Corpses and rats
In which sometimes trouble follows you, and sometimes you follow trouble.
Even the rats stay away. It's the drainage district, known for derelict warehouses and a vague smell of sewage. They were going to build a sewage treatment center here, but politics and finances got in the way. It pours straight into the ocean, resulting in a fascinating ecosystem of microbes, and a distinct lack of fish. Rats, too, usually. Always rats. They live in the warehouses, feast on the garbage that floats down from sewage drains.
They're filthy, diseased, seagulls won't touch them, cat's won't touch them, even humans avoid this end of town, but today, there are no rats to be found. They're all on the run, like I should be, like I would be if I didn't have my own, personal score to settle. I'm not feeling very optimistic about this one. It's Friday the thirteenth, not that I go into that superstitious mumbo jumbo, it's just a fact. It's Friday the thirteenth, and I'm skulking through the shadows of broken down warehouses in the drainage district of Vic City, hunting down the sons of a bitches that have brought this city into chaos and war. I'm going to hunt them down, and I'm going to kill them. Again.
The undead have returned. It's been a year since they attacked the city, shambling junkies with unusually influential oral fixations filled the streets. Almost a year since they were systematically removed. The infection was contained, the infected killed or carried off, and life went back to normal.
Things aren't going so well this year. The zombie infection broke out sporadically, and they fled before the containment unit could be mobilized. Sometimes it's good to live on an island. The people panicked. The police found their hands full just trying to keep the city from tearing its self apart. Cleanup duties defaulted to vigilante style persecution.
This is where I come in. I don't usually bother with moral high-grounds, but if there is one thing I can't stand, it's the undead. So here I am, ankle deep in three years of untended sidewalk, pistol in hand, following the distant growles of those who have died eating their way up the food chain once again.
Even the rats stay away. Most of them, anyway. They can smell the undead, and prefer to not be snacks for abominations. If you see a rat, go the direction it came from. That's what I do now, and, arrogant as ever, I turn the corner and walk straight into an empty warehouse. By some miracle of public facilities oversightings, the electricity hasn't been cut off. I throw the switch and the building lights up, a whole city block of flat cement and walls lined with boxes. And zombies. Maybe fifty zombies, all looking straight at me. I turn around and nearly bump into two more coming through the warehouse doors. It looks like I'm going to have to fight my way out.
It's at this point that I realize my last clip is empty. Did I mention it's Friday the Thirteenth? Even the rats stay away. I should have taken their advice.
Even the rats stay away. It's the drainage district, known for derelict warehouses and a vague smell of sewage. They were going to build a sewage treatment center here, but politics and finances got in the way. It pours straight into the ocean, resulting in a fascinating ecosystem of microbes, and a distinct lack of fish. Rats, too, usually. Always rats. They live in the warehouses, feast on the garbage that floats down from sewage drains.
They're filthy, diseased, seagulls won't touch them, cat's won't touch them, even humans avoid this end of town, but today, there are no rats to be found. They're all on the run, like I should be, like I would be if I didn't have my own, personal score to settle. I'm not feeling very optimistic about this one. It's Friday the thirteenth, not that I go into that superstitious mumbo jumbo, it's just a fact. It's Friday the thirteenth, and I'm skulking through the shadows of broken down warehouses in the drainage district of Vic City, hunting down the sons of a bitches that have brought this city into chaos and war. I'm going to hunt them down, and I'm going to kill them. Again.
The undead have returned. It's been a year since they attacked the city, shambling junkies with unusually influential oral fixations filled the streets. Almost a year since they were systematically removed. The infection was contained, the infected killed or carried off, and life went back to normal.
Things aren't going so well this year. The zombie infection broke out sporadically, and they fled before the containment unit could be mobilized. Sometimes it's good to live on an island. The people panicked. The police found their hands full just trying to keep the city from tearing its self apart. Cleanup duties defaulted to vigilante style persecution.
This is where I come in. I don't usually bother with moral high-grounds, but if there is one thing I can't stand, it's the undead. So here I am, ankle deep in three years of untended sidewalk, pistol in hand, following the distant growles of those who have died eating their way up the food chain once again.
Even the rats stay away. Most of them, anyway. They can smell the undead, and prefer to not be snacks for abominations. If you see a rat, go the direction it came from. That's what I do now, and, arrogant as ever, I turn the corner and walk straight into an empty warehouse. By some miracle of public facilities oversightings, the electricity hasn't been cut off. I throw the switch and the building lights up, a whole city block of flat cement and walls lined with boxes. And zombies. Maybe fifty zombies, all looking straight at me. I turn around and nearly bump into two more coming through the warehouse doors. It looks like I'm going to have to fight my way out.
It's at this point that I realize my last clip is empty. Did I mention it's Friday the Thirteenth? Even the rats stay away. I should have taken their advice.