Post by grrman on Oct 30, 2006 22:53:06 GMT -5
You might be wondering why I'm posting so many stories... well, I like to review over them time and again to revisit my past quirks and faults. Sorry if I'm flooding the board.
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Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out. Step. Step. Step. Step. Stumble. Step. Stumble. Stumble. Step. Step. Step. Tree. Ground. Sky. Rage. Step. Step. Step.
Yeah. As I pulled myself off the ground after my high-speed disagreement with my tree, I could reflect back on my thoughts. Which, for the most part, were composed of my body's subtle messages lancing through my body. Messages which mainly consisted of 'run faster'. Because, you know, zombies aren't really the kind that'll help you back to your feet after a nasty fall. Quite the opposite, really. They'll actually try and make you fall, and then they'll pile upon you, biting and tearing and clawing at your flesh, until you die. And then you become on of them, and all Hell breaks loose.
You might be wondering what the flying **** I'm talking about. Well, I'm in a position to tell you, so I shall.
You see, perhaps a few weeks ago (well, more like two), there had been talk of a terrible epidemic, mainly in Asia. It struck the body in the time of twenty four hours, lowering temperature, blurring sight, stiffening limbs, basically putting the victim into a semi-coma. They would suddenly start awake, and be prone to violence. They seemed still in their sleepy state, unable to speak coherently or generally use the most basic of motor skills. At first, it seemed a minor concern. Very few were afflicted, and it seemed to be mainly prominent in adults, possibly due with something with the immune system's effiecientcy. The number of children afflicted seemed to get over it in the space of an hour or so and seem fine. This was most puzzling.
But that was just the lull before that storm. More and more people were contracting the disease, at an accelerated rate. It seemed that all bodily fluids were capable of spreading the disease, from blood to sweat. Dogs and other mammals became infected, along with birds and reptiles. Insects seemed undisturbed by the monstrousity of a plague, and went about their business. It spreaded so quickly, some cities were overrun by maddened people in short amounts of time.
Despite wide protest, these outbreaks could not be contained, and military force had to be used. Families and friends wept as the beloved were gunned down for the general welfare, and one soldier who had participated in the massacre had said, "It was terrible. Like shooting down a bunch of sleepwalkers or something."
Then things started to get ****ed up.
The diseased became more and more gruesome. They began to rot, for their bodies only supported the basic necessities of the body, but not the others, such as digesting and so forth. Their skin molded, their blood congealed. It has become some sort of deranged zombie movie- only too real. All too real.
Thankfully, the larger areas of population have been sterilized, and scientists have resorted to saturating the air of larger cities with a form of alcohol, that apparently slowed the disease's travels. Those who were suspected to be infected were hospitalized, detained, treated, and if they could not be healed back to full health, deported to labs and studied. It was all most interesting.
But it became too much. Cities overrun, countless people reduced to slavering masses of curdled flesh. I left my home base of Tokyo, and, consumed by rage and bloodlust, sought out my foes, and began to kill them. One by one. Man, woman, child, it didn't matter anymore- they were just hollow, shadowed shells of their former selves.
But, not we come to the present, with me, all out of ammunition, my guns renedered useless, armed with little more than a combat knife. Well, this is just peachy, eh?
Well, I hadn't ****ed myself all the way over, yet. Running through the heavily wooded forest, I found myself in a small clearing, and, lo and behold, a small shack lying their, tranquil as can be.
I ran inside, and a rather cheeky zombie thought he could dive through the door before I closed it. After slamming the door into his face, another lunged from behind him and tried to push it open. The door opened inwards, luckily, or I would've been stark dead. Locking the door, I barricaded the windows with some of the floorboards. Now, feeling slightly safer, I observed my surroundings.
A wooden cabin, abandoned, though no spiders or insects had taken residence yet. A deer's head mounted above a cold fireplace, two armchairs, one of those old phones with the spinny things, aggravatingly inoperative (believe me, I tried), some quiant paintings, a bearskin rug. Yeah, that was my current base of operations at the moment. Not a very good one, mind, but it was better than out there.
All the while, zombies were pounding against the door, windows, sides of the cabin, their moans almost deafening. Unfortunately, the lock guarding the door was aged, and it sure didn't look like it felt like keeping guard all too much longer. Now faced with a slight dilemma, I glanced back to the windows to see them occupied by bloodied heads and fists and floorboards, and thought things over. Escape? Nah. Surrender? **** that shit. Fight? Umm... didn't feel like it. Hide? Hey, why not.
I searched around. My primal, yet fatal instincts didn't lie; there was a trap door leading to a cellar. Look man, God closes a door, has zombies beat their heads against it, and he opens a trap door leading into dusty darkness. Isn't he a nice fellow?
I stepped down cautiously, minding the rotting steps, and descended the stairs. There weren't many steps, maybe fifteen or twenty, and oddly, enough light illuminated the place, though I didn't know from where it came. Shrugging to myself, I glanced around, and finding the place clear, I closed the trap door over my head, and walked back down.
Well, it was stark. Some pipes, a rusted chainsaw, gasoline, a machete, some hunting equipment, and, well, some other shit that wasn't going to be much use to me any time soon. I decided to weather out the storm of the dead, at least for an hour or so. Luckily, adrenaline and the constant threat of cardiac arrest had kept my stomach busy. I wouldn't be hungry- much less thinking of anything edible- for at least a few days.
Blam. Oh, shit. If there's one sound you never, ever want to hear, it's that of a ton of zombies crashing through a door into a cabin that you're hiding in the cellar of.
Well, the zombies were mighty confused, now. Unable to see me anywhere, some darted outside, struck by the brilliant thought that I had climbed up the chimney and slipped by unnoticed. The less retarded ones. Searched about the cabin, looking for anything suspicious. One poked the phone, and exclaimed loudly in terror as he pushed it off it's stand onto the ground with a dinging clatter. A number of zombies jumped the phone and clawed and knawed on it until it ceased making any sound. Content with striking down the telephone, they continued hunting for me.
Maybe my masculine, sexy scent was too overpowering, or maybe a zombie up there had an actual hundreth of a brain instead of coagulated shit, or maybe that cellar trap door was too conspicuous. There was a scratching noise, and, oh shit, the trap door was flung open, and a number of zombies looked down to see me, blinking up at them. They blinked back, and promptly lunged towards me, moaning, arms flailing, and a good amount of them went tumbling down the stairs in a mass of flying rotting entrails. The wiser ones carefully tried to manipulate the steps, but stairs are mighty tricky for zombies, and almost all of them tumbled to their doom, or, what I hoped was.
But those zombies died die at the drop of a bloody body hitting the bottom of a staiway. They rose, carefully, stiffly, and began to come at me.
Well, some thoughts popped into my head. Not very good ones.
I looked to my right. A chainsaw. Hey, good enough for me. I grabbed it, and pulled that string-thing a couple times. Son of a two-scent cockbitch, out of gas. Desperate, I abandoned the thought of a roaring chainsaw, and settled for a silent one. Swinging it about like a madman, I must've killed about three; a head rolled from a weak neck, blood spurted from the chest of another. One fell over from heart failure. But a rusty, not-on chainsaw doesn't kill hordes of zombies. It soon became too heavy for me, and I dropped it. I grabbed a machete off the shelf to my left, pulled my foot-long titanmium ubersteel combat knife of kickass from it's sheath, and carved a path of chaos and terror through the zombies. That was only a couple inches long, judging that I was ****ing surrounded by them. After dicing up a few, a lucky swat sent that machete clattering away. My knife got stuck in a zombie's forehead and wouldn't come out.
I was backed against a cement wall, generally unarmed, and about to die. Well, I was sure ****ed. Is this the end for me? Or does something miraculous happen, and do I survive? Hmm, let's find out.
Now usually, when you think of someone's last stand, it's something like fighting off hordes of terrible fiends whilst dying for a great and wonderful cause, thus becoming a loved matyr to the world, your name cherished and sung for ages to come.
Yeah, well, that wasn't my case.
More like, trying to savor the last moments of your life by backing against a brick wall by zombies and hoping for something miraculous to happen. Such as, all of the zombies around my simultaneously suffering a sodium and water inbalance, causing them to spontaneously combust and blow to bits. Rediculous? Of course, but when you're sitting on Death's doorstep after you've rung the doorbell, the most improbable of thoughts become utterly plausible.
So, it was to my great surprise when I hear someone scream,
"OZZZZYYYY TO THE REEEEESCUUUUUUUUUUUUE!"
Yeah. I wished I was dead at that moment.
A number of shotgun blasts tore through the air, cutting the through the wall of approaching zombies and reducing them to bloody masses on the ground. One of the shotgun pellets nicked my ear, and brought me back to my senses. Now with a little breathing room, I dove to the ground, and, sliding, I yanked my combat blade from a certain zombie's forehead and turn to face my assailants. Just in time, because one lunged towards me and sent us both tumbling to the ground. My nose filled with the scent of rot and blood, I struggled to keep the zombie's groping hands away from my face. I drove my fist into its jaw, and, stunning it slightly, I rolled 'round so that he was pinned against the ground and I was crouched over him. I pulled back my arm to run my knife through his dead brain, but a cold hand shot up and got my around the neck. Now, if you've ever had someone put your neck in a tourniquet, and constricted your neck to the point where your flesh was pressed against your spinal cord, you'd know what it felt like having a zombie try and strangle you. Just to my luck, that dan zombie threw up another arm in defense and grabbed my right wrist to keep my from striking the fatal blow. With one hand at my throat and another pulled back behind my head, I slowly contemplated what to do. Until it hit me. Well, literally, it hit him.
I removed my hand from my throat, and punched the zombie in the face. His grip faltered on my wrist, and I drove the knife into his chest. The zombie's grp slackened, and I pulled the knife from the zombie's bosom, and as an afterthought, clawed his lifeless hand from my neck before rigor mortis kept me imprisoned in his morbid grasp. I stood up-
And the body moved, and lashed towards me.
Maybe it was a stroke of great luck, but I twisted in such a perfect fashion to meet the blow of my foe that I rammed the blade of my combat blade into his eye, all the way to the hilt. Frigid, thick blood ran down my hand, and I once more retrieved my prized weapon from the body of another slain. I then felt at my throat, and feeling no terrible wound, and I pulled myself off the ground to behold who had come to my rescue.
And my throat felt constricted again.
Clothed in a brown suit that belonged to the forties, with a brown hat and dress shoes, that damn orange and brown-striped tie, blue eyes, birdbeak nose. Ozzy Martinez.
"Well now, GrrMan. It would seem I have arrived in the nick of time."
"If only a moment later, and it would've been adequate."
Ozzy frowned. "You seem... almost displeased to see me."
"Don't mistake my tone for that of gratitude," I grated.
"GrrMan, please! Must you hold rivalries forever bitter and bleeding?" Ozzy gestured at the zombies littering the floor. "If it weren't for me, you'd be one of them! If anything, this should render all previous misunderstandings void."
"Hardly."
Ozzy threw his hands up in the air, and, promptly threw down his old WWII shotgun, resulting in a hollow clunk. "Damn it all, GrrMan!" He spun to face me. "I've found a way to stop the zombies, but all you can do is wallow in your own conspirings!"
I blinked. Honestly, this was getting quite interesting. "Wait," I said. "Stop the zombies? How so?"
"Quite simply," he announced, pleased that I was actually going along with whatever the Hell he was talking about. "I understand you're familiar with the city of Zatkya?"
"Possibly."
"GrrMan!"
"So perhaps I do!" I snarled. "What about it?"
Instead of displaying aggravation, he seemed content with my attention alone. "Well, in brief, it's been noted that many zombies have spawned there. Supposedly, it may be one of the most concentrated areas of viral influence." He paused. "Therefore," he finished, "we simply blow it up."
I scoffed. "This is your master plan? Blowing up cities?" I shook my head. "Why didn't you go to the military about this?"
"Ah, an excellent question," praised Ozzy. "For one, the military is far too busy keeping the zombies at bay as it is. They do not want to use any artillery, for there is always the lingering fear of a more dire time when they will be needed."
"This isn't dire enough for them?"
"It would seem not."
"Wait," I interjected. "How'd you find me?"
"You blazed a trail of violence miles long. It wasn't difficult to find you; there were countless zombies tailing you."
Well, I suppose I couldn't deny that. My seemingly deranged rampage throughout the wildreness had left a trail of gore and intestinal remnants that a deaf, blind, and neurotically asleep dog with a cold could follow with relative ease. At this point, I was running out of arguments, and running out of patience. At this point...
"GrrMan, you hate the zombies. As do I. You wish to kill them? Well, here's your grand chance! You cannot let an opportunity such as this pass us by so easily!"
Damn. He had me there.
Another argument formed in my throat, yet it faded soundlessly into death before it could break my lips. All that escaped was a slow, resigned sigh.
"Lead the way, Martinez."
Ozzy brightened visibly, and cheerfully ascended the stairs with me trudging behind him. I eyed the corpses littering the floor of the cabin, and analyzed each and every one to make sure that they were stock still.
"Don't worry," assured Ozzy. "They're quite dead."
I hoped so.
Casually walking into the open sunlight despite the constant threat of zombies, he began to stride towards a large red object. So blindingly red, it faded the trees around us. What was it-
Oh, shit. I felt my right eye shrivel into its socket.
Four decades younger than Ozzy's suit, it had the tail fins, the pointy rear lights, the oddly rectangular shape. How it seemingly clashed with the world around it. I was astonished at how he had kept the thing in such condition, yet disgusted at how... utterly abominable it was.
"Ozzy... what is this car doing here?"
"Well, GrrMan, do you think I walked here the entire time? You're quite the ambler, if I do say so myself."
"But... why this? Can't you buy a normal car? Like normal people?"
"GrrMan, please, I don't criticize your taste in automobiles. I'd appreciate it if you did the same."
"Very well," I muttered, trying to avery my eyes from the bright red paint job. And yet, it was so painfully brilliant, my eyes were unconsciousl attracted to it. Damn car. "I'll drive," I offered weakly.
"But of course," agreed Ozzy.
Odd. Ozzy was usually one to bicker over such trivialities. This whole zombie jambaroo must've straightened him out in the head or something.
We were near an adequate highway, so I pulled it out of park and began weaving through the trees. We'd occasionally bump over something fleshly, yet Ozzy made no qualm at gore stuck in his wheels. Which was good, judging that I didn't want to deal with any more bitching from him.
Maybe after a few minutes, we emerged onto the highway. Glancing toward both sides of the road, I was greeted by little more than more forested area. I didn't like this, being inclosed in a forest with zombies. Gives you a claustrophobic feeling, you know?
We drove in silence for a while, but after a large number of moments, Ozzy reached into his suit, and pulled out a magnum revolver. I blinked at him.
"Ozzy... what're you doing?"
"What?" he said, seemingly unknowing that he had drawn a firearm. "Oh, this. Well, let me just say... the streets aren't as safe as they used to be, if you will."
I can't say I understood what that meant, but after about thirty seconds of dull driving I made an educated guess. A number of zombies were wandering about the road, apparently the byproduct of the virus taking hold a gas station or resort or something. Laughing, Ozzy leaned out the window and began to fire at them.
"Left... right! No, don't let them get away, GrrMan!" cried Ozzy, as he shot at the zombies that were aimlessly milling about. One turned towards the speeding vehicle and started to stumble towards the car. Ozzy pulled the trigger, and the back of the undead's skull blew outward in a spray of cerebral matter and blood.
"Ha ha!" He shouted. "Got him in the eye!"
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Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out. Step. Step. Step. Step. Stumble. Step. Stumble. Stumble. Step. Step. Step. Tree. Ground. Sky. Rage. Step. Step. Step.
Yeah. As I pulled myself off the ground after my high-speed disagreement with my tree, I could reflect back on my thoughts. Which, for the most part, were composed of my body's subtle messages lancing through my body. Messages which mainly consisted of 'run faster'. Because, you know, zombies aren't really the kind that'll help you back to your feet after a nasty fall. Quite the opposite, really. They'll actually try and make you fall, and then they'll pile upon you, biting and tearing and clawing at your flesh, until you die. And then you become on of them, and all Hell breaks loose.
You might be wondering what the flying **** I'm talking about. Well, I'm in a position to tell you, so I shall.
You see, perhaps a few weeks ago (well, more like two), there had been talk of a terrible epidemic, mainly in Asia. It struck the body in the time of twenty four hours, lowering temperature, blurring sight, stiffening limbs, basically putting the victim into a semi-coma. They would suddenly start awake, and be prone to violence. They seemed still in their sleepy state, unable to speak coherently or generally use the most basic of motor skills. At first, it seemed a minor concern. Very few were afflicted, and it seemed to be mainly prominent in adults, possibly due with something with the immune system's effiecientcy. The number of children afflicted seemed to get over it in the space of an hour or so and seem fine. This was most puzzling.
But that was just the lull before that storm. More and more people were contracting the disease, at an accelerated rate. It seemed that all bodily fluids were capable of spreading the disease, from blood to sweat. Dogs and other mammals became infected, along with birds and reptiles. Insects seemed undisturbed by the monstrousity of a plague, and went about their business. It spreaded so quickly, some cities were overrun by maddened people in short amounts of time.
Despite wide protest, these outbreaks could not be contained, and military force had to be used. Families and friends wept as the beloved were gunned down for the general welfare, and one soldier who had participated in the massacre had said, "It was terrible. Like shooting down a bunch of sleepwalkers or something."
Then things started to get ****ed up.
The diseased became more and more gruesome. They began to rot, for their bodies only supported the basic necessities of the body, but not the others, such as digesting and so forth. Their skin molded, their blood congealed. It has become some sort of deranged zombie movie- only too real. All too real.
Thankfully, the larger areas of population have been sterilized, and scientists have resorted to saturating the air of larger cities with a form of alcohol, that apparently slowed the disease's travels. Those who were suspected to be infected were hospitalized, detained, treated, and if they could not be healed back to full health, deported to labs and studied. It was all most interesting.
But it became too much. Cities overrun, countless people reduced to slavering masses of curdled flesh. I left my home base of Tokyo, and, consumed by rage and bloodlust, sought out my foes, and began to kill them. One by one. Man, woman, child, it didn't matter anymore- they were just hollow, shadowed shells of their former selves.
But, not we come to the present, with me, all out of ammunition, my guns renedered useless, armed with little more than a combat knife. Well, this is just peachy, eh?
Well, I hadn't ****ed myself all the way over, yet. Running through the heavily wooded forest, I found myself in a small clearing, and, lo and behold, a small shack lying their, tranquil as can be.
I ran inside, and a rather cheeky zombie thought he could dive through the door before I closed it. After slamming the door into his face, another lunged from behind him and tried to push it open. The door opened inwards, luckily, or I would've been stark dead. Locking the door, I barricaded the windows with some of the floorboards. Now, feeling slightly safer, I observed my surroundings.
A wooden cabin, abandoned, though no spiders or insects had taken residence yet. A deer's head mounted above a cold fireplace, two armchairs, one of those old phones with the spinny things, aggravatingly inoperative (believe me, I tried), some quiant paintings, a bearskin rug. Yeah, that was my current base of operations at the moment. Not a very good one, mind, but it was better than out there.
All the while, zombies were pounding against the door, windows, sides of the cabin, their moans almost deafening. Unfortunately, the lock guarding the door was aged, and it sure didn't look like it felt like keeping guard all too much longer. Now faced with a slight dilemma, I glanced back to the windows to see them occupied by bloodied heads and fists and floorboards, and thought things over. Escape? Nah. Surrender? **** that shit. Fight? Umm... didn't feel like it. Hide? Hey, why not.
I searched around. My primal, yet fatal instincts didn't lie; there was a trap door leading to a cellar. Look man, God closes a door, has zombies beat their heads against it, and he opens a trap door leading into dusty darkness. Isn't he a nice fellow?
I stepped down cautiously, minding the rotting steps, and descended the stairs. There weren't many steps, maybe fifteen or twenty, and oddly, enough light illuminated the place, though I didn't know from where it came. Shrugging to myself, I glanced around, and finding the place clear, I closed the trap door over my head, and walked back down.
Well, it was stark. Some pipes, a rusted chainsaw, gasoline, a machete, some hunting equipment, and, well, some other shit that wasn't going to be much use to me any time soon. I decided to weather out the storm of the dead, at least for an hour or so. Luckily, adrenaline and the constant threat of cardiac arrest had kept my stomach busy. I wouldn't be hungry- much less thinking of anything edible- for at least a few days.
Blam. Oh, shit. If there's one sound you never, ever want to hear, it's that of a ton of zombies crashing through a door into a cabin that you're hiding in the cellar of.
Well, the zombies were mighty confused, now. Unable to see me anywhere, some darted outside, struck by the brilliant thought that I had climbed up the chimney and slipped by unnoticed. The less retarded ones. Searched about the cabin, looking for anything suspicious. One poked the phone, and exclaimed loudly in terror as he pushed it off it's stand onto the ground with a dinging clatter. A number of zombies jumped the phone and clawed and knawed on it until it ceased making any sound. Content with striking down the telephone, they continued hunting for me.
Maybe my masculine, sexy scent was too overpowering, or maybe a zombie up there had an actual hundreth of a brain instead of coagulated shit, or maybe that cellar trap door was too conspicuous. There was a scratching noise, and, oh shit, the trap door was flung open, and a number of zombies looked down to see me, blinking up at them. They blinked back, and promptly lunged towards me, moaning, arms flailing, and a good amount of them went tumbling down the stairs in a mass of flying rotting entrails. The wiser ones carefully tried to manipulate the steps, but stairs are mighty tricky for zombies, and almost all of them tumbled to their doom, or, what I hoped was.
But those zombies died die at the drop of a bloody body hitting the bottom of a staiway. They rose, carefully, stiffly, and began to come at me.
Well, some thoughts popped into my head. Not very good ones.
I looked to my right. A chainsaw. Hey, good enough for me. I grabbed it, and pulled that string-thing a couple times. Son of a two-scent cockbitch, out of gas. Desperate, I abandoned the thought of a roaring chainsaw, and settled for a silent one. Swinging it about like a madman, I must've killed about three; a head rolled from a weak neck, blood spurted from the chest of another. One fell over from heart failure. But a rusty, not-on chainsaw doesn't kill hordes of zombies. It soon became too heavy for me, and I dropped it. I grabbed a machete off the shelf to my left, pulled my foot-long titanmium ubersteel combat knife of kickass from it's sheath, and carved a path of chaos and terror through the zombies. That was only a couple inches long, judging that I was ****ing surrounded by them. After dicing up a few, a lucky swat sent that machete clattering away. My knife got stuck in a zombie's forehead and wouldn't come out.
I was backed against a cement wall, generally unarmed, and about to die. Well, I was sure ****ed. Is this the end for me? Or does something miraculous happen, and do I survive? Hmm, let's find out.
Now usually, when you think of someone's last stand, it's something like fighting off hordes of terrible fiends whilst dying for a great and wonderful cause, thus becoming a loved matyr to the world, your name cherished and sung for ages to come.
Yeah, well, that wasn't my case.
More like, trying to savor the last moments of your life by backing against a brick wall by zombies and hoping for something miraculous to happen. Such as, all of the zombies around my simultaneously suffering a sodium and water inbalance, causing them to spontaneously combust and blow to bits. Rediculous? Of course, but when you're sitting on Death's doorstep after you've rung the doorbell, the most improbable of thoughts become utterly plausible.
So, it was to my great surprise when I hear someone scream,
"OZZZZYYYY TO THE REEEEESCUUUUUUUUUUUUE!"
Yeah. I wished I was dead at that moment.
A number of shotgun blasts tore through the air, cutting the through the wall of approaching zombies and reducing them to bloody masses on the ground. One of the shotgun pellets nicked my ear, and brought me back to my senses. Now with a little breathing room, I dove to the ground, and, sliding, I yanked my combat blade from a certain zombie's forehead and turn to face my assailants. Just in time, because one lunged towards me and sent us both tumbling to the ground. My nose filled with the scent of rot and blood, I struggled to keep the zombie's groping hands away from my face. I drove my fist into its jaw, and, stunning it slightly, I rolled 'round so that he was pinned against the ground and I was crouched over him. I pulled back my arm to run my knife through his dead brain, but a cold hand shot up and got my around the neck. Now, if you've ever had someone put your neck in a tourniquet, and constricted your neck to the point where your flesh was pressed against your spinal cord, you'd know what it felt like having a zombie try and strangle you. Just to my luck, that dan zombie threw up another arm in defense and grabbed my right wrist to keep my from striking the fatal blow. With one hand at my throat and another pulled back behind my head, I slowly contemplated what to do. Until it hit me. Well, literally, it hit him.
I removed my hand from my throat, and punched the zombie in the face. His grip faltered on my wrist, and I drove the knife into his chest. The zombie's grp slackened, and I pulled the knife from the zombie's bosom, and as an afterthought, clawed his lifeless hand from my neck before rigor mortis kept me imprisoned in his morbid grasp. I stood up-
And the body moved, and lashed towards me.
Maybe it was a stroke of great luck, but I twisted in such a perfect fashion to meet the blow of my foe that I rammed the blade of my combat blade into his eye, all the way to the hilt. Frigid, thick blood ran down my hand, and I once more retrieved my prized weapon from the body of another slain. I then felt at my throat, and feeling no terrible wound, and I pulled myself off the ground to behold who had come to my rescue.
And my throat felt constricted again.
Clothed in a brown suit that belonged to the forties, with a brown hat and dress shoes, that damn orange and brown-striped tie, blue eyes, birdbeak nose. Ozzy Martinez.
"Well now, GrrMan. It would seem I have arrived in the nick of time."
"If only a moment later, and it would've been adequate."
Ozzy frowned. "You seem... almost displeased to see me."
"Don't mistake my tone for that of gratitude," I grated.
"GrrMan, please! Must you hold rivalries forever bitter and bleeding?" Ozzy gestured at the zombies littering the floor. "If it weren't for me, you'd be one of them! If anything, this should render all previous misunderstandings void."
"Hardly."
Ozzy threw his hands up in the air, and, promptly threw down his old WWII shotgun, resulting in a hollow clunk. "Damn it all, GrrMan!" He spun to face me. "I've found a way to stop the zombies, but all you can do is wallow in your own conspirings!"
I blinked. Honestly, this was getting quite interesting. "Wait," I said. "Stop the zombies? How so?"
"Quite simply," he announced, pleased that I was actually going along with whatever the Hell he was talking about. "I understand you're familiar with the city of Zatkya?"
"Possibly."
"GrrMan!"
"So perhaps I do!" I snarled. "What about it?"
Instead of displaying aggravation, he seemed content with my attention alone. "Well, in brief, it's been noted that many zombies have spawned there. Supposedly, it may be one of the most concentrated areas of viral influence." He paused. "Therefore," he finished, "we simply blow it up."
I scoffed. "This is your master plan? Blowing up cities?" I shook my head. "Why didn't you go to the military about this?"
"Ah, an excellent question," praised Ozzy. "For one, the military is far too busy keeping the zombies at bay as it is. They do not want to use any artillery, for there is always the lingering fear of a more dire time when they will be needed."
"This isn't dire enough for them?"
"It would seem not."
"Wait," I interjected. "How'd you find me?"
"You blazed a trail of violence miles long. It wasn't difficult to find you; there were countless zombies tailing you."
Well, I suppose I couldn't deny that. My seemingly deranged rampage throughout the wildreness had left a trail of gore and intestinal remnants that a deaf, blind, and neurotically asleep dog with a cold could follow with relative ease. At this point, I was running out of arguments, and running out of patience. At this point...
"GrrMan, you hate the zombies. As do I. You wish to kill them? Well, here's your grand chance! You cannot let an opportunity such as this pass us by so easily!"
Damn. He had me there.
Another argument formed in my throat, yet it faded soundlessly into death before it could break my lips. All that escaped was a slow, resigned sigh.
"Lead the way, Martinez."
Ozzy brightened visibly, and cheerfully ascended the stairs with me trudging behind him. I eyed the corpses littering the floor of the cabin, and analyzed each and every one to make sure that they were stock still.
"Don't worry," assured Ozzy. "They're quite dead."
I hoped so.
Casually walking into the open sunlight despite the constant threat of zombies, he began to stride towards a large red object. So blindingly red, it faded the trees around us. What was it-
Oh, shit. I felt my right eye shrivel into its socket.
Four decades younger than Ozzy's suit, it had the tail fins, the pointy rear lights, the oddly rectangular shape. How it seemingly clashed with the world around it. I was astonished at how he had kept the thing in such condition, yet disgusted at how... utterly abominable it was.
"Ozzy... what is this car doing here?"
"Well, GrrMan, do you think I walked here the entire time? You're quite the ambler, if I do say so myself."
"But... why this? Can't you buy a normal car? Like normal people?"
"GrrMan, please, I don't criticize your taste in automobiles. I'd appreciate it if you did the same."
"Very well," I muttered, trying to avery my eyes from the bright red paint job. And yet, it was so painfully brilliant, my eyes were unconsciousl attracted to it. Damn car. "I'll drive," I offered weakly.
"But of course," agreed Ozzy.
Odd. Ozzy was usually one to bicker over such trivialities. This whole zombie jambaroo must've straightened him out in the head or something.
We were near an adequate highway, so I pulled it out of park and began weaving through the trees. We'd occasionally bump over something fleshly, yet Ozzy made no qualm at gore stuck in his wheels. Which was good, judging that I didn't want to deal with any more bitching from him.
Maybe after a few minutes, we emerged onto the highway. Glancing toward both sides of the road, I was greeted by little more than more forested area. I didn't like this, being inclosed in a forest with zombies. Gives you a claustrophobic feeling, you know?
We drove in silence for a while, but after a large number of moments, Ozzy reached into his suit, and pulled out a magnum revolver. I blinked at him.
"Ozzy... what're you doing?"
"What?" he said, seemingly unknowing that he had drawn a firearm. "Oh, this. Well, let me just say... the streets aren't as safe as they used to be, if you will."
I can't say I understood what that meant, but after about thirty seconds of dull driving I made an educated guess. A number of zombies were wandering about the road, apparently the byproduct of the virus taking hold a gas station or resort or something. Laughing, Ozzy leaned out the window and began to fire at them.
"Left... right! No, don't let them get away, GrrMan!" cried Ozzy, as he shot at the zombies that were aimlessly milling about. One turned towards the speeding vehicle and started to stumble towards the car. Ozzy pulled the trigger, and the back of the undead's skull blew outward in a spray of cerebral matter and blood.
"Ha ha!" He shouted. "Got him in the eye!"