The zombie game

Chapter One: 3 days earlier

                                                    (comments and criticism for this story would be great:P so comment)                       

Joe Cash was a science major in his senior year of high school. He did everything he was supposed to; all his work, everything. But in his times in school he had been bullied, picked on, by both people at school and by his parents. He was still haunted by the time he had been beaten by his father because of the poor grades he had recieved when he was in the seventh grade. When he was on the ground, he had had an impulse to do something to his father, perhaps kill him, as he lie on the floor bleeding and bruised. CPS had not taken him away either, hadn't even listened to him when he told them that he was living in an unfit home, so after awhile he just gave up. But he was strong. A fighter.

Joe walked through the halls of his school, clutching his books to his chest. It was about time for him to go home, back to his house, which he thought was the worst torture. He could easily walk. He walked through the hall, coming out into the light on the outside of the school. He looked around. The yard of the school was huge; a large playground was the center piece to this extravagent yard; to the right there was the parking lot, cars lined up like toy soldiers, and a basketball court was at the lower level. He stepped off campus for just a second, but was intercepted by Tom, his friend. Damn.

"Hey Joe. Where ya going?" he asked.

Joe responded, "I am going to my house. Unfortunately. I am not prepared to face my parents, but I will just sit in my room and do homework. They should just leave me alone."

"Wanna crash at my place?"

"Naw man. I can't. You know my parents. I aint home, they beat me when I do get home. I need to get the fuck outta there. Just not today." Joe said goodbye to Tom and walked down the sidewalk toward his house which was on the end of the street. Joe prodded forward, taking his time so that he wouldn't have to face his parents. They had been unusually mad and aggravated on this day. Joe had forgotten to do some stuff last night; simple chore such as do the dishes and taking out the trash. They had been nice tom him yesterday, trying to control their anger when they found out that he had forgotten. But when they were like that, it usually lasted for about thirty minutes, before they turned that smile to a frown, and there faces became mangled with fire and hatred. Joe would probably feel there wrath when he got home.

He looked foward. His house was in the distance. He slowed down considerably, but knew that he had to get it over with sooner of later. He quickened his step before entering his house. Joe stepped right into an ambush. His parents started yelling.

"You no good sonofabitching son!" his mother shouted."Why the hell didn't you do those damn chores last night like we asked you?!"

"I forgot, OK mom. It isn't a life or death situation. Just calm down."

"Me? Calm down? You no good excuse for a son. Get the fuck outta here before we kick your damned ass out!" his mother shouted.

"I wouldn't mind being on the streets. Better than being here. Living with you ya stupid bitch!" Joe screamed, snapping.

"Don't talk to your mother like that!" his father shouted. He lunged at Joe. Joe backed up. But was hit in the face by his father, the fist arcing through the air, slamming into Joe's face like a tank. Joe fell to the ground. He slowly got up, tried charging his father, but he was pushed back to the ground.

"Now, get the hell to your room!" his father shouted. Joe raced into his room and slammed the door. He was steaming mad. Sure, his parents had been like this with him before, beating him for no good reasons. Nobody in the world, but his friends, were proud of him; he got good grades, he had some friends, and he tried his best at everything he did. He plopped down, stomach first, on his bed, wondering why he was living there, and hoping, soon, he would have a job to support himself enough so he could leave this place. He lie down on his back and started to doze, before falling to sleep.

When awoke it was a few hours later. He slowly stood up from his bed and checked the clock, before looking out the window. Shafts of light pierced the darkness, penetrating into his groggy eyes as he sleepily stood their, unsure what he was going to do. He moved from his bed, pulled on a pair of pants, and walked to the door, opening it, and slowly coming down the stairs, the smells of meat and potatoes overwhelming him, making his mouth water. He had forgotten much of what happened before his nap, but he didn't really think anything of it; it hadn't to him more times than he could count anyway, where he would get hit by his father, and he would go to his room, cry, and then wake up with little to no recollection of what had happened. He saw his father sitting in chair at the kitchen table, a plate in his hands filled with mashed potatoes and meat. He sat silently.

"Son, we need to talk," said Joe's father. Oh no, not this again.

"What is it dad?" Joe asked.

"I flipped today and I am sorry," said his father.

"Why do you persist on beating me?"

"It is just habit. I get angry sometime...I haven't been able to really control the anger...to vent it into something else. I truly am sorry," he said. His father always did this. He would apologize, Joe wouldn't believe him and yell at him, he'd go to the bar, get drunk, come back, and beat him again. It was a neverending cycle.

"I am sorry dad but I just don't believe you," said Joe.

"But I am telling the truth son, what do you want from me?" asked his father, growing a bit impatient and angrier.

"I want you to leave is what I want. But I know that won't happen. Now just leave me the hell alone and stay out of my life...that's all I ask for. Don't beat me or lay any more fingers on me alright? Is that to much to ask?" demanded Joe.

"Don't talk to me that way," said his father, calmly. He put a piece of meat into his mouth. "You are the reason I am always so angry. You have no respect for anyone. You yell and cuss and swear at your own damn parents. You deserve being hit and beat around." His father roughly got up and stumbled into the kitchen. "I'm going out for a drink hon." Joe's mother stepped into the room, hands on her hips, and said:

"OK. Be back in--"

"I'll be back whenever I damn well feel like it. And when I do come back, he's in for it," he said, pointing at Joe. Joe shrunk down in his seat, a bit afraid, and his father stormed off.

"What did you do now?" asked his mother.

"Nothing. I told him the truth. And he left."

"You know your father can't handle the truth."

"Does it look like I care?" demanded Joe.

"You should. He's your father and you know how he gets," said his mother.

"And you're his wife. Leave him. He's a loser who drinks to much and beats his family. He--"

"Don't talk about your dad like that," his mom shouted, "he has done more for you and me than you will ever know. He took me in. He was there. Don't bad mouth him because of some stupid mistakes."

"Stupid mistakes? Really? After he beats his only son and goes on a drinking binge and does it again? Those aren't mistakes; they reoccur overtime. He hasn't learned from anything. And by the looks of it neither have you," spat Joe. He was slapped across the face by his mother.

"You are disrepectful. Learn some respect from your parents before you go out with these accusations that aren't true. No get to your room. Your father will be home in awhile and you'll have to deal with him." Joe raced to his room and slammed the door. He felt his cheek. It was burning. His father had been like this as far as Joe knew him; his father had been a drinker for most of his life, and when he was about five or six, his father hit him and punched him, and his mother, a drug addict at the time, had just sat there in a rocking chair watching as her only son got his ass beat by a madman of a father. That was probably the more prominent memory of his childhood--perhaps his worst memory--that he had of his very troubled past. Sure his mother had somewhat changed; she had went to a rehabilitation facility to get help on her drug addiction, and she did get help, returning home. That was a time when Joe had been removed from his dad after neighbors found out that he was being beaten. But a few days later, his father was released from jail, and the day Joe returned home from the foster home having been picked up by his mother, he was beaten again, as well as his mother, who eventually stopped crying out, stopped trying to fight the man, and she succumbed to the blows.

He just sat in bed, thinking, waiting for his dad to come home and beat on him again.