First to Fight: Marines in the Apocalypse #1: Marines in the Apocalypse, #1

By Scott Free

"When we were deployed to protect and defend the hospitals, airports, and other important locations in Southwest Florida, we knew things were already a mess. What our superiors didn't tell us grunts was just how messed up things were. I decided to write down my experience and those of my fellow Marines when we were separated from the rest of our platoon during the Fort Myers Crisis. 

Since I was too busy trying to stay alive at the time, I was unable to keep a day-by-day journal of our struggle. However, when writing this record, I have tried to be as accurate and thorough as possible. I hope that those who read what follows will understand the courage and selflessness of my brothers, both surviving and fallen." 

Semper Fi. 


PFC Douglas Belfountain 
United States Marine Corps


Cordyceps Hominis is a homopathogenic fungus that is also known as the 'zombie fungus'. It operates by infiltrating the human brain and nervous system, altering the behavior of its host. In stage 1, the host experiences an intense craving for human blood, which contains an enzyme that the fungus needs for propagation. In stage 2, the fungus rapidly spreads hyphae (mycelium) throughout the host, following nerve sheaths. The brain is especially targeted, and the host is soon rendered incapable of any thought unrelated to the gathering of food. The fungus requires immense amount of protein to enable its rapid growth and subsequent fruiting. 

When the homopathonogenic fungus known as Cordyceps Hominis spread through the population, transforming humans into brain-damaged zombies, units of the U.S. military were deployed to protect important infrastructure. First to Fight follows the story of PFC Douglas Belfountain and several of his fellow Marines as they try to survive when the population of Fort Myers, Florida succumbs to the fungus.


Dramatis Personae


Cpl. Dennis "Smiley" Clemente: Team Leader. Small guy of Filipino ancestry. Always has a toothy grin pasted on his face.
LCpl. Steven "Cat Chow" Cornwall: SAW Gunner. Tall, lanky black goofball who thinks he's a comedian. I'm his best friend and even I don't think he's funny.
LCpl. Felix "Throb" Hart: Asst. SAW Gunner. Short but built like a frickin' troglodyte. Must be drunk before he'll speak in multiple-word sentences. 
PFC Douglas "Java" Belfountain: Rifleman and all around super-hero. Great looking guy that all the girls love. And I would know, because he's me—and my momma tol' me so. 
Cpl. Edward "Easy" Zimmerman: Another Team Leader. Mid-sized dude with a nose that reminds me of Homer Simpson, for some reason. Plays poker like it's a matter of life and death. 
LCpl. Mansfield: SAW Gunner for Zimmerman's team. Quiet guy who always is reading a paperback book.
LCpl. Sanchez: Latino from San Something-or-other, California. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Free
• Release date: Jun 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386302339

Book preview

Dramatis Personae

Cpl. Dennis Smiley Clemente: Team Leader. Small guy of Filipino ancestry. Always has a toothy grin pasted on his face.

LCpl. Steven Cat Chow Cornwall: SAW Gunner. Tall, lanky black goofball who thinks he’s a comedian. I’m his best friend and even I don’t think he’s funny.

LCpl. Felix Throb Hart: Asst. SAW Gunner. Short but built like a frickin’ troglodyte. Must be drunk before he’ll speak in multiple-word sentences.

PFC Douglas Java Belfountain: Rifleman and all around super-hero. Great looking guy that all the girls love. And I would know, because he’s me—and my momma tol’ me so.

Cpl. Edward Easy Zimmerman: Another Team Leader. Mid-sized dude with a nose that reminds me of Homer Simpson, for some reason. Plays poker like it’s a matter of life and death.

LCpl. Mansfield: SAW Gunner for Zimmerman’s team. Quiet guy who always is reading a paperback book.

LCpl. Sanchez: Latino from San Something-or-other, California. 

Glossary of Terms

ACOG – Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight

FUBAR – Really messed up situation

IFAK – Individual First-Aid Kit

M4A1 – The M16A4’s shorter brother. It also can fire full-auto.

M16A4 – A grunts best friend. Fires the 5.56mm NATO round. Has a selective fire switch that that can be set to semi-automatic, three-round burst, or safe.

M50 – Joint Service General Purpose Mask. A gas mask that comes in handy when trying not to breathe in a lungful of zombie spores. Also helps reduce the lethality of Cat Chow’s flatulence.

M67 – Fragmentation grenade. . If you’re within 15 meters, you’re gonna be hurtin’. If you are within 5 meters of this sucker, you’re probably dead. If it falls in your lap, you’re gonna sing soprano.

M203 – Grenade launcher designed to attach under the barrel of a rifle

M249 SAW – An automatic weapon firing the 5.56mm NATO round. Magazine capacity: 200 rounds.

MTV – Modular Tactical Vest. Body armor. Hot and heavy piece of outerwear that gets even hotter and heavier when the SAPI plates are inserted into the pockets.

Oorah – Understood among about 50 other meanings

Ruck – Rucksack.

SAPI – Bullet resistant plates that are inserted into pockets of our MTVs in order to protect us from bullets and to make grunts miserable.

Stew – Stage 2 infected, a.k.a. S-2, can, zombie, zif, zook, zed, etc.. Second stage of the zombie affliction, where the fungus has started to infiltrate the victim’s brains and make them into a drooling idiot. Sort of like my buddy Cat Chow when he’s had a few too many brewskis.

Rifleman's Creed

This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.  My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.  My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will.  My rifle and myself know that what counts in this war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit.  My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage as I will ever guard my legs, my arms, my eyes and my heart against damage. I will keep my rifle clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will.  Before God, I swear this creed. My rifle and myself are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.  So be it, until victory is America's and there is no enemy, but peace.

Major General William H. Rupertus (USMC, Ret.)

Chapter 1: Shopping Day

Jesus H. Christ, Cat Chow whispered. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and dislodged a drop of sweat from the tip of his nose. What the hell are they doing? Shopping?

Without taking his eyes off the scene across the street, Smiley replied, Eyes on your zone, Cat Chow. I swear I will slit your gullet with your own knife if you let a bunch of them climb up our asses. Whenever our team leader makes a threat like that, it always gives me a chill. It isn’t that I’m scared of the guy or anything; the little Filipino-American was only about five and a half feet tall—if that—compared to my 6’1". It was just that whenever he said something like that, he would say it with a smile, his pearly whites gleaming. It was as if he would enjoy nothing more than carrying out whatever he has threatened to do. For all I know, he might. Sometimes his threats could be downright creative. He must’ve been preoccupied with planning our next move, because for Smiley to make such an unimaginative threat was uncharacteristic of him. The guy never gets flustered. Never gets upset. Always with that damn smile plastered across his mug. Of course, right now I couldn’t see the smile because of the M50 mask that he was wearing—but I knew it was there.

Cat Chow returned to providing our rear security, settling down with his M249. I returned my eyes to the front, keeping as low as I could as I lay on my belly next to a tipped-over 55-gallon drum. The thing reeked worse than a pair of Cat Chow’s soggy socks after a twenty-mile run. I don’t know what was in the thing, but the odor made my nose-hairs curl. I swear. Flies buzzed around my head threatening to drive me crazy as they dive-bombed my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. God I hate this place. Fort Myers, Florida. Even in November the temp was in the 90s. The entire city was filled with the aroma of smoke, rotting meat, garbage, and shit. No. Thank. You.

How many you got, Java? Corporal Clemente asked. 

Five Stage Twos. The two guys and the three women, I replied.

Smiley grunted. I count six. You count the one under the car?"

I was embarrassed. Shit, I didn’t count it. I was just looking at the walkers.

He smiled. Got to count ‘em all. Never know when one of these things are gonna climb up and take a bite outta your ass.

Sorry, Smiley. I still couldn’t get the hang of this crap.

You gotta cut Private Belfountain some slack, Smiley, whispered Cat Chow as he scanned the streets to our rear. "He’s distracted by that knockout stew struttin’ her stuff out there. He wants a piece of her."

Shut up, I replied. Cat Chow is my best bud and all, but right now I was a little too nervous to screw around with his crap. I peered through the ACOG mounted on my M16A4. I spotted five people in the parking lot of the Walgreen’s across the street. They were obviously infected. Stage 2—otherwise known as stews. Two grunted, moaned, and whimpered as they staggered around a small red car. Occasionally, one would smack a window, and I could see the smear of blood she would leave every time she did so. The 4 times magnification of my ACOG scope brought the scene up close enough that I could see the unnatural position of her fingers. She had probably broken every finger on her hand as she tried to get into the vehicle. The sight made me wince.

Smiley raised his voice slightly. Okay listen up. It doesn’t look like anyone’s in the store. We’re gonna do this fast and easy. Don’t waste ammo. I repeat, don’t waste ammo. Java, you take down the three on the right. He pointed. Hit the two at the car first, then the one on the ground. I’ll take the three on the left. He pushed his helmet up and wiped the sweat from his brow as he looked at the other two members of our team. Cat Chow, Throb. You guys provide security from here. Cat Chow, you got rear and 3 o’clock. Throb, 9 o’clock. We’re probably gonna attract some attention. You let us know when something shows up, got it?

Oorah.

Here, Cat Chow. Move back a little, I whispered. I pushed myself up and got in a kneeling position behind the trash barrel. Resting my rifle on the trash container was much steadier than if I just tried to shoot from a standing universal or offhand position. I needed all the help I could get. I’m a pretty good shot, but with stews, every shot has to count; the things are really hard to put down. Correction. They go down okay, but they don’t stay down. The best way to keep one of the things from getting back up to make a meal out of you is to make goulash out of their brains, otherwise you’ll use a good part of an entire mag to make sure they are chewed up enough that they won’t get up. I settled in and grunted, Ready.

The Corporal smiled as he looked through his own weapon’s scope. He was bracing his M4A1 on the dumpster next to him. When you’re ready, fire. I’ll wait on you.

I took a breath to calm myself. I tracked one of the stews with my scope. It was difficult keeping the lightly glowing dot centered on the thing’s head. The unsteady gait of the woman made for a very difficult target. I’ve seen the movies and watched the shows. I’ve read the books. What I don’t understand is how the hell the heroes always get headshots on the zombies with such ease. It’s like they have smart bullets or something. All I know is, it is damn difficult to hit a target as small as someone’s head from any sort of distance, unless that target is sitting still. If it is moving you don’t just whip up your rifle and Bam! That’s the way it is for me, at least.

Any time, whispered Cat Chow.

I pulled the trigger. Three shots rang out almost simultaneously. The first hit the woman in the throat, and the next two stitched upward, one ruining her already messed up face and the other putting a hole in her temple. The far side of her skull erupted outward, spraying brains, blood, and fragments of bone over the car that she was walking in front of. I heard Smiley’s rifle fire twice as I twitched the barrel of my rifle to the right, aiming at the other zombie. The stew had jerked to a halt at the crack of our rifles. He looked at us, and you could almost hear the gears grinding in his skull as his dim little brain processed what was going on. Before he had a chance to figure it out, I hit him with a three-round burst. The 5.56mm projectiles hit him in the chest and knocked him backward. He stumbled for several steps before he fell to the pavement. Smiley was right—the body under the car was alive. It started howling as it tried to get out from under the car. He was slamming his head against the bottom of the car repeatedly in his haste to get at us. Stews are not very bright, but they sure know what they want. Us. All they care about is eating, and they see uninfected humans as nothing more than a pork dinner that wears shoes—with blood as gravy. The damage this one was doing to itself in its desperation to get at us was sickening. I aimed a three-round burst at his face. One found its mark; the other two shattering his left shoulder. His howls turned to gurgles as he flopped and kicked in his death throes.

I was on the move, right behind Smiley, as we hustled across the street. We both moved with our weapons in low ready. Behind me, I knew that Cat Chow and Throb were shifting their positions to better cover our butts from any threats that might be attracted by all the noise.

The man whom I had hit in the chest rolled over and climbed to his feet, facing away from me. I could see the exit wounds my three rounds had made. Gaping holes, showing stark white ribs against red, mangles flesh. The man should not be breathing, let alone standing. He gave a ‘whuff’ sound when he spotted me coming, and started to scream. I stopped and popped three more rounds into his chest, high up. I was trying for the head, but aimed a little low. The last bullet tore into his throat and knocked him down again. I ran to the man before he could regain his feet. Despite his wounds—wounds that would have killed a man three times over—the stew rolled over onto his belly, trying to regain his feet. From only a couple yards away, I popped three more rounds into the back of his head. There wasn’t much of the guy’s skull after that. Nine rounds to drop that—thing. Unbelievable.

Over here, called Smiley.

The corporal was standing with his back to the brick wall that was to the side of the glass entry doors, his M4 held at high ready. I hustled over to the other side of the door, careful to keep out of the ‘fatal funnel’ in front of the doors, just in case there was someone inside with an itchy trigger finger.

I didn’t like it at all. We should never have crossed the street right across from the store, and we didn’t have enough men to clear this building properly. But ever since we got separated from the rest of our platoon, we had been