[MM] Texas
Tom is in Dallas when his luck finally runs out.
Traveling out west is a completely different story from traveling around east of the Mississippi, it's turned out. The towns are fewer and farther between, and the truck stops along the highways are almost always more than a day's walk apart. Sometimes you can find an abandoned car with fuel in the tank and keys in the ignition, but the roads always eventually end up impassable, choked with cars or full of potholes or whatever.
On the plus side, there aren't many zombies in the wide-open spaces; on the minus side, Tom is starving and hasn't talked to anyone except himself in two weeks. Himself, and more and more frequently in the last couple days, that fucker Bob, who just won't leave him alone.
(Long-term planning just isn't your forte, Tom. I don't think short-term planning is either. Try making a list of action items, buddy, that always keeps me at my most productive. I'll show you how: item one, biting all the flesh off your ribcage and eating your lungs. Item two, ripping open your stomach and eating your intestines. Item three, tearing your arms off and eating your biceps. See how easy that is?)
Bob's seriously a dick, but Tom can never seem to get a bead on the guy's head.
He finds a car on I-30 outside Little Rock, and he manages to get it all the way into the Dallas suburbs before it starts overheating. There's a convenient grocery store with plenty of parking spaces; may as well stock up while he's here. He grabs his guns -- a .38 in each hand, two extra clips in his pockets, a .22 for security in his back pocket -- and heads in to the store. He has to force the sliding doors to start opening, but when they do, they slide open with a crash. The produce section immediately inside is a lost cause, just cases of rotten fruit and veggies. He hurries through, trying to spot any signs of previous looters. It's possible that this store's been cleaned out already, in which case he's pretty fucked. He's so hungry his hands are a little shaky.
Maybe that's why it all goes to shit. Just plain old low blood sugar.
One zombie comes out from the pharmacy section to Tom's left. No problem: Tom's aim has gotten pretty damn good over the last six months, pretty damn near instinctive. The zombie goes down with most of its head gone; the boom of the gun echoes off the tile floors.
Then they start moaning. Not just one zombie -- two, three, half a dozen. It's hard to pinpoint their locations among all the echoes. He hears shuffling behind him and whirls, barely in time to take out a former cashier. In the aisles throughout the store, he hears goods falling off their shelves as the zombies perk up and start moving.
Always check out the territory, Bob chides, leaning out from behind the deli counter. Sun Tzu says that in The Art of War. Great management book, you know?
"Shut the FUCK UP," Tom tells him, jogging down the aisle and -- "Shit!" -- dodging a grasping ex-shopper as she emerges from the soups and condiments row. How many zombies can be there in one damn store? And why are they all right here by him?
"Goddammit!" It's a real shamble of ten or more now, and they're blocking off the way to the front of the store, advancing implacably. Tom takes out one with a clean headshot and wings a second, looking around frantically for a bright idea. There -- the big double doors leading to the back storage area. Where there are probably more zombies and even less room to maneuver.
You're not being very accommodating, Tom. I was hoping we could--
"Oh God I'm fucked," he announces, backing away from the shamble -- and slips in a spatter of old offal, some zombie's leftovers. He goes down with a yelp, catching himself painfully on the knuckles of his right hand. Dropping that gun, he scrambles backwards towards the doors, firing clumsily with the other gun.
"Fuck OFF, you assholes! I just wanted to eat something!"
What terrible last words. He fires again, trying to get to his feet, and shoves open the swinging doors.
Traveling out west is a completely different story from traveling around east of the Mississippi, it's turned out. The towns are fewer and farther between, and the truck stops along the highways are almost always more than a day's walk apart. Sometimes you can find an abandoned car with fuel in the tank and keys in the ignition, but the roads always eventually end up impassable, choked with cars or full of potholes or whatever.
On the plus side, there aren't many zombies in the wide-open spaces; on the minus side, Tom is starving and hasn't talked to anyone except himself in two weeks. Himself, and more and more frequently in the last couple days, that fucker Bob, who just won't leave him alone.
(Long-term planning just isn't your forte, Tom. I don't think short-term planning is either. Try making a list of action items, buddy, that always keeps me at my most productive. I'll show you how: item one, biting all the flesh off your ribcage and eating your lungs. Item two, ripping open your stomach and eating your intestines. Item three, tearing your arms off and eating your biceps. See how easy that is?)
Bob's seriously a dick, but Tom can never seem to get a bead on the guy's head.
He finds a car on I-30 outside Little Rock, and he manages to get it all the way into the Dallas suburbs before it starts overheating. There's a convenient grocery store with plenty of parking spaces; may as well stock up while he's here. He grabs his guns -- a .38 in each hand, two extra clips in his pockets, a .22 for security in his back pocket -- and heads in to the store. He has to force the sliding doors to start opening, but when they do, they slide open with a crash. The produce section immediately inside is a lost cause, just cases of rotten fruit and veggies. He hurries through, trying to spot any signs of previous looters. It's possible that this store's been cleaned out already, in which case he's pretty fucked. He's so hungry his hands are a little shaky.
Maybe that's why it all goes to shit. Just plain old low blood sugar.
One zombie comes out from the pharmacy section to Tom's left. No problem: Tom's aim has gotten pretty damn good over the last six months, pretty damn near instinctive. The zombie goes down with most of its head gone; the boom of the gun echoes off the tile floors.
Then they start moaning. Not just one zombie -- two, three, half a dozen. It's hard to pinpoint their locations among all the echoes. He hears shuffling behind him and whirls, barely in time to take out a former cashier. In the aisles throughout the store, he hears goods falling off their shelves as the zombies perk up and start moving.
Always check out the territory, Bob chides, leaning out from behind the deli counter. Sun Tzu says that in The Art of War. Great management book, you know?
"Shut the FUCK UP," Tom tells him, jogging down the aisle and -- "Shit!" -- dodging a grasping ex-shopper as she emerges from the soups and condiments row. How many zombies can be there in one damn store? And why are they all right here by him?
"Goddammit!" It's a real shamble of ten or more now, and they're blocking off the way to the front of the store, advancing implacably. Tom takes out one with a clean headshot and wings a second, looking around frantically for a bright idea. There -- the big double doors leading to the back storage area. Where there are probably more zombies and even less room to maneuver.
You're not being very accommodating, Tom. I was hoping we could--
"Oh God I'm fucked," he announces, backing away from the shamble -- and slips in a spatter of old offal, some zombie's leftovers. He goes down with a yelp, catching himself painfully on the knuckles of his right hand. Dropping that gun, he scrambles backwards towards the doors, firing clumsily with the other gun.
"Fuck OFF, you assholes! I just wanted to eat something!"
What terrible last words. He fires again, trying to get to his feet, and shoves open the swinging doors.