2023
You decide it would be far too dangerous to continue on in the dark. It had been getting progressively harder to blow zombies away in the darkness already. You consider it a smart choice to stay safe until the darkness passes.
You make a slow circle with your motorcycle, using the beam from your headlights as a tunnel for your bullets. Each time the trigger is squeezed, you see bits of flesh jump from the skulls of your would-be-assailants. You continue circling until you are convinced every zombie within any remotely dangerous range has fallen.
You grasp and turn the key. The motorcycle silences itself. You are left in dark quiet, lonely now without the now familiar deep hum. Using a flashlight, you navigate to a large oak you picked out and swung into it smoothly. About three levels up, stretched across four semi-thick branches, you feel secure.
You drift to sleep in your awkward circumstance...
You wake up and lie on your branches for a few minutes, savoring the chilling air and the cold you taste with each breath. You decide you must get up, open your eyes to a blue sky, and exhale. On to the rest of your mission.
A moan sounds from the base of the tree, calling your attention. Your head snaps quickly to confirm the worst. Beneath you stands upwards one hundred zombies. Some have their hands raised in the air, while others stand there comatose.
You do the only thing you can. You blast the zombies below you, knowing your shots are limited. It's to be a race between your rapidly draining supply of ammunition and the number of remaining zombies at the base of your hideout. Every time you miss a zombie, you impulsively scream "FUCK!" as loudly as you can.
There are twenty zombies left when your mental count of ammunition remaining reaches one. That one bullet could silence it all. Bleh. Suicide. You may as well try for an escape. You sigh and pull the trigger, sending the last bullet into the head of a zombie, which splits in two on the impact.
Nineteen zombies left. Nineteen. It was about the number of zombies three days of work protecting Metropolis would bring. Shouting won't do you any good and you know it - it would only attract more zombies. It was probably a mistake screaming at each misfired round. Your only chance is to jump and run, and do so before more come.
You drop to the lowest level of branches you can without chancing the touch of the beasts beneath you, and then balance on the thickest branch of that level. You slowly walk from the tree and feel the branch under you bending. When you have almost cleared the radius of the group, you slip and grab onto the branch.
The zombies below grab at you and pull you weakly. Hanging from the tree, the meat from your body is eaten from your torso down. The shock releases a drug in your brain. You die with the impression that the zombies are bowing to you in a circle, trying to kiss and hug their king.
You make a slow circle with your motorcycle, using the beam from your headlights as a tunnel for your bullets. Each time the trigger is squeezed, you see bits of flesh jump from the skulls of your would-be-assailants. You continue circling until you are convinced every zombie within any remotely dangerous range has fallen.
You grasp and turn the key. The motorcycle silences itself. You are left in dark quiet, lonely now without the now familiar deep hum. Using a flashlight, you navigate to a large oak you picked out and swung into it smoothly. About three levels up, stretched across four semi-thick branches, you feel secure.
You drift to sleep in your awkward circumstance...
You wake up and lie on your branches for a few minutes, savoring the chilling air and the cold you taste with each breath. You decide you must get up, open your eyes to a blue sky, and exhale. On to the rest of your mission.
A moan sounds from the base of the tree, calling your attention. Your head snaps quickly to confirm the worst. Beneath you stands upwards one hundred zombies. Some have their hands raised in the air, while others stand there comatose.
You do the only thing you can. You blast the zombies below you, knowing your shots are limited. It's to be a race between your rapidly draining supply of ammunition and the number of remaining zombies at the base of your hideout. Every time you miss a zombie, you impulsively scream "FUCK!" as loudly as you can.
There are twenty zombies left when your mental count of ammunition remaining reaches one. That one bullet could silence it all. Bleh. Suicide. You may as well try for an escape. You sigh and pull the trigger, sending the last bullet into the head of a zombie, which splits in two on the impact.
Nineteen zombies left. Nineteen. It was about the number of zombies three days of work protecting Metropolis would bring. Shouting won't do you any good and you know it - it would only attract more zombies. It was probably a mistake screaming at each misfired round. Your only chance is to jump and run, and do so before more come.
You drop to the lowest level of branches you can without chancing the touch of the beasts beneath you, and then balance on the thickest branch of that level. You slowly walk from the tree and feel the branch under you bending. When you have almost cleared the radius of the group, you slip and grab onto the branch.
The zombies below grab at you and pull you weakly. Hanging from the tree, the meat from your body is eaten from your torso down. The shock releases a drug in your brain. You die with the impression that the zombies are bowing to you in a circle, trying to kiss and hug their king.
