Quote
All applications I haven't done, please submit a next of kin, currently living family members or housemates.
Thanks, Aqua
Dice roll 1: 1
Dice roll 2: 2
Ken Roest is very much fucked, trying to run with broken leg was bad and it hurts hell, every step was agony and Ken would've sworn the whole way back home if he wasn't busy puffing and panting trying to make it there, holding some canned vegetables under one hand and a empty revolver in the other.
"One hundred or so steps." he was almost there, he could see his neighbors waving at him, hurrying to drop the rope-ladder down for him.
"Seventy-five steps." Ken was at his edge, the gun and the food felt like dead weights, slowing him down, but his fellow humans depended on him, he had to make it.
"Fifty, half way there," he thought, followed by "and half way not." The train of thought crashed when he thought he felt a cold hand tug against his coat, he made another light slip forward and continued.
"Twenty-five steps, or was it ten? Close enough." Ken stopped counting as he threw the items he was carrying onto the bucket latched onto a string and climbed up the rope ladder with his hands and good feet, those on the roof of the cookie-cutter two-story concrete houses doing their best to help pull him up. A neighbor Ken recognised but couldn't pin a name on fired a round into a zombie, who was trying to climb up after Ken, almost within reach to grab his ankle when the round hit the undead body square in the chest, knocking it back but not quite killing it. The other zombies were trying to pound through the concrete, not quite understanding that their attempt was futile.
"Well, look what ole' cripples came back with, a empty gun and some tins of vegetables." some idiot who took refuge in them because they were probably the only well equipped group in Beuningen sneered, jabbing his hunting rifle at Ken's broken and tired leg.
"Stop it, you dick. You should be lucky we didn't let you starve." Ken shot back.
"Ole' cripple making a stand for himself, eh? Don't wanna die like your Mommy and Daddy?" He was talking about how the next day he arrived, some stupid dick with a "Last Man on Earth" Syndrome had killed his parents with a trip-wire shotgun shell rigged to the entrance of the local food-store. The shell killed Ken's father instantly, Ken's mother just merely survived until she was within steps of the concrete house, still clutching the bag of canned food with her along the way. She must have suffered a bite along the way becuase the moment Ken was sent on his first errand to retrieve the food, his mother reanimated just as he turned away. Ken never imagined that squeezing a trigger would be so hard, but the deed was done and the round he fired hit the target and that was that.
"Don't you DARE talk about my parents, they were the ones who persuaded the others to let you with us!" Ken roarded, his adrenaline propelling him to stand up and punch the poor fuck square in the nose. The man fell down, flipped over and aimed his hunting rifle at Ken and pulled the trigger.
"I guess I win, sucker."
*Click*
*Click*
*Click Click Click*
"Click" BANG.
Smoke wafted into the air from the barrel of a gun, blood splattered across Ken's face as he stared at the "unface" of the moron who insulted his parents and tried to kill him. His face was blown clean off, a single eyeball attacked to a sinew fell to neck length as blood and brain matter slowly oozed onto the floor.
"Close one." Ken didn't bother to turn his head, recognising the voice as the guy who lived down the street, his own high powered hunting rifle still held tightly in his hands and a single bullet casing on the ground. The voice turned into a shadow, and then appeared into his vision as the figure bent down to check the guy's dead body. "Dumb fuck doesn't know shit about guns, doesn't even have his safety off" and he ejected the cartridge, "Blanks, that idiot." He said again as he continued to inspect the body.
Ken licked his lips, it tasted of blood. He stood there for what seemed like a eternity before someone handed him a towel to get cleaned up. He poured water over his face, letting the guy's blood and remains be washed off, the water dripping down onto the little undead hoard that was still gathered below them when suddenly, they heard the sound of wood cracking.
"Get to your stations!" A male voice yelled as everyone rushed to their designated positions, those with firearms training were to shoot those who broke in and the rest were to barricade, repair and only engage in hand to hand combat with their assortment of knives and hatchets if necessary.
The hoard below, at least two hundred strong and growing has someone made a complete circle around the houses, the weight and force of the mass pushing against the heavily barricaded door proved too much for the plywood and furniture as they slowly toppled over or simply broke in half. The rudimentary masonry a neighbor fixed for the windows slowly crumbling under the combined weight.
The final fight was hard, messy and overwhelming. At least a hundred dead bodies piled at the doors and windows, which the clean-up crew assumed were the undead hoard. There were signs of a fight at the these choke points, shotgun shells, bullet casings, even a few crossbow arrows lay scattered on the now crimson shit-colored floor, stained by the blood of so many bodies. There was also sign that a few of the presumed survivors were dragged into the undead mass by their limbs and torn apart inside the house, as shown by the fact a few of the skeletal remains were scattered, a femur here, a shoulder blade there, even a skull perched on top of a unopened can of vegetables.
The largest mound of survivor remains were in the middle, behind a tipped over kitchen table, where the white bones of several small children and a few larger ones lie. The children huddled together, one of them holding a large, over sized teddy bear and another one a faded and blood-stained picture of a family at Disneyland. The larger skeletons formed a protective circle around the now dead children, some holding empty guns like bludgeons, one held a hunting knife and the final one, the one that stood directly between the hoard and the children held a revolver. The body seemed to have been propped up against the flipped over table, sporting a broken leg and every single bullet inside spent.
The clean-up crew later found a bill, addressed to a Mr Roest and beside it was a get well card, dated exactly a decade before the war. On it, the elegant and slightly curved writing simply wrote "Get well, Ken. We miss you."
Edited by People's Liberation Army, 23 August 2007 - 18:44.
0
health is good
Good one 
