Beyond the glass and unidentifiable stone walls of Fortress Walmart, chaos reigned. The streets were painted with blood and backlit by roaring car fires, setting everything ablaze with a soft red glow. Looters skulked about, picking through shops and apartment complexes, stripping everything down to the bone. It was like watching a pack of vultures gather around a fresh batch of roadkill. And then there were the zeds...
One thing was for sure. Anyone still alive out there wouldn't be for long. Calling it hell on earth was damning it with faint praise. While chaos bent its head back and roared, silence had fallen inside the expansive store. The distinct jeers and cries of looters were absent and the screeches and raspy hissing of the horde had ceased. Indeed, it seemed like the place was completely devoid of life. But Jeff knew better.
When the infected took the streets no more than three weeks ago, Jeff had known all too well what came next. And this time, he had been determined to be on the winning side. So he'd grabbed his crowbar and his chintzy little pistol and called up a few buddies, told 'em it was party time in the big city. Then they'd called a few friends, and their friends called a few friends. Before Jeff knew it, he was ring-leader of his own goddamn gang. And man, had that shit been sweet.
Any zed who crossed their path ate lead and any survivor holding out got fed their own teeth. It was the good life, nothing but hookers and sunshine day in and day out. He'd lived like a goddamn king.
And then came the fucking Walmart. The goddamn shitfucking Walmart. At first it seemed like they'd hit the jackpot. They could see it through the glass, the place was fucking loaded. And no stiffs, either. They'd all been brained, splattered across the shelves. Some crew had gone hog wild in here, and left all the good shit too. Too good to be true. But, like his momma had always said, too good to be true probably meant just that.
When they got to the camping and hunting department, they'd heard some rustling behind the counters, near the gun rack. Hands twitched at triggers, and they walked close enough to bring the counter into view. What awaited them was, in their eyes, Christmas come early.
Leaning over a map laid out on the store counter was one fine
woman. She was tall, about Jeff's height, with the body of a pornstar and the flawless complexion of a model. Her hair was long and black, tied into a ponytail that reached down to the crook of her back. The eyes were amber brown, and although her face was a little harsh, it was the kind of harsh that made you go "Mistress, give me more!" There was no way in hell they were letting this fish swim away.
Since Chuck had scored the last Zombie Kill Of The Week, it was his turn first. He kept his gun at his slide, sauntering up to the counter, stopping just five feet short of the chick. And with all the class they'd known from him in normality, he said, "Hey now baby, you shouldn't be out here all alone." He gripped his gun, licking his chops. "You never know what kind of folks you'll run into out here."
Little did Chuck know, he'd never been more right in his life. Because as Chuck's luck would have it, the bitch had been packing far more than just a rocking ass. Without even looking up, she whipped out the biggest fucking gun Jeff had ever seen, and brained Chuck. Fred got half a threat out before she filled his yap with bullets, and Joe took two to the heart and went down. Jeff's fearsome gang of marauders scattered, trying to get out of range before they got stuck in the lead storm.
That's when they heard the click-clack of the hunting rifle.
She picked off the stragglers first, dropping Sam down by frozen goods and Levin and Leo in electronics. Peter, George and Jules all got dead. Jeff himself had barely hauled his ass behind cover when Paul's head exploded, showering him in bloodied grey matter. He huddled there for what seemed like hours, waiting for the shots to stop.
Two hours passed, and Jeff was the only one left of a group twenty strong. The rest were all dead. Not one
had made it to the exit. She'd killed them all, putting a bullet in their grape for so much as poking their heads out. Now here he was, the king of the apocalypse, stuck cowering in the deli between an iced bucket of shrimp and Porky the Pig's severed ass. Her footsteps echoed, her boots marching towards him. He gripped his gun, knuckles white and fingers shaking. If he had been a religious man, maybe he would've said a prayer to the Lord, ask for forgiveness for fucking up so royally.
He felt cold steel press up against his head, years of action movies filling in the absent click of the gun. And in the face of death, all Jeff could do was wet himself, and cry in fear. The shot echoed throughout the building, and Jeff the Headless Horseman of the Apocalypse slumped over dead.
edited 20th Oct '11 3:12:18 PM by KSPAM