Title: Lets Kill Tonight
Pairing: S(p)uck
Background pairings: Brittana, Faberry.
Rating: PG-13 (Rating will probably change)
Summary: Sam Evans had lived a normal life of football, music, and comic books. Then, upon hearing the news of an abrupt evacuation, everything changed. He quickly learnt that a vicious infection was spreading like wildfire across the globe, causing the brain cells to malfunction and the victim to become a mindless predator that relys fully on the instinct to hunt, kill, and eat. Or, more popularly known, zombies. Sam finds himself within a small group of survivors, fighting off the infected as they make their way across the country in search of refuge, and fighting off his blooming feelings for one particular survivor.
Genre: Angst/Romance/Supernatural/Drama
So basically this is a small prologue, and then the following chapter will rewind to the first sign of infection, and the rest will follow until it gets to the point set just before this scene. It's set during a zombie apocalypse, but due to my large obsession with Left 4 Dead, it won't be embarrassingly inaccurate. This prologue is pretty short, but that's just because I don't want to put too much detail into it so that it isn't very easy to guess the ending - proper chapters will be of decent length and include dialogue, etc. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and a review would be loved. (:
-Hayleigh
A soft whistle echoed through the field as the biting wind coiled maliciously around the bare branches of the overhead tree, a thick mound of decaying leaves lining the trunk; edges curling inwardly as their colour slowly drained into a morbid, murky brown. The sun was slowly beginning to sink down beneath the tree tops, leaving the sky a blank canvas of darkness – not a star in sight. The grass itself was a yellowish brown colour, desiccated from the days on end with no sign of downpour. It hadn't been long since the field was alive with the sound of gut churning screams and gunshots. Not anymore. Now, all was silent, apart from the soft whistling of the wind.
Sam Evans was knelt down in the heart of the vacant field, a thick layer of crimson stained his clothes from head to toe, leaving a coarse smell in the air, a smell he had become so very familiar with over the last few months – the smell of bloodshed and death. His body shook violently, but not a single sound escaped his throat, even as the tears began rapidly trailing down his dirt-caked cheeks. Not a single sound. His body was hunched over the motionless figure that was sprawled out before his rotten knees, surrounded by a scarlet river of blood that clung to the dried out grass and shone faintly in the moonlight.
Over the last few torturous months, Sam had slaughtered more than his fair share of infected – fast ones, slow ones, weak ones, and deadly-as-fuck ones – but, here he was, sobbing uncontrollably over the fresh corpse of a contaminated – scratch that – a contaminated that was close to taking his life mere seconds ago. His shotgun lay carelessly by his side, the barrel still warm from the blast. The memory sickened him, the sound of gunshot echoing through his mind as if on repeat. He swatted the weapon aside carelessly, not wanting it anywhere nearby. Not now, at least.
He remembered when 'zombies' were nothing but a myth – a scary tale from a horror movie of sorts – when he had never held a gun, or fought through a crowd of infected neighbours, or fled his hometown and family for that last hope of survival. It felt like years had passed, when really, it had been mere months.
Leaning forward, Sam reached out his trembling arms to grasp desperately at the pale arm by his legs. It was limp, and incredibly cold, but he couldn't bring himself to let go. Instead, he just held on tighter, a soft quiver of sound escaped his throat before he erupted with sobs, his body convulsing as all the pain and anger escaped through his tears. He buried his face into the stained cloth of the corpse's shirt, feeling multiple pairs of hands grasping at him from behind, heaving him away from the scene despite his kicks and screams of resistance that echoed stridently around the otherwise silent field.
The first sign of infection – that was where it all began, when people started to second guess themselves and their ideas on myth and reality – and that's exactly where his story began. Sam Evans: the survivor, the friend, the lover, the killer