the dead isn't the only thing that's rising in here [3/4]
anonymous
March 1 2010, 20:42:05 UTC
Matthew leaned against the wall and slid down to sit on the ground, Alfred flopping down beside him. The only other survivor of the mall entrance fiasco was a woman named Bella and she told them the Cuban’s name was Brad (which was apparently all she was authorized to tell them). She was also oddly interested in the photos Matthew had taken, particularly the ones of the man with the cane. Matthew filed those facts and everything else that had happened today to think about later, too exhausted both physically and mentally to mull over them right now.
The janitor, who’s name was Otis, gave them some food and water he found in the mall’s staff room. Thanking him profusely, Alfred and Matthew ate their meal silently, trying to get past the horror they just experienced.
When the were done, Alfred reached into his jacket and pulled out two pistols. Matthew wasn’t surprised by this, considering his friend was a little gun-crazy, but he did raise an eyebrow when Alfred pulled out a magnum from his back waistline.
“Why didn’t you use these when we were … when we were being attacked?” Matthew asked.
“… All my spare ammo is in the parking lot with my car, surrounded by those … those undead bastards!” Alfred shrugged off his jacket and Matthew tried not to take note of his bare forearms or his very obvious six-pack. “The only gun shop in the mall is being guarded by its psychotic owner, so once I’m out, I’m out.” He hitched up his pants leg and removed a pea shooter. He also extracted a small kit from his seemingly infinite jacket and began to strip down and clean his weapons. Matthew had long ago realized that the methodical chore usually set Alfred at ease.
“So, I guess we’ll stick to melee weapons with guns as backup?”
“Exactly. Wood and metal last longer than bullets, unfortunately.” Alfred scrutinized his first clean pistol before offering it Matthew. “You remember how to use one of these?”
The photojournalist huffed as he took the gun. “Of course I do. I’ve covered wars, you know.” Matthew sent a sidelong glance at Alfred before he checked over the pistol and tucked it into his waistline. “And I had a good teacher.”
Alfred’s low chuckling as he tossed him two clips coincided with Matthew’s heart racing faster. He blamed it on the zombies shuffling beyond the sealed door.
[¬º-°]¬
Supplies. Weapons. Communications. Sane survivors. Clues as to how this all happened and what the hell was going on now.
This was what Matthew had to get, and quickly. He had three days before they and whoever they could save left Willamette behind. Three days to get his career-making story. Three days to survive.
Alfred was there, as he hadn’t been for the last decade. His best friend was in his element, wielding the katana he had found outside a coffee shop like it was an extension of himself. He was saving innocents, cutting down bad guys both living and undead, uncovering the threads of an evil conspiracy - this was what Alfred wrote and dreamed of, what he always wanted live.
The janitor, who’s name was Otis, gave them some food and water he found in the mall’s staff room. Thanking him profusely, Alfred and Matthew ate their meal silently, trying to get past the horror they just experienced.
When the were done, Alfred reached into his jacket and pulled out two pistols. Matthew wasn’t surprised by this, considering his friend was a little gun-crazy, but he did raise an eyebrow when Alfred pulled out a magnum from his back waistline.
“Why didn’t you use these when we were … when we were being attacked?” Matthew asked.
“… All my spare ammo is in the parking lot with my car, surrounded by those … those undead bastards!” Alfred shrugged off his jacket and Matthew tried not to take note of his bare forearms or his very obvious six-pack. “The only gun shop in the mall is being guarded by its psychotic owner, so once I’m out, I’m out.” He hitched up his pants leg and removed a pea shooter. He also extracted a small kit from his seemingly infinite jacket and began to strip down and clean his weapons. Matthew had long ago realized that the methodical chore usually set Alfred at ease.
“So, I guess we’ll stick to melee weapons with guns as backup?”
“Exactly. Wood and metal last longer than bullets, unfortunately.” Alfred scrutinized his first clean pistol before offering it Matthew. “You remember how to use one of these?”
The photojournalist huffed as he took the gun. “Of course I do. I’ve covered wars, you know.” Matthew sent a sidelong glance at Alfred before he checked over the pistol and tucked it into his waistline. “And I had a good teacher.”
Alfred’s low chuckling as he tossed him two clips coincided with Matthew’s heart racing faster. He blamed it on the zombies shuffling beyond the sealed door.
[¬º-°]¬
Supplies. Weapons. Communications. Sane survivors. Clues as to how this all happened and what the hell was going on now.
This was what Matthew had to get, and quickly. He had three days before they and whoever they could save left Willamette behind. Three days to get his career-making story. Three days to survive.
Alfred was there, as he hadn’t been for the last decade. His best friend was in his element, wielding the katana he had found outside a coffee shop like it was an extension of himself. He was saving innocents, cutting down bad guys both living and undead, uncovering the threads of an evil conspiracy - this was what Alfred wrote and dreamed of, what he always wanted live.
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