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This is pretty much chapter two of my zombie story. I still haven't gotten round to continuing the anime thing between me and kel. Enjoy... Btw the screenie is from Stalker - i thought it would be fitting, you know, how it's a zombie game and all... yeah.
The Light turned out to be a miniature blowout that puffed around dealing a low radioactive charge, so we carried on towards the safehouse in anticipation of a hot meal.
The bunker we were aimed for was a humble thing, already occupied by a trio of ‘freelance survivors’ who had some experience with firearms. We had radioed ahead and they knew we would be coming. The building, according to Travis, was made to house ten security officers, with room for a small kitchenette (not that there would be electricity though) and storeroom.
After half an hour of wary travel, we arrived at the roll of rusting barbed wire which marked the boundary of a flat piece of grassland which was tainted brown with what we feared was old, dry blood. Just ahead was a grey block of concrete, a poor excuse for a building, with interesting smashes and bullet holes riddling every side in a crazy, randomly generated pattern. Approaching the bunker in an outwardly facing circular advancement formation, we committed the surroundings to memory.
Ralf reached the door first and knocked thrice, tensed despite George’s covering angle. No one answered, and the door stayed put. Patiently but now even more nervous, Ralf pounded another trio of blows and this time pulled back to rip his Glock out of the Velcroed holster at his thigh. Cocking it, he pointed it at the door and took a step back for George to kick it down. Travis and I were scoping out the area behind us, making sure we wouldn’t be snuck up on. With a sharp crack, the door gave in and Ralf covered Nikolai (Who was on his third Hail Mary) as he edged into the dark gloom.
It was all SOPs, training from the army life, that made this all so smooth and professional – everyone knew what to do even though we hadn’t worked together before the outbreak. The JNLC made sure that a full-fledged stinger commander could work efficiently and comprehensively with even the lowest of expendable grunts. The JNLC’s training ideals made teamwork perfect in situations such as the recent outbreak.
Not that recent incidents concerning the uprisings had been specifically thought of, though.
A double-tap from Nikolai’s Russian sidearm sounded from inside the building, and George peeked in almost meekly, as if reluctant to disturb whatever was happening inside. A white-faced Ralf leaped out onto the dry grass and rolled over, followed by Nikolai. Ralf convulsed, swore, and threw up violently. Then he swore some more. George grimaced and popped a red flare into the concrete block, yelling a half-hearted condemnation to all things undead as he did so.
A bright eruption of imploding chemical combustion shone out scarlet light as we prepared to enter. Travis would stay outside to keep watch.
Jakob led us inside, his H&K MP5 right up his face, waiting to be fired into zombie meat. A repugnant stench suddenly hit us all with the force of two London Garbage trucks – a smell which had become familiar to us over the last week. Maggot juice. Or, put simply, the putrid reek produced by rotting flesh which was being devoured greedily by hundreds of foul white maggots. Very nice. I felt overpoweringly nauseous, and tore my filter mask over my mouth and nose to keep out the delicious aroma. Inspired by my rapid action, my teammates followed the inclination to cover their inhaling organs.
A torch - Pierre’s by the colour of the beam (we all memorised our individually coloured torchlights to ease recognition on dark missions) - was shone over the room and landed on a pile of fetid, deathly corruption. They had been dead for days. Our signals had gone unnoticed then.
“Doner und Blitzen!” snarled Ralf, and Pierre murmured something equally aggressive in French. The four of them (Jakob, Nick, Ralf and Pierre) split up to scavenge for ammunition, avoiding as best as they could the pile of corpses which leaned against the soiled concrete. I headed back outside to keep Travis company.
The bunker we were aimed for was a humble thing, already occupied by a trio of ‘freelance survivors’ who had some experience with firearms. We had radioed ahead and they knew we would be coming. The building, according to Travis, was made to house ten security officers, with room for a small kitchenette (not that there would be electricity though) and storeroom.
After half an hour of wary travel, we arrived at the roll of rusting barbed wire which marked the boundary of a flat piece of grassland which was tainted brown with what we feared was old, dry blood. Just ahead was a grey block of concrete, a poor excuse for a building, with interesting smashes and bullet holes riddling every side in a crazy, randomly generated pattern. Approaching the bunker in an outwardly facing circular advancement formation, we committed the surroundings to memory.
Ralf reached the door first and knocked thrice, tensed despite George’s covering angle. No one answered, and the door stayed put. Patiently but now even more nervous, Ralf pounded another trio of blows and this time pulled back to rip his Glock out of the Velcroed holster at his thigh. Cocking it, he pointed it at the door and took a step back for George to kick it down. Travis and I were scoping out the area behind us, making sure we wouldn’t be snuck up on. With a sharp crack, the door gave in and Ralf covered Nikolai (Who was on his third Hail Mary) as he edged into the dark gloom.
It was all SOPs, training from the army life, that made this all so smooth and professional – everyone knew what to do even though we hadn’t worked together before the outbreak. The JNLC made sure that a full-fledged stinger commander could work efficiently and comprehensively with even the lowest of expendable grunts. The JNLC’s training ideals made teamwork perfect in situations such as the recent outbreak.
Not that recent incidents concerning the uprisings had been specifically thought of, though.
A double-tap from Nikolai’s Russian sidearm sounded from inside the building, and George peeked in almost meekly, as if reluctant to disturb whatever was happening inside. A white-faced Ralf leaped out onto the dry grass and rolled over, followed by Nikolai. Ralf convulsed, swore, and threw up violently. Then he swore some more. George grimaced and popped a red flare into the concrete block, yelling a half-hearted condemnation to all things undead as he did so.
A bright eruption of imploding chemical combustion shone out scarlet light as we prepared to enter. Travis would stay outside to keep watch.
Jakob led us inside, his H&K MP5 right up his face, waiting to be fired into zombie meat. A repugnant stench suddenly hit us all with the force of two London Garbage trucks – a smell which had become familiar to us over the last week. Maggot juice. Or, put simply, the putrid reek produced by rotting flesh which was being devoured greedily by hundreds of foul white maggots. Very nice. I felt overpoweringly nauseous, and tore my filter mask over my mouth and nose to keep out the delicious aroma. Inspired by my rapid action, my teammates followed the inclination to cover their inhaling organs.
A torch - Pierre’s by the colour of the beam (we all memorised our individually coloured torchlights to ease recognition on dark missions) - was shone over the room and landed on a pile of fetid, deathly corruption. They had been dead for days. Our signals had gone unnoticed then.
“Doner und Blitzen!” snarled Ralf, and Pierre murmured something equally aggressive in French. The four of them (Jakob, Nick, Ralf and Pierre) split up to scavenge for ammunition, avoiding as best as they could the pile of corpses which leaned against the soiled concrete. I headed back outside to keep Travis company.
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