Us vs. the Apocalypse
Title: City Centre
Word Count: 257
Note: This is an alternate version of a scene in the story, told through Mason's POV. So it's canon, but appears somewhat differently in the actual novel.
The shuffle turned the corner and seemed to freeze when they passed from shadow to sunshine, their heads swiveling as they tried to find the source of the offensive light. I rose from my seat on the concrete slab that surrounded the fountain and rolled the stiffness from my shoulders before offering my hand to Keenan to help him to his feet. One of the Ollies caught our movement and let out a warning cry, though the two of us paid the bastards little heed.
"How's the leg?" I asked, as Keenan limped slightly trying to get his balance. He shrugged, that trademark sick grin of his spreading across his face.
"Fan-fucking-tastic," he replied.
The shuffle started to move toward us, a mass of twenty Ollies, give or take, decently fast because the goddamn heat of the day gave them time to warm up. I checked the pathetic stash of bullets I had left - man, was Dix ever going to give me hell if I made it home for not listening to the suggestion I take more clips - and rolled my knife in my hand. It was something, I guess. Blood trickled from the split in my chin that just wouldn't heal, dripping onto the ground, and the smell of it in the air just made the shuffling fuckers wail more.
"Aight," I said, sighting my first target - a fast moving, limber son of a bitch with his teeth showing through a few holes in his face. "As good a day as any, I guess."
Word Count: 257
Note: This is an alternate version of a scene in the story, told through Mason's POV. So it's canon, but appears somewhat differently in the actual novel.
The shuffle turned the corner and seemed to freeze when they passed from shadow to sunshine, their heads swiveling as they tried to find the source of the offensive light. I rose from my seat on the concrete slab that surrounded the fountain and rolled the stiffness from my shoulders before offering my hand to Keenan to help him to his feet. One of the Ollies caught our movement and let out a warning cry, though the two of us paid the bastards little heed.
"How's the leg?" I asked, as Keenan limped slightly trying to get his balance. He shrugged, that trademark sick grin of his spreading across his face.
"Fan-fucking-tastic," he replied.
The shuffle started to move toward us, a mass of twenty Ollies, give or take, decently fast because the goddamn heat of the day gave them time to warm up. I checked the pathetic stash of bullets I had left - man, was Dix ever going to give me hell if I made it home for not listening to the suggestion I take more clips - and rolled my knife in my hand. It was something, I guess. Blood trickled from the split in my chin that just wouldn't heal, dripping onto the ground, and the smell of it in the air just made the shuffling fuckers wail more.
"Aight," I said, sighting my first target - a fast moving, limber son of a bitch with his teeth showing through a few holes in his face. "As good a day as any, I guess."