left and found a creeper about to hook him by his hip. He twisted and fired point-blank into the creature’s devastated face, exploding it and dropping the zombie to the snow.
A second magazine clicked dry.
Scott beat down a hoarse scream. Grimly, he snatched up a fresh magazine and slapped it home, then worked the slide.
A zombie stood right over him. He shot it under the chin, sprinkling the snow and other gimps with black matter. Another came too close and he fired a round into its belly, blowing the thing back on its frozen ass hard enough that its bare feet flipped up into the air. Scott rose to his feet and increased his tempo. He put down corpse after corpse until the third magazine emptied. Mounds of bodies littered the street, but a dozen more remained standing. He dropped down, pawing at the remaining mags. He fumbled one and it went flying out of reach. Whimpering, he let it go and drew the fourth magazine, concentrating on getting it in correctly. He inserted it and racked the slide.
Scott stood as a zombie placed a hand on his shoulder. He beat the arm aside and fired into the thing’s face. It dropped to reveal another close behind. He killed that one as well, but the last few zombies were upon him. Hands pawed at him. Something gripped his helmet and grabbed his shoulders. The sounds of the hungry dead flooded his ears.
Scott freaked.
He fired the Ruger point-blank into faces and bodies, no longer caring about head shots. They crowded him, slamming into his body like a horrible wave of industrial sludge. They bit into his shoulders. They clawed into his midsection and chest. Scott lost the Ruger and grabbed the first head he saw. He violently twisted the skull. The crack splintered the harshness of the moans, but the zombie kept reaching for him––with open, hissing jaws and a broken neck. Scott jabbed and knocked it back, but it rebounded like a grinning punching bag. He kicked and twisted, wrenching free of frozen fingers attempting to keep a hold of him. He spotted the shaft of his bat and grabbed for it. Something hit his back with enough force to push him down, and he fell forward onto his hands and knees. Scott screamed and thrashed like an eel out of water, darting between legs. If he landed on the pavement and they flattened him out, he wouldn’t be able to get back up—didn’t have the strength to get back up—and they would heap on top of him like a ravenous defensive line.
Bent over, he scrambled through an opening in the forest of gimp limbs, feeling their hands slide off him. He stopped in a drift when he saw there weren’t any zombies ahead. Whirling around, he straightened up and assumed a batting stance. There were perhaps ten or so deadheads focused on him, and they stumbled toward him, working frozen limbs as if attempting to keep their balance on rough seas.
Baseball wasn’t his sport, but Scott would make an exception in this case.
He took the head clean off the first gimp within range, surprising even himself with the crack and snap of his victim’s skull spinning off its shoulders, a fleeting ribbon of gore trailing the rotten bauble as it spun through the air. The bat smashed in the heads of the second and third zombies. Scott shifted in the snow when he had to, hoping to God he wouldn’t hit a patch of ice. The fourth deadhead went down after two hard strikes to its forehead. Scott realized he was grunting with each swing and striking over the gimps’ outstretched arms. They made no attempt to defend themselves. He bludgeoned their skulls from all angles, horrified to see it took more than one hit to kill them. Not only had their joints stiffened, but their heads as well, becoming a thick, icy ball of matter that took a lot more power to crack.
Sapping away what little strength he had left.
He crushed the skull of the last gimp attacking him, leaving a grotesque saddle-shape in the smashed bone. Other zombies approached in the closing distance, from the roads and
A second magazine clicked dry.
Scott beat down a hoarse scream. Grimly, he snatched up a fresh magazine and slapped it home, then worked the slide.
A zombie stood right over him. He shot it under the chin, sprinkling the snow and other gimps with black matter. Another came too close and he fired a round into its belly, blowing the thing back on its frozen ass hard enough that its bare feet flipped up into the air. Scott rose to his feet and increased his tempo. He put down corpse after corpse until the third magazine emptied. Mounds of bodies littered the street, but a dozen more remained standing. He dropped down, pawing at the remaining mags. He fumbled one and it went flying out of reach. Whimpering, he let it go and drew the fourth magazine, concentrating on getting it in correctly. He inserted it and racked the slide.
Scott stood as a zombie placed a hand on his shoulder. He beat the arm aside and fired into the thing’s face. It dropped to reveal another close behind. He killed that one as well, but the last few zombies were upon him. Hands pawed at him. Something gripped his helmet and grabbed his shoulders. The sounds of the hungry dead flooded his ears.
Scott freaked.
He fired the Ruger point-blank into faces and bodies, no longer caring about head shots. They crowded him, slamming into his body like a horrible wave of industrial sludge. They bit into his shoulders. They clawed into his midsection and chest. Scott lost the Ruger and grabbed the first head he saw. He violently twisted the skull. The crack splintered the harshness of the moans, but the zombie kept reaching for him––with open, hissing jaws and a broken neck. Scott jabbed and knocked it back, but it rebounded like a grinning punching bag. He kicked and twisted, wrenching free of frozen fingers attempting to keep a hold of him. He spotted the shaft of his bat and grabbed for it. Something hit his back with enough force to push him down, and he fell forward onto his hands and knees. Scott screamed and thrashed like an eel out of water, darting between legs. If he landed on the pavement and they flattened him out, he wouldn’t be able to get back up—didn’t have the strength to get back up—and they would heap on top of him like a ravenous defensive line.
Bent over, he scrambled through an opening in the forest of gimp limbs, feeling their hands slide off him. He stopped in a drift when he saw there weren’t any zombies ahead. Whirling around, he straightened up and assumed a batting stance. There were perhaps ten or so deadheads focused on him, and they stumbled toward him, working frozen limbs as if attempting to keep their balance on rough seas.
Baseball wasn’t his sport, but Scott would make an exception in this case.
He took the head clean off the first gimp within range, surprising even himself with the crack and snap of his victim’s skull spinning off its shoulders, a fleeting ribbon of gore trailing the rotten bauble as it spun through the air. The bat smashed in the heads of the second and third zombies. Scott shifted in the snow when he had to, hoping to God he wouldn’t hit a patch of ice. The fourth deadhead went down after two hard strikes to its forehead. Scott realized he was grunting with each swing and striking over the gimps’ outstretched arms. They made no attempt to defend themselves. He bludgeoned their skulls from all angles, horrified to see it took more than one hit to kill them. Not only had their joints stiffened, but their heads as well, becoming a thick, icy ball of matter that took a lot more power to crack.
Sapping away what little strength he had left.
He crushed the skull of the last gimp attacking him, leaving a grotesque saddle-shape in the smashed bone. Other zombies approached in the closing distance, from the roads and
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