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Why do we pity the dead?
Are you turned by the voices,
the voices in your head?
Look at all the living,
and ask yourself why.
Oh why do we pity the dead?
- Bad Religion

"Are you sure this is going to work? I mean are you sure it won't just, you know, do nothing to them?"

How we got here is unremarkable. The Undead Plague is in it's seventh year. I "enlisted" in the People's Army of the Republic (P.A.R.). That was five years ago. In my idealistic youth I wanted to be a soldier, but that hope was dashed when the dead began rising. I found myself alone at the end of the world.

I soon banded with one of the many roving groups of armed survivors. It seems so long ago. I guess that's how it appears to all that lived in a combat zone. Unlike some of the others, I still remember the Olde World. Television & comic books. CDs & DVDs. Fast food & fast women. I still miss the Olde World. I miss my girlfriend, my friends, my family, my dog, my everything.

"I'm sure it will Davis. Don't worry. It'll work," I hope. I didn't add that last thought, "severe cranium damage kills anything. I can't think of any thing much more severe than this." I jerk my thumb at the suitcase over my shoulder as I look out over the walled government facility. I still can't believe we found it. Back in the Olde World it was a government research &development complex devoted to Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical (NBC) warfare. Evidently they walled it off to keep the zom...them out. We found it completely intact with solar generators, water purification and working radio equipment. The higher ups of the P.A.R. found something new last week. It turns out beneath the complex there is a labyrinth of shelters and Conex crates. Within these they found an entire arsenal. Everything from six-shooters to ICBMs. When the Top Brass discovered "suitcase nukes", they made an executive decision to use them. The "tactical exercise" was simple: attract as many of those things to the walls, throw wide the gates of hell, have a team of volunteers waste as many of those things as possible with our personal weapons and then blow those undead bastards back to their creator whilst the others waited below.

"You boys should get below." They could tell that what I really meant was "You crazy bastards. Thanks"

"No Way Chief. We're in this together now. Semper Fi do or die."

Goddamn Marines. Davis was an Olde World Marine.

There's six of us up top:

Patrowski was in the Army. Earned a Purple Heart at Hue in Khe Sanh `68. I watch him set the 60 sight for what seems like the hundredth time. But He's not scared, not nervous. Like a rock. He just does it to pass time.

Erving was a kid. Still is. Sixteen with more sniper kills then Carlos Hathcock. He thinks it's a game.

Woodward was a farmer.

Rychek was a paramedic, one of the few that survived. First responders were the first infected.

And me, "Chief". I don't use my first name any longer. There's no purpose in it.

That is how we got here. Hours pass. The group at the wall grows larger and the shadows grow longer.

"Patrowski, Woodward. Go out and set the charges. Hurry back."

I watch them drive off in a black Hyundai. One of the P.A.R. officers' cars. Suddenly my thoughts are interrupted. Rychek taps me on the shoulder.

"Chief, have you ever read Milton?"

"Yea, why?"

"I never got a chance I heard it was pretty good "Paradise Lost". Sounds familiar, huh?"

"No. Look don't start down that road. Theology and Philosophy aren't for us. Soldiers aren't scholars."

"We aren't soldiers, we're martyrs."

"Don't say that kind of shit. The others might hear you."

The black car pulls up. Woodward reports to me like they used to do in the movies, saluting and all.

"Charges set. Awaiting orders, sir."

"Jesus H. Christ Woodward! Your no life taker get below ground, boy."

Geez, he is pissed.

"I'm not doing this for anyone but the others, Patrowski, so quit acting like I am. I'm not trying to act brave like you. This is so the others can live. I'm saving lives, old man, not taking them. So back the fuck off asshole."

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