She's off the couch in the same instant, diving over the back into a roll and scramble, hand clenching shut on the rungs of a nearby chair. It's all fluid with the kind of controlled grace that only comes unconsciously -- and then she falters, stumbling mid-motion into an instant's poised crouch.
"They're all made of hunger," she whispers, wide eyes fixed on Tom. "Killed them once."
And then the first zombie makes it through the doorway, more shambling at its heels, and River's moving again.
Tom fires clumsily at the first zombie -- a big guy in a Cowboys T-shirt -- and succeeds in blowing the side of its head away. It staggers but keeps coming; behind it, a zombie in a tracksuit pulls itself past the doorframe.
People are starting to notice, starting to flee or pull out weapons; it means fewer bystanders, and none in the danger zone right now. River's up on a table, firing shot after shot with her borrowed gun. It takes her a couple of shots to adjust to this particular weapon, but the relatively close range helps.
Which is to say: there are a lot of headshots happening.
Tom whirls when he feels someone going for his gun, but by the time he turns River is already firing, and since she's not firing at him he's not inclined to complain about her stealing his weaponry at the moment.
"You really shouldn't let your things out of sight like that," comments Bob, from the store. "Waste of resources, you know?"
"Would you shut up!" Tom snarls, taking out a zombie standing just past Bob. Shooting at Bob never does any good.
A pile of re-dead corpses is starting to form in the doorway, mostly preventing the remaining five or six zombies from getting into the bar. They're still trying, though, pushing forward implacably.
It's also kind of preventing the door from closing. But Milliways has lots of variously super-strong people; if they can barricade the door with re-corpsified zombies, that at least takes care of the immediate problem.
Headshot.
Headshot.
"Counted them," River murmurs, with a gentleness at odds with her steady lethal hands. "Say hi to the Lady."
Headshot -- this one stubbornly lurches forward, less decayed and more resilient than the rest, and gets a double-tap as persuasion to lie down.
(This is the problem with stealing somebody else's gun. Especially when you don't steal an extra clip to go with it.)
River doesn't blink. She drops the gun -- no point in not -- and ducks down to grab up a handy chair. If Tom's not safely reloaded before the zombie gets near him or anybody else, River's going in there with the blunt instruments. There are plenty of ways to destroy the brain with a chair leg; she can tell you the math.
She's off the couch in the same instant, diving over the back into a roll and scramble, hand clenching shut on the rungs of a nearby chair. It's all fluid with the kind of controlled grace that only comes unconsciously -- and then she falters, stumbling mid-motion into an instant's poised crouch.
"They're all made of hunger," she whispers, wide eyes fixed on Tom. "Killed them once."
And then the first zombie makes it through the doorway, more shambling at its heels, and River's moving again.
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Tom fires clumsily at the first zombie -- a big guy in a Cowboys T-shirt -- and succeeds in blowing the side of its head away. It staggers but keeps coming; behind it, a zombie in a tracksuit pulls itself past the doorframe.
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Now there's not.
People are starting to notice, starting to flee or pull out weapons; it means fewer bystanders, and none in the danger zone right now. River's up on a table, firing shot after shot with her borrowed gun. It takes her a couple of shots to adjust to this particular weapon, but the relatively close range helps.
Which is to say: there are a lot of headshots happening.
Reply
Tom whirls when he feels someone going for his gun, but by the time he turns River is already firing, and since she's not firing at him he's not inclined to complain about her stealing his weaponry at the moment.
"You really shouldn't let your things out of sight like that," comments Bob, from the store. "Waste of resources, you know?"
"Would you shut up!" Tom snarls, taking out a zombie standing just past Bob. Shooting at Bob never does any good.
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Her face is calm, intent, and -- if you look just right -- faintly sorrowful.
A bullet whistles (through) past Bob and into another decaying face.
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Headshot.
Headshot.
"Counted them," River murmurs, with a gentleness at odds with her steady lethal hands. "Say hi to the Lady."
Headshot -- this one stubbornly lurches forward, less decayed and more resilient than the rest, and gets a double-tap as persuasion to lie down.
Reply
Tom growls and fires twice, sending a pigtailed zombie to the floor. He turns to aim at another--
And feels the heartstopping click of an empty clip when he pulls the trigger.
He has an extra in his back pocket, though, it'll only take him a minute--
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click.
(This is the problem with stealing somebody else's gun. Especially when you don't steal an extra clip to go with it.)
River doesn't blink. She drops the gun -- no point in not -- and ducks down to grab up a handy chair. If Tom's not safely reloaded before the zombie gets near him or anybody else, River's going in there with the blunt instruments. There are plenty of ways to destroy the brain with a chair leg; she can tell you the math.
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Clip in, rack the slide, find the target and aim.
"For fuck's sake stay down!"
Fire.
Once the blam of the pistol has faded, there's silence from the other side of the door. Tom keeps his gun up for a minute just in case.
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