Budget cuts.

So, the government pans on cutting military pay down to 25% while cutting the benefits that members of our armed forces have signed up for due to a lack of proper funding... The average American household makes $50k per year. The average senator makes about $200k per year. The president makes $400k per year, and about $200k per year after his term with another $200k in benefits (not including the secret service, healthcare or flight vouchers that they get for life). The underestimated cost of war is well over $180 Billion dollars per year. But cutting soldier's (who make less than half of the average American's income) is the way that they decided to save money?

There are no words to express my disgust for "our" government.

Zombies On The Move

A thirteen zombie collective
Pushes toward the soldier.
All of their weight falling on both
Heels and toes simultaneously,
While his tactical steps lead them.

Bodies worn, waiting for release,
Fall forward, caught by another step.
Arms avoid movement by pushing
On weapons strapped to their shoulders,
Disregarding their leader's poise.

Spine, a clamp compresses the base
Powered by cumbersome gadgets.
Decrepit bodies aching sore.
The pack halts as the one scours
His surroundings for glory lost.

Thirteen drones attempt to secure
An insurmountable sea of
Semi-populated windows.
Each pane lowers the interest
Of their job and knees are taken.

Wait a few minutes too long for
A wave to signify a safety
Compromised through it's assurance.
A low moan rumbles from within
As they trail the hungry shepherd.

Lumbering through the battlegrounds,
Apathy dictates the motion
Of the thirteen other-than-dead.
Apathy, the infectious bite
Becomes the only driving force.

Sticks and Stones

I jump through an empty pane barely big enough to fit my 5'11'' 150lb figure through. The shouting of the crowd is sounding further away with every step. It's about 10:30 at night and the streets of the industrial downtown Tacoma are as vacant as the buildings lining them. Large vans parked slightly exposed from their commercial driveways block what would otherwise have been a straight run down the sidewalk. Running in the street I'm completely exposed and easily spotted. I have to maneuver the sidewalk and find somewhere to hide or this is gonna be a very short night. Turning toward the sidewalk I notice an open garbage dumpster on the side of a medical building and jump in.

110901 is ghost.

I don't close the lid because I've been exposed for too long and can't risk one of them seeing me during however long it takes to close it. Moments later a large mob runs by angrily yelling, “Get him!” and “Fuck that chi-mo!”. This is not the worst though. Far from it. Once I spent 3 hours running away from a group of people who were threatening to castrate me. After encountering as many angry mobs as I've encountered, I have become an expert in the art of evasion.

The mob's racket of footsteps dies down to the few solitary feet of the slowpokes scampering to catch up. I put my hands on the ledge of the dumpster and balance myself on bags of wet trash so that I can stand up high enough to look over the dumpster without making any noise by ruffling the moist trash around. Two people walking slowly enough to seem like they are doing a detailed search yet quickly enough not to lose the rest of the group pass by. Eventually the mob will realize that I’ve escaped and they’ll turn back to make a real detailed search, so I have to leave now.

I climb out as quietly as possible and make my way across the street toward the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. My best friend and only friend left these days, Dave Strattman is supposed to meet me under the bridge at 11:30. I've known Dave my entire life. The parents around our neighborhood used to joke that Dave was a blonde version of the brown haired me. We’re both close to the same height, at about 185 lbs Dave is about thirty five pounds heavier than I am. We went to the same schools from elementary all the way until I got kicked out of Princeton. Dave was always the reckless one who did things like bungi jumping, sky diving, and a few years ago, he even tried cliff diving. I have never even tried skateboarding. Needless to say, he was the man for this job.

110901 is free. Phase II.

The bridge is gated!

A few years ago the city of Tacoma made a law that criminalized sex offenders living within 600 meters of a school. Since the city of Tacoma has so many schools, the sex offenders had nowhere to live, so they all ended up living under the Tacoma Narrows Bridge illegally. It wasn't the safest place to live, but at least it stopped the rain. At first the town didn't really bother them that much except for the occasional thrown cola can or water bottle. It only took about a month for the people of Tacoma to protest them. Once the protests started happening, Tacoma PD arrested all of them for violation of their respective probations. They must have gated under the bridge to prevent anyone from making it a home again.

I'll just wait by the gate and hope he sees me.

A few minutes later I see Dave's green Hummer H2 pulling up. Thank God he remembered to turn his lights off. “Hey Dave, thanks for helping me out man. I realize how dangerous this is for you.”

Dave seems completely at ease and says, “Fuck those bastards! You know I got your back dude. Let’s do this thing!” as he opens the passenger side door issuing me to get in.

While climbing into the H2 I say, “Man, you really haven’t changed at all.” His hair is bleached blonde and shaved down the sides as if it were a mohawk that he just hasn’t put up yet.

He laughs at me and says, “I see you’re still the little same bitch you’ve always been. You meet any sweet girls in prison?”

He must have thought that last comment to be seriously funny because he’s laughing like he’s never heard anything funnier. “Yea, I met your last girlfriend. Or at least someone who looks like her.”

That shut him up. Finally. I’ve been in the car with him for five seconds and already I’m tired of him. Jesus, this is gonna be a long night.

110901 is mounted. License plate: W234X4A Driver: white blonde male heavy, average height.

That’s it, I’m leaving this place for good. There’s no turning back now.

I’m definitely not gonna miss my job though. The only way people like me can find work is through sleazy scum bags who want to make a quick buck off of someone who can’t fight back. Mr. Gorchepov is one of those people. He’s a construction contractor who uses whatever labor he can get for less than minimum wage. He really likes hiring people like me because he can treat us like crap, and we’ll stick around.

Every couple of months there was another rumor floating around the workplace about a good job somewhere for us, or an employer that wasn’t checking records. Almost every time they were proven to be just rumors, but one rumor stuck around.

There was said to be a place somewhere in Nevada where people like us made up the entire town. Everybody from the shop owners to the mayor would be in my same shoes if they didn’t live there. In fact, the mason on my job sight a week ago has a brother in law that lives there right now and even owns a gas station.

The problem is that it is supposedly extremely hard to find and it's across two state borders. Being that felons are not allowed to cross from one state to another without a pass from the respective probation officer, and a damn good reason why the trip is necessary, this trip could be very difficult.

Staring at the dashboard of his car, Dave asks, “So we're just gonna drive through both borders and then what? Follow that piece of shit GPS you got?”

He looks nervous. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him nervous before. “I'm gonna stay in the trunk until we get to nevada. Nobody's gonna notice us, and if they do, nobody would even think to search you. I know it's risky, but it's the only option I got.” I make my way to the trunk.

We're going to take I-12 through the Snoqualmie National Forrest and then drive south through the desert all the way until Nevada. We figured that the drive would be a relatively smooth one considering we aren't going through any borders via any major roads. I figured it would be a desolate ride but a little difficult to maneuver through.

They're on the move. Driver: David Strattman age: 28 no priors.

Man. How did it come to this?

The terrorist attack on December 2^nd, 2023 initiated the US Congress' 2^nd National Security Imperative which allowed local police departments to hire people under the age of 18 to prevent terrorism. Since then, the police departments all used under age detectives called “Junior Detectives” to catch stores selling cigarettes to minors or sometimes to catch drug dealers dealing to minors (since dealing to a minor drew a lengthier sentence). At times, fake ID's would be made up so that the Junior Detectives could get into age restrictive places for a bust.

Dave and I were 21 years old living in New Jersey, going to Princeton University and we used to go out to local bars to meet girls almost every night. One night Dave and I walked into our usual Thursday night bar (in the basement of a Days Inn), when we both noticed an unusually attractive woman at the bar. She was hispanic with long flowing dark hair, long legs wearing black tights that show how the inner thighs curve inward toward the hips and allow the butt to stick out and a loose fitting top that suggests a level of modesty to counter the pants. She stunned both of us.

Dave went up to her and said, “Hey, can I buy you a drink?” Dave was better with the ladies so it was only natural that he would talk to her. Besides, I always got shy around women anyway.

She looked him up and down and said, “Sure. But who's your friend?”

Dave looked over at me to make sure she was really talking about me and not some other guy, and sure enough, she was. Bewildered he walked over to me and said, “Bro, she wants to talk to you”.

At first I wasn't going to talk to her. I mean, she was way out of my league. She had dark lipstick on thick lips and an attitude that gave the impression that she knew what she was doing and was completely comfortable doing it. I couldn't talk with her. I had no clue what I was doing, and was entirely too uncomfortable doing it. Besides, if she already turned Dave down, what chances did I have?

Dave called me a pussy enough times to motivate any man, so I got up, took the shot of Jack Daniels that I had been nursing and walked over to her.

“Uh, hi. My name's Jeremy, uh... So what do you do?”

She chuckled and said, “I'm Karina. Why are you so nervous? You're too cute to be nervous.” Then she shot me the cutest smile with her head cocked slightly to the side while her eyes looked slightly down and curled her hair in her finger. She nudged the bar stool next to her with her foot, beckoning me to sit while staring at me with her big brown eyes. She could have done anything to me at that moment, I was smitten.

We stayed at the bar and had a few more drinks. I never really got over the nervousness, but the alcohol made me not care as much about it. Usually if Dave didn't find a woman to have sex with within the first hour at a bar, we'd go to another one until he found one, but this time was different. Dave was having enough fun watching me with a woman for a change. He had the look of a man watching NASCAR just waiting for a crash, which did nothing to raise my confidence. To our surprise, a few hours later, Karina wanted to go back to my dorm. I was too drunk to drive, so Dave drove us back to the dorms.

I had only been with one other woman at that point, and she was a girl I dated for five years, so needless to say, I was very inexperienced in the art of wooing women. As luck would have it, Karina was an Undercover Junior Detective working on catching sexual predators.

I was arrested and imprisoned without a trial because sex crimes were deemed to be too immoral and no longer needed trials for convictions. Four and a half years later, I was let out of sing sing without anywhere to go. Princeton wouldn't accept me back, and no other schools were accepting sex offenders. Even if they were accepting, getting to school would be a near impossibility, and my family wanted nothing to do with me.

110901 approaching 523.

We're slowing down. That means that we're either close to the border, or we're getting into some traffic around midnight. If it's traffic, that can only mean one thing; Checkpoint. They'd search every car for illicit substances, criminals, illegal aliens, weapons or subversive materials which would end up with me going back to prison.

Ugh, just the thought of going back to prison scares the crap out of me. It's not so easy for a sex offender in prison. They, like everybody else, don't want to hear your story. They just see another reason to screw somebody over and seem justified in doing so.

The muffled sound of, “Just give me your fucking papers sir!” brings me back to the present. I can feel Dave rustling around for his documents. “A few seconds later the car starts to move.

“Hey Jer, come up here bro, we're past the Oregon border.”

I release the back seat with the latch inside the trunk and crawl up to the front. “I almost pooped myself when I heard that cop. How close was that?”

“Way too close for me. Hey, if I have to, I'll tell them that you kidnapped me and forced me to do this. I'm not going to prison for you bro.”

His blunt approach is a little bit shocking but I don't blame him, “I get it. Don't worry. I'll even play along.” Just because my life sucks doesn’t mean his has to. He looks a little more assured now, but I can tell the consequences are still boiling around in his head.

Dave looks around from mirror to mirror frantically. I ask, “Are you ok?” as I turn around to see what he's looking at. The only thing I can see is a cloud of dust.

“There's a trail of dust behind us that we're not making.”

“Are you sure? Where is it?”

“Yes I'm fucking sure. It's to the left. Fuck! There's a fucking SUV. It's the cops, I'm sure of it.” The sound of the engine changes from a low rumble to a high pitched chainsaw like sound. He didn't take the restrictor chip out so if the cops chasing us want to catch us, they're not gonna have to do much in the way of extreme driving.

Looking around for something to separate us from the cops in a desert is kind-of like looking for a black hair on black sheets. But I finally find a miniature ridge that we could jump over. It probably wouldn't stop the SUVs, but it would slow them down at least, or maybe just mess up their suspension. We’re in an H2, we can handle it but I don’t know if their Suburban can. “Over there! Go over there!” And for once, he obeyed without question.

“Stop your vehicle or you will be killed!” the cops must have figured out what we're up to.

I look at Dave. He's freaking out. “Just keep on going, there's no way they're getting over that ridge. It's gotta be like 12 feet high and they don't have the center of gravity that we've got.” Really it seems more like six feet which they can easily make, but I figured telling him the truth would just scare him more.

The ledge is coming up faster than expected. Rocks are smacking the sides and undercarriage of the Hummer as we tunnel onward toward the mini cliff. The police are gaining on us considerably but if we can make it to this cliff, they'll probably slow down to see if there's another way down. I hope.

“Pull the vehicle over or we will fire!” A stream of bullets tear through the rear passenger side door and one smashes the window above.

Dave mumbles, “Why do they even say that shit if they're already firing at us?” As if on cue right as he said “us” a bullet shattered the rear view window. We're only a couple hundred feet away now.

Another burst of machine gun fire rips through the side door and pops the rear passenger side tire. If we try to stop now we'll end up sliding off the cliff. I can see Dave already thought about that and is committing to the original plan.

A few seconds later and we're in the air. The back tire is flopping around with every revolution of the wheel. I can hear the tire coming off the wheel with every turn. We’re not going to make it too far on this busted wheel. We're going to have to stop to change the tire once we land and get away from these cops.

I turned around to look behind us and I could see the SUV slowing down and a man hanging out the passenger side window holding an Uzi submachine gun aimed at me. “Shit!” I turn around and try to hunker down to make as small of a target as possible.

“WOOOO HOOO!” comes from the driver’s seat as we are shuttled through the air and bullets tear through the back seat of the car. How the fuck can he be enjoying this?

The front tires hit ground and my legs smack against the floor of the car. Pain shoots up the side of my left leg. I look down to see that my leg is covered in blood starting from my upper calf. I've been shot.

110901 is clear.

“You’re one crazy fuck, you know that, Dave?”

“Haha, yea, I get carried away sometimes. What did I say though? I got yo back dude!”

“That’s true, but we should probably get out and change the tire soon”

“No. We're only about a mile away from your camp. Let’s just get this done, huh?”

He just doesn't want to get caught. I am perfectly ok with that. “You think we'll make it to the camp on this busted tire?”

“I'll probably have to get a new wheel later, but we'll get you there.”

110901 at final checkpoint.

Dave stops the car, looks over to me and says, “Alright man, this is as far as I go. Your camp is right over there.” He points to the west where something that looks like a fort is clearly visible.

I respond with, “Yea, thanks again. Well, I guess this is it, huh? It was nice knowing you.” I get out of the car and make my way toward a new life. The compound looks like it's only about a hundred meters away.

110901 is gone. Pick up Strattman.

I get to the compound, the doors opened welcoming me to my new home. As I walk up to the doors I notice the armed guards on the roof around the complex. A necessary evil, I assume, after all, they do need to keep this place safe from any non-residents.

Within the doors, the entire place is dark. The smell of bleach fills my nostrils. Too dark to tell whether or not there's anyone inside, also for security. Once I get about four feet inside the building the large hanger-like doors start to close but they lights don't turn on. They lock with a sound only heavy steel on steel can make. Man this place is a fortress. The lights turn on and immediately I see in four foot red letters above a man in a blue uniform with an all to familiar patch on his shoulder, written the words, “Work Liberates The Soul”.