User: LegendLuigi91
Date: 08/09/2011
Subject: Disposal
I was never good at meeting deadlines.
The post-meeting update turned into a 'Yawn, I'll do it tomorrow' update. And I was like TOTALLY going to do it. But then there were... complications.
Thomas had gone into full Sherlock Holmes mode to figure out just what happened to the zombie pilot whose head had been crushed via sliding door by a certain delirious man who likes to give his snooker cues nicknames. R.I.P Mr. Stabby, you were taken from me far too soon.
It didn't take long to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Somebody had taken a chunk out of the pilot's leg. Being a helpful member of society, the pilot had then locked himself inside one of the chopper's, written a hasty goodbye to his friends and family (Far too pessimistic to post on this blog) and then morphed into a dead man walking.
You know the rest: Pilot Chick releases Zombie; Zombie eats Pilot Chick; Thomas shoots friend in the arm; Best friend vents anger through a never-to-be-published-due-to-zombies-dominating-the-world blog. The usual Tuesday night antics in the English West Country. It's shocking to think that no alcohol was consumed in the lead up to this event.
To be honest, not a whole lot of anything had been consumed. My early dreams of running amok inside a local supermarket had yet to be accomplished. Up to this point we had been living off of noodles and canned goods. But our entire stock was left behind in the abandonment of the Subaru. All we had left was our wits and whatever was left in Tom's man-bag. Oh, and three military helicopters.
Back on topic. We now know that if you got bit, you turn. It sounds obvious to any zombie enthusiast but this invasion didn't exactly come with a rule book. Is it just bites that turn people or scratches too? How long does it take to turn? Was Tenacious D's tour of the U.K cancelled? Could it be the saliva that carried the infection? Not that I was going to go around giving out zombie kisses or anything, it's just good to know these things.
One other thing we didn't know was who bit the pilot before he bit the dust (And then stopped biting the dust and bit the other pilot). The airport runway covered a big area and not all of it could be seen from our little camp site. There were all sorts of hangars and trucks to hide behind. After the pilot debacle none of us felt quite up to starting a zombie hunt. Can you blame us? Instead Mo climbed atop one of the larger chopper's and assigned himself the job of look out.
We covered a few topics during the meeting. The first was; Just how fucked are we? The answer was very. As in, probably going to die within the next several days, very. Next we officially banned Thomas from handling firearms. EVER. Then Mo gave us the intel' on our new inventory/stolen goods. Whilst Thomas bandaged up my new and old injuries, Mo went and had a gander at the Helicopter interiors.
Chopper number one was completely abandoned, stripped of anything useful. This made it the perfect storage area. We didn't have any actual items to store away though, so we decided to use it to store away dead zombie bodies instead. Digging graves isn't easy... Why do I know that you ask? Err... Long story. Let's move on.
Chopper numbero dos was a different story. We hit the mothertrucking motherload. There were three full containers of M.R.E's (Thomas reckons it stands for Meal, Ready-to-Eat. But I think Majorly Revolting Edibles is more likely, they taste like cat turd). On top of that was every kind of tool you could ever use. I say you because I'm pretty clueless when it comes to hard labor, or any kind of labor. Don't get me wrong, I know my way around a power drill, but who honestly knows the difference between a phillips and slotted screwdriver? Not me.
You'd think the army would equip their helicopters with all sorts of assault rifles and explosives but... Zilch. These choppers were ill equipped for dealing with zombie uprisings. The most offensive things Mo could find were a nifty collapsible fire axe and a crowbar. Thanks a lot, Queen Vickie.
There was some stuff we could use too: Water rations, tarps and the like for shelters, big olive-drab rucksacks that I recognized from my hiking days, filled with all sorts of awesomeness (Matches, miniature stoves and more). And of course, my much needed antibiotics. Plus a load of wound dressing and anti-septic cream that went a long way to getting me back on my feet. It was a shame there were no stretchers, the thought of Mo and Thomas carrying me everywhere was a nice one. Sadly it wasn't to be.
The last helicopter belonged to the pilot, or used to at least. This meant we knew it was flyable and fueled. We just didn't have a clue how to get it off the ground - a minor hindrance.
In other news, the Pilot only lasted twenty four hours.
She was falling in and out of consciousness by the time we got to the awkward subject of just what the hell we're going to do about her. Each of us had our own opinion. Tom wanted to wait it out and see what happens. Mo had a different plan: Put her out of her misery. My plan? Well, I just wanted to crawl into a corner and go to sleep, but apparently that wasn't allowed. So the final decision came down to me.
A wise man once said the hardest decision and the right decision are usually the same thing. That man had never seen a zombie gnawing on human flesh. This decision was easy - we couldn't take any chances. If this makes me an asshole then so be it. I'd rather be an asshole than get zombified. Thanks to the antibiotics I was finally thinking straight, probably.
Thomas didn't entirely agree with my passionate speech, perhaps because it was slightly more drug addled than the one I typed above. He was eventually convinced when we realized that we had our very own tool of destruction: The Gun.
We had a little session before the meeting where we took it in turns to hold it and feel bad ass. In England, very few people owned firearms (Excepting Police and Army personnel). You had to either be a criminal, a farmer or rich to get hold of one. Even an approved license involves a police search of your house. Whilst it meant minimal gun crimes, it also meant that when the zombies come a'knocking that we have to make do with nunchucks and pointy sticks. And they aren't ideal, I can tell you.
Nor is living with an infected pilot. She was in a bad shape. I wasn't a first aider or anything but I could tell she was going through one of those fever things. Sweating buckets and shivering at the same time. Coughing up blood, bile and other unsightly fluids. We waited until she fell into unconsciousness, again. Even then she was still whispering gibberish at a hundred miles per hour. Tom removed the roll of tarp he'd put under her head as a pillow (it would be a shame to ruin it with brain splatter).
I watched from a few feet away as Mo raised the gun and just as the last rays of sunlight faded below the horizon, he pulled the trigger.
Click.
Of course the fucking thing was out of ammo. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
And that, my friends, is the thrilling tale of how we didn't kill the pilot.
Twenty hours later Flight Lieutenant Catherine Wood died from her wounds.
Thirty minutes after that she woke up.
Several seconds after that Mo caved in her skull with a crowbar.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't anything.
It's the morning after as I write this. Thomas has been tinkering with the VHF Radio in one of the choppers. He interrupted my impromptu rendition of Radio Gaga by Queen to broadcast some distress calls, so far we've had no response.
We're pretty much back to square one. Relatively safe but with danger right around the corner. A chain link fence won't last long against three dozen zombies. They were pretty agitated after all of the gunshots and I don't think it's because they were worried about my well being. They're after meat.
We decided against infiltrating the airport itself, we're pretty sure that there's a whole host of corpsified critters inside. If there were any survivors then the Air Force would have had them ferried away by now when they first arrived and cleaned up the runway. It's a shame we got here so late (and fucked up the whole operation).
The only job left to do is sort out an escape route. If things turn to shit (Things are totally going to turn to shit.) then we'll want a fully stocked driving machine ready to speed on out of here.
Unfortunately for us our choices are; Minibus, Luggage Caddy or Fuel Truck. It's a tough choice to make.
But I've never tried doing doughnuts in a minibus, so it should be fun.
I'll leave you to do whatever it is your doing. Surviving, I hope.
Remember to stay safe folks, and don't talk to strangers (Unless they offer you sweets).
Luigi Out.