When the Man Comes Around: Survive? Yeah, we survived the apparent end of the world. But, there's a lot more to surviving than just staying alive. When the world tries to take a bite out of you, sometimes you have to fight back. And you have to fight back with everything you have.
Disclaimer: I do not claim to have any ownership to any of the characters that may be recognized throughout this story. Several characters from the Resident Evil Universe are portrayed in this story, but they are in no way the main characters. However, the storyline does borrow from concepts presented in the Capcom creations, so please do not sue me! In addition, Kurt Morgan is a creation of a good friend of mine; I'm merely borrowing him.
Rating: This story is rated M+ for Mature Audiences only. Adult content including coarse language and a great deal of violence and gore. Please do not read if you are uncomfortable with zombie-related things!
"My wife was afraid of the dark... then she saw me naked and now she's afraid of the light." - Rodney Dangerfield
Chapter Four
(Anna)
"There's something out there."
That went without saying. I shook my head in Coop's direction as I sipped my coffee quietly, eyes straining to make out anything in the darkness. We were perched on top of the closed-in porch, sitting side by side. There was no rear entrance, and Willie had decided that the front entrance was the house's only real weakness.
And, of course, I got stuck on first shift. Like always.
"Hand me those night vision goggles," he muttered, holding out his hand. I rolled my eyes as I slapped the goggles into his hand, ignoring the way that he shifted forward, leaning against the make-shift quarters. He had his rifle out and looked ready to take down anything as he peered around. "Shh. You hear that?"
I closed my eyes and focused for a second, surprised when I heard what sounded like loud scraping. "Eleven o'clock," I whispered, nudging his knee. I wasn't sure what it was, but it sure as hell didn't look like a mailbox. That, and it seemed to be wobbling.
The rifle was a high-powered thing of beauty, one that could eat through the side of an armored truck silently. There was a faint popping sound and a second later, the wobbling mailbox was on its side. Silence filled the night air again and I released a sigh. "Glad it wasn't a Moaner," I muttered, relieved. Other undead seemed to be attracted by the sounds of their brethren - either when they were in pain or ecstasy; meaning those that were injured or those that had found a source of food. "Wait a second - what was that?"
A low and rumbling sound echoed through the night air causing my stomach to clench in anticipation. I wasted no time in picking up a pair of night vision goggles. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and I quickly swept my gaze over the length of the dark street, expecting the worst and hoping it was nothing.
"Shit." Coop nudged me hard in the side and put his hand on the back of my neck, urging me to look in his direction. My stomach performed an Olympian-inspired somersault as I spotted the trail of undead ambling down the street. "How the fuck did they hear? Maybe it was one of those gassy ones . . ."
So far, we'd come into contact with at least five different types of undead. Zombies were the typical type of undead: they fed on flesh, had no cognitive function to speak of, and could be destroyed by severe trauma to the brain or spinal column. Runners were the Zombies' steroid cousins: while the Zombies could walk and, sometimes, manage a short run, Runners could sprint and even manage long distances with no trouble. Moaners generally fell in the category of normal Zombies, except they tended to be scouts of some sort of others. One peep from them and you'd have a dozen others up your rear within minutes.
The second two were the scariest.
Gassers were deadly due to the fact that they could eject a disgusting and foul liquid from their oral cavities that acted like an aphrodisiac for other undead. The stench was extremely hard to get rid of, like being sprayed by a skunk, and tended to linger for hours. The problem with Gassers that it was hard to spot them until they were puking on you or you shot them and noticed the strange green vapor trail that exited their body.
Unfortunately, the fifth type of undead we'd encountered was the deadliest, but the least common.
Nearly a month into our survival, the first leader of our ragtag group (then numbering in the hundreds), had named them Lurkers. They were quiet and slick - a deadly combination. They seemed to have higher cognitive functions that allowed them to somehow hunt their prey. Not only that, but they were physically different from their undead brethren. They weren't bipeds - not anymore. They moved about on all fours and had strange, weird clicking claws on either limb that announced their presence. But by then, it was generally too late.
Thankfully, the unusual types of undead were just that: unusual. They were very rare and some people theorized that they were only present in areas close to high radioactivity. Unfortunately, that indicated the area wasn't very safe.
I shuddered as I put my coffee aside, wishing that I'd been given the second shift. More often than not, one of the shifts had to deal with roaming undead while the others slept soundlessly and mostly unaware. I didn't like being thrust into the action. I never had.
"Must have been a Gasser." Coop didn't sound proud of the realization, only resigned. He was silent for a moment as I loaded my rifle, wincing as I slid one into the chamber. "I don't want them to get too close. We're sealed off good, but I don't want the scent here. What do you think?"
"I think there's a Runner headed this way." There was another popping sound and the Runner fell to the ground, causing me to release a sigh of breath as I crawled onto my hands and knees and glanced down the sight. There were still a few lingering, moving slowly toward the first, but they didn't seem to be aware of our existence. "You know I suck at this long-range business."
"Go for their knees," he urged me as he started pumping the trigger. Popping noises filled the air as he went for head shots, leaving me to aim for the knees for those that seemed to try to escape. All I did was slow them down, but it apparently helped. No more than two minutes later, we were in the clear and Coop was sitting up, shrugging off his night vision goggles like nothing had happened. "Good coffee."
Wincing, I pulled off my goggles and checked the rifle before sitting it to the side, and picked up my lukewarm coffee. The silence was comforting, oddly enough. For a long time, right after the initial infection had spread, I'd been so lonely that I'd talked to a stray dog I'd found, Sport, until he'd run away. Then I'd fallen in with the survivors that called themselves The Wolverines. Apparently the first leader had gotten a kick out of the old comic book sometimes-hero that was virtually indestructible.
Too bad we weren't.
"Hey Coop?" I whispered, knowing better than to let my voice get too loud. Sure, we were allowed to chat, but I didn't want to draw any unwanted attention. That's why we were so careful in the first place. "Are you sure it should be taking Ranger and Natalie this long?"
There was a little moonlight, but I couldn't make out much of his face as he shrugged his shoulders. I might have seen a bit of worry in his eyes as they met mine, but I could have been mistaken. After a moment, he turned away, focused intently on the street below.
Minutes passed before he let out a yawn and leaned back, shoulder brushing against mine. "I hope they bring me a new shotgun. Mine's not shooting as true as I'd like." And, just like that, conversation was back where it firmly belonged.