Chapter Eight
A man lie in the street, with shadows creeping about him. A trash can fell to the asphalt, alerting the weakened man. His head turned upwards, towards the source of the noise. Something drew near, its heavy breathing rising in decibels as it approached.
The creature fell to the ground, its legs dismembered from is body. More creatures neared. "I'm. not dead yet," Faladon muttered, climbing unsteadily to his feet. His sword, dripping with the Afflicted's coagulated blood, drove downward into the creature again. It spasmed once in agony then lay still.
More approached, and he charged madly, his eyes gleaming with a green tint. Like a bull, he plowed through the horde, hacking and slashing about and around himself. His scimitar now was completely coated with dull dark blood. Three zombies fell to the ground, two headless, the other groping agonizingly at his insides, with his innards seeping out, a dark brownish color.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Fal sat with his knees to his chest, as Sarah did now. It had been two days since he was separated from the party. His stomach was aching from lack of fill. The winter wind blew in and a drizzle was beginning.
Desiccated corpses lay rotting on the ground. The stench was nigh overwhelming. Faladon winced at the rancid smell. He stood to move. He hadn't eaten once since he had left he lab in a rush, to escape the monster there. That was three days ago.
Faladon began to walk away from the battle site, lest he incur the challenge of more Afflicted, drawn by the scent. Into a nearby liquor shop he traveled.
Inside, he found the place was ransacked. It seemed that a lot of people had tried to make their worries about dying faint. Broken bottles lie admidst their spilled contents. Faladon picked his way along the floor, wary of the glass. A hole in the roof leaked water into the room. A puddle of rain was gathering on the cement floor, mixing into the alcohol like vegetable oil in colored water. A sales counter was placed on the western side of the room with various objects on it. A large rack that once held cigarettes was set behind the counter. On the northern side was a door that led into the back of the shop.
Faladon ventured into the door, which gaped like a great black maw. The room bore in its bosom a small table, with many small shot cups strewn on its surface. There were bullet holes scattered around the room, the slugs dug deep into the stained concrete. A handgun lay on the ground, bloodstained and empty, Faladon found as he inspected it.
Faladon left the room and came out into the main sales room. He scavenged about and discovered that there was some food and drink to be had there. It was meager: a bag of potato chips, some fruit, kept unspoiled by its placement in a forgotten icebox, and a bottle of ale. He took up a stool and set it before the only unbroken window. Thence, he sat, not taking heed of the danger to be found by sitting near the window.
He stared out of the window at the solemn setting: a bare street lay before him, with an unsettled car on the broken sidewalk, its windows all shattered. A small stream of water trailed down the panes, blazing its own path down the glass. Fal stared at this for a good while before settling his gaze upon the street once more. Three figures stalked the street cautiously, picking their way carefully through the forsaken way. They were all cloaked in rain and jackets. Faladon recognized one's voice.
"I can't move anymore," a woman spoke, very strangely familiar.
"Hurry up! Unless you'd like to be caught resting in this rain with enemies all about," spoke another woman, this time, foreign.
Faladon now knew who the first speaker was. He hopped off of the wooden stool and burst out the door. A downpour fell on him, weighing him down as though it were solid. He shouted, "Dory! Sarah!"
A man lie in the street, with shadows creeping about him. A trash can fell to the asphalt, alerting the weakened man. His head turned upwards, towards the source of the noise. Something drew near, its heavy breathing rising in decibels as it approached.
The creature fell to the ground, its legs dismembered from is body. More creatures neared. "I'm. not dead yet," Faladon muttered, climbing unsteadily to his feet. His sword, dripping with the Afflicted's coagulated blood, drove downward into the creature again. It spasmed once in agony then lay still.
More approached, and he charged madly, his eyes gleaming with a green tint. Like a bull, he plowed through the horde, hacking and slashing about and around himself. His scimitar now was completely coated with dull dark blood. Three zombies fell to the ground, two headless, the other groping agonizingly at his insides, with his innards seeping out, a dark brownish color.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Fal sat with his knees to his chest, as Sarah did now. It had been two days since he was separated from the party. His stomach was aching from lack of fill. The winter wind blew in and a drizzle was beginning.
Desiccated corpses lay rotting on the ground. The stench was nigh overwhelming. Faladon winced at the rancid smell. He stood to move. He hadn't eaten once since he had left he lab in a rush, to escape the monster there. That was three days ago.
Faladon began to walk away from the battle site, lest he incur the challenge of more Afflicted, drawn by the scent. Into a nearby liquor shop he traveled.
Inside, he found the place was ransacked. It seemed that a lot of people had tried to make their worries about dying faint. Broken bottles lie admidst their spilled contents. Faladon picked his way along the floor, wary of the glass. A hole in the roof leaked water into the room. A puddle of rain was gathering on the cement floor, mixing into the alcohol like vegetable oil in colored water. A sales counter was placed on the western side of the room with various objects on it. A large rack that once held cigarettes was set behind the counter. On the northern side was a door that led into the back of the shop.
Faladon ventured into the door, which gaped like a great black maw. The room bore in its bosom a small table, with many small shot cups strewn on its surface. There were bullet holes scattered around the room, the slugs dug deep into the stained concrete. A handgun lay on the ground, bloodstained and empty, Faladon found as he inspected it.
Faladon left the room and came out into the main sales room. He scavenged about and discovered that there was some food and drink to be had there. It was meager: a bag of potato chips, some fruit, kept unspoiled by its placement in a forgotten icebox, and a bottle of ale. He took up a stool and set it before the only unbroken window. Thence, he sat, not taking heed of the danger to be found by sitting near the window.
He stared out of the window at the solemn setting: a bare street lay before him, with an unsettled car on the broken sidewalk, its windows all shattered. A small stream of water trailed down the panes, blazing its own path down the glass. Fal stared at this for a good while before settling his gaze upon the street once more. Three figures stalked the street cautiously, picking their way carefully through the forsaken way. They were all cloaked in rain and jackets. Faladon recognized one's voice.
"I can't move anymore," a woman spoke, very strangely familiar.
"Hurry up! Unless you'd like to be caught resting in this rain with enemies all about," spoke another woman, this time, foreign.
Faladon now knew who the first speaker was. He hopped off of the wooden stool and burst out the door. A downpour fell on him, weighing him down as though it were solid. He shouted, "Dory! Sarah!"