Ellafun
Just Visiting This Planet
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- Jan 12, 2010
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- 12,697
Not so! I'm stuck in this damn room and I can't figure out why I was deserted in here...WTF???
Dave's Zombie Proof Bunker and Refuge for Unattached Wimmens
- Thread starter Chaingun
- Start date
- Status
Not so! I'm stuck in this damn room and I can't figure out why I was deserted in here...WTF???
Pirates_Wench
his alone
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- Jan 6, 2010
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- 7,832
*Wanders in, grabs a drink and sits watching the activities going on tonight.*
*Thinking to myself, I wonder if there will be any excitement tonight. CG's little prank last night was fun. However, compare to shaving his legs, I believe that I got off easy. And it did prove to be a change of scenery.*
*Without realizing it, begin humming quietly to myself. "I Wanna Dance with Somebody."*
*Thinking to myself, I wonder if there will be any excitement tonight. CG's little prank last night was fun. However, compare to shaving his legs, I believe that I got off easy. And it did prove to be a change of scenery.*
*Without realizing it, begin humming quietly to myself. "I Wanna Dance with Somebody."*
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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- Mar 23, 2008
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- 8,203
You must have a faulty restraint. If you simply pull a little harder, it will release. All the restraints were opened by remote last night. All the lights came on signifying that they'd opened their locks. Perhaps yours is just stuck.
Funny, I just saw a zombie that I'm pretty sure was Whitney Houston and when I drove by, she yelled, "Bobby!"
Pirates_Wench
his alone
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Well I hope you put her out of her misery!
MedicalMuse
Off on adventures 😘
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First, Im wondering where you are. Just so you know.
Second: the color of ripe peaches. I like orange, in varying shades.
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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Nope. I wasn't really sure she was one of the undead since she spent so much time appearing to be a zombie before things went bad.
I'm north of Valdosta on I-75. Probably about to outrun the range of the radio soon. It's been slow going with all the wrecks and blockages on the highway.
Second: the color of ripe peaches. I like orange, in varying shades.
Nice. I'll look forward to seeing that when I get back...if I get back.
Chaingun
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Glad you're enjoying the weather.
Suddenly hears lots of bells ringing and lights flashing....thinks that something is terribly wrong, but then the announcement sounds over the loudspeaker:
"Hey! This Thread is on Page 100 already!!!"
LOL. I'm set for forty posts per page so I have fewer total pages. But it does seem to be moving along.
MedicalMuse
Off on adventures 😘
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Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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MedicalMuse
Off on adventures 😘
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Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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Near Unadilla, GA, the black car stalls and rolls to a stop.
Dammit, gas has been getting harder to find and this car uses a lot of it. I've already evaded two groups of looters, humans who are almost just as bad as the undead. There's a hole in the passenger side quarter panel where one group took a pot shot at me as I went by at well over a hundred miles per hour.
Rolling to a stop, I pull up a hundred feet from the next large pile up. Approaching the mass of stalled and wrecked vehicles cautiously, I am aware that closed motor homes and semi cabs may contain trapped zombies.
A pickup off the road in the ditch has five 5 gallon gas cans that miraculously, nobody has taken. Other travelers must be going for the easy pickings and sticking to the road. An ancient Jeep J10 pickup off the road almost to the woods apparently looks like too much work for too little effort. Twenty five gallons of gas is too great a boon to believe and soon the Interceptor is fired and rumbling again.
As I pack the cans into the trunk--for surely they will come in handy later--I hear a noise. Three walkers appear from behind a burned out Taurus and shamble towards me. The Glock 24 is in my hand, almost of its own volition, and as I draw a bead on the first one's forehead, I have an idea. Why waste the bullets?
The LPG tanks on a pull behind camper trailer are a welcome sight. Maybe they're full.
One well aimed round and BOOM!!! The tanks explode in a cataclysm of flame and debris and two walkers are killed instantly. The third is on fire and still walking towards me, apparently oblivious to his new status as a walking Roman candle. His clothing--a Georgia State Patrolman's uniform actually--burns and falls away as flesh sizzles.
No more for me. I'm back in the black Ford and rocketing north again before he falls face first in the road, never to stalk the living again.
Evening comes on near Macon and I consider finding a safe place to spend the night. Safe? What is that? In this world, really?
The melodic whine of the supercharger sitting atop the 351 Cleveland is hypnotic...the white lines of the highway are monotonous...the long drive coupled with the constant stops to forage for fuel and pick a way through the wreckage on the highway is taking its toll.
Can I make it in time?
Dammit, gas has been getting harder to find and this car uses a lot of it. I've already evaded two groups of looters, humans who are almost just as bad as the undead. There's a hole in the passenger side quarter panel where one group took a pot shot at me as I went by at well over a hundred miles per hour.
Rolling to a stop, I pull up a hundred feet from the next large pile up. Approaching the mass of stalled and wrecked vehicles cautiously, I am aware that closed motor homes and semi cabs may contain trapped zombies.
A pickup off the road in the ditch has five 5 gallon gas cans that miraculously, nobody has taken. Other travelers must be going for the easy pickings and sticking to the road. An ancient Jeep J10 pickup off the road almost to the woods apparently looks like too much work for too little effort. Twenty five gallons of gas is too great a boon to believe and soon the Interceptor is fired and rumbling again.
As I pack the cans into the trunk--for surely they will come in handy later--I hear a noise. Three walkers appear from behind a burned out Taurus and shamble towards me. The Glock 24 is in my hand, almost of its own volition, and as I draw a bead on the first one's forehead, I have an idea. Why waste the bullets?
The LPG tanks on a pull behind camper trailer are a welcome sight. Maybe they're full.
One well aimed round and BOOM!!! The tanks explode in a cataclysm of flame and debris and two walkers are killed instantly. The third is on fire and still walking towards me, apparently oblivious to his new status as a walking Roman candle. His clothing--a Georgia State Patrolman's uniform actually--burns and falls away as flesh sizzles.
No more for me. I'm back in the black Ford and rocketing north again before he falls face first in the road, never to stalk the living again.
Evening comes on near Macon and I consider finding a safe place to spend the night. Safe? What is that? In this world, really?
The melodic whine of the supercharger sitting atop the 351 Cleveland is hypnotic...the white lines of the highway are monotonous...the long drive coupled with the constant stops to forage for fuel and pick a way through the wreckage on the highway is taking its toll.
Can I make it in time?
WhipLuvr
Lost Inside My Own Mind
- Joined
- Jan 19, 2012
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* trudges in to the common area, grabbing a bottle of water and cracking it open*
Anymore people come in? You'll have to excuse my ignorance, spent most of the day running maitenence on the motor pool.
* stops drinking for a moment to cough furiously*
And who all's out for the day?
Anymore people come in? You'll have to excuse my ignorance, spent most of the day running maitenence on the motor pool.
* stops drinking for a moment to cough furiously*
And who all's out for the day?
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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Dramaticflare
Literotica Guru
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*Snores suddenly from a corner, rolls over*
WhipLuvr
Lost Inside My Own Mind
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* groans and head to bed, too tired to dance*
Wake me up when things get interesting.
Dramaticflare
Literotica Guru
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- Feb 8, 2012
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Okay, in realsies I'm at work for least three more hours so I can't post really.
I wouldn't post at all except for the shitty ten minute elevator and my smart phone
I wouldn't post at all except for the shitty ten minute elevator and my smart phone
Pirates_Wench
his alone
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- Jan 6, 2010
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- 7,832
*I finish my drink, refill it and take the fresh drink with me as I head to bed*
"Night All!"
"Night All!"
Dramaticflare
Literotica Guru
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- Feb 8, 2012
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- 1,057
*yawns and wakes up. Stretches*
Anyone still awake here?
Anyone still awake here?
MedicalMuse
Off on adventures 😘
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*wanders in, grabs something quick to munch, grabs her marlin and wanders out for morning roof duty*
Chaingun
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By the early light of a Georgia morning, I continue my quest.
My cargo acquired, I am on the road back. Surprisingly, fuel in Warner-Robbins wasn't hard to find; there are now fifty five gallons of gas on board and the black Pursuit Special seems to be running well. A makeshift roadblock near Pinehurst was easily skirted and it was no serious trouble to outrun the two Super Duty pickups that chased me for miles until they were mere specks in the rearview.
Near the border of Florida and Georgia, something is different. A new tangle of vehicles is on fire, something that was not there yesterday. A semi with a flatbed trailer has been fitted out with armored sides. The dead defenders lie about in various positions. Two motorcycles are crushed beneath its rear tires and the leather clad marauders who rode them are as equally dead as those they attacked. I stop to survey the wreckage and use my vast experience of forensics from watching all those TV shows before the apocalypse to try to figure out what happened here.
Two groups fighting, one fleeing on the highway, burdened with heavy vehicles and not enough firepower was run down by a faster, more mobile group. The running battle probably took place over several miles before reaching its climax here. A few desperate minutes of fighting and it was over. The driver of the burning semi dead, the defenders on the trailer were sitting ducks for the group on bikes. Another smashed Kawasaki is off in the median, its driver shot through the eye and lying in the road.
Another vehicle is also on fire and it's this one that intrigues me. An armored car, like banks use, is stopped in the road, riddled with bullets, and blown open by some sort of explosion. Its rear doors are off the hinges the blast was so violent. What was the first group carrying that they needed to burden themselves with vehicles so heavy that they required an armored, mobile fortress to defend it?
No matter, I've got to get going; this isn't my affair.
A shot rings out and the Interceptor's rear tire explodes, dropping the back of the car down to sit at an odd angle.
I whirl. A mohawked leather clad man is holding a hunting rifle, sawed off for ease of use as a personal defense weapon. The hole in the end of the barrel warns me that the caliber of the weapon is sufficient to make me very dead if he so much as twitches. I move slowly, unthreateningly.
"Give me the weapon...slowly" he intones. His Georgia accent is unmistakeable. "Killer Creek Harley Davidson" is emblazoned across the front of his orange t-shirt beneath his leather vest. On the vest are various patches. He's not a 1%'er, but he was clearly trying to get the look before things went wrong. "Some gave all, all gave some" and "I'm not Fonda Jane" are just a few of the patches he wears, although no way is he old enough to have served in 'Nam.
My left hand reaches across my body to draw the Glock 24 from its holster. It's the longest Glock ever made so it slides out slowly, for an impossibly long time, and I watch the biker's eyes as it comes out. His concentration on me is broken by the realization that the pistol is not an ordinary Glock. And before he knows it, a Glock 27 appears in my other hand. The subcompact is much smaller than the extended barrel version in my left hand and pointed at his head.
He realizes too late that I'm no longer standing in front of the barrel of his weapon and he tries to adjust. The tiny Glock roars in my hand; two shots and he is down. His rifle cracks and something stings my shoulder.
His weapon is useless to me; I turn and move quickly. The Interceptor needs to have its tire changed before the sounds of my shots attracts more attention. A spare in the trunk, a jack under the car, some spins of the four way, and the black Ford is ready again.
Some rustling in the brush to my right and I whirl again. Something is coming and I'm tired of this shit.
I pepper the cover with 40 caliber hollow points. Moving to the driver's side door, I start the engine. First, second, third and I'm at 60 miles per hour. In the mirror, I see a wounded biker with a shotgun dragging himself up onto the road, apparently wounded. Where was he and why did he not help his buddy in the ambush? Maybe each of them didn't know the other was alive after the attack on the armored car and the defending semi.
Jennings, Jasper, Lake City, Alachua...north Florida disappears in my rear window. The black Interceptor rolls along at over a hundred miles per hour. It will need maintenance after being driven so hard for so long...as will I.
Near Gainesville, I stop and siphon another forty gallons of gas from a motorhome covered in Gators decals. Orange and blue has given way to sanguine and ochre though as evidence of a horrifying battle between drunken alumni and undead is everywhere. A zombie lies smashed beneath a beer keg, another has a tap stuck in its eye. And the improviser who did it lies face down, nearly devoured nearby.
None of it matters; I can't tarry.
Fueled again, I resume my southern progress. Later today, I will be home.
My cargo acquired, I am on the road back. Surprisingly, fuel in Warner-Robbins wasn't hard to find; there are now fifty five gallons of gas on board and the black Pursuit Special seems to be running well. A makeshift roadblock near Pinehurst was easily skirted and it was no serious trouble to outrun the two Super Duty pickups that chased me for miles until they were mere specks in the rearview.
Near the border of Florida and Georgia, something is different. A new tangle of vehicles is on fire, something that was not there yesterday. A semi with a flatbed trailer has been fitted out with armored sides. The dead defenders lie about in various positions. Two motorcycles are crushed beneath its rear tires and the leather clad marauders who rode them are as equally dead as those they attacked. I stop to survey the wreckage and use my vast experience of forensics from watching all those TV shows before the apocalypse to try to figure out what happened here.
Two groups fighting, one fleeing on the highway, burdened with heavy vehicles and not enough firepower was run down by a faster, more mobile group. The running battle probably took place over several miles before reaching its climax here. A few desperate minutes of fighting and it was over. The driver of the burning semi dead, the defenders on the trailer were sitting ducks for the group on bikes. Another smashed Kawasaki is off in the median, its driver shot through the eye and lying in the road.
Another vehicle is also on fire and it's this one that intrigues me. An armored car, like banks use, is stopped in the road, riddled with bullets, and blown open by some sort of explosion. Its rear doors are off the hinges the blast was so violent. What was the first group carrying that they needed to burden themselves with vehicles so heavy that they required an armored, mobile fortress to defend it?
No matter, I've got to get going; this isn't my affair.
A shot rings out and the Interceptor's rear tire explodes, dropping the back of the car down to sit at an odd angle.
I whirl. A mohawked leather clad man is holding a hunting rifle, sawed off for ease of use as a personal defense weapon. The hole in the end of the barrel warns me that the caliber of the weapon is sufficient to make me very dead if he so much as twitches. I move slowly, unthreateningly.
"Give me the weapon...slowly" he intones. His Georgia accent is unmistakeable. "Killer Creek Harley Davidson" is emblazoned across the front of his orange t-shirt beneath his leather vest. On the vest are various patches. He's not a 1%'er, but he was clearly trying to get the look before things went wrong. "Some gave all, all gave some" and "I'm not Fonda Jane" are just a few of the patches he wears, although no way is he old enough to have served in 'Nam.
My left hand reaches across my body to draw the Glock 24 from its holster. It's the longest Glock ever made so it slides out slowly, for an impossibly long time, and I watch the biker's eyes as it comes out. His concentration on me is broken by the realization that the pistol is not an ordinary Glock. And before he knows it, a Glock 27 appears in my other hand. The subcompact is much smaller than the extended barrel version in my left hand and pointed at his head.
He realizes too late that I'm no longer standing in front of the barrel of his weapon and he tries to adjust. The tiny Glock roars in my hand; two shots and he is down. His rifle cracks and something stings my shoulder.
His weapon is useless to me; I turn and move quickly. The Interceptor needs to have its tire changed before the sounds of my shots attracts more attention. A spare in the trunk, a jack under the car, some spins of the four way, and the black Ford is ready again.
Some rustling in the brush to my right and I whirl again. Something is coming and I'm tired of this shit.
I pepper the cover with 40 caliber hollow points. Moving to the driver's side door, I start the engine. First, second, third and I'm at 60 miles per hour. In the mirror, I see a wounded biker with a shotgun dragging himself up onto the road, apparently wounded. Where was he and why did he not help his buddy in the ambush? Maybe each of them didn't know the other was alive after the attack on the armored car and the defending semi.
Jennings, Jasper, Lake City, Alachua...north Florida disappears in my rear window. The black Interceptor rolls along at over a hundred miles per hour. It will need maintenance after being driven so hard for so long...as will I.
Near Gainesville, I stop and siphon another forty gallons of gas from a motorhome covered in Gators decals. Orange and blue has given way to sanguine and ochre though as evidence of a horrifying battle between drunken alumni and undead is everywhere. A zombie lies smashed beneath a beer keg, another has a tap stuck in its eye. And the improviser who did it lies face down, nearly devoured nearby.
None of it matters; I can't tarry.
Fueled again, I resume my southern progress. Later today, I will be home.
Last edited:
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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- Mar 23, 2008
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- 8,203
Out of gas near the Winter Garden exit, I coast to a stop again. The loss of blood from the shoulder wound is too great.
The breeze is nice. There is shade here by the side of the turnpike. So comfortable...so weak...
I pass out without exiting the car.
The breeze is nice. There is shade here by the side of the turnpike. So comfortable...so weak...
I pass out without exiting the car.
MedicalMuse
Off on adventures 😘
- Joined
- Mar 28, 2011
- Posts
- 22,534
*wanders in from the roof*
Has anyone heard from CG? Are we back in radio contact? Anyone know how long he was supposed to be gone?
Has anyone heard from CG? Are we back in radio contact? Anyone know how long he was supposed to be gone?
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