For love, life and duty

It had become so terrible. God damn zombies eating flesh and tearing out hearts from living people – living people!

For so many years Sergeant Malouki had killed his single-purpose foes and seen his comrades killed by single-purpose foes. He had come to known them as one identity.

From once he was named to the Sergeant post, he had seen many brave and selfless men throw themselves at the horde and fight valiantly until their gruesome end for simple words he used. The numbers were too large to count, the fate too obvious to ignore. And yet no matter how many words he used, there was no reason to acknowledge what was an obvious fact -- the horde would win.

What no one could figure out was who was to blame.

Had it been from the top of the ATF? If it been a question of leadership then perhaps the several changes at the head of the Anti-Terrifying Forces would have made a difference. But each change was no more effective then putting a new paint job on an old Pinto. No, leadership was not the question.

Had it been the ability of the troops? If that were true then the many disciplinary actions would have sufficed to put the young men in their place and perhaps then the well-oiled machine would have driven further and punched harder. But the troops had fought as clean a fight as possible and when the circumstances warranted they had cheated and become as thoughtless as the enemy. When the leadership, from Colonel Adam Whalen to Major General Mark Wasniewski even to Captain Frank Biggs, asked more from their troops, they received it. From this man learned the value of heart and synergistic cemetery space – graves having become a part of history.

Was it the support of the citizenry? Not in as much as had been blamed. The usual calls for patriotism were at first used in political means to deflect attention from the fact that no border controlled the zombie. It was the Russians who were weak. It was the fault of the Chinese. The Americans had given birth to the first zombie. Blame Haiti! No, the citizenry supported the troops efforts whenever they were called to do so and never questioned their political leaders even when the pasty white claws of the mindless monster was clawing through their doors. “We stand on guard for Thee!”

Was it him? Sgt Malouki thought longest on this question. He wondered if he had not loved his common man enough to say: “enough is enough. We have sent too many to their graves for a hopeless cause.” His mom had once said so much. That memory bit hardest then any other.

On the streets, in the farm fields, in the desert and in the mountains so many battles had been lost. There had been no winning answer. But there had always been enough fighters to lose.

Sgt. Malouki’s face had some time ago lost the innocence of youth: his beard was very thick on his lower face, his hair crumpled and curly stringing down to his shoulders and three scars from battles gone-by – one, a quick but prominent line above the bridge of his nose, two, a deep semi-circle below his chin (covered by his thick black beard), and three a scar that looked like a spike just below his right eye.

The warehouse he and his squadron stood was falling apart. Beams lied vertically hanging weakly from the roof. Windows were broken and allowing the cold air to seep in to the room. And the smell was rotten – many members of the squadron covered their faces when they could with dirty rags.

Looking in the mirror, Sgt. Malouki felt he had no one else to blame. He had fought too long and had not allowed his actions to truly accept the obvious truth that the war was lost. He could see the Maple Leaf on his left shoulder and remarked how faded it looked. He could barely look at it any more.

In the background he could hear another approaching horde. The sound they made must have come from thousands. He quickly ordered his boys – none of his squadron were older then 18 – to assemble. The fresh-faced meats were going to be sent to their doom, Sgt. Malouki thought. But he had not received orders to retreat. They must fight.

He would not allow his boys to go in alone. He would lead the charge and if no one lived then they died doing what was right. Follow the leader.

But they had a chance. Sgt. Malouki had seen and heard of victories. It was possible that they could do it. With every breath he breathed, he wanted to believe this were true.

Once the troops were properly assembled, Sgt. Malouki raised his right hand in command to let his troops know to wait. His right hand had the power of life and death. His hand determined the fate of 20 teenagers, pimply and pathetic but the best the nation had. Their fates belonged to his hand.

While his hand hung in the air, Sgt. Malouki remained reflective about events in his life since the war began. Most seasoned soldiers did this before any dangerous battle. But in the faces of many of his current troops he had seen an eagerness to fight to win. Youth had no concept of loss. He admired that in them.

He thought of Frankie Biggs -- Captain Frank Biggs! It had been a month since he heard from him. He wondered what news there could be of his good friend. There had been talk the zombies had captured the Captain – a captain! But this was impossible. Zombies would never choose to capture a man of any ranking. Choice was against their nature. A strange change must have occurred.

His thoughts were fleeting and he soon thought of Ernesto Chow's pulpit, who standing before him not two weeks before said “no matter the field of battle, a man is a soldier as long as he is fighting. And if he is fighting a soldier can not be separated from the human spirit just as wine can not be separated from the grape.”

And he thought of Stacy Berry. A painful sensation ran through his soul.

Infuriated, his arm still holding high, he cried: “We only live as long as we fight. We only fight as long as we love. We only love as long as we live!”

The sounds of the horde approaching the warehouse had brought along with it the cry of inevitability.

He dropped his hand and the symphony of gunfire and torturous screams, the sound of hell, bled throughout the night.

By morning Sgt. Malouki stood alone. His troop had been unceremoniously eaten. All 20 of his men made a main course. There were still necks oozing out crimson paint though they had no body or head to call their own.

Surrounded and defeated, Sgt. Malouki begun to think of Stacy Berry and that night in the abandoned warehouse. He had wondered all these years about whether or not it had been love or lust. He now realized that all these years he had wasted thinking about such a frivolou debate. It was obvious that she had meant more to him then any battle victory. It had been love all along.

Succumbed with dark depression, he awaited the horde to devour him and many decrepit hands did grab and pull at him, and some teeth had pressured his skin but before they did the sky burned and an golden man wonderfully floated in from the heavens.

The being – one solid golden manlike form – raised its hand. The zombies stopped and let Sgt. Moulaki down.

Breathing heavily, closing his eyes and feeling about as bad as man could feel, Sgt. Malouki looked upon this man with bizarre pigmentation and felt a renewed sense of hope fuelling his destroyed body.

But he did not shoot at the form for he was hanging on by just a thread.

The golden man began to communicate not in words but in a manner that was clear and obvious that Sgt. Malouki knew exactly the words that were being shared.

“Who are you?” it asked.

Moulaki did not know how to respond.

“Who are you?” it asked again.

Moulaki returned to his feet. The blank stares of his carnivorous foes remained exactly as he expected. They had always been blank and they looked as if they were possessed without passion, without thought, without anything at all. All that suppressed their desire to eat was locked in their vile empty minds. The burning sky gave him a peaceful moment and he gazed upon the sky as if he were looking upon it with innocent eyes, eyes with no expectations and no hope -- no fear.

“Who are you, human?” the golden man asked a third time, not changing its tone.

“I believe the better question is what are you?” Moulaki answered, his words tainted by cold hatred. “You have stopped the violent surge and burned the evening sky but I have no idea what you are. Why isn't the horde eating me?”

"Do you wish to be supper?"

Malouki shot him a look of confusion.

“Have you no faith?”

“No. Not as much as I can say I have love.”

“Can you not see when they do not heel and when they do? You must look in to the light."

At that moment a great fog emitted from the golden man and it enveloped Malouki’s vision, blinding him.

“I cannot see,” he screamed.

“But you need not see to have clarity,” the man said.

A great spell came over the sergeant and the horde’s voices seemed to echo along a hall like thunder in the sky.

In the hall he felt himself helpless as a boy and Dimi walked meekly feeling stripped of his title and of his value. A door was open to the left and he made his way there though he knew not what compelled him to do so. Off in the corner of the room under a dim light a man was scribbling on seven sheets with seven hands and was muttering something very indecipherable. Malouki was very interested however and moved in closer to hear the words spoken to him.

“Wicked,” the scribe whispered. “Punishment for all who sin.”

If a moment had been an hour and hour had been a year, Dimi felt it had been a millennium since had last seen the golden man send fog to his eyes. The room he was in spread wide and never ending. Seven golden lamps stood amongst the room. Dimi wanted to grab them but they were too far and too hot. Angered he walked over to the scribe and asked: “why am I here and where is the form?”

The scribe did not turn his eyes from the table but he spoke in soft tone:

“Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer,” he said. “I tell you, the devil challenges even the most pious, and you will suffer. Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you the crown of life.”

A crack in the room floor spread long and Dimi was sucked in to the gaping division. Falling, a large hand grabbed hold of him in a large pale palm and took him to a dark room. A warm sensation flowed from his heart but he was scared and he wept.

In an effort to comfort himself he asked the questioned that weighed most heavily on his heart even though it was trivial to his mind.

“What is love?” he asked himself. Though the question seemed trivial, he answered it nonetheless. “Love is harmony. Love is separate. Love is what keeps me going and what destroys me. Love is forever fleeting.”

The room then filled with four men without faces and four horses without sound. A white man carrying a bow and wearing a crown asked him whether the war had been fought valiantly.

“It had,” Dimi answered unsure why he felt the need to answer the question.

Just after the answer, the white man and his white horse disappeared.

A red man carrying a sword approached Dimi and asked if he had given his and their blood for righteousness.

“I have,” Dimi answered.

Just as the white man, the red man and his red horse disappeared right after Dimi answered the question.

A black man carrying a scale asked of he had fed who he could and cared for who he could and paid respect for those he couldn’t.

“Of course,” Dimi answered not angrily as he expected but with an unexpected calmness. The black man and his black horse repeated the pattern set by the first two men.

The final man was pale green. He seemed alien to earth and not like any of the former men in the room. He asked no questions and stood silently until Dimi was sure he could answer a question that was unasked.

“I am ready,” Dimi said. The pale green man and his pale green horse did not disappear like the previous three. It was Dimi who disappeared from the room.

At his awakening Dimi felt he died. Though he was living and could smell and see and speak he was dead. He looked upon the golden man whose face had become visible and the golden man looked upon Dimi and began to weep. To Dimi the man had the most beautiful eyes and his peace was Dimi’s peace, his heart was Dimi’s heart, his spirit Dimi’s.

“I am ready to leave this earth,” Dimi said.

Yet the horde stood still.