[FIC] Survivor: Umbrella
Not my latest fic, but a finally finished one. The whole thing is around 18,638 words. That includes the epilogue this thing was supposed to have, too.
Title: Survivor: Umbrella - I
Fandom: Resident Evil
Rating: R
Warnings: First-Person POV, Language, Monsters, Original Character, Undead, Violence
Summary: All hell breaks loose in a remote town and an injured woman must rely on the protection of a man named Billy.
Disclaimer: Resident Evil and the character Billy Coen are copyrighted by Capcom. The author of this work is making no profit from this fan-fiction story and is not challenging the status of the copyright holders.
* * *
My night had already gone to hell, so I guess finding zombies everywhere was just added incentive to hate my life even more. When did I realize it was starting? Probably somewhere around Hampton and Second streets... eight car pile-up - at first.
Cars just kept piling on as the minutes ticked by, though. I felt sorry for the cop who arrived on-scene first, so I tried to help him organize the injured. That should have been my second clue right there... Every damn one of them looked about ready to keel over. I think I asked both myself and the cop if there was some kind of epidemic taking root.
Officer Lopez... he was the first one I saw get... He was checking on some old fart. I didn't even know what was up until I heard him cry out. By the time I turned around, they were on him like starving wolves after a fresh kill. They ripped him apart in a less than a minute...
I can still hear his screams when I close my eyes.
I ran... like a scared little bitch.
And I was scared, too. He was a fucking police officer, for Christ's sake. If they got him so easy, I'd be done for in a mother-fucking heartbeat. Jesus... I don't remember the run much, except for the fact that I refused to look behind me. If those wacked out bastards were going to get me, I didn't want to see it coming.
I had damn good reason to be afraid, looking back. I'm not exactly in good shape, I'm not terribly young, and I'm a smoker to boot. I all but tripped over the body of another policeman, twisting my ankle in the process. That was just a lovely addition to my rising hysteria.
Some part of my brain kept working, though, because I remembered to grab his gun and spare clips. Not that I've ever fired a pistol in my ever-loving life. I was just freaked out enough to want to take a crash course, though.
After that, it was a frantic run, limping, to try to find a safe place to hole up. Not bloody likely. The business district isn't what one might call "structurally sound" territory. If it didn't have lovely plate glass windows, it was infested with these things.
Even on a good day, I suck. I shouldn't have to say anything more.
So, here I am, limping down a mostly deserted alleyway like Quasimoto, when a whole god-damn pack of 'em come around the corner. Once it registers just how fucked I am, I turn to gimp my ass the other way.
Not happening.
A second, though smaller, group had come up the other way behind me. So now, I'm debating eating a bullet when I start hearing shots. It was kind of like being at a morbid shooting gallery. One zombie falls, then another, then another, and another. I start to run, but I forgot about that other group.
After that next five seconds, I am and will forever be, an advocate of cowhide. One of them got a hold of me and tried to dine on my shoulder. Luckily, I was wearing my leather jacket and it couldn't get through. A bullet knocked it back, fortunately, and then a warm hand grabbed my wrist.
"Come on," urged a man's voice and I complied as best I could. Of course, with my twisted ankle, that wasn't saying much. He finally dipped his shoulder and threw me over it. That was when I noticed he was a rather well-built guy with very broad shoulders... which I happened to be resting across. Dark hair, too... but that was all I could see other than the zombies crawling around everywhere.
Unfortunately, even with muscle mass, the ride wasn't exactly comfortable. Having a hard shoulder digging into the sensitive area between one's legs does NOT go down as an enjoyable experience. I'm sure he probably regretted it, too, since I'm not exactly light as a frigging feather.
But, there we were, zombies everywhere. I finally put that gun I nabbed to good use, knocking a few of them away from us. It was hard to aim, though, considering my position. Not that, at the time, I figured I could hit the broad side of a barn, anyway.
I wasn't the only one who was firing a gun either, but he was doing a hell of a lot better than I was. It didn't take me long to realize that these things stayed down if you capped 'em in the head. Okie-dokie. Of course, if I wasn't in a state of shock right now, I probably would have realized that sooner. It took me several tries to convince the damn gun to jack out the first spent clip so I could replace it, and I almost dropped the god-damn thing in the process.
"Save your magazines," he tells me when he hears me eject it. I look at the side of his face like it's sprouting an eye.
Fucking duh. If I found more ammo, I'd be reloading that bitch in a heartbeat.
"Like you gotta tell me twice," I shoot back before I start firing again. He grunts, making me turn my attention back to him, and I see one of the things grabbing his ankle. Oh, HELL no. "Muscular guy getting my fat ass to safety" plus "zombie-like thing trying to eat him" do not mix well in my mind right now.
Just a little redirection on my aim and it's not a problem anymore. I hear him mutter a "thanks" at me before he starts walking again. I don't know how, but my rescuer manages to find the ONE decent building in the place that isn't infested with zombies.
He sets me back on my feet and I stagger a couple of steps, causing him to throw out one hand to steady me. I finally get a good look at him and... damn. "Thanks," I tell him, my eyes casting towards the door warily.
His gaze follows mine and then he looks back at me. "It'll hold 'em off until we get situated. What the hell were you doing out there anyway?"
The absurdity of the question hits me and I just glare at him. "Well, I was walking home... which is what people who don't have cars tend to do. Thank God I didn't call a fucking cab." Thinking back on that major wreck that started all of this shit for me, I'm glad I did decide to save my cash. Even if, in retrospect, I might have been safer in the car.
My rescuer parks his ass down in a chair by the door and leans back, looking at me. Probably appraising me to see if I'm going to freak out or break down into total hysterics. I ignore this and dig out my pack of cigarettes, lighting up almost immediately. Jesus H. Christ on a bicycle... I don't think I've ever needed one more. My hand's shaking so much, it takes me a few tries to get it lit well enough to actually smoke off of it.
"Spare one," he asks. I flip one his way and settle down on a crate nearby, listening to the cacophony of moans and howls outside. The very... wrongness of it sends a chill up my spine.
"That's fucking unnerving," I mutter around my smoke, pulling my leather jacket tighter around my shoulders and zipping it up. There's that "hair-standing-up" sensation at the back of my neck... not a pleasant one.
He looks over his shoulder at the door and nods. "Yeah." Then, his dark blue gaze swings back towards me and his mouth quirks up into a slight smirk. "You got a name?"
"Yup... Mom made sure of it before I left the hospital," I respond. As I speak, I'm pulling that gun out and looking it over. Realism and television are clashing here. It's kind of heavy, cold, and almost... unforgiving. I don't know a thing about this, really. Handguns always scared the living hell out of me. The power to take a life in one hand... It's like playing "God" or something...
From the corner of my eye, I see him looking bemused at my answer. He's still checking me out to make sure I'll stay reasonably useful, I guess. "Okay. Stupid questions get stupid answers... How 'bout telling me your name so I don't wind up calling you something that'll get me smacked?"
"Wendy Sheridan." After a moment, I pull my gaze from the gun and look at him. "How about you? Or do I get to spend the whole night calling you 'muscle-man'?"
"Billy." That was it. No last name. I blink at the abrupt, almost cut-off way he says it. There's a story there, I'm sure, but I don't think I'll be getting it out of him any time soon. Something about this is bothering me, though... and it's got nothing to do with his name.
Call me weird, but if I remember my trivia correctly, men are more prone to freak out over shit like this than women are. Some kind of mental horror when dealing with zombies and dead shit. So, either he's not figured this out yet, or he's too stupid to have, or I'm more of a chickenshit than he is, or he's been through this before.
I hope to God it's NOT the first two. The third would shame me, but I can deal with that, too. If he's been through this before, then he's got a clue as to how to keep us alive. "So... what are we going to do?"
He sits his chair back on all four legs. "Well, *you're* going to get the hell out of town. *I'm* going to get to the bottom of this and then follow suit."
Damn, but that sounds like a sweet idea; except, I remember what kind of shape those roads are outside and I don't think it's a possibility. If other places in town are like this area, I won't get far on my own - even with a car under me.
"Oh, like hell, Billy. Chances are, the whole fucking town is as bad as this. I've never been so stupid as to risk suicide." Yes, I know you're male, but wake up and smell the frigging coffee, man.
Not that I'm really complaining, but what *is* it with guys and that "get-the-girl-safe" mentality, anyway? We BOTH should be skipping town for safety. To be honest, I don't like the idea of him leaving me alone. Call me a chickenshit if you want, but I think I'd rather have him playing bodyguard.
"Well, staying in town isn't safe either," he counters, taking the last pull from the cigarette I'd given him and dropping it on the floor. He really IS planning on leaving my fat ass behind somewhere he "thinks" is safe. Not just "no," but "HELL no."
I've rarely, if ever, been accused of total stupidity. I am, however, known for letting my mouth run before my brain gets a chance to edit the words about to spew out. "Seems to me that the safest place in town is about five feet around you... and I'm not leaving that space."
"You won't be able to keep up with me on that ankle," he retorts as he pulls his gun, which is much bigger than mine, out and rests it on his knee. Sheesh... he had to go and bring logic into this.
I'm not backing down, though. I *want* to survive until sunrise, damn it. So far as I can see it, Billy is the only way I'm going to come out of tonight still breathing. "Get me an ACE bandage and some ibuprofen and I'll be fine until we get somewhere far from here." I'm not telling him that I've been through far worse than a sprained ankle. Every woman has. Monthly.
Billy drops the subject. Either he doesn't want to argue, or he realizes that I'm damn determined, or he figures I'll wind up dead in an hour. Don't know; don't care; argument's over and I won. All that matters now is that I'm going stay close to him until we get our happy asses out of this town.
He digs into the pocket of his own leather jacket and pulls out a small box of rounds for the gun I'm carrying. "Here, you may as well reload while we've got the chance." Billy waits until I'm looking at him before he tosses it my way. "... 9mm parabellum rounds... which should fit that Glock in your hand."
My catch isn't nearly as graceful as his throw, but I manage not to drop the damn thing and pry it open with shaking fingers. I've got so much adrenaline in me right now from the assorted near-misses tonight, it almost feels like I'm on some kind of speed rush. "Thanks," I say softly as my hands go to work on *trying* to reload the spent clips. I know I've mentioned that this is my first time handling a handgun, so I'm entitled to be somewhat inept with it.
My savior makes a somewhat frustrated sound and reaches out, taking the clip and round from my hands. Wordlessly, he shows me what I'm supposed to be doing with a few of the bullets before letting me have the magazine back. Gee, now that I feel like some kind of idiotic brat...
"Why'd you grab the gun if you don't know what you're doing with it?" It's a worthwhile question... but not one I wanted to hear.
So, I smack back the surge of frustration and flick a look at him. "It was a weapon. I'm adaptable and it wouldn't be the first time I had to take a crash course by way of the 'hands on' approach." Keyword: "survival" comes to mind.
Thank God, he changes the subject after that. "So, where do we get the bandage and meds for you?" Ah, now that's a question I don't mind answering properly.
"There's a drug store just around the corner from here... It should be fairly sound, too, since most of the windows are too high up for anything to get in easy." The problem with my logic there is that also means what's inside won't be able to get OUT too easily.
I omitted that on purpose, though. I'm trying to think positively, after all.
The man's kind enough not to point out the obvious hole in my reasoning and gets to his feet, that big gun going into his hand. "Let's get moving then."
So, I get up and do the injured hobble a moment before getting my new center of balance. The ankle seems to be stubborn about holding onto the mildly burning jolts of pain... damn it. I can see the look on his face at that, one that tells me he's not liking this a single bit, but I know my body better than he does. If I can get the right dosage of the right medication, I'll be fine and still be coherent enough to not get myself killed with a gun.
Unbarring the door, Billy looks out to see how clear the area is then slips outside and waves me out. He's holding that gun like a fucking pro and I'm standing next to him like a retard. I'll be kicking my own ass for not taking advantage of a few events earlier in my life when I had the chance... but that'll come later, once we're safe and we don't have to worry about zombies crashing through our position.
If I was uninjured, the walk would have been a piece of cake. However, with each step giving me bone-jarring pain, it seems to take an eternity. We make it to the heavy glass doors of the drug store and inside before our passing is noticed by too many of the walking dead. Unfortunately, we're not alone when we get in.
Fortunately, there's not that many problems in here with us. It's just the clerk and the pharmecist, so Billy elects to save ammo by whipping out some kick ass moves. Damn... I know some well-trained martial artists who'd be envious. Of course, the mess left behind turns my stomach in knots, but better them than us.
He doesn't even have to say a word before I'm limping towards the back where the hard drugs are kept. Of course, he's following me, which is a good thing. There just so happened to be a former customer in the back near the counter. He shows me exactly why he's got that big gun right then, too. One shot totally exploded that zombie's head.
Effective, but... Ewwwwwwwwwww.
Puking all over his shoes would be a bad idea... Now, if I can just convince my stomach, we'll be a-okay. Don't want to think about what the smell is like... don't want to think about what the smell is like... I've smelled three day old dead skunks on the highway during summertime and this is worse than that.
He slides over the counter to the heavy drugs in back and pulls me across. I go picking through what's there in the stores. I said ibuprofen before, but I know now that I need something harder. It doesn't take long for me to find two things that have been good friends in the past: darvocet and flexoril. One is for the current situation, the other is for the aftermath when I *know* I'm going to be bedridden. I go ahead and grab one of the bottles of prescription ibuprofen anyway, though, since he might need it after spending too long around me.
I know I'm not easy to get along with and I'm sure tonight's just going to prove that.
God only knows what's going to happen to this guy when all is said and done. I have a feeling his body's going to hate him worse than mine hates me. Judging from the way he moves, he's taken this kind of abuse before. I want to know, but I'm afraid to ask... now, anyway.
Maybe later... if we're both alive. I know there's a more than 90% chance that I'm not going to survive the night. Those odds really do suck.
Back across the counter to gather a few things I know we're probably going to need. Fortunately, I've got my backpack so we can just load that puppy up. Medkit, extra bandages, hydrogen peroxide, minor food items, bottled water and sports drinks. I think he's appreciating my forethought on this, because he's not complaining about me taking the extra time.
As an afterthought, I grab a splint for my ankle. If I keep running around on it like this, I'm going to need the fucking thing.
"You about done here," he asks me, bringing his fingers up to his lips to indicate he'd like another cigarette. I toss him one and watch him light it. Of course, despite the situation, I do let my eyes linger a little longer than they should.
He just so happens to be pretty easy on the eyes so I don't mind watching him when he's not looking my way. Maybe the ever-so-wonderful Goddess *is* looking out for me. At least I've got something hot to look at if I do wind up eating it. I'll be sure to carry the mental image into the afterlife with me. I stick a smoke between my own lips and light it, giving him a nod of affirmation.
"Do you know where we can get more guns and ammo?" Ah, another intelligent question. I'll be only TOO happy to give him a straight answer there.
"Down the street to the left, about two blocks, there's a pawn shop. To the right, much further away, is a police station. The pawn shop won't carry bullets, but the cop shop will." I see him nod and we both start moving towards the doors again, me moving much slower than him.
I take a moment to move behind the counter close to the doors and grab a couple of cartons of my regular brand of cigarettes. Judging by how stressful the night's been so far, they might last until we're safe again. However long it takes to make us that way.
* * *
TBC
There will be more to come.
Title: Survivor: Umbrella - I
Fandom: Resident Evil
Rating: R
Warnings: First-Person POV, Language, Monsters, Original Character, Undead, Violence
Summary: All hell breaks loose in a remote town and an injured woman must rely on the protection of a man named Billy.
Disclaimer: Resident Evil and the character Billy Coen are copyrighted by Capcom. The author of this work is making no profit from this fan-fiction story and is not challenging the status of the copyright holders.
* * *
My night had already gone to hell, so I guess finding zombies everywhere was just added incentive to hate my life even more. When did I realize it was starting? Probably somewhere around Hampton and Second streets... eight car pile-up - at first.
Cars just kept piling on as the minutes ticked by, though. I felt sorry for the cop who arrived on-scene first, so I tried to help him organize the injured. That should have been my second clue right there... Every damn one of them looked about ready to keel over. I think I asked both myself and the cop if there was some kind of epidemic taking root.
Officer Lopez... he was the first one I saw get... He was checking on some old fart. I didn't even know what was up until I heard him cry out. By the time I turned around, they were on him like starving wolves after a fresh kill. They ripped him apart in a less than a minute...
I can still hear his screams when I close my eyes.
I ran... like a scared little bitch.
And I was scared, too. He was a fucking police officer, for Christ's sake. If they got him so easy, I'd be done for in a mother-fucking heartbeat. Jesus... I don't remember the run much, except for the fact that I refused to look behind me. If those wacked out bastards were going to get me, I didn't want to see it coming.
I had damn good reason to be afraid, looking back. I'm not exactly in good shape, I'm not terribly young, and I'm a smoker to boot. I all but tripped over the body of another policeman, twisting my ankle in the process. That was just a lovely addition to my rising hysteria.
Some part of my brain kept working, though, because I remembered to grab his gun and spare clips. Not that I've ever fired a pistol in my ever-loving life. I was just freaked out enough to want to take a crash course, though.
After that, it was a frantic run, limping, to try to find a safe place to hole up. Not bloody likely. The business district isn't what one might call "structurally sound" territory. If it didn't have lovely plate glass windows, it was infested with these things.
Even on a good day, I suck. I shouldn't have to say anything more.
So, here I am, limping down a mostly deserted alleyway like Quasimoto, when a whole god-damn pack of 'em come around the corner. Once it registers just how fucked I am, I turn to gimp my ass the other way.
Not happening.
A second, though smaller, group had come up the other way behind me. So now, I'm debating eating a bullet when I start hearing shots. It was kind of like being at a morbid shooting gallery. One zombie falls, then another, then another, and another. I start to run, but I forgot about that other group.
After that next five seconds, I am and will forever be, an advocate of cowhide. One of them got a hold of me and tried to dine on my shoulder. Luckily, I was wearing my leather jacket and it couldn't get through. A bullet knocked it back, fortunately, and then a warm hand grabbed my wrist.
"Come on," urged a man's voice and I complied as best I could. Of course, with my twisted ankle, that wasn't saying much. He finally dipped his shoulder and threw me over it. That was when I noticed he was a rather well-built guy with very broad shoulders... which I happened to be resting across. Dark hair, too... but that was all I could see other than the zombies crawling around everywhere.
Unfortunately, even with muscle mass, the ride wasn't exactly comfortable. Having a hard shoulder digging into the sensitive area between one's legs does NOT go down as an enjoyable experience. I'm sure he probably regretted it, too, since I'm not exactly light as a frigging feather.
But, there we were, zombies everywhere. I finally put that gun I nabbed to good use, knocking a few of them away from us. It was hard to aim, though, considering my position. Not that, at the time, I figured I could hit the broad side of a barn, anyway.
I wasn't the only one who was firing a gun either, but he was doing a hell of a lot better than I was. It didn't take me long to realize that these things stayed down if you capped 'em in the head. Okie-dokie. Of course, if I wasn't in a state of shock right now, I probably would have realized that sooner. It took me several tries to convince the damn gun to jack out the first spent clip so I could replace it, and I almost dropped the god-damn thing in the process.
"Save your magazines," he tells me when he hears me eject it. I look at the side of his face like it's sprouting an eye.
Fucking duh. If I found more ammo, I'd be reloading that bitch in a heartbeat.
"Like you gotta tell me twice," I shoot back before I start firing again. He grunts, making me turn my attention back to him, and I see one of the things grabbing his ankle. Oh, HELL no. "Muscular guy getting my fat ass to safety" plus "zombie-like thing trying to eat him" do not mix well in my mind right now.
Just a little redirection on my aim and it's not a problem anymore. I hear him mutter a "thanks" at me before he starts walking again. I don't know how, but my rescuer manages to find the ONE decent building in the place that isn't infested with zombies.
He sets me back on my feet and I stagger a couple of steps, causing him to throw out one hand to steady me. I finally get a good look at him and... damn. "Thanks," I tell him, my eyes casting towards the door warily.
His gaze follows mine and then he looks back at me. "It'll hold 'em off until we get situated. What the hell were you doing out there anyway?"
The absurdity of the question hits me and I just glare at him. "Well, I was walking home... which is what people who don't have cars tend to do. Thank God I didn't call a fucking cab." Thinking back on that major wreck that started all of this shit for me, I'm glad I did decide to save my cash. Even if, in retrospect, I might have been safer in the car.
My rescuer parks his ass down in a chair by the door and leans back, looking at me. Probably appraising me to see if I'm going to freak out or break down into total hysterics. I ignore this and dig out my pack of cigarettes, lighting up almost immediately. Jesus H. Christ on a bicycle... I don't think I've ever needed one more. My hand's shaking so much, it takes me a few tries to get it lit well enough to actually smoke off of it.
"Spare one," he asks. I flip one his way and settle down on a crate nearby, listening to the cacophony of moans and howls outside. The very... wrongness of it sends a chill up my spine.
"That's fucking unnerving," I mutter around my smoke, pulling my leather jacket tighter around my shoulders and zipping it up. There's that "hair-standing-up" sensation at the back of my neck... not a pleasant one.
He looks over his shoulder at the door and nods. "Yeah." Then, his dark blue gaze swings back towards me and his mouth quirks up into a slight smirk. "You got a name?"
"Yup... Mom made sure of it before I left the hospital," I respond. As I speak, I'm pulling that gun out and looking it over. Realism and television are clashing here. It's kind of heavy, cold, and almost... unforgiving. I don't know a thing about this, really. Handguns always scared the living hell out of me. The power to take a life in one hand... It's like playing "God" or something...
From the corner of my eye, I see him looking bemused at my answer. He's still checking me out to make sure I'll stay reasonably useful, I guess. "Okay. Stupid questions get stupid answers... How 'bout telling me your name so I don't wind up calling you something that'll get me smacked?"
"Wendy Sheridan." After a moment, I pull my gaze from the gun and look at him. "How about you? Or do I get to spend the whole night calling you 'muscle-man'?"
"Billy." That was it. No last name. I blink at the abrupt, almost cut-off way he says it. There's a story there, I'm sure, but I don't think I'll be getting it out of him any time soon. Something about this is bothering me, though... and it's got nothing to do with his name.
Call me weird, but if I remember my trivia correctly, men are more prone to freak out over shit like this than women are. Some kind of mental horror when dealing with zombies and dead shit. So, either he's not figured this out yet, or he's too stupid to have, or I'm more of a chickenshit than he is, or he's been through this before.
I hope to God it's NOT the first two. The third would shame me, but I can deal with that, too. If he's been through this before, then he's got a clue as to how to keep us alive. "So... what are we going to do?"
He sits his chair back on all four legs. "Well, *you're* going to get the hell out of town. *I'm* going to get to the bottom of this and then follow suit."
Damn, but that sounds like a sweet idea; except, I remember what kind of shape those roads are outside and I don't think it's a possibility. If other places in town are like this area, I won't get far on my own - even with a car under me.
"Oh, like hell, Billy. Chances are, the whole fucking town is as bad as this. I've never been so stupid as to risk suicide." Yes, I know you're male, but wake up and smell the frigging coffee, man.
Not that I'm really complaining, but what *is* it with guys and that "get-the-girl-safe" mentality, anyway? We BOTH should be skipping town for safety. To be honest, I don't like the idea of him leaving me alone. Call me a chickenshit if you want, but I think I'd rather have him playing bodyguard.
"Well, staying in town isn't safe either," he counters, taking the last pull from the cigarette I'd given him and dropping it on the floor. He really IS planning on leaving my fat ass behind somewhere he "thinks" is safe. Not just "no," but "HELL no."
I've rarely, if ever, been accused of total stupidity. I am, however, known for letting my mouth run before my brain gets a chance to edit the words about to spew out. "Seems to me that the safest place in town is about five feet around you... and I'm not leaving that space."
"You won't be able to keep up with me on that ankle," he retorts as he pulls his gun, which is much bigger than mine, out and rests it on his knee. Sheesh... he had to go and bring logic into this.
I'm not backing down, though. I *want* to survive until sunrise, damn it. So far as I can see it, Billy is the only way I'm going to come out of tonight still breathing. "Get me an ACE bandage and some ibuprofen and I'll be fine until we get somewhere far from here." I'm not telling him that I've been through far worse than a sprained ankle. Every woman has. Monthly.
Billy drops the subject. Either he doesn't want to argue, or he realizes that I'm damn determined, or he figures I'll wind up dead in an hour. Don't know; don't care; argument's over and I won. All that matters now is that I'm going stay close to him until we get our happy asses out of this town.
He digs into the pocket of his own leather jacket and pulls out a small box of rounds for the gun I'm carrying. "Here, you may as well reload while we've got the chance." Billy waits until I'm looking at him before he tosses it my way. "... 9mm parabellum rounds... which should fit that Glock in your hand."
My catch isn't nearly as graceful as his throw, but I manage not to drop the damn thing and pry it open with shaking fingers. I've got so much adrenaline in me right now from the assorted near-misses tonight, it almost feels like I'm on some kind of speed rush. "Thanks," I say softly as my hands go to work on *trying* to reload the spent clips. I know I've mentioned that this is my first time handling a handgun, so I'm entitled to be somewhat inept with it.
My savior makes a somewhat frustrated sound and reaches out, taking the clip and round from my hands. Wordlessly, he shows me what I'm supposed to be doing with a few of the bullets before letting me have the magazine back. Gee, now that I feel like some kind of idiotic brat...
"Why'd you grab the gun if you don't know what you're doing with it?" It's a worthwhile question... but not one I wanted to hear.
So, I smack back the surge of frustration and flick a look at him. "It was a weapon. I'm adaptable and it wouldn't be the first time I had to take a crash course by way of the 'hands on' approach." Keyword: "survival" comes to mind.
Thank God, he changes the subject after that. "So, where do we get the bandage and meds for you?" Ah, now that's a question I don't mind answering properly.
"There's a drug store just around the corner from here... It should be fairly sound, too, since most of the windows are too high up for anything to get in easy." The problem with my logic there is that also means what's inside won't be able to get OUT too easily.
I omitted that on purpose, though. I'm trying to think positively, after all.
The man's kind enough not to point out the obvious hole in my reasoning and gets to his feet, that big gun going into his hand. "Let's get moving then."
So, I get up and do the injured hobble a moment before getting my new center of balance. The ankle seems to be stubborn about holding onto the mildly burning jolts of pain... damn it. I can see the look on his face at that, one that tells me he's not liking this a single bit, but I know my body better than he does. If I can get the right dosage of the right medication, I'll be fine and still be coherent enough to not get myself killed with a gun.
Unbarring the door, Billy looks out to see how clear the area is then slips outside and waves me out. He's holding that gun like a fucking pro and I'm standing next to him like a retard. I'll be kicking my own ass for not taking advantage of a few events earlier in my life when I had the chance... but that'll come later, once we're safe and we don't have to worry about zombies crashing through our position.
If I was uninjured, the walk would have been a piece of cake. However, with each step giving me bone-jarring pain, it seems to take an eternity. We make it to the heavy glass doors of the drug store and inside before our passing is noticed by too many of the walking dead. Unfortunately, we're not alone when we get in.
Fortunately, there's not that many problems in here with us. It's just the clerk and the pharmecist, so Billy elects to save ammo by whipping out some kick ass moves. Damn... I know some well-trained martial artists who'd be envious. Of course, the mess left behind turns my stomach in knots, but better them than us.
He doesn't even have to say a word before I'm limping towards the back where the hard drugs are kept. Of course, he's following me, which is a good thing. There just so happened to be a former customer in the back near the counter. He shows me exactly why he's got that big gun right then, too. One shot totally exploded that zombie's head.
Effective, but... Ewwwwwwwwwww.
Puking all over his shoes would be a bad idea... Now, if I can just convince my stomach, we'll be a-okay. Don't want to think about what the smell is like... don't want to think about what the smell is like... I've smelled three day old dead skunks on the highway during summertime and this is worse than that.
He slides over the counter to the heavy drugs in back and pulls me across. I go picking through what's there in the stores. I said ibuprofen before, but I know now that I need something harder. It doesn't take long for me to find two things that have been good friends in the past: darvocet and flexoril. One is for the current situation, the other is for the aftermath when I *know* I'm going to be bedridden. I go ahead and grab one of the bottles of prescription ibuprofen anyway, though, since he might need it after spending too long around me.
I know I'm not easy to get along with and I'm sure tonight's just going to prove that.
God only knows what's going to happen to this guy when all is said and done. I have a feeling his body's going to hate him worse than mine hates me. Judging from the way he moves, he's taken this kind of abuse before. I want to know, but I'm afraid to ask... now, anyway.
Maybe later... if we're both alive. I know there's a more than 90% chance that I'm not going to survive the night. Those odds really do suck.
Back across the counter to gather a few things I know we're probably going to need. Fortunately, I've got my backpack so we can just load that puppy up. Medkit, extra bandages, hydrogen peroxide, minor food items, bottled water and sports drinks. I think he's appreciating my forethought on this, because he's not complaining about me taking the extra time.
As an afterthought, I grab a splint for my ankle. If I keep running around on it like this, I'm going to need the fucking thing.
"You about done here," he asks me, bringing his fingers up to his lips to indicate he'd like another cigarette. I toss him one and watch him light it. Of course, despite the situation, I do let my eyes linger a little longer than they should.
He just so happens to be pretty easy on the eyes so I don't mind watching him when he's not looking my way. Maybe the ever-so-wonderful Goddess *is* looking out for me. At least I've got something hot to look at if I do wind up eating it. I'll be sure to carry the mental image into the afterlife with me. I stick a smoke between my own lips and light it, giving him a nod of affirmation.
"Do you know where we can get more guns and ammo?" Ah, another intelligent question. I'll be only TOO happy to give him a straight answer there.
"Down the street to the left, about two blocks, there's a pawn shop. To the right, much further away, is a police station. The pawn shop won't carry bullets, but the cop shop will." I see him nod and we both start moving towards the doors again, me moving much slower than him.
I take a moment to move behind the counter close to the doors and grab a couple of cartons of my regular brand of cigarettes. Judging by how stressful the night's been so far, they might last until we're safe again. However long it takes to make us that way.
* * *
TBC
There will be more to come.