large hits off the joint, his eyes growing even larger each time. Holding in a hit and stifling a cough, Augie passed the joint to Angel.
Angel stood 5’5”, and had a squat, barrel torso. His hair was long and black, and his face was covered in an array of tattoos, a phrase written in an alphabet of his own design. Pre-plague, he had been one of the Kings biggest movers of cocaine, and could play the guitar like nobody else. Like all of Smitty’s crew he dressed himself in black leather. Angel took a puff and passed the joint to Bear.
Bear was a man of his name. A Hispanic, he stood 6’6” and weighed three hundred pounds. His long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and his face was scarred from a lifetime of street fights. Bears huge fingers dwarfed the joint, which was now barely a stub, and when he puffed the joint it seemed to disappear into his full, wet lips. Whenever one looked deep into Bears brown eyes, they saw a man without a shred of morality or compassion in him. His only loyalty was to his brothers in the Kings.
“Too bad we couldn’t bring our bikes along on this run.” Wild Billy said with regret.
“We in for a war, brother. The last place you want to find yourself in an army of deadfucks is on your bike.” Angel said.
“I just can’t stand being cooped up in this fucking box!” Wild Billy exclaimed, throwing his arms wide to indicate the interior of the trailer.
“Amen to that, brother.” Augie said, and the two knocked knuckles.
“You two just keep your fucking heads when we get there.” Bear said gruffly. “We're there for salvage, not so you two can have a good time killing zombies.”
“All in a days work brother.” Wild Billy said with a smile…
“There are thousands of them.” Matt said as he peered out the open side door of the helicopter as it hovered five hundred feet above the ground on the outskirts of Evanston. Down below, from the freeway ramp, stretching down the main drag of town and all of the connecting side streets were thousands of zombies. Spread out in small, intermingling clumps, they staggered about to and fro, most of them confused by the noise of the helicopter blades. A few had managed to look up and spot the chopper, and they held their stiff arms skyward, the anguished moans of the damned escaping their cold, dead lips. Hundreds more lay dead and unmoving, killed in previous raids by other looters.
“The Park City Militia and Freebooters raided here often.” Jenkins said from the pilot’s seat. “That would attract them in large numbers from all over the area. And it’s only been a couple of weeks since Park City was destroyed. It will take a lot longer than that for them to dissipate. Pvt. Jordan, radio the convoy, alert them of the situation.” The convoy was still about five miles outside of Evanston.
“Yes, General.” Pvt. Jordan replied crisply from the co-pilots electronics console. He was a thin man, with pale skin and thinning hair so white that it bordered on albino. His eyes were such a shade of turquoise that they almost appeared to be white as well. “Convoy, this is Scout, do you copy?” Pvt. Jordan spoke into his radio.
“Copy Scout. What’s the situation?” Captain Turner’s voice crackled back a moment later.
“Heavy zombie presence. Repeat, heavy zombie presence. They number several thousand strong. Do you copy? Over.”
“Copy Scout. Heavy zombie presence, they number into the thousands.."
“Copy.” Came Smitty Tucker’s voice a moment later.
“Copy, Captain.” Said Sgt. George Henry.
“Copy.” Said Major Farrell.
“Copy.” Echoed Commander King.
Jenkins eased the stick forward, taking the helicopter out over the town proper. There was a large grocery store and a truck stop and service station at this end of town near the freeway ramps. Several cars were strewn across the lots like discarded toys, amidst hundreds of zombies. In planning the mission Smitty had told him that the grocery store
Angel stood 5’5”, and had a squat, barrel torso. His hair was long and black, and his face was covered in an array of tattoos, a phrase written in an alphabet of his own design. Pre-plague, he had been one of the Kings biggest movers of cocaine, and could play the guitar like nobody else. Like all of Smitty’s crew he dressed himself in black leather. Angel took a puff and passed the joint to Bear.
Bear was a man of his name. A Hispanic, he stood 6’6” and weighed three hundred pounds. His long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and his face was scarred from a lifetime of street fights. Bears huge fingers dwarfed the joint, which was now barely a stub, and when he puffed the joint it seemed to disappear into his full, wet lips. Whenever one looked deep into Bears brown eyes, they saw a man without a shred of morality or compassion in him. His only loyalty was to his brothers in the Kings.
“Too bad we couldn’t bring our bikes along on this run.” Wild Billy said with regret.
“We in for a war, brother. The last place you want to find yourself in an army of deadfucks is on your bike.” Angel said.
“I just can’t stand being cooped up in this fucking box!” Wild Billy exclaimed, throwing his arms wide to indicate the interior of the trailer.
“Amen to that, brother.” Augie said, and the two knocked knuckles.
“You two just keep your fucking heads when we get there.” Bear said gruffly. “We're there for salvage, not so you two can have a good time killing zombies.”
“All in a days work brother.” Wild Billy said with a smile…
“There are thousands of them.” Matt said as he peered out the open side door of the helicopter as it hovered five hundred feet above the ground on the outskirts of Evanston. Down below, from the freeway ramp, stretching down the main drag of town and all of the connecting side streets were thousands of zombies. Spread out in small, intermingling clumps, they staggered about to and fro, most of them confused by the noise of the helicopter blades. A few had managed to look up and spot the chopper, and they held their stiff arms skyward, the anguished moans of the damned escaping their cold, dead lips. Hundreds more lay dead and unmoving, killed in previous raids by other looters.
“The Park City Militia and Freebooters raided here often.” Jenkins said from the pilot’s seat. “That would attract them in large numbers from all over the area. And it’s only been a couple of weeks since Park City was destroyed. It will take a lot longer than that for them to dissipate. Pvt. Jordan, radio the convoy, alert them of the situation.” The convoy was still about five miles outside of Evanston.
“Yes, General.” Pvt. Jordan replied crisply from the co-pilots electronics console. He was a thin man, with pale skin and thinning hair so white that it bordered on albino. His eyes were such a shade of turquoise that they almost appeared to be white as well. “Convoy, this is Scout, do you copy?” Pvt. Jordan spoke into his radio.
“Copy Scout. What’s the situation?” Captain Turner’s voice crackled back a moment later.
“Heavy zombie presence. Repeat, heavy zombie presence. They number several thousand strong. Do you copy? Over.”
“Copy Scout. Heavy zombie presence, they number into the thousands.."
“Copy.” Came Smitty Tucker’s voice a moment later.
“Copy, Captain.” Said Sgt. George Henry.
“Copy.” Said Major Farrell.
“Copy.” Echoed Commander King.
Jenkins eased the stick forward, taking the helicopter out over the town proper. There was a large grocery store and a truck stop and service station at this end of town near the freeway ramps. Several cars were strewn across the lots like discarded toys, amidst hundreds of zombies. In planning the mission Smitty had told him that the grocery store
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