completely stopped beating. See: God hates Adrian.
My heart didn’t beat again until I was done smashing them off her. I didn’t fire my rifle so close to her, I might’ve hit her. Bitten or not, I wouldn’t risk shooting her until we were safe and could wrap my mind around it. I brought the collapsible stock of the M15 down on the back of the skull of the bitch on top of Abby, staving her spinal cord apart where it met the brain. Her weight sagged onto my little girl and I started straight up punting those bitch ass kids down the stairs. One of them flew so high in the air it bounced off the sloped ceiling of the stairs before tumbling with a crunch into the dark. I don’t even remember how many I kicked.
Abby was crying and bloodied as she shoved the bitch off of her and I empted my magazine down the stairs to try and kill off the apparently never ending supply of dead kids. She stood up, and I barked out to her to go get an axe from the rescue truck. She returned with one of the heavy duty fire axes just as I made a magazine swap and squeezed off a couple bursts. I handed her the M15, and with righteous fury I took a few steps down, and smashed the top few steps apart. The little legs of the dead kids couldn’t make the jump up a few steps, and they were trapped.
I grabbed the shotgun and her, sobbing and all, and led her out. Patty took her, and I grabbed a zippo lighter one of the firefighters left in the truck, and one of the two gallon tanks of gas we typically bring as spare fuel. I drew my Glock, and headed back inside with arson on the mind.
The house took a bit to catch fire with intensity, but it did. We drove the trucks out into the road to get away from the heat, but I tell you what, once it was going good, it went up like a house of matchsticks. We could hear the fire alarms beeping from outside. Good batteries. Guess the sprinkler system didn’t survive the apocalypse though. As it burned with a terrible roar, we checked Abby for bites or wounds.
She was scratched something fierce, and had a pretty bad cut on the back of her head from being tackled by the bitch zombie, but otherwise, she was fine. Her shin guards saved her from all the bites. My mind kept repeating over and over her joke from earlier; “undead ankle biters.”
Had she not busted that joke, and I not thought of the shin guards…
Abby would be dead right now. And I might be eating the barrel of my Glock too.
Gilbert has three broken toes. They’re mangled looking, all bruised red and purple, but they should heal well enough for him to walk as well as he could before the injury. He’s got some Percocets for the pain, and he has decided that sipping on some Johnny Walker Blue Label is the best medicine, which isn’t really all that bad of an idea.
Everything was under control for the few hours it took for the house to collapse. We kept moving further and further away from the fire as it got more and more intense. Eventually the sound of our gunfire drew in shamblers, but luckily it was just a few, and Patty snapped off some .22’s and took care of them.
Once the fire subsided I asked Patty for the Tac .22, and I walked back to the smoldering hole in the earth where the daycare was. I felt safe in approaching it, as the foundation was pretty deep, and I thought the undead kids would be trapped down there anyway if they survived the fire.
Many of them did “survive. “ They were charred and blackened, many of them still smoking and stumbling around in the rubble strewn cellar. I counted ten. Once I started shooting, they all turned on me, and made a rush to try and get at me, but they couldn’t get out of the basement. It was killing fish in a barrel. Burnt, rotting undead children instead of fish though. See: Sort of. See: God hates Adrian. See: vomit.
That’s why I’m scared of zombies that are on fire. The flames don’t kill the brain. The bodies get set on fire, and the bodies are damaged, but they’re just as
My heart didn’t beat again until I was done smashing them off her. I didn’t fire my rifle so close to her, I might’ve hit her. Bitten or not, I wouldn’t risk shooting her until we were safe and could wrap my mind around it. I brought the collapsible stock of the M15 down on the back of the skull of the bitch on top of Abby, staving her spinal cord apart where it met the brain. Her weight sagged onto my little girl and I started straight up punting those bitch ass kids down the stairs. One of them flew so high in the air it bounced off the sloped ceiling of the stairs before tumbling with a crunch into the dark. I don’t even remember how many I kicked.
Abby was crying and bloodied as she shoved the bitch off of her and I empted my magazine down the stairs to try and kill off the apparently never ending supply of dead kids. She stood up, and I barked out to her to go get an axe from the rescue truck. She returned with one of the heavy duty fire axes just as I made a magazine swap and squeezed off a couple bursts. I handed her the M15, and with righteous fury I took a few steps down, and smashed the top few steps apart. The little legs of the dead kids couldn’t make the jump up a few steps, and they were trapped.
I grabbed the shotgun and her, sobbing and all, and led her out. Patty took her, and I grabbed a zippo lighter one of the firefighters left in the truck, and one of the two gallon tanks of gas we typically bring as spare fuel. I drew my Glock, and headed back inside with arson on the mind.
The house took a bit to catch fire with intensity, but it did. We drove the trucks out into the road to get away from the heat, but I tell you what, once it was going good, it went up like a house of matchsticks. We could hear the fire alarms beeping from outside. Good batteries. Guess the sprinkler system didn’t survive the apocalypse though. As it burned with a terrible roar, we checked Abby for bites or wounds.
She was scratched something fierce, and had a pretty bad cut on the back of her head from being tackled by the bitch zombie, but otherwise, she was fine. Her shin guards saved her from all the bites. My mind kept repeating over and over her joke from earlier; “undead ankle biters.”
Had she not busted that joke, and I not thought of the shin guards…
Abby would be dead right now. And I might be eating the barrel of my Glock too.
Gilbert has three broken toes. They’re mangled looking, all bruised red and purple, but they should heal well enough for him to walk as well as he could before the injury. He’s got some Percocets for the pain, and he has decided that sipping on some Johnny Walker Blue Label is the best medicine, which isn’t really all that bad of an idea.
Everything was under control for the few hours it took for the house to collapse. We kept moving further and further away from the fire as it got more and more intense. Eventually the sound of our gunfire drew in shamblers, but luckily it was just a few, and Patty snapped off some .22’s and took care of them.
Once the fire subsided I asked Patty for the Tac .22, and I walked back to the smoldering hole in the earth where the daycare was. I felt safe in approaching it, as the foundation was pretty deep, and I thought the undead kids would be trapped down there anyway if they survived the fire.
Many of them did “survive. “ They were charred and blackened, many of them still smoking and stumbling around in the rubble strewn cellar. I counted ten. Once I started shooting, they all turned on me, and made a rush to try and get at me, but they couldn’t get out of the basement. It was killing fish in a barrel. Burnt, rotting undead children instead of fish though. See: Sort of. See: God hates Adrian. See: vomit.
That’s why I’m scared of zombies that are on fire. The flames don’t kill the brain. The bodies get set on fire, and the bodies are damaged, but they’re just as
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