.A Matter of Perspective.
Fact.
A body can sustain itself without water for five days.
Fact.
A body can do without food for a maximum of twenty-seven days.
Corporal Marcus Billion filed the information for another time.
His squad was gone; torn apart in front of his very eyes, their dried blood coating the front of his BDU's. Comrades that he had known for years dead and gone, maybe walking in the world as a different species. Maybe under his hiding spot.
He looked below him twenty feet to the ground. There, in the middle of the large mass of un-dead was his salvation; food, water and more specifically ammunition. He could hear the faint sound of a far distant human voice on the other end of the two-way radio in the side pocket of the bag.
He hefted the scoped rifle in his hands and took aim at one of the hundreds of heads that lay beneath his feet.
He held his finger from the trigger, now was not the time to be wasting ammo that he couldn't spare. Marcus tried to think how many shots he had used to get to his current predicament.
The rifle had a stubby box magazine that held twelve rounds. He had used five to get to the tower and three more as he had climbed. Resorting to his long arm was not an ideal choice, but since his sidearm had clicked empty he had seen no other choice.
That left him with 4 shots.
What to do…what to do?
If the things below had had the common decency to all line up for him and let him get in a couple head shots he may be able to thin the throng by a count of … four maybe. He pushed the thought from his mind.
He propped the rifle against the cylindrical tower at his back and sat down and against it. He closed his eyes and looked to the skies.
Looked like rain he thought.
The corners of his mouth tilted into a smile. At least the water situation would be taken care of. He pulled his canteen and took off the screw cap, he tilted it to his mouth and took a deep swallow of the cool fluid within.
He patted himself down and came up, as he knew he would, empty.
The last of the food bars had been eaten three days ago.
The pack on the floor may as well have been on the moon for all the good that it was doing for him.
Maybe he thought he could sneak down in the night and retrieve said pack. Could he do it? Could he conceivably sneak past a hundred ghouls and get the food and other supplies?
His smile stretched wider.
That was something at least…he wasn't crazy enough to try that trick just yet.
The groaning and wailing from the dead under his position started to raise in pitch until the sound was almost unbearable.
'SHUT THE HELL UP!'
Marcus stood and looked over the rim of his self-imposed prison.
He sucked up a wad of phlegm from the very back of his throat and spat at the closest figure. The wet mucus hit it on the forehead and started to roll thickly down one cheek. The dead man paid no attention, content to just reach grasping arms to the figure out of his reach.
The man on the tower wiped his mouth with sleeve of his jacket and retreated back to where he had been sitting moments before.
He closed his eyes and drifted into a restless sleep dreaming of a nice juicy burger and fries.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Morning found him on his back at the very edge of the platform, his arm hanging over the side.
He woke quickly, pulling his arm to his side.
But not before he had lifted his middle finger for an early morning salute.
Marcus stood and unzipped his fly. There was nothing more satisfying than pissing on the upturned faces of the dead.
This had been his early morning ritual since his arrival.
Until that morning.
A gunshot. The echo rolled over the fields and through the buildings nearby. He quickly walked to his rifle and lifted it to his eye. He scanned the closest building quickly but methodically checking every window.
Nothing.
Just as he had made up his mind that what he had heard was further away than he thought or maybe even a hearing deficiency on his part he caught movement.
A figure, darkened in the gloom of a buildings hallways moved passed a broken window on the third floor. It walked quickly backwards favouring its right leg. One of its hands was oddly shaped and spat fire as it went. A pistol of some kind?
Not long after it had passed he saw what the figure had been firing at. There looked to be slightly less of them than he had under his feet, but not by much.
Marcus moved the rifle 'til the scope settled on the next window along, his finger tightening on the trigger.
He waited.
The figure hobbled past the window and, sure enough, was followed by the large pursuing group.
His breathing slowed and everything seemed to follow. The cries of the dead below faded from his hearing and even the birds singing seemed to soften. He went to the place that all good snipers go to.
Looking through the scope he saw one of the dead wander into his line of sight. Making a mental calculation on distance and wind he squeezed the trigger.
The rifle bucked lightly in his practiced grip.
The shot was exactly where he wanted it.
The dead woman's head exploded like an over-ripe water melon, the remainder of the body thrown against the nearby wall. She slid down the tattered remains of striped wallpaper and fell to an untidy heap on the floor.
Others were soon there to take her place.
Although there were more bodies than he had bullets, the shot had given the other time to find an unlocked door nearby and barricade themselves in.
Marcus shifted his sight again and saw the person, a man in nearly identical camouflage to himself, slump wearily to the floor, his back against the hastily locked door. Although the other couldn't have seen him he raised his hand and lifted his thumb in the air. Marcus nodded in silent acknowledgment.
He was glad the other was safe.
He was glad that he wasn't the only one in the area.
He was annoyed that he wasn't the only one screwed by their situation.
He took his finger off the trigger and lifted his hand to the small wheel on the side of the sight. He dialled up the magnification and checked out his fellow survivor.
He sat on the floor where he had slumped, all the fight gone for now.
He saw the wound that had slowed his run.
Marcus pulled his eye from the scope and lowered his head, he had seen enough bites in his time as a soldier to know that the other stood no chance. Through the pattern o his trousers he saw the gleam of bloody, splintered bone, the flesh torn and ragged at the edges. Not being able to do anything else to help he stood and walked back to the place where he had been sitting.
He lay down, but sleep was hard to come by in a world ruled by the dead.
Would he have to shoot the guy in the room?
Would he have the balls to shoot himself?
Would he have the chance to make a run for it?
Maybe tomorrow.
Tomorrow was another day after all.
He wondered, not for the first time, where he could get a cheeseburger.
The sounds of the dead below lulled him into troubled sleep.
THE END.