Wednesday, March 08, 2006
found...
Wonders just never cease in this mixed up world of ours.
Patched up and ready to roll, I had left my bandages behind me as I continued my northward trek. As I continued scrambling from barricade to barricade, the hope of finding anyone I used to know flickered as a candle by an open window.
The true hero in me dispatched a walking corpse or two, but these were the lone rogues among vast hordes that I have witnessed gathering in the streets, a swaying groanfest en masse, a horrible depiction of the prelude of a Big Bang Theory of Death. I promised myself that I would NOT be there when critical mass is reached.
Tired, low on ammo, and with a morale that would send lemmings over cliffs, I entered yet another battered cop shop. My extra sense put me on alert. Something was not like the other shelters I had foraged for food and munitions in. These people were less civilian, and more military. Not quite the special forces that I had witnessed back south, but this was a group that had seen too much, too soon. What slapped me the hardest was that among the blood stains, scars and tears, there was a face I knew.
The last time we were together we both were on the wrong side of the bottle, and I could barely remember him mentioning his intent to enlist. He had his way about him, and I had mine – so similar yet so different, it only makes an odd sense that we meet here and now.
Somewhat apropos.
Patched up and ready to roll, I had left my bandages behind me as I continued my northward trek. As I continued scrambling from barricade to barricade, the hope of finding anyone I used to know flickered as a candle by an open window.
The true hero in me dispatched a walking corpse or two, but these were the lone rogues among vast hordes that I have witnessed gathering in the streets, a swaying groanfest en masse, a horrible depiction of the prelude of a Big Bang Theory of Death. I promised myself that I would NOT be there when critical mass is reached.
Tired, low on ammo, and with a morale that would send lemmings over cliffs, I entered yet another battered cop shop. My extra sense put me on alert. Something was not like the other shelters I had foraged for food and munitions in. These people were less civilian, and more military. Not quite the special forces that I had witnessed back south, but this was a group that had seen too much, too soon. What slapped me the hardest was that among the blood stains, scars and tears, there was a face I knew.
The last time we were together we both were on the wrong side of the bottle, and I could barely remember him mentioning his intent to enlist. He had his way about him, and I had mine – so similar yet so different, it only makes an odd sense that we meet here and now.
Somewhat apropos.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Lucky?
I really must stop thinking that it can’t get worse. I woke up today in a hospital. Granted – I’m now in a neighboring library, only because its barriers are jacked up to Fort Knox levels, and I needed some quiet to reflect on my recent horror.
At the end of my last entry I was resting up and finding more bullets in the Broad Ave PD. The locals finished up the church scene, so I resumed my pace northwards. As I traveled block after block, I noticed the groups of zeds becoming more and more frequent, and larger in number. The stories, I was beginning to believe, were true.
I ducked into a firehouse to get off the streets. These folks were looking scared. REAL scared – a bunch of regular people with no fighting or emergency experience. It was obvious since they didn’t even bother to arm themselves. And since they didn’t grab the fireman’s axe on the wall, maybe it was time to supplement and deliver the true meaning of “firearms” by swinging some angst against my next zed. The axe might prove useful if I find myself sans ammo in a pinch.
Next thing I know the folks here freak out. I had a shiver run down my spine, too, but the sheer volume of the groans was more than I’ve ever encountered. The guttural rumbling wasn’t just heard – it was felt by everyone there. They were right next door.
I peered out the window to look at the library. A couple of zeds were swaying out by the main door, or what was left of the door. I did a quick mental calculation and figured I was able to hop from the firehouse over into the second floor landing of the library. I wouldn’t even have to hit the streets. It was hero time again.
There’s nothing like the sound of a fresh clip getting loaded to spur you into action mode. I flung myself through the window and with a dive roll I was bounding through the balcony’s door of the ancient library. It was pretty obvious that I wasn’t Superman, because Kal-El would’ve turned on the x-ray peepers to see what he was getting into before bursting into the room. The hero in me noticed that there were three survivors, backed up against the far wall, praying to all kinds of different gods and mercy from nowhere. The ten zombies were all in motion, creeping their way to their next blood fest.
I had to position myself to not only distract he horde, but also make sure my shots didn’t go through the Zulus and hit the poor trapped fools. A quick dodge and weave and I was clicking off rounds like the Chinese New Year. I must have used the wrong cologne that day, because they were on me in no time, hands, claws, and teeth with a smell that made the landfill seem like a bakery.
I didn’t even have time to reload, they were on me so fast. I had to move, and the newly acquired axe was my newest best friend on the scene. With a Babe Ruth arc, I hacked the arm of the closest, and as I made my dash for the stairway, my leg failed. Not that it wasn’t there, it just had a zed’s head attached to it, working the teeth deep into my thigh. The pain was causing bright spots in my eyes, so Mr. Bunyan swung again to break the jaw connector off. I fell away from the pack, and gave them something to chew on by firing my flare gun into the middle of them. The burning un-corpse in the center of their ranks started ripping into the lot, so I hobbled back to the window, hurtling myself through it back towards the fire house.
The pain in my leg was exponentially getting worse, and it spread up to my chest and arms. I barely made it over the barricade and into the midst of the bunch of wide-eyed yokels. Before I passed out, I remember there was someone else there, someone with a long white coat…
I woke the next morning in a hospital, or what was left of one. Someone else in one of those white coats who looked like he took a nap last year told me that my infection was stopped and I should be ok in about a day. They got to it in time and I was lucky.
So tell me – if this is lucky, what was unlucky nowadays?
At the end of my last entry I was resting up and finding more bullets in the Broad Ave PD. The locals finished up the church scene, so I resumed my pace northwards. As I traveled block after block, I noticed the groups of zeds becoming more and more frequent, and larger in number. The stories, I was beginning to believe, were true.
I ducked into a firehouse to get off the streets. These folks were looking scared. REAL scared – a bunch of regular people with no fighting or emergency experience. It was obvious since they didn’t even bother to arm themselves. And since they didn’t grab the fireman’s axe on the wall, maybe it was time to supplement and deliver the true meaning of “firearms” by swinging some angst against my next zed. The axe might prove useful if I find myself sans ammo in a pinch.
Next thing I know the folks here freak out. I had a shiver run down my spine, too, but the sheer volume of the groans was more than I’ve ever encountered. The guttural rumbling wasn’t just heard – it was felt by everyone there. They were right next door.
I peered out the window to look at the library. A couple of zeds were swaying out by the main door, or what was left of the door. I did a quick mental calculation and figured I was able to hop from the firehouse over into the second floor landing of the library. I wouldn’t even have to hit the streets. It was hero time again.
There’s nothing like the sound of a fresh clip getting loaded to spur you into action mode. I flung myself through the window and with a dive roll I was bounding through the balcony’s door of the ancient library. It was pretty obvious that I wasn’t Superman, because Kal-El would’ve turned on the x-ray peepers to see what he was getting into before bursting into the room. The hero in me noticed that there were three survivors, backed up against the far wall, praying to all kinds of different gods and mercy from nowhere. The ten zombies were all in motion, creeping their way to their next blood fest.
I had to position myself to not only distract he horde, but also make sure my shots didn’t go through the Zulus and hit the poor trapped fools. A quick dodge and weave and I was clicking off rounds like the Chinese New Year. I must have used the wrong cologne that day, because they were on me in no time, hands, claws, and teeth with a smell that made the landfill seem like a bakery.
I didn’t even have time to reload, they were on me so fast. I had to move, and the newly acquired axe was my newest best friend on the scene. With a Babe Ruth arc, I hacked the arm of the closest, and as I made my dash for the stairway, my leg failed. Not that it wasn’t there, it just had a zed’s head attached to it, working the teeth deep into my thigh. The pain was causing bright spots in my eyes, so Mr. Bunyan swung again to break the jaw connector off. I fell away from the pack, and gave them something to chew on by firing my flare gun into the middle of them. The burning un-corpse in the center of their ranks started ripping into the lot, so I hobbled back to the window, hurtling myself through it back towards the fire house.
The pain in my leg was exponentially getting worse, and it spread up to my chest and arms. I barely made it over the barricade and into the midst of the bunch of wide-eyed yokels. Before I passed out, I remember there was someone else there, someone with a long white coat…
I woke the next morning in a hospital, or what was left of one. Someone else in one of those white coats who looked like he took a nap last year told me that my infection was stopped and I should be ok in about a day. They got to it in time and I was lucky.
So tell me – if this is lucky, what was unlucky nowadays?
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Requiem
Man, I am tired.
I’ve spent the last four days like a prairie dog in a field of tigers, running from hole to hole without ever thinking I would live to see the next. Only now do I finally think I may have the “luxury” of a long overdue sleep.
It was all peas and carrots back at my old PD back in East Grayside. There was a bunch of Special Forces units that made the station a home base, so there was no chance of the zeds breaking that bank. They ran all the area sweeps, too, so apart from a straggling undead loner, that area was a freaking magic garden in comparison to the stories I’ve heard about what was going on up north.
I’m an idiot. I came across a small stash of shotguns, a couple of Smith and Wessons, and plenty of rounds to fill up my pockets. I figured it was hero time for yours truly. I didn’t expect any limo service to come and pick me up out of Malton, and I used to have family here. Maybe I still do. I need to find out. So out I went.
The streets were literally stained from the carnage. There wasn’t a square yard of asphalt that didn’t have some kind of crimson smear or remnant of an attack. And that was only where we didn’t pile the bodies. Luckily it’s a bit chilly, or else the stench of the dead would have knocked me over. Bad enough, it disoriented me in my running direction, where I wanted to head north, I ducked a bit east and into another precinct’s PD.
These folks were looking thin. Most of them had just taken refuge after coming out worse for wear in a zed standoff at the local church. I had to use my med kit’s supplies on one of them, since he was in the throes of a bite’s infection. He was tossing and thrashing, screaming for mercy. I knocked him out with the loving end of my shotgun and cleaned out the bite wound, ever fearful of tearing my latex gloves. I never got to see the sorry bastard again, as I bolted out to see if there were any survivors at the church.
I knew it was going to be iffy. Sure enough, there were five of them, ripping apart what might have been choir members. I’ll take that sight to my grave, and in return, I decided to sing them my own requiem, lead baritone from el lupo, my double barrel, with backing staccato sopranos, Smith and Wesson. The church’s acoustics were glorious, every shot resounding and echoing all the way up to and through the organ pipes. I almost wished someone would pass a basket around for a collection so I could have filled that with lead, too. That bingo game ended too quickly since I wasted too much ammo in a crazed symphony of hate to the zed that still had his face covered in tenor brain.
I didn’t notice the two zombies behind the altar, almost until too late when a clawed hand bounced off my Kevlar vest. The fat lady wasn’t singing any more, and wasn’t fat anymore thanks to the local hunger. I was out of there pronto, and back in that PD – doing my usual of scrounging for loose shells and caps.
My hell just started.
I had passed out for a couple of hours after picking up a few rounds of ammo. I woke up because of the dream, no, the cold air on my face with a low sound too hoarse to be wind. It was a groan.
I looked around the corner of the station’s booking office, and somehow the barricades got pushed open, the doors were unhinged (hence the breeze) and a new group of undead were going buffet on the locals.
The sound of my shotgun announced my plans to leave as I bolted past the swaying gluttons. I ran off into the night and this time due north to yet another police station up in Wray Heights. Broad Ave, I think. I just collapsed here. I need rest. I need more ammo. I need to feel safe.
I’ve spent the last four days like a prairie dog in a field of tigers, running from hole to hole without ever thinking I would live to see the next. Only now do I finally think I may have the “luxury” of a long overdue sleep.
It was all peas and carrots back at my old PD back in East Grayside. There was a bunch of Special Forces units that made the station a home base, so there was no chance of the zeds breaking that bank. They ran all the area sweeps, too, so apart from a straggling undead loner, that area was a freaking magic garden in comparison to the stories I’ve heard about what was going on up north.
I’m an idiot. I came across a small stash of shotguns, a couple of Smith and Wessons, and plenty of rounds to fill up my pockets. I figured it was hero time for yours truly. I didn’t expect any limo service to come and pick me up out of Malton, and I used to have family here. Maybe I still do. I need to find out. So out I went.
The streets were literally stained from the carnage. There wasn’t a square yard of asphalt that didn’t have some kind of crimson smear or remnant of an attack. And that was only where we didn’t pile the bodies. Luckily it’s a bit chilly, or else the stench of the dead would have knocked me over. Bad enough, it disoriented me in my running direction, where I wanted to head north, I ducked a bit east and into another precinct’s PD.
These folks were looking thin. Most of them had just taken refuge after coming out worse for wear in a zed standoff at the local church. I had to use my med kit’s supplies on one of them, since he was in the throes of a bite’s infection. He was tossing and thrashing, screaming for mercy. I knocked him out with the loving end of my shotgun and cleaned out the bite wound, ever fearful of tearing my latex gloves. I never got to see the sorry bastard again, as I bolted out to see if there were any survivors at the church.
I knew it was going to be iffy. Sure enough, there were five of them, ripping apart what might have been choir members. I’ll take that sight to my grave, and in return, I decided to sing them my own requiem, lead baritone from el lupo, my double barrel, with backing staccato sopranos, Smith and Wesson. The church’s acoustics were glorious, every shot resounding and echoing all the way up to and through the organ pipes. I almost wished someone would pass a basket around for a collection so I could have filled that with lead, too. That bingo game ended too quickly since I wasted too much ammo in a crazed symphony of hate to the zed that still had his face covered in tenor brain.
I didn’t notice the two zombies behind the altar, almost until too late when a clawed hand bounced off my Kevlar vest. The fat lady wasn’t singing any more, and wasn’t fat anymore thanks to the local hunger. I was out of there pronto, and back in that PD – doing my usual of scrounging for loose shells and caps.
My hell just started.
I had passed out for a couple of hours after picking up a few rounds of ammo. I woke up because of the dream, no, the cold air on my face with a low sound too hoarse to be wind. It was a groan.
I looked around the corner of the station’s booking office, and somehow the barricades got pushed open, the doors were unhinged (hence the breeze) and a new group of undead were going buffet on the locals.
The sound of my shotgun announced my plans to leave as I bolted past the swaying gluttons. I ran off into the night and this time due north to yet another police station up in Wray Heights. Broad Ave, I think. I just collapsed here. I need rest. I need more ammo. I need to feel safe.
