[ A sigh escaped from him as he wondered if anything 'exciting' would happen today in Troy. Be careful what you wish for~ My brain is running full capacity. ;3 ]
The formerly blonde corpse was only smoldering, all flesh and clothing gone, leaving nothing remaining but bones. The latest undead to show up wore some sort of once-brightly-colored shirt and a pair of those shorts that make the swishy sound when you walk. Lou watched him stumble, hindered by the broken in half surfboard still attached to his ankle. The other was probably also male and wore a red Izod polo shirt and khaki shorts that were stained with blood and other things one would rather not identify. She frowned as she sighted in on the closest one. Normally there were more. She'd had more than thirty show up one day. They were constantly migrating, searching for prey. Humans. She grunted, she should really limit herself to two philosophical thoughts a day.
Her first shot went high and embedded itself in an oak tree that was riddled with holes from previous misses. (Poor tree, what'd it ever do to anybody?) She started to move the scope's reticule away from the woods and back to her new targets. Something caught her eye. Metallic with a blue sheen, not a color that belonged in a forest. She turned the dial and the world turned fuzzy before focusing in again. (Gone.) She looked up and stared with naked eyes at the treeline, trying to catch the color again. (Completely, utterly gone.) She returned her attention back to her job, squeezing off two efficient killing rounds in a practiced, nearly robotic way. The zombies swooned and slumped over like a boomer with a heart attack at a Bon Jovi concert.
Lougenia was sweating like Louis Armstrong at rave. Why had the color unnerved her? Why was it familiar? She safetied the gun once more and set it down. Grabbing her gas can once more, she listening to the light swish of the almost empty container. The light of the setting sun caught it perfectly. It finally dawned.
(Gun barrel.)
Arsen sat alone in a corner. It was nothing new. The only person to show up so far had been Carrie, whom he was afraid of in part because of the Stephen King book. And the fact he'd watched her plunge that badass looking knife through a zombie's ear and come out the other side. He still had nightmares. He stared at his watch for a few blank moments. 17 hundred and 26 hours. An hour and nearly thirty minutes. People apparently did not own watches in Troy. He was still surprised no one had showed yet. Normally this was the only meeting they attended. This was the one where they decided where they were going when the snow fell. What they had in stock. What they needed. What they wanted.
This one was always the most hectic. No doubt in his mind.
People were getting what his mother had called "cabin fever." The were bored, restless. Ready to shoot someone in the head if they didn't get to leave with one of the groups. There would be two this year. Five on each. They had to be organized, like it or not. Who knew what they would encounter out there? Ferals, both animal and human, that would rip you to shreds in seconds. Dumbasses who thought they were the king who decided to take potshots at you from the roof of the A&P with a .44 Magnum. (As to king of what, no one would ever know.) What if this winter wasn't cold enough to freeze the dead? What then?
The formerly blonde corpse was only smoldering, all flesh and clothing gone, leaving nothing remaining but bones. The latest undead to show up wore some sort of once-brightly-colored shirt and a pair of those shorts that make the swishy sound when you walk. Lou watched him stumble, hindered by the broken in half surfboard still attached to his ankle. The other was probably also male and wore a red Izod polo shirt and khaki shorts that were stained with blood and other things one would rather not identify. She frowned as she sighted in on the closest one. Normally there were more. She'd had more than thirty show up one day. They were constantly migrating, searching for prey. Humans. She grunted, she should really limit herself to two philosophical thoughts a day.
Her first shot went high and embedded itself in an oak tree that was riddled with holes from previous misses. (Poor tree, what'd it ever do to anybody?) She started to move the scope's reticule away from the woods and back to her new targets. Something caught her eye. Metallic with a blue sheen, not a color that belonged in a forest. She turned the dial and the world turned fuzzy before focusing in again. (Gone.) She looked up and stared with naked eyes at the treeline, trying to catch the color again. (Completely, utterly gone.) She returned her attention back to her job, squeezing off two efficient killing rounds in a practiced, nearly robotic way. The zombies swooned and slumped over like a boomer with a heart attack at a Bon Jovi concert.
Lougenia was sweating like Louis Armstrong at rave. Why had the color unnerved her? Why was it familiar? She safetied the gun once more and set it down. Grabbing her gas can once more, she listening to the light swish of the almost empty container. The light of the setting sun caught it perfectly. It finally dawned.
(Gun barrel.)
Arsen sat alone in a corner. It was nothing new. The only person to show up so far had been Carrie, whom he was afraid of in part because of the Stephen King book. And the fact he'd watched her plunge that badass looking knife through a zombie's ear and come out the other side. He still had nightmares. He stared at his watch for a few blank moments. 17 hundred and 26 hours. An hour and nearly thirty minutes. People apparently did not own watches in Troy. He was still surprised no one had showed yet. Normally this was the only meeting they attended. This was the one where they decided where they were going when the snow fell. What they had in stock. What they needed. What they wanted.
This one was always the most hectic. No doubt in his mind.
People were getting what his mother had called "cabin fever." The were bored, restless. Ready to shoot someone in the head if they didn't get to leave with one of the groups. There would be two this year. Five on each. They had to be organized, like it or not. Who knew what they would encounter out there? Ferals, both animal and human, that would rip you to shreds in seconds. Dumbasses who thought they were the king who decided to take potshots at you from the roof of the A&P with a .44 Magnum. (As to king of what, no one would ever know.) What if this winter wasn't cold enough to freeze the dead? What then?
