All The Clues Were There

September 11, 2009

Old-Street

“GET TO THE TRUCK!”

Backing down the alleyway the six heavily armed survivors methodically unloaded bullets into the approaching wall of zombies. Accuracy was not a concern, as long as the shot was aimed at head height a zombie almost always dropped to the floor.

Looking back, Abbey, the group’s leader saw a side door to the alley vibrating and splintering as something on the other side tried to get through. Swinging her weapon she fired a full clip into the flimsy wood. As she reloaded she called out “Mark, Anthony, get to the truck and start it up, we need to go!” Firing several last rounds each they turned and sprinted for the vehicles, Mark jumping into the cab and Anthony hopping into the flat bed. As Anthony’s shots began to fly over their heads into the approaching crowd and the roar of the trucks engine coming to life filled the air Abbey gave the order “Alright, one more clip each then run!” and with that the remaining survivors unloaded the rest of their loaded ammunition, turned and fled to the waiting vehicle.

Pulling each other onto the flat bed, they each took up positions and began to fire again, trying to hold their aim steady as Mark rammed the vehicle into gear and began to accelerate. With a sudden crash a nearby door leading to the street shattered outward and a large, dark skinned man emerged, running toward them.

With a startled scream, Abbey, the closest person to the rapidly approaching figure, pulled the trigger and sent a hail of bullets into and through the man, ripping through him, sending him crashing to the floor, clutching at his throat as blood pumped out across his hands and onto the dusty street. As the truck picked up speed Abbey watched as the man, now on his knees, was enveloped in dust from the truck. For a minute there was silence, broken only by the sound of the trucks suspension creaking as they drove.

Finally, Anthony looked up at Abbey “Zombies don’t run Boss” he said.

Advertisements

Self Control

September 4, 2009

Old Clock TowerThe old French town had seen better days, and as Jean picked his way carefully over the rubble he wondered if he would ever see those days return. Dropping to his knees alongside an overturned and burnt out car, he scanned the town square for sign of movement. His gut screamed at him to keep going, but his brain, in calm control, forced the fear down. Hasty action resulted in death these days, he had seen it countless times, had watched the fear overtake people’s minds, driving them to flee, to fight, to make fast, stupid decisions.

He stayed silent and still for several more seconds, before finally, with agonizing deliberation and slowness, set off across the square, staying close to the larger chunks of debris and scanning the dark, empty store fronts and doorways, as he made his way toward the base of the clock tower.

He approached cautiously, reaching out with one hand to test the handle, while pointing his small revolver at head height at the door frame. Twisting the handle he pushed, only to knock the door against the dead bolt in place. “Dammit” he exclaimed as he turned back to look out across the square, trying to locate another suitable location to hide for the night.

As he looked around he heard a loud wooden creak from above, looking up with wide eyes, he watched as the top floor window splintered outwards, showering a cloud of glass and wooden splinters around a dark figure of a man as he stepped out into the void above Jean. Throwing himself into the door, he tried to press himself backward as the figure hurtled toward him. With a sickening crunch the man slammed into the ground, dragging his face down along Jean’s leg, shredding muscle and leaving teeth and fragments of bone imbedded into Jean’s outstretched leg.

Screaming in pain and panic Jean fired wildly as the disfigured man, began to pull himself up with jerky sporadic movements, before slumping back to the ground as the bullets shattered what remained of his skull. “NO!” Jean screamed as he looked at his torn and bleeding leg and at the now still zombie lying in front of him. “NO! NO!” He screamed again, violently kicking the still body in a fit of rage and spraying dark black red blood across the floor. As the rage subsided Jean slid down the door in exhaustion and pain. As he sat there breathing deeply he heard a distant sound. He closed his eyes and swore as the low moans of a dozen zombies reached his ears. He looked up and could make out the first of them emerging from an alleyway, shambling toward him with hungry murder in its eyes. Jean looked at the approaching zombie, looked at his pistol, aimed and pulled the trigger.


A History Lesson by Michael Sullivan – A Community Story

September 2, 2009

A second story from Michael Sullivan is here!

Click here to read ‘A History Lesson‘ by Michael Sullivan

Authors Biography:Michael is a mild-mannered 29-year-old currently deployed to the Middle East with the U.S. Army. Other examples of his writing can be seen here. His blog, which has almost nothing to do with zombies, can be viewed here. And if you have a fever whose only prescription is more zombies, check out my friend Tony’s zombie-themed blog right here.