ZombiU is property of Ubisoft 2012
His sleep was rather rudely interrupted by a loud buzzing emanating to his side, echoing through the empty, dimly lit, disenchanting shelter.
Robbie Smith, a Hairdresser from Bournemouth, visiting his auntie and uncle during the hot London summer, groaned to a state of awake. The sleeping bag did his acheing muscles no wonders in the face of the cold concrete's brute force.
"I'm up, I'm up" he eununciated as he sat up and felt his face. He lived in constant fear of that... he couldn't even call it facial hair, it was more like a curse. While bearing it, his friends would give the cruel nickname if "Captain Price" after that sod out of Call of Duty. Shaving the fuzzy bastard off of his face stopped the teasing but it didn't shave off the nightmares.
He reached for a mirror beside him and sighed in sheer relief to see no moustache developing... yet. His short, frizzy, auburn hair bounced him while he reckoned his KISS T-Shirt and brown cargo pants needed washing. Falling asleep in your best clothes was a disaster.
His iPhone vibrated relentlessly as he slowly stood up, ignored his body odour and manned his backpack containing all essentials for this zombie apocalypse: Food, Ammo, Flares, Molotovs, Batteries, Landmines and "The Bat"
What was once an ordinary cricket bat had now been unoficially repurposed into a tool for busting zombie heads. What few residents of the shelter remained named it "The Bat" whilst one jokingly called it "The Staff of Wisdon" Some came, all went but at some point, they all wielded The Bat.
Robbie soon answered the call on his iPhone, care ful to avoid waking anybody up, especially Old Lady Beatrice... oh god not her.
"Now pay attention laddie. What i say cannot be repeated" the thick northern accent of The Prepper ground it's way into Robbie's head like a nail file on mouldy cheese.
"cannot be repeated". Didn't need to. Robbie had quite the eidetic memory. People would often ask why such a profound gift for remembering insignificant things was required in such a menial job as hairdressing. In response he would dye their hair white before shaving it down the middle. He didn't like being patronized.
"ishlab... gwrowrob... schlofligh... shabalabadingdong" the words of The Prepper slipped and bluurend passed through Robbie's early morning mind. Why should i bother? He thought. He always texts me my objectives anyway. Safety measure because of the other bastards that got murdered? The phone soon clicked off, then buzzed to indicate a text had been sent.
He looked at it "Your predecessor was carrying a fully loaded Carbine with a shiteload of ammo when he was bittn. Go over to and fetch it. It could do you good with what i have planned." yeah sure whatever you stupid ponce.
He climbed down into the sewer system manning the cold ladder rungs and soon he made his way into the dark, unnerving, silent, freezing cold, frightening, pants wetting...
what's that feeling by my crotch?