An impossible location

January 23, 2009

barn in fieldThe two stood looking down at the helmet lying in the long grass.

“How? How is that even possible?” The first asked.

“I dunno man, but you sure it didn’t get through your boot?” The second was looking nervously at the deep bite marks in the others boot heel.

“Goddamit, yeah I’m sure it didn’t get through man! God damn were in the middle of a field, how did this get here, and where the hell is the rest of it?!” In frustration he kicked the combat helmet, sending it and its gnashing contents spinning away.

“We should go put a round in that man, you know, incase someone else steps on it”

“Screw that, forget it, let’s move on”

“Yeah, I was afraid you would say that” said the second man as he leveled his pistol to his companion’s skull and pulled the trigger.

Wiping the blood spray from the barrel with his jacket he strode off to find the kicked clear zombie head.

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Profit in loss

January 22, 2009

“How dare you?! You’re profiting off of us! We fear for our lives every day, we fight every day, and you stand there and demand payment?” The man had risen to his feet, red faced and was shaking visibly with rage “How DARE YOU! How dare you come in here and demand that! We should all work together, it’s our only hope of survival!”

The stranger stood silently on the stage, his face dark beneath the rim of his hat, and looked down at the assembled townsfolk in front of him, to his side and slowly trying to edge his way off of the stage was the town’s mayor.

The man removed the hat, and swept his blond hair back from his eyes, looking around the room, he returned his gaze to the standing townsperson “We have seen worldwide destruction. We watched as countries tore themselves apart, including our own, until the televisions went dark and the power went out. Civilization as we knew it is gone. Our Infrastructure has collapsed and millions are dead and billions more roam the globe undead. Yet here you stand, in your little town, with your little rules, trying to reestablish some sort of civilization. You want things to return to how they were and only acknowledge the undead when they come pounding on your frail walls. Well the civilization that you want to return, demanded payment for an action and profit for a deed, no matter if it was good or bad. I am not demanding anything, I just want payment. If you feel the price is too high, then I suggest one of you enter the wilderness and find this woman yourself.”

The only sound in the little town hall was from the wind outside as it whipped down the street, its whispering howl sending shivers down more than one spine, as the townspeople thought about what was out beyond the towns walls.

“As I thought. I will return in three days. I expect the payment to be waiting for me upon my return.”

As he placed the wide brimmed hat back on his head, he turned to the townspeople again “Do not try and cross me. There are something’s worse than the walking undead”

With that he strode to the doors and out into the cold dark night.


A Well Planned Harvest

January 20, 2009

“Come on! Over here! Come on!!” Screaming and waving his arms at the advancing horde of walking undead Mark smiled. He looked out across the fenced in field as the last few zombies walked into the enclosure, packed beneath their feet was row upon row of dynamite, a simple flick of the switch and the sky would rain body parts. He looked back as Trig plugged the firing cord into the detonator.

“Now” He screamed, and ducked down as Trig twisted the firing mechanism, sending a bolt of current down the stretched out wire toward the field. In the blink of an eye…

In the blink of an eye…

Mark looked up at the still unexploded field, at the first zombie, now only feet away from the splitter. The splitter that was not connected to the firing cord.

He jumped up and started to sprint toward the field.

Nathan, who had until now, been ducked down out of harms way, stood up, rifle in hand and started firing at the advancing horde, trying to buy Mark precious seconds. His shots were accurate, with so many targets he could not fail to hit something, yet they still advanced, walking over the still bodies of those in the front cut down by the rifle.

Trig, her eyes wide, with the firing mechanism clenched in her hands, watched as Mark dashed for his life and offered up a small prayer to anyone who might have been listening.

Lungs and legs burning Mark threw himself at the splitter, grabbing the firing cord up and ramming it into the circuit. He scrambled to his feet, lunging forward so as to sprint back, a hand grabbed his sleeve, twisting him around, the motion tripping him to the ground. He looked up as the bloated face of a long undead woman bared down on him.

As his screams echoed back to the two watchers, Nathan grabbed the mechanism from Trigs unmoving hands and flicked the switch.

After the roar had faded from his ears, and the blood had stopped falling from the sky, Nathan walked to the edge of the now torn apart field. Marks body lay still, half burnt from the explosion, but relatively unharmed.

“I’m sorry brother” he said, as he aimed the rifle at the now twitching eyes and pulled the trigger.


Observation Memo

January 8, 2009

Forward Observer Bradley

Killing Blow Memo

It would appear that despite our rigid, yet hurried training, in the face of the undead onslaught, troops are still having trouble making the killing blow. There X key reasons behind this:

1. Head shots are hard to achieve, more so to achieve an upper head shot, as anything below the nose is usually ineffective. At range this is even more apparent. Observer has noted troops unloading countless rounds trying to take targets out at range. In close proximity, scoring a fatal shot is easier, however, once targets are within melee range, most rifles become relatively useless. Suggest deployment of more auto loading shotguns, as pumping new rounds causes decrease in accuracy and slow firing rate.

2. Skull deflections. Observer has noted multiple deflections from the skull. Bullets that strike the skull at an off angle, causing fractures and crushed bones that would normally stop a healthy grown man in his tracks, do not give zombies pause.

3. Aura of Fear. When in close combat zombies have what can only be called an ‘aura of fear’. Hardened battle units will become panicked, and begin to act and shoot irrationally as zombies move into hand to hand range. Forgetting their training and seeing there weapons having no apparent effect, accuracy falls and mistakes happen at an alarming rate. This effect is compounded as their comrades rise from the grave. Observer has witnessed troops turning their weapons on healthy comrades, mistaking them for risen zombies as their situation becomes dire.

Observation will continue. Recommendations for combat improvements will follow.


Desperate Battle

January 6, 2009

Frozen with fear, his hands shaking and his breath coming in short sharp gulps, he listened to her muffled screams coming from the adjacent room. He knew she was dead, its was only a matter of time, still, he looked at the trail of blood where she had fought a retreating battle, while he had been trying to find the shotgun ammo. Now he hesitated trying to not think about the horror around the corner.

Sucking down a shuddering breath he pumped the shotgun and turned the corner. His wife was on the ground feebly hitting a hulking figure that was gouging itself on her pulled free entrails, the other two zombies turned to him as he entered, reaching pale dead fingers toward his face. Raising the barrel he fired the 12 gauge slug through the first’s outstretched hands and into its face. Rapidly he pumped the shotgun, pulling the trigger as the second grabbed his jacket. The slug caught the zombie in the shoulder, spinning it away from him.

He pumped again, trying desperately to aim for the head as the larger zombie stood up and reached out. The shotgun fired, hitting the chest, and knocking the zombie backward. He pumped again, sighted down the barrel at the larger zombie’s mouth as the blood of his wife oozed out and pulled the trigger. His triumphant smile turned to a scream as the second zombie crashed into him, knocking the shotgun away. He struggled to rise against the dead weight above him, and tried to stop the cold hands from tearing at his throat. They fought for what felt like an eternity, but with no regard for its own health and feeling no pain it was a losing battle. With a sickening wrench the zombie tore his throat clear and as his life blood rapidly flowed from him he looked across at the now still body of his wife and tried to tell her he was sorry.