The war that never was.
What will you do when the world ends?
“We need to hide!”
Billie Joe took hold of Tre’s arm and pulled him furiously in the direction of the house. Mike dashed after them. All three men were blinded by their own panic, the daunting night made ever more frightening by their anxiety and the silence of the neighbourhood around them. They locked the back door of, what once was the Armstrong household, and at once went around the house locking the windows. Mike explored the cellar for firewood. He called Billie Joe to help him with the collection of planks and the smaller man reappeared with a hammer in his mouth and pockets full of nails. Mike and he began to board up the entrances on the lower floor while Tre took into the upper floor of the house. The basement window was left to last.
For a while, after the bashing of hammers against wood ceased, all that could be heard was the sound of each other’s breathing. They sat together in the Armstrong’s living room, cups of coffee (made upon the gas stove) and items of food from the cupboards were laid out on the coffee table between them all. Only Tre and Mike panicked about the state of their families. Billie Joe had no one left to fret for.
The Armstrong family outing to the beach had been unpleasantly disrupted. Crazed screaming was their only indication of any trouble; Next thing they know, they are running for their lives. People, maniacal and sadistic people were chasing the crowd. Except, they weren’t really people.
“How –“The singer began.
Tre and Mike gazed up at him with the same haunted look as he. Mike placed a hand on Billie Joes leg and soothingly grazed it with his thumb. The smaller man pulled neck of his t-shirt up to his nose and held it there, like a child seeking comfort from a blanket. His eyes were bloodshot, tears were streaming down his cheeks and his body was shaking.
“BJ…You have to calm down.” Mike whispered.
“How- How can I calm down!? Have you seen those…things?!” he sobbed, “They have taken everything from me. My mother, my wife, my two kids; what next?!”
Mike pulled the man into a hug and Tre joined them both on the couch. The drummer didn’t want to interrupt the intimate moment of the former lovers but at that moment in time, it really didn’t matter. He sat next to Billie and put an arm around his shoulders. All three men sat in silence, only the occasional whimper from Billie Joe and the soothing coo’s of Mike were heard.
In his mind, the singer could still see the putrid mass of bodies; he could hear their whines and smell their flesh. The sound they made was unlike anything he had ever heard and surely not something he would forget. They had always said that the smell of burning flesh was the worst in the world; Billie Joe could now beg to differ.
The man shook and tremble with the memory. Mike gripped him tighter and Tre began to rub his back. All three were now crying.
In Mike’s heart he knew that his wife and children were dead. His connection with them seemed severed and lost. It just seemed realistic to think that it was over. However, for the sake of his band mates he continued to hope and continued to rhyme words of shaken optimism.
Tre’s usually cheerful mood was disappearing rapidly. He gulped back small sobs and his strokes on Billie’s back became weaker until they eventually faded completely. He had no conclusions as to what fate had befallen to his family but he had no hope either; he was harbouring a kind of blind faith.
Muffled sounds came from the front door, much like effortless shuffling and grunting. Billie Joe stiffened and pulled out of Mike’s grasp. They sat in silence waiting for more indication of company. Softened thumbs were heard on the wood of the front door accompanied by illegible moaning.
“It’s one of them.” Tre whispered.
Mike stumbled off the couch, through the darkness and to the closet in the hallway. He took out one of Joseph’s baseball bats and Billie Joe’s golf sticks. They were quietly distributed in the living room before he edged to the window to peek between the boards. He took a gaze at the porch and was abruptly met by a pair of bloodshot, yellowed eyes.
“Shit!” He gasped and ducked below the sill.
The creature shuffled along the planks and began to thump harder on the window. It was practically screaming. The glass shattered with a particularly hard blow. The shards fell in around Mike as he quickly dashed to join his band mates by the couch.
They each looked at each other as the groans grew louder and became sympathy of mixed sounds. More were joining the creature of the porch; the boys were truly out numbered.
Tre swallowed his fear, stepped forward and raised his club above his head.
“This is it.” He said, “Let’s go out with a bang.”
Billie Joe took hold of Tre’s arm and pulled him furiously in the direction of the house. Mike dashed after them. All three men were blinded by their own panic, the daunting night made ever more frightening by their anxiety and the silence of the neighbourhood around them. They locked the back door of, what once was the Armstrong household, and at once went around the house locking the windows. Mike explored the cellar for firewood. He called Billie Joe to help him with the collection of planks and the smaller man reappeared with a hammer in his mouth and pockets full of nails. Mike and he began to board up the entrances on the lower floor while Tre took into the upper floor of the house. The basement window was left to last.
For a while, after the bashing of hammers against wood ceased, all that could be heard was the sound of each other’s breathing. They sat together in the Armstrong’s living room, cups of coffee (made upon the gas stove) and items of food from the cupboards were laid out on the coffee table between them all. Only Tre and Mike panicked about the state of their families. Billie Joe had no one left to fret for.
The Armstrong family outing to the beach had been unpleasantly disrupted. Crazed screaming was their only indication of any trouble; Next thing they know, they are running for their lives. People, maniacal and sadistic people were chasing the crowd. Except, they weren’t really people.
“How –“The singer began.
Tre and Mike gazed up at him with the same haunted look as he. Mike placed a hand on Billie Joes leg and soothingly grazed it with his thumb. The smaller man pulled neck of his t-shirt up to his nose and held it there, like a child seeking comfort from a blanket. His eyes were bloodshot, tears were streaming down his cheeks and his body was shaking.
“BJ…You have to calm down.” Mike whispered.
“How- How can I calm down!? Have you seen those…things?!” he sobbed, “They have taken everything from me. My mother, my wife, my two kids; what next?!”
Mike pulled the man into a hug and Tre joined them both on the couch. The drummer didn’t want to interrupt the intimate moment of the former lovers but at that moment in time, it really didn’t matter. He sat next to Billie and put an arm around his shoulders. All three men sat in silence, only the occasional whimper from Billie Joe and the soothing coo’s of Mike were heard.
In his mind, the singer could still see the putrid mass of bodies; he could hear their whines and smell their flesh. The sound they made was unlike anything he had ever heard and surely not something he would forget. They had always said that the smell of burning flesh was the worst in the world; Billie Joe could now beg to differ.
The man shook and tremble with the memory. Mike gripped him tighter and Tre began to rub his back. All three were now crying.
In Mike’s heart he knew that his wife and children were dead. His connection with them seemed severed and lost. It just seemed realistic to think that it was over. However, for the sake of his band mates he continued to hope and continued to rhyme words of shaken optimism.
Tre’s usually cheerful mood was disappearing rapidly. He gulped back small sobs and his strokes on Billie’s back became weaker until they eventually faded completely. He had no conclusions as to what fate had befallen to his family but he had no hope either; he was harbouring a kind of blind faith.
Muffled sounds came from the front door, much like effortless shuffling and grunting. Billie Joe stiffened and pulled out of Mike’s grasp. They sat in silence waiting for more indication of company. Softened thumbs were heard on the wood of the front door accompanied by illegible moaning.
“It’s one of them.” Tre whispered.
Mike stumbled off the couch, through the darkness and to the closet in the hallway. He took out one of Joseph’s baseball bats and Billie Joe’s golf sticks. They were quietly distributed in the living room before he edged to the window to peek between the boards. He took a gaze at the porch and was abruptly met by a pair of bloodshot, yellowed eyes.
“Shit!” He gasped and ducked below the sill.
The creature shuffled along the planks and began to thump harder on the window. It was practically screaming. The glass shattered with a particularly hard blow. The shards fell in around Mike as he quickly dashed to join his band mates by the couch.
They each looked at each other as the groans grew louder and became sympathy of mixed sounds. More were joining the creature of the porch; the boys were truly out numbered.
Tre swallowed his fear, stepped forward and raised his club above his head.
“This is it.” He said, “Let’s go out with a bang.”