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A joint project taking turns to write about the Zombie Apocolypse |
| [Introduction]
Write about the Zombie Apocolypse
|
| Stacy ran. The sun was setting, light was fading, and Stacy ran. "Only a little further" she told herself. "Your nearly there. Don't quit. Not now. You can make it" Her feet pounded the road in a steady rhythm that was slowing by the minute. She cursed herself for being this late. She tried to reassure herself it would be ok. It was a small quiet country town in the world before it died, not many people, so it would be likely that there would not many Feeders around. She hoped. |
| Ahead, she could hear the buzzing of voices. Her legs were starting to burn and her breath was coming in short huffs. If a feeder appeared now, she'd be fucked. That buzzing, those voices, they were what made her smile though. There was no mistaking the sound. There could never be any mistaking that sound. Stacey rounded the corner and finally stopped. Despite herself, her hands clasped her knees and her torso leant sharply over. She watched her sweat drip, drip, drip to the pavement. And then she raised her head and grinned at the sight of the church hall before her. The grass was overgrown and the windows broken but it was a thing of beauty as the hymns resonated from it's creaking belly. Stacey grinned. There must be at least three, maybe four, good christians singing gospel there. Not that they were in tune or anything but Jesus, it sounded good to her. |
| With people making that much noise Stacy wold normally avoid them at all cost but she was desperate. She also concluded its easier to have someone watch your back than sleep with an open. And with them being Christians she liked her odds of them offer shelter as opposed to raping her and leaving her for dead. She would just have to get these bible thumpers to shut the fuck up. Her thoughts wandered for just a moment. How could this people still have faith anyway? She did not know if a god existed but if he did he did not give a shit about humanity at this moment. She walked the last leg of the way, passing abandoned houses on either side of the street. Despite her rucksack being nearly empty it weighed a tonne and she would be glad to take that weight off her shoulder. The church gate creaked slightly as she opened it and followed the bluestone path to the front entrance of the church. That path was only slightly delapitated with weeds overthrowing it and with the odd stone jutting up from roots from trees. She quickly rapt on the large double doors eagerly waiting them to open. She could not remember the last time she had been to church. With no response she knocked a little louder this time. |
| The singing stopped. Stacey leant slightly to the left, away from the doorway. If someones going to shoot first and ask questions later... She waited. A lock of her dirty blonde hair fell across her cheek and she carefully tucked it behind her ear. She'd packed light this trip. Just a rucksack. Most provisions she knew she could find on the road. And as for weapons, she hadn't survived this long without knowing a thing or two about improvising means of defence. "C'mon, you fuckers," she whispered. "Answer the fucking door." Glancing at the towering eaves of the church, she figured it was a little to late now to feel remorse for disrespectful language. She figured if there was a God, he was the God of the Feeders not the survivors. Surviviors like Stacey were their own gods. She braced her feet and prepared to knock again. This time she gave some rhythm. A muffled sound and then a higher pitched cry. Stacey paused her rendition of "The Rockets Red Glare" and distinctly heard a mans voice say: "Zombies don't know no goddamn american national anthem." |
| "That's right they don't and they can't speak either so how about opening the door!" Her patience was fading with the light. "I'm unarmed. Please just let me in. Feeders will be out soon." She waited for the customary slide of baricades or deadbolts but there was nothing for a moment. Then suddenly there was the click of a latch and the door opened slowly... |
| Stacey grinned and rolled her shoulders, pointing at the man looming in the doorway. Both fingers cocked like cowboy pistols. "Bernie! You sly dawg!" "Shit - Stacey! You've cut it close girl. It's so late, we thought you'd decided to skip out." "Haha, I wouldn't miss out on these fireworks if it was the fourth of july!" Stacey cried. "You gonna let me in?" "Sure girl, sure." Bernie gently held her arm by the elbow and guided her into the sanctuary of the church. His heavily muscled arm dwarved Stacey's. In fact Bernie towered over Stacey. "Come through here, through the foyer. They're down the back, near the altar." Stacey laughed uneasily as they turned the corner. Despite herself, she was nervous. Not of Bernie. She'd known Bernie for months. She knew he was crazy. She knew he was dangerous. But she also knew he wasn't crazy dangerous. But this world...this world was fucked up. Standing infront of the altar that only last year would have been lovingly worshipped at, swaying slightly although there was no breeze, their leg and arms chains slightly jangling , were six dead, rotting women calmly masticulating like cows. "Oh Bernie," Sara breathed. "They're beautiful." Bernie flashed a grin. His yellow teeth looking healthy in comparison to the zombies. "You mean my zombie choir ladies or the 6 kilos of c-4 I've got strapped to each of them? We are gonna have a real fourth of july party tonight girlie!" Stacey wiped her brow. Six months of work herding zombies to this god forsaken little pissant town was about to come to fruition. Six months of acting like live bait to the massing hordes. Six months of nightmares, six months of living on the edge, always one outstretched foot away from a fate worse then death. Tomorrow, it would all be over. She could stop running. And maybe she wouldn't have to hide for a little while at least. Maybe lots of her people wouldn't have to hide. "You know, another week and I think I could have got at least two of them in tune," Bernie growled and lit a cigar. "Did I ever tell you my mama was in a death metal band before the fall?" |
| Stacy couldn't help but laugh. " Yeah Bernie you did. About a hundred times. Are we ready for tonight? Do we need to go over the plan?" Sara groaned at the suggestion. Stacy was a control freak she thought but truth be told it was much deeper than that. Stacy was quite analytical and this was a good thing when it come to Feeders. See the thing about Feeders is that unlike humans they were completely driven in the sense that when they caught up with food they would not stop. She had once seen a group of Feeders follow a man over a roofs edge just for a bite. Luckily the man in question was tied around the waist so he just dangled there until the Feeders all jumped off the ledge. "I will round up the others and so we can go over this" Stacy continued. "And while I think of it why the fuck weren't those pews against the door like they were meant to be?" "ahh chill out girl when you were overdue I decided to move them just in case you needed a quick entry" the behemoth that was Bernie replied smugly. Stacy grubled something about not giving a fuck as she exited through the door just off to the side of the tabernacle. The door opened up to a small L-shaped corridor. This led to another door which was open and the sounds of a muffled conversation seeped down the hallway. "Hey guys I'm back" Stacy called as she approached. "Well its about time" was the first reply in a grey, flat tone. Graeme was not impressed but quite glad to see her returned. Be had to be. With the way the world was now it was hard to find people to depend on and in the time the group and come together they had become family. Zoe chipped in " it's good to see you Stacy". She got up out off her chair and hugged her tight. "You too", Stacy squeezed her back just as hard. " We are going to go over the plan for tonight." she didn't wait for a response as she turned and left with the other too quickly following. Neither bothered asking how it was out there. They knew it was Hell on Earth and. Est left outside. Take whatever reprieve they could because tonight they would all be in serious shit of anything went awry. |
Grits felt he was too young to be losing his teeth. Oh sure, he wasn’t surprised. Not with his diet and his problems. He remembered when he lost his first one. Not his baby teeth, or the teeth he lost playing high school football or the time he had one of his molars chipped by a pair of home made knuckle dusters in a canteen fight when he was in prison that time. No, he remembered the first time one of his teeth fell out after the fall of society. The fall of society was what Grits had heard other hobos, for that was what he was: a hobo, call it and it suited Grits to call it that too. It sounded intellectual. It sounded poetic. It sounded metal. It suit them all, no matter what pigeon hole they still rammed their pontificating heads into. Grits called it the fall of society, because that’s what had happened. Society fell. Whether you liked that or not. The return of steam trains was one thing that the straggling dregs of humanity like Grits liked more then most. After a year or so, the pseudo-government – the Man – had put the trains back on the train tracks. Like iron angels visiting purgatory, their steam whistles giving hope like trumpet calls to the desperate. God knows what the damned thought of the damned steam whistles. But Grits knew, Grits had seen the hope and tears these trains brought to once thriving –now-isolated communities stranded by the fall . No diesel air horn could do that. Fill the belly’s soul like that. The first time he lost a tooth, it was after 6 months of abject poverty worthy of a boat refuge. Six months of consisting on nothing but dog bone soup, broiled and rebroiled and eaten when he dared. First time he lost a tooth he thought it was maybe radiation poisoning and that was what had killed all his cronies, his parole officer, the cops who beat him every week, and even the goddamned social worker who dealt heroin on the side, not for the money but because she was a left-leaning, socially conscious sap. But no, then he realised that was just the zombies. The zombies killed and ate all those people, not radiation poisoning. And even Zombies didn’t make your teeth fall out. Unless they bit half your face off with it. Grits looked at the mangled thing before him. It was caked in filth, brown and stinking. Dry, brittle. The first couple had been sharp as daggers but these days, when his teeth fell out they were weak, gnarled imitations of the real thing. Frankly, Grits thought he’d be better off without them. Without this process. But Grits had liked his teeth. So had the girls. Grits had lost many things over these few years and made many hard decisions. Survival wasn’t cheap in this world. And really what was one more lost tooth in the bevy of lost souls surrounding his existence? Still, Grits knew he was dreading his final tooth, and after that no teeth. He might as well be one of them. A fucking zombie. “You fucking dickless bastards!” Grits yelled and hurled, ineffectually really, the dead tooth off the moving train carriage roof at the milling zombies. “You fucking no good smelly dead beats!” “Yeah! Yeah man!” Grits looked over at his current hobo-brother. His current travelling partner of the tracks. He called himself the Snakepit Man. Said he was a salesman before the fall of society, the fall of autumn as /he/ called it. Grits looked at him. The thing with travelling partners was you had to keep them in check, let them know who was in charge, who came first in the pecking order. And when you had Grits problem, you needed someone you could rely on. The only way to get somebody reliable in this world was through fear. Grits wondered if the Snakepit Man wasn’t too stupid to be ruled by fear. Or maybe it was that he was too smart. He didn’t have any teeth, and that showed he’d survived a lot longer then Grits, and on a lot less. Cunning as a shit house rat, Grits decided. “Give me your hat.” The Snakepit Man stopped guffawing. “What do you want that for? It’s my hat.” “Give me your fucking hat, for I take it from you,” Grits spat on the ground, away from the other hobo. No need to be too confronting. “Aww, now Grits,” the SnakePit Man said, already cowed. “No need ta be like that. I’ll give ya my hat, if that’s what ya want. No need to be like that.” Grits watched narrow-eyed, never taking his eyes off the other. Grits didn’t even think he’d have to snarl to get the big dope to do what he was told. The Snakepit Man took his hat off his head and carefully held it out to Grits. Grits looked at the Snakepit Man one last time. Gave him one last narrow-eyed look to show he meant business and gently took the hat. “I know you like this hat SnakePit Man,” Grits says. “You can have it back after I manage my sleep. You can have it back after my nap. Nothing happens to me, nothing happens to this here hat. You got that?” “I know Grits. It’s okay. You look after me. I look after you. That’s how it is with us. You’re a real good fighter Grits. And a real good problem solver too. You’re tenacious, is what you are. Tenacious. You like that?” All the time the Snakepit Man has talked, he hasn’t taken his eyes off that hat. Grits turns the hat over and over in his hands. Watching the hat. Watching the Snakepit Man. Watching the hat. “It’s a nice hat Snakepit Man.” Grits says, looking at the hat but not looking at the Snakepit Man. “It really is. What do you think it was made of? You think it was one of them imported hats from Italy?” The Snakepit Man smiles at that. He likes that idea, Grits knows. The train carriage is really whistling along the tracks now. The fields were once wheat fields, Grits knows. Now they are overgrown with thistles and weeds and other detritus. Like the milling dead. Grits grins and throws the hat. “Hey now!” Grits doesn’t throw the hat. “Geez, Grits. Don’t do that. That’s my hat.” Grits throws the hat. “Jesus goddamn it Grits. That’s my favourite hat. Don’t do that to my hat. You said you was gonna look after it,” the SnakePit Man stomps his foot, a dangerous move on the roof of a moving steam train. Grits stares at the SnakePit Man. “I’m gonna take my nap now. Manage my condition. You look after me, I’ll look after your hat. “ “Grits, you know you look after me. I look after you already. It’s how it works when your budd-“ Grits throws the hat. “Keerrist Grits! Okay, okay. You have your bleeping nap. I’ll watch your bleeping back. Befor e you know it we’ll be at the cross roads and I’ll wake you up and we’ll get some supplies. Have a look around. Keerist, Grits.” Grits puts the Snakepit Mans precious hat in his rucksack. Props it up against the air vent and shifts around until he’s comfortable. It’ s a tough world. Made tougher still when it’s a world full of zombies and humans who’d poke you in the eye as soon as let you look at them. You don’t survive being a narcoleptic in this world without being one tough little bugger yourself. Grits is dreaming before his eyes are even shut. |
| "Ok. This is plan." Stacy continued calmly. "What we need to do is get as many feeders as possible into the main road, Union street. We all know what that means." she looked up grimly at the others. They all knew too well as it was their job. With the use of live bait they could just about lure the Feeders anywhere. The problem was the live bait was always them, those known as Runners. Stacy remained the only one speaking for the moment. "With three Runners running a bait 'n' switch every 500 meters or so we can get the feeders to where we need them without the anyone running out of steam to early." She ran her finger along the map indicating the route they wanted to Feeders to take stopping only to point out spots for the Runners to make their switch. A bait 'n' switch meant the designated Runners would take it in turns set up at 500 meters intervals and take turns leading the Feeders keeping just far ahead to be out of trouble but just close enough that the Feeders would only chase the chosen bait for that stretch. Once the Runner reached the next Runner they would take over as the lure and the first Runner would then find run ahead to the next interval and get a few minutes rest waiting for the Feeders to catch up and then take their turn as the bait. "Once the we get the Feeders into the industrial estate we lead them into Telledale Way." Graeme was about to interject with a question as he brushed his shoulder length grey hair out of his face but Stacy continued. "I know that the the brick factory on Glenville road had the kiln but Graeme it isn't a dead end street which is what we need. Otherwise we would have to seal to ends of a trap instead of one." He nodded in agreement. It made sense. "So we will lead the Feeders to Telledale Way. Once they are at the end of the court, as close to the wooden furniture place as possible. As the enter the bottleneck we let our martyrs over there loose " she nodded towards the c4 strapped Feeders "so we can work a bit of Trojan Horse on them and get the hell out of dodge. Bernie its ur job to light the ovens in the bakery across the road from the furniture place. All the gas bottles we have lined around the other factories can't be opened until Bernie gives us the signal. They will set off a chain reaction To create a wall of fire with the Feeders trapped on the inside and with the c4 in their midst and the preliminariy explosion it should be enought to take them all out." Stacy glanced outside it was getting dark now and they were still waiting on the last two Runners to return with the last piece of the puzzle. "Where the fuck could Alien and Fish be?" Stacy mumbled. They were still searching for perhaps the most important cog of all, something to keep the Feeders in the trap and the c4 amongst their midst. They were searching for something for the Feeders to feed on. |
| Later, Stacey found Bernie sitting in the middle section of the church pews. His head was bowed, and his hands were clasped. Stacey was surprised. "Don't tell me this place has got to you? You're not praying are you?" Bernie looked up, his eyes were bleary but he managed a quick smile. "Did I ever tell you my mama was in a gospel choir?" "Only a million times, Bernie," Stacey returned his smile. She liked Bernie. She really did. But he could be a moody cat when the moon was full. She'd first met him in Phoenix. She'd been on the run for a couple of years, since before the fall if truth be told, but shed only been a runner for a couple of weeks. She was still getting her bearings. Being a runner, it...it was a whole new level of nightmare. Staceys sanity had prevailed but there was a trail of dead adrenaline-junkies across America by now. Pockets of civilization had sprung up,All across America, and those that survived long enough had formed a committee of sorts. No one leader but a selection of strong willed men and women from different communities liasing together. Not to rule, but to get the country's infrastructure back up and running. When Stacey met Bernie shed been stopping through Phoenix on her way to ______. A big supply trip. Grab an open top land cruiser, some petrol and some food and water. Nothing to fancy. Not like what Bernie and his little rag tag collection had been trying to do. They'd been trying to round up as many monkeys as they could, in zoos across the country, to use as bait. Berries theory was that monkeys and man shared a common ancestor and so the zombies would at least come check out the monkies, see if the monkey's fry was to their taste, and Bernie could round them up. Stacey had laughed and laughed. There they all were. In a Mexican standoff situation. It was raining. Bernie and his boys were loading a group of baboons onto a truck and they had caught Stacey in their headlights. It was dark and they were yelling at each other, screaming in the rain to identify themselves. Staceys revolver verses Bernie and the boys collection of crossbows, shotguns and baseball bats. It never paid to be careless in this world, but things had settled down when Stacy gave the Runners code, an identifying code to avoid mishaps like this escalating into madness. Bernie had told her their plan, using monkeys as bait, and Stacey had laughed. Shed laughed so hard, and so /good/. And then Bernie had laughed too and then the one called Cowboy too. The rain pissing down and them all pissing themselves laughing. And then one of the baboons, fed up with all the noise and not liking the dark, the rain, or the big, stinking truck had sunk it's fangs into one of Bernies boys. Right in the side of his face. His cheek had peeled away and the blood came in a torrent and then his screams. Stacey never knew his name. They were never introduced. Afterwards, where was the point in asking Bernie his name? He was just another dead homeboy. The babboon, After ripping the Bernie's boy's face off had shoved him to the ground and just pummeled him. Those big, long arms. Wet as well as hairy. The strength contained, unleashed on his body in a fury. Monkey fury. Stacey shook her head, bringing her back to the present. No tears for her. No tears in the rain for her. "a couple of us were thinking of hitting the town? Grab some last minute supplies before we blow this place. Let off some steam you know?" Bernie looked away from Stacey. "You want to come?" "Naw," Bernie said. "I got some last minute things I want to take care of here. The plan has to go off like clockwork. But you go, unwind. I've done plenty of unwinding lately. Now I'm focusing on unleashing some righteous wrath on these beasts." Bernie stood, stretching his back, flexing his biceps. "you guys be careful out there. It's not just zombies out there to be afraid of. There's wolves in the guise of men." "Or monkeys," Stacey offered, laughing."Hey, remember Phoenix? In the rain?" "Yeah. I do." Bernie said. And left her standing in the church alone. |
| The street was dark and deserted. There were cars scattered here and there with some blocking the road, hastily abandoned. Once where street lights illuminated the nights secrets nothing but a redundant metal spire remained. The runners walked quickly, a few feet adjacent from each other so that if Feeders did attack they would not be overwhelmed. The air was still and peaceful but they all knew that peace could be shattered into a thousand pieces in but a moment, so they took nothing for granted. They walked silently and any words were only out of necessity. If there wasn't a need to draw any attention it wasn't tolerated. Every Runner was on guard, always tense, ready to react. Their eyes scanned continuously, as if searching for something long lost. They were at their destination. The street signs read Wedge Tail and Finch. The Finch street Square was the goal. The buildings lined the street either side, looming above the party. The shadows cast from the moon played tricks, as shadows often do. They made the stores appear much larger than the two stories they were, the shadows almost made the stores arch overhead like some sort of brick and mortar canopy that. The shadows cast from the cars, the buildings, and even the kicked over trash cans like everything else in this world, threatened to envelope them. The Runners approached ladder on the the closest building. Despite the rust spreading at joins where it was attached to the building the ladder was quite serviceable. Graeme volunteered to stand watch as Sara led the way up the ladder on point, then Stacy and Zoe rolled each one waiting for the person ahead to get about half way up the ladder before starting the climb themselves. Once at the top of the ladder Sara gave the roof a quick scan before proceeding. Although it seemed unlikely to sara that a Feeder may be on the roof they all had to take what precautions they could to stay safe. The building the ladder was attached to was much the same as the others in the street. They were built about twenty or thirty years ago Sara estimated from the style, which was quite a plain faded orange brick standing two stories high like a vertical rectangle. It had a single massive archway for an entrance and a bay window either side as a shop front. The once bright white paint had all but faded and peeled everywhere, the cracks on its surface resembling a river system on a map. All the building in the street looked like this for the most part. Sara boosted herself up over the lip of the building and quickly made her away across the tar surface. She ignored the manhole cover as she walked past it, this building, once a real estate agency, was useless to them. Sara approached the makeshift bridge that lead to the second building. Although the bridge was assembled from all manner of scrap materials it was quite sturdy. Whenever the Runners knew they would be encamped in a town for anything more than a few days there were many precautions and preparations to follow and makeshift bridges were one of them. By linking the main stores with bridges it allowed for a conveniently safe way to move from store to store as the Feeders lacked the dexterity to climb a ladder. So there Graeme was standing the silent watcher, left with his thoughts. He was left to his thoughts most of the time. When Silence was a requirement to live you had nothing else to do but ponder your thoughts. Every now and again his mind would drift back to his life before the fall. Of how much he longed for things he took for granted. Like a hot meal with meat and vegetables, clean clothes, or even one night without having to sleep with one eye open. But more than anything else he missed music. He missed listening to it, he missed creating and playing it. He quickly snapped his thoughts back to the present. A lapse in concentration could get you killed he told himself. It was his turn to climb the ladder. In the short few minutes it took him to reach the roof of the real estate office the others were already at their objectives. Stacy and gone ahead to the fourth building of the six on this side of the street. She had removed the manhole and was listening for Feeders. Stacy had explained earlier how she had left her machete embedded in the skull of a Feeder and needed to replace it. So there she was, leaning over, head swallowed by darkness hoping no Feeders had breached the sporting goods store. Zoe and Sara were doing the same but much closer on the second rooftop which happened to be a general store. Sara lowered herself into store, dangling for a moment and then landing lightly on her feet. She waited anxious for a few moments to allow her eyesight to adjust to the gloom. Slowly details revealed themselves,as is materializing from nothiness. Major details become apparent first, like how empty the shelves in the isles were and then minor details followed such as the amount of dirt that the corners of the store had collected after months of neglect. Sara took no heed to the empty shelves. Food along with many other requirements for survival was not difficult to come by Despite that all major production had stopped. The fact of the matter was that there just weren't that many Survivors to consume what was left. Sara moved lightly behind what was the serving counter ignoring the employees only sign attached to the back wall. Sara allowed herself a small smile upon viewing the small stockpile of highly volatile molotov cocktails that lay still intact.The glass bottles gleamed in the moonlight light pirates treasure. The cache was assembled and left specifically for tonight, it was usually far to dangerous to carry petrol bombs in a Runners line of work and they even refused to have something so unpredictable where they broke camp. Sara begin ferrying bottles two at a time back to the man hole to pass up to Zoe. By the time Sara had passed up the last Molotov Stacy had re joined the group and had taken up watch with Graeme. Stacy had re armed her self with a baseball bat. She had resigned that it would have to do for now but was much better than the pistol at her hip that had no ammo. Once Sara had climbed back onto the roof and dusted herself off they all huddled together in a circle, passing the glass bottles around. Zoe spoke first asking "are we ready?" nods of agreement and even one or two mutterings were her only reception. She knew why. It was quite rare for someone to grow comfortable for the scene that was about to unfold, and better yet she would be right in the thick of it. It was her turn to volunteer. Maybe she was really asking herself if she was ready? It didn't matter. They were pressed for time and she had to descend the ladder whilst the others waited secure and safe on the rooftop. Graeme, Sara and Stacy spread out across the roof of the general store, their eyes constantly searching. Stacy begin the ritual by banging her new found baseball bat on the guttering. The aluminum bat rang as it clashed on steel. It was a slow beat at first. By the time Zoe and reached the main road the other two had joined in. Graeme was using the head of his axe and Sara was banging the flat edge of a machete against a ventilation pipe. As the pace quickened with the banging Zoe withdrew her tire iron from her belt and began smashing shop front windows. She dragged the iron against the brick worked as she darted between windows and then made her way to an abandoned car in the middle of the street. She walked quickly around the car always making sure that any approaching Feeders couldn't catch her unawares. Zoe hit the tyre iron against the bonnet, the roof and then the rear window. It left massive hole but it wasn't completely broken so again the tire iron rained down on the remainder of the windshield. And then she saw it. The first feeder of the night. It materialized like an apparition from an alleyway at the opposite end of the street from which they had come. Zoe was immediately focused and the others quickly realized and their rumpus subsided. The Feeder was grotesque Zoe thought to herself. It was a man once, not so long ago. The Feeder was missing the left half of it's face. As it approached she could see its eye hanging from the socket and it's bared teeth through an absent cheek. Dried blood was caked around its open wounds, it's mouth and hands. The Feeders once casual blue jeans and white t shirt were nothing more than filthy shredded rags. It wasn't just the dried blood that sullied a Feeders cloths, it was the filth from their victims. Intestinal juices, bile, phlegm, vomit,piss and shit and all and a number of other unsightly filth would often end up on the Feeders as they fed. The Feeder began to pick up pace, it's shuffle becoming a quick jog and then Just as quickly a quick sprint. Zoe gripped the tyre iron hard to make sure it was still there, to make sure it was in fact a tyre iron. Zoe went into a defensive stance with one leg forward and her weight on her back leg. The Feeder was nearly upon her. It let out a low growl. It was primal and inhuman. Zoe waited still. The feeder could nearly grasp her, it's finger outstretched and barely touching her jacket before the tyre iron swung upwards and sharp. What was left of the Feeders jaw exploded into pulp. It stunned the Feeder for a moment and sent spinning and as it stumbled Zoe pounced. She rained blows down upon the Feeders head. Hitting the Feeder anywhere would only slow it down and she knew to put it down as quickly as possible. The second blow drove the Feeder to its knees and the third left it sprawled on the road. Blood sprayed with every strike. The tyre iron continued descending until there was nothing left of its skull but mush and gore. Zoe allowed herself a small grin. Despite the for aiding cloud that hung over their plan if she was to die tonight she had taken at least one Feeder with her and it was one of the few things she could take solace in. Now, she thought to herself as she looked off into the distance, with freshly spilled blood it won't be much longer until more Feeders arrive. That's when the real fun shall begun and her grin turned into a broad smile. |
| ---- The train rumbled across the tracks. The tracks were old, and the train was older. But the lay of the land was marked by more then sign posts on the side of the train tracks. The racket made by the train was enough to wake the dead, but it couldn’t wake the hobo Grits. Perhaps, he found the rocking motion of the train to his liking, Snake Pit Man mused. Snake Pit Man sat on the roof of the train carriage, the last one of seven in the carriage train, and wondered again how Grits had survived this long. Grits was tough, Snake Pit Man knew that. He’d seen that little wild-haired body fight like the devil, and he knew it could run like the devil too. But Snake Pit Man had seen many a tough man, some stronger then Grits, some faster then him, brought down by the zombies. Looking out over Grits shoulder, past the meadows of milling dead and the spatterings of Aspen trees at the foot of a distant mountain, at the afternoon sun making the clouds go that bright shade of orange that always reminded him of the easy days of his childhood, SnakePit Man found his thoughts meandering like this steam train, a relic moseying its way along the countryside, up and down, and side to side, over terrain marked as safe by braver men then he, or even stupider, as Grits would have it. SnakePit Man felt like a reborn relic too, sometimes. Something caught his eye fluttering in the wind up ahead, and for a terrible moment he thought a fucking zombie was climbing aboard the train. But, no, at this speed, and out in the open like this, that would just be ridiculous. As the steam train shuffled around a bend in the track, the angle of the train's contours changed enough that he was able to see the caboose more clearly. What he saw made even his old eyes widen, and not for the first time he found himself thinking that waking up Grits early, and facing his wrath, would be the lesser of two evils ---- |
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