November 3rd, 5:11.
Dec. 1st, 2006 01:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
secret_historyJames wasn’t sure at all what was going on, except for the very obvious: someone had let the zombies in. He was willing to lay even money that it was Donnie —the boy had been a panicky mess from the start— but it hardly mattered now. What was important now was to get out of this newest mess alive.
Marco had sounded the alarm, and he, Michaela and Kurt had immediately sprinted to where the guns were kept, closely followed by Randhir, leaving him alone in the room with Marlene and a terrified Kitty, who was huddled in a corner, too frightened even to so much as whimper. His first impulse was to shut the door and barricade themselves inside, but his better nature overrode the impulse: he couldn’t block what might be the others’ only means of retreat. Besides, if he closed the door, they would be trapped in here with no way of getting out, and no food or weapons to speak of.
His next impulse was to run and check on Paul, to see if he was still alive. Marlene was already kneeling next to the boy, and as he came up she shook her head as though in disbelief, her blue eyes wide with fear and sorrow and another emotion he couldn’t seem to identify in the heat of the moment.
“He’s dead!” she exclaimed. “They killed him. Look!” she pointed, and sure enough he could see where dark blood had pooled beneath the dead boy’s head. He couldn’t blame whoever had done it, but he might have wished for a slightly more humane way of finishing the job, or one that was slightly less gory.
He took Marlene by the elbow. “There’s nothing we can do for him anymore, Mar,” he said. “We have to get out of here, get Kitty to a safer place. Come on, please! We should see what’s happening out there, find a way to help!”
She got to her feet at his urging. “What’s going on out there?” she asked fearfully.
“I don’t know. Somehow the zombies have managed to find a way in.”
He could hear the sound of shooting outside, and was unpleasantly reminded of his days as a war correspondent. There was screaming, the horrible sound of someone dying in anguish, followed by the sound of shattering glass, and more shooting.
“Wait for a moment,” he ordered, and ran to the door to look out.
The scene was one of complete chaos: the zombies had managed to swarm through both the open front door and the two front windows which had been smashed open somehow. Shards of glass littered the floor and the sidewalk outside, glittering in the sickly pre-dawn light like fallen and dying stars. It seemed to him as though the zombies were everywhere, a surging, teeming, moaning mass of rotting flesh, pawing and grasping and groping.
Only Michaela and Randhir were still clear of the scrum, pumping bullets as quickly as they could into the melee, to limited effect. Only one bullet out of every four or five seemed to find the head of a zombie, and while the floor was strewn with at least half-a-dozen corpses, there appeared to be five times that number ready to take their places. Both Kurt and Marco were surrounded, but seemed to be holding their own, at least for now. Marco had abandoned using his gun the way it had been intended, and was simply swinging it around in an arc like a club: the stock had already splintered and cracked, and he was shouting incoherently and snarling at the zombies, who continued to advance, impassive and uncaring as always.
Then Kurt screamed. James’ blood ran cold when he heard the scream, a high, inhuman sound somehow more terrible even than the desperate moans of their attackers. He turned in time to see a zombie tear a bloody mouthful of flesh from Kurt’s forearm, spattering itself and the area around it with crimson droplets as Kurt staggered back, clutching at his injured arm. The boy’s knees buckled, and for a moment his eyes locked with James’, and the reporter found himself transfixed by the stare, the look of utter desperation there as the truth that he was doomed hit home.
A moment later, Kurt’s forehead blossomed bright red as a carnation as a bullet caught him neatly between the eyes. James spun around to see Michaela wiping tears from her face with her sleeve, her face a grim mask of determination. Randhir looked equally grim as he struggled to reload his rifle, fingers fumbling with the still-unfamiliar mechanism.
He jumped as he felt a presence by his side, but Marlene immediately put a hand on his arm to reassure him that there was nothing to fear on their end. He realized that he’d been standing immobile in the doorway for what seemed an incredibly long time, completely at a loss. There was no way out.
Marco had sounded the alarm, and he, Michaela and Kurt had immediately sprinted to where the guns were kept, closely followed by Randhir, leaving him alone in the room with Marlene and a terrified Kitty, who was huddled in a corner, too frightened even to so much as whimper. His first impulse was to shut the door and barricade themselves inside, but his better nature overrode the impulse: he couldn’t block what might be the others’ only means of retreat. Besides, if he closed the door, they would be trapped in here with no way of getting out, and no food or weapons to speak of.
His next impulse was to run and check on Paul, to see if he was still alive. Marlene was already kneeling next to the boy, and as he came up she shook her head as though in disbelief, her blue eyes wide with fear and sorrow and another emotion he couldn’t seem to identify in the heat of the moment.
“He’s dead!” she exclaimed. “They killed him. Look!” she pointed, and sure enough he could see where dark blood had pooled beneath the dead boy’s head. He couldn’t blame whoever had done it, but he might have wished for a slightly more humane way of finishing the job, or one that was slightly less gory.
He took Marlene by the elbow. “There’s nothing we can do for him anymore, Mar,” he said. “We have to get out of here, get Kitty to a safer place. Come on, please! We should see what’s happening out there, find a way to help!”
She got to her feet at his urging. “What’s going on out there?” she asked fearfully.
“I don’t know. Somehow the zombies have managed to find a way in.”
He could hear the sound of shooting outside, and was unpleasantly reminded of his days as a war correspondent. There was screaming, the horrible sound of someone dying in anguish, followed by the sound of shattering glass, and more shooting.
“Wait for a moment,” he ordered, and ran to the door to look out.
The scene was one of complete chaos: the zombies had managed to swarm through both the open front door and the two front windows which had been smashed open somehow. Shards of glass littered the floor and the sidewalk outside, glittering in the sickly pre-dawn light like fallen and dying stars. It seemed to him as though the zombies were everywhere, a surging, teeming, moaning mass of rotting flesh, pawing and grasping and groping.
Only Michaela and Randhir were still clear of the scrum, pumping bullets as quickly as they could into the melee, to limited effect. Only one bullet out of every four or five seemed to find the head of a zombie, and while the floor was strewn with at least half-a-dozen corpses, there appeared to be five times that number ready to take their places. Both Kurt and Marco were surrounded, but seemed to be holding their own, at least for now. Marco had abandoned using his gun the way it had been intended, and was simply swinging it around in an arc like a club: the stock had already splintered and cracked, and he was shouting incoherently and snarling at the zombies, who continued to advance, impassive and uncaring as always.
Then Kurt screamed. James’ blood ran cold when he heard the scream, a high, inhuman sound somehow more terrible even than the desperate moans of their attackers. He turned in time to see a zombie tear a bloody mouthful of flesh from Kurt’s forearm, spattering itself and the area around it with crimson droplets as Kurt staggered back, clutching at his injured arm. The boy’s knees buckled, and for a moment his eyes locked with James’, and the reporter found himself transfixed by the stare, the look of utter desperation there as the truth that he was doomed hit home.
A moment later, Kurt’s forehead blossomed bright red as a carnation as a bullet caught him neatly between the eyes. James spun around to see Michaela wiping tears from her face with her sleeve, her face a grim mask of determination. Randhir looked equally grim as he struggled to reload his rifle, fingers fumbling with the still-unfamiliar mechanism.
He jumped as he felt a presence by his side, but Marlene immediately put a hand on his arm to reassure him that there was nothing to fear on their end. He realized that he’d been standing immobile in the doorway for what seemed an incredibly long time, completely at a loss. There was no way out.
