MadFunk
09-26-2004, 12:08 AM
"Get out of the way!", screamed Tom, ****ing the rifle.
I wheeled around, away from Tom, to the tall, lanky figure that had emerged from behind the truck.
I ducked.
The rifle cracked in the midst of the post-apocalyptic neighbourhood. Urban sprawl. Lots of bodies, lots of families.
Lots of zombies.
The teenager-- or what was left of him-- blew apart before us, splattering little bits of gluey hamburger across the street, the cars, us.
"We best get the f*ck out of here before the rest of 'em show up," decided Tom, wiping a bit of blood off his glasses with his shirt. "I don't want to end up like our wigger friend here."
His comment struck me as very unTomly, but he was right. For all their attempts, suburban WASP parents could not stop their suburban WASP children from wearing and listening and doing all the things that were not typical TV-Show surburbia.
Not like it mattered now.
I nodded to Tom. "Yeah, I don't think we want to be around when the rest of the sprawl shows up for a bite."
In the ruckus I had fallen on back onto the ground, and, offering a hand, Tom helped me up. "You alright, Dom?", he asked.
"Yeah."
We walked for a better part of 15 minutes before Tom figured we could just wire a car. I, for all my faults, knew cars.
We took an old Neon, something low-security, something old, small. We weren't up for wasting time, and an car-alarm would not help things. They were dead, but they weren't deaf.
We moved as quietly as we could. As quietly as a '98 Neon could be. The few zombies we passed seemed disturbingly docile, almost entranced by nothing. Asleep, perhaps?
======
I'm tired, I'll finish writing this later, maybe.
I wheeled around, away from Tom, to the tall, lanky figure that had emerged from behind the truck.
I ducked.
The rifle cracked in the midst of the post-apocalyptic neighbourhood. Urban sprawl. Lots of bodies, lots of families.
Lots of zombies.
The teenager-- or what was left of him-- blew apart before us, splattering little bits of gluey hamburger across the street, the cars, us.
"We best get the f*ck out of here before the rest of 'em show up," decided Tom, wiping a bit of blood off his glasses with his shirt. "I don't want to end up like our wigger friend here."
His comment struck me as very unTomly, but he was right. For all their attempts, suburban WASP parents could not stop their suburban WASP children from wearing and listening and doing all the things that were not typical TV-Show surburbia.
Not like it mattered now.
I nodded to Tom. "Yeah, I don't think we want to be around when the rest of the sprawl shows up for a bite."
In the ruckus I had fallen on back onto the ground, and, offering a hand, Tom helped me up. "You alright, Dom?", he asked.
"Yeah."
We walked for a better part of 15 minutes before Tom figured we could just wire a car. I, for all my faults, knew cars.
We took an old Neon, something low-security, something old, small. We weren't up for wasting time, and an car-alarm would not help things. They were dead, but they weren't deaf.
We moved as quietly as we could. As quietly as a '98 Neon could be. The few zombies we passed seemed disturbingly docile, almost entranced by nothing. Asleep, perhaps?
======
I'm tired, I'll finish writing this later, maybe.