I stand in the doorway of my white suburban house with a military-issue M-16 assault rifle, eyes to the horde, waiting for the undead to get within range. My pressed white shirt and pale pink tie (a gift from my wife) will soon be a Jackson Pollock with the partially coagulated blood of so many zombies.

My family waits in a safe-room, enough supplies for a few days. If I can’t make this stand, it’ll only delay a far worse fate. I’ve attached a canister of hydrogen sulfide gas to their dedicated oxygen supply, ready to open if things go south. I do this because I love them.

I see the undead coming over the last ridge. I have budgeted three rounds for each corpse, to be certain that the central nervous system is damaged beyond repair. I do a quick count. There are at least two dozen too many.

Fuck.

Smoke from the burning city wafts across the green expanse of my Little Big Horn. All the time I’ve put into it. Look: no seams, no sod. All grown from seed without fertilizer. More level than an oak shelf holding a gypsy’s glass orbs. A green of exactly 530 nm. And in a moment it’ll be watered with zombie plasma, or whatever the hell runs through them.

Fuck.

I look up from my reverie. Halfway here; few hundred yards. They should be hitting the trip-wires soon. Gas grill mines, the cooking area holding as many pieces of metal as I could scrounge up. If it doesn’t sever the spinal cord or liquefy the cortex, it’ll sure as hell turn limbs into cold human pulp.

The sky lights up with soil and fire, and an arm with obvious teeth marks banks off my bay window.

Damn, I think, but that’s what Windex is for.

More of my trip-mines go off, evacuating huge holes in the onslaught, but not enough. I recalculate, and now I budget two bullets on each undead. Lucky I received a marksman award in the service.

They’re within range now; only about a hundred yards. I take one breath and thumb the safety. Fireworks erupt from the end of my gun. Semi-auto fire. Can’t waste a single round.

I take aim down the iron-sights and begin imploding fetid skulls. I judge distance and take out the closest ones; God’s red marker flows from the end of my barrel, correcting this unnatural mistake. Endorphins and adrenaline mix until I hardly know what I’m doing.

I can not miss.

Fifty yards.

New clip; same result. A literal trail of zombie corpses start one hundred yards back and are leading up to my door. My high’s not wearing off, and undead heads go squish squish under these righteous hands.

Only a dozen left. Ten. Eight. Gun jams.

I throw the piece of shit over my shoulder and grab a shotgun loaded alternatively with buckshot and Frag-12 grenade rounds. Boom. An ankle disappears. Boom. Opposite halves of two of them melt with a hint of ozone. Boom. Chest wounds across the board. Five.

A second horde is cresting the hill and I realize that it’s over. I reach for the release on the sulfide tank as one of them crunches down on my ankle. I scream. Dull, sharp, white cold/hot pain shoots to everywhere and nowhere at once. I feel drugged. I can’t remember. Remember. Boom. Ow.

*

I squint into bright white lights and my head feels like a slowly melting popsicle. Two of them are conversing over me in grunts and growls. One is wearing a tattered general’s coat and the other is clad in red-speckled scrubs. This should strike me as odd.

They see my eyes open and stop grunting. I try to move my limbs. I’m either strapped down or paralyzed. My ankle itches like hell. Like I have an advanced form of psoriasis or something. I must be strapped down.

The general takes out a gun. His hand only has two green fingers left on it, and it appears as if his remaining eye doesn’t work like it should. His gut is enormous and ragged strips of fabric mark where the buttons had burst off in a fit textile suicide.

The doctor clumsily unstraps me and the general motions me to walk while he shambles behind. My senses are returning, each percentage point of perception brings another wave of sharp pain. I can feel the exact size and shape of their disgusting teeth everywhere they punctured my flesh. My skin isn’t hanging as tight as I’m used to.

He pushes me through a long, straight corridor. Large, colorful diagrams above each door explain blatantly what’s through each one. Med. Armory. Barracks. He pushes me into one with black bars above it.

It’s a well-lit room lined with small cages. I see humans huddled in corners, crying. I see zombies leaning against the front of the bars. I see everything in between. They even have one of the genetic abnormalities that take better to being a zombie than a human. She crouches on all fours in a ripped suit, blood-stained blond hair plastered to her half-exposed skull. She lunges at me as I pass and I hear the bars strain under the force.

The general puts me in the empty cell furthest from the door. On my left is a boy of about seventeen. On my right is a grandmother, already too far gone. You can tell by the eyes.

I roll up my pant leg and see the ragged stitches they used to close the larger wounds. I think they used fishing line and a straight-shank worm hook. It sure as hell feels like it.

What’s worse is the cracking, peeling flesh around each puncture wound. If I don’t do something, I’ll be one of them within 48 hours.

I immediately look for something sharp, rope-like, or large. I am not going to be a fucking zombie.

Nothing. I set about trying to kick loose a piece of concrete.

“What the fuck you doin’ man?” the teen asks, leaning his head against the bars to look at me.

“What does it look like I’m doing smart-ass? I’m not changing. Live a human; die a human.”

“You’re not going to get very far that way. The zoms come in everyday and sweep every small bit of debris out of the cells. They must’ve learned their lesson a long time ago.”

“Still going to try.” I had an idea, but the zombies had removed my belt. I decided to try it with my shirt. I slipped out of it and anchored one end above the second cross-bar in my cage. I took the other end and looped it around my neck.

“No shit!” the teenager said in awe/fear.

“See you on the other side kid.” I jumped and grabbed his knees. My neck didn’t snap and it hurt like all fuck. The shirt started strangling me. I willed my arms to stay down, not to untie the knot. My vision started darkening and I couldn’t think clearly. The last thing I saw before the end was the teenager’s smug face.

*

I woke up in my cell in my underwear. It had been freshly dusted. My throat was raw and I had a nasty rope burn across my neck.

“Nice try hombre,” the teenager said consolingly.

“Shut the fuck up.” I felt even worse. There was a definite sag to my skin and the bites were inflamed like fresh pomegranates.

“Why am I here?” I asked the kid.

“They must want you for the army. Otherwise they would’ve just eaten you.”

“But why here? What is this place?”

“Basically a fermentation center. They put us here to ripen.”

“How long you been here?”

“Bout a week.”

“Why do you still look like a human?”

“I have a wicked immune system, and I only got bit once. By the looks of you man, you’ll be gone by tonight.”

“Fuck.”

“Oh, it won’t be so bad. Or at least we won’t think so after it’s all said and done.”

I could feel a definite haze starting to clog the wrinkles in my brain. My logical reasoning was slipping and long dormant instincts were trying to break through. I willed them back with everything I could muster. Hour after hour I lay curled on my cell floor, sweating and fighting it.

“Why are you trying so hard, man? It’s hopeless.”

“No. Try harder.”

My consciousness was slipping. My sense of self evaporating. My desire for the sweet gray matter of the teenager to my side overwhelming.

I stopped struggling, my brain no longer able to fight the infection. I was one of them.

*

Private Braineater stood in ranks, ready to give himself for his superiors. He had orders and a weapon. Unfortunately, he forgot both. He relied on instinct, tooth, and nail.

He was a firstwaver in an assault on a suburban ranch, much like a structure that he could nearly recall in his memory. Must have had some tasty morsels inside.

Gunshots ring out and comrades drop on either side. Braineater hardly notices. He shambles as quick as he can on decaying legs. He looks ahead and see that a few of his brothers have already made it to the dwelling. He doubts he’ll even get a piece of the dura mater at the rate he’s going.

He realizes this and turns to the next house. He can’t remember which ones he was supposed to assault.

Braineater reaches down and grabs a stone. With it, he bashes the reflection of the family inside and hoists himself through the shards. His flesh rips and tears. It wets his appetite.

The older one is dressed much like his own General Severedhead, but looks much less green. Something tells him not to eat this one. He turns his attention to the female and pre-pubescent. They satisfy. By the time he finishes, a sergeant has made it through the window and looks about to reprimand him. Upon seeing the human that is dressed like the general, he turns to Braineater and pats him on the back. The Sergeant takes out a radio and grunts incoherently into it.

A short time passes and then a convoy of helicopters and jeeps make their way in. These are the officers, the high-functioners. These are the ones who had strong immune systems and good brains. An adolescent that seems familiar hops into the living room and whistles.

“Wow. Good job man. Glad to see you’re making the most of this situation.”

Braineater recognizes this teenager but cannot say how.

“What is it Riparmoff?” It’s the General himself, standing next to the teenager. Braineater hadn’t noticed till now, but he stands at attention and gives the General the best salute he can manage with fetid arms.

“Marvelous Braineater! Simply marvelous! Oh you will be getting a dozen fresh stuffed skulls and a commendation for this!” the General said.

Braineater understood the “stuffed skulls” part, and he drooled with propensity. The commendation was nice too, but Braineater could not completely comprehend what that was again.

*

Braineater sits in the mess, eating. He has quickly made it through ten skulls. A larger recruit comes up and grabs one away. Braineater scowls, brainstem falling from his mouth. The larger recruit smiles and crushes the skull into a de-facto sandwich, parietal bones for the bread. He takes a large bite. The crunch of the bones, his well-won bones, throws Braineater into a rage. The next ten seconds is a blur, but when he regains whatever composure a zombie posses, he is holding both the brain sandwich and the disattached head of the larger recruit, prying the bite out of his jaws.

A higher-ranking soldier witnesses it and reports it up the chain of command. This feat of skill is tacked onto the capture of an enemy general and Severedhead promotes Braineater to corporal.

*

Braineater is in for his commendation check-up. The doctor, a high-functioner, goes through all the standard moves. Places stethoscope to lungs: sounds like the tide receding. Places stethoscope to heart: beat-ten seconds-beat-seven seconds-beat-fifteen seconds-beat. Hammer to knee: nothing. Hammer to elbow: nothing. Braineater passes with a clean bill.

There is a second part to the check-out that only promotees receive. The doctor pulls out a large hypodermic of a gray solution. It looks like charcoal mixed with milk. He injects it directly into Braineater’s spinal column. A series of small injections of a red solution go in at strategic points on Braineater’s body. Neck, shoulders, biceps, forearms, hands, abdomen (a series of four), buttocks, quads, hams, calves.

Braineater convulses violently and passes out.

*

Self. I am me. Person. Not piece of horde. Revelation.

Injection. Corporal Braineater reporting for duty.

*

I split two wave into six group. Two left two center two right. Go! Landmines down center expected. Sent advanced decay there. Overload left side with mid-funcs equip with pistols. Right side are speedy gen-alts. Get close, dynamite, boom!

Center groups BBQ’d. Left making progress/mowed down. Right ignored.

I sit in jeep with binos. See everything hazy. Eyes get repaired at next commendation. Glee!

Boom! Three righties hit flank. Enemies fly. Part of one lands near me. Mid-rare. Yum.

Another victory.

*

My sense’s are clearing. My muscle’s twitching. Better individuality.

*

I don’t need bino-curs. Big fight is going on down there. Reminds me of football. Brutes used as wall, pushing back enemies. Next is wave of low-funcers. Last is large brute with big bomb. Conventional explosive but lots! A whole fifty-five full!

Brutes push enemies back into fuel place. Low-funcers shamble to block windows. Last brute places oil-drum by gas pump.

Boom doesn’t even describe it.

*

General Severedhead watches live footage of Braineater and his battalions. He always does. Braineater is a very unique zombie. Set a record for shortest-time to change. Military scientists are still trying to figure out what sort of repercussions this might have. He’ll either be a completely obedient soldier or it’s possible that the fever didn’t kill all of his old self and he might revert and rebel.

Braineater is also uncannily smart for his level. Even if his strategies are rudimentary, they are strategies nonetheless and are sure to get more effective as his commendations increase.

Severedhead makes an executive decision to go ahead with the schedule of raises and makes Braineater a Second Lieutenant.

Let’s see what a real rank jump will do for your head Mr. Braineater.”

*

Wow. I feel great! I feel like I did at the height of my old military career. Wait. What old career? Did I live a past life?

I think intellectually now, although my brain still feels like it’s in a hot tub of molten sulfur. My sense of self is still a bit eschewed too. I feel like I’m living my life isometrically.

I go less and less into the field and spend more and more time at central command. They like my simple and effective strategies. How I use the low-functioners as objects and the high-functioners as weapons. The gene-alters are my favorite to play with. We have all sorts here. We have fast ones, strong ones, ones with twelve arms, ones with tails, dog ones, tiger ones. It’s fun to think of strategies for these.

I learn that it we are not just fighting in one area but globally. We have command centers on every continent and the resistance is failing rapidly. General Severedhead expects complete victory within the next month. I hope I can get further commendations by then.

*

I am to be promoted to Master. My Canadian campaign secured North America for us. It was quite simple. A modified hill-and-valley strategy. I thought the thousand low-functioner drop was a nice touch. You should have seen those Canucks run when these hundred pound flesh bombs started pocking the ground!

I have been thinking about my place in this world for a while, ever since I graciously received the gift of individuality with my first commendation. I’ve decided I quite like it here. When this war is over, I can settle down with a nice female high-functioner and raise a few gen-alts of our very own. I think I want one crossed with a horse. It’ll make sports interesting.

*

My name is not Major Braineater. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know anything except what I am is wrong.

The other ones like me notice a change. A general whispers to an assistant.

“Is there something wrong Major Braineater?” he asks me.

“No, sir.” I whisper. I do not know what to do or say, so I say what I would’ve in a distant life to a superior officer.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Sorry, sir!” I say a bit to loud. I get stares. This isn’t good. I’m breaking down, psychologically. It isn’t stress or anything. My brain senses that there is something not right about this situation and is rebelling. I can do nothing to stop it.

“Braineater! Do not shout at a superior officer!”

“Sorry, sir.” I don’t know how loud that was. My senses are misfiring.

“Braineater, are you going to be alright for the mission?”

I cannot form words with my mouth. I am becoming a prisoner of my own corrupting mind. A white-coated academic whispers into the General’s ear.

“You have been an indispensible part of this war since the beginning Braineater, but it is because you are different. The scientists here believe that the last commendation has put your brain into a state of psychosis. They have suggested a way to shock it back into it’s normal, high-functioning state. I need you to do this for me Braineater.” The General motioned to a lower officer. The lower officer left the command center, returning after a few minutes with two from the resistance: an adult female and a female child. They bare striking resemblances to each other. The General presents me with his sidearm. I take it.

My brain recognizes something I do not. Some primitive instincts are trying to fight through the smoke and mirrors. I know what to do with the gun, but I cannot do it. These females mean something to me.

Yes, my brain says. They mean a sooner end to this war and proof of what side you’re on.

No! my brain argues. Think back, to when these two people were your greatest joys.

And think of the joy you’ll have proving your loyalty. Maybe they’ll let you have the heads!

Or maybe you could turn that gun on the few officers in here, giving them the chance to escape.

Oh shut up! We’re hungry for power, for meat. We need this.

Fuck you. Save the girls!

No, fuck you. Kill them. Eat them.

I put my hands over my ears and try to block out the voices. I squeeze and squeeze until my head throbs from the pressure. They wouldn’t go away. I don’t know what to do.

And then everything became clear. The course of action was right there in front of me. I get back to my feet, secure in what I’m about to do.

I walk forward until I am only a few feet from the women. My wife recognizes me, even in this state. I smile and move a hair from her face to behind her ear. She is beaten and bruised and miserable. My daughter is crying into my wife’s hip. I crouch down next to her and pat her on the head.

I stand up and my wife nods. I take off my shirt and wrap the gun barrel in it as to not scare my daughter with the sound. I put the barrel to my wife’s head and pull the trigger. She slumps down. I do the same with her. Blood is starting to pool and my mouth salivates. I arrange my daughter in my wife’s arms and lay down with arm over the both of them. My brain tells me that this is right.

I point the gun back at me and join my family in sweet oblivion.