The Competition continues!
We have got a recap post over HERE to catch you up to the current story.
13 June 2019, Denver, 16h26
For a moment the irrational side of Tim's brain expected to see one massive explosion. Something like a massive blooming explosion that would obliterate Denver Central and radiate outward, killing zombies and civilians alike.
He knew from the direction he was looking at, the mountains always being due west, that the hellfire missile was traveling towards Central. He could not see it from this flat piece of road but he could hear the explosions. Explosions crackled like the popping of corn in a microwave oven. The plane he had seen could not have been the only vehicle firing munitions.
"What the hell?" He muttered. It did not make sense. Why would the army be using hellfire instead of a larger blast missile? There were many explosions which he could only reason were targeted at several buildings simultaneously.
There were zombies dragging themselves out of the derailed train. He needed to move. The train now squarely blocked the way and he could not risk trying to traverse the railway tracks further up. The chances of losing the bike to some obstacle was high.
Due west a bit further back from the tracks he spied a dirt road that seemed to run parallel to the railway. He placed the pistol he had stolen from Officer Rory into the back of his pants. A figure shuffled slowly up the dirt track, one ankle clearly broken.
Tim took out the tire iron from the backpack and studied it for a moment. It was a standard piece of iron, he turned the right angle head so the corner would face outward. If it snagged on anything then he would lose the weapon.
He gunned the engine with one hand and rode toward the slowly approaching undead. He might as well test out if this actually worked. Wind whipped past him and he narrowed his eyes. Suddenly he wished that he had a helmet or a visor. He kept his concentration though, like a knight at a joust and swung the iron as he came past the zombie.
The undead did not seem to track his movement very well. He swung as he came past. The shock of the blow travelled up his arm all the way to the shoulder, through it all he felt a distinct crack as bone shattered in the zombie’s skull. Peering back, Tim saw the zombie had fallen, stone dead. It was effective but he did not think that he would be able to take strikes like that indefinitely.
The dirt road did not travel in a straight line. Tim put the tire iron through a loop at his belt and concentrated on driving instead. There were not many zombies here. He could see some down the road towards the highway. There were gunshots and people shouting, screaming. In the distance he heard a dull roar of heavy machinery. It must be the National Guard and their armoured vehicles.
All the commotion seemed to attract the zombies as he watched them, they would turn around and head for the loudest noises.
The dirt trail was coming to an end, there was a bridge over the railroad and that would lead him south-westwards which is where he wanted to go. He turned off the dirt track, heading for the bridge.
“Oh no.” Tim said.
The bridge was fairly congested with vehicles. It was clear enough to pass with a motorbike if it were not for the bodies that shuffled along the top of it. Tim came to a pause to determine if it was worth him time to try cross it anyway. He glanced around quickly, hoping no other zombies were creeping up to him.
It was then that he noticed something strange. The zombies that he had seen always seemed to have some kind of damage on them, bite marks. The zombies bit or scratched into the victims, sometimes killing them and then moving on the fresh prey, never finishing the job.
Here there were two zombies crouched over the body of another zombie. It had been a zombie, but its head had been severed. The other two were busy noisily consuming the human body before them. It must have been an old zombie, because the meat was not very wet. How long had these zombies been roaming around? It could not have been so long yet.
What was disturbing was that the two that feasted seemed to have no visible damage on them. There was a lot of blood stains, but beneath those were scars. One of the feasting zombies’ head whipped round and look right at Tim. It shrieked and the other zombie stopped eating and copied the other.
Both had been men, yet their faces were distorted and inhuman, something slightly more predatory that he would have thought a person could look. All of a sudden these zombies stopped shrieking and bolted up.
They came running at Tim at an unbelievable pace, sprinting with a manic frenzy. In a panic Tim tried to get the motorbike turned around but the engine cut out unexpectedly. Shit. Was it out of gas? Had Rory merely been going to his brother for a fill-up when this had all started? Shit. He hadn’t thought of that.
All this flashed through his mind as the zombies rushed onwards, closing the gap in seconds. They were only a two dozen steps away from him as he frantically reached for the pistol, but he knew that he was too late. This was the end, they were going to get to him before his weapon was up.
He would never see Jacob and Alison again.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered.
The zombies were six feet away from them, their eyes wild and their mouths wet and red with the blood of their meal. This was the end.
A loud booming drowned out all noise and the zombies seemed to explode before him. He watched as they were thrown sideways to the ground. One of them had lost most of its face and fell lifelessly. The other had not been so thoroughly shredded and it stumbled back up to its feet again.
The barrel of a twelve gauge shotgun passed before Tim’s face and roared again. The remaining zombie’s head exploded and it fell over backwards.
Tim realized that he had been screaming. He stopped and looked at the owner of the gun. It was a white haired old timer, his age impossible to guess. The man wore his hair long and his face was framed in massive sideburns. The trimmed moustache stretched in a grin that revealed that the man had no front teeth.
“It’s all right laddie.” The man slurred in an accent. “You got to watch out for the fast bastards. They dead now.”
Tim couldn’t think of much to say.
“Me name’s Randal MacCreadie.” The man stated with an air of pride. Besides the accent, Tim decided that the old man was probably drunk. “You got a gun?”
Tim took out the police officer’s pistol and the old man grinned again. “Great. Y’know how to use it?”
Tim nodded. “I served in the army and…”
“Splendid!” The old man slapped Tim on the shoulders. “Now let’s go find my dentures!” The old man turned and walked off briskly towards an old blue pickup truck. Its bonnet was painted red with gore and viscera. Tim tried to start the motorbike again and found that it was indeed out of gas. He followed the man named Randal.
Reaching into the pickup the man did as he had said he would, he plucked out a container from the passenger seat that contained a set of dentures and some clean water. “Can’t fight with my dentures in. I’ll loose ‘em.” The man mumbled then turned. “Where are you headed?”
“Uh… Lakeside, I…”
“Great, not a bad direction.” The man cut him short again. “Towards the mountains I say eh lad? Well come on!”
Objectives
- Tim and Randal must survive
- Include more “shrieker” zombies in your episode
- Travel south-westward
- Bonus points for distance covered! (we should try reach Lakewood by the end of Episode 5)
- Find a place for Tim and Randal to survive for the night. Explain a reason why they cannot keep going into the night.
Good Luck!