I’ll admit, when I was dispatched to cover the recent disturbances on campus, I was less than impressed by what I saw. What in the Sam Hill was I doing here? I was Ryan McAndrews, intrepid and fearless reporter extraordinaire! I had covered Vietnam, Korea and 9Fest! What horrors could this “HvZ” nonsense have that were so important for the American public to see?
Oh, how young and ignorant I was.
As I approached the group of soldiers assembled outside Stocker Hall, I was immediately struck by how tense they seemed. Their Nerf rifles were cocked and at the ready, and their eyes scanned the shadows nervously. What did they fear?
“Ryan McAndrews, for The Post,” I said by way of introduction. “May I ask who I’m addressing?”
“Echo Company, 3rd platoon,” said the closest soldier. He had been a handsome young man at one point, I noticed, but the rigors of war had taken their toll upon him. His face was marred by the scars of battle, and the bandana around his arm was worn and ragged. “I’m Private Vilardi. You’re the guy they sent to cover us, huh?”
“Yes, well, I personally don’t think there’s much to cover,” I sniffed. “I don’t really put a lot of stock into this ‘walking dead’ nonsense. These, what do you call them- zombooes?”
“Zombies,” Vilardi replied, looking at his fellow soldiers and jacking a thumb towards me as if to say, get a load of this chump. Then he actually did say that, and they all laughed at my expense.
“Yes, well, whatever you call them, I think it’s all a lot of sensationalized nonsense,” I drawled. “I have important things I should be covering. The presidential election. The crisis in Benghazi. Snooki’s baby. You know, news.”
I was about to continue listing off my various Jersey Shore-related journalistic duties when Vilardi’s eyes suddenly widened. “Behind you!” he shouted, and I whirled around to see one of those things shambling toward me out of the darkness. It was clear from the monster’s appearance that it had once been a man, but its bandana was wrapped around its forehead in a grotesque mockery of life. I’m proud to say that I only soiled myself a minimal amount.
Just before the undead creature was upon me, a foam Nerf dart bounced off its forehead, and the zombie’s skull exploded into a hundred bloody fragments. Vilardi handed me his “Maverick” Nerf pistol solemnly. “You might need this,” he said. “The mission’s about to begin.”
It was the first time I’d been packing plastic since ’Nam. Memories I had thought long buried flashed before me: sock grenades hurling through the air, the sound of men screaming for God and the moderators, the ground littered with blood and discarded arm bandanas. I suppressed the urge to soil myself further.
By the time we arrived at the rendezvous point, the mission had already begun. I watched in horror from across the green as brave soldiers were mowed down by a Tank, their sock grenades bouncing off its chest as harmlessly as if they were made of cloth and tape. I looked at the grim faces of the young men around me; boys, really, not even 18 but already immersed in the horrors of war (in fact, I was pretty sure most of them were in middle school. Did their parents know they were out this late?)
Vilardi led me to General Christian “Rico” Sagardia, who clapped me on the back in greeting. It was clear from the manic gleam in his eye that killing zombies was his only purpose in life now. “Ask your questions quick, kid,” he grinned. “We’re about to get dropped right into the thick of it!”
I fumbled for my recorder. “General, do you have anything you’d like to say to the civilians back home?”
“I never went to Paris,” he said, “and I don’t regret it.” I fought to keep myself from weeping at the poetry in his words. (Seriously though, screw Paris.)
As I write this, we are about to join the fray; as the press attaché, my very life will be put on the line. To my darling wife Katrina: if I don’t make it, tell our daughters that their father died a hero, and also that he only soiled himself a little. Seriously, only a few droplets. With any luck, the horde will be defeated within a week or so. But if they should ever return... say, during Spring Semester... then may God help us.
God help us all.
Ryan McAndrews is a longtime war correspondent and columnist for The Post. Did you survive the outbreak? Email Ryan at rm287608@ohiou.edu.
