Nerf Rules of Engagement

to be referred to as “the N.R.E.”

1. Choice of arms is restricted to one main weapon, one sub weapon (sub weapon being defined as any pistol and shotgun variant), and one last-ditch n-force non-firearm (axe, sword, etc.). Should you take an opponent’s weapon, you are required to drop your corresponding unit.

2. A “kill” constitutes as three significant hits (significant being defined as torso), OR one shot to the head, OR three consecutive significant hits from a last-ditch n-force non-firearm (if melee vs. melee— one if melee vs. firearm). Once killed, victim has a 10-Mississippi count before a return to action.

3. No modification of the gun in terms of ammunition (i.e., engineering it to shoot screwdrivers, as entertaining as that may be) is permissible.

4. Point-blank shots are only allowed to the back of the head.

5. If someone is out of ammo, execution-style is warranted. Oppressor may demand captive to get on knees to fulfill proper etiquette. Captive must oblige. ”Cr0wning” is allowed execution-style or if victim is surprised/ambushed.

6. Pistol-whipping is strictly prohibited, as is any striking using the butt of a rifle.

7. Weapons may not be stolen unless a) dropped by opponent, b) knocked from their grasp by your superior instrument of mayhem, or c) pried from his/her cold dead hands.

8. Foraging for ammunition is permissible during the 10-Mississippi count, and no ammunition outside of that stored in your clips is allowed.

9. Empty clips are not weapons. Enemy clips cannot be retrieved unless enemy gun is being used.

Son

The day wasn't being very kind to me that Wednesday. Things were rolling around in my head that should have been put away ages ago and it was, for obvious reasons, frustrating me to no end. That's the nature of the human psyche, I suppose. It somehow finds the most inconvenient time for you to have the most inconvenient thoughts. For me, it was on "Hump Day" and the thoughts revolved around the words my parents decided to ever so kindly impart on me the night before.

We had a fight, you see.

It turns out that fifty-something first generation Filipino immigrants aren't very understanding of youthful trends and the indiscretion of young adults during their time of discovery. In short, they weren't happy with me getting tattoos. The usual reasons were thrown about the room like snowballs in November.

You'll never get a job.

You'll regret that when you're older.

How are you supposed to face the rest of the family?

I thought we raised you better than that.

You look like a criminal.

Different times carry with them different mindsets and I would surmise that had it been in their generation, perhaps some of those would hold true. Of course, I was smart enough not to get anything I couldn't hide for an interview with a nice looking button up. I thought they would, at the very least, acknowledge that. However, that's not what I got. What I got was stern admonishing and frowns that weighed me down like a boulder. I suppose you could say that my relationship with my parents is very much akin to a boulder.

No, I don't mean that it's hard (although it is). There are times when I feel as if I'm Sisyphus watching my boulder roll down the hill after reaching the top. That's how it's always been with us. I push this boulder up and when I think I finally have a way of connecting, the boulder rolls back down.

All of those thoughts rolled (pun immensely intended) around my head that Wednesday afternoon as I drove home. I didn't want to come home to them, but I had to. I didn't want to go home to people who were ashamed of me, but I had to.

My eyes were tired by the time I opened the door to my house and was greeted by two overly excited dogs. I set my bag down and let the thud of my books fill the living room as I let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit cube that we call our home. Slowly, I made my way to the kitchen to make myself something to eat. I decided to check the fridge to see if I could shortcut my way out of cooking and I saw something that caught my attention and started a fire in my heart.

It was a small pot at the bottom of the fridge with black handles jutting out of the opposite sides. I picked up the pot and looked at it and I already knew what was inside. Of all the years we've lived in our house, my mother has only used that pot for one thing and one thing only. It was for my favorite food in the world, bistek. Whenever I saw that pot, I knew that she made it for me. The pot was small and didn't have enough servings for one family dinner. It did, however, have enough for me.

I didn't realize it until they hit the top of the lid and rolled to my fingers, but I had been crying. Not a profuse or dramatic cry, but a subtle build up of tears that come from a certain realization. All that anger, all that shame, and now a pot.

Bistek is my favorite food in the world.

For my mother, it was her quiet way of saying that I'm still her son.

A Quieting.

Things weren’t what she expected. The house that they were in was dark and there was very little food left in the pantries and cupboards. She took stock and walked around the house slowly to see what she could use. She breathed a small sigh of relief when she reached the bathroom and found a fully stocked medicine cabinet. She rooted around the cabinets in the bathroom and found a first aid kid. A weak smile appeared on her face as she grabbed the kit and slowly walked back into the living room. The living room was sparse with only a single couch and a broken television. There was a thick rug in the middle that looked like it had gone out of style ages before she was even born. On the couch there was a young man lying down covered in blankets with sweat covering his face. He was breathing hard and his eyes occasionally flickered with sudden bursts of hallucinations.

“How are you, monkey?” she stepped closer to him kit in hand.

He slowly turned his head to look at her and gave her a faint smile. He labored to sit up and as he did the blankets he wrapped himself in fell to the floor revealing an arm wrapped in dirty bandages.

“This isn’t smart, you know.” He looked at her intently, “We promised each other that we wouldn’t be this dumb about this.”

“But….but CEDA said there was a cure…I think we can make the center before-”

“We won’t,” he interrupted, “Babe, look at me. They got me real good tonight and I don’t know about you, but I don’t think this is something you walk away from.”

“But you can’t just expect me to…to do that!”

“You can’t put this off forever.”

She dropped the kit and walked towards him. “Yes, I can.”

He kept looking at the rug. Her eyes were the saddest he will ever see and it did him no good to dwell on them. He wanted to detach himself from her. He wanted to pretend that he had already died so that he could throw away his fear. He didn’t want to leave her. He never intended to leave her and he felt like he was breaking a promise, like he was failing. He looked at his arm in disgust and played back the moment he was bitten. He remembered the act of mercy that brought him too close to the fire and got him burned. His head was feeling light and he knew what was happening to him. He didn’t want to say anything anymore. He was weak and he wanted to savor his moment with her. He closed his eyes and kept his head down and waited for her to get close to him. He rested her head on her chest and breathed a heavy sigh. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed the top of his head. She felt him exhale and grow limp in her arms so she held him tighter.

“You’re a liar. You said you wouldn’t go anywhere.”

She felt his body begin to twitch lightly and as his convulsions slowly grew, she took out a long trench knife that was strapped to her side. His convulsions were growing more violent and she could feel him slowly starting to breathe again. Tears were welling up in her eyes as she held the tip of the knife at the base of the back of his head.

“I love you, monkey.”

She shoved the knife as hard as she could up the back of his head and she felt him go limp a second time.

She held him until morning.

It was quiet.

Another Dream

He sat looking at something he couldn’t quite see clearly. Not anymore. Not like he could a few minutes ago. The stuff was kicking in and it was good. Exactly what he paid for. Somehow in that moment he realized that all the lunch money he scrounged up and the games he sold at the Gamestop was paying off. He couldn’t feel a thing. He couldn’t see a thing. It was good.

Make me forget and make me feel alive.

He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling and watched as it turned into a swirling blur. Moving around like the ebb and flow of tides, he saw the paint change colors and dance in front of his eyes. He grinned at it and reached for the sky. He extended his fingers as far as he could and he strained them as much as they would go. They felt like they were about to budge, to break, to pop out and shoot all the way to the top. He couldn’t reach. Then he started to remember everything else. The other things he couldn’t reach. Those objects in his mind and in front of his eyes that he couldn’t even touch.

She said she was okay with just being friends. I wasn’t.

He reached for another one. He didn’t know how long he was supposed to go before taking another, but he didn’t like to remember. Not like that. He liked the flow, the rush, the emptiness and light feeling in his chest. Not being able to breathe and feeling as if it had been too much. He became comfortable with the thought of not waking up. He knew he had enough just for that. It cost him a lot, but he had enough just for that. His finger danced around the pill like a bird courting a mate. Jumping and dancing, displaying and spinning, chirping songs of praise and promise. They were courting. Would he take her in? Would he be able to grasp her? His finger kept circling around. He didn’t know if he wanted to pick it up.

This will probably do me. Let’s see how far it’ll take me. I have nothing to lose and nothing ahead. I can do it again. I can do it. Let me see what’s behind the door.

He pinched it between his index and thumb then picked it up and inspected it. The room was spinning so it was hard to look at something so small. He put it in his mouth and took a swig of water and closed his eyes. His head dropped and his hands rested on his thighs as his body slowly slumped forward. He felt his weight pulling him away from his chair. There was a thud and he was on the floor. He turned around and looked intently at his ceiling.

He watched it dance.

Random Nonsense

I’d wanted to hang out with her for a long time now and when I was there, I was dead quiet. I couldn’t help it. She was as lovely as I expected and maybe even more. She wasn’t wearing anything fancy; it was a stay at home kind of thing after all. Just a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, but the way she pursed her lips when she looked through the book I bought her had an effect on me. Her hair was a shade of brown that I couldn’t take my eyes off of. She had changed it once before and it was a different color when I first met her. Each had been lovely to me, but there was something about the way her hair fell to her shoulders that got to me. She was something else.

“So what do you think?” I kept my eyes on her hair and hope it looked like I was making eye contact.

She gave me a weird look, “So, the zombie virus is an STD and it makes them want to bite and fuck?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Why? Is that weird?”

She shifted in her seat and stretched her legs out towards me, touching her feet to my thigh. I took her in from her feet to up; slowly tracing my eyes up her body. She had to have noticed that. I know she did and maybe I wanted her to. It’s been something that’s been building up and I suppose there was no harm and showing her where my head was at.

She continued, “Well, it’s not really that it’s weird. It’s different. When I think of zombies they’re always decaying and grey, you know? I don’t really know if I want to fuck one.”

“If I was a zombie like in that book, would you fuck me?”

She giggled softly, “I’d consider it, but I’m not much of a necrophilia freak, you know. The way you are now is just fine with me.”

“So what about now?”

She slowly got to her knees on the couch and shuffled her way towards me. I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. I was nervous now. I was afraid I had said something too far and I was about to face some kind of reprisal. That’s when I felt her hands on her shoulder and I could feel her face close to my ear. She took a nibble and I shuddered. My entire body reacted to her one small gesture.

She took one of her hands and ran it down my arm, “That would be just fine with me, babe.”

“You…know…I-I’ve never done it with, um, with, well I just..” I was stuttering, “I don’t really want to get anything wrong, and, well, oh, I’m talking too much, sorry, it’s just how I-“

She grabbed my chin and jerked it towards her. It was deep. Passionate. Oh, and I’ve never felt so electric. She knew how to kiss. No guy I’ve kissed ever had me like that.

“Don’t worry. I know I’m your first woman. You’ll be fine, love. It’ll be a lovely time.”

Walking With Virgil: Virgil Dies Edition

[This is the version that I entered for a Halloween writing contest at my college. I got 2nd place! That means I get this sweet gift card to Barnes and Noble and I also get automatically published in their literary magazine "Portfolio." I'm pretty stoked so I'm saving this here for posterity.]

If you’re reading this then two things must be true. One is that you’ve made it pretty far and that’s good. The second is that I’m dead. If “I” attacked you before you found this, let me apologize for that. If you haven’t seen me yet, put this journal down for a second, grab your weapon, and sweep the house. This will be here when you get back.

My name’s Virgil. Like you, I was on my way to a green zone, but unlike you, I didn’t quite make it. I was ambushed in this house by a woman. She was still in her bathrobe and I didn’t sweep the house enough to find her. That was my fault. I got her, but she got me, too. I’ve been bit. I’m pretty lucid right now, though. I think writing in this is keeping me lucid. So, while I still have my faculties, let me tell you a story.

When accounts of the “living dead” started hitting the wires, people were, for good reason, quite skeptical and I’m sure so were you. It’s not something you just up and believe. There’s no such thing as Santa, there’s no such thing as the Tooth Fairy, and there’s no such things as Zombies. Turns out, one of those three came into reality and unfortunately it’s not the lady that gives money for loose molars. What we got were zombies; full on moaning, gnashing, snarling zombies and, unfortunately, not the shuffling kind. Let me tell you something, though, they’re not truly dead. The only thing dead about the infected is their humanity. The virus doesn’t kill you, it puts you in a coma and when you come to, well, you’re like a dog with a really bad case of rabies. Nothing but pure aggression and a hunger that can destroy a Vegas buffet in the blink of an eye. Everything goes back to baser instincts and the “human” turns into their truer self, pure animal. Let me make this clear, just because they’re not really “zombies” in the classical sense, doesn’t mean there’s humanity left in them. There’s nothing behind those glossed over eyes anymore. Do what you have to do.

You can break bones and they slow down, you can shoot the gut and they can die. I was thankful for that. I’m a horrible shot. I can’t hit the head of my walker if my life depended on it and, well, in this situation it does. I think you’ve noticed that the infected exhibit the same level of fitness they did before succumbing to the virus, albeit with a little boost from suddenly over sized adrenal glands. A little bit faster, a little bit stronger, and feeling no pain. Means that you have to be real decisive about what you hit so that they go down. They won’t go down because something hurts; make sure you make them go down because something of theirs doesn’t work anymore. Preferably their brain, but legs work just as well in a pinch. I’ve noticed something good. They’re only fast if they’re fresh. Their bodies still need fuel and since they don’t eat, well, they starve to death. The ones that have been infected for longer won’t have enough to run after you. That’s comforting, right?

Comforting.

I’ve seen some terrible things on my way here and I hope you were spared them. People get desperate in times like these. Before I got to this house, I didn’t have much on me. I made due, but I was running low. I was forced to make a stop and find some supplies. I went into what I thought was an empty house. There was a kid in there. Not too young, but not that old either. Could have been a middle school kid for all I knew. I didn’t know what to do. I was stupid. I called out to him and he turned to me and I saw those glassed over eyes. My heart sank. I pointed my gun at him, but my hands were shaking, my God, they wouldn’t stop shaking. He was so young. He looked at me for a while and tilted his head like he was trying to recognize me. I thought that maybe he was still human somewhere so I tried talking to him. He just looked at me and his mouth opened up wide like when an animal is about to take a big bite out of their prey. I was the prey. I took a second longer than I should have to slip my finger over the trigger. I hesitated. He came at me like a hurricane and I was on the floor. It was a struggle and I thought I was gone, but I managed to throw him off me. He was a kid, after all. And then…..well, you can guess what happened.

I can feel my body heating up and I’m sweating. My hands are shaking again. I’m starting to get sick, I know it. I want to close my eyes, but I have to finish. You have to keep going. Don’t stay here. Keep going and keep surviving. Never hesitate and watch over your own. I don’t know who you are, but I really hope the best for you. I hope you make it all the way. Make it for me, okay? You can do it. I know you can. You have to make it. You ha-

[I want to thank my best friend Robin and my lovely girlfriend Janessa for supporting me and giving me the extra nudge to try and get my writing out there. Baby steps, guys! I'm taking them!]

Sparring

[This is from a free write so don’t expect good grammar, folks.]

Flash and burn. My skin is tingling and I can feel the sting linger. Oh, but I love it. I move and she moves with me. There’s a rhythm to her aggression. Oh, and I love it. She strikes for me and I let it happen. I can feel the force come at me. It stings and I know it’ll bruise. It’s her gift to me. I’ll keep it for a while. Then it cuts. Cuts to black and we’re in her room. Equipment is thrown around and nothing is sacred. Oh, and there are bruises. Forming from the strikes and forming a new. It’s rough. A little rough and we smile about it. I bite her lip and she goes for mine. Too hard. I bleed a little. She licks my lips and I smile at her. Push. Slams against the wall and I pick her leg up. Sticks on the ground. Battered and bruised. Used and weathered. Not us. Still fresh. Tired as hell and still fresh. Oh, and I love it. And it’s a new game now. I pin her to the ground and she wraps her legs around me. I have reach, but she has flexibility. We have our speed and our aggression. Still fresh. My bruises are showing and so are hers. We’ll make new ones tonight.