All we wanna do is eat your brains...
Who: TEAM MINIVAN (Murphy, Gabriel, Sam Tyler, Harry Dresden, and Cissie)
What: ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE.
Where: UNKNOWN SUBURBS OF DOOM.
When: PORT.
Warnings: SWEARING. VIOLENCE. DEATH. ET CETERA.
Murphy groans, awareness rolling in like rising water. It starts with her back, knots and needle-points of pain, spreads to limbs that feel pummeled and up into a headache thrumming in her temples. There's something slimy smeared against the back of her neck and her hair has the clotted feel of too long in a mess without a shower.
She almost doesn't want to open her eyes, because that? Was definitely not as planned.
Instead she rolls onto her side, puts her hand down in something greasy with moisture, and squints.
Algae. Dead leaves. Close up. She blinks free of bleariness and orients on the cracked white walls about five feet away, the piles of leaves, refuse, and--
Murphy jerks upright. There's a body, gray and white with decay, splayed out between her and the wall. One arm. No head. Ruptured torso. The intestines are gray-blue ribbons, shimmering with flies, twisting out between the stripped-birch white of the body's rib cage. It smells like a backed-up sewer.
"...Jesus Christ," Murphy whispers. "I want my money back."
What: ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE.
Where: UNKNOWN SUBURBS OF DOOM.
When: PORT.
Warnings: SWEARING. VIOLENCE. DEATH. ET CETERA.
Murphy groans, awareness rolling in like rising water. It starts with her back, knots and needle-points of pain, spreads to limbs that feel pummeled and up into a headache thrumming in her temples. There's something slimy smeared against the back of her neck and her hair has the clotted feel of too long in a mess without a shower.
She almost doesn't want to open her eyes, because that? Was definitely not as planned.
Instead she rolls onto her side, puts her hand down in something greasy with moisture, and squints.
Algae. Dead leaves. Close up. She blinks free of bleariness and orients on the cracked white walls about five feet away, the piles of leaves, refuse, and--
Murphy jerks upright. There's a body, gray and white with decay, splayed out between her and the wall. One arm. No head. Ruptured torso. The intestines are gray-blue ribbons, shimmering with flies, twisting out between the stripped-birch white of the body's rib cage. It smells like a backed-up sewer.
"...Jesus Christ," Murphy whispers. "I want my money back."