ain’t gonna buy it right here.
Ship put his hands on the bottom of the top window and pushed. The thing snapped into glass-laden kindling and the big guy was free. Lacerated but free. Blood rained down on me from his wounds, and I saw him kicking his right leg as one of the zombies, a dentist or doctor by the look of him, had latched on. Of course as Ship kicked, the damn ladder became unstable because as I may have mentioned on one or two occasions, the man is big.
The zombie was unceremoniously dragged through the window, and a wad of pant leg must not have been enough to support it because it fell the aforementioned fifteen feet to the frozen ground. Its pals were already climbing through the gaping hole in zombie family’s house, and they too fell like lemmings.
In true superhero fashion, I clenched my sphincter, and unclenched my hands from the rungs and slid that last eight feet or so down the ladder while holding on to the frame. Ship copied my unfathomable awesomeness and did the same, his thud infinitely more resounding than my own, landing like the guy in the poster on the zombie kid’s wall.
Of course now we were on the ground with a couple hundred dead cannibals on the way, some even raining from above. Oh, and well-armed rednecks, don’t forget the rednecks.
And I know what you’re thinking. I know it, and you know I know it. The answer to your unasked question, the one you’ve been holding on to, is yes, dude tasted exactly like chicken.
Run!
Have you ever been shot at? It’s not fun. Wondering if that next sound is the bullet that will hit you is a terrible thing. I understand that the shot gets there before the sound does depending on the range, but still, it’s the noise that scares you the most. That Pap! Pap! sound and then brick shatters next to you, or a window blows out, or a zombie jerks a little and shit flies out of it. The anticipation of the pain, not knowing how much it will hurt. If the round will hit you in the knee, or the throat, or God forbid, in the testicles. If you’re a lady and you’re reading this, you can’t understand what that means. Hell, not having been shot there, I can’t fully get it, and I’ve got nuts. Big ones.
Regardless, there were zombies to the left of us, rednecks to the right, and there I was, stuck in the middle again. A thud behind me reminded me that it was also raining dead people. I tried to fire my rifle again, but nothing happened. I was in such a panic and so pissed off that I couldn’t figure out what was wrong and I yelled to Ship to tell him so.
He took one five-foot step and turned my gun on its side. He flipped a switch and pointed at the gaggle of zombies off to the left, the look of reproach and disgust on his face was worse than those of my seventh grade soccer pals when I scored a goal against my own team. That sucked, let me tell you.
I pulled the trigger and a round fired. I had had the safety engaged. Hey, I told you, I wasn’t the gun-toting type of criminal.
Ship was busy firing at the yokels who had ducked behind some abandoned vehicles and the dead folks on the right. I had chosen the forehead of a dead man in overalls with no shirt on as my first target. I gently pulled the trigger and was rewarded with my first long-distance rifle kill. It was about a hundred feet away, and it was yet another fat woman from New Hampshire. I totally missed the guy I was aiming for.
Hey, it was dark, people were shooting at us, zombies trying to eat us, and I was a rifle virgin. I squeezed off a few more shots, and to my delight dropped two more creatures, including Mr. Overalls. By this time, the clodhoppers had their own problems, as a moderate-sized horde was flanking them from the right.
Ship decapitated one of the dead folks that had come from zombie kid’s room with a backhand swing, and it was time to go. The big man grabbed both packs, and handing me one, we escaped through the thinned herd that Ship had blasted. They were
Ship put his hands on the bottom of the top window and pushed. The thing snapped into glass-laden kindling and the big guy was free. Lacerated but free. Blood rained down on me from his wounds, and I saw him kicking his right leg as one of the zombies, a dentist or doctor by the look of him, had latched on. Of course as Ship kicked, the damn ladder became unstable because as I may have mentioned on one or two occasions, the man is big.
The zombie was unceremoniously dragged through the window, and a wad of pant leg must not have been enough to support it because it fell the aforementioned fifteen feet to the frozen ground. Its pals were already climbing through the gaping hole in zombie family’s house, and they too fell like lemmings.
In true superhero fashion, I clenched my sphincter, and unclenched my hands from the rungs and slid that last eight feet or so down the ladder while holding on to the frame. Ship copied my unfathomable awesomeness and did the same, his thud infinitely more resounding than my own, landing like the guy in the poster on the zombie kid’s wall.
Of course now we were on the ground with a couple hundred dead cannibals on the way, some even raining from above. Oh, and well-armed rednecks, don’t forget the rednecks.
And I know what you’re thinking. I know it, and you know I know it. The answer to your unasked question, the one you’ve been holding on to, is yes, dude tasted exactly like chicken.
Run!
Have you ever been shot at? It’s not fun. Wondering if that next sound is the bullet that will hit you is a terrible thing. I understand that the shot gets there before the sound does depending on the range, but still, it’s the noise that scares you the most. That Pap! Pap! sound and then brick shatters next to you, or a window blows out, or a zombie jerks a little and shit flies out of it. The anticipation of the pain, not knowing how much it will hurt. If the round will hit you in the knee, or the throat, or God forbid, in the testicles. If you’re a lady and you’re reading this, you can’t understand what that means. Hell, not having been shot there, I can’t fully get it, and I’ve got nuts. Big ones.
Regardless, there were zombies to the left of us, rednecks to the right, and there I was, stuck in the middle again. A thud behind me reminded me that it was also raining dead people. I tried to fire my rifle again, but nothing happened. I was in such a panic and so pissed off that I couldn’t figure out what was wrong and I yelled to Ship to tell him so.
He took one five-foot step and turned my gun on its side. He flipped a switch and pointed at the gaggle of zombies off to the left, the look of reproach and disgust on his face was worse than those of my seventh grade soccer pals when I scored a goal against my own team. That sucked, let me tell you.
I pulled the trigger and a round fired. I had had the safety engaged. Hey, I told you, I wasn’t the gun-toting type of criminal.
Ship was busy firing at the yokels who had ducked behind some abandoned vehicles and the dead folks on the right. I had chosen the forehead of a dead man in overalls with no shirt on as my first target. I gently pulled the trigger and was rewarded with my first long-distance rifle kill. It was about a hundred feet away, and it was yet another fat woman from New Hampshire. I totally missed the guy I was aiming for.
Hey, it was dark, people were shooting at us, zombies trying to eat us, and I was a rifle virgin. I squeezed off a few more shots, and to my delight dropped two more creatures, including Mr. Overalls. By this time, the clodhoppers had their own problems, as a moderate-sized horde was flanking them from the right.
Ship decapitated one of the dead folks that had come from zombie kid’s room with a backhand swing, and it was time to go. The big man grabbed both packs, and handing me one, we escaped through the thinned herd that Ship had blasted. They were
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