bortleman
02-07-2011, 02:47 AM
The empty street was confettied with old news papers that rolled up the street with the wind. The blue hues of dusk settled as the sun slipped below the horizon. A neighboorhood normally littered with suburbian life was quiet. Open doors creaked with the sounds of an old carnival ferris wheel. Several garbage cans lay tipped over like large bags of popcorn, their contents scattered across the black top. A van filled with a family's cherished memories smoldered in its awkard parking spot in the middle of the road. The sliding door was open.
Jeremiah walked cooly down the pavement toting a shotgun on his shoulder. A worn leather duster swept against the gas mask fastened to his dirty jeans. He wore a tight fitting tactical vest. It was clumsily modified, but effectivly held six pistols of varying calibers. At the site of the oddly parked vehicle, he tipped his camouflage baseball cap up. Through the stains of sweat around the headband you could still read "PJ Helicopters" sewn boldly on the face. He rubbed his stubbly chin as he weighed the dangers of the surroundings.
Bringing the shotgun into the grip of both hands he slowly walked towards the van. He rolled back onto his heels and then forward to his tip toes attempting to peer into all nooks of the car. It was safe enough. Jeremiah began to dig through the contents throwing everything 'useless' onto the street. He paused as he picked up a plush stuffed animal. Half of the dogs smile was burnt off, the charcoal fiber still smoking. He began to wonder who this toy belonged to. If there were any fond memories attatched to it. Did it sit under a perfect Christmas tree one year, handsomely dressed with a bow awaiting the affection of a young child? Perhaps it was the gift given upon one of the first dates of a young couple.
A gutteral groan echoed from the nearest empty house. Jeremiah whirrled around to find the a buisness man staggering towards him. His rotten flesh was dripping off his face like slow molassas. Out of where his jaw should have been dribbled old black blood that stained his ripped white collar shirt.
The terrible thing groaned again, and luckily for Jeremiah, nothing answered it's call. It lurched forward, it's head dangling backwards like a balloon being pulled along on a string. Jeremiah thought about ending the confrontation now with his 'boomstick', but decided he had enough time to use some finess. He set the shotgun down and pulled out his 9mm. From his inner jacket pocket he removed a silencer and screwed it into place, his gaze still fixed on his opponent. It locked into place as the creature moved within 10 feet of Jeremiah.
He steadied his aim and took slow steps backwards, allowing the beast to continue to make some progress. The decaying man outstretched his arms and let out another visceral moan. Just as it's fingers began to brush Jeremiah's shoulders, the back of its head exploaded. The body slumped to the ground as Jeremiah disassembled his weapon and re-equipped his shotgun.
The sky was getting dark, and even though it was just as dangerous during the day as it was at night, Jeremiah wanted to find a place to hold up in. Maybe it was just the limits of his vision, but the nights seemed to hold more terror. To his dismay, there were no two story houses, but his eyes fixed on an expertly built tree fort a few places down. That would be a great place to rest, zombies couldn't climb trees anyways.
Jeremiah walked cooly down the pavement toting a shotgun on his shoulder. A worn leather duster swept against the gas mask fastened to his dirty jeans. He wore a tight fitting tactical vest. It was clumsily modified, but effectivly held six pistols of varying calibers. At the site of the oddly parked vehicle, he tipped his camouflage baseball cap up. Through the stains of sweat around the headband you could still read "PJ Helicopters" sewn boldly on the face. He rubbed his stubbly chin as he weighed the dangers of the surroundings.
Bringing the shotgun into the grip of both hands he slowly walked towards the van. He rolled back onto his heels and then forward to his tip toes attempting to peer into all nooks of the car. It was safe enough. Jeremiah began to dig through the contents throwing everything 'useless' onto the street. He paused as he picked up a plush stuffed animal. Half of the dogs smile was burnt off, the charcoal fiber still smoking. He began to wonder who this toy belonged to. If there were any fond memories attatched to it. Did it sit under a perfect Christmas tree one year, handsomely dressed with a bow awaiting the affection of a young child? Perhaps it was the gift given upon one of the first dates of a young couple.
A gutteral groan echoed from the nearest empty house. Jeremiah whirrled around to find the a buisness man staggering towards him. His rotten flesh was dripping off his face like slow molassas. Out of where his jaw should have been dribbled old black blood that stained his ripped white collar shirt.
The terrible thing groaned again, and luckily for Jeremiah, nothing answered it's call. It lurched forward, it's head dangling backwards like a balloon being pulled along on a string. Jeremiah thought about ending the confrontation now with his 'boomstick', but decided he had enough time to use some finess. He set the shotgun down and pulled out his 9mm. From his inner jacket pocket he removed a silencer and screwed it into place, his gaze still fixed on his opponent. It locked into place as the creature moved within 10 feet of Jeremiah.
He steadied his aim and took slow steps backwards, allowing the beast to continue to make some progress. The decaying man outstretched his arms and let out another visceral moan. Just as it's fingers began to brush Jeremiah's shoulders, the back of its head exploaded. The body slumped to the ground as Jeremiah disassembled his weapon and re-equipped his shotgun.
The sky was getting dark, and even though it was just as dangerous during the day as it was at night, Jeremiah wanted to find a place to hold up in. Maybe it was just the limits of his vision, but the nights seemed to hold more terror. To his dismay, there were no two story houses, but his eyes fixed on an expertly built tree fort a few places down. That would be a great place to rest, zombies couldn't climb trees anyways.