Young Writers Society

John stood in the third row of men. Everyone stood straight, staring at the distant grounds below. John double checked his gas mask, gloves, boots, pants, and heavy coat. The other soldiers did the same. A loud buzz went off as the red let went off above the jump door, and the green light went on. The first row of men, ran, then jumped. Then went the second. Then came John's row. He firmly gripped the chute string, and dove out.

The first five men to go pulled their strings, and the parachutes bursted out, and the group of men slid through the air, turning left of the jump zone. A split second later John and the four other men in his squad pulled their own strings and went right. The glided fast at first, but began to slow. They eventually landed in the middle of a street, and as his feet hit the ground he unbuckled his backpack and it fell to the ground. He stood still for a moment, to keep his balance. The men in his group landed in the same general area.

John picked up his backpack after detatchning the parachute. He walked to the driveway a block down the street where the other men we talking. When he got there, he understood the point of the conversation.

"I vote we sweep this neighborhood. We've been given a month to get our work done, so why not start big, and leave the small stuff to the end of the mission." The tallest man in the group's name was Mike, and he was the one to direct the group in their assault.

John spoke up next, "I agree with Mike. We can save the small stuff for the end, when most of the work is done."

The other group members nodded, and they began to walk up the driveway. John unstrapped the M16A4 from his chest, and aimed it at the house's window as he kneeled down. The other men walked up on the porch, and knocked on the door.

"Don't knock you idiots! The people won't answer; they know we're here. Most people aren't idiots, you know. Most can tell men with large guns and gas masks knocking at your door aren't friendly." John heard the man next to him yell. His name was Ryan. Ryan had known John for years, working together in Iraq before being called to Florida.

The men at the house shot the door's lock, and kicked it open. John focused on the window. Two men that seemed to be in their mid thirties ran at the door. Their skin was seemingly decaying and grey. Loud gunshots were heard, and the both fell dead. Mike walked to the window and waved for Ryan and John to come in. They stood up and held the guns in front of them as they ran in the door. Mike pointed at each man and then to a room. John was asigned the bathroom.

He walked up to the closed door, and tested the door knob. Locked. He put five bullets into the metal, and opened the door slowly as he raised his gun. A woman lay on her knees, her head hanging over into the toilet, blood and vomet spilled on the floor. Her back raised and lowered slowly, a sickly wheezing coming from her contracted throat. Her skin lay a dead grey, red vessels pulsing eerily.

John walked up behind her cautiously, and poked her back with the gun, and she quickly responded. Her arm bent unaturally backwards, grabbed the gun, and threw it. She stood and ran at John. He quickly slid out his knife from the pocket on his calf, and put it into her stomach. He pulled it out, and pushed her into the tub. He leaned over and picked up his gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Blood began to drip from the tile walls.

John exited the room, to where the other men were waiting.

"You guys get anything?" John asked.

All of their answers were the same; no.

"You got the last one, John." Replied Chad as he stared at the ground. "I think they forgot to inform us on something."

Everyone in the room stared at him quizically.

"Zombies. Anyone else see some zombies in the picture?"

There was an awkward silence for the following minute. Ryan broke the silence.

"Man, I hate doing the government's dirty work."