curiousirish
girl from mars
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Dave's Zombie Proof Bunker and Refuge for Unattached Wimmens
- Thread starter Chaingun
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Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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Then I shall find a source of liquor. Florida is littered with ABC liquor stores.
Make your requests. I'll be bringing back all the bourbon I can pack into whatever truck I can steal...but if you want something else, post up and tell me.
Make your requests. I'll be bringing back all the bourbon I can pack into whatever truck I can steal...but if you want something else, post up and tell me.
NeonKnickers
Literotica Guru
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Vodka that tastes like marshmallows! Trust.
Ellafun
Just Visiting This Planet
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Amaretto. Asti Spumante. Bailey's. and Rum -- Barrels and barrels of Rum...
WhipLuvr
Lost Inside My Own Mind
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Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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I'm easily found.
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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*A large, yellow Penske box truck slowly idles up to the partially hidden road that leads towards the bunker's underground garage/motor pool. The truck has seen better days.
The front bumper is severely damaged and covered in various rotting pieces of flesh and gore. The driver's side headlight is broken and housing around it is crushed. The windshield is starred from multiple impacts from...something. The truck smokes and the engine is knocking; it is perhaps on its last legs.
But what is most telling about what it has been through is the fact that the box itself is riddled with bullet holes. The entire box is punctured and perforated by so many holes that it is a wonder that it can even retain its shape as a box. A particularly large hole looks big enough that it might have been made by a cannon ball. A large spatter of blood surrounds the hole and appears to have been dried there for many days.
The driver's side window--which is surprisingly and inexplicably intact--slowly rolls down after the truck stops at the armored roll up door to the garage. A hand comes out and aims a device at a hidden receiver in the bushes. A button is pushed and the door rolls up. The truck rumbles into the cavernous space, shuddering from the effort and threatening to give up the ghost at any moment. As the knocking from a possibly bent connecting rod increases, the truck makes one last lurch forward and dies. Whether it stalls from its damage or from being shut off would be difficult to say.
No matter. The truck is inside and the door rolls down to slam home against the bottom plate satisfyingly, securing the bunker's largest--and possibly most vulnerable--entrance.
The door opens with a loud shriek as the damaged fender resists being ground against the door edge. Partially open, there is a loud bang and the door's hinges break free and the door itself falls off of the truck onto the ground. Empty rifle magazines spill out of the truck and clatter to the ground. A figure steps out, clearly limping from a bad leg wound. A tourniquet is tied tightly around the bloody half of his lower left leg.
He looks around, surveying the condition of the fleet of odd tactical and recreational vehicles. The woman who maintains the equipment has been busy. Everything looks to be in tip top shape and ready to be used for its purpose.
A faltering step towards the door to the bunker looks painful. A second step looks worse. It is doubtful that he can make it by himself all the way to the triage bay in the bunker's medical center.
At the door, he pauses, looks around again, and hollers, "Honey, I'm home!"
The front bumper is severely damaged and covered in various rotting pieces of flesh and gore. The driver's side headlight is broken and housing around it is crushed. The windshield is starred from multiple impacts from...something. The truck smokes and the engine is knocking; it is perhaps on its last legs.
But what is most telling about what it has been through is the fact that the box itself is riddled with bullet holes. The entire box is punctured and perforated by so many holes that it is a wonder that it can even retain its shape as a box. A particularly large hole looks big enough that it might have been made by a cannon ball. A large spatter of blood surrounds the hole and appears to have been dried there for many days.
The driver's side window--which is surprisingly and inexplicably intact--slowly rolls down after the truck stops at the armored roll up door to the garage. A hand comes out and aims a device at a hidden receiver in the bushes. A button is pushed and the door rolls up. The truck rumbles into the cavernous space, shuddering from the effort and threatening to give up the ghost at any moment. As the knocking from a possibly bent connecting rod increases, the truck makes one last lurch forward and dies. Whether it stalls from its damage or from being shut off would be difficult to say.
No matter. The truck is inside and the door rolls down to slam home against the bottom plate satisfyingly, securing the bunker's largest--and possibly most vulnerable--entrance.
The door opens with a loud shriek as the damaged fender resists being ground against the door edge. Partially open, there is a loud bang and the door's hinges break free and the door itself falls off of the truck onto the ground. Empty rifle magazines spill out of the truck and clatter to the ground. A figure steps out, clearly limping from a bad leg wound. A tourniquet is tied tightly around the bloody half of his lower left leg.
He looks around, surveying the condition of the fleet of odd tactical and recreational vehicles. The woman who maintains the equipment has been busy. Everything looks to be in tip top shape and ready to be used for its purpose.
A faltering step towards the door to the bunker looks painful. A second step looks worse. It is doubtful that he can make it by himself all the way to the triage bay in the bunker's medical center.
At the door, he pauses, looks around again, and hollers, "Honey, I'm home!"
curiousirish
girl from mars
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- Aug 29, 2008
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*peeps out tentatively *
"Who's there?"
"Who's there?"
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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You girls are pretty good to me. Did I ever tell you that?
It's not nearly as bad as it looks. Besides, I got the liquor that y'all asked me about. I just need to rest a bit.
I'll be fine. Let me walk it off. Then, we'll have a drink.
*collapses and starts snoring.*
It's not nearly as bad as it looks. Besides, I got the liquor that y'all asked me about. I just need to rest a bit.
I'll be fine. Let me walk it off. Then, we'll have a drink.
*collapses and starts snoring.*
WhipLuvr
Lost Inside My Own Mind
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* stares down at him for a long moment. He's bigger, heavier and substantially more drunk than her, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.*
Right.
* hefts him up in a fireman's carry and hauls his ass to the medical bay*
Chaingun
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*Several days later, I come to in a blare of bright lights, stainless steel, and a rigid attention to cleanliness. Crisp sheets are gathered at my waist, an IV is in my left arm, and there is a dullness in my left leg. Further inspection hints at the fact that I've been well cared for. All the dirt and blood that I wore in here is gone and apparently, I have been sutured and bandaged. Clearly the IV is keeping me sedated so that the pain of a bullet wound doesn't make things worse.
I notice a get well card--where did they find that?--by the edge of the bed and it is signed by several of the ladies that live in the bunker. The picture on the card jolts my memory and I wonder if I can stay awake long enough...
A pen is nearby...it's a struggle to reach it...and the pain increases right as I get it between my stretched out fingers.
Pain is blinding me. I turn the card over and scribble. I know my handwriting is going to be difficult to read; after all, how much chance have I had to write in this new world where nobody needs the skill? And the drugs may be making my message incoherent.
Finally, I am done. The pen falls from my hand and the pain is incredible. My leg feels like it is on fire. The note is held clenched in my hand as I pass out again.*
Whip,
Arm everyone. Prepare all the defenses. A group of marauders is driving a herd of the undead before them with specially modified vehicles and by using other survivors as bait. They're well armed and possibly ex military.
They're coming here.
I notice a get well card--where did they find that?--by the edge of the bed and it is signed by several of the ladies that live in the bunker. The picture on the card jolts my memory and I wonder if I can stay awake long enough...
A pen is nearby...it's a struggle to reach it...and the pain increases right as I get it between my stretched out fingers.
Pain is blinding me. I turn the card over and scribble. I know my handwriting is going to be difficult to read; after all, how much chance have I had to write in this new world where nobody needs the skill? And the drugs may be making my message incoherent.
Finally, I am done. The pen falls from my hand and the pain is incredible. My leg feels like it is on fire. The note is held clenched in my hand as I pass out again.*
Whip,
Arm everyone. Prepare all the defenses. A group of marauders is driving a herd of the undead before them with specially modified vehicles and by using other survivors as bait. They're well armed and possibly ex military.
They're coming here.
WhipLuvr
Lost Inside My Own Mind
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* slips into the infirmary late at night to check on the unfortunate invalid*
Hey man.... We're all real worried about you.
* spots the card and discarded pen underneath his hand and carefully pulls it free, squinting at the messy writing in the dim light*
Oh my god.....How on earth did he get away hurt like that?
* sets the card down and quickly adjusts his pillows to take the weight off his bad leg, and sets up a hydration bag with a tube conveniently near his mouth so he won't be thirsty when he wakes up*
Take it easy buddy... We're all pulling for you.
* double-checks his pain meds and monitors, then leaves to go warn and equip the others*
Hey man.... We're all real worried about you.
* spots the card and discarded pen underneath his hand and carefully pulls it free, squinting at the messy writing in the dim light*
Oh my god.....How on earth did he get away hurt like that?
* sets the card down and quickly adjusts his pillows to take the weight off his bad leg, and sets up a hydration bag with a tube conveniently near his mouth so he won't be thirsty when he wakes up*
Take it easy buddy... We're all pulling for you.
* double-checks his pain meds and monitors, then leaves to go warn and equip the others*
Chaingun
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*Five miles away an odd convoy moves, rumbling diesel engines idle along slowly following a great mass of possibly three thousand undead souls. These trucks are clearly military or at least military surplus (Cause, really, where is the military these days?). Two and a half ton and five ton behemoths, still in their woodland camo patterned livery drive side by side, as the dead shamble ahead of them. Mounted on the trucks, are large outriggers that support metal grates roughly fifteen feet in front of the trucks. Looking like giant metal tennis court nets, the trucks drive close enough to each other that there is no gap between the grates. Forming a barrier that makes it very difficult for the herd of zombies to turn on the drivers, the large group of walkers is driven before the wide row of trucks. Every once in a while, a zombie turns on the trucks and tries to move towards the drivers or the men riding the running boards of the trucks.
But these men are stationed there for a reason. Armed with carbines, the undead that don't follow along with the rest of the group are easily dispatched and crushed beneath the relentless tires of the truck. Similarly, when one of the rotting shamblers is unable to keep up, falls, or--sickeningly--breaks a leg bone that has been stressed beyond its un-nourished endurance and goes down, these men dispatch the horror with a well aimed bullet...if the tires of the heavy trucks are going to miss ending its miserable existence.
It is all happening with military precision. A small squad of men rides in the back of each of the ten trucks and they watch for the walking dead that are not in the driven herd. Walkers that come out of the nearby woods attracted by the sound, are shot before they get close enough to do any damage.
But what forces the undead to move forward other than the fact that they are easily shot or crushed if they don't? After all, they are not reasoning creatures who can see the value in remaining "alive" and moving in the direction in which they are "pushed." These are non-thinking, walking, infected, eating machines. They know only one desire; to eat the flesh of the living which spreads their infection.
Ahead of the pack, is a smaller truck. A CUCV--or Commercial Utility Cargo Vehicle, the military version of the Chevy three quarter ton pickup--moves ahead of the pack. In its bed is the motivation to the herd to keep moving forward. Tied and sitting on the tailgate are three women and forced to follow along on foot by a long rope, is a man. Prisoners--bait actually--taken by this rogue group of men, the terrified hostages are the living flesh that the massive group of undead crave. A disgusting display of shredded clothing and gray flesh chases after the four scared people at whatever speed their dead limbs can carry them.
A man drives the truck, ever mindful to stay just ahead of the herd to keep them motivated to keep moving in a direction he chooses. And another man stands in the back of the truck, keeping a watchful eye on the mass of zombies. If the truck stalls, if the driver slows down, if they reach an obstacle that impedes the truck, a pedestal mounted M240 Bravo automatic rifle is the only thing that will stop the hungry followers from eating him right after they finish off his captives.
Following the entire odd collection of vehicles, trucks, men, captives, and zombies is a M1151 Humvee. Armored and buttoned up against attack the truck carries four people. A driver, a radio man who relays orders to the men in the other trucks, a gunner who watches the area around the truck...and a man who looks determined enough to knock down a brick wall with his bullet shaped head if the wall doesn't move out of his way on its own.
Lieutenant Colonel Marvin Stone, formerly of the U.S. Army, is a paradox. A decorated combat veteran, he was also a problem commander. As the zombie infection was breaking out, he was under indictment and facing a court martial for needlessly using his men as shock troops against a poorly equipped but better positioned enemy. Instead of waiting for a nearby armored division to move up or for the Air Force to fly over and destroy the enemy position, he attempted to grab the glory of victory for himself. His unit was decimated trying to attack a better position over open ground. Just as the attack was failing, two tanks arrived and found the range of the enemy command bunker and destroyed it. But the damage was done. Stone was known to be a fire eater and his hard charging infantry was an elite unit...but it took 62% casualties; an unacceptable loss in a modern world where the American military doesn't waste men but expends ordinance and employs superior technology.
When the remains of his unit was stood down and returned to the states for rest and refit, charges were brought against Col. Stone. And sitting in the brig awaiting trial, the world went to hell. Before the base was completely over run with the undead, the remains of his battered unit rescued him, stole everything they could carry, and abandoned the surviving soldiers at the base who were fighting for their lives in a remote area near an old blimp hanger. Leaving with ammunition, trucks, and fuel, they left the others to their fate and hit the road. The colonel reveled in his new found freedom from upper echelons of command and began raiding and taking what they wanted where they found it.
And now, Lt. Col. Marvin G. Stone leads roughly forty men who are driving almost three thousand undead towards their next objective...our bunker complex.*
But these men are stationed there for a reason. Armed with carbines, the undead that don't follow along with the rest of the group are easily dispatched and crushed beneath the relentless tires of the truck. Similarly, when one of the rotting shamblers is unable to keep up, falls, or--sickeningly--breaks a leg bone that has been stressed beyond its un-nourished endurance and goes down, these men dispatch the horror with a well aimed bullet...if the tires of the heavy trucks are going to miss ending its miserable existence.
It is all happening with military precision. A small squad of men rides in the back of each of the ten trucks and they watch for the walking dead that are not in the driven herd. Walkers that come out of the nearby woods attracted by the sound, are shot before they get close enough to do any damage.
But what forces the undead to move forward other than the fact that they are easily shot or crushed if they don't? After all, they are not reasoning creatures who can see the value in remaining "alive" and moving in the direction in which they are "pushed." These are non-thinking, walking, infected, eating machines. They know only one desire; to eat the flesh of the living which spreads their infection.
Ahead of the pack, is a smaller truck. A CUCV--or Commercial Utility Cargo Vehicle, the military version of the Chevy three quarter ton pickup--moves ahead of the pack. In its bed is the motivation to the herd to keep moving forward. Tied and sitting on the tailgate are three women and forced to follow along on foot by a long rope, is a man. Prisoners--bait actually--taken by this rogue group of men, the terrified hostages are the living flesh that the massive group of undead crave. A disgusting display of shredded clothing and gray flesh chases after the four scared people at whatever speed their dead limbs can carry them.
A man drives the truck, ever mindful to stay just ahead of the herd to keep them motivated to keep moving in a direction he chooses. And another man stands in the back of the truck, keeping a watchful eye on the mass of zombies. If the truck stalls, if the driver slows down, if they reach an obstacle that impedes the truck, a pedestal mounted M240 Bravo automatic rifle is the only thing that will stop the hungry followers from eating him right after they finish off his captives.
Following the entire odd collection of vehicles, trucks, men, captives, and zombies is a M1151 Humvee. Armored and buttoned up against attack the truck carries four people. A driver, a radio man who relays orders to the men in the other trucks, a gunner who watches the area around the truck...and a man who looks determined enough to knock down a brick wall with his bullet shaped head if the wall doesn't move out of his way on its own.
Lieutenant Colonel Marvin Stone, formerly of the U.S. Army, is a paradox. A decorated combat veteran, he was also a problem commander. As the zombie infection was breaking out, he was under indictment and facing a court martial for needlessly using his men as shock troops against a poorly equipped but better positioned enemy. Instead of waiting for a nearby armored division to move up or for the Air Force to fly over and destroy the enemy position, he attempted to grab the glory of victory for himself. His unit was decimated trying to attack a better position over open ground. Just as the attack was failing, two tanks arrived and found the range of the enemy command bunker and destroyed it. But the damage was done. Stone was known to be a fire eater and his hard charging infantry was an elite unit...but it took 62% casualties; an unacceptable loss in a modern world where the American military doesn't waste men but expends ordinance and employs superior technology.
When the remains of his unit was stood down and returned to the states for rest and refit, charges were brought against Col. Stone. And sitting in the brig awaiting trial, the world went to hell. Before the base was completely over run with the undead, the remains of his battered unit rescued him, stole everything they could carry, and abandoned the surviving soldiers at the base who were fighting for their lives in a remote area near an old blimp hanger. Leaving with ammunition, trucks, and fuel, they left the others to their fate and hit the road. The colonel reveled in his new found freedom from upper echelons of command and began raiding and taking what they wanted where they found it.
And now, Lt. Col. Marvin G. Stone leads roughly forty men who are driving almost three thousand undead towards their next objective...our bunker complex.*
Chaingun
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*From the top of the bunker, the rumble of trucks is more heard than felt.
They are now two miles away and there is still the problem of some obstacles in front of the convoy of trucks. As they traverse a woods, it is impossible to keep the herd of undead in line. Some straggle or fall, only to be crushed beneath the tires. Others escape through the inevitable gaps that get created as the trucks are forced to separate as they go around trees. These are viewed as acceptable losses. The plan all along has been to lure a large group of undead to the bunker and allow it to simply overwhelm the inhabitants with its numbers. A few losses along the way is not a concern.
But in the woods, the semi-cohesive group is broken apart; the men have a difficult time maintaining the order that Col. Stone has planned for them.
One truck is forced to move a little too far away from the others and is set upon by the hungry shambling zombies. First, the men on the running boards are dragged from their position and torn apart. The driver is bitten and dragged from his cab. The truck idles on as the four men in the back fight for their lives. Bursts from automatic weapons finish off several of the attacking undead, who are unable to climb up into the back of the truck to reach them. But the driver-less truck meanders for a short while, mowing down zombies unable to move from its path, and eventually flips over when it impacts a large pine tree at the wrong angle. The men in the back are spilled out onto the ground.
Unable to take advantage of the help of the rest of their unit, they attempt to fight their way through the mass of undead that surrounds them. Rifle fire increases and walkers fall all around them. As they panic, their battle discipline breaks down and they begin firing wildly. Stray rounds thunk into trees, the ground, and into the temple of the driver of the truck that was next to them, now seventy yards away. As ammo runs out and hand to hand fighting becomes necessary, the noise from the rifles goes silent and the moans of the undead grow louder.
The truck driver that was wounded falls over in his seat, unable to control the truck's speed. The men on the running boards struggle to defend themselves and simultaneously, to remove the driver's foot from the accelerator. The vehicle increases speed and simply smashes large groups of the zombies that are in front of it. Another part of their containment breaks down and more of the undead are able to move away from the trucks that were "pushing" them. Sickening crunches and squishy noises are heard as this truck rumbles through the woods and flattens out any zombies in its path. This truck too eventually stops when it strikes a live oak tree. The men in back jump from the vehicle and try to make their way to the safety of the remaining trucks. They don't have a chance.
"Captain Forester, what the hell is going on up there?" Col Stone barks into his radio. "Get that group under control!" His words are clipped, angry, and full of the threat of what will happen if his orders are not carried out.
"Sir, the captains' dead, this is Lt. Span. I've slowed the remaining trucks so that we can regain control over the herd. We've lost two trucks but I am re-establishing a semi circular perimeter to bring the walkers back under control. I've..." Weapons fire cuts him off as the occupants of the truck near him are forced to kill a a small group of zombies while they are attacking. "...estimate the loss at several hundred. I'll handle it, Sir!"
"You're god-damned right you will Span. Losing two trucks and fourteen men is unacceptable. Handle it and report back; we've got work to do."
Span blinks at his radio, unable to comprehend why it might be his fault that Captain Forrester lost control of a section of the convoy and therefore lost fourteen fighters and several hundred of the zombies. But his military training does not allow him to hesitate, "Yes, Sir!" he answers into the radio and goes back to his duty of getting the odd group under control.
From the bunker's listening post, not only can the shooting be heard, but the convoy's radio communications are easily picked up. Ammo is carried to defensive positions and the occupants make ready for a fight.
I'm out of bed. Limping down a long hallway, I wear only the hospital gown that I've had on while recuperating. At my room, I struggle into pants and a shirt, gather a few magazines of ammo for my rifle, and limp out of the room to go join the resistance.*
They are now two miles away and there is still the problem of some obstacles in front of the convoy of trucks. As they traverse a woods, it is impossible to keep the herd of undead in line. Some straggle or fall, only to be crushed beneath the tires. Others escape through the inevitable gaps that get created as the trucks are forced to separate as they go around trees. These are viewed as acceptable losses. The plan all along has been to lure a large group of undead to the bunker and allow it to simply overwhelm the inhabitants with its numbers. A few losses along the way is not a concern.
But in the woods, the semi-cohesive group is broken apart; the men have a difficult time maintaining the order that Col. Stone has planned for them.
One truck is forced to move a little too far away from the others and is set upon by the hungry shambling zombies. First, the men on the running boards are dragged from their position and torn apart. The driver is bitten and dragged from his cab. The truck idles on as the four men in the back fight for their lives. Bursts from automatic weapons finish off several of the attacking undead, who are unable to climb up into the back of the truck to reach them. But the driver-less truck meanders for a short while, mowing down zombies unable to move from its path, and eventually flips over when it impacts a large pine tree at the wrong angle. The men in the back are spilled out onto the ground.
Unable to take advantage of the help of the rest of their unit, they attempt to fight their way through the mass of undead that surrounds them. Rifle fire increases and walkers fall all around them. As they panic, their battle discipline breaks down and they begin firing wildly. Stray rounds thunk into trees, the ground, and into the temple of the driver of the truck that was next to them, now seventy yards away. As ammo runs out and hand to hand fighting becomes necessary, the noise from the rifles goes silent and the moans of the undead grow louder.
The truck driver that was wounded falls over in his seat, unable to control the truck's speed. The men on the running boards struggle to defend themselves and simultaneously, to remove the driver's foot from the accelerator. The vehicle increases speed and simply smashes large groups of the zombies that are in front of it. Another part of their containment breaks down and more of the undead are able to move away from the trucks that were "pushing" them. Sickening crunches and squishy noises are heard as this truck rumbles through the woods and flattens out any zombies in its path. This truck too eventually stops when it strikes a live oak tree. The men in back jump from the vehicle and try to make their way to the safety of the remaining trucks. They don't have a chance.
"Captain Forester, what the hell is going on up there?" Col Stone barks into his radio. "Get that group under control!" His words are clipped, angry, and full of the threat of what will happen if his orders are not carried out.
"Sir, the captains' dead, this is Lt. Span. I've slowed the remaining trucks so that we can regain control over the herd. We've lost two trucks but I am re-establishing a semi circular perimeter to bring the walkers back under control. I've..." Weapons fire cuts him off as the occupants of the truck near him are forced to kill a a small group of zombies while they are attacking. "...estimate the loss at several hundred. I'll handle it, Sir!"
"You're god-damned right you will Span. Losing two trucks and fourteen men is unacceptable. Handle it and report back; we've got work to do."
Span blinks at his radio, unable to comprehend why it might be his fault that Captain Forrester lost control of a section of the convoy and therefore lost fourteen fighters and several hundred of the zombies. But his military training does not allow him to hesitate, "Yes, Sir!" he answers into the radio and goes back to his duty of getting the odd group under control.
From the bunker's listening post, not only can the shooting be heard, but the convoy's radio communications are easily picked up. Ammo is carried to defensive positions and the occupants make ready for a fight.
I'm out of bed. Limping down a long hallway, I wear only the hospital gown that I've had on while recuperating. At my room, I struggle into pants and a shirt, gather a few magazines of ammo for my rifle, and limp out of the room to go join the resistance.*
WhipLuvr
Lost Inside My Own Mind
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*finishes pouring kerosene into the flamethrower and clicks it on.
Right. Everyone ready? Remember, those who can't shoot are to reload guns for those who can and carry away the injured.
* aims the thrower into the middle of the zombie horde and opens fire. Flame shoots from the jet like a water cannon, scorching the undead below*
Right. Everyone ready? Remember, those who can't shoot are to reload guns for those who can and carry away the injured.
* aims the thrower into the middle of the zombie horde and opens fire. Flame shoots from the jet like a water cannon, scorching the undead below*
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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- Mar 23, 2008
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*arrives on the top of the bunker's defenses just in time to see Whip open the attack against the horde of undead.*
"You go, Girl!"
*"That's awesome," I think as I watch her scorching all that rotting flesh and sending hundreds of zombies to their second deaths. "Time to get some!" I yell as I open up at the man driving the truck with the captives in it. The man guarding the captives and the man driving are easily dispatched. The truck stops. The man tied behind the truck is finally able to stop running.*
"Untie the women and get in here, quick! There's no time...hurry!" I shout at him.
*Though he is exhausted, he quickly unties the first woman and he helps unbind the second and third woman. They follow my shouted directions and run around to the short causeway as the small group on the defenses fires at the zombies that attempt to get them. The heavy iron door opens and lets them in and then slams behind them.
The undead that chase them attempt to follow and as they come in contact with the metal door, they are electrocuted, falling to lie motionless after touching it.
Back at where the "battle" rages, the undead are dying in droves. Whip's flamethrower has ignited the peppermint schnapps in the moat and the unthinking, unknowing dead continue to wander into the devastating fire. All they know is that there is living breathing flesh on top of the walls. They feel no fear of the bullets, fire, or of the spikes that point out from the walls making their attack nearly useless.
Just out of small arms range, the trucks sit idling and watching the attack as it fails.
"Surely, they are banking on more than this useless mass of former humans," I think as I watch the trucks for signs of what will come next.
I move to one of the electric gattling guns located at the corners of the bunker's upper defenses and charge the weapon. I take careful aim towards the armored Humvee near the back of the convoy. The belt fed weapon spins up, discharging tracer rounds down range and I walk the rounds towards the vehicle. The rounds are interrupted in their flight by a truck that has moved quickly to take a covering position and its driver's quick thinking defense of the commander is rewarded with a burst of fire and his death as the truck explodes.
I traverse the G.E. minigun across the convoy and several more trucks are quick to burn. Men leap out and as they escape the conflagration, they must also fight stray zombies that have turned on them. Remaining trucks quickly move out of range as they work to maintain a position between the rounds and the commander's vehicle.
Within minutes the battle in front of the bunker is nearly over; the undead are lying in piles before us, the flames from the toxic moat are dying down, and the firearms of the bunker's occupants fall silent. We look around, surveying each other and making sure that everyone is ok. Not a single wound in our group. In fact, the worst one among us is me, and my wounds are from my previous meeting with Colonel Stone and his men.
Bunker dwellers survey the damage in front of our walls and begin mopping up; finishing off anything still moving. The attack was easily defeated. Everyone is covered in the grime of burnt powder and smoke from the fire, but nobody is hurt. Clearly, this was only a probe by Col. Stone, an attempt to see our strength, our tactics, our weaknesses.
Moving to a large weather proof box, I unsnap some fasteners and remove an AT4 anti tank weapon. The range is roughly 300 meters and the enemy is almost four hundred meters away. But I'm going to take a shot anyway.
The two safeties are deactivated, I look through the sites, and take aim. I know that the area behind me is clear and that's good, because as the high explosive round leaves the lightweight tube, a massive back blast of fire emits from the back.
The round flies down range and impacts withing fifty feet from the command vehicle. The concussion throws one or two men to the ground and catches some brush on fire.
Col. Stone watches his attack dissolve and makes notes about weaknesses that he sees in the defenses. The explosive blast so close to his vehicle rocks the Humvee and its occupants and dirt and shrapnel bounce off of the armored sides and ballistic glass. The Colonel is not amused.*
WhipLuvr
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* exchanges the flamethrower for a sniper rifle and surveys the wind conditions*. Everything is working in our favor. The scorched undead litter an area downwind of the bunker. We won't even have to breathe the smoke. *
Come out come out, wherever you are.
* begins to neatly pick off zombies as they stray out of useful range. There are at least four trucks with live men still in them, and the zombies are forcing them to stay inside. Whip carefully takes aim at the truck at the very back of the convoy. From where she is she cant hear the bullet hit, but a moment later the truck sags slowly to the left front corner. She takes out the other tire the same way. She shoots square into the windshield, knowing the safety glass will turn into a near-opaque mess of spider cracks instead of shattering. Now that the men inside are blind and immobile she watches through the scope, waiting for a cue from Chain*
Come out come out, wherever you are.
* begins to neatly pick off zombies as they stray out of useful range. There are at least four trucks with live men still in them, and the zombies are forcing them to stay inside. Whip carefully takes aim at the truck at the very back of the convoy. From where she is she cant hear the bullet hit, but a moment later the truck sags slowly to the left front corner. She takes out the other tire the same way. She shoots square into the windshield, knowing the safety glass will turn into a near-opaque mess of spider cracks instead of shattering. Now that the men inside are blind and immobile she watches through the scope, waiting for a cue from Chain*
Chaingun
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"Whip, stop screwing around with that pea shooter and get the tank."
*takes the Barrett 50 caliber rifle from the diminutive female sniper.*
"I'll keep them distracted while you get it fired up. And I'll join you once you're rolling..."
*sets up the bipod and begins taking aim at the remaining vehicles in the far clearing where several of the attackers are fighting off stray zombies.*
*takes the Barrett 50 caliber rifle from the diminutive female sniper.*
"I'll keep them distracted while you get it fired up. And I'll join you once you're rolling..."
*sets up the bipod and begins taking aim at the remaining vehicles in the far clearing where several of the attackers are fighting off stray zombies.*
WhipLuvr
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Chaingun
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I said, "We don't have the firepower to finish this from here. We're not going to get them all with the sniper rifle, the anti tank gun can't reach them accurately, and we've got a chance to end this.
So if you don't mind, would you please, pretty please with sugar on top if that is what you need, fire up YOUR tank and go out there and put a round through that armored Humvee?
I'll be along to join you for support in another vehicle as soon as I see you out there.
Please."
WhipLuvr
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* gives him a long, hard look before descending to the tank. As the gates open it rolls out like the well-oiled machine it is. Whip takes her own sweet time aiming the cannon, ignoring the rattles as the few remaining zombies try to scramble up on the tank, and in more than one case get caught in the machinery and ground to bits. She'll have a job cleaning it off when this is all over. Her shot is right between two trucks, but she's not worried. The cannon is deadly accurate. Now in the gunner's seat, she hunches over the controls and nudges a button. The cannon roars to life and the Humvee turns into a thousand pieces of torn metal. She hears the cries of the men as some find soft targets.
Moments later theres a series of bangs from the right. Someone's emptying what sounds like a machine gun into the tank, letting off three or four rounds a second. She's unconcerned, until she realizes there's method in his (she assumes it's a he) madness.
He's aiming at the tank's weak spot.
What happens next is hard to describe. It feels like someone's tapping on her arm just above the elbow, but when she looks down all Whip can see is a sea of red. The bullets haven't penetrated the tank, but she knows the impact has dislodged small pieces of paint from the inside. Pieces that, when accelerated, can strip flesh from bone. Spalling.
Her stomach twists as she realizes there's no way for anyone to undo the hatch from the inside.
Blood trickles down her leg.
Moments later theres a series of bangs from the right. Someone's emptying what sounds like a machine gun into the tank, letting off three or four rounds a second. She's unconcerned, until she realizes there's method in his (she assumes it's a he) madness.
He's aiming at the tank's weak spot.
What happens next is hard to describe. It feels like someone's tapping on her arm just above the elbow, but when she looks down all Whip can see is a sea of red. The bullets haven't penetrated the tank, but she knows the impact has dislodged small pieces of paint from the inside. Pieces that, when accelerated, can strip flesh from bone. Spalling.
Her stomach twists as she realizes there's no way for anyone to undo the hatch from the inside.
Blood trickles down her leg.
Chaingun
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*The man with the automatic weapon is emptying magazine after magazine into the side of the tank, placing well aimed bursts of fire into the area near the driver's compartment. He pauses to reload, dumping empty mags on the ground while slamming home full ones.
His tactic may work a little bit against the lightly armored vehicle, but he's forgotten that the bunker still has teeth. I watch him through the cross hairs and wait for my chance, hoping I'm quick enough to help my friend in the tank.
I take up the slack in the trigger and take a full breath. Never taking my eyes off of his head--right where the cross hairs intersect--I let the breath out and hold it. Squeeze...never jerk the trigger...and the round is sent down range. A ripple in the air traces the path of the projectile and the man's head simply ceases to exist. A red mist bursts in the air as the body falls slowly forward, still firing the weapon.
Survivors converge on the still moving tank. Another shot, another red mist. Another man starts to reach for a grenade hanging from his body armor and in haste, I shoot too soon, missing him. As he pulls the pin, I send another, better aimed shot that destroys the elbow of his throwing arm. He falls onto his own grenade and disappears in a larger spatter of formerly living tissue.
The last surviving man has climbed onto the tank. Through the scope, I see that he has drawn a Government Model 45 and he is moving towards the hatch. I know that Whip has buttoned up the hatch from the inside. She had to have done that. Right?
Right?
I have to hurry the shot again. His left knee is violently shredded and he falls off of the tank. I briefly consider finishing him but the fact that the tank is careening wildly towards the burning trucks is distracting. Is Whip doing that on purpose? Is she planning on making sure there are no other survivors? Is she...ok?
The tank rumbles forward seemingly out of control. I check the area again with the rifle's scope and see nobody alive, unless you count that last man as still alive. But the zombies are descending on him; he won't last long.
I drop the rifle and begin moving as fast as my damaged leg and weakened condition will allow towards the motor pool. An old Navy ambulance--a jeep M170--fires up quickly and rumbles towards the door as I race to see if I can help Whip.
"Hold on. I'm coming," I mumble to myself, unmindful of the fact that I am myself wounded...and unarmed...*
His tactic may work a little bit against the lightly armored vehicle, but he's forgotten that the bunker still has teeth. I watch him through the cross hairs and wait for my chance, hoping I'm quick enough to help my friend in the tank.
I take up the slack in the trigger and take a full breath. Never taking my eyes off of his head--right where the cross hairs intersect--I let the breath out and hold it. Squeeze...never jerk the trigger...and the round is sent down range. A ripple in the air traces the path of the projectile and the man's head simply ceases to exist. A red mist bursts in the air as the body falls slowly forward, still firing the weapon.
Survivors converge on the still moving tank. Another shot, another red mist. Another man starts to reach for a grenade hanging from his body armor and in haste, I shoot too soon, missing him. As he pulls the pin, I send another, better aimed shot that destroys the elbow of his throwing arm. He falls onto his own grenade and disappears in a larger spatter of formerly living tissue.
The last surviving man has climbed onto the tank. Through the scope, I see that he has drawn a Government Model 45 and he is moving towards the hatch. I know that Whip has buttoned up the hatch from the inside. She had to have done that. Right?
Right?
I have to hurry the shot again. His left knee is violently shredded and he falls off of the tank. I briefly consider finishing him but the fact that the tank is careening wildly towards the burning trucks is distracting. Is Whip doing that on purpose? Is she planning on making sure there are no other survivors? Is she...ok?
The tank rumbles forward seemingly out of control. I check the area again with the rifle's scope and see nobody alive, unless you count that last man as still alive. But the zombies are descending on him; he won't last long.
I drop the rifle and begin moving as fast as my damaged leg and weakened condition will allow towards the motor pool. An old Navy ambulance--a jeep M170--fires up quickly and rumbles towards the door as I race to see if I can help Whip.
"Hold on. I'm coming," I mumble to myself, unmindful of the fact that I am myself wounded...and unarmed...*
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WhipLuvr
Lost Inside My Own Mind
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Blood runs down her leg, finding its way into her boot. Inside the tank, she tries to keep the machine going straight but its hard with only one arm. She eventually manages by leaning her good forearm across both controls. She can't keep on like this for much longer. Finally, just as she starts to see blackness on the borders of her vision she wrenches the tank to a halt and struggles to undo the latches the hold the door shut. Its hard with all the blood on her hands, she loses her grip at least five times. Better out than in. At least outside there are people who might consider helping her. She shoots a glance down at her arm. Blood pours freely from the wound, and the entire left side of her shirt is soaked. She can smell it in the close air of the tank, thick and iron-y. Her stomach churns and she sits down hard on the slick floor. In a final act of self preservation she throws her bloodied arm over a hook intended to hold a rifle.
Hopefully it'll slow the bleeding.
Hopefully it'll slow the bleeding.
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