A Bible For the Zombie Apocalypse

Part Two: The Warrior

                 

CHAPTER 8: Soldier 76299

I was a soldier in the UWM—the United World Military. From the day I turned fourteen years old, I lived by the regulations of military code. I moved according to the orders of my superiors. I existed to serve their purposes. So believe me when I say I understand rules. Rules create order. They make sense. They exist for the greater good. Anyone with half a brain in their head realizes this. If you've lived long enough to survive the carnage of the zombie apocalypse, then you know what happens when chaos replaces order. Chaos is ugly. It's cruel. It's unfair.

The UWM had a guiding mission, one purpose, and every rule we soldiers followed served that purpose. Our motto was, "to fight by sea and land to preserve the order of the United World Government." We'd all been trained ruthlessly, relentlessly, until a warrior deserving of the title of soldier emerged. Emergence was determined individually. Some candidates spent years in basic training before they emerged. Others adapted quickly, taking only months to train. Only successful candidates and were moved on to active duty. Failing candidates died, fighting to succeed. In this way the weak were eliminated, so that trust and safety could be maximized within each unit released to the battlefield.

How did I become a soldier in the UWM? That's a long story. And I don't have all day to write in this journal. But I'll take time to record some important highlights.

When you are chosen for the UWM, whoever you were before being chosen, that person dies. Not literally. But as far as identity, that person no longer exists. You're not even supposed to remember your name—the one your parents gave you when you were born. But I remember mine: Milo. I never would have made unit leader status if my superiors got wind of how much I thought about my name.

But they never found out.

The UWM officially selects you at age 14, after puberty, because puberty brings so much change. But they watch children for a long time before they make their selections. My parents always thought I was safe from assimilation, which is what the UWM calls being chosen for their ranks. They were confident because all the males in our family line were "late bloomers." Their coordination came at a later age in development--sometime after age 14. Before me, no male in my family line had ever been assimilated into the UWM, though several became celebrated fighters in the sports ring when they finally achieved physical maturity. We even had a champion from our family line--my mother's brother.  His name was Ike.

Like all the males before me in my family line, as a youth I was tall, even strong, for my age, but uncoordinated in the games. More often than not, when I came home on leave from my training center, I was battered and bruised. My mother would assure me things would improve in time. "Just think about your Uncle Ike, son!" she'd say with a mix of sadness for my pain and strained enthusiasm for my future. "He used to come home looking just like you do now, back when he was your age, and he became a champion!" 

My mother even managed to get Ike to escape from his busy schedule in the ring, just so he could talk with me and encourage me.

It didn't help.

I continued to get pummeled in the ring until, unexpectedly, my coordination kicked in at age 13. You can't hide your skills in the ring to try to avoid assimilation. First of all, you would be punished severely for "laziness" if you were caught holding back. Secondly, it's pretty much impossible to fake it. The sports ring punishes the weak. And every student in training must participate sports ring through the age of 14—when the UWM chooses their candidates. Afterward, participation in the ring is an optional school sport—a sport I had every intention of missing out on. A sport I'd never willingly choose.

I hated the sports ring—hated to lose. Hated to win. Why? Because either way, you didn't win. If you lost a match, you were relegated to double-time: double conditioning and double practice time in the ring. If you won, even though the supervisors didn't force you to increase your conditioning and practice time, you did it, because your next match would be against a better opponent.

The only difference between winning and losing in the ring was the shaming you received if you lost, versus for the praise you got if you won.  And no amount of praise could balance the bad feeling that came with consigning a classmate to shame and double-time.

So the ring was miserable for me. My mother used to laugh at how the name she gave me when I was born, matched my personality. The name, Milo, has two meanings. In the ancient language of Latin, it means, "warrior." But in the less ancient (though still largely forgotten) language of the Slavs, Milo means, "merciful."

Has there ever been such a thing as a merciful warrior? I doubt it. But the idea makes me wonder.

Getting back to my exploits as a youth in the ring: what happened to me at age 13 was, all of a sudden, after years of losses and shame and double-time, I began to win. Not that I had never won a match in the ring before then.  As you descend the ladder of excellence you eventually find other students at your level. My level was a disgraceful two grades beneath expectation for my age. But at that level I had some degree of success.

I won a match here and there.

But whenever I managed to win a match, I would inevitably lose my "winner's round" match with the next level student.  Back down the ladder I'd go. Back to double-time. I might win again, several matches later. But I never won in my follow up round, the round for winners. Never! So eventually I came to expect that level of performance from myself, no matter how hard I trained. I'm not saying I got used to it. Who could get used to so much shame and disgrace? But that's where I found myself. And that's where I lived. I assumed I would remain there until my salvation: graduation from the games.

Year after year I told myself, just a little longer and you'll be done with the ring.

Then at age 13 something changed. After an easy win in an everyday match, I won my first winner's round. Afterward, I won the following winner's round, and the round after that, before I was finally beaten by a student just one grade below expectation for my age.

Unlike the uncounted times I'd been sent to double-time in the past, this time during my return to double-time, I actually improved with the extra work. With what seemed like hardly any effort, I knocked out my next opponent in the ring. I won the following winner's round, and the two rounds after that, moving up 3 levels before returning to double-time. 

And that was my last penalty session. I never went back to double-time. I was undefeated until graduation. I have to admit that, as much as I hated sending my classmates to double-time, the experience of being the best fighter in my training center was a welcome change.

My mother was very proud. 

And the observation unit for the UWM took notice. As soon as I graduated from the games, I was assimilated. The ceremony was amazing! My family was honored with a speech that ended with the designated UWM representative handing over the first allotment of credits in the promised monthly stipend to my family for my service.

That was the last time I saw my family of origin. 

You're supposed to forget your first family when you are assimilated into the UWM, because during the induction ceremony, the UWM replaces them. But I never forgot. Maybe it was because my parents were so certain I wouldn't be selected? They hadn't prepared me for service and separation. Then again, maybe a lot of soldiers remembered? I don't doubt it. How can a person just magically forget where they came from?

I will never know how the other soldiers felt about it. We never talked about it. The punishment for doing so (if you were caught) was to be sent back to basic training. And I thought all those years in the ring were hard! The agony of basic training was no comparison. No soldier was stupid enough to risk going back there. So if a soldier remembered anything about the family he (or she) lost when they were assimilated into the UWM, they kept it to themselves.