Tom flinches, covering his face; he still gets a lot of the splatter.
"Aw, Christ," he moans.
No time to panic about how many potentially-infected zombie bits this guy is flinging all over, though. He shakes it off and drops a zombified runner with a headshot.
Ash's never killed non-Deadite undead type . If Tom tells him He's pretty convinced bar'll offer them both some kinda preventative cure-all, so they won't infect the entire bar, as long as Tom doesn't take it back to his world (which sucks, but Ash himself would tell him life's not fair). But that'll come later.
He brings the saw into play with practiced ease. Limbs and blood go flying. Heads are chopped clean in half, heads are vaporized with gun blasts.
This is, to his utter surprise, a lot of fun.
"Two to the left," he hisses under his breath - he's got two to deal with, but if they time this right he could get a shot off over his shoulder.
"Oh, God," Tom pants, turning and taking them out with two rapid shots.
Which leaves just one slightly hesitant zombie in pigtails advancing on them. The rest are in pieces on the floor, both in the bar and out in the store.
Ash grins at the sight of her. Gun or saw, gun or saw....
"Hey," he says, "you go for the head, I'll go for the middle." He holds up the rifle, locks his sight on the zombie and yells, "hey!" to get her attention.
He takes a couple deep breaths, then slams the door shut and gives Ash a sidelong look. His gun is pointing at the floor, but he looks ready to bring it up again at a moment's notice.
"Too long. You?"
What he does not say, though he wants to: Not so long that I've started enjoying it, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you dude, also what's with the chainsaw?
Ash hasn't even broken a sweat - deadites are FAST.
And he's similarly cautious - his own gun's still in his good hand, the saw still puttering. "Twelve years. Since I was eighteen. Guess these things love you like mine love me." Fighting zombies is more fun than killing deadites, if only because those zombies weren't the decaying corpses of his loved ones.
Oh look, an excuse for Ash to look smug! "It's not easy when you're Promised before you're old enough to wipe your ass. I'm lucky I ended up where I did, even though the ride sucked."
Ash once swallowed his sisters' brains. This is a picnic to him. He starts powering down the chainsaw and unscrewing it from the metal o-ring holding it to the wrist mount. "It's better than eating death," he says reasonably. "And eyeballs are a pain in the ass to get out of clothes. My six-year-old stepped on one. Wrecked her new shoes. Her mother was pissed off at me for half the afternoon...."
He's not a sociopath. All of this - the swagger, the puns, the stuff upper lip - are forms of self-protection. He realizes Tom looks a little sick. "...need a beer?" Booze fixes it for him sometimes.
Ash raises a brow and turns back toward the bar proper. It doesn't take him long to lead Tom there, and he pats the surface.
"Two brewskies, honey."
Bar produces them quickly, along with three super-absorbent towels and a napkin reading shower first thing when you get upstairs. I don't want you infecting anyone!
Ash shrugs and starts rubbing his hair with one of the towels. Whatever turned those things had to be viral, and he knew bar - being bar - had probably done something to keep them from causing a full-on zombie plague among the patrons.
Ash knows that. They're not demons - they're much more slow.
...Usually.
holy shit...
He gets up, aims the gun and lets out a high pitched whistle to draw the attention of one of the zombies.
And promptly makes paste of its brains with a blast of buckshot.
Sometimes there's no time for a clever quip until you've in the middle of the battle.
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Well, except the one Ash just shot in the face. That certainly stopped it in its tracks.
Tom ducks instinctively at the blast, then turns and starts firing to help.
"On your left," he yells, as a zombie leans past the door frame and reaches for Ash.
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Ash gets that one by socking it right in the face with his gauntlet hand. The skull sort of...explodes. All over the place. And them.
"Jelly. Faced. Bastard. I. Just. Washed. THAT!" He hates laundry. And monsters.
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"Aw, Christ," he moans.
No time to panic about how many potentially-infected zombie bits this guy is flinging all over, though. He shakes it off and drops a zombified runner with a headshot.
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He brings the saw into play with practiced ease. Limbs and blood go flying. Heads are chopped clean in half, heads are vaporized with gun blasts.
This is, to his utter surprise, a lot of fun.
"Two to the left," he hisses under his breath - he's got two to deal with, but if they time this right he could get a shot off over his shoulder.
Reply
Which leaves just one slightly hesitant zombie in pigtails advancing on them. The rest are in pieces on the floor, both in the bar and out in the store.
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"Hey," he says, "you go for the head, I'll go for the middle." He holds up the rifle, locks his sight on the zombie and yells, "hey!" to get her attention.
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Tom makes a disgusted noise and fires; the zombie's head snaps back as the bullet tears through its temple.
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He surveys his handiwork with a sense of clear pride. "Been doing this long?"
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"Too long. You?"
What he does not say, though he wants to: Not so long that I've started enjoying it, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you dude, also what's with the chainsaw?
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And he's similarly cautious - his own gun's still in his good hand, the saw still puttering. "Twelve years. Since I was eighteen. Guess these things love you like mine love me." Fighting zombies is more fun than killing deadites, if only because those zombies weren't the decaying corpses of his loved ones.
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Okay, he wins.
Tom feels kind of nauseated.
"Sure, yeah. If yours love the taste of brains. Don't like eyes, though," he adds in a distracted mutter, more to himself than anything.
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Ash once swallowed his sisters' brains. This is a picnic to him. He starts powering down the chainsaw and unscrewing it from the metal o-ring holding it to the wrist mount. "It's better than eating death," he says reasonably. "And eyeballs are a pain in the ass to get out of clothes. My six-year-old stepped on one. Wrecked her new shoes. Her mother was pissed off at me for half the afternoon...."
He's not a sociopath. All of this - the swagger, the puns, the stuff upper lip - are forms of self-protection. He realizes Tom looks a little sick. "...need a beer?" Booze fixes it for him sometimes.
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Tom says the word the way a prospector would say gold.
"God, yes. Yes, I need a beer. I don't -- I don't know when I last had a beer."
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"Two brewskies, honey."
Bar produces them quickly, along with three super-absorbent towels and a napkin reading shower first thing when you get upstairs. I don't want you infecting anyone!
Ash shrugs and starts rubbing his hair with one of the towels. Whatever turned those things had to be viral, and he knew bar - being bar - had probably done something to keep them from causing a full-on zombie plague among the patrons.
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He takes one of the towels, gingerly cleaning off his hands and face.
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