A (semi)Biblical Zombie Apocalypse

     The sharp crack of automatic weapons fire filled the air, punctuated by RPG detonations and sporadic war cries. Kent ran pell-mell toward the wall of a bombed-out building, desperate for cover. He dropped into a crouch behind the wall just as bullets pinged into the road where he had been standing. Breathless, he pressed his back up against the wall and considered his options.

     Garet had said that the army was protected, that the tattoos on their hand and heads would keep them from harm, but Kent's marine training wouldn't allow such foolhardiness. No, let the others test the claims of their fearless leader. Glancing around the battlefield, He was surprised at the efficiency he saw. Mankind had apparently abandoned all military training after Garet's disarmament plan went into effect seven years ago. The only operation with an even remotely violent nature was Garet's peacekeeping force, and they were strictly top secret.Not one for non-violence, kent had signed up for the secret group. He still craved the fight. For him, the  rush of being under fire was unlike any other drug or high out there. It made him come alive. So he had taken the, "kings coin" and continued in the path of the warrior.

     Over the last two years, he and his team had rooted out many of the potential usurpers of Garets rule, establishing peace in the new world order. Realistically, the rebels had no chance. Their terrorist threast couldn't compete with, well, whatever Garet was. That man had something about him that Kent couldn't quite put a finger on. A lot of people were calling him a god. Especially after the assassination, or rather the attempted assassination. Really, Kent didn't know what to believe. All he knew was that Garet was alive again, and without a doubt the most powerful man on earth. If he told you to jump, you didn't even ask, "how high?" you just jumped and hoped it was high enough. So when he said, "go to war," Kent didn't ask questions, he geared up. 

     So here he was, at the root of the world's problems, in this godforsaken desert, doing a little, "gardening." The Israelis had been a thorn in the world's side time out of mind, and finally someone was doing something. Really, it was easy, almost a massacre. The nationalists were out-manned ten to one, it was only a matter of time.

     Kent peeked around the corner of the wall, surveying the street for potential threat. Seeing none, he rounded the building, sprinted the short distance to the nearest doorway and, lowering his shoulder, smashed through into the dark house . He quickly canvassed the small room with his P90, established vacancy, and moved toward the nearest hallway. Kicking open a door, he discovered what he was looking for. In a corner, a mother and her son were trembling on the floor. At the sight of the soldier, they stilled, the mother muttering under her breath.

     "Well well," Kent leered, "The spoils of war." He chuckled.

     "Leave her alone!" The boy, no older than twelve by the look of him, jumped to his feet and charged Kent. A quick bullet silenced him and threw his body against the wall.

     "That's a dumb kid. You shoulda done better with him."

     Tears streamed down the mothers face as she kept a steady stream of prayer running under her breath.

     "Shut up, there's nothing your god can do now." Kent hoisted her up roughly by the arm, and threw her onto the cot on the right side of her room. "Whaddaya say we have a little fun before you leave this world, eh?"

      Kent stepped menacingly toward the bed, and the woman screamed. Long and shrill, it rang in Kent's ears like music. But then, the scream changed. Abject horror crept onto her face, she struck out at him, flailing in terror. He grabbed her arms, forcing her back down onto the bed, trying to still her. But she wouldn't have it. The closer he got, the harder she resisted, screaming all the louder. Finally, exasperated, he slammed her head against the wall and she blacked out.

     "Crazy hag," He muttered. "Wait, what the..."

     Looking down at his arms, he saw long ragged gashes, skin hanging in ribbons, but no blood. Stranger yet, no pain. In a curious daze, he looked around the room for a mirror. Finding none, he left the room, walking down the hall into the bathroom. A monster stared back at him in the mirror above the sink. His skin hung, shredded off of his jaw where the woman had slapped him. Through the red gash he could see the white bone of his mandible, exposed to the air. Tentatively, he raised his hand to his mouth. He prodded the cut, and when he didn't feel anything, returned his hand to his side. He squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them, the horrid freak was still there, staring back with grey eyes. They looked like they had grown cataracts, even though he could see perfectly fine. He shook his head, rolled his head to the side until his neck popped and turned to leave the bathroom. As he shut the door behind him, he realized how hungry he was. It was as if the last three meals on the base had never happened. Then, the thought came to him. "Hmm, there was that woman and kid..." He turned and headed back to the bedroom.

     An hour later, gorged but unsated, he stumbled out into the street, his P90 banging his side from where it hung loosely on his shoulder. Glimpsing movement out of the corner of his eye he swept up the gun and fired crazily. His bullets ripped into a figure emerging from the alleyway next to the house. Stunned, the man, also dressed in desert camo, let out an inhuman wail and fell upon Kent, flailing nails and dead grey eyes widened in rage. They fought like animals, neither willing to submit in the absence of pain. Suddenly, what sounded like a bomb rocked the whole section of the city, coupled with a blinding flash of light. The two fighting on the ground looked up to see dozens of men pouring down the street, clothed in bright white and carrying swords that shone like hot iron. They came like a flood, in their eyes a fire burned like a thousand torches. They swept through the town, illuminating every corner with pure brilliance. The last thing Kent remembered as the white hot brand sliced through his neck was the resonant sound of a trumpet, ringing in his ears.

     Zechariah 14:12 This is the plague with which the LORD will strike all the nations that fought against Jerusalem: Their flesh will rot while they are still standing on their feet, their eyes will rot in their sockets, and their tongues will rot in their mouths.