Every Marine a Rifleman: Marines in the Apocalypse #2: Marines in the Apocalypse

By Scott Free

PFC Douglas 'Java' Belfountain and his companions continue the struggle to stay alive in this installment of Marines in the Apocalypse. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Free
• Release date: Oct 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386663416

Book preview

Chapter 1: Movin’ on Up

Okay, Boss. What now? Cat Chow was sweeping the beam of his flashlight around the dark room. It was funny the way he looked into every single nook and cranny big enough to hide a rat. I guess he felt that stews came in teeny tiny sizes, too. It was funny, but I didn’t feel like laughing. Maybe I would have if we hadn’t been trapped in a building about the size of a shoebox, surrounded by the entire population of Fort Myers, who were all just dying to invite us to dinner. Or supper. Or breakfast.

What the hell time is it anyway? I asked. It didn’t really matter what time it was, but I guess my brain was grabbing at anything it could to keep it from thinking about our situation.

I got a little after four, Cat Chow replied. Why, you got a date?

Four o’clock. That means we’ll be an early breakfast, is all.

Lara made a noise that must’ve been a sob, and Smiley growled, Shut it, Belfountain. We’re gonna be all right.

His timing couldn’t have been worse, because the moment he finished his sentence, something big banged against the door, making us all jump about a foot-and-a-half. I almost had a stroke. I’m not sure what it was. Throb went over to the door in a hurry to make sure it was still secure. We all held our breath until he gave a thumbs-up. It was a tough, steel door. Even so, he wedged a four-foot piece of two-by-four under the doorknob. Like they say, you can never be too careful.

Are we? This was Caleb. Are we gonna be all right, I mean. They won’t get inside? His speech was a little awkward due to the fat lip that he was sporting from the beating their late hosts had administered, but it was still understandable. Even though I understood it, doesn’t mean I wanted to answer the question. As far as I could tell, we had a choice between being torn apart by hungry stews, or waiting for the stews to lose interest and wander away—which would happen about halfway between when we died of thirst and the end of time.

Surprisingly, it was Throb who answered. Course we are. That was it. No elaboration. No explanation as too how he felt so confident. But that’s Throb for you.

Cat Chow took up the slack, temporarily interrupting his search for mini-stews. Yeah, kid. Don’t you worry. Corporal Clemente is gonna pull a rabbit outa his hat like you wouldn’t believe. He’s a fuckin’ magician. He’s already got a plan to get us safe, don’tcha Corporal? He shined the light on our team leader’s face.

Smiley had taken his mask off and his pearly whites gleamed in the glow of the flashlight. That’s right. It’s just gonna take some time. You’re gonna need some patience, okay?

Hah. He didn’t have a clue how we were going to get out of this. But I have to give him credit for keeping up a façade of confidence. I know I couldn’t do it.

But I guess I could try to help out. Sorry, Caleb. I was just joking. I got a sick sense of humor.

You ain’t got a sense of humor, interjected Cat Chow.

Shut up, Chow. I got a sense of humor and Clemente has a plan. We’ll be home before breakfast.

Really? I couldn’t see Caleb’s face too well in the dark, but I could hear the hope in his voice.

Really, I replied, trying to sound as rock-solid confident as I could. I think it worked; at least, the kid didn’t ask any more questions, so I guess he believed us.

I just wish I could believe it. When you can hardly hear yourself think because of the unholy racket that the stews were making: banging on the door, screaming, and whimpering, you have a tough time looking on the bright side of things.

Smiley, after catching his breath, took inventory of the building, his flashlight playing over every square inch. Unless he were to find a .50 caliber machine gun, or even better, an A1 Abrams. I did the same, looking for something that would give me a clue as to how the hell we were going to avoid taking the scenic route through the digestive system of a zombie.

Smiley was shining his flashlight up into bare truss work that supported the metal roof. I looked up, following his beam, and came to the conclusion that it was no less than ninety percent cobwebs, with