Skirmishes
In the distance, the sun, holding onto the sky like a desperate madman, waned in its death. The dying rays of light reflected the survivors' courage. Their bravery was dancing on a needle; one stumble and it would be gone, falling into a dark abyss, never to be seen again.
The pinnacle that brightened the peoples' hearts was that their leaders seemed unfazed by the oncoming wave of enemies. They stood at watch, supervising the outside as well as their own holdings. Faladon was with them, a smile on his face, though it was a pseudo smile at that.
And a wave it was: the onslaught of their enemies. Multitudes of slinking shadows now crept across the streets surrounding the park. The fighter within began using anything they could to beat back the oncoming storm. They tossed stones, fired rifles, baseballs. anything they had on their person.
Faladon turned to address Michael. "How else did you guard our self-styled 'stronghold'?" he asked the man as Michael gazed upon the growing battle below.
Michael spoke without moving, solemnly viewing the progress in the battle. "I had the men bolt as many of the main doors as could be locked. Those that couldn't be secured, I had guarded. We are safer in this 'stronghold' than anywhere else."
Faladon just sighed sullenly and turned to his lover. His eyes met hers brown and locked there for a moment, silently telling their story of love to one another.
"Sarah." Faladon whispered so only she could hear. He pulled her close in an embrace.
"Yes?" she asked sweetly into his ear.
"Go into the electronic room, Sarah," he gently commanded. Though he said this with such ease, it pained him inside to see her gone. "Go," he repeated. "You'll be safer there."
"No," Sarah whispered firmly. "I'm not leaving you to get lost again. I don't want to lose you again. I love you Faladon." She lifted her head from the crook of his neck to stare at him adoringly.
"I would rather die with you," she muttered softly. "I would rather die with you than live on without you. I can't, Faladon. Don't you see? I can't leave you again. Why is it that men always seem to have an instinct that makes them want- nay, need- to protect their loved ones from any harm? They should know that it would be better to die next to a lover in the heat of battle than to die without anyone, bitterly; to die of a broken heart."
Faladon looked at Sarah admiringly, taking in her beauty, trying to find an answer for what she just asked. He released her from his grasp and said, "I. will allow you to fight. Just remember that it was yourself, not I, who sentenced you to your death, love. Go get a weapon from the stock."
The woman smiled gently and stood up on tiptoe to engage in a deep kiss with her lover. "I love you," she said when she separated and lowered.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Faladon was now at the main barricade, with Sarah at his side, when a runner came to him, panting like a tired dog. He was wounded all over, with scratches and bites all about his heaving body. He stumbled, and Faladon dashed to offer the man his arm, but the man veered away. He had a pistol in his left hand.
"I've been infected, sir. But I. I came to warn you," he said between forced breaths. "I came to warn you that the zombies have entered the building and are now. they're now at the eastern blockade."
With that last word, the man stood straight. He raised the gun and put it below his chin hastily. "Goodbye," he muttered disjointedly before pulling the trigger.
The retort of the gunshot rang loud through the stadium, but it was miniscule when compared to the fight raging all around. The gunshots from the living fighters retorted loudly, as well as shouts and cries of pain coming from the eastern blockade.
Faladon took Sarah's hand and dashed, with her in tow, to the barrier on the western side of the former ballpark. They raced over the long-dead grass of the field to the entrance, where men braced against a mounting horde of undead.
The western rampart was composed of stadium chairs, all stacked and burning, steel rails, and, of late, dead beings. Men and women were firing weapons or engaging in hand-to-hand combat with the monsters to no avail. They were outnumbered and horribly outmatched.
(Check Chapter 1: The Meeting, now The Gathering of Hosts. It's been edited, though only a bit.)
In the distance, the sun, holding onto the sky like a desperate madman, waned in its death. The dying rays of light reflected the survivors' courage. Their bravery was dancing on a needle; one stumble and it would be gone, falling into a dark abyss, never to be seen again.
The pinnacle that brightened the peoples' hearts was that their leaders seemed unfazed by the oncoming wave of enemies. They stood at watch, supervising the outside as well as their own holdings. Faladon was with them, a smile on his face, though it was a pseudo smile at that.
And a wave it was: the onslaught of their enemies. Multitudes of slinking shadows now crept across the streets surrounding the park. The fighter within began using anything they could to beat back the oncoming storm. They tossed stones, fired rifles, baseballs. anything they had on their person.
Faladon turned to address Michael. "How else did you guard our self-styled 'stronghold'?" he asked the man as Michael gazed upon the growing battle below.
Michael spoke without moving, solemnly viewing the progress in the battle. "I had the men bolt as many of the main doors as could be locked. Those that couldn't be secured, I had guarded. We are safer in this 'stronghold' than anywhere else."
Faladon just sighed sullenly and turned to his lover. His eyes met hers brown and locked there for a moment, silently telling their story of love to one another.
"Sarah." Faladon whispered so only she could hear. He pulled her close in an embrace.
"Yes?" she asked sweetly into his ear.
"Go into the electronic room, Sarah," he gently commanded. Though he said this with such ease, it pained him inside to see her gone. "Go," he repeated. "You'll be safer there."
"No," Sarah whispered firmly. "I'm not leaving you to get lost again. I don't want to lose you again. I love you Faladon." She lifted her head from the crook of his neck to stare at him adoringly.
"I would rather die with you," she muttered softly. "I would rather die with you than live on without you. I can't, Faladon. Don't you see? I can't leave you again. Why is it that men always seem to have an instinct that makes them want- nay, need- to protect their loved ones from any harm? They should know that it would be better to die next to a lover in the heat of battle than to die without anyone, bitterly; to die of a broken heart."
Faladon looked at Sarah admiringly, taking in her beauty, trying to find an answer for what she just asked. He released her from his grasp and said, "I. will allow you to fight. Just remember that it was yourself, not I, who sentenced you to your death, love. Go get a weapon from the stock."
The woman smiled gently and stood up on tiptoe to engage in a deep kiss with her lover. "I love you," she said when she separated and lowered.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Faladon was now at the main barricade, with Sarah at his side, when a runner came to him, panting like a tired dog. He was wounded all over, with scratches and bites all about his heaving body. He stumbled, and Faladon dashed to offer the man his arm, but the man veered away. He had a pistol in his left hand.
"I've been infected, sir. But I. I came to warn you," he said between forced breaths. "I came to warn you that the zombies have entered the building and are now. they're now at the eastern blockade."
With that last word, the man stood straight. He raised the gun and put it below his chin hastily. "Goodbye," he muttered disjointedly before pulling the trigger.
The retort of the gunshot rang loud through the stadium, but it was miniscule when compared to the fight raging all around. The gunshots from the living fighters retorted loudly, as well as shouts and cries of pain coming from the eastern blockade.
Faladon took Sarah's hand and dashed, with her in tow, to the barrier on the western side of the former ballpark. They raced over the long-dead grass of the field to the entrance, where men braced against a mounting horde of undead.
The western rampart was composed of stadium chairs, all stacked and burning, steel rails, and, of late, dead beings. Men and women were firing weapons or engaging in hand-to-hand combat with the monsters to no avail. They were outnumbered and horribly outmatched.
(Check Chapter 1: The Meeting, now The Gathering of Hosts. It's been edited, though only a bit.)