Headshot
Part 1
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to The Zombie Survival Guide, World War Z, or any other book Max Brooks wrote that I haven't heard about. If I did, then the things would get a crapton more publicity. However, I must thank Mr. Brooks for an entertaining, fanfic-inspiring read. Not to mention the knowledge to survive through an outbreak.
A wise man (me)once said that any good horror story starts with the main character running from a monster, then works back to that from the beginning. This one is different. This time, the story really starts when the guy is running...
Chapter 1: Another Day, Another Dead
John Carpenter ran for his life. He really didn't have to, as his pursuers were following at a slow shamble, but instincts had kicked in. The city streets flew by,a blur of smashed windows and destroyed cars, as he sprinted towards the only clear exit out of the city, his footsteps drowned out by the hellish moans of the mob behind him.
Arms outstretched, letting out more and more moans as their numbers grew, the things followed in his path, driving on as though they existed for no other purpose than to destroy him. A large collie, abandoned in the streets, limped out of a building, fleeing before the horde. seeing it, one of them broke off, catching up to the collie and ripping at its flesh, devouring all that it could fit in its mouth over the agonized death wails of the dog.
John screamed as he saw this and sped as fast as his legs would cary him.
Three weeks! Three weeks I waited for help, and for what??, he shouted inwardly. To get eaten by those psychos? To end my life, half-mad, screaming for my mother while those...things close in? I think NOT!
His mad dash grew faster; the cold, concrete construct of the exit ramp, once just another traffic problem on the commute here from home, came into view, a beacon of hope: Maybe I can make it! he thought. And then... it was like God had just smacked him in the face.
A lone figure moved slowly into the space between him and the ramp. John was temporarily stunned, but his silence gave way to blind fury as he charged again.
"If you wanna screw around, let's see how you like the bridge of your nose through your frontal lobe!" he screamed. His adrenal gland was pumping its contents into his bloodstream at top speed, this was bullcrap, he wouldn't die like this, he didn't live on a ration of lunches out of the office fridge for three weeks while his co-workers died and succumbed to the disease to be stopped now by just one of them-
The inhuman thing in front of him smiled. If John were a more observant man, and if he hadn't been so worked up, he would have stopped then. The zombies- he'd gotten by now that there was no other way to put it- didn't have emotions, or a sense of humor, or the capacity to smile for any other reason. So why was it smiling?
Unfortunately, John wasn't an observant man, and he was worked up. He charged, screaming wildly, going for the killing strike-
And it pulled a pistol.
This was just too much. Thinking his lungs would burst from screaming, John dived, impacting on the pitted and burnt cement with a heavy thud. The next things he knew were a deafening bang, a disgusting splat, a heavy weight, and abyssal blackness...
