|  Author | Topic: Dawn of The Dead short stories (Read 157 times) |
Shadow Jack
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Karma: 3 |  | Dawn of The Dead short stories
« Thread Started on May 28, 2007, 12:08am » | |
One of a couple short stories. I lack faith in my writing.
__________________
Bam
Bam
Bam
He leaned on the closet door. Using all his strength to keep it shut. Gina kept slamming into the door. No, he thought. The thing in the closet wasn't her. He started to think back, before this.
It had been a quiet morning. Except for the explosions outside. He woke up to see Gina running down the hallway into their room. She was covered in blood headed right for him screaming. Gunshots sounded outside. He closed the bedroom door.
"Dan. They're everywhere." Gina screamed. "Running down and eating anyone in sight."
"Calm down." He said. Eating? he thought. She must have found the bag of Ex inside the toilet tank. Then he saw her arm.
It was a ragged mess. Gnawed to the bone. Dripping blood on the carpet. Think d**n it. No time to worry about the carpet, he thought. "Lie down and keep your arm elevated." he said. Walking her to the bed.
He picked up the phone and dialed 911. He got a recording saying something about the system being busy. When you really need them, you can't reach them, he thought.
He turned on the TV. Channel 24 was on. There was aerial footage of a riot taking place. "War is hell. So-" "Take out the head, dead." "Anyone who is bitten must be quarantined immediately." He turned off the TV.
Gina was on the bed. She wasn't moving. Her eyes glazed over. nuts, he thought. He opened the closet door. A Ruger Black Hawk was somewhere in there. It was chambered for .44 Magnum, but he loaded it with .44 Specials.
He tossed stuff left and right. Clothes, a bag of golf clubs, a few books, and shoes. Lots and lots of shoes. Gina had an obsession with them. Finally, he found it. He unzipped the Marlboro duffle bag. Inside an old shoe box lay the Black Hawk along with two boxes of ammunition. Winchester Super X Handgun Cartridges, one fifty round box of .44 Special and a twenty round box of .44 Mag.
He heard the steps. Before he could pick up the Black Hawk Gina was on him. He had her by her hair. Her fingernails were clawing the crap out of his arms. Her teeth were inches away from his throat. With his free hand he picked up a hiking boot and started beating her in the head with it.
He managed to scramble free. She grabbed his foot and tried to take a bite. He pushed her back with his other foot. Slipping out of her grip and leaving her with a sock. He slammed the closet door shut. No lock, d**n it, he thought.
Now here he was. Holding the door shut to keep the Devil's pregnant dog from tearing his throat out.
Bam, bam, bam
Bam, bam, bam
Bam, bam, bam
It wasn't the closet door. He know it only meant one thing. There were others at the bedroom door. It was locked, but the crappy frame wouldn't hold for long. He sighed and muttered "f**k me." The Black Hawk and the ammunition was in the closet with Gina.
Bam.....
My first attempt at a Dawn of The Dead short story. Hope it was good. You'll probably see another one. Until next time. -Sanchez-
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Julia Higan
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Karma: 4 | | Re: Dawn of The Dead short stories
« Reply #1 on May 28, 2007, 12:18am » | |
Very nice. Poor guy, He's doomed. MWAHAHAH! haha Just Joking. But very nice, especially for your first one.
^_^
~Michelle-Julia~
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Shadow Jack
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Karma: 3 | | Re: Dawn of The Dead short stories
« Reply #2 on May 28, 2007, 10:03pm » | |
The Bridge
___________________________
It is in the soldier's nature that
When surrounded,
He resists;
When all seems lost,
He struggles on;
When in danger,
He obeys orders.
-The Art of War-
Ruben yawned as he followed the rest of his squad. A few hours ago he was in his warm comfortable bed. That was where he wanted to stay. He was called up for immediate deployment and here he was now. On some god forsaken road at four in the morning. Carrying a Benelli M4 to who knows where.
"Can't believe we're being called out because of a mob of drug addicts." said Elliot. Armed with the standard M16A2 and an older M40A1, he was the squad's designated marksman.
"Maybe the smoke will clear and they'll all go home." Ruben said. "At least we're getting paid for this nuts." he said.
Many miles later they came to the bridge. More like a gauntlet of sand bags, barbwire, and pissed off guardsmen. The M60E4s set at various positions said it all. "We're not playing, serious as a f**king heart attack."
The M249 SAWs were pop guns compared to the E4s. Odd, I thought the Army and Marines were getting the newer stuff, Ruben thought. The thought woke him up quicker than a pot of coffee.
"Orders are to hold the bridge. Nothing gets past." said Lieutenant Moore. "Shoot anything that moves." he added. "Snyder, you're on the light fifty."
"Yes sir." said Elliot.
Ruben knew Elliot had a fetish for the massive rifle. The Barrett XM107 was a semi-automatic rifle chambered for the .50 Browning Machine Gun cartridge. It could shred an engine and leave the vehicle dead in the water. He didn't want to know what it would do to a person.
"I'll keep you covered." Ruben said.
Hours went by. Everyone was in position. First rioter stumbled down the road. Was a young skinny guy. Looked like he had been mauled by a dog. He saw on of the guys at an E4 and broke into a run. A single shot echoed, he went down with a neat little hole drilled into his forehead. Ruben and Elliot were perched on top of an armored personnel carrier.
Next was a blue SUV. "nuts." Ruben muttered. He fumbled for the muffs. He managed to get them on before Elliot fired. That was a problem with the Barrett. Recoil wasn't bad, but it was loud as hell. Without the muffs he'd probably be deaf. The car was stopped. The people inside got out, some of them were bloody. They started yelling, but were cut short by the E4s.
"All clear." someone yelled. Three of the people moved. Two slowly got up and ran. The other crawled. Everyone fired, the two were cut in half. The one crawling took a round to the head and stopped moving. The two dragged themselves towards the bridge. The Barrett roared and one of their heads exploded. Another shot, from a M16 and the other stopped.
More waiting. "Hey we got two channels." shouted Trevor. He was a communications technician, but he was a good shot.
"What channels?" Ruben asked.
"24 and 52."
"24" shouted Moore.
There was a lot of rambling about the riots. Something about the rioters actually being already dead. All of it sounded like some Romero nuts. Trevor turned the radio off. "So I guess we shoot everyone in the head now." he said.
Even more waiting. Boredom. My arch nemesis, thought Ruben. "f**k! f**k! f**k!" shouted Elliot.
"What?" asked Ruben.
"Big ass transfer truck along with I don't know how many rioters on their tail." said Elliot. "Pass it on." he said.
"Big ass transfer truck, multiple hostiles along with it!" shouted Ruben.
"Take it out! Do whatever it takes! Take it out!" shouted Moore.
"f**k." Ruben muttered. He put the muffs on just in time. Elliot emptied the Barrett on the truck. It jack knifed and tipped on it's side. It skidded along the road and stopped nine feet from the bridge.
"Guns up! Guns up!" shouted Moore. "Suppressive fire on the sides of that truck!"
"Finalf**kingly." said Ruben. He picked up Elliot's M16A2, his shotgun wouldn't be effective at the current range. Elliot already had the M40A1 and was taking potshots at the rioters.
The E4s at the other end of the bridge went silent. Ruben could pick out the screams of the gunners over the sound of the other guns. "Holy nuts!" Elliot shouted. "They're f**king eating them!" he shouted. He fired twice cutting of the screams. Mercy shots, Ruben thought. The rioters had made it to the bridge. They hurled themselves at the barbwire and barricades. The gunners at the center of the bridge poured death onto the crowd with the E4s.
He switched the rifle to burst and emptied it on the crowd. He loaded a fresh magazine and did it again. He could hear Moore shouting to Trevor. "Too many of them! Get command on the radio! Tell them to send some extra firepower our way. We're going to need it to hold out!"
The E4s at the center of the bridge went silent. The gunners ran back, occasionally turning to fire with their Beretta M92s. Ruben stopped firing to watch them run past. "Get your asses back here!" shouted Moore.
"f**k you! We're gone!" shouted one of the gunners.
"No go on getting a few choppers here!" shouted Trevor. He turned and started firing with his M4 carbine. The crowd was almost on them.
"I can't believe this nuts! There must be f**king hundreds of them and some idiot general won't approve because of some dumbass meeting or some nuts!" shouted Moore. You're not the only one pissed about it, Ruben thought. "Hold this d**ned bridge!"
More guys took off. Moore himself ran to one of the E4s. Ruben started to drop down off the APC. Elliot stopped him. "Stay up here. That way they have to climb to reach us." he said. What few guys were left on the bridge were overrun. Disappearing into the sprawl of wriggling corpses.
Trevor took off only to be run down. Ruben watched him scream as rioters tore handfuls of intestine out of him. Elliot shot him. Ruben picked up his Benelli M4. He fired at any who came at the APC. Many of the rioters ran past. Making their way across the bridge and moving up the road.
Elliot reloaded the M16 and started firing. Ruben heard pistol fire. The barrel of the E4 Moore was at had melted. Moore drew his personal Beretta M96 and started firing. Ruben dropped a shell into the chamber of his shotgun and closed the bolt. He shoved a few more shells into the magazine. Bodies were starting to pile up around the APC.
He looked back to Moore, who threw his pistol at one of the rioters. He drew a knife and stabbed one of them in the face before the crowd covered him. All was silent except for the sound of flesh being stripped from bone. The APC was surrounded. "So what do we do?" Elliot asked.
A rioter tried to climb up the side of the APC. With the barrel of his shotgun an inch away from the rioter's face, Ruben pulled the trigger. "Don't know." Ruben said laughing. "I guess we do what Moore said. Hold the d**ned bridge."
Not my best of work. Could be my worst. Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Should have another up in three days. Until next time. -Sanchez-
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Ash
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Karma: 3 | | Re: Dawn of The Dead short stories
« Reply #3 on Jun 21, 2007, 5:28pm » | |
I like it.. Good writer too.
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Harry Epps
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Karma: 4 | | Re: Dawn of The Dead short stories
« Reply #4 on Jun 21, 2007, 7:40pm » | |
There both good, both prefect openings
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Shadow Jack
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Karma: 3 | | Re: Dawn of The Dead short stories
« Reply #5 on Jul 7, 2007, 2:04am » | |
A rule concerning surplus and used firearms:
Always have them inspected and serviced by a licensed, competent, gunsmith before actual use.
They had the house surrounded. Jon had exhausted his ammunition supply keeping them downstairs. Now all he had was an old Finnish .16 gauge shotgun with two twenty round boxes of shells. Odd thing about this shotgun. It had a tubular magazine, but it was bolt-action. That made it out of the ordinary.
His previous little war kicked ass. It had put his marksmanship and skill to the test.
Jon heard something crash down stairs. The whole house shook. He pulled his Rossi single-shot .20 gauge from under the bed. Wasn't the best choice. However his other stuff was in the gun safe and he didn't feel like fumbling for his keys. He picked up a few extra shells, then realized he was only wearing boxers, and grabbed a pair of pants.
He made his way down the stairwell and opened the hallway door. There was a bright light, it lit the whole living room and hallway up. He brought his hand up to shield his eyes. There was a car in his living room. Literally.
It had taken out his front porch and plowed through the wall. Just my fucking luck, he thought. The driver's body was sprawled out on the hood. I'll bet you'll wear a seat belt now." he muttered. John walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone. After dialing 911 he got a recorded message. "Goddamn it." he yelled.
He walked back to the living room. The drivers body was gone. What the fuck, he thought. Something grabbed his leg. It was a reflex, he turned and pulled the Rossi's trigger. The driver's head wasn't there any more. He broke the shotgun open, it automatically ejected the shell. He dropped another shell in and snapped it shut. Then pulled the hammer back. Shit, this guy could've been my grand dad, he thought.
He heard tires squeal. The house shook again. Jon stepped back just in time. Another car plowed through the kitchen and living room wall. "Can't you people use the fucking drive way!" he shouted. After kicking the car's front bumper he thought, my insurance agent is going to hang himself.
The driver inside started to move. At least she was wearing her seat belt. Damn, he thought, God makes some foxy brunet drive right into my house. "Maybe I should get her number." he said.
First, get a life. Second, stop talking to yourself. Third, use the head on your shoulders, not the one in your pants.
Now my conscience is calling me a perv, he thought. He stepped on the hood of the car and inched his way forward. Debris scratched his feet. He eased the hammer on the Rossi forward. Then turned it around and knocked out part of the wind shield with the butt of the stock.
"Dave's not here man." the girl groaned.
"When Dave comes back tell him to get your car out of my house." Jon said. The girl opened her eyes. "No this isn't a dream or a reality show." he said.
The girl put her hand on her head. "You got any aspirin?" she asked.
Jon laughed. "Somewhere in the kitchen. If you move your car you might be able to find the bottle." he said. He looked out through the gaping hole that use to be his living room and kitchen wall. A few people in his small suburban neighborhood had wandered out to survey the damage.
"Nothing to see here folks. Carry on." he yelled. "Can you move?" he asked.
"Yeah, I can. Except my seat belt is stuck." the girl said.
Jon heard the scream. He looked up just in time to see one of his neighbors getting tackled. The small crowd scattered just as more bloody figures proceeded to tear him apart. "They're here! Get me the fuck out of here!" the girl started pulling on her seat belt.
"Hang on a minute." Jon said.
"Patience is not a fucking virtue right now." she said. Jon dropped off the car and ran around through the kitchen door way. Lying on the ground was a steak knife. He picked it up, ran back around, and handed it to her.
"Name's John." he said.
One of the guys that chased off the neighbors started running towards the house. "Haley." the girl said. She started sawing at the seat belt. The guy jumped on the back of the car and started beating on the back window.
"Hey buddy. Fuck off!" Jon shouted. The guy just looked up and shrieked. Then went back to beating on the glass. Jon picked up a piece of wood from the debris and chucked it at him. The guy busted part of the glass and started to worm his way inside.
Haley finished cutting the seat belt, scurried out of the car and past him. "Shoot him." she said.
"Criminal charges." Jon said. After he pulled the hammer back. More people started running towards the house. The guy grabbed the barrel of the Rossi and Jon fired. "Fuck it. Upstairs." he shouted.
Jon opened the door and Haley bolted up the stairs. He reloaded the Rossi and started up. "Fuck." he muttered. He closed the stairwell door and locked it. The door was weak and the lock was one of those cheap crappy ones you could buy just about anywhere. What to do, what to do, he thought.
Gun safe you bumbling idiot, and stop talking to yourself. If you don't I'm going to kick your ass. Don't think I can't.
Opening the gun safe Jon paused for a second. So many choices, he thought. After putting the Rossi up he grabbed a Marlin 1894 chambered in .357 Mag and a couple boxes of .38 Special and .357 Mag he handed them off to Haley. "Hold these." he said. He picked out a .12 gauge Remington 870 and a Springfield M1 Garand remake. He walked back to the stairs and set both guns off to the side. Then came back with a box of shotgun shells and Garand clips.
The door gave out before the lock. The first person through the door got two shells. Another scrambled over his corpse. Jon recognized her as the clerk from the grocery store down the road. Sorry sweetheart, he thought. All of the pellets struck her in the chest. She stumbled back, but started up the stairs. No fucking way, he thought. He fired again hitting her in the head. She didn't get back up.
"Excuse me. What do you want me to do with this stuff?" Haley asked.
"Sit it down!" Jon shouted. He tossed the 870 to her and picked up the Garand. "Load it for me!" he shouted.
"I don't know how." she said.
"You better figure it out." Jon said. He emptied the Garand and started to reload. The bolt closed on his thumb. He yelled "Fuck!" and got his thumb loose.
Garand Thumb. Don't you remember Grandpa's stories?
Shut up, he thought. He grabbed the 1894 and started shooting. Judging by the light recoil it had been loaded with .38 Specials. It was the first time he actually paid attention to how it shot. Action is a little tight, should've bought a Henry lever-action, he thought.
Many hours and rounds later. There were so many bodies and junk in the stairwell that nothing could get past. Lying off to the side was the Garand, the 870, the 1894, the Rossi, an old Mosin Nagant M38 carbine, and many other firearms. Even an old semi-auto 1928 model Thompson. All was quiet, except for the moaning and scratching sounds outside. Boredom was setting in.
Jon sighed. "Someone just kill me know." he said.
That can be arranged.
Haley had been flipping through all the channels on TV. Everything showed the emergency broad cast system. Some comedy channel was on. It was playing a Mad TV rerun. Only it must have been screwed up, because it kept playing the same episode over and over. Haley turned it off. "If I see a bald Asian dude say 'I cut off your penis and balls' again I'm jumping out the window." she said.
"Go ahead. You'll just land on the porch's awning." Jon said. He stared out the window. The porch led from one side of the house to below his window. On that side of the house, the only support beam for that part of the awning was balanced on the other car. He watched a bird fly by and land on it. The beam slid off.
That part of the awning collapsed making a steep ramp for the psychos outside. A few of them must have noticed. They scrambled up it and started around to his window. Jon brought up the .16 gauge.
I hate you. I hope this gun blows up in your face.
Jon fired. Bringing down the first one. He worked the bolt and fired again. He worked the bolt, but the spent shell got caught up inside the action. "Fucking goose gun." he muttered. Right when one of the crazies reached the window.
My first crappy attempt at humor. It sucks, I know, I think. Can't blame a guy for trying, can you? I wrote this story. He is name is same as the character in this story. He is also the owner of the old 16. gauge shotgun mentioned. It really does jam like the one in the story did. Hope you never have to use it in a zombie situtation buddy. Wonder if anyone can guess where the phrase 'Dave's not here man.' came from. Until next time.
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Shadow Jack
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Karma: 3 | | Re: Dawn of The Dead short stories
« Reply #6 on Nov 25, 2007, 1:41am » | |
I need a vacation, Clark thought. The world ending just added to the fact. He picked up another beer from the passenger seat. He swerved around a few more abandoned cars. Hitting a few more "zombies" while doing so.
All started when he went to the bodegas earlier in the day. Clark didn't notice what was left of Paco crawling around behind the counter. He just picked up a bag of Doritos and a case of beer. After tossing a couple bills on the counter he told Paco to keep the change. Dropping the Doritos and beer in the passenger seat he closed the car door.
After he started the car something blood smacked the window. "What the fuck!" Clark shouted. He sped off in surprise and felt the car roll over something. It was just a dog, he thought. Glancing in the rear view mirror he saw whoever he ran over get up and run off. "No fucking way." he muttered. The abandoned cars, burning buildings, and bodies in the street changed his mind.
There was a road block up ahead. Police were firing at the crowd of people in tattered bloody clothing. Wasn't long before the entire place was overrun. "Not going that way." Clark said. He made a left turn, some of the people noticed and started chasing his car.
Now he was partially hammered, dodging cars, and hitting "zombies". The news people had said the crazies were actually dead. Since they were up running around he decided to call them zombies. "Twenty-eight down, only fifty-nine billion, nine-hundred-ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred seventy-two zombies to go." he said. I'm going to need a lot more beer and chips, he thought.
He sped up leaving the group of zombies behind. After a few miles he stopped at a gas station. Luckily the pumps were turned on, he filled up the car and walked inside. One body was lying front of the counter, on the other side was the clerk's corpse and a pump-action shotgun. He grabbed a couple cases of beer and four bags of Doritos. Once everything was in the backseat he walked back inside the gas station. He walked around the counter and grabbed the shotgun.
He ejected the spent shell and chambered a new one, something grabbed his leg. It was the dead clerk who was now a zombie. He turned and pulled the trigger. At that close of a range the zombie's head exploded. "Dawn of The Dead biach!" he shouted. Grabbing a box of shells on the floor he walked back outside to the car.
When he was a few miles up the road a few police cars and military trucks sped by. He leaned out the window with a beer in hand "You're lights are on!" he shouted. Don't have to worry about DUI, he thought. Wrapping the car around a telephone pole was better than ending up a zombie.
It started to get dark. He stopped at another gas station and popped the trunk. It was going to be a long drive after this. He opened the door to see eight zombies walking around inside. They turned and looked at him. "Oh shit!" he yelled. They were almost on to him when he jumped into the trunk and pulled it shut. Shrieking in frustration they slammed their fists against the car. "Well what do you know." Clark said. "I didn't spill my beer."
Hours seemed to turn into days while he waited in the trunk. Luckily there were a few more beers in the trunk. Old and warm, but they were better than nothing. The zombies had gone away. Problem was he couldn't get the trunk open. I got to sleep sometime, he thought. Right he closed his eyes someone started the car. Clark kicked and screamed until the car stopped. He could barely hear someone walking around to the trunk. They shot into the trunk five times, all the shots missed him. "Stop shooting holes in my fucking car." Clark shouted.
The trunk popped open to an old man with a small handgun. "Want a beer old timer?" Clark asked.
Inspired by true events. Not the zombies and the apocalypse, even though that would be pretty cool. Hope you enjoyed it. Until next time. -Sanchez-
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