darkknight
Member
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2006
- Messages
- 224
could we get lucky and get the fine gentlemen to finish what he started. it would be pretty awesome.
A Zombie Story Thread
- Thread starter mordechaianiliewicz
- Start date
- Status
CK
Member
Please, can I have some more. I am still periodically come back to see if this is updated.
larry_minn
Member
DRT.
SDC
Member
Now that you know HOW to fight back against the zombie hordes, take the Zombie Survival Quiz: http://www.justsayhi.com/bb/zombie
.45ACPLove
Member
yeah it was great....until i got to here and it wasn't finished. still....it was great while it lasted. thanks for the entertainment that you provided!
mordechaianiliewicz
Member
Alright, so I never finished this story because of writer's block. Horrific writer's block. But, I've been messing with it over the last month. I can finish it up for folks over the course of the next week if folks here would like.
ArfinGreebly
Moderator Emeritus
Permission Granted
As though you had to ask?
As though you had to ask?
mordechaianiliewicz
Member
Chapter 22
The Meetup
The Blackhawk landed in the front "yard" of George and Renee Lincoln. It landed, and shut off, while it's passengers disembarked. Automatically, George recognized both Antonelli, and Stapleton. Then, he narrowed his eyes to recognize Benjamin Braff. If he hadn't been such an econ geek, he would never have recognized the high level functionary. But, he did. In addition, there were three younger troops in Air Force garb.
They were very heavily armed, all of them, except Braff. And, they all moved to come up to the house. Stapleton was in the head of them all, Antonelli, with a grayish pompadour scanning the horizon, and trying his best to act like a much younger soldier. Stapleton's military bearing, short cut hair, and mostly dress uniform gave him a very professionally competent air, despite being both dissheveled, and weighted down with a bag full of ammo mags, and a thick combat dressing on his left arm.
George was wearing an old set of medical scrubs, and Stapleton's first words were, "I need you to look at this."
He nodded simply, instead of saying, "I'm not a Doctor."
The men were led into the home from the side door which led to the home's kitchen. The men assembled by the refrigerator, laying down weapons and web gear. Meanwhile, George opened the wound, cutting the bandage with a pair of medical shears. He looked at the hole in the General's arm, and said, "This is a bullet wound."
"Yes."
"I'd have expected a bite," said George.
"If I'd have been bitten, we wouldn't be having this conversation,"
"I see," said George, accepting that the rules of zombie infection were apparently true in real life. "Well, let me uh.... check this wound."
Looking at the General's arm, he deftly felt the tricep which the bullet had torn partly through. He looked on the other side of the wound, and felt no exit wound. The humerus was still intact, and George felt good about the General's chances. "Okay. I'm no Doctor. I'm a nurse. But... if you get some antibiotics, you should pull out of this just fine, and keep your arm."
"Okay." said Stapleton.
"But, this wound needs to get debrided, and, I can feel the bullet on the other side of your arm. I was going to remove it. Biggest chance of infection would come from a foreign object. I'm going to need to numb your arm though."
"Alright, Doc," said Stapleton, smiling.
The Good Doctor
Carl Heinrich was in front of his new home, and had his pistol out. There was a zombie in front of him. Only thing you could call it. It was like a horror movie. This zombie had been Derek Coleman from next door. A kid who'd never asked about the older couple that had moved in, and mainly just skateboarded up and down the street. Now, he was hunched over, blood running down his chin, and his hands clinched as he heaved heavy, hard breaths. His eyes seemed to be running crazy. That was when Heinrich raised the pistol to the kid's head, his jagged, almost deformed jaw on the bead of the front sight.
"Okay Derek, you're gonna have to back off. I don't want to do this."
But, the zombified neighbor just looked on, then growled while approaching the former Congressman. Heinrich fired a single round at the man's head, and blasted his brains out. At close range, the 9mm round didn't exit, but scrambled his brains, bouncing back through his skull, off the helment the kid had been wearing.
"Oh ****," said Heinrich. He wasn't the type of man to swear, but he'd never taken a life. His whole career had consisted of saving lives. In fact, of helping women give birth. Now, he'd killed a kid. He went to look down at the kid, and he considered feeling for life signs, though it couldn't be possible, when he saw several more zombies around the corner.
He booked to his house. The fact an older man still could run was something he chalked up to clean living. Bicycle riding. Swimming. No smoking. He hadn't drank in years anything more than a couple sips of champaign at the occasional fund raiser.
Blessed he was for this lifestyle, because just as he entered his house, the zombies were there slamming into the front door. He got up his stairs, and got to his gun safe, an older turn dial style. With the safe open, he pulled an M-1A out, along with two loaded mags. And then, a 1911 .45acp. It entered his mind to wonder what his wife was doing where she was, but he pushed the thoughts away. "I have to survive this." he whispered.
There were other weapons in the safe, but these were his only "combat" worthy weapons other than a .357 in his nightstand. So, he took them out, though he thought about the break-open side-by-side 12 gauge he had in the back of the safe. It might have amused some people to know that as big a 2nd Amendment advocate as he was, his collection was quite sedate. Well, now he was wishing he'd invested in some heavier weaponry.
The Meetup
The Blackhawk landed in the front "yard" of George and Renee Lincoln. It landed, and shut off, while it's passengers disembarked. Automatically, George recognized both Antonelli, and Stapleton. Then, he narrowed his eyes to recognize Benjamin Braff. If he hadn't been such an econ geek, he would never have recognized the high level functionary. But, he did. In addition, there were three younger troops in Air Force garb.
They were very heavily armed, all of them, except Braff. And, they all moved to come up to the house. Stapleton was in the head of them all, Antonelli, with a grayish pompadour scanning the horizon, and trying his best to act like a much younger soldier. Stapleton's military bearing, short cut hair, and mostly dress uniform gave him a very professionally competent air, despite being both dissheveled, and weighted down with a bag full of ammo mags, and a thick combat dressing on his left arm.
George was wearing an old set of medical scrubs, and Stapleton's first words were, "I need you to look at this."
He nodded simply, instead of saying, "I'm not a Doctor."
The men were led into the home from the side door which led to the home's kitchen. The men assembled by the refrigerator, laying down weapons and web gear. Meanwhile, George opened the wound, cutting the bandage with a pair of medical shears. He looked at the hole in the General's arm, and said, "This is a bullet wound."
"Yes."
"I'd have expected a bite," said George.
"If I'd have been bitten, we wouldn't be having this conversation,"
"I see," said George, accepting that the rules of zombie infection were apparently true in real life. "Well, let me uh.... check this wound."
Looking at the General's arm, he deftly felt the tricep which the bullet had torn partly through. He looked on the other side of the wound, and felt no exit wound. The humerus was still intact, and George felt good about the General's chances. "Okay. I'm no Doctor. I'm a nurse. But... if you get some antibiotics, you should pull out of this just fine, and keep your arm."
"Okay." said Stapleton.
"But, this wound needs to get debrided, and, I can feel the bullet on the other side of your arm. I was going to remove it. Biggest chance of infection would come from a foreign object. I'm going to need to numb your arm though."
"Alright, Doc," said Stapleton, smiling.
The Good Doctor
Carl Heinrich was in front of his new home, and had his pistol out. There was a zombie in front of him. Only thing you could call it. It was like a horror movie. This zombie had been Derek Coleman from next door. A kid who'd never asked about the older couple that had moved in, and mainly just skateboarded up and down the street. Now, he was hunched over, blood running down his chin, and his hands clinched as he heaved heavy, hard breaths. His eyes seemed to be running crazy. That was when Heinrich raised the pistol to the kid's head, his jagged, almost deformed jaw on the bead of the front sight.
"Okay Derek, you're gonna have to back off. I don't want to do this."
But, the zombified neighbor just looked on, then growled while approaching the former Congressman. Heinrich fired a single round at the man's head, and blasted his brains out. At close range, the 9mm round didn't exit, but scrambled his brains, bouncing back through his skull, off the helment the kid had been wearing.
"Oh ****," said Heinrich. He wasn't the type of man to swear, but he'd never taken a life. His whole career had consisted of saving lives. In fact, of helping women give birth. Now, he'd killed a kid. He went to look down at the kid, and he considered feeling for life signs, though it couldn't be possible, when he saw several more zombies around the corner.
He booked to his house. The fact an older man still could run was something he chalked up to clean living. Bicycle riding. Swimming. No smoking. He hadn't drank in years anything more than a couple sips of champaign at the occasional fund raiser.
Blessed he was for this lifestyle, because just as he entered his house, the zombies were there slamming into the front door. He got up his stairs, and got to his gun safe, an older turn dial style. With the safe open, he pulled an M-1A out, along with two loaded mags. And then, a 1911 .45acp. It entered his mind to wonder what his wife was doing where she was, but he pushed the thoughts away. "I have to survive this." he whispered.
There were other weapons in the safe, but these were his only "combat" worthy weapons other than a .357 in his nightstand. So, he took them out, though he thought about the break-open side-by-side 12 gauge he had in the back of the safe. It might have amused some people to know that as big a 2nd Amendment advocate as he was, his collection was quite sedate. Well, now he was wishing he'd invested in some heavier weaponry.
jordan1948
Member
WOW, that's it just WOW great story can't wait for the next part.
ZeBool
Member
This is truly a phenominal story. Judging by some of the other crap that I have bought from B&N, you should have very little trouble getting a story as entertaining as this is published. Keep Keepin' on!
SDC
Member
If any of you want to try an enjoyable zombie shoot-em-up, the new Call of Duty: World at War has a Nazi Zombie game tacked onto the end, available after you finish the regular game.
mordechaianiliewicz
Member
Chapter 23
Home Surgery
George had General Stapleton laying vertical on the kitchen table. He was conscious, but facing away, a local anesthetic had been injected into his left arm, but George didn't really know how well it was working. He'd considered doing like the old days and trying to get the General drunk on one of the bottles of rum in the cupboard, but, he had no idea how that would affect the local, not to mention that alchohol might be the worst possible anesthetic you can give a person.
This isn't the 1700s and we aren't on a pirate ship, thought George as he worked on debriding the wound and getting ready to do the suturing.
He'd had to push everyone out of the room, because they'd all wanted to watch. He was pushing them out as much for privacy as because he'd never done surgery before in his life. This was a matter of "I've seen it done a thousand times." Other than a couple of times he'd stapled a guy back together, and the time he'd stitched a cut on Renee's leg after an unfortunate incident with a lawn mower, he'd never even come close. But, right now he had a small finger brace in the General's arm acting as a retractor as he cut away critically damaged muscle tissue, and then worked his way back out the other side, stitching the good muscle together as he went.
If the General was in too much pain, he sure wasn't letting on. Once he'd gotten the wound sealed on one side, he went to the other side of Stapleton's arm. Almost all the equipment he had here was equipment his hospital had had to dump because of effective dates marked on the equipment would make it too old to pass a test of the Joint Commission of Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations. The old JCAHO could fine, or even shut down a facility for not passing an inspection. At his hospital, a lot of older gloves, gowns, sutures, and other equipment managed to find it's way into several nurses homes. Granted, it was that or just throwing it out.
He'd rubbed down the table with rubbing alchohol, and used one of the few iodine wands he had to prepare the incision area to remove the bullet. He'd wondered if he should just leave it in, but he'd decided to make a small incision and get the bullet. A foreign object was more likely than anything else to cause a fever and kill the General, though he still wished he had some anpicilin to give him.
He made a small incision under the bullet with a fresh scalpel, and discovered it was in fact barely even under the surface of the skin. He pulled the bullet out and dropped it into a plastic cup, cleaned up the skin with a lap pad, and gave him a few stitches to seal the wound on the other side.
"All done, General," he declared. "But be careful with that arm, I just did some surgery there." he said chuckling.
"Thanks," said the General, sitting up.
George had told him he wasn't a doctor and that he couldn't guarantee anything, but the General had okayed it, saying he'd rather get the bullet out of him than risk gangrene. And he'd gone under the knife after George had done his best to sterilize the small dining room adjoining the kitchen.
"You did a good job, son."
"Shoot, if I was good, you wouldn't even have two incisions." said George, trying to be modest. "Here, let me put a fresh bandage on you."
Home Surgery
George had General Stapleton laying vertical on the kitchen table. He was conscious, but facing away, a local anesthetic had been injected into his left arm, but George didn't really know how well it was working. He'd considered doing like the old days and trying to get the General drunk on one of the bottles of rum in the cupboard, but, he had no idea how that would affect the local, not to mention that alchohol might be the worst possible anesthetic you can give a person.
This isn't the 1700s and we aren't on a pirate ship, thought George as he worked on debriding the wound and getting ready to do the suturing.
He'd had to push everyone out of the room, because they'd all wanted to watch. He was pushing them out as much for privacy as because he'd never done surgery before in his life. This was a matter of "I've seen it done a thousand times." Other than a couple of times he'd stapled a guy back together, and the time he'd stitched a cut on Renee's leg after an unfortunate incident with a lawn mower, he'd never even come close. But, right now he had a small finger brace in the General's arm acting as a retractor as he cut away critically damaged muscle tissue, and then worked his way back out the other side, stitching the good muscle together as he went.
If the General was in too much pain, he sure wasn't letting on. Once he'd gotten the wound sealed on one side, he went to the other side of Stapleton's arm. Almost all the equipment he had here was equipment his hospital had had to dump because of effective dates marked on the equipment would make it too old to pass a test of the Joint Commission of Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations. The old JCAHO could fine, or even shut down a facility for not passing an inspection. At his hospital, a lot of older gloves, gowns, sutures, and other equipment managed to find it's way into several nurses homes. Granted, it was that or just throwing it out.
He'd rubbed down the table with rubbing alchohol, and used one of the few iodine wands he had to prepare the incision area to remove the bullet. He'd wondered if he should just leave it in, but he'd decided to make a small incision and get the bullet. A foreign object was more likely than anything else to cause a fever and kill the General, though he still wished he had some anpicilin to give him.
He made a small incision under the bullet with a fresh scalpel, and discovered it was in fact barely even under the surface of the skin. He pulled the bullet out and dropped it into a plastic cup, cleaned up the skin with a lap pad, and gave him a few stitches to seal the wound on the other side.
"All done, General," he declared. "But be careful with that arm, I just did some surgery there." he said chuckling.
"Thanks," said the General, sitting up.
George had told him he wasn't a doctor and that he couldn't guarantee anything, but the General had okayed it, saying he'd rather get the bullet out of him than risk gangrene. And he'd gone under the knife after George had done his best to sterilize the small dining room adjoining the kitchen.
"You did a good job, son."
"Shoot, if I was good, you wouldn't even have two incisions." said George, trying to be modest. "Here, let me put a fresh bandage on you."
browningguy
Member
Excellent, just found this one, glad you brought it back.
zombienerd
Member
Heh, two hours to read... I love it... Can't wait for more!!! Hopefully it's not a long wait
BHP FAN
Member
Almost as good as World War Z! Keep it up,dude.
mordechaianiliewicz
Member
The Control Room
It had been a whole week of being carted from one town to another for the deputized team of zombie killers who had began in Arizona taking out towns crawling with zombies. They would get flown in by helicopter after a jet made a run, and launched napalm on a sea of zombies. They were getting prepared to take down Phoenix. Officer Sinclair was amongst them, his now well used M-4 sitting on the ground, next to a hodgepodge of men, and a couple of women.
They had developed a strategy not unlike something he'd read about in the Rhodesian War. Teams had been flown in by helicopter after an area was hit with a firebomb from a jet, or another helicopter. The landing team would then "mop up" any residual resistance. In his mind, he considered using the techniques not at all unlike using Nazi scientific research. That being said, he was more than willing to be a "Fire Force" member, in taking back the country a little at a time.
Restless, he stood up, and began to walk through the hastily set up tent city he was in. Trying to discover the nooks and crannies of the place, looking into huge open tents where men worked feverishly. Other tents where men were bunked out, waiting to go back out. In the middle of the place was a pretty well guarded cage with about 25 zombies in it, men with shotguns around, guarding the pen.
Sinclair walked by the cage just as a zombie was being captured with a rope and pole. A couple of men in heavy leather armour, and face masks tried to taze the zombie, but to no effect. Fortunately, this zombie (a she) couldn't resist shackles even if she could resist electric shocks which would have shorted out a normal person's central nervous system. Men in white labcoats entered notes on clipboards, and into PDAs.
As they subdued the woman, another zombie broke out of the cage, moving incredibly fast. He tried to bite into the shoulder of one of the armoured men, but could only clamp down on a thick cowhide breastpiece eerily like the leather armour of 16th and 17th century musketeers, and Conquistadores. Behind the man, a police officer approached, holding a Remington 870, raised it to his shoulder, and with a single blast, took off the top of the zombie's head. They took the zombie girl away, while the men on top of the cage who had controlled the access gate were castigated by an Butter Bar Lieutenant. Part of Sinclair wondered what they were doing, but also figured this wasn't the right time to ask.
So, he moved on. until he came to a big tent with several large diesel generators outside of it. Walking in, he saw a large number of lab coats (as he thought to call them), and folks in obviously civilian clothes scurrying about amongst military attaches.
Trying his best to not look obvious, he simply stood back, and watched. There were 7 LCD big screen TVs set up and computers and sat phones everywhere. He looked on and heard a man in a suit begin to talk to a dark skinned man with straight gray hair over a satellite feed. "President Chodhury, I understand what you're saying, but we haven't had contact with the President for a week now, and the Vice President, and most of Congress were killed."
"You're referring to the bunker in West Virginia?"
"Uh.... yeah," said the man, somewhat embarrased.
"Look, my country is in chaos," said the man in perfect, if heavily accented English, "We might have many people, but they are all committed to stopping this.... tragedy."
"But, we told you about the Containment and Destruction Strategy."
"Yes, but you have to realize, you Americans have guns. Have had guns, for a while. You were able to inpress much of your citizenry into facing these... creatures. We are not an armed country. We had to hand out the better part of our Arsenal's stocks, and we currently have an ammo shortage. Most of our soldiers were on the Pakistani Border, and this disease broke out best we can tell in Bangalore. We've had to transfer many soldiers around, and destroy much of the infrastructure of our nation to work this. We cannot offer you assistance at this time."
"Alright, President." the man said, and the feed cut out. "Damn!"
"Calm down, Director." said a man in a naval uniform.
"Calm down? We are still getting our asses kicked. We don't have contact with Boston right now, New York is burning to the ground, and that includes Manhattan. The Capital. The Capital is literally overrun with zombies, and don't you make a joke right now, Rear Admiral. Have you been able to establish a connection with anyone?"
"No sir."
"And, we hand out the C&D Strategy to the world, and now no one wants to help us."
"Well, I believe the President was in talks-"
"The President is dead, Admiral Neal," said the man. Pulling his hair back. "Have the scientists found out anything yet?"
"A little. But not much. We thought this was viral. It's not. It's not bacterial either. They've isolated a cellular sized structure that seems to be-"
"Seems?" interrupted the man. "They don't know."
"This is best guess. They are running tests on it right now."
It was then that a rather preppy looking guy who looked no older than 20 turned around and said, "I've got the Prime Minister of Japan on right now."
"Great. Let me guess, he's begging for troops, saying they don't have enough troops, or enough weapons to train or arm a militia, right?"
On The Run
Carl Heinrich was on the run again. Not from a shadowy conspiracy, or hit squads. But, from zombies. He'd come this far, to now be running away from a horror movie. He hefted the M1-A in his hands and let off another round, this one smacking the man who'd owned the old pharmacy in town square between the eyes. Mr. O'Brien was really dead now. There were a pile of undead now really dead around the old Congressman.
He didn't think he'd ever done this much shooting in one day. And right now, there were 486 shell casings at his feet. He didn't know the exact number, but he hadn't seen anything approaching this many rounds in one place since serving in Vietnam. He had never watched the zombie flicks of a younger generation, and had not initially shot for the head. His military training had come back, and he'd aimed for center mass. Until he'd noticed it didn't put them down to stay. It didn't even put them down momentarily.
He hopped in his 2006 Ford F-150, and put it in reverse, running over a few bodies with a sickening thud, and then put it in drive, and rolled off at about 30 miles per hour, trying not to hit too many of the dead zombies around him.
Next to him was the .357 with his last 6 rounds. He had a Ruger 10/22 next to him as well, fully loaded. A single .22 round, if it got one of the zombies in the head was as effective a killer as the .308 battle rifle behind him. But he had 1,000 rounds of .22 next to the Ruger, and only part of a mag of .308 left. The .45 had long before run out of ammunition.
He headed for the local Wal-Mart, hoping that they hadn't already been cleaned out by other survivors.
It had been a whole week of being carted from one town to another for the deputized team of zombie killers who had began in Arizona taking out towns crawling with zombies. They would get flown in by helicopter after a jet made a run, and launched napalm on a sea of zombies. They were getting prepared to take down Phoenix. Officer Sinclair was amongst them, his now well used M-4 sitting on the ground, next to a hodgepodge of men, and a couple of women.
They had developed a strategy not unlike something he'd read about in the Rhodesian War. Teams had been flown in by helicopter after an area was hit with a firebomb from a jet, or another helicopter. The landing team would then "mop up" any residual resistance. In his mind, he considered using the techniques not at all unlike using Nazi scientific research. That being said, he was more than willing to be a "Fire Force" member, in taking back the country a little at a time.
Restless, he stood up, and began to walk through the hastily set up tent city he was in. Trying to discover the nooks and crannies of the place, looking into huge open tents where men worked feverishly. Other tents where men were bunked out, waiting to go back out. In the middle of the place was a pretty well guarded cage with about 25 zombies in it, men with shotguns around, guarding the pen.
Sinclair walked by the cage just as a zombie was being captured with a rope and pole. A couple of men in heavy leather armour, and face masks tried to taze the zombie, but to no effect. Fortunately, this zombie (a she) couldn't resist shackles even if she could resist electric shocks which would have shorted out a normal person's central nervous system. Men in white labcoats entered notes on clipboards, and into PDAs.
As they subdued the woman, another zombie broke out of the cage, moving incredibly fast. He tried to bite into the shoulder of one of the armoured men, but could only clamp down on a thick cowhide breastpiece eerily like the leather armour of 16th and 17th century musketeers, and Conquistadores. Behind the man, a police officer approached, holding a Remington 870, raised it to his shoulder, and with a single blast, took off the top of the zombie's head. They took the zombie girl away, while the men on top of the cage who had controlled the access gate were castigated by an Butter Bar Lieutenant. Part of Sinclair wondered what they were doing, but also figured this wasn't the right time to ask.
So, he moved on. until he came to a big tent with several large diesel generators outside of it. Walking in, he saw a large number of lab coats (as he thought to call them), and folks in obviously civilian clothes scurrying about amongst military attaches.
Trying his best to not look obvious, he simply stood back, and watched. There were 7 LCD big screen TVs set up and computers and sat phones everywhere. He looked on and heard a man in a suit begin to talk to a dark skinned man with straight gray hair over a satellite feed. "President Chodhury, I understand what you're saying, but we haven't had contact with the President for a week now, and the Vice President, and most of Congress were killed."
"You're referring to the bunker in West Virginia?"
"Uh.... yeah," said the man, somewhat embarrased.
"Look, my country is in chaos," said the man in perfect, if heavily accented English, "We might have many people, but they are all committed to stopping this.... tragedy."
"But, we told you about the Containment and Destruction Strategy."
"Yes, but you have to realize, you Americans have guns. Have had guns, for a while. You were able to inpress much of your citizenry into facing these... creatures. We are not an armed country. We had to hand out the better part of our Arsenal's stocks, and we currently have an ammo shortage. Most of our soldiers were on the Pakistani Border, and this disease broke out best we can tell in Bangalore. We've had to transfer many soldiers around, and destroy much of the infrastructure of our nation to work this. We cannot offer you assistance at this time."
"Alright, President." the man said, and the feed cut out. "Damn!"
"Calm down, Director." said a man in a naval uniform.
"Calm down? We are still getting our asses kicked. We don't have contact with Boston right now, New York is burning to the ground, and that includes Manhattan. The Capital. The Capital is literally overrun with zombies, and don't you make a joke right now, Rear Admiral. Have you been able to establish a connection with anyone?"
"No sir."
"And, we hand out the C&D Strategy to the world, and now no one wants to help us."
"Well, I believe the President was in talks-"
"The President is dead, Admiral Neal," said the man. Pulling his hair back. "Have the scientists found out anything yet?"
"A little. But not much. We thought this was viral. It's not. It's not bacterial either. They've isolated a cellular sized structure that seems to be-"
"Seems?" interrupted the man. "They don't know."
"This is best guess. They are running tests on it right now."
It was then that a rather preppy looking guy who looked no older than 20 turned around and said, "I've got the Prime Minister of Japan on right now."
"Great. Let me guess, he's begging for troops, saying they don't have enough troops, or enough weapons to train or arm a militia, right?"
On The Run
Carl Heinrich was on the run again. Not from a shadowy conspiracy, or hit squads. But, from zombies. He'd come this far, to now be running away from a horror movie. He hefted the M1-A in his hands and let off another round, this one smacking the man who'd owned the old pharmacy in town square between the eyes. Mr. O'Brien was really dead now. There were a pile of undead now really dead around the old Congressman.
He didn't think he'd ever done this much shooting in one day. And right now, there were 486 shell casings at his feet. He didn't know the exact number, but he hadn't seen anything approaching this many rounds in one place since serving in Vietnam. He had never watched the zombie flicks of a younger generation, and had not initially shot for the head. His military training had come back, and he'd aimed for center mass. Until he'd noticed it didn't put them down to stay. It didn't even put them down momentarily.
He hopped in his 2006 Ford F-150, and put it in reverse, running over a few bodies with a sickening thud, and then put it in drive, and rolled off at about 30 miles per hour, trying not to hit too many of the dead zombies around him.
Next to him was the .357 with his last 6 rounds. He had a Ruger 10/22 next to him as well, fully loaded. A single .22 round, if it got one of the zombies in the head was as effective a killer as the .308 battle rifle behind him. But he had 1,000 rounds of .22 next to the Ruger, and only part of a mag of .308 left. The .45 had long before run out of ammunition.
He headed for the local Wal-Mart, hoping that they hadn't already been cleaned out by other survivors.
- Status
