She learned to fight.
She was taught maneuvers from various martial arts: Karate to attack, Judo for throws, and Jiu-Jitsu for defense. She learned throws and variations of throws, kicks and variations of kicks. The first rule of throwing a zombie, she learned, was that it was necessary to grab the creature in an area of its body that wouldn’t easily snap and ruin her leverage. Also, it was best to keep in mind a domino effect: if possible, throw a zombie into another zombie.
When kicking, she learned, it was best to push rather than attempt to injure. They needed to be kicked squarely on the ribcage, otherwise it was possible her foot would penetrate the zombie’s chest and get stuck inside. Rarely was it possible to kick high enough and hard enough to even damage a skull, let alone cause enough penetrable brain damage to put down a zombie for good. After all, it wasn’t like zombies could be knocked unconscious like normal people. The theory, she was told, was that all a zombie required in order to function was the very core of its brain.
Next she learned the wakizashi. As Gordon explained it, long swords—katanas—were too heavy to swing with a single arm alone despite how action movies portrayed using them, and knives were simply too short to keep enough distance between herself and the target. The wakizashi, on the other hand—a shortened version of the katana—could be swung with one arm alone if necessary while the other was used to defend, especially when confronted with two or more targets.
He told her how he and the other specialists forming the Black Berets were given real zombies to practice and perfect all these techniques on at a place called Rock Forge. He told her how the zombies had been completely wrapped in airtight black plastic that still allowed them to remain mobile, yet prevented them from infecting anything or anyone. He then told her how the zombies all too often resembled “gimps out of bad porno movies.”
It gave Courtney a laugh, which felt good. It was something she hadn’t done for weeks.
He explained that here, however, cotton training dummies would have to suffice. He didn’t want her in real danger unless it was absolutely necessary. Besides, he doubted any of the soldiers would be willing to help him capture a zombie and wrap it up. They would have to make do with their makeshift dojo—hollowed out from a large storage room that used to be an indoor shooting range. But after pushing some boxes aside and moving some heavy metal cabinets and laying down some carpet, the place served its purpose well.
This training was all she had to set her mind to—and, while training, it allowed her to block out more painful thoughts. It was also the perfect distraction from the lustful eyes of the soldiers.
Next she learned precision shooting with a .22 Hornet rifle, modified with an add-on for the Black Beret—a night vision-capable telescopic scope. This rifle was for longer distances. For shorter distances she was given a Socom .45 caliber handgun with an attached silencer, laser sight, and built-in flashlight. Gordon called it “The complete sidearm.” It was lightweight and highly accurate. The silencer was so no more zombies than necessary heard any shot fired. A Black Beret never wanted to attract attention. The purpose of the laser sight was self-evident—just highlight a target with the red dot and boom. Even young girls like her, who had never even held a gun before, could feel confident that they would hit their target. It seemed that Gordon and the rest of the founders had thought of everything. The key to shooting, she learned, was patience and easy, steady breaths. If a zombie didn’t fall after the first headshot, then a second one would surely put it down. She would just need to stay calm and do it.
When she learned the basics of the weapons of the Black Beret, Gordon began showing her more and more advanced techniques, including how to move and how to listen and how to function in a team. They were exhausting every lesson provided in the hastily-printed Black Beret manuals Gordon and his team had put together. Since she had been the only one willing to learn and therefore his only student, she progressed quickly. He explained that he was one of the founders of the Black Berets—one of the originals—which meant she was learning straight from the source. However, she just liked to think she was talented.
Every other day he would take her to the landing strip on the eastern side of the base and teach her how to drive. Her father had taught her a little, but now she was learning the ins and outs of the humvee and their very loose, standard transmissions. Unlike her father, however, Gordon would let her go as fast as she wanted—until, of course, he had to warn her to slow down since they were almost out of runway.
However, three weeks after the training began she started to notice Gordon’s deteriorating morale. She didn’t think it was because he had lost contact with another Black Beret—a friend—stationed at the LaCosta Community Building, but rather because he only had one student to concentrate his efforts. He probably imagined getting a somewhat warmer reception upon his arrival at
It was a week later that he came into the dojo and made it official. Whether she really deserved it or whether he was just bored of it all, she couldn’t tell.
“You’re a Black Beret,” he said. “Congrats.”
He gave her the uniform, gloves, boots, visor, and—most importantly—the beret. He then showed her how they should be worn and helped her zip up the back of the suit.
After she was fully geared up, sans visor and beret, she asked what the deal was. The uniform clung to her skin and the black and turquoise color didn’t seem at all like something any branch of the military would willingly create. It was too flashy.
He laughed and explained, “It’s actually a wetsuit. The material’s called trylar. Nothing short of a really sharp knife can cut it. If you ever get bit wearing that, it’ll feel like a vice clamping down on your skin and it’ll most definitely hurt, but the teeth won’t penetrate the suit. As for the tightness, well, as you might have noticed, those baggy uniforms everyone else is wearing only gives those dead guys something to grab hold of. And no, the military didn’t make them, they seized them from the manufacturer. Hence the lame design.”
She looked in the mirror when he said this, turning fully around, and replied, “I think its kind of cool.”
And he mumbled, “Figures.”
Things changed a lot then, when she no longer wore sweatpants and a tank top to training with Gordon, and instead wore the uniform.
He started looking at her differently.
She looked older. More experienced. Stronger.
What happened then was something she somehow expected to happen a lot sooner at
So she let it happen.
He seemed to have been getting bored with teaching her and she felt it would only be a matter of time before he gave up, leaving her with no one. So, as long as he taught her how to fight the way he did—how to survive—then she would let him have his moments after each session. At first it was like a kick in the gut to her self-esteem, (especially in the somber moments afterwards when he’d be too ashamed of himself to speak to her,) but she knew that at least she wouldn’t have to rely on those testosterone-driven soldiers anymore and at the same time she wouldn’t be alone.
It was around then that she realized just how in truly bad shape the world was—and not by the same logic everyone else had used to arrive at the same conclusion. No, she realized this when even the kindest and most honorable man became just that—a man—who had put aside his noble behavior and his reservations about sleeping with a much younger girl despite knowing the girl needed him and therefore would not refuse him.
But, after receiving the uniform, she wasn’t just a girl anymore. She had become everything he originally promised in his motivating speech in front of all the soldiers.
After a couple of weeks being with him didn’t feel wrong anymore. She was starting to grow comfortable with it. He was strong, but gentle, and reminded her of her father—and not in some sick, twisted, perverted way. It was the only relationship of any kind she had ever had. No matter what he did—no matter what she let him do (because she could have told him no even when it hurt)—she couldn’t bring herself to be angry with him.
She didn’t know exactly how she felt about him and she never got the time to explore it fully.
Gordon Levi—and everyone else at
The base was overrun one cloudy September day only eight weeks after she had arrived. It looked like it might rain, which would have been the first rain in over three weeks. None of the soldiers or their captains had bothered considering what such a dry spell would do to the river nearby—the very same river that served as a natural barrier on the unfenced side of the compound.
She had been in her barracks when the ruckus started, getting ready for that day’s training session that was to begin within an hour. Sirens started blaring and a few seconds later machine guns were firing incessantly.
M16’s. She recognized their sound easily enough by then.
The noise outside was reminiscent of the chaos when her convoy had been attacked. This time, however, her body was tight and her mind was focused and she knew how to use them. She knew she would never again feel satisfied by simply running away in a fearful panic. This time she was ready.
She left her barracks in full Black Beret gear and had every intention of joining the fight, but outside waiting for her was Gordon, who stopped her immediately. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, just pants and a button-up shirt. Blood was running down his forearm from a large hole near his elbow. Before her brain could decipher what this meant, he was using his healthy arm to guide her away.
“Get out of here,” he said. “They’re in. They came across the river. Hundreds. All over the heliport.”
Soldiers were everywhere now, she saw, all in the process of loading their machine guns as they ran in the direction of the battle. None of them seemed to notice her or Gordon.
She didn’t move. She just stood there, looking up at him, then at his bleeding forearm. He knew what she was going to ask, so he went ahead and told her.
“They took a chunk right out of me,” he said, chuckling sourly. “And I was just getting ready to put my uniform on for our training. Of all the luck.” He tried to force a smile, but didn’t quite pull it off. “Pack whatever stuff you can and get your ass over to the garage. Take a humvee. You won’t need a key to start it.”
“And leave you here?” she asked.
“That’s the one thing I never got to teach you,” he replied. “Sometimes it’s okay to run. This isn’t a fight you can win. This place is done for.”
So she left.
There was more to it than that, of course, but these were some of the memories she felt were best left unremembered. The pleading with him to come with her, his apologies for being stupid and getting bitten, his reminder that he wasn’t going to live anyway, the snub-nosed pistol he pulled from his pocket, followed by his last words, “I’m sorry for using you the way I did. But don’t worry, you won’t ever catch me walking around,”—these were all things she didn’t care to be reminded of ever again.
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