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.
# posted by Elvis @ 12:46 PM 
