Disclaimer: I own nothing but the zombies! Muhahahahaha!
He's surprised to find that everything is so...deserted. He knew people wouldn't be out and about, but he figured he'd see someone on a two hour drive. He looks around as the gas tank fills, scanning the street, the businesses around. Nothing. He strains his ears, but all he can hear are the wind and the gas pump. Heaving out a sigh, he walks around to the right side of the car, removing the vomit-soiled foot mat and tossing it into the nearest bin. It had been bothering him through the whole course of the drive, but he hadn't wanted to stop unless he'd absolutely needed to, like now, for petrol.
He knows it won't take his mind off of the situation, but he reaches for the sudsy brush anyway, and goes about cleaning the blood off of the hood and grill, until there's nothing but his reflection and the gloss of the dark cherry paint staring back at him. Mustang. He muses. Ford. American car. I must've stolen it from a collector. I'll have to get it back them after we get through this. His eyes close for only a moment.If we get through this...The pump cuts off with a clunk, bringing him back to the present. He doesn't bother paying after screwing the cap back on. Instead, he pulls the car over to the little store just a few yards away, parking parallel with the door.
The engine remains on and the car door open as he walks in, grabbing a paper sack from the register. The store is a tiny place, just big enough for the wall in front of him to be occupied with refrigerated drinks, the wall to his right with breads, string cheese and sandwiches, and the wall to his left with the register, smoking devices and lighters. Everything in between are shelves of candies, crisps, and other such snacks. He proceeds through the store quietly, filling the bag first with breads and cheese, then crackers, crisps, and chocolates. Another bag is filled with drinks: sodas, water, energy/coffee drinks. Yet another bag is filled with alcoholic beverages, cigarette lighters and a few boxes of cancer sticks.
After loading all of this into the backseat of the Mustang, he ventures behind the register. Money, for once, is undesired. Nothing of use is found, thus he travels to the outdoors business just across the street, parking in the same manner. The floor is the first thing he notices: concrete, spotted with blood stains. He pauses for a moment in the doorway, listening, looking. Nothing but mounted animal heads stare back, and the only sound is the breeze rustling price tags on various objects. He proceeds cautiously, taking only a few steps at a time, stopping to look and listen. He's delighted to find that most of the shelves are loaded down with rifles. All different types. Hunting rifles, military/assault rifles, shot guns, all of different calibers. The counters are lined with case after glass case, full of pistols of every different flavor.
He uses his elbow to break several of the display cases, grabbing a particular shiny, silver magnum placed cleverly next to its shoulder holster in one case, loading it before securing it on his person. Next, he shoves a black magnum between his lower back and jeans, and another against his belly. Venturing behind the counter, a hunting rifle and 12-gauge occupy the cradle of his left elbow, an AK-47 his right hand. He loads them into the vehicle, goes back for at least three bags of ammunition, one bag of cleaning supplies. Walking around to the camping supplies, he makes sure to grab the most powerful torches he can find, and a bag full of batteries. He's preparing to leave when something stirs from the back of the store. At first he thinks it's just the breeze again, stirring up price tags, then realizes it's more of a scratching sound. He freezes, drawing the black magnum from his belly, holding it before him with both hands.
"Hello?"
The sound stops for a moment, then a jingling starts up. He takes a few steps towards it, pulls the cock back.
"Is anyone there? I'm not infected."
The scratching begins again, the jingling intensifies. A whimper fills the store, soft, then crescendos to a high-pitch. Jones stops completely, brows knitting.
"Are you hurt?" That's another thing he needs to grab...medical supplies. He walks slowly for the sound, peaking around isles of various camping supplies, hands beginning to shake. "I won't ask again. If you're there and uninfected, I need to know now."
He rounds the last isle, aiming the magnum cautiously at the site. There's a huge dog, ears pricked forward, grey eyes observing him. He realizes quickly that it's a Great Dane, mostly black with white socks and neck. His muzzle is also white, a stripe between his eyes. The jingling is coming from the multiple tags on his collar, and the scratching from his antsy paws on the concrete floor. He looms over an older, white-haired man, presumably the manager due to his blood-stained blue vest. Jones coughs and covers his nose and mouth, still pointing the magnum at the dog. The man's body is mostly devoured, the organs almost all gone, the skin chewed. The face can't be identified by looking at it, the lower lip having been ripped mostly off and the features scratched up.
The dog whimpers and paces around in the dried blood, claws clicking on the floor. He pauses every now and then to look at his master, then Jones, then paces more. Jones lowers the gun slowly to his side, shakes his head a few times. "Sorry, pal." He says from behind his hand, "Come 'ere, buddy, come on." He says gently.
The dog stares at him, seemingly sizing him up. His tail tucks between his legs, ears flatting back against his head. He whimpers again and paces, walking slowly to this new stranger. Jones notices first off that there's a bite mark on the right side of the dog's neck, human, and days old. Odd. He thinks. Are animals not affected by this disease? He seems totally docile. He scratches the animal behind the ears as it sits before his feet, whimpers coming a little softer, now. "There's a good dog." He coos. He slides the leather collar around to look at the tags, the first one shaped like a silver bone, reading, "Charlie". The next one is a blue oval, with the owner's information on it, and the last one is just a dog tag, green, containing his health information.
"All up to date on our shots then, Charlie?" He says softly, giving him a good rub on the head before standing up straight.
Charlie wags his white-tipped tail slowly, raising his ears slightly.
Jones looks around the area, mostly filled with deer stands and tents. Nothing here he can use. He gives the old man one more look, shivering as he walks away, beckoning quietly for Charlie to follow. A friend is a friend, no matter the form...and in these times...a friend is most definitely an essential. He leads Charlie to the front of the store, grabbing items along the way (mostly clothing), stopping to mount a duffle bag of medical supplies onto his shoulder, and again for dog food.
"Charlie, c'mon boy." He says, slamming the trunk shut.
Charlie stands, rump to Jones, tail totally still and ears pricked forward.
"Charlie, come." He repeats.
A low growl rumbles in the bottom of Charlie's throat, lips peeling back to reveal slick, white fangs. Jones's pulse accelerates. If it's another one of those...things...The silver magnum comes out of the shoulder holster, biceps tensing, senses heightened. He stays as close to the front of the building without sliding his shoulder against the bricks, hugging the corner as he peeks around it.
There are three of them.
The one standing closest to him is male, light blue dress shirt ripped and covered in blood...fresh blood, dribbling down from his chin. His skin, Jones notices, isn't as ashy or slightly green as the other two. A newly turned zombie, perhaps? His brown hair is still mostly there, just a few clumps missing. He still has a bit of meat to his bones, even muscle, but he still stands hunched over like the others. Something deep red rests in his hands...dripping blood onto the concrete.
The female is in a worse state, to say in the least. Her skin actually does have a green tint to it, though it isn't incredibly obvious unless she's stared at. Her hair is also brown, very stringy, but still there, for the most part. Her eyes (color undetermined) look as though they're sunken back into her face, while her cheek bones stand out profoundly. Her pink polo shirt is also stained with blood, though it looks like it's been there longer than the first zombie's stains. She leans back against the building while sitting on a crate, staring at nothing in particular.
The third zombie, like the first, is male, and in the worst condition of them all. His shirt is so ripped that it can hardly even be called a shirt anymore, revealing most of his upper body. His skin is nearly brown with decomposition, looking more like leather than skin, clinging to his protruding ribs and caved-in belly. He looks starved (aren't all zombies starving, though?), standing there, hunched over more than the other two, staring with crazed hunger at the bloody object in the other male creature's hands. He has blood on him, too, but it's days old, splattered across the remnants of his shirt and all over his jeans. Jones realizes with horror there are clumps of blue mixed in with the shredded shirt...a worker of the outdoors shop, and most likely the old manager's killer.
Jones pulls back around the corner, leaning against the wall. Trying to calm his frantic pulse, he takes a few deep breaths, then peaks around the corner again. A cat, short-haired, black, jumps down from a stack of boxes near the creatures, walking past them with bristled hair. The infected things just stare at it as it passes, except for the starved one, who continues staring at the object that Jones has realized is one of the organs from the victim in the building. He also realizes that the cat is coming his way, and ducts back around the corner, taking a few more steady breaths.
The cat comes into his view, pausing for a moment to analyze him. Noting a difference in this creature from the others, it sits, swaying the tip of its tail slowly. Cocking its head, it mews softly.
"Go on." He whispers. "Go away!"
Its tail stops. It mews again, louder.
"Leave me alone, you damned thing!" He whispers vainly. "Shoo! Go on! Go on!"
Now it flat-out cries, long and loud, prancing up to him to rub against his legs. Around the corner, he can hear one of the creatures growl and shuffle its feet, then a splat, most likely the organ hitting the ground. He squeezes his eyes shut, shoving the animal away with his left foot. The shuffling gets louder. Dare he chance a look? He peeks around. The organ was indeed dropped, the nearly-starved one laying on the ground chewing on it. The female is standing, shuffling his direction, and the muscular one...has spotted him.
It lunges at him with frightening speed, forcing him to jump away from the wall and fire. Three shots penetrate his chest, slowing him down just long enough for Jones to fire at the female. Lead hits her legs, forcing her down. Charlie takes advantage, running and clenching her throat in his jaws. In an instant he rips her esophagus out, thrashing his head from side to side. The nearly starved zombie, happy enough (if zombies can be happy) continues laying on the ground, just eating. The muscular zombie, however, is back up, charging at Jones again. In a panic, he fires off several shots, each landing in the heart area. The creature continues running at him.
*click*
The silver magnum falls to the ground, empty, and before he can grab one of the black ones, the creature dives on him. It pins him to the ground with bloodied fingerers, gnashing its teeth just inches from his face. Jones grabs at the bits of shirt that aren't covered in blood, pushing up on the thing's shoulders with his fists, pushing up on its belly with his right knee. The creature is strong...much stronger than he'd earlier anticipated. It strains against his hands, lowering its head close...too close to his face...
Charlie rams into muscle monster just hard enough to give Jones an advantage. He shoves it off of him with his other knee, sending it tumbling just a few feet away. The creature only has enough time to look up before Jones pulls the trigger of black revolver number one, then again, and again. The gun is clicking by the time he's done; a whole clip used up on one monster's head. Understandably, he lays there...dead. Dead. A dead dead zombie. Jones rolls over quickly, drawing the revolver from against his back, pointing it at the other two. They're dead dead, too, their necks completely chewed through by Charlie. Speaking of Charlie...He looks to his left. The big dog is just sitting there, panting, tail wagging slowly. He looks at the creatures, chewed up, then at the dog, then muscles to his right. All dead.
He pushes himself up onto shaky feet, retrieving his weapons. He blows the dirt out of the barrels and empties the shells from the magazines, loading them again before tucking them into their new homes. He calls Charlie into the still running car, grabbing a few items from the store again before leaving. He's learned something today, and it may be the most crucial thing to survival. The brains must be destroyed, or the heads severed, in order to kill the creatures.
You know what I dislike? When people add my stories to their alerts list...and then DON'T review! If they add it to their alerts, they obviously like it, and obviously have good things to say about it. Please review? Your opinions are gasoline to my flame. Even if you don't have much to say, just tell me what you think, I'll appreciate it!
DarknessDeadly: You hate zombies? *pout* I love a good zombie story! To each his own...Hopefully you won't be disappointed, there will be plenty of destruction! Thank you for liking it, and thank you for reviewing!
