wtf am I writing
Hey guys. Want a sneak peek of a new project I may or may not complete? This is me testing the waters to see if anyone would read this thing. I know I have other projects to finish first (Christmas fic for some of you, started HP series, and the second part of that Richard/Miles fic), but ugh, you know how the plot bunnies are. I couldn't get this idea out of my head. So I'm just gonna leave this here and you can give me a yes/no/maybe on it, okay? XD Then I'm going to bed because, ughhh I'm still sick.
***
Richard likes being the lookout. The roof is quiet, and he likes being alone. Especially after letting a ragged group of people into his hideout. He had been stationed at the Los Angeles Police Department for a month before they came along looking for supplies. Their leader-whoever they decide it is at the time-says they’re stronger together, that they can help him survive. He shares his guns and they share their food and everyone mostly gets along. But they’re staying there because he lets them.
The roof is good for other things besides the quiet. He gets to look out over the ruined city, to pick off the dead things one by one as they stumble by. Richard is very good with the scope rifle, he can hit anything in one shot. The scope and his binoculars are good tools for keeping an eye on their few neighbors on the street; loners who don’t want to join them. One of them he knows, communicates with through notes written on large dry-erase boards and held up on the roof. His name is Ben, and Richard suspects he killed the other people he was with. The other one is more mysterious, and Richard spies on her as much as he can.
He’s looking through the binoculars where he saw her prowling the day before when he sees another movement. Not the slow shamble of a dead thing, or the woman’s deliberate creeping, but a flat-out running. Nothing runs in this town without reason. Richard puts down the binoculars and crouches with the rifle aimed down the street. He picks up the walkie-talkie.
“Jack? We have company.”
There’s a crackle of static, then the familiar voice. “Dead, or alive?”
Richard smirks, though Jack can’t see it. “He’s running towards us, if that’s any indication.”
“Any zombies?” Richard hates that term; it seems too modern, too catchy for what’s really going on.
“Oh, yeah.” He looks through the scope. The man has a hood up so Richard can’t see his face. He swings at the passing dead with a bloodied baseball bat. “He’s almost at the front door, Jack.”
“We’re on it.”
Richard sets the walkie down, eye pressed to the scope and finger on the trigger. The fleeing man is pulling at the door, which of course won’t budge until Jack opens it for him. He’s pounding on it, his weapon limp in his grip. He doesn’t see the decaying jaws coming at him from behind.
So Richard squeezes the trigger, once, twice. Two dead things fall to the ground in a final death. The man looks up bewildered, squints into the sun and sees Richard wave a casual hand at him. Then he’s pulled inside, the door is slammed, and Richard picks off the last few zombies that are pawing at the door. His walkie buzzes again.
“Wanna come down here, quick draw? We have a situation.” This is a different voice, a drawling, sarcastic voice of a man who vies with Jack for leadership of the group. Richard doesn’t care which one of them wins, as long as they don’t kill each other in the process and stick Richard with their group of stragglers. Richard sighs and puts the rifle on his shoulder.
“On my way, James.”
“Don’t call me James.”
Richard rolls his eyes. He can’t wait to see how they’re treating their new guest.
***
Richard likes being the lookout. The roof is quiet, and he likes being alone. Especially after letting a ragged group of people into his hideout. He had been stationed at the Los Angeles Police Department for a month before they came along looking for supplies. Their leader-whoever they decide it is at the time-says they’re stronger together, that they can help him survive. He shares his guns and they share their food and everyone mostly gets along. But they’re staying there because he lets them.
The roof is good for other things besides the quiet. He gets to look out over the ruined city, to pick off the dead things one by one as they stumble by. Richard is very good with the scope rifle, he can hit anything in one shot. The scope and his binoculars are good tools for keeping an eye on their few neighbors on the street; loners who don’t want to join them. One of them he knows, communicates with through notes written on large dry-erase boards and held up on the roof. His name is Ben, and Richard suspects he killed the other people he was with. The other one is more mysterious, and Richard spies on her as much as he can.
He’s looking through the binoculars where he saw her prowling the day before when he sees another movement. Not the slow shamble of a dead thing, or the woman’s deliberate creeping, but a flat-out running. Nothing runs in this town without reason. Richard puts down the binoculars and crouches with the rifle aimed down the street. He picks up the walkie-talkie.
“Jack? We have company.”
There’s a crackle of static, then the familiar voice. “Dead, or alive?”
Richard smirks, though Jack can’t see it. “He’s running towards us, if that’s any indication.”
“Any zombies?” Richard hates that term; it seems too modern, too catchy for what’s really going on.
“Oh, yeah.” He looks through the scope. The man has a hood up so Richard can’t see his face. He swings at the passing dead with a bloodied baseball bat. “He’s almost at the front door, Jack.”
“We’re on it.”
Richard sets the walkie down, eye pressed to the scope and finger on the trigger. The fleeing man is pulling at the door, which of course won’t budge until Jack opens it for him. He’s pounding on it, his weapon limp in his grip. He doesn’t see the decaying jaws coming at him from behind.
So Richard squeezes the trigger, once, twice. Two dead things fall to the ground in a final death. The man looks up bewildered, squints into the sun and sees Richard wave a casual hand at him. Then he’s pulled inside, the door is slammed, and Richard picks off the last few zombies that are pawing at the door. His walkie buzzes again.
“Wanna come down here, quick draw? We have a situation.” This is a different voice, a drawling, sarcastic voice of a man who vies with Jack for leadership of the group. Richard doesn’t care which one of them wins, as long as they don’t kill each other in the process and stick Richard with their group of stragglers. Richard sighs and puts the rifle on his shoulder.
“On my way, James.”
“Don’t call me James.”
Richard rolls his eyes. He can’t wait to see how they’re treating their new guest.