Zombie Wake Read Online Free PDF Page A

up . It’s funny how even thoughts can become routine. In
a famous shoot out, three cops were killed because they stopped shooting to
collect their brass. During trainings, they had been taught to clean up their
empty shells promptly after unloading their weapon. When the real thing went
down, they maintained the tidying ritual. Because of that, trainings were
reworked and we were taught to let the metal fly. I am conscious of them
hitting the ground. BAM, ting-ting-ting, BAM, ting-ting-ting-ting.
    The living dead go down with a
thump, one at a time. I’m doing them a
favor , I think. But with each shot spent my adrenalin levels increase, and
my pity is short lived. What is propelling me started as fear, quickly turned
to pity then finally to anger. Rage pumps out each
bullet. This is not my job. Furlough days, decreases in budget, failed
equipment and now this. This guy with a beer in his hand and one eye hanging
out of his head wants to eat me. NO. Boom, tinka ting-ting.
    But that was the last bullet. I let
the AR15 fall to my side. Before the strap catches, I have my handgun up and
shooting. Eleven zombies, they fall like dominoes almost stacking. I push
another magazine in and start pumping. Another layer of them stack up and the
ones behind start tripping. I push the last magazine with force. Methodically
and calculated, I start back. But instead of plucking one off at a time, hair
and scalp start flying--the zombies cease to fall. It takes me three rounds to
realize it’s the bullets. Oh no not the pig bullets.
    *
    Months ago, we had some pigs to
dispose of. You would never know during the day that they were there. At least,
I never saw one—not a one. But their nighttime activity was wreaking
havoc on the environment. The churned soil patches appeared completely roto -tilled, especially under oak tree canopies. The pigs
were eating acorns, tilling the soil, all the while introducing exotic
non-native weeds. We thought they were pigs. And after leaving buckets of
fermented corn under a motion-activated camera, our suspicions were confirmed.
    Following a ton of paperwork,
permissions, environmental consultants, waivers and calls, we baited three
traps with sixteen pounds of fermented corn. We called it the Feral Pig
Eradication Project of the Gaviota Coast. Take them
out three by three. Shoot them. We had inquired about donating the meat to the
local homeless shelter but some line had been drawn deep in the sand and the
encouraged alternative was to dump the carcass off the bluff. To stay environmentally
conscientious, I ordered lead free bullets. But in my rush, I didn’t look at
all the options. Didn’t even realize there might be a lead free bullet without
the punch. I ordered the first on the list, which happened to be the ammunition
used by air marshals, frangible ammunition. It’s designed to break apart when
it hits a solid surface.
    One boar came eager to eat. Walked
right into our trap. I wasn’t on duty the morning of the episode but the
rangers told me every detail—what a mess. They didn’t know why the animal
wasn’t going down. They just kept shooting. Shot after shot went into the kill
spot until finally… It must have run out of blood. They took me up to show me
the stains on the trail. After reenacting the scene and promising me I didn’t
deserve it, they opened an adjacent cooler and pulled out a gallon bag full of
red meat. I tucked it into my bag knowing that it would be a long time before I
lived this one down.
    *
    Would I live it down now? The extra
magazine I grabbed just an hour ago was left from that pig eradication project.
I had been meaning to move the open box to a better spot. Now, I aimed for
remnants of a nose in hope of finding a soft entrance. The result—her
face blew off. I shot another one clear into the eye and he dropped. But the
next two came out like puffs of air. Panic washed over me. Sheer panic.
    In survival situations, the people
that make it are the ones that