Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing
Scott's eyes slowly opened as he reached over and grabbed the phone. He put the receiver to his mouth.
"Yea?"
"This is your wake up call, Mr Anderson", came a reply from the other end.
"Thanks", muttered Scott blinking a few times and then setting the phone back down. He swung his feet off the bed, looking over at the digital clock. It read in bold red letters 6:02 AM. He approached his suitcase. When he reached it he bent over and unzipped it. He pulled his white under shirt off and tossed it in the suitcase. He grabbed a gray short sleeved shirt that read "USMS" on the front and pulled it on over his torso. He unbuttoned his slacks and eased them down. He bent over and pulled them off, doing the same for his boxer's. He grabbed a navy colored pair of brief's and slid them on along with a pair of stone washed blue jeans. Next he grabbed a pair of black Nike tennis shoes and pulled them out along with a pair of black short socks. He pulled his dress socks off and slid on his short ones, he then put both shoes on over them.
He gathered up all his dirty clothes and tossed them in his suitcase, which he then zipped up. He approached the table where his badge and gun lay. He scooped up his badge 1st, clipping it on to his waist, then doing the same for his M92F. Wonder whats going on today, he thought to himself grabbing on to the remote. He pressed the power button and the TV flipped on. His eyes shot open as he saw what was on the screen. It was a live feed of Titan City, it showed the hospital court yard where a group of those 'infected', they called them now, were stumbling out of its door. They ranged from doctors in their white lab coats too patients in the blue gowns. A line of officers dressed in riot gear stood to meet them. A few firing canisters of tear gas towards the crowd, having no effect though. As the group got closer to the officers the reporter tried to move in closer. Getting right behind the line of officers. The group was with in 10 feet and they were not backing down. The first one to reach the line of officers was quickly shoved back by an officer holding a riot shield. The line was about 7 men strong, all armed with night sticks and riot shields. The remainder of the group attacked in bulk. All 25 or so fumbling into the officers. It was a blood bath. The infected tore into the visible parts of the officers arms, the men were taken back to say the least. The group overran the line in a matter of 30 seconds or so. Scott shook his head in disgust. The camera man had long dropped the camera and was gone, the reporter wasn't so lucky. From the angle the camera had fallen, her entire body was visible. Two men in blue gowns knelt above her screaming body. She tried to crawl away. She got right by the camera. The men leaned over her stomach and tore into it.
"Oh my god", muttered Scott flipping off the TV.
I think its time we got the hell out of here, Scott thought to himself approaching his duffel bag. A loud female scream was let. It sounded like it came from the lobby. Scott undid his holster and whipped out his M92F. He ejected the clip into his left palm. It was full. He slid it back in. He pointed the barrel in the air and pulled back the slide. He lowered the gun so its barrel was aimed on the ground. He trotted toward his door at a steady speed. Wonder if Jacob is awake yet, he thought to himself turning the door knob and looking out into the dimly lit hall way. It was still fairly dark out so it was kind of hard for Scott to see as he moved down the hall way.
The hallway wasn't very long, the motel only housed about 10 rooms, all on the same floor all in the same hall.
BANG!
Not good, Scott thought to himself quickening his pace. He lifted his gun up as he turned the corner. The Marshal was surprised at the scene to say the least.
First behind the desk, the young African-American clerk was huddled back against the wall of the motel. Then there were two men in navy blue police uniforms. The first officer was older, with short salt and pepper colored hair, in his hands he held a smoking M92F. The second cop was more close to Scott's age. He had well tanned skin with a head of black messy hair, in his hand's a Remington 870. Both officers trained their weapons on a pale blonde haired man. He was in casual clothes that were drenched in blood. His eye were hidden by his hair. He had multiple bullet wounds covering his torso, from the handgun Scott judged.
"How the hell is this fucker still walking!?", shouted the younger officer.
The older officer just lined his sights on the man chest and fired. The gun jumped in the cops hands a little. The round slammed into the pale man. Causing him to stumble backwards, nearly falling over. But he quickly regained his balance, far from dead. He let out a long moan before he started to shuffle towards the officers. That when he noticed the body on the floor. It was pale just like the blonde man. Dressed like an average person covered in blood. He also shared the large array off bullet holes in his torso, just like the blonde man. There was just 1 hole in his forehead though. It didn't take Scott long to figure out how to take the seemingly bullet proof man down.
Scott lowered his gun a little, leveling it with the man's head. Scott looked down his chrome sights. It lined directly up with the side of the mans forehead. Scott removed the safety, slowly moving his gun to keep the shot lined up. Once the safety clicked off he moved his finger on to the trigger, and squeezed.
BANG!
A hole erupted through the side of the pale mans head. Red mist squirted out of the bullet wound and the man almost instantly crumpled to the ground. Scott lowered his gun. I'm guessing they were infected with that virus, he thought to him self. He tucked the gun back in his holster. The two officers had turned towards him and the clerk was out of the fetal postion.
"Good work, son", said the older officer approaching Scott, the younger one following on cue.
"Thank you officer, for future reference it looks like head shots take them down quickest", said Scott.
The older cop reached Scott and held out his hand. Scott gripped the mans head firmly shaking it.
"That was a good shot, mind telling us who you are?", asked the older man releasing Scotts hand.
"Scott Anderson, United State Marshal Service", said Scott indicating his badge clipped to his belt."And you?"
"I'm Sargent Allen Pierce", said the older man."That's officer Peter Billington."
"Can always use a Marshals help", said the younger man, Peter, also shaking Scotts hand.
Scott nodded."How bad is it out?"
"It's getting worst, seems like today the number of reports sky rocketed, we can't even keep up anymore", said Allen now holstering his hand gun.
Scott shook his head in disappointment.
"Scott what the hell is going on out here?", asked Jacob emerging from the dark hallway. His Glock 22 was drawn and held in both hands. He was dressed in the same clothes he wore last night.
"We had some trouble with some of the sick people", said Scott looking over at the two corpses.
"So you shot them!?", yelled Jacob nearing the young Marshal.
"The man he shot had just ripped another man to shreds and was heading towards me and my partner to do the same", said Allen looking at Jacob.
"And you are?", asked Jacob.
"Allen Pierce", said Allen again."And that's my partner, Peter."
"Just call me Jacob, I'm sure Scott has informed you of who we are", said Jacob tucking his gun in his holster.
Scott nodded.
"Well we're glad we could help but...", Scott was saying until he was cut off by a yell.
"Oh my god they're everywhere!", yelled a man as he and a group of 5 or so people burst through the motel's wooden double doors.
"What the hell are you talking about?", asked Allen looking at the man. The man was Native American from the looks of him. Long black hair, dark tan skin, dressed in a navy blue shirt that read 'Chiefs diner' and a pair of blue jeans.
"The walking dead, theirs a whole crowd down the street, heading towards us", panted the man.
The walking dead? That what they're calling them now?, Scott thought to himself.
"We need to barricade the doors", said the clerk.
"Now damn it, these people are just sick, they are not dead!", shouted Allen approaching the door, gripping his pistol by its but.
"Now Allen wait a second, you saw how hard it was to kill one of them, we can't fight off a crowd", said Peter moving towards the older cop and gripping his shoulder.
Allen stopped for a moment, probably to think. Peter looked at the older cop, a look of anxiousness on his face.
"Your right", said Allen in a low voice.
The group had mostly moved to the back, except for the Native American man who was trying to drag a wooden bench in front of the now locked door. Scott was first to react. Scott slowly trotted toward the bench. He nodded towards the Native American man as he reached it. He grabbed the other end, and together the two men lifted the bench. They moved as fast as they could towards the wooden double doors. The others starting to help barricade the door. Scott and the man reached the door, and gently eased the bench down in front of it.
"Good work", said the man who was already moving to find another piece of furniture to use as a barricade. Scott brushed his hands on his jeans.
"Come on Scotty, don't want to get eaten do ya?", asked Jacob picking up a leather recliner.
"Doesn't matter what I want," he muttered and then got back at work.