Help
AFTERMATH. Part One.
The car sped down the road, dry dust spewing up behind it. Desolation was the view on all sides. A blasted landscape, this was, and one that Denton hated. But he was used to it by now - used to the view, used to the lonelyness.
Sympathy for the Devil played on the stereo as he ploughed on, speeding past abandoned vehicles, all of them covered in years worth of dust and grime. He watched the scenery flash by, his eyes alert behind Ray Ban shades. This was a Dead Place, as he called them; a place where the dead walked, where the dead ate. he needed to be through just as quickly as possible.
Fucking zombies!
They were the cause of all this. When the restless dead first came to light, there was panic, uproar, religious outcry. But the people didn't know how bad things were going to get. Hundreds became thousands, and soon enough thousands became millions. Martial law was delclared in the UK, and that spread like wildfire right across western Europe. But soldiers are human too, and they fell foul of the curse the same as everyone else. Civilisation was going down the drain, fast. Man turned against man as paranoia crept through the strongholds people had formed. In those early days zombies were only accountable for 50% of the deaths.
Governments braced themselves for an epidemic the likes of which the world had never known. It was the Chinese who sacrificed the first city in a bid to contain the outbreak. Sacrificed it with an atomic bomb.
Denton still had nightmares of those missiles climbing into the sky, those earth-shattering detonations that brought the mightiest cities in the world to their knees.
And during the nuclear winter that followed - a worldwide winter that covered everything - more people were slain than in all the explosions put together. The Sun lay hidden for years, and life on Earth tittered on the very brink of oblivion. But the zombies, those fuckers were already dead. The bombs were wasted on them... that was the horrendous irony of The Final War. It had sparked in a bid to detroy the revenants, but they were the only ones who thrived. Those bastards inherited the Earth following mankind's stupidity. We tried to kill them, Denton would often think, and all we did was give them the biggest fucking banquit of their non-lives.
Following the fallout came the turf wars. The raging battles for this and that, countless deaths as man degenerated, went back to the wild. Guns were everywhere - pilfered from destroyed army convoys, from abandoned government buildings, from police stations and hunting stores. Warlords rose from the ashes, and they went about finishing what the zombies and the bombs had started.
Now, many years later, there was hardly anyone left.
Denton hadn't seen another human in months, and these days, seeing other poeple was almost as risky as seeing the dead.
He was armed, of course. He had a Remington pump-action shotgun, two Magnum revolvers, two Browning 9mms, an SA80 assault rifle, and a bren gun in the boot. And he had a sword too. He didn't need to forage for ammo for that. He had hidden stockades around the place, but preserving ammo was almost as important as preserving food and water.
He took his eyes away from the weapons on the passenger seat and looked back at the road. The wind rushed through the open window as Mick was yelling "Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name." He glanced at the fuel gauge. Half a tank left, and that was well enough. No one wanted to get stuck in the Dead Places.
His foot hammered down on the brake pedal, sending up a huge cloud of smoke.
There, at the side of the road, was a car, the dust on its windscreen wiped clean in two curving arcs...
Denton was one of the people who had seen the social deconstruction as a bad thing. He was still a humane person. That car there had been driven here by a person, and that person was now out there somewhere.
He cranked up the handbrake and looked around. There was nothing. Burnt out cars, skeletal trees and the rubble of buildings. Nothing moving. He reached over and grabbed the chrome shotgun, then shut off the engine. His four handguns were secured on his person; leg straps for the brownings, underarm holsters for the magnums. He stepped out of the car, boots crunching on the gravel.
Somewhere to the east a gunshot cracked through the silence.
Page 1 of 1
Aftermath
#1
The Tyrant Lizard 
- First Sword
-
- Group: Malaz Regular
- Posts: 639
- Joined: 27-January 07
Posted 17 August 2008 - 02:10 PM
I want to die the way my dad died, peacefully in his sleep. Not screaming in terror like his passengers.
#2
The Tyrant Lizard
- First Sword
-
- Group: Malaz Regular
- Posts: 639
- Joined: 27-January 07
Posted 20 August 2008 - 03:39 PM
AFTERMATH. Part Two.
Denton slammed into the ground behind a ruined wall and crept across the ground, levelling his assault rifle over the rim and then inching up, his eye coming to rest against the telescopic sight. Through it he could see a rubble-strewn wasteland. Buildings hereabouts were completely collapsed, but there was a space 500 paces to his right that might once have been a car park.
A gunshot ranged out, and his view swept across the clearing, finding a man there in a dirty white vest. He was pulling back the bolt on an ancient rifle, then rummaging in a pouch around his shoulder - maybe an old binocular case - and coming out with a fresh round. The man slotted this into his rifle, and then slammed it into the breach with the bolt handle. The stranger was huge in the field of his sight, but when Denton opened his left eye he saw how far away the man was.
The man fired again, and, sure that he was not the target of the stranger's bullets, Denton lowered his weapon and looked out over the rubble. There they were. Zombies. Crowding in towards the man from all angels. They came stumbling from destroyed buildings and derelict structures, shambling across the stoney ground, arms up, low moans escaping their throats.
These were starving then.
Jeremy Jackson, an old pal of Denton's, had once explained the phenomena of the undead's movements. Zombies, he was told, were not magical creatures, were not incarnated by the Devil, or occult summonings, or any other such nonsense, but rather by science. Some kind of parasites usurped the bodies of the recently deceased, and were then passed on through saliva or blood to other humans. But the parasites had to feed. If they grew hungry, Jackson said, the parasites would preserve what energy the that they possessed had, shutting down all functions not immediately imperitive. From that rationelle came the shambling walk, the shuffling, the tripping and crawling.
A zombie who had recently eaten was a far worse problem. They moved with inhuman speed, and struck with inhuman strength and savagery. When they attacked they could rip a strong man apart with their bare hands. Jackson had called this Hysterical Strength. He said it lay dormant in every human. Apparently the human brain regulated the use of its muscles to one third of their fibres, saving them from injury or overworking, and saving the skeletal structure from similar stresses. But the infected brain of the zombie had no such qualms. Jackson related the act to the old story of women lifting cars off of their trapped sons, or other things like that. This gave the zombies their great strength and speed, but to maintain such high levels of energy output, they had to eat, and eat alot. That was what made those early days so fucking hard.
But these ones here, well, they were hungry. Slow moving, slouchy, and the man in the clearing fired again, his bullet smashing into the skull of the nearest undead, blowing the back of its head out. The zombie collapsed, dead in truth, the parasite and the brain it controlled seperated, and thus, destroyed.
Denton looked again through his sight, and lined up the nearest zombie, one that was walking away from him, towards the man. He pulled back the cock, loading his weapon, clicked the safetly off and onto single shot, and fired. His aim took the zombie in the back of the head, and it dropped to the floor, blood oozing from a great whole in its face.
The man had quickly reloaded his bolt action rifle and was shouldering it again. Denton found another target, locating a greenish face in his sight, following it for half a second, and then blowing its skull apart. Some of the undead lurched to a halt, and slowly turned towards him, noses up, sniffing the air.
The rubble an inch away from Denton's left ear suddenly exploded in a spray of debris as a bullet ricocheted past his face. He looked up in shock, wheeling his rifle to the source. And there it was. The man in the white vest was reloaded his 3.3, and walking right towards Denton's position, a grim look on his face.
Denton slammed into the ground behind a ruined wall and crept across the ground, levelling his assault rifle over the rim and then inching up, his eye coming to rest against the telescopic sight. Through it he could see a rubble-strewn wasteland. Buildings hereabouts were completely collapsed, but there was a space 500 paces to his right that might once have been a car park.
A gunshot ranged out, and his view swept across the clearing, finding a man there in a dirty white vest. He was pulling back the bolt on an ancient rifle, then rummaging in a pouch around his shoulder - maybe an old binocular case - and coming out with a fresh round. The man slotted this into his rifle, and then slammed it into the breach with the bolt handle. The stranger was huge in the field of his sight, but when Denton opened his left eye he saw how far away the man was.
The man fired again, and, sure that he was not the target of the stranger's bullets, Denton lowered his weapon and looked out over the rubble. There they were. Zombies. Crowding in towards the man from all angels. They came stumbling from destroyed buildings and derelict structures, shambling across the stoney ground, arms up, low moans escaping their throats.
These were starving then.
Jeremy Jackson, an old pal of Denton's, had once explained the phenomena of the undead's movements. Zombies, he was told, were not magical creatures, were not incarnated by the Devil, or occult summonings, or any other such nonsense, but rather by science. Some kind of parasites usurped the bodies of the recently deceased, and were then passed on through saliva or blood to other humans. But the parasites had to feed. If they grew hungry, Jackson said, the parasites would preserve what energy the that they possessed had, shutting down all functions not immediately imperitive. From that rationelle came the shambling walk, the shuffling, the tripping and crawling.
A zombie who had recently eaten was a far worse problem. They moved with inhuman speed, and struck with inhuman strength and savagery. When they attacked they could rip a strong man apart with their bare hands. Jackson had called this Hysterical Strength. He said it lay dormant in every human. Apparently the human brain regulated the use of its muscles to one third of their fibres, saving them from injury or overworking, and saving the skeletal structure from similar stresses. But the infected brain of the zombie had no such qualms. Jackson related the act to the old story of women lifting cars off of their trapped sons, or other things like that. This gave the zombies their great strength and speed, but to maintain such high levels of energy output, they had to eat, and eat alot. That was what made those early days so fucking hard.
But these ones here, well, they were hungry. Slow moving, slouchy, and the man in the clearing fired again, his bullet smashing into the skull of the nearest undead, blowing the back of its head out. The zombie collapsed, dead in truth, the parasite and the brain it controlled seperated, and thus, destroyed.
Denton looked again through his sight, and lined up the nearest zombie, one that was walking away from him, towards the man. He pulled back the cock, loading his weapon, clicked the safetly off and onto single shot, and fired. His aim took the zombie in the back of the head, and it dropped to the floor, blood oozing from a great whole in its face.
The man had quickly reloaded his bolt action rifle and was shouldering it again. Denton found another target, locating a greenish face in his sight, following it for half a second, and then blowing its skull apart. Some of the undead lurched to a halt, and slowly turned towards him, noses up, sniffing the air.
The rubble an inch away from Denton's left ear suddenly exploded in a spray of debris as a bullet ricocheted past his face. He looked up in shock, wheeling his rifle to the source. And there it was. The man in the white vest was reloaded his 3.3, and walking right towards Denton's position, a grim look on his face.
I want to die the way my dad died, peacefully in his sleep. Not screaming in terror like his passengers.
#3
The Tyrant Lizard
- First Sword
-
- Group: Malaz Regular
- Posts: 639
- Joined: 27-January 07
Posted 04 December 2008 - 12:13 PM
AFTERMATH Part Three
Denton pulled the rifle up to his eye and lined the man up in his cross hairs. There were zombs all around him now, but the man seemed preoccupied on Denton, as if he were the threat and not them. Denton sighed, his finger pressurising the trigger, lingering. The man in the vest aimed again, and quickly fired. There was a muzzle flash, and then click-bang one hears when he's being fired upon. One of the noises is the gunpowder exloding, the other is the bullet breaking the sound barrier.
Denton flinched, fearing he'd waited too long. He heard something shatter behind him, felt hotness splash across the back of his legs. Spinning round he saw a zombie toppling to the floor, its head sheered away.
'Christ!' he gasped. The thing had been right behind him.
More shots peeled out and he could see the man had resumed firing on those zombies that were surrouning him. They fell one by one, as he methodically reloaded his rifle. Denton shouldered his own weapon, double firing behind him as two more undead approached, turning each one's head to red mist. Then he rose up, walking into the waste ground, his rifle spitting bullets as he closed with the vested man. He was slaying them with a pace the other could never manage. In ten seconds he'd ended as many zombies, effectively blasting a space around the man and giving the two of them time to talk.
'What the hell are you doing here?' Denton asked.
The man had tears in his eyes. 'Killing the fuckers,' he said. 'Wiping them out.'
Denton looked at him. He was a huge man, with a thick torso and brawny arms. And although he was weeping, he looked like a tough son of a bitch. 'Why?'
'BECAUSE I HATE EM!' the man screamed, firing into the gathering mob. He reloaded his rifle again, slamming the cock back in.
'You can't kill all of them,' Denton said. 'There's too many.'
'Good,' the man said, firing again. 'At least it'll be fucking over.'
Ah. So that was his plan then. Suicide by zombie. Denton could think of better ways to go. He clasped the man's hand, mid-load. The man turned icy blue eyes on him, and he feared he'd be struck.
'You'll end up like them. A walking corpse. Is that why you came here?'
His face seemed to sag. 'They killed my Sally. Tore her to peices...'
'Oh fuck, I'm so sorry. But your Sally, she wouldn't have wanted this, would she? To see you kiled by them?'
He fired again, blew a zombie's neck out. He looked down at his ammo case. 'I'm empty,' he said.
'I've got a car acorss the way,' Denton said. He looked around. The gunshots had drawn the dead in by the hundred. The way back to the car was riddled with shambling, stinking cadavers. He held his rifle out to the man, who took it and stared at it. Denton pulled a loaded magazine from his pocket and offered this too. The man in the vest dropped his own rifle - which cattered to the ground in an explosion of dust - and took the magazine.
Denton pulled his shotgun from his back. 'Let's get back to my car,' he said. 'We can discuss things there, and if you still want to end it, I'll do it myself.'
'Who are you?'
'My name's Denton. Who are you?'
'Solomon,' the man said, wiping his eyes. 'Sally was my cat. I ain't seen another man fella for ages.'
A spine tingling scream rent the air. Both men looked at each other. 'A runner,' Denton said. 'They've had fresh meat.'
Suddenly, at the back of the shambling mob, figures could be seen barrelling forward, knocking the slower zombies aside. They were between the two men and the car...
Denton pulled the rifle up to his eye and lined the man up in his cross hairs. There were zombs all around him now, but the man seemed preoccupied on Denton, as if he were the threat and not them. Denton sighed, his finger pressurising the trigger, lingering. The man in the vest aimed again, and quickly fired. There was a muzzle flash, and then click-bang one hears when he's being fired upon. One of the noises is the gunpowder exloding, the other is the bullet breaking the sound barrier.
Denton flinched, fearing he'd waited too long. He heard something shatter behind him, felt hotness splash across the back of his legs. Spinning round he saw a zombie toppling to the floor, its head sheered away.
'Christ!' he gasped. The thing had been right behind him.
More shots peeled out and he could see the man had resumed firing on those zombies that were surrouning him. They fell one by one, as he methodically reloaded his rifle. Denton shouldered his own weapon, double firing behind him as two more undead approached, turning each one's head to red mist. Then he rose up, walking into the waste ground, his rifle spitting bullets as he closed with the vested man. He was slaying them with a pace the other could never manage. In ten seconds he'd ended as many zombies, effectively blasting a space around the man and giving the two of them time to talk.
'What the hell are you doing here?' Denton asked.
The man had tears in his eyes. 'Killing the fuckers,' he said. 'Wiping them out.'
Denton looked at him. He was a huge man, with a thick torso and brawny arms. And although he was weeping, he looked like a tough son of a bitch. 'Why?'
'BECAUSE I HATE EM!' the man screamed, firing into the gathering mob. He reloaded his rifle again, slamming the cock back in.
'You can't kill all of them,' Denton said. 'There's too many.'
'Good,' the man said, firing again. 'At least it'll be fucking over.'
Ah. So that was his plan then. Suicide by zombie. Denton could think of better ways to go. He clasped the man's hand, mid-load. The man turned icy blue eyes on him, and he feared he'd be struck.
'You'll end up like them. A walking corpse. Is that why you came here?'
His face seemed to sag. 'They killed my Sally. Tore her to peices...'
'Oh fuck, I'm so sorry. But your Sally, she wouldn't have wanted this, would she? To see you kiled by them?'
He fired again, blew a zombie's neck out. He looked down at his ammo case. 'I'm empty,' he said.
'I've got a car acorss the way,' Denton said. He looked around. The gunshots had drawn the dead in by the hundred. The way back to the car was riddled with shambling, stinking cadavers. He held his rifle out to the man, who took it and stared at it. Denton pulled a loaded magazine from his pocket and offered this too. The man in the vest dropped his own rifle - which cattered to the ground in an explosion of dust - and took the magazine.
Denton pulled his shotgun from his back. 'Let's get back to my car,' he said. 'We can discuss things there, and if you still want to end it, I'll do it myself.'
'Who are you?'
'My name's Denton. Who are you?'
'Solomon,' the man said, wiping his eyes. 'Sally was my cat. I ain't seen another man fella for ages.'
A spine tingling scream rent the air. Both men looked at each other. 'A runner,' Denton said. 'They've had fresh meat.'
Suddenly, at the back of the shambling mob, figures could be seen barrelling forward, knocking the slower zombies aside. They were between the two men and the car...
This post has been edited by The Tyrant Lizard: 04 December 2008 - 12:13 PM
I want to die the way my dad died, peacefully in his sleep. Not screaming in terror like his passengers.
#4
The Tyrant Lizard
- First Sword
-
- Group: Malaz Regular
- Posts: 639
- Joined: 27-January 07
Posted 05 January 2009 - 12:02 PM
AFTERMATH Part Four.
Denton marched briskly towards the runners counting them swiftly. More than ten and there would be trouble, he knew. He'd seen men overrun by runners. Armed men who were ready for action. The first one was steaming towards them, kicking up dust as it came on faster than Carl Lewis running the 100. Denton waited. Shotguns were great up close, did a real fine job - but further away sometimes they just made a dent, and with runners, you couldnt take the chance.
'Keep the shamblers back, Sol,' he said. 'The rifle's loaded, on single shot, semi auto. There's about ten left in the mag. Just keep em away while I tag the runners.'
Solomon grunted in affirmation, shouldering the rifle as he followed.
Denton discharged the shotgun as the zombie came within fifty paces. The butt hammered against his shoulder and the face of the undead vapourised, sending red mist skyward. Behind it another came almost at once, screaming incoherntly, his face covered in black blood. Denton pumped the shotgun and fired again, taking the zombie in the throat, blowing it flying backwards. In quick succession he destroyed another three, each one closer than the last. By the time the fourth one got to him his gun was empty.
He lashed out in a thrust kick, catching the speeding creature in the chest, but the momentum of the thing knocked him sprawling, and he staggered back, dropping the shotgun and desperately ripping one of the revolvers from under his arm. Rotting jaws opened, flashing for his face.
BANG! The Magnum exploded into its forehead point blank. Skull fragments blasted everywhere and Denton covered his face with his forearm, he felt warm gore splash across him. The last of the runners was blasted by Solomon, who shot it with the SA80 straight through the nose, blowing the back of its skull apart.
Denton thanked him and ran to retrieve his shotgun, swiftly reloading it. They walked side by side then, slaying any of the shamblers who got close enough to harry them. In time, they reached the safety of the car, and hundreds of the walking dead were behind them. Denton got to the door of his car, put the shotgun on the roof and wiped the blood and gore from his face and neck. As he looked over the top of the car he saw Solomon lower the rifle, pointing it straight at him.
'What's this?' he asked angrily.
'Were you just bitten?' Solomon said in a low tone.
Denton marched briskly towards the runners counting them swiftly. More than ten and there would be trouble, he knew. He'd seen men overrun by runners. Armed men who were ready for action. The first one was steaming towards them, kicking up dust as it came on faster than Carl Lewis running the 100. Denton waited. Shotguns were great up close, did a real fine job - but further away sometimes they just made a dent, and with runners, you couldnt take the chance.
'Keep the shamblers back, Sol,' he said. 'The rifle's loaded, on single shot, semi auto. There's about ten left in the mag. Just keep em away while I tag the runners.'
Solomon grunted in affirmation, shouldering the rifle as he followed.
Denton discharged the shotgun as the zombie came within fifty paces. The butt hammered against his shoulder and the face of the undead vapourised, sending red mist skyward. Behind it another came almost at once, screaming incoherntly, his face covered in black blood. Denton pumped the shotgun and fired again, taking the zombie in the throat, blowing it flying backwards. In quick succession he destroyed another three, each one closer than the last. By the time the fourth one got to him his gun was empty.
He lashed out in a thrust kick, catching the speeding creature in the chest, but the momentum of the thing knocked him sprawling, and he staggered back, dropping the shotgun and desperately ripping one of the revolvers from under his arm. Rotting jaws opened, flashing for his face.
BANG! The Magnum exploded into its forehead point blank. Skull fragments blasted everywhere and Denton covered his face with his forearm, he felt warm gore splash across him. The last of the runners was blasted by Solomon, who shot it with the SA80 straight through the nose, blowing the back of its skull apart.
Denton thanked him and ran to retrieve his shotgun, swiftly reloading it. They walked side by side then, slaying any of the shamblers who got close enough to harry them. In time, they reached the safety of the car, and hundreds of the walking dead were behind them. Denton got to the door of his car, put the shotgun on the roof and wiped the blood and gore from his face and neck. As he looked over the top of the car he saw Solomon lower the rifle, pointing it straight at him.
'What's this?' he asked angrily.
'Were you just bitten?' Solomon said in a low tone.
I want to die the way my dad died, peacefully in his sleep. Not screaming in terror like his passengers.
#7
The Tyrant Lizard
- First Sword
-
- Group: Malaz Regular
- Posts: 639
- Joined: 27-January 07
Posted 09 April 2009 - 09:53 AM
Aftermath, part five.
'No I wasnt bitten!' Denton snapped. His eyes involentarily darted to the shotgun on the roof of the car.
'You'll be dead before your hand moves,' Solomon said, his finger covering the trigger of the rifle gallingly. Denton glanced down the barrel of the gun, which looked for all the world like a yawning pit.
'Point that somewhere else,' Denton said, his voice low and dangerous. 'I just saved your life. Now you wanna shoot me?'
'I'd see you dead rather than changed into one of those things.'
Denton knew that Solomon had a fair point. He'd killed dozens of people who'd been bitten, including close friends... even his own fucking daughter. But he had not been bitten, and trying to explain this to someone as unhinged as the cat lover here was going to be hard. Were it not for the car between them, Denton would have rushed him already. Solomon was a big man, but Denton had been fighting for his life this past decade, and what he didn't know about fighting, wasn't worth the knowing of.
He raised his hands in supplication. his forearms were gore-covered, but it was clear there were no bite marks there. 'I haven't been bitten. If I had, I'd shoot my fucking self. Lower the gun, Sol. There's shamblers closing even now, right behind you. Put the rifle down, we'll get in the car, and we'll drive away.' He pointed a finger across the top of the car. 'If you don't, I'm gonna come over there, take that 80 off you and break both your legs with it. See how you get on with the zombies then.'
'Are you threatening me?' Solomon growled.
'Fucking right I am.'
Solomon snorted, and then chanced a look behind him, where he saw the zombies shuffling closer. 'You weren't bit?'
'No! Now get in the fucking car.'
With that the big man opened the door and climbed in. Denton followed, bringing the shotgun in with him. Without preamble he fired the ignition, put the car in gear and sped away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. They drove in silence for some time and then Denton pulled over.
'We can be friends, you and I,' he said to Solomon. Then he shoved the shotgun barrel under the man's ear and pressed his head against the window. 'Real good friends. But if you ever point a gun at me again, I'll blow your brains out the same as any zomb. Know one thing about me, Sol. I don't get bitten. EVER! And if the impossible happened, I'd end the game myself. You understand me?'
'I think so. But I can't hear so good with that gun in my ear.'
'No I wasnt bitten!' Denton snapped. His eyes involentarily darted to the shotgun on the roof of the car.
'You'll be dead before your hand moves,' Solomon said, his finger covering the trigger of the rifle gallingly. Denton glanced down the barrel of the gun, which looked for all the world like a yawning pit.
'Point that somewhere else,' Denton said, his voice low and dangerous. 'I just saved your life. Now you wanna shoot me?'
'I'd see you dead rather than changed into one of those things.'
Denton knew that Solomon had a fair point. He'd killed dozens of people who'd been bitten, including close friends... even his own fucking daughter. But he had not been bitten, and trying to explain this to someone as unhinged as the cat lover here was going to be hard. Were it not for the car between them, Denton would have rushed him already. Solomon was a big man, but Denton had been fighting for his life this past decade, and what he didn't know about fighting, wasn't worth the knowing of.
He raised his hands in supplication. his forearms were gore-covered, but it was clear there were no bite marks there. 'I haven't been bitten. If I had, I'd shoot my fucking self. Lower the gun, Sol. There's shamblers closing even now, right behind you. Put the rifle down, we'll get in the car, and we'll drive away.' He pointed a finger across the top of the car. 'If you don't, I'm gonna come over there, take that 80 off you and break both your legs with it. See how you get on with the zombies then.'
'Are you threatening me?' Solomon growled.
'Fucking right I am.'
Solomon snorted, and then chanced a look behind him, where he saw the zombies shuffling closer. 'You weren't bit?'
'No! Now get in the fucking car.'
With that the big man opened the door and climbed in. Denton followed, bringing the shotgun in with him. Without preamble he fired the ignition, put the car in gear and sped away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. They drove in silence for some time and then Denton pulled over.
'We can be friends, you and I,' he said to Solomon. Then he shoved the shotgun barrel under the man's ear and pressed his head against the window. 'Real good friends. But if you ever point a gun at me again, I'll blow your brains out the same as any zomb. Know one thing about me, Sol. I don't get bitten. EVER! And if the impossible happened, I'd end the game myself. You understand me?'
'I think so. But I can't hear so good with that gun in my ear.'
I want to die the way my dad died, peacefully in his sleep. Not screaming in terror like his passengers.
#8
The Tyrant Lizard
- First Sword
-
- Group: Malaz Regular
- Posts: 639
- Joined: 27-January 07
Posted 06 May 2010 - 10:07 AM
AFTERMATH. Part Six.
Denton drove straight for a fuel dump he knew about secreted around thirty miles from the incident. He didn't really want
Solomon knowing about it but it was either that or kick the big man out of the car and leave him to it. And he wasn't about to lose sight of the only other person he'd laid eyes on in god knows how long without a fucking good reason. Sure, Solomon wasn't a leggy blonde with big tits and a hunger for root, but at least he was a human, and at least he could talk.
He fueled the car up and sped away, consious of the fact it was getting dark. The undead were no more dagerous in the dark than in the light, but darkness played funny tricks with a man's mind... made him jump at shadows and make stupid mistakes. Denton drove hard and fast, swerving the constant wreckages that lined the roads. At one point he skidded to a halt as a huge pack of dogs came into sight around a bend. Dogs these days were almost as dangerous as zombies. Feral hunters, they'd rip you limb from limb and eat skin, bones and hair: the fucking lot. This was a big pack, with some big breeds there. Rottweilers and mastiffs, all interbred and frothing at the mouth. Denton put the car in reverse and backed away, swinging the car around like Knight Rider as a giant Irish Wolfhound came running over.
'I don't like dogs,' Solomon said, looking out the back window as they raced away.
'Not much to like in em, these days,' Denton said. 'Too stringy for me anyway.'
'You're shitting me.'
Denton grinned. 'I'd rather go Vietnamese than vegetarian, pal. And a man could get himself killed turning his back to dig up potatoes these days.'
'Where we going?'
'I know a place we can be safe. High walls and strong doors. And more guns than the Navarone.'
Solomon looked at him, eyeing the pistols and rifles. 'Where'd you get all this shit? I've been pissing around with that bolt action since the start...'
'Tomorrow I'll show you something,' he said. 'Most folk stay clear of the Bad Lands, but that's a fucking treasure chest now. When the army went to war with the dead, they left a hell of a lot of stuff out there on the battlefield. Some oil and a rag and you've got yourself a rapid fire machine gun and an endless supply of ammo. Where the fuck have you been hiding?'
Solomon shrugged. 'I found a bolthole, locked it, and that's where I stayed. Living off out of date canned food and reading the same old books.'
'Jesus... It's a wonder you ain't mad.'
Solomon laughed out loud, slapping the dash board. 'Ain't I? I was just out there trying the get myself killed!'
Denton was about to start laughing when a loud bang shocked him into gripping the steering wheel tight. The nearside front of the car dropped and he knew the tyre had been blown out. He struggled with the steering but he was going too fast. The back veered out spewing up dust, and he over corrected, sending the car into a drift. Another gunshot rang out and a bullet hole appeared in the windscreen. Denton ducked, the wheel slipping through his hands. The car carreened sideways, striking something low in the road with a massive crash.
And then they were airborne, flipping through the air like a Tonka truck...
Denton drove straight for a fuel dump he knew about secreted around thirty miles from the incident. He didn't really want
Solomon knowing about it but it was either that or kick the big man out of the car and leave him to it. And he wasn't about to lose sight of the only other person he'd laid eyes on in god knows how long without a fucking good reason. Sure, Solomon wasn't a leggy blonde with big tits and a hunger for root, but at least he was a human, and at least he could talk.
He fueled the car up and sped away, consious of the fact it was getting dark. The undead were no more dagerous in the dark than in the light, but darkness played funny tricks with a man's mind... made him jump at shadows and make stupid mistakes. Denton drove hard and fast, swerving the constant wreckages that lined the roads. At one point he skidded to a halt as a huge pack of dogs came into sight around a bend. Dogs these days were almost as dangerous as zombies. Feral hunters, they'd rip you limb from limb and eat skin, bones and hair: the fucking lot. This was a big pack, with some big breeds there. Rottweilers and mastiffs, all interbred and frothing at the mouth. Denton put the car in reverse and backed away, swinging the car around like Knight Rider as a giant Irish Wolfhound came running over.
'I don't like dogs,' Solomon said, looking out the back window as they raced away.
'Not much to like in em, these days,' Denton said. 'Too stringy for me anyway.'
'You're shitting me.'
Denton grinned. 'I'd rather go Vietnamese than vegetarian, pal. And a man could get himself killed turning his back to dig up potatoes these days.'
'Where we going?'
'I know a place we can be safe. High walls and strong doors. And more guns than the Navarone.'
Solomon looked at him, eyeing the pistols and rifles. 'Where'd you get all this shit? I've been pissing around with that bolt action since the start...'
'Tomorrow I'll show you something,' he said. 'Most folk stay clear of the Bad Lands, but that's a fucking treasure chest now. When the army went to war with the dead, they left a hell of a lot of stuff out there on the battlefield. Some oil and a rag and you've got yourself a rapid fire machine gun and an endless supply of ammo. Where the fuck have you been hiding?'
Solomon shrugged. 'I found a bolthole, locked it, and that's where I stayed. Living off out of date canned food and reading the same old books.'
'Jesus... It's a wonder you ain't mad.'
Solomon laughed out loud, slapping the dash board. 'Ain't I? I was just out there trying the get myself killed!'
Denton was about to start laughing when a loud bang shocked him into gripping the steering wheel tight. The nearside front of the car dropped and he knew the tyre had been blown out. He struggled with the steering but he was going too fast. The back veered out spewing up dust, and he over corrected, sending the car into a drift. Another gunshot rang out and a bullet hole appeared in the windscreen. Denton ducked, the wheel slipping through his hands. The car carreened sideways, striking something low in the road with a massive crash.
And then they were airborne, flipping through the air like a Tonka truck...
I want to die the way my dad died, peacefully in his sleep. Not screaming in terror like his passengers.
Share this topic:
Page 1 of 1