of them dropped onto the chopper from higher buildings, it slammed into a skyscraper and blew up. He musta tried firing his missiles or something, because I never saw a crash do anything like that before. Just exploded. Then about twenty of them break onto our roof, take us by surprise. We manage to kill the lot of 'em, but Norbert bought it. Andrew lost it, then and there. Just started wailing and screaming. Took his brother fifteen minutes to turn. Andrew either didn't know or didn't care that Norbert was a Deadhead. He ran up to him, got his throat torn out. We had to put 'em both down. Jesus. God damn fuck up was all this was. Just me, the Sergeant, and the Corporal now."
Another dry chuckle.
"We managed to survive for ten more days, moving slowly. We were almost at the city limits when the Corporal lost it. I don't know why, he just lost it. Just sat there, wouldn't move. The Sarge and I, we tried everything. He just sat there, staring off into space. Didn't even move when we hit him. It sounds bad, I know, but we tried everything to get that kid on his feet. And he was a kid. Eighteen years old, his dad signed him into the Marines at seventeen, proudest day of either of their lives I think. We carried him for another day. Then we made a mistake. We fucked up. We got into a building, so damn tired we missed a Deadhead. Just laying on the ground. Easy to miss, but we shouldn't have. No sleep for four days, but we still shouldn't have missed it. The Deadhead bit the Corporal, the Sarge put down the Deadhead, and I put down Nielson. I can still see his face. Just a kid. Now it was just the two of us. Radio crackles for the first time in six days. A couple of survivors, holed up three blocks from us. Broadcasting on random frequencies, just trying to survive. We both knew we shouldn't go. Every military doctrine ever told us that we shouldn't go. But there isn't any military doctrine for this shit. I think what sealed it was that we heard a baby crying in the background. Damn stupid of us, but we tried to make it. The Sarge got bit just outside their door. A leg wound, we both made it in. He looked at me, and you know what he says? He says 'It's been an Honor Sir' then he gives me all his ammo, his guns, his knife, and his dogtags. I still have them. Sergeant Josiah B. Westin. Blood Type O Positive. Serial Number One Four Nine Nine Five Three Four Seven Two Eight Two Five. Then that magnificent bastard just walks outside, gets torn to shreds, but he doesn't make a sound. Not a whimper. Bravest man I ever knew."
The sound of spitting.
"And you know what? The family had already moved on. He died for nothing. Two days later I broke my ankle. Damn stupid of me. I holed up here, this little house in Suburbia. Three Oh Two Oakland Drive. How fucking normal. God damn it. Boarded the windows, foraged enough canned food for another year or two, but I won't make it that long. Food's in the Pantry. Canned and Dried mostly, but it'll keep you alive. Anyway, that brings me to now."
The sound of splintering wood.
"SHIT! Tell my wife I love her! Gabi Silva! SHIT THEY'RE IN!"
The sound of Zombie Moans fills the tape, over the sound of the cough of a silenced pistol, the click of it going empty. Then the loud retort of a rifle, thirty two times, then it sounds empty. The sound of a metallic thud as a clip hits the floor, the satisfying click as a new magazine is shoved into place. The thud of a round being chambered. Another fifteen gun shots, then shouting. A few short words are whispered.
"I'm coming boys... Oorah"
A massive explosion, probably a grenade. The moans stop. The recording plays into static until the tape ends.
