Mar. 19th, 2007

re_mybrains: (Gun-toting!Tom)
It takes a long time to get anywhere by foot, especially when you're constantly looking over your shoulder for hordes of the undead. It's been nearly two months since Tom left Detroit at a dead run, heading East. Now he's nearing Philadelphia, backpack over his shoulder, gun stuffed in his waistband, and he's really looking forward to finding someplace with food, even a little -- it's been a couple days since his last real meal (water and a single rock-hard protein bar don't count, as far as his body's concerned). All in all, he's feeling pretty good.

Right up until he's passing through Harrisburg, and all hell breaks loose in shambling, groaning slow motion.

Everyone knows that the cities have more zombies in them. Everyone knows that they're easier to be ambushed in. Everyone knows that. Tom knows that too.

Tom just sucks at thinking ahead.

At the first sign of a human shape staggering down the street towards him, the gun is out and he's looking for some building, any building, with multiple stories and a door that's not glass. The best canidate is down the street, towards the zombie that's clearly caught his scent, but that can't be helped. It's a good thing humans move so much faster than zombies.

It's a bad thing, he remembers as he starts to jog down the street, that zombies outnumber humans by so much. More decomposing people stumble out of the side streets, drawn by the sound of his feet hitting the pavement. But it's all okay, here's the building -- looks like a bank -- he'll be safe inside and he can wait for them to disper--

"Ah!"

He recoils from the slowly shuffling shapes visible in the windows on either side of the door, then turns and stares at the group of zombies that's rapidly developing into a full-fledged shamble.

"Shit shit shit shit--"

Nothing for it -- he takes off running down the street, flicking the safety of the gun off. The zombies behind him give groaning chase.

The next likely-looking building, a few blocks further on, is an apartment building with the front door swinging slightly ajar. Tom puts on a last burst of speed.

The zombie comes out of nowhere (well, probably from behind some tree or something), dressed in the torn remains of a striped skirt and sweater, barely six feet away from him. Tom screams, fires, and doesn't wait to see if it falls before sprinting through the door and pulling it shut behind him with a slam.

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Tom

April 2011

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