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| Zac | November 13 2008, 04:10 AM |
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Zachary stepped quietly down the side of the street, trying his best to take cover under any shade whatsoever cast by the sun, which was almost directly overhead. He had no watch, but it was obviously midday. He shifted the sewn-on shoulderstrap of his leather medicine bag further up his shoulder as it began to irritate him. For something so frugally packed, it got damn heavy after a couple of hours walking. He cast random cautious glances into the shopfronts around him, just in case one of the 'mannequins' was feeling livelier than it's siblings. Although, it was a misnomer to refer to them as 'alive'. They were by all accepted scientific definitions of the word, dead, but they walked nevertheless. The strangest thing to him was that they were still in a somewhat preserved state. They weren't pretty, but they didn't appear to be decomposing at a normal rate, which would be something like six months to turn them into skeletons, presuming the conditions were good, which they were. Perhaps some part of the infection kept some sort of 'blood-ish' fluid coursing through their veins, keeping them at least adequately fresh. That whole point was redundant, but musing had never done any harm; quite the opposite in his current predicament, it had kept him sane over the last five years. He slowed a little as he neared a curb angling to the right into another street. He swung the makeshift shoulderstrap of his medical bag around to his left shoulder, holding the grip on the bag itself with his left hand, which freed up room to draw his handgun from the back of his pants with his right. He raised it and pressed his right shoulder towards the concrete brick wall of a hair salon. He took one deep breath; two; three and then swung around into the next street, his gun raised and strafing from storefront to storefront for targets, his left eye shut while his right eye trained on the sights. His hand was a little unsteady at the range of a hundred feet and as such the view from down the sights of th Glock 17 9mm was bobbing up and down unpleasantly. He blinked and allowed both eyes opening, lowering the pistol to his thigh and then reholstering it in the back of his pants as he confirmed the street to be empty. He shifted the shoulderstrap once more further up his shoulder and then continued to make his way down the street. While the previous street--whose name, as usual, he took no notice of--had been primarily clothing stores and beauty salons, this street had one or two small food vendors thrown into the mix, including a delicatessen, a sweets store and a bakery. He ignored the bakery, five years after being abandoned and any remaining food of that type would be hard as a rock or blue-black. The sweets store was also out of the question, even if they were edible, old candy was a hideous thing, even hard candy had a sticky outer layer and a noticeably poor taste. Hell, that would happen after one year. The windows of both buildings had been smashed in during the early craze of collecting food. Maybe if he was lucky there would be a small, private kitchen behind the counter with tea or coffee, but on a day like this he needed a cold drink. Unaware of the decomposition rates of meat he instead turned his attention to the small deli. He winced as an unpleasant audible gurgle wracked his stomache, making him feel a little sick. His stomache was secreting acids to digest food, but there wasn't any there to digest, so the sound came instead. It was the bodies way of telling their hosts to eat something. He walked gingerly off the sidewalk and onto the road, crossing it at a diagonal on the way to the deli. He looked with mild interest at the grass that was beginning to poke up through cracks in the tarmac. Nature was beginning to take over the city again. One or two buildings had already crumbled to the ground, scattering debris across the road. It was surprising how fast things went to hell when left without attention. Another five to ten years and he guessed that the city would be unrecognisable. It of course happened slower than Will Smith would have one believe, but it did still happen. His personal thought track shifting to Will Smith now, as usual he had very little trouble keeping himself somewhat entertained. How did he manage to get a Ford Shelby 2008 GT500 Mustang? Three years after the vampire apocalypse and it was still shiny and new? The man was a lieutenant colonel and a virologist in the movie, not a mechanic. The movie had more than a few plot-holes for the scientific eye. All he had to do to confirm that was look around. Most streets had at least one abandoned car. In the rush to try and get out of the city someone would be stuck in a traffic jam, perhaps ditch the car and go on foot, leaving it in the middle of the road as other car owners followed suit or the road cleared. On this street he could make out the heavily dented and dusted remains of an old silver Honda Civic that had been partially crushed in one of the aforementioned collapsed buildings. His mood at the moment was so mild and casual that when the first crack broke out he flinched and nearly leapt off the ground. He drew the pistol into his right hand once again, holding it in a raised-but-ready position as he searched for the noise. It had come from within the Deli. Shit, frigging competitors. Was the first thing that came into his mind. Adrenaline can do that, months without seeing hide-nor-hair of another living thing to give him company, but yet the first ones he comes across he greets with irritation because they're getting in the way of his stomache. He snapped around to look behind him as he heard an bellowing roar. About ten of the infected creatures had just rounded the corner at full speed, swinging their arms like humans for momentum. He had already walked two hundred yards or so since he had turned into the street, so he had time before they reached him. He changed direction immediately, running at full speed back to the right sidewalk and flattening himself up against a small protruding stepped entrance to a shop. He had no idea as to whether or not the infected had seen him, he had been in the middle of the road in broad daylight. He waited with baited breath, but none of them split off for him. It seems they were interested in the cause of the crack and had just destroyed the deli window. The crack had been by no doubt gunfire, so the other humans were armed. It may not be wise to approach them, competition was never met with friendly-attitudes as far as he had seen. He had had more guns pointed at him since the outbreak than Mel Gibson had in all the Lethal Weapon movies put together. No, actually, that was an exaggeration, but he had been in at least a dozen Resevoir Dogs tense gun-pointing competitions. Most of these had resulted in him backing away while a small group continued feasting away, wasting food and leaving him to starve for another night, occasionally also ending in someone stealing his sidearm. This was the third Glock he had looted from abandoned police cars. Another crack, then another, both resounding and echoing through the streets. He simoultaneously winced and blinked at each gunshot as the huge sound jammed into his ears. He didn't want to get close to these people while they were firing guns, at least not without earplugs. His Glock wasn't deafening, but shotguns and revolvers were. He eased forward a little, checking out the situation. Five of the ten infected had crawled in through the window, as was apparent by the crashing and sounds of general mayhem. The other four were still outside, with one dead infected who had had it's neck stepped on. The rest were trying desperately to push past each other to get inside. They were fast, but they weren't particularly organised. That was something, at least. As he surveyed the battle, options flew through his mind: possible outcomes, some good; most bad, as usual. One: He could attempt to help them, wasting precious bullets but perhaps winning himself some favour, and thereby hopefully some food. Two: He could wait for them to hopefully finish them off, or at least dwindle the numbers a little. If they left one or two, maybe three or four of the infected then perhaps he could take them; after that it would be too difficult and he would have to wait for them to eat their fill of the humans before leaving. He didn't think it would be intelligent to wait around that long for them to pick up his scent, also, he wanted food soon if at all possible. Perhaps the humans would kill all of them, saving him bullets and perhaps lending him some food? Or perhaps taking his weapon and his precious, vital medical supplies and leaving him to die in a meat freezer. Cannibalism was not unheard of, once he had been unfortunate enough to chance upon a meat freezer filled with three naked female corpses hung up by meathooks, one missing both her legs. He had been left with nightmares for weeks after that encounter, the gruesome details returning to him whenever he closed his eyes for too long. Even now he frowned in remembrance. If he fired a shot, it would not be as loud as their own, but there would be no way that they could miss it. Unwanted attention was something that he didn't need either. Finally he resolved to wait and watch how things turned out, shrinking back into the shade of the doorway, hiding him from view as he formulated a clean-up plan, looking over the building studiously. Beyond the broken window he could see nothing of the battle raging within. The view was blocked by the four live creatures on the outside trying to get in anyway, but he still caught occasional tiny flashes of movement. Ultimately he was spectating by ear. He had heard no human screams of pain yet, so perhaps they had a chance of winning the battle? Then again, a human wouldn't be able to scream if a zombie ripped his throat out. He continued to watch, waiting for things to sort themselves out. Edited by Zac, November 14 2008, 01:36 AM.
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| The End is Nigh: IC · Fictional | |
 2:48 PM Nov 25
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